CHANGING WINDS

 * * * * *

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

 _Novels. _ MRS. MARTIN'S MAN. ALICE AND A FAMILY. 

 _Short Stories. _ EIGHT O'CLOCK AND OTHER STUDIES. 

 _Plays. _ FOUR IRISH PLAYS MIXED MARRIAGE. THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER. THE CRITICS. THE ORANGEMAN. JANE CLEGG. JOHN FERGUSON. 

 _Political Study. _ SIR EDWARD CARSON AND THE ULSTER MOVEMENT. 

 * * * * *

CHANGING WINDS

A Novel

by

ST. JOHN G. ERVINE

New YorkThe Macmillan Company1917

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1917, by St. John G. Ervine. 

Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1917. ReprintedMarch, twice, May, twice, July, August, September, November, 1917. 

 TO

 THE MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE

 The translations from the Gaelic on pages 77 and 78 were made by the late P. H. Pearse, who was executed in Dublin for his part in the Easter Rebellion. The translations appeared in _New Ireland_, and I am indebted to the Editor of that review for permission to reprint them here. 

 THE FIRST BOOK

 OF

 CHANGING WINDS

 There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter, And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, Frost, with a gesture, stays the winds that dance And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white, Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night. 

 RUPERT BROOKE. 

CHANGING WINDS

THE FIRST CHAPTER

1

It would be absurd to say of Mr. Quinn that he was an ill-tempered man, but it would also be absurd to say that he was of a mild disposition. William Henry Matier, a talker by profession and a gardener in hisleisure moments, summarised Mr. Quinn's character thus: "He'd ate thehead off you, thon lad would, an' beg your pardon the minute after!"That, on the whole, was a just and adequate description of Mr. Quinn, and certainly no one had better qualifications for forming an estimateof his employer's character than William Henry Matier; for he had spentmany years of his life in Mr. Quinn's service and had, on an average, been discharged from it about ten times per annum. 

Mr. Quinn, the younger son of a poor landowner in the north of Ireland, had practised at the Bar without success. His failure to maintainhimself at the law was not due to ignorance of the statutes of the landor to any inability on his part to distort their meaning: it was duesolely to the fact that he was a Unionist and a gentleman. His Unionism, in a land where politics take the place of religion, prevented him fromreceiving briefs from Nationalists, and his gentlemanliness made itimpossible for him to accept briefs from the Unionists; for if an Irishlawyer be a Unionist, he must play the lickspittle and tomtoady to thelords and ladies of the Ascendency and be ready at all times and on alloccasions to deride Ireland and befoul his countrymen in the presence ofthe English people. 

"I'd rather eat dirt, " Mr. Quinn used to say, "than earn my livin' thatway!"

He contrived, however, to win prosperity by his marriage to MissCatherine Clotworthy, the only daughter of a Belfast mill-owner: a ladyof watery spirit who irked her husband terribly because she affected anEnglish manner and an English accent. He was very proud of his Irishblood and he took great pride in using Ulster turns of speech. Mrs. Quinn, whose education had been "finished" at Brighton, frequently urgedhim to abandon his "broad" way of talking, but the principal effect shehad on him was to intensify the broadness of his accent. 

"I do wish you wouldn't say _Aye_, " she would plead, "when you mean_Yes_!"

And then he would roar at her. "What! Bleat like a damned Englishman!Where's your wit, woman?"

Soon after the birth of her son, she died, and her concern, therefore, with this story is slight. It is sufficient to say of her that sheinherited a substantial fortune from her father and that she passed iton, almost unimpaired, to her husband, thus enabling him to live incomfortable disregard of the law as a means of livelihood. He had asmall estate in County Antrim, which included part of the village ofBallymartin, and there he passed his days in agricultural pursuits. 

2

Mr. Quinn, as has been stated, was a Unionist, and, in spite of hisCatholic name, a Protestant; but he had a poor opinion of his Unionistneighbours who, so he said, were far more loyal to England than Englandquite liked. He hated the English accent . . . "finicky bleatin', " hecalled it . . . And declared, though he really knew better, that allEnglishmen spoke with a Cockney intonation. "A lot of h-droppers, " hecalled them, adding, "God gave them a decent language, but they haven'tthe gumption to talk it!" The Oxford voice, in his opinion, was educatedCockney, uglier, if possible, than the uneducated brand. 

An Englishman, hearing Mr. Quinn talk in this fashion, might pardonablyhave imagined that he was listening to a fanatical Nationalist, adynamiting Fenian, but if, being a Liberal, he had ventured to advocateHome Rule for Ireland in Mr. Quinn's presence, he would speedily havefound that he was in error. "Damn the fear!" Mr. Quinn would say whenpeople charged him with being a Home Ruler. The motive of his Unionism, however, was neither loyalty to England nor terror of Rome: it waswholly and unashamedly a matter of commerce. "The English bled us forcenturies, " he would say, "an' it's only fair we should bleed them. We've got our teeth in their skins, an' they're shellin' out their moneygran'! That's what the Union's for--to make them keep on shellin' outtheir money. An' instead of tellin' the people to bite deeper an' getmore money out of them, the fools o' Nationalists is tellin' them totake their teeth out! Never, " he would exclaim passionately, "never, while there's a shillin' in an Englishman's pocket!"

Mr. Quinn, of course, treated every Englishman he met with courtesy, forhe was an Irish gentleman, and he had sometimes been heard to speakaffectionately of some person of English birth. The chief result of thiscivility, conjoined with the ferocity of his political statements, wasthat his English friends invariably spoke of him as "a typicalIrishman. " They looked upon him as so much comic relief to the moreserious things of their own lives, and seemed constantly to expect himto perform some amusing antic, some innately Celtic act of comic folly. At such times, Mr. Quinn felt as if he could annihilate an Englishman. 

"Ah, well, " he would say, restraining himself, "we all know what theEnglish are like, God help them!"

It was because of his strong feeling for Ireland and Irish things thathe decided to have his son, Henry, educated in Ireland. "Anyway, " hesaid to the lad, "you'll have an Irish tongue, whatever else you have!"He sent the boy to a school in the County Armagh and left him thereuntil he discovered that he was not being educated at all. He hadquestioned Henry on the history and geography of Ireland one day, andhad found to his horror that while Henry could tell him exactly wherePopocatepetl was to be found, and knew that Mount Everest was 29, 002feet high, and could name the kings of England and the dates of theiraccession as easily as he could recite the Lord's Prayer, he had noknowledge of the whereabouts or character of Lurigedan, a hill in theCounty Antrim, and could tell him nothing of the Red Earls and thebeautiful queens of Ireland. He knew something that was true, and muchthat was not, of Queen Elizabeth and King Alfred, but nothing, true orfalse, of Deirdre and Red Hugh O'Neill. 

"What the hell's the good of knowin' about Popocatepetl, " Mr. Quinnshouted at him, "when you don't know the name of a hill on your owndoorstep!"

Lurigedan was hardly "on his own doorstep, " and Mr. Quinn himself onlyknew of it because he had once, very breathlessly, climbed to itssummit, but an Irish hill was of more consequence to him than thehighest mountain in the world; and so he descended upon the master ofthe school, a dreepy individual with a tendency to lament the errors ofRome, and damned him from tip to toe so effectually that the alarmedpedagogue gladly consented to the immediate termination of Henry'scareer at his establishment. Thereafter, Henry was educated in England, for Mr. Quinn did not propose to sacrifice efficiency to patriotism. 

"An' if you come back talkin' like a damned Cockney, " he said to his sonas he bade good-bye to him, "I'll cut the legs off you!"

When Henry came home in the holidays, Mr. Quinn would spend hours intesting his tongue. 

"Sound your _r_s, " he would say repeatedly, because he regarded one'sability to say the letter _r_ as a test of a man's control of theEnglish language. "If you were to listen to an Englishman talkin' on thetelephone, you'd hear him yelpin' _'Ah yoh thah?'_ just like a big bucknigger, 'til you'd be sick o' listenin' to him! Say, '_Are you there?_', Henry son!"

And Henry would say _"Are you there_, father?" very gravely. 

"That's right, " the old man would exclaim, listening with delight to therolling _r_s. "Always sound your _r_s whatever you do. I'll not own youif you come home sayin, '_Ah yoh thah?_' when you mean '_Are you there?_'Do you mind me, now?"

"Yes, father. "

"Well, be heedin' me, then! Now, how are you on the _h_s. Are you assteady on them as you were when you were home before?"

Then Henry would protest. "But, father, " he would say, "they don't alldrop their _h_s. It's only the common ones that drop them!. . . 

"They're all common, Henry . . . The whole lot, common as dirt!" Mr. Quinnretorted once to that, and then began to tell his son how the Englishpeople had lost the habits and instincts of gentlemen in the eighteenthcentury . . . "where Ireland still is, my son!" . . . And had becomemoney-grubbers. "The English, " he said, lying back in his chair anddelivering his sentences as if he were a monarch pronouncing decrees, "ceased to be gentlemen on the day that Hargreaves invented thespinnin'-jenny, and landlords gave way to mill-owners. " He stopped for asecond or two and then continued as if an idea had only just come intohis head. "An' it was proper punishment for Hargreaves, " he said, "thatthe English let him die in the workhouse. Proper punishment. What thehell did he want to invent the thing for?. . . "

Henry looked up, startled by the sudden anger that swept over hisfather, replacing the oracular banter with which he had begun hisdiscourse on the decadence of manners in England. 

"But, father, " he said, "you aren't against machinery, are you?"

"Yes, I am, " Mr. Quinn replied, banging the arm of his chair with hisfist. "I'd smash every machine in the world, if I were in authority. "

"That's absurd, father. I mean, what would become of progress?"

Mr. Quinn leaped out of his chair and strode up and down the room. "Progress! Progress!" he exclaimed. "D'ye think machines are progress?D'ye think a factory is progress? Some of you young chaps think you'remakin' progress when you're only makin' changes. I tell you, Henry, theonly thing that is capable of progression is the human soul, andmachines can't develop _that_!" He came back to his seat as he said thisand sat down, but he did not lie back as he had done before. He satforward, gazing intently at his son, and spoke with a curious passionsuch as Henry had never heard him use before. "Look here, Henry!" hesaid, "there was a girl in the village once called Lizzie McCamley . . . Afine bit of a girl, too, big and strong, an' full of fun, an' she gottired of the village. Her father was a labourer, an' all she could seein front of her was the life of a labourer's wife. Well, it isn't muchof a life, that, an' Lizzie's mother had a poor life even for alabourer's wife because McCamley boozed. I don't blame Lizzie forwantin' somethin' better than that. I'd have despised her if she hadn'twanted somethin' better. But what did she do? She had an uncle inBelfast workin' in your grandfather's mill, an' she came to me an' sheasked me to use my influence with your grandfather to get her a job inthe mill. An' I did. An' by God, I'm sorry for it! I'll rue it 'til mydyin' day, I can tell you!"

"But why, father!"

"Your grandfather gave her a job in the weavin' room of his mill. Do youknow what that's like, Henry?" Henry shook his head. He had never beeninside a linen-mill. "The linen has to be woven in a moist atmosphere, or else it'd become brittle an' so it wouldn't be fine, " Mr. Quinn wenton; "an' the atmosphere is kept moist by lettin' steam escape from pipesinto the room where the linen is bein' woven--a damp, muggy, steamyatmosphere, Henry . . . An' Lizzie McCamley left this village . . . Leftwork in the fields there to go up to Belfast an' work in that for tenshillin's a week! An' that's what people calls progress! I wish youcould see her now--half rotten with disease, her that was the healthiestgirl in the place before she went away. She's always sick, that girl, an' she can't eat anythin' unless her appetite is stimulated with stufflike pickles. She's anĉmic an' debilitated, an' the last time I saw her, she'd got English cholera. . . . She married a fellow that was as sick asherself, an' she had a child that wasn't fit to be born . . . It died, thank God!. . . An' then she went back to her work an' became sicker. An'she'll go on like that 'til she dies, a rotten, worn-out woman, themother of rotten children when she ought to have had fine healthy brats, an' could have had them too, if it hadn't been for this damned progresswe're all makin'!"

Henry did not reply to his father. He did not know what to reply. Hismind was still in the pliable state, and he found that he was beinginfected by his father's passion. But he had been taught at Rumpell's tobelieve in Invention, in Progress by the Development of Machinery, andso his mind reeled a little under this sudden onslaught on his beliefs. 

"Well, " said Mr. Quinn. "Is that your notion of progress, Henry! Makin'fine linen out of healthy girls?"

"No, father, of course not. Only!. . . "

Mr. Quinn stood up, and caught hold of his son's shoulder. "Come over tothe window, Henry!" he said, and they walked across the room together. "Look out there, " he said, pointing towards the fields that stretched tothe foot of the hills. "That's fine, isn't it!" he exclaimed. 

"It's very beautiful, father, " Henry replied, looking across the fieldsof corn and clover and the pastures where the silken-sided cattlebrowsed and flocks of sheep cropped the short grass. 

"It's _land_, Henry!" said Mr. Quinn, proudly. "You can do withoutmachines in the long run, but you can't do without _that_!"

3

"An' what do you think a mill-owner'd make of it, Henry!" Mr. Quinn saidas they stood there gazing on the richness of the earth. Near at hand, they could hear the sound of a lawn-mower, leisurely worked by WilliamHenry Matier, and while they waited for him to come into view, a greatfat thrush flew down from a tree and seized a snail and beat it againsta stone until its shell was broken. . . . 

"I suppose he'd spoil it, father!" Henry answered. 

"Spoil it!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. "Damn it, Henry, he'd desecrate it!He'd tear up my cornfields and meadows and put factories and mills intheir place! That's what he'd do!" He turned sideways and leant againstthe lintel of the window so that he was looking at his son. "There was afellow came to see me once, " he said, "from London. A speculatin' chap, an' he wanted me to put capital into a scheme he had on. Do you knowwhat sort of a scheme it was, Henry?"

"No, father!"

"He wanted to develop the mineral resources of the County Wicklow, an'he wanted me to lend him money to do it. He said that some Germans hadsurveyed the whole district, an' there was an immense fortune justwaitin' to be torn out of the earth. . . . I could hardly keep my feet offhis backside! 'Do you want to turn Glendalough into a place likeWigan?' I said to him. 'It's all in the interests of progress, ' sayshe. . . . No, I didn't give him any of my money. I was as civil to him as Icould be, an' he never knew how near he was to his death that day. . . . "

Mr. Quinn's anger evaporated, and he began to laugh to himself as hethought of the difficulty he had had in restraining his rage against thespeculator and how frightened that person would have been had he knownhow angry he had made him. 

"He was a little smooth chap, " he said, "with smooth hair an' smoothclothes and a smooth voice. You could hardly tell it was hair, it wasthat smooth. You'd nearly think somebody had painted it on his skull. Hecouldn't make me out when I said I'd rather starve than let a halfpennyof my money be used to make a mess of Glendalough, an' he talked aboutthe necessity of havin' a broad outlook on the world. I suppose he wentaway an' told everybody that I was a reactionary an' a bad landlord. Oh, I can hear him spoutin' away about me . . . He got into parliament soonafter that, an' used to denounce landlords an' blether away aboutprogress. An' I daresay everybody that listens to him thinks I'm astupid fellow, standin' in the way of everything. I'm a landlord, an'so, of course, I'm obsolete and tyrannical an' thick-headed, an' allthat, but I wouldn't treat one of my labourers the way your grandfathertreated his for the wide world. Mind you, he was a religious man . . . Idon't mean that he pretended to be religious . . . He really wasreligious, after a fashion . . . Wouldn't have missed goin' to church orsayin' his prayers night _an'_ mornin' for a mint of money . . . An' yetthere didn't seem to him to be anything wrong in lettin' men an' womenmake money for him in that . . . That disgustin' way. I can't understandthat. I'm damned if I can!"

Something stirred uneasily in Henry's mind. He became acutely consciousof the principal source of his father's income, and he rememberedthings that had been said to him by Gilbert Farlow at Rumpell's. GilbertFarlow was his chief friend at Rumpell's, the English school to which hehad been sent after his experience at Armagh, and Gilbert called himselfan hereditary socialist because his father had been a socialist beforehim. ("He was one of the first members of the Fabian Society, " Gilbertused to say proudly. ) Gilbert had strong, almost violent, views onPersonal Responsibility for General Wrongs. He always referred to richpeople as "oligarchs, " or "the rotters who live on rent and interest"and declared that it was impossible for them to escape from theresponsibility for the social chaos by asserting that they, individually, had kind hearts and had never been known to underpay oroverwork any one. Remembering Gilbert's views, Henry could not helpthinking that it was all very well for his father to denounce the millin that fashion, but after all he was living on the money that was madein it. . . . 

"But, father, " he said, hesitatingly, "haven't we got grandfather'smoney now . . . And the mill!. . . "

"No, not the mill, Henry. Your grandfather turned that into a limitedcompany, an' your mother sold her shares in it. I told her to sellthem!"

Henry's conscience still pricked him. It seemed to him that selling theshares was very like running away from the responsibility. 

"But all the same, " he said, "we've got money that was made out of themill by grandfather. . . . "

"So we have, Henry, " Mr. Quinn replied good-temperedly, "an' we'remakin' a better use of it than he did. Some one's got to use it, an' I'mdoin' the best I can with it. You've only got to look at my land to seehow well I've used the money. It's better land than it was when I gotit, isn't it?" Henry nodded his head. Even he knew that much. "I'veenriched it an' drained it an' improved it in ways that'll benefit themthat come after me . . . Not me, but you an' your children, Henry . . . An'that's a good use to make of it. I've planted trees that I'll neverreap a ha'penny from, an' I've spent money on experiments that did me nogood but helped to increase knowledge about land. Look at the labourers'cottages I've built, an' the plots of land I've given them. Aren't theygood! Didn't I put up the best part of the money to build the new schoolbecause the old one was lettin' in the wind an' rain?"

Henry's knowledge of sociology was not sufficient to enable him to copewith these arguments . . . There was no Gilbert Farlow at his elbow toprompt him . . . And so he collapsed. 

"I suppose you're right, father, " he said. 

"_Suppose_ I'm right, " Mr. Quinn replied. "_Of course_ I'm right!"

"I know well, " he continued after he had fumed for a few moments, "there's people . . . Socialists an' radicals an' people like that . . . Makes out that landlords are the curse of the world. They think we'renothin' in comparison with mill-owners an' that sort, but I tell you, Henry, whatever we are an' whatever we were, we're better than thepeople that have taken our place. We didn't tear up the earth an' coverit with slag-heaps or turn good rivers into stinkin' sewers. We didn'tpollute the rivers with filth an' poison the fish!" He turned suddenlyto Henry and said in a quieter tone, "You've never seen Wigan, have you, Henry?"

"No, father. "

"Well, you'd think by the look of it, it was made on the seventh day . . . When God rested. Landlords didn't do that, Henry, or anything as bad asthat. It was mill-owners that did it. Oh, I know well enough thatlandlords were not all they ought to have been, but I'm certain of this, that labourers on the land were healthier under landlords than they areunder mill-owners, and even if we weren't as good to the labourers as wemight have been, at least we had respect for God's world, an' I nevermet a mill-owner yet that had respect for anything but a bankbook. I'vebeen in Lancashire an' I've listened to these mill-owners . . . I'velistened to them talkin', an' I've listened to them eatin' an' drinkin'. . . An' they talked 'brass' an' they thought 'brass, ' an' I'm damned ifthey didn't drink 'brass. ' That's characteristic of them. They callmoney 'brass. ' Brass! Do you think they care for the fine look of thingsor an old house or a picture or books or anything that's decent? No, Henry . . . All they care for is 'brass, ' an' that's what's the matterwith the English . . . They think too much about money . . . Easy money . . . An' they think so much about gettin' it that none of them have any timeto think of how they'll spend it when they do get it. An' they just foolit away! Eat it away, drink it away! An' then they have to go to Buxtonan' Matlock an' Harrogate to sweat the muck out of their blood!"

Henry reminded his father of the bloods and bucks and macaronis of theeighteenth century . . . The last of the English gentlemen. 

"After all, father, they weren't so very much better than the lot you'redenouncing!"

"Yes, they were. They had the tradition of gentlemen behind them. Theywere drunkards and gamblers and women-hunters an' Lord knows what not, but behind it all, Henry, they had the tradition of gentlemen, an' thatsaved them from things that a mill-owner does as a matter of course. An'anyway, their theory was right. They thought more of spendin' money thanof makin' it, an' that was right. It isn't makin' money that matters . . . Any fool can do that . . . It's spendin' money that matters. You're lesslikely to make a mess of the world when you're spendin', than whenyou're makin', money, an' the English'll find that out yet. God'll notforget in a hurry the way they tore up their good land an' made dirty, stinkin' towns out of it, an' by the Holy O, He'll make them suffer forit. If I was an Englishman, I wouldn't want any one to see places likeWigan an' the towns where they dig coal an' make pottery . . . I'd . . . I'dbe ashamed to look God in the face when I had mind of them. . . . "

4

Late that night, long after Henry had gone to bed, Mr. Quinn came to hisroom and wakened him. 

"What is it, father!" Henry said, starting up in alarm. 

"It's all right, son, " Mr. Quinn replied. "I'm sorry I startled you. I've been thinkin' over what I said to you this afternoon . . . Aboutmachinery. You're not to take me too seriously. "

Henry, his eyes still full of sleep, blinked uncomprehendingly at hisfather. 

"I mean, son, " Mr. Quinn went on, "that it'd be silly to break up everymachine in the world. Of course, it would! You must have thought I wasdaft talkin' like that. What I mean is, I'd smash up all the machinesthat make a mess of men an' women. That's all. I'm sorry I disturbedyou, Henry, but I couldn't bear to think of you lyin' here mebbethinkin' I was talkin' out of the back of my neck. I'm not very clever, son . . . I've a moidhered sort of a mind . . . An' I say things sometimesthat aren't what I mean at all. You must be tired out, Henry. Good-nightto you!"

"Good-night, father!"

Mr. Quinn walked towards the door of the room, shading the light of thecandle from the draught, but before he had reached it, Henry called tohim. 

"Father, " he said. 

"Yes, Henry, " Mr. Quinn replied, turning to look at his son. 

"You're a Socialist!"

"No, I'm not. I'm a Conservative, " said Mr. Quinn, and then he went outof the room, closing the door quietly behind him. 

5

Many things troubled Mr. Quinn, but the thing that troubled him most washis son's nervousness. Henry, when he was a child, would cry with frightduring a thunderstorm, and he never in after life quite lost the senseof apprehension when the clouds blackened. He loved horses, but he couldnot sit on a horse's back without being haunted by the fear that theanimal would run away or that he would be thrown from his seat. He couldswim fairly well, but he was afraid to dive, and he never swam far outof his depth without a sensation of alarm that he would not be able toreturn in safety. 

"Your mother was like that, " Mr. Quinn said to him once. "She never wasin a theatre in her life, 'til I married her. Her father was tooreligious to let her go to such a place, an' I had the great job topersuade her to go with me. I took her to see Henry Irving in Belfastonce, an' all the time she kept whisperin' to me, 'Suppose I was to dienow, where'd I wake up?' That's a fact, Henry! Your mother was terriblyfrightened of hell. An' even when she got over that, she was alwayswonderin' if it was safe to go to a theatre. She'd imagine the place wassure to go on fire, an' then she'd be burned alive or get crushed todeath or somethin' like that. I nearly felt scared myself, the way shewent on! I wish you weren't so nervous, Henry!"

They were at Cushendall when Mr. Quinn said this. They had ridden overon bicycles intent on a day's picnic by the sea, and soon after they hadarrived, Mr. Quinn itched to be in the water. They had stripped on thebeach, and clambered over the rocks to a place where a deep, broad poolwas separated from the Irish Sea by a thick wedge of rock, covered bylong, yellow sea-weed. There was a swell on the sea, and so Mr. Quinndecided to swim in the pool. "This is a good place for a dive, " he said, standing on the edge of the flat rock and looking down into the deeppool, and then he put his hands above his head and, bending forward, dived down into the water so finely that there was hardly any splash. Hecame up, puffing and blowing, shaking the water from his eyes and hair, and swam up and down the pool, now on his back, now on his side, andthen suddenly with a shout he would curl himself up and dive and swimbeneath the water, and again come up, red and shiny and puffing andblowing and shouting, "Aw, that's grand! Aw, that's grand!" He couldstand on his hands in the water and turn somersaults and find pennies onthe sandy bottom. He loved all sport, but the sport that he loved bestwas swimming. He liked to sit on a rock and let great waves come and hithim hearty thumps in the back. He liked to bury his face in the water. He liked the feel of the water on his body. He liked to stand up in thesunshine and watch the drops of water glistening on his body. He likedto lie on the sea-weed or the sand after his swim and let the sun dryhim. "It's great health, this!" he would say, kicking and splashing inthe sea. 

"Come on, " he shouted to Henry, after he had dived. 

Henry was sitting on the sea-weed, with his arms clutched tightly roundhis shins, shivering a little in the wind. 

"You'll catch your death of cold if you sit there instead of jumpin'in, " his father called to him. "Dive, man! That's a grand place!"

Henry stood up . . . And then turned away from the rock. He caught hold ofthe sea-weed and slowly lowered himself into the water. 

"That wasn't much of a dive, " his father said, swimming up to him. 

Henry did not answer. He swam across the pool and clambered out on theother side and waited for his father, who followed after him. 

"I wish you weren't so nervous, " Mr. Quinn said a second time, as he satdown on the sea-weed beside his son. 

"So do I, father, " Henry replied, "but I can't help it. I try to makemyself not feel afraid, but I just can't. If I could only not thinkabout it!. . . "

"Aye, that's it, Henry. You think too much. Do you mind that bit inShakespeare about people that think bein' dangerous. Begod, that's true!Thin men think, that's what Shakespeare says, an' he's right, thoughI've known fat men to think, too, but anyway thin men aren't near theswimmers that fat men are. Well, I suppose it's no use complainin'. Youcan't help thinkin' if you have that kind of a mind . . . Only I wish itdidn't make a coward of you!"

A twist of pain passed over the boy's face when his father said"Coward, " and instantly Mr. Quinn was sorry. 

"I didn't mean that exactly, " he said very quickly, putting out his handand touching Henry's bare back. "I didn't mean _coward_, Henry. I knowyou're not that sort at all. It's just nervousness, that's what it is!"

He scrambled to his feet as he spoke, and stood for a moment or two, slipping about on the wet sea-weed. He slapped his big, hairy chest withhis hands, and then he swung his arms over his head in order to send theblood circulating more rapidly through his veins. 

"I wish I were as big and strong as you are, father!" said Henry, gazingat his father's muscular frame. 

"You're a greedy young rascal, " his father answered. "Sure, haven't youmore brains in your wee finger than I have in my whole body, an' whatmore do you want! It would be a poor thing if your father hadn't gotsomething you haven't. Come on, now, an' I'll swim you a race to the endof the pool an' back, an' then we must go home. "

He plunged into the water and swam about, making a great noise andsplash, and deliberately looking away from his son. He was giving him anopportunity to slip into the water without being seen to shrink from thedive. 

"Are you comin', Henry!" he asked, without looking back. 

"Yes, father, " the boy replied, standing up and looking fearfully intothe water. He lifted his hands above his head and drew in his breath. Hemoved forward, half shutting his eyes, and poised himself on the edge ofthe rock, ready for the plunge. Then he put his hands down again andlowering himself on to the sea-weed, slipped slowly into the water andstruck out. "I'm coming, father!" he said. 

"That's right, my son, that's right!" Mr. Quinn replied, looking round. 

6

He did not speak of Henry's nervousness again, but it troubled him nonethe less. He himself was so fearless, so careless of danger, so eagerfor adventure that he could not understand his son's shrinking fromperil. 

"I used to think, " he said to himself one day, "that boys took theirphysique from their mothers an' their brains from their fathers, but itdoesn't seem to have worked out like that with Henry. He doesn't seem tohave got anything from me. . . . It's a rum business, whatever way you lookat it. "

THE SECOND CHAPTER

1

Mr. Quinn's horror of the English people was neither consistent norrigid. When the Armagh schoolmaster was found wanting, Mr. Quinninstantly decided to send Henry to Rumpell's, a famous English school, and here Henry soon made friends of Ninian Graham and Roger Carey andGilbert Farlow. Gilbert Farlow was the friend for whom he cared most, but his affection for Ninian Graham and Roger Carey was very strong. Henry's soft nature was naturally affectionate, but there had beenlittle opportunity in his life for a display of affection. His motherwas not even a memory to him, for she had died while he was still ababy. Old Cassie Arnott had nursed him, but Cassie, at an age when itseemed impossible for her to feel any emotion for men, had suddenlymarried and had gone off to Belfast. His memory of her speedily faded. Cassie was succeeded by Matilda Turnbull, who drank, and was dismissedby Mr. Quinn at the end of a fortnight; and then came Bridget Fallon. . . . Bridget had the longest hold on his memory, but she, too, disappearedand was seen no more; for Mr. Quinn came on her suddenly one day andfound her teaching "Master Henry" to say prayers to the Virgin Mary! Shehad put a scapular about his neck and had taught him to make the sign ofthe cross. . . . 

"Take that damned rag off my child's neck, " Mr. Quinn had roared at her, "an' take yourself off as soon as you can pack your box!"

And Bridget, poor, kindly, devout, gentle Bridget, was sent weepingaway. 

Long afterwards, Henry had talked to his father about Bridget, and Mr. Quinn had expressed regret for what he had said about the scapular. "Ihad no call to say it was a damned rag, " he said, "though that's all itwas. It meant a lot to her, of course, an' I suppose she was right totry an' make a Catholic of you. But I'd hate to have a son of mine aCatholic, Henry. It's an unmanly religion, only fit for women an' . . . An' actors! It's not religion at all . . . It's funk, Henry, that's whatit is! I read 'The Garden of the Soul' one time, an' I'd be ashamed topray the way that book goes on, with their 'Jesus, Mercy!' 'Mother ofGod, pity me!' 'Holy Saints, intercede for me!' Catholics don't pray, Henry; they whine; and I've no use for whinin'. If I can't go to heavenlike a man, I'll go to hell like one. Anyway, if I commit a sin, I'llnot whine about it, an' if God says to me on the last day, 'Did youcommit this sin or that sin?' I'll answer Him to His face an' say, 'Yes, God, I did, an' if You'd been a man, You'd have done the sameYourself!'"

So it was that, in his childhood, no woman made a lasting impression onHenry's affectionate nature. No one, indeed, filled his affectionsexcept his father. Henry's love for his father was unfathomable. Theirnatures were so dissimilar that they never clashed. There were thingsabout Henry, his nervousness, his sudden accessions of fright, whichpuzzled Mr. Quinn, and might, had he been a smaller man than he was, have made him angry with the boy, contemptuous of him; but when Mr. Quinn came across some part of Henry's nature which was incomprehensibleto him, he tried first, to understand and then, failing that, to betolerant. "We all have our natures, " he used to say to himself, "an'it's no use complainin' because people are different. Sure, that's whatmakes them interestin' anyway!"

2

But Henry's affection for Gilbert Farlow and Ninian Graham and RogerCarey was a new affection, a thing that came spontaneously to him. Therewere other boys at Rumpell's whom he liked and others for whom he feltneither like nor dislike, but just the ordinary tolerance of temporaryencounters and passing life; and there were a few for whom he felt ahatred so venomous that it sometimes frightened him. There was Cobain, abrutal, thick-jawed fellow who thumped small boys whenever they camenear him, and there was Mullally!. . . He could not describe his feelingfor Mullally! It was so strong that he could not sit still in the sameroom with him, could not speak civilly to him. And yet Mullally wascivil enough to him, was anxious even to be friendly with him. There wassomething of a flabby sort in Mullally's nature that made Henryinstinctively angry with him: his vague features, his weak, wanderingeyes, peering from behind large glasses, his tow-coloured hair thatseemed to have "washed-out, " and above all, his squeaky voice that pipedon one jerky note. . . . 

It was Gilbert Farlow who gave Mullally his nick-name. (It was the timeof the Boer War, and the nick-name came easily enough. ) "He isn't aman, " said Gilbert; "he's a regrettable incident!"

Gilbert Farlow, though he was the youngest and the slightest of the fourboys, was the leader of them. He had the gift of vivid language. Hecould cut a man with a name as sharply as if it were a knife. Heinvented new oaths for the delight of Ninian Graham, who had a taste forstrong language but no genius in developing it. It was he who appointedRoger to the office of Purse-Bearer because Roger was careful. It was hewho decided that their pocket-money, with small exceptions, should bespent conjointly, and that no money should be spent unless three outof four consented to the expenditure. ("Damn it, is it my money or is itnot?" said Ninian when the rule was proposed, and "Fined sixpence forcheek!" Gilbert replied, ordering Roger to collect the sixpence whichwas then divided between the three who had not murmured. ) It was he whodeclared that "Henry" was too long and "Quinn, " too short (though Rogersaid the words were exactly the same length) and insisted on callingHenry "Quinny" (which Roger said was actually longer than either of thedisplaced words. "Well, it sounds shorter, " said Gilbert decisively). 

Gilbert planned their lives for them. "We'll all go to Cambridge, " hesaid, "and then we'll become Great!"

"Righto!" said Ninian. 

"If any of our people propose to send us to Oxford, there's to be a row!Sloppy asses go to Oxford . . . Fellows like Mullally!" Henry made aterrible grimace at the mention of Mullally's name and Gilbert, swift tonotice the grimace, pointed the moral, "Well, Quinny, if your guv'nortries to send you to Oxford, don't let him. Remember Mullally, the . . . The boiled worm!" he continued, "an' say you won't go!"

"But my father was at Oxford, " said Roger quietly. 

"Your father was a parson and didn't know any better, " Gilbert replied. "And that reminds me, if one of us becomes a parson, the rest of us givehim the chuck. Is that agreed?"

Ninian held up both his hands. "Carried unanimous!" he said. 

"I don't know!" Henry objected. "I used to think it'd be rather nice tobe a parson . . . Standing in the pulpit in a surplice and talking likethat to people!"

Gilbert got up from the grass where they were sitting. "He'll have to bescragged, " he said. 

"Righto!" said Ninian, and the three of them seized Henry and flung himto the ground and sat on him until he swore by the blood of hisforefathers that he would never, never consent to be a clergyman. "Orgive pi-jaws of any sort!" said Gilbert. 

"Lemme go!" Henry squeaked, struggling to throw them off his back. 

"When you've promised!. . . "

"Oh, all right, then!"

They released him and he stood up and straightened his clothes andsearched his mind for something of a devastating character to say. "Funny ass!" he said at last, and then they scragged him again for beingcheeky. 

But he would have submitted to any amount of scragging from them becausethey were his friends and because he loved Gilbert and because they, too, in their turn submitted to being scragged. 

3

When Henry had been at Rumpell's for a year, Ninian Graham asked him tospend the Easter holidays at his home in Devonshire. "I'll get my materto write and ask you, " he said. Henry hesitated. He had never spent aholiday away from home, and he knew that his father liked him to returnto Ireland whenever he had the chance to do so. He himself enjoyed goinghome, but suddenly, when Henry had finished speaking, he felt a strongdesire to accept this invitation. "I'll have to ask my father, " hereplied, and added, "I'd like to, Ninian. Thanks awf'lly!"

He had heard his father speak so contemptuously of English people thathe was almost afraid to ask him for permission to accept Ninian'sinvitation. He wondered how he would explain his father's refusal toNinian who was so kind. . . . But his fears were not warranted, for Mr. Quinn replied to his letter, urging him to accept the invitation. 

"_Enjoy yourself_, " he wrote. "_The English are very hospitable whenyou get to know them, and the only way you can get to know them is to goand live in their homes! But I'll expect you to come here in the summer. You can bring your friends with you, the whole lot. William Henry saysthere'll be a grand lot of strawberries and goosegogs this year and youcan all make yourselves as sick as you like on them. _" He signedhimself, "_Your affectionate Father, Henry Quinn. _"

And so Henry had gone that Easter to Boveyhayne, where Mrs. Graham andher daughter Mary lived. Ninian and he had travelled by train toWhitcombe where they were met by old Widger and driven over hillycountry to Boveyhayne. There was a long climb out of Whitcombe and thena long descent into Boveyhayne, after which the road ran on the level tothe end of Hayne lane which led to the Manor. Before they reached theend of the lane, Old Widger turned to them and, pointing with his whipin front of him, said, laughingly, "Here be Miss Mary waitin' for 'ee, Mas'er Ninyan!"

Ninian stood up in the carriage and looked ahead. "Hilloa, Mary!" heshouted, waving his hand, and then, before Old Widger had time to pullup, he jumped into the road and ran on ahead. "Come on, Quinny!" heshouted, and Henry, suddenly shy, got out of the carriage and followedafter him. 

"You needn't wait for us, Widger!" Ninian shouted again. "We'll walkhome!"

And Widger, smiling largely, drove on. 

4

Mary Graham was younger than Ninian, nearly two years younger, and verydifferent from him. He was big in body and bone, and fair and veryhearty in his manner. When Ninian approved of you he did not pat yourback: he punched it so that your bones rattled and your flesh tingled. All his movements were large, splashy, as Gilbert said, and, his voicewas incapable of whispers. But Mary was slight and small and dark andher laugh was like the sound of a little silver bell. She was standingon an earth mound at the entrance to the lane when Henry came up toNinian and her, and he wondered to himself how her small, shapely headcould bear the weight of the long dark hair which fell about hershoulders in a thick, flowing pile. Ninian was chattering to her soloudly and so rapidly that Henry could hardly hear her replies. . . . 

"Oh, this is Quinny!" Ninian said, jerking his thumb in Henry'sdirection. "His real name is Quinn, Henry Quinn, but we call him'Quinny. ' At least, Gilbert does, so, of course we do too. And he'sIrish, but he isn't a Catholic, and he says Irish people don't keep pigsin their houses, and they eat other things besides potatoes and . . . Comeon, Quinny, buck up and be civil!"

Mary stepped down from the mound, and held out her hand to Henry. "Howdo you do!" she said, smiling at him, and he took her hand and said hewas very well and asked her how she did, and she said she was very well, and then she smiled again, and so Henry smiled too. 

Ninian had moved on up the lane. "Buck up, you two!" he said. "I'mhungry!" He started to run, thinking of tea, and then he suddenlychecked himself and came back. "I say, Mary, " he said, "Quinny'sfearfully gone on wildflowers and birds and . . . And Nature . . . And thatsort of stuff. Show him the primroses and things, will you? I've got anawful hunger and I want to see the mater. Oh, Quinny, these areprimroses, these yellow things, and Mary'll show you anything else youwant to see. There's a jolly lot of honeysuckle and hazelnuts in thesehedges later on. So long!" He went off again, running in a heavy, lumbering fashion because of the ascent and the broken, stony ground. 

Henry stood still, waiting for Mary to make a decision. He could notthink of anything to say and so he just smiled. He began to feel hot anduncomfortable, and it seemed to him suddenly that Mary must think hewas a frightful fool, maundering about primroses and wild violets andbluebells, and yet not able to say a word for himself in her presence. . . Standing there, grinning like . . . Like anything, and . . . And notsaying a word. 

She was standing sideways, with her head turned to look at her brother, now disappearing round a bend in the lane, and Henry was able to observeher more closely. He saw that she was wearing a short frock, reaching toher knees, and he plucked up heart. "She's only a kid, " he said tohimself, and then said aloud to her, "It's awf'lly nice here!"

She turned towards him as he spoke and he saw that her face was stillsmiling. "Yes, isn't it?" she answered. "Shall we go on now, or wouldyou like to gather some primroses. There are lots in this lane, or ifyou like to walk up to the copse, there are more there, and we can mixthem with bluebells. I think primroses and bluebells are lovelytogether, don't you?"

He thought it would be nicer to go to the copse, and so they moved on upthe lane. 

"I like these high hedges, " he said. "We don't have high hedges inIreland. In lots of places we don't have hedges at all--only stonewalls!"

Mary made a grimace. "I shouldn't like that, " she exclaimed. "I lovehedges . . . Best in the spring because then they're new. There's alwayssomething living in them. I never go by the hedges without hearingsomething moving inside . . . Birds and mice and things. Of course, it'svery stuffy in the lanes in summer because the hedges are so high andthe leaves are so thick and the air can't get through!. . . Look! Look!"She climbed on to the bars of a gate, and pointed, and he climbed on tothe bars beside her, and saw the English Channel, shining like a sheetof silver in the setting sun. 

"Can you see the trawlers coming home?" she said. "Out there! Do yousee? Those are our boats . . . The Boveyhayne boats. That one with thebrown sails is Tom Yeo's boat. He's awf'lly nice and his wife's going tohave a baby. He told me so, and they hope it'll be a boy because JimRattenbury--that's Tom Yeo's mate in the boat . . . His wife had adaughter last month, and they all think it would be awf'lly nice ifTom's son were to grow up and marry Jim's daughter, and I think itwould, and of course it would, wouldn't it?"

"Would it?" said Henry. 

"Of course it would. It would be so nice for everybody, and then theboat could be left to Tom's son and it would belong to Jim's daughter, too. I think that would be _very_ nice! I do hope they've caught a lotof fish!" She jumped down from the gate and clapped her hands together. "I know, " she said. "We won't pluck primroses now. We'll go home andsimply swallow our tea like lightning, and then we'll tear down to thebeach and see them landing the fish. Come on, let's run!" She startedoff and then suddenly checked herself and said, "Oh, I think I'd bettercall you 'Quinny, ' like Ninian. It'll save a lot of trouble, won't it?Mother won't call you that. She'll probably call you 'Henry' or 'Harry. 'If we hurry up, we'll be just in time to see the boats beached!"

She ran off, laughing pleasantly, and he followed after her. 

"That's the copse, " she shouted, pointing to the trees on her left. "We'll soon be there!"

They reached the top of the lane and crossed a narrow public road, andthen were in a broad avenue, almost arched by trees, at the end of whichwas the Manor. It was a squarely-built sixteenth century house, made ofstone, taken from the Roman quarry a mile or two away on the road toFranscombe. The first Graham to own it received it and the landsadjacent to it from Henry the Second, and ever since that time a Grahamhad been lord of the manor of Boveyhayne. Ninian was the last of hisline. If he were to die, there would be no more Grahams at Boveyhayne. That was the fear that haunted Mrs. Graham. . . . 

Mary ran swiftly across the grass in the centre of the avenue and pushedopen the gate that led through a fine stone arch. She held the gate openfor Henry, and then they both passed up the flagged path into the house. 

"Mother, mother!" Mary shouted, quickly entering the drawing-room, "here's Quinny, and please can we have tea at once because the trawlersare just coming home and we want to see them being beached and . . . Oh, Isay, my hands are messy, aren't they. Still, it doesn't matter! I canwash them afterwards. "

"My dear!" said Mrs. Graham reproachfully, and then she turned to greetHenry who had become awkward again. "How do you do, Mr. Quinn, " shesaid, holding her hand out to him. 

Henry flushed deeply. It was the first time any one had ever called himMister, and he was very glad that Ninian was not present to hear. He wasquite well, he said. No, he was not a bit tired. Yes, he would ratherlike to go to his room. . . . A maid had followed him into the room, andMrs. Graham asked her to show Mr. Quinn to his room, and, flushingdeeper still, he turned to go with her. As he left the room, he heardMary saying to Mrs. Graham, "Oh, mother, you mustn't call him _Mr. _Quinn. He blushed frightfully when you said that. His name is 'Quinny, 'or you can call him 'Henry' if you like!"

"I think I'll call him 'Henry, ' my dear!" said Mrs. Graham. 

5

It seemed to Henry that Mrs. Graham was the most beautiful woman in theworld, and he had a great longing that she would draw him to her, as shedrew Ninian, and put her arms about him and kiss him. Sometimes he hadfaint memories of the way in which poor Bridget Fallon had hugged him, and how she had cried over him once when she told him that his soulwould be damned forever because he was a "black Protestant. " . . . Heremembered that episode more vividly than any other because he hadhowled with fear when she narrated the pains and torments of hell tohim. There had been a Mission at the chapel the previous week, and apreaching friar had frightened the wits out of her with his descriptionof "the bad place. " He had told the congregation of scared servants andfrightened labourers that they would be laid on red-hot bars in hell andthat the devil would send demons to nip their flesh with burningpincers. . . . Henry could not be comforted until she had promised torescue him from the Evil One, and when she bade him wear the scapular, he hurriedly hung it round his neck as if he were afraid that before hecould get it on, the Devil would have him. . . . Well, Bridget had lovedhim very tenderly, and of all the women he had ever known, she seemed tohim to be the most beautiful. But Mrs. Graham was more beautiful thanBridget, more beautiful than Bridget could ever be. There was somethingso exquisite in her movements, her smile (Mary had her smile) and hersoft sweet voice with its slight Devonshire burr, that Henry felt hewished to sit beside her and walk with her and always be by her. Hissudden, growing love for her made him feel bold, and he lost the shy, nervous sensation he had had when he first came into her presence andheard her call him "Mr. Quinn, " and so, when Ninian and Mary talkedabout the trawlers, he turned to Mrs. Graham quite naturally, and said, "Won't you come to the beach, too, Mrs. Graham?" Instantly Ninian andMary were clamorous that she should go with them, and so sheconsented. . . . 

"We'll have to hurry, " said Mary, "because the boats come in awf'llyquick. "

"My dear, I can't run, " Mrs. Graham said. 

It was Ninian who suggested that Widger should harness the pony and thatthey should drive down to the beach in the buggy. . . . 

"Yes, yes, " said Mary. 

And Ninian went off to tell Widger to hurry harder than he had everhurried before in his life. 

"I'll do that for 'ee, Mas'er Ninyan, sure 'nough!" said Widger. 

But Ninian and Mary were too impatient to wait for the buggy, and sothey set off together, leaving Henry to follow with Mrs. Graham. 

"Quinny'll drive you down, mater, " Ninian said. 

Mrs. Graham turned to Henry. "You won't let Peggy run away with me, willyou?" she said, pretending to be alarmed, and Mary and Ninian burst intolaughter at the thought of Peggy . . . Which was short for Pegasus . . . Running away with any one. 

"He's fat and lazy, " said Ninian. 

"He goes to sleep in the shafts, " Mary added, running out of thedrawing-room on Ninian's heels. 

6

Boveyhayne Bay is a little bay within the very large bay that is guardedat one end by Portland Bill and at the other end by Start Point. It liesin the shelter of two white cliffs which keep its water quiet even whenthe sea outside is rough, and so it is a fine home for fishermen thoughthere is no harbour and the trawlers have to be hauled up the shinglybeach every night. Nowhere else on that coast are chalk cliffs to befound, and the sudden whiteness of Boveyhayne Head and the White Cliffshining out of the red clay of the adjoining cliffs is a sign tosailors, passing down the Channel on their homeward beat, that they areoff the coast of Devonshire. Mrs. Graham talked to Henry about thefishermen as they drove down Bovey Lane towards the village. 

"I love Boveyhayne, " she said, "because the people are so fine. Theyrely on themselves far more than any other people I know. That's becausethey're fishermen, I suppose, and have no employers. They work forthemselves . . . And it's frightfully hard work too. People come toBoveyhayne in the summer, but they can't spoil it because the villagersdon't depend on visitors for a living: they depend on themselves . . . Andthe sea. There isn't a man in Boveyhayne who is pretending to be afisherman and is really a cadger on summer visitors. Some of them won'tbe bothered to take people out in rowing-boats--they feel that that iswork for the old. I used to wonder, " she went on, "why it was that Ididn't really like the villagers in other places, but I never found outwhy until I came to Boveyhayne, and it was simply because I feltinstinctively that they were spongers . . . Those other people . . . Thatthey hadn't any real work to do, and that they were living on us like. . . Like ticks on a sheep. The Boveyhayne men are splendid men. Itwouldn't make any difference . . . Much difference, anyhow . . . To them ifanother visitor never came to the place. And that is how it ought to bein every village in England!"

Henry was not quite certain that he understood all that she was saying, but he liked to listen to her, and so he did not interrupt her, exceptto say "Yes" and "I suppose so" when it seemed that she was waiting forhim to say something. 

"Do you like being in England?" she asked him suddenly. 

"Oh, yes, " he answered. 

"Would you rather be in England than in Ireland?"

He did not know. He liked being at home with his father, but he alsoliked being at Rumpell's with Gilbert and Roger and Ninian, and now hefelt that he would like to be at Boveyhayne with Mrs. Graham and Mary. 

"Perhaps you like people better than you like places, " Mrs. Graham said. 

"I don't know, " he replied. "I hadn't thought about that. "

"You must come again to Boveyhayne. Perhaps, in the summer, Gilbert andRoger will come, too!"

Henry thought that that would be awf'lly jolly. . . . 

They turned down the village street and left Peggy at the foot of itwhile they went down the slope leading on to the beach where thetrawlers were now being hauled up by the aid of hand winches. Henrycould see Mary and Ninian in the group of fishermen who were working thenearest winch. They had hold of one of the wooden bars and were helpingto push it round. 

"We'll go down to the boats, " said Mrs. Graham, "and see the fish!"

She put her hand on his shoulder, and he helped to steady her as theywalked across the shingle to where the boats were slowly climbing out ofthe sea over wooden runners on to the high stones. 

One of the boats had already been hauled up, and the fishermen, havingthrown out their gear, were now getting ready to sell their fish. Theythrew out a heap of skate and dun-cows, [1] and auctioned them to thedealers standing by. 

"They're still alive, " Henry whispered to Mrs. Graham as he watched thedun-cows curling their bodies and the skate gasping in the air. Helooked over the side of the trawler and saw baskets of dabs and plaiceand some soles and turbot and a couple of crabs. A plaice flappedhelplessly and fell off the heap in the basket on to the bottom of theboat, and one of the fishermen trod on it. . . . "They're _all_ alive, "Henry said, turning again to Mrs. Graham. 

"Yes, " she answered. 

"But . . . Isn't it cruel? Oughtn't they to kill them?"

"It would take a long time to kill all those fish, " she said. "Most ofthem are dead already, and the others will be dead soon. . . . "

But he could not rid himself of the feeling that the fish were sufferingagonies, and he began to feel sick with pity. 

"I think I'll go and see Mary and Ninian, " he said to Mrs. Graham, edging away from the boat. 

"All right, " she replied. 

But Ninian and Mary were on their way down to the boats, and so he didnot get far. 

"Come and see them cutting up the skate and dun-cows!" said Ninian, catching hold of Henry's arm and pulling him back. 

"Yes, let's, " Mary added. 

The sick feeling was growing stronger in Henry. He hated the sight ofblood. Once he had been ill in the street because William Henry Matierhad shown a dead rabbit to him, the blood dribbling from its mouth . . . And the sight of a butcher's shop always filled him with nausea. He didnot wish to see the skate cut up, but he felt that Mary would despisehim if he did not go with Ninian and her, so he followed after them. 

The fishermen were sharpening their knives on the stones when they cameup to them, and then one of them seized a dun-cow and struck its head onthe shingle and cut it open, while another fisherman inserted his knifeinto the quivering body of a skate and cut out the entrails and the headin circular pieces. 

"But they're alive, " said Henry. 

"Of course, they're alive, " said Ninian, seizing a dun-cow and smackingits head against the beach. "Here you are, Jim, " he added, passing thedun-cow to a fisherman. "Here's another one!"

Henry could not stay any longer. He turned away quickly and almost ranup the beach. "Hilloa, " Ninian shouted after him, "where are you going?"

He stopped for a moment and looked back, wondering what excuse he shouldmake for his running away. "I . . . I'm just going to see if . . . IfPeggy's all right!"

_"She's_ all right, " Ninian replied. 

"I think I'll just go all the same, " said Henry. 

"But you'll miss it all, " Mary called to him. 

"I'll . . . I'll come back presently, " he answered. 

7

He had finished a game of cards with Mary and then Mary had gone off tobed. She had kissed her mother and Ninian, and then she held out herhand to him and said "Good-night, Quinny!" and he said "Good-night, Mary!" and held the door open for her so that she might pass out. 

"Let's go out in a boat to-morrow, " she said. "We'll go to theSmugglers' Cave. . . . "

"Yes, let's, " he answered. 

When she had gone, Mrs. Graham called him to her. "Come and sit here, "she said, pointing to a footstool at her feet. Ninian was trying tosolve a chess problem and was deaf to the whole world. . . . 

"I suppose you didn't like to see the fish being gutted, Henry?" Mrs. Graham said. 

He glanced up at her quickly. He had not spoken of his feeling to any ofthem because he was ashamed of it. "It's namby-pamby of me, " he had saidto himself. He flushed as he looked up, fearing that she must despisehim for his weakness, and he almost denied that he had had any feelingat all about it; but he did not deny it. "I couldn't bear it, Mrs. Graham, " he said quickly in a low voice. "I felt I should be ill if Istayed there any longer!"

"I used to feel like that, " she said, patting his shoulder, "but yousoon get used to it. The fishermen aren't really cruel. They are thekindest men I know!"

Ninian, having failed to solve his chess problem, got up from the tableand stretched himself and yawned. 

"I'm going to bed, Quinny, " he said. "Are you coming?"

Henry rose and shook hands with Mrs. Graham. "Good-night, " he said. 

"Good-night, Henry!" she replied. "I hope you'll sleep well. " And thenshe turned to kiss Ninian, who pushed a sleepy face against hers. 

8

In the morning, there were fried plaice for breakfast, and Henry ate twoof them. 

"These are some of the fish you saw on the beach last night, " said Mrs. Graham. 

"Oh, yes, " said Henry, reaching for the toast, and swallowing a mouthfulof the fish. "And jolly nice, too!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Dog-fish. ]

THE THIRD CHAPTER

1

He stayed at Boveyhayne until the time came to return to Rumpell's, andthe holiday passed so quickly that he could not believe that it wasreally over. They had picnicked in the Smugglers' Cave and on BoveyhayneCommon where the gorse was in bloom, and Henry had plucked whinblossomsto dye Easter eggs when he found that the Grahams did not know thatwhinblossoms could be used in this way. "You boil the blossoms and theeggs together, and the eggs come out a lovely browny-yellow colour. Wealways dye our eggs like that in the north of Ireland!" And on the daythey picnicked on Boveyhayne Common, Mrs. Graham took them down the sideof the hill to the big farm at Franscombe and treated them to aDevonshire tea: bread and butter and raspberry jam and cream, creampiled thick on the jam, and cake. (But they ate so much of the bread andbutter and jam and cream that they could not eat the cake. ) And theyswam every day. . . . Mary was like a sea-bird: she seemed to swim on thecrest of every wave as lightly as a feather, and was only submerged whenshe chose to thrust her head into the body of some wave swelling higherand higher until its curled top could stay no longer and it pitchedforward and fell in a white, spumy pile on the shore. She would climbover the stern of a rowing-boat and then plunge from it into the seaagain, and come up laughing with the water streaming from her face andhair, or dive beneath Ninian and pull his feet until he kicked out. . . . 

And then the last evening of his visit came. The vicar of Boveyhayne andhis wife were to dine at the Manor that night, and so they were biddento put on their company manners and their evening clothes. Niniangrumbled lustily when he heard the news, for he had made arrangementswith a fisherman to "clean" a skate that evening when the trawlers camehome. "I bet him thruppence I could do it as good as he could, and nowI'll have to pay up. Beastly swizz, that's what it is!" he said to Henryin the stable where he was busy rubbing down Peggy, although Peggy didnot need or wish to be rubbed down. "I think Mother ought to give me thethruppence anyhow!. . . "

After dinner, Ninian and Henry and Mary had contrived to miss thedrawing-room, whither Mrs. Graham led the Vicar and his wife, and theywent to the room which had been the nursery and was now a work-room, andlit the fire and sat round it, talking and telling tales and readinguntil the time came for Mary to go to bed. 

"We're going soon, too!" said Ninian. "We've got to get up jolly earlyto-morrow, blow it! I hate getting up early!"

Henry yawned and stretched out his hands to the fire. "I wish I weren'tgoing to-morrow, " he said, half reflectively. 

"So do I, " Mary exclaimed. 

She was sitting on the floor beside him and he turned to look at her, alittle startled by the suddenness of her speech. 

"I wish you weren't going, " she said, sitting up and leaning against himas she was accustomed to lean against Ninian. "It's been great fun thisEaster!"

Ninian caught hold of her hair and pulled it. "He isn't a bad chap, oldQuinny, " he said. "Soft-hearted, a bit!"

"Shut up, Ninian!" Henry shouted, punching him in the ribs. 

But Ninian would not shut up. "Blubs like anything if you kill a rabbitor anything. He eats them all the same!"

Mary put her hands over Ninian's mouth. "Leave Quinny alone, Ninian, "she said. "He's much nicer than you, and I do think it's horrid of youto go gutting fish just for fun. The fishermen have to do it, else wewouldn't get any breakfast, and of course plaice are very nice forbreakfast. . . . "

"Yahhh!" yelled Ninian. 

"Well, anyhow, " she continued, "Quinny's much nicer than you are. Aren'tyou, Quinny?"

"No, he isn't, " Ninian asserted stoutly. "I'm ten times nicer than heis!"

"No, you're not. . . . "

Henry, embarrassed at first by Mary's admiration, plucked up his spiritsand joined in. 

"Of course, I'm nicer than you are, Ninian, " he said. "Anybody could seethat with half an eye in his head!"

"All right, then, I'll fight you for it, " Ninian replied, squaring up athim in mock rage. 

"I'll box your ears for you, Ninian Graham!" said Mary, "and I won't letQuinny fight you, and Quinny, if you dare to fight him, I shan't likeyou any more. . . . "

"Then I won't fight him, Mary. She's saved your life, Ninian, " he said, turning to his friend. 

"Yahhh!" Ninian shouted. 

"I'll get up very early to-morrow morning, " said Mary, as she preparedto leave them, "and perhaps mother'll let me drive to Whitcombe with youto see you off!"

"No, " Ninian objected, "we don't want you blubbing all over theplatform!. . . "

"I shan't blub, Ninian. I never blub!. . . "

"Yes, you do. You always blub. You blubbed the last time and made mefeel an awful ass!" he persisted. 

"Well, I shan't blub this time, or if I do, it won't be about you. . . . Anyhow, I shall get up early and see Quinny off. I _like_ Quinny!. . . "

Ninian pointed at Henry, and burst out laughing. "Oh! Oh, he's blushing!Look at him! Oh! Oh!!"

"Shut up, Ninian, you ass!" said Henry, turning away. 

Mary went over to him and took hold of his arm. "Never mind, Quinny, "she said, "I _do_ like you. Good-night!"

Then she went out and left him alone with Ninian. 

"I suppose, " said Ninian when she had gone, "we ought to go down and saysomething to the Vicar!"

2

That night, Henry went to bed in the knowledge that he loved MaryGraham. "I'll marry her, " he said, as he stripped his clothes off. "That's what I'll do. I'll jolly well marry her!"

In the excitement of his love, he forgot to wash his hands and face andclean his teeth, and he climbed into bed and lay there thinking aboutMary. "I suppose, " he said, "I ought to tell her about it. That ass, Ninian'll be sure to laugh if I tell him!" He sat up suddenly in bed. "Lord, " he exclaimed, "I forgot to wash!" He got out of bed and washedhimself. "Beastly fag, cleaning your teeth, " he murmured, and then wentback to bed. 

"I know, " he said, as he blew out the candle and hauled the clothes wellabout his neck. "I'll make Ninian look after the luggage and stuff, andthen I'll tell her. On the platform! I hope she won't be cross aboutit!" And then he fell asleep. 

3

In the morning, they went off, Mary with them, and they stood up in thecarriage and waved their hands to Mrs. Graham until the dip in the roadhid her from their view. Ninian, who had been so disdainful of"blubbers" the night before, sat down in a corner of the carriage andlooked miserable, but neither Mary nor Henry said anything to him. Theydrove slowly down the Lane because it was difficult to do otherwise, but when they had come into the road that leads to Franscombe, Widgerwhipped up the horse, and the carriage moved quickly through thevillage, past the schools, until they came to the long hill out of thevillage . . . And there Jim Rattenbury was waiting for them. 

"I brought 'ee a li'l bit o' fish, Mas'er Ninyan, " he said, putting abasket into the carriage. 

"I say, Jim!" Ninian exclaimed, forgetting his misery for a while. Theythanked him for the gift and enquired about the baby Rattenbury andwished him good-luck in the mackerel fishing, and were about to go onwhen Ninian recollected his failure to keep his appointment with Tom Yeoon the previous evening. "Oh, Jim, " he said, "I bet Tom Yeo thruppenceI'd 'clean' a skate as good as he can, but I couldn't come . . . So here'sthe thruppence. You might give it to Tom for me, will you!"

Jim Rattenbury waved the money away. "Ah, that be all right, Mas'erNinyan, " he exclaimed. "You can try your 'and at it nex' time you comes'ome. I'll tell Tom. 'Er'll be glad to 'ave longer to get ready for it, 'er will!" He laughed at his own joke, and they laughed, too. "Good luckto 'ee, Mas'er Ninyan, " Jim went on, "an' to 'ee too, sir!" he added, turning to Henry. 

"And me, Jim, _and_ me!" Mary said impetuously. 

"Why, of course, Miss Mary, an' to 'ee, too!"

They drove on up the hill, from which they could look down on thevillage, tucked snugly in the hollow of the rising lands, and along thetop of the ridge, gaining glimpses of the blue Channel, dotted far outwith the sails of trawlers, and down the hair-pin road where the pinetrees stand like black sentinels, through Whitcombe to the station. . . . 

"I wish we weren't going!. . . " one or other of them said as they droveon. 

"I'd love to have another swim, " said Ninian. 

"Or go out in a boat, " said Henry. 

The carriage entered the station-yard and they got out and walkedtowards the platform. There were very few people travelling by thatearly train, and Henry was glad because, if he could dispose of Ninianfor a few moments, he thought he could settle his affairs with Mary. 

"Ninian, " he said, trying to speak very casually, "you and Widger canlook after the luggage and tickets, can't you!"

Ninian, who had already induced one of the porters to describe athrilling fox-hunt in which the fox took to the river and was killed, after a hard struggle, in the water, nodded his head and said "Righto!"

"Let's walk up and down, " Henry said to Mary, and they walked towardsthe end of the platform. "It's been awf'lly nice here!" he added. 

"Yes, hasn't it?" she replied. "You'll come again, won't you?"

_"Ra_-ther!" he exclaimed. 

"How long will it be before you can come again?"

"I don't know. You see, my father'll expect me to go home in thesummer. . . . "

"Oh!"

"But I might come for part of the hols. I'd like to!"

"Yes, " she said, sliding one of her feet in front of her and regardingthe tip of her shoe intently. 

They did not speak for a few moments until he remembered that time wasfleeting. "It's an awf'lly nice day, " he said, and licked his lips. 

"Yes, isn't it?. . . "

"Awf'lly nice, " he continued and broke off lamely. 

They could see the train coming into Coly station, and a sense ofdespair seized Henry when he thought that it would soon come intoWhitcombe station and then go back again to the junction, carryingNinian and him with it. He could feel his nervousness mounting up hislegs until it began to gallop through his body. . . . He felt frightfullydry, and when he tried to speak, he could not do anything but cough. The train had started now from Coly station. He could see the whitesmoke rising from the engine's funnel almost in a straight line, solittle wind was there in the valley. . . . "Oh, Lord!" he said tohimself. . . . 

"What age are you?" he suddenly demanded of her. 

"Fourteen, " she replied. 

"I'm sixteen . . . Nearly!" he continued. 

"Ninian's over sixteen, " Mary said, and added, "I wish I were sixteen!"

"Why!"

"Oh, I don't know. I just wish I were. When I'm sixteen, you'll beeighteen . . . Nearly!"

"So I shall. I say, Mary!. . . "

"Yes, Quinny?"

He could hear the rattle of the train on the railway lines, and, turningtowards the other end of the platform, he saw that Ninian, havingsettled about the luggage and finished listening to the story of the foxhunt, was approaching them. "Come on, " he said, catching hold of Mary'sarm and drawing her to the other end of the platform. 

"But that's the wrong end, " she protested. 

"I say, Mary!. . . "

"Yes, Quinny?"

"Oh, I say, Mary!. . . "

"Yes?. . . "

"I'd like to marry you awf'lly, if you don't mind!"

It was out . . . Oh, Lord, it was out!. . . 

"Oh, I should love it, Quinny, " said Mary, looking up at him andsmiling. 

"Would you really!"

"Yes. Of course, I would. Let's tell Ninian and Widger!. . . "

Her suggestion alarmed him. Ninian would be sure to chaff him aboutit. . . . "Oh, not yet!. . . " he began, but he was too late. Ninian had comeup to them, grumbling, "I thought you two'd started to leg it toRumpell's. . . . "

Mary seized his arm and pressed it tightly. "Quinny and me are going toget married, " she said. 

"Silly asses, " said Ninian. "Come on, here's the train in!"

4

They climbed into their carriage a few seconds before the train steamedout of the station again, and jammed themselves in the window to lookout. Ninian was full of instructions to Widger about his terrier and hisferrets and a blind mouse that was supposed to recognise him withmiraculous ease. There was also some point about the fox-hunt whichrequired explanation. . . . 

"Good-bye, Mary!" Henry said, taking hold of her hand and pressing it. "I suppose, " he whispered, "I ought to give you a ring or something. Chaps always do that!. . . "

Mary shook her head. "I don't think mother would like that, " shereplied. 

"Well, anyhow, we're engaged, aren't we?"

"Oh, of course, Quinny!"

"It's most awf'lly nice of you to have me, Mary!"

"But I like you!"

"Do you really?"

The guard blew his whistle and waved his flag and the train began tomove out of the station. He stood at the window looking back at Marystanding on the platform, waving her hands to him, until he could seeher no longer. 

"What are you looking at?" Ninian asked, taking down the basket of fishwhich Jim Rattenbury had given him and preparing to open it. 

"I'm looking at Mary, " he answered. 

"Sloppy ass!" said Ninian, and then he added excitedly, "Oh, I say, plaice and dabs and a lobster . . . A whopping big lobster! It's berried, too!" He pointed to the red seeds in the lobster's body. "My HeavenlyFather, Quinny!" he exclaimed, "what a tuck-in we'll have to-night!"

"Eh?" Henry replied vaguely. 

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

1

Gilbert summoned Roger and Henry and Ninian to a solemn council. "Lookhere, " he said, "I've made up my mind about myself!"

"Oh!" they exclaimed. 

"Yes. I'm going to be a dramatist and write plays!"

"Why?" Ninian asked. 

"I dunno! I went to see a play in the hols, and I thought I'd like towrite one, too. It seems easy enough. You just make up a lot of talk, and then you get some actors to say it. . . . "

"I see, " said Ninian. 

"And when I was a kid, " Gilbert continued, "I used to make up plays forparties. Jolly good, they were . . . At least I thought so!"

Gilbert, having settled what his own career was to be, was eager thathis friends should settle what their careers were to be. "Roger, ofcourse, " he said, "has made up his mind to be a barrister, so that'shim, but what about you, Ninian, and what about Quinny?"

Ninian said that he did not know what he should do. Mrs. Graham wasanxious that he should become a member of parliament and lead the lifeof a country gentleman who takes an intelligent interest in his estateand his country. His Uncle George, the Dean of Exebury, oscillatedbetween two opinions: one that Ninian should become a parson. . . . 

Gilbert suddenly proposed a resolution, sternly forbidding their youngfriend, Ninian Graham, to become a parson on any conditions whatever. The resolution was seconded by Henry Quinn, and passed unanimously. 

. . . And the other that he should enter the Diplomatic Service. The Deanhad talked largely to Ninian on the subject of his career. On the wholehe had inclined towards the Diplomatic Service. He had stood in front ofthe fire, his hands thrust through the belt of his apron and talkedmagnificently of the glories of diplomacy. "How splendid it would be, Ninian, " he said in that rich, flowing voice which caused ladies toadmire his sermons so much, "if you were to become an ambassador!"Ninian, feeling that he ought to say something, had murmured that hesupposed it would be rather jolly. "An ambassador!" the Dean continued. "His Britannic Majesty's Ambassador to the Imperial Court of . . . OfVienna!" He liked the sound of the title so much that he repeated it:"His Britannic Majesty's Ambassador!. . . "

But Ninian had interrupted him. "I don't think I'd like that job verymuch, Uncle George!" he said. "You're supposed to have an awful lot oftact if you're an ambassador, and I'm rather an ass at tact!"

"Well, then, the Church!" the Dean suggested. "After all, the Church isstill the profession of a gentleman!. . . "

But Ninian had as little desire to be a priest as he had to be anambassador. He wished to be an engineer!

"A what?" the Dean had exclaimed in horror. 

"An engineer, uncle!"

The Dean could not rid himself of the notion that Ninian was a smallboy, and so he imagined that when Ninian said an "engineer" he meant aman who drives a railway engine. . . . The Dean was not insensible to thevalue of engineers to the community . . . In fact, whenever he travelledby train, he invariably handed any newspapers he might have with him tothe engine-driver at the end of the journey, "because, " he said, "I wishto show my appreciation of the fact that without his care and skill Imight--er--have been--well involved in a collision or something of thesort!" But, while the occupation of an engine-driver was a veryadmirable one . . . Very admirable one, indeed . . . For a member of theworking-class, it could hardly be described as a suitable occupation fora gentleman. "I think, " he said, "that engine-drivers get thirty-eightshillings per week, or some such amount!" He adjusted his glasses andbeamed pleasantly at Ninian. "My dear boy, " he said, "thirty-eightshillings per week is hardly . . . Hardly an adequate income for aGraham!"

Ninian did not like to ask his uncle George to "chuck it, " nor did hecare to tell him that he was making a frightful ass of himself, and sohe did not answer, and the beaming old gentleman felt that he hadimpressed the lad. . . . It was Mrs. Graham who reminded him of the largerfunctions of an engineer. 

"I think, " she said, "that Ninian wishes to build bridges and railwaysand . . . And things like that!"

"Oh!" said the Dean, and his countenance altered swiftly. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! I was forgetting about bridges. Dear me, yes! I remember meetingSir John Aird once. Remarkable man! Very remarkable man! He built theAssouan Dam, of course. Well, that would be a very nice occupation, Ninian. Rather different, of course, from the Diplomatic Service . . . Orthe Church . . . But still, very nice, _very_ nice! And profitable, I'mtold!. . . "

2

"Anyhow, " said Ninian, when he had related the story of his uncle'sviews, "I'm going to be an engineer, no matter what Uncle George says, and I'm not going to be a parson and I'm not going to be a bloomingambassador, and I'm not going into parliament to make an ass ofmyself!. . . "

Ninian's chief horror was of "making an ass" of himself. It seemed thatthere was less likelihood of him doing this at engineering than atanything else. 

"And a very good engineer you'll be, " Gilbert said encouragingly. "You're always messing about with the insides of things, and I can't seewhat good that habit would be to an ambassador, or a parson, and anyhowyou can't speak French for toffee, and that's the principal thing anambassador has to do! Well, Quinny, " he continued, turning to Henry, "what about you?"

"I used to think I'd like to be a clergyman, " Henry answered. 

"Oh, did you?. . . "

"And then, " he went on rapidly, "I thought I'd like to be an actor!. . . "

They rose at him simultaneously. "A what?" they shouted. 

"An actor, " he repeated. 

They gaped at him for a few moments without speaking. Then Ninianexpressed their views. "You're balmy!" he said. 

"Clean off your chump!" Gilbert added. 

"It seems an odd choice, " Roger said, quietly. 

Henry blushed. "Of course, " he hurried to say, "I've given up the idea. It was just a notion that came into my head!"

He went on to say that as Gilbert had resolved to be a writer, he didnot see any reason why he should not become one too. "I've read an awfullot of books, " he said, "so I daresay I could write one. I used to writethings when I was a youngster, just like you, Gilbert!"

They gazed dubiously at Henry. A fellow who could make such choices ofprofession . . . A parson or an actor . . . Was a rum bird, in theiropinion, and they told him so. Gilbert said that the conjunction of_actor_ with _parson_ showed that all Henry cared about was the chanceto show off. "All you want is to get yourself up, " he said. "If you werea parson, you could get yourself up in a surplice!. . . "

"He'd turn High Churchman, " Roger interrupted, "and trot about inchasubles and copes!. . . "

"And if he were an actor, he could get himself up in terrific style!. . . "Gilbert continued. 

Henry got up and walked away from them. "It isn't fair, " he said, as hewent, "to chip me like that. I'm not going to be a parson and I'm notgoing to be an actor!. . . "

Gilbert followed him and brought him back to the council. 

"All right, Quinny, " he said, "we won't chip you any more. Only, don'ttalk like a soppy ass again, will you? Sit down and listen to me!. . . "

He forced Henry to sit beside him and then he proceeded to plan theirlives for them. 

"We'll all go to Cambridge, " he said. "That's settled. I arranged thatbefore, didn't I? Well, we all go to the same college, and we allpromise to swot hard. We've got to Do Well, d'ye hear?" He said "dowell" as if each word had a capital letter. "We've got to be the Prideof our College, d'ye hear, and work so that the dons will shed tears ofjoy when they hear our names mentioned. I draw the particular attentionof Ninian Graham to what I am saying, and I warn him that if he goes onwhittling a stick while I'm talking, I shall clout his fat head for him. I also trust that our young friend, Quinny, will make up his mind towork hard. He's Irish, of course, and we must make allowances forhim!. . . "

There was almost a row when Gilbert said that, and it was not completelyaverted until Gilbert had admitted that the English had their faults. 

"I need not say anything on the subject of hard work to our youngfriend, Roger, " Gilbert continued, when the peace was restored, "beyondwarning him of the danger of getting brain-fever. That's all I have tosay about that. We're friends, we four, and we've got to do each othercredit. Now, when we come down from Cambridge, my proposal is that weall live together in London. We can take a house and get some old girlto look after us. I know one who'll do. She lives in Cornwall, and shecan cook . . . Like anything. Is that agreed?"

"Carried unanimous, " said Ninian. 

"Good egg!" Gilbert said. 

3

But the plan was not carried out as Gilbert had made it. He and Ninianand Roger Carey went to Cambridge, but Henry did not go with them. Itwas Mr. Quinn who upset the plan. He suddenly gave notice to Rumpell'sthat Henry would not return to the school. 

_You're getting to be too English in your ways, Henry, _ he wrote to hisson, _and I want you at home for a while. There's a young fellow calledMarsh who can tutor you until you go to the University. I met him inDublin a while since, and I like him. He's a bit cranky, but he's cleverand he'll teach you a lot about Ireland. He's up to his neck in Irishthings, and speaks Gaelic and wears an Irish kilt. At least he used towear one, but he's left it off now, partly because he gets cold in hisknees and partly because he's not sure now that the ancient Irish everwore kilts. I think you'll like him!. . . _

"My God, " said Gilbert when Henry read this letter to him, "fancy beingtutored by a chap who wears petticoats!"

"You ought to talk pretty plainly to your guv'nor, Quinny!" Ninian said. "I don't think you ought to let him do that sort of thing. Here we'vesettled that we're all going to Cambridge together, and your guv'norsimply lumps in and upsets everything!"

Henry declared that he would talk to his father and compel him to besensible, but his attempt at compulsion was ineffective. Mr. Quinn hadmade up his mind that Henry was to spend several months at home, underthe tutelage of John Marsh, and then proceed to Trinity College, Dublin. 

"Trinity College, Dublin!" Henry exclaimed. "But I want to go toCambridge!. . . "

"Well, you can't go then. You'll go to T. C. D. Or you'll go nowhere. I'ma T. C. D. Man, an' your gran'da was a T. C. D. Man, an' so was his dabefore him, an' a damned good college it is, too!" Mr. Quinn had alwayscalled his father his "da" when Mrs. Quinn was alive because shedisliked the word and tried to insist on "papa"; and now he used theword as a matter of habit. "What do you want to go to an English collegefor?" he demanded. "You might as well want to go to that Presbyterianhole in Belfast!"

"I want to go to Cambridge, " Henry replied a little angrily andtherefore a little precisely, "because all my friends are going there. They're going up next year, and I want to go with them. They're my bestfriends!. . . "

"Make friends in Ireland, then!" Mr. Quinn interrupted. "You don't makefriends with Englishmen . . . You make money out of them. That's allthey're fit for!"

He began to laugh when he said that, but Henry still scowled. "I hate tohear you talking like that, father!" he said. "I know you don't meanit. . . . "

"Don't I, begod?. . . "

"No, you don't, but even in fun, I hate to hear you saying it. I likeEnglish people. I'm very fond of Gilbert Farlow!. . . "

"A nice fellow!" Mr. Quinn murmured, remembering how he had likedGilbert when he had visited Rumpell's once to see Henry. 

"And Ninian Graham and Roger Carey, I like them, too, and so do you. Youliked them, didn't you?"

"Very nice fellows, both of them, very nice . . . For all they'reEnglish!"

Henry wanted to go on . . . To talk of Mrs. Graham and of Mary . . . Butshyness held his tongue for him. 

"It's a habit I've got into, " Mr. Quinn said, talking of hisdenunciation of the English, "but don't mind me, Henry. Sure, I'm likeall the Ulstermen: my tongue's more bitter nor my behaviour. All thesame, my son, you're goin' to T. C. D. , an' that's an end of it. T. C. D. 'llmake a man of you, but Oxford 'ud only make a snivellin' High Churchcurate of you . . . Crawlin' on your belly to an imitation altar an'lettin' on to be a Catholic!. . . "

"But I don't want to go to Oxford, father. I want to go to Cambridge!"

"It's all the same, Henry. Oxford'll make a snivellin' parson out ofyou, an' Cambridge'll turn you into a snivellin' atheist. I know themplaces well, Henry. I'm acquainted with people from both of them. Allthe Belfast mill-owners send their sons there, so's they can be madeinto imitation Englishmen. An' I tell you there's no differs betweenCambridge an' Oxford. You crawl on your belly to the reredos at Oxford, an' you crawl on your belly to Darwin an' John Stuart Mill at Cambridge. They can't do without a priest of some sort at them places, an' I'm aProtestant, Henry, an' I want no priest at all. Now, at Trinity you'llcrawl on your belly to no one but your God, an' you'll do damn little ofthat if you're any sort of man at all!"

Henry had reminded his father of the history and tradition of T. C. D. , anungracious institution which had taught men to despise Ireland. 

"Well, you needn't pay any heed to the Provost, need you, " Mr. Quinnretorted. "Is a man to run away from his country because a fool of aschoolmaster hasn't the guts to be proud of it? Talk sense, son! We wanteducation in Ireland, don't we, far more nor any other people want it, an' how are we goin' to get it if all the young lads go off to Englan'an' let the schoolmasters starve in Ireland!"

Henry still maintained his position. "But, father, " he said, "youyourself have often told me that Dr. Daniell is an imitationEnglishman. . . . " Dr. Daniell was the Provost of Trinity. 

"He is, and so is his whole family. I know them well . . . Lick-spittles, the lot of them, an' the lad that's comin' after him, oul' Beattie, isno better . . . A half-baked snob . . . I'll tell you a story about him in aminute . . . But all the same, it's not them that matter . . . It's theplace and the tradition an' the feel of it all . . . Do you make me out?"

"Yes, father, I know what you mean!"

"You'd be like a foreigner at Cambridge . . . Like one of them fellowsthat come from India or Germany or places like that . . . But at Trinityyou'd be at home, in your own country, Henry, where people with brainsare badly needed!"

He went on like that until he wore down Henry's desire to go toCambridge. "I'd rather you didn't go to a university at all, " he said, "than not have you go to T. C. D. "

"Very well, father!" said Henry, consenting. 

"That's right, my son, " the old man said, patting his son on the back. "An' now I'll tell you that yarn about Beattie. It'll make you splityour sides!"

It appeared that Mr. Quinn had dined at a house in Dublin where Dr. Beattie was also a guest, and the don was telling tales as was hiscustom, of his acquaintances in high places. The poor old clergyman hada weakness for the company of kings and queens, and liked to tell peopleof what he had said to an emperor or of what a prince had said to him. 

"I was talking to my friend, the Queen of Spain, a short time ago, " Dr. Beattie had said, "and I made a joke which pleased her majesty. It wasabout my friend, the Kaiser, who was present at the time. The Kaiserheard us laughing, her majesty and me, and he came over to ask us why wewere laughing so heartily, the Queen and me. The Queen was veryembarrassed because, of course, I had been making fun of the Kaiser, butI did not lose my self-possession. I turned to the Emperor and said, 'Sir, the Queen and I have known each other for a few moments only, butalready we have a secret between us!'" The Kaiser was very tickled bymy retort . . . Very tickled . . . And the Queen told me afterwards that itwas very adroit of me to get out of it like that. She said it was myIrish wit!. . . 

It was at this point that Mr. Quinn had interrupted. "An' what did yourfriend God say?" he had demanded innocently. 

Mr. Quinn sat back in his chair, when he had finished telling the story, and roared loudly with laughter. "You ought to have seen the oul' snobturnin' red, white an' blue with rage, " he shouted at Henry. "Such atake-down! My God, what a take-down! There he was, the oul' wind-bag, bletherin' about his friend, the Queen of Spain, an' his friend, theEmperor of Germany, an' there was me, just waitin' for him, justwaitin', Henry, an' the minute he shut his gob, I jumped in, an' says Ito him, 'An' what did your friend God say?' By the Holy O, that was agood one! I never enjoyed myself so much as I did that night, an'everybody else that was there was nearin' burstin' with tryin' not tolaugh. Do you mind Lady Galduff?"

"Yes, father!"

"You mind her rightly, don't you? Well, when you go up to Dublin, you'reto call on her, do you hear? Never mind about her manners. Ask her totell you about me an' Dr. Beattie . . . The way I asked him about hisfriend God. Oh, Holy O!. . . "

He could proceed no further, for his sides were shaking with laughterand the tears were streaming down his cheeks and his cheeks were thecolour of beetroot. 

"You'll hurt yourself, father, " said Henry, "if you laugh like that!"

4

"Of course, " said Mr. Quinn, after a while, "the man's a great scholar, an' I mebbe did wrong to take him down like that. But I couldn't helpit, Henry. You see, he's always makin' little of Irish things, an' Ihave no use for a man like that. Not but what some people think too muchof Ireland an' too little of other places. Many's a time I get ragin'mad when I hear some of the Nationalists bleatin' about Ireland as if abit of bog in the Atlantic were worth the rest of the world puttogether. Do you know what, I'm goin' to say somethin' that'll surpriseyou. I don't believe Irishmen'll think properly about Ireland 'til theystop thinkin' about it altogether. We're too self-conscious. We haven'tenough pride an' we've too much conceit. That's the truth. You daren'tsay a word of criticism about Ireland for fear you'd have the peoplejumpin' down your throat--an' that's a sign of weakness, Henry. Do youknow why the English are as strong as they are? It's because they'll letyou criticise them as much as you like, an' never lose their temper withyou. The only time I ever knew them to be flabby and spineless was whenthe Boer War was on . . . An' they'd scream in your face if you didn't saythey were actin' like angels. They were only like that _then_, but we'relike it _all_ the time. The fools don't know that the best patriot isthe man that has the courage to own up when his country's in thewrong!. . . "

Mr. Quinn suddenly sat up stiffly in his seat and gaped at his son for afew moments. 

"Begod, Henry, " he said, "I'm preachin' to you!"

"Yes, father, you are, " Henry replied. "But I don't mind. It's ratherinteresting!"

But the force had gone out of Mr. Quinn. The thought that he had beenpreaching a sermon, delivering a speech, filled him with self-reproach. 

"I never meant to start off like that, " he said. "I only meant to tellyou what was in my mind. You see, Henry, I love Ireland an' I want tosee her as fine as ever she was . . . But she'll never be fine again 'tilshe gets back her pride an' her self-respect. The English people havestolen that from us . . . Yes, they have, Henry! I knew Arthur Balfourwhen he was a young man . . . I liked him too . . . But I'll never forgetthat it was him that turned us into a nation of cadgers. I'm not much ofa thinker, Henry, but the bit of brain I have'll be used for Ireland, whatever happens. You've got more brains than I have, an' I'd like youto use them for Ireland, too. "

5

"This is the way I look at things, " Mr. Quinn said later on. "TheBritish people are the best people in the world, an' the Irish peopleare the best people in the British Empire, an' the Ulster people are thebest people in Ireland!" He glanced about him for a few moments as if hewere cogitating, and then he gave a chuckle and winked at his son. "An'begod, " he said, "I sometimes think I'm the best man in Ulster!" Heburst out laughing when he had finished. "Ah, " he said, half to himself, as he stroked his fine beard, "I'm the quare oul' cod, so I am!"

"All the same, " he went on, speaking soberly, "I'm not coddin' entirely. The Irish have plenty of brains, but they haven't any discipline, an'brains are no good unless you can control them. We need knowledge andexperience, Henry, more nor anything else, an' the more knowledge webring into the country, the better it'll be for us all. Too muchimagination an' not enough knowledge . . . That's what's the matter withus. The English have knowledge, but they've small imagination!. . . Ideclare to my goodness, the best thing that could happen to the two ofus, the English and the Irish, would be for some one to pass a lawcompellin' every Irishwoman to marry an Englishman, an' everyEnglishwoman to marry an Irishman. We'd get some stability into Irelandthen . . . An' mebbe we'd get some intelligence into England. "

6

Henry acquiesced in his father's wishes, but he did so reluctantly. Gilbert's plan for their future had attracted him greatly. He sawhimself passing pleasant years at Cambridge in learning and in argument. There was to be scholarship and company and curiosity and enquiry. Theywere to furnish their minds with knowledge and then they were to seekadventures in the world: a new order of Musketeers: Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan. . . . He let the names of the Musketeers slidethrough his mind in order, wondering which of them was his prototype . . . But he could not find a resemblance to himself in any of them. He feltthat he would shrink from the deeds which they sought. . . . His mind wentback again to thoughts of Cambridge. At all events, in the tourneys ofthe mind his part would be valiant. He would never shrink from combatwith an intellect. . . . He supposed it would be possible to do at T. C. D. Some of what he had proposed to do at Cambridge, but somehow T. C. D. Didnot interest him. It mattered as little to him as a Welsh University. Ithad no hold whatever on his mind. He knew that it was on the level ofOxford and Cambridge, but that knowledge did not console him. "Itdoesn't matter in the way that they do, " he said to himself, and then heremembered something that Gilbert Farlow had said. "T. C. D. Isn't Irishin the way that Oxford and Cambridge are English. It's _in_ Ireland, butit isn't _of_ Ireland!" Gilbert could always get at the centre of athing. "Oxford and Cambridge have lots of faults, " Gilbert had said, "but they're English faults. T. C. D. Has lots of faults, but they're notIrish faults. Do you see what I mean, Quinny? It's . . . It's like agarrison in an unfriendly country . . . Like . . . What d'ye call it? . . . That thing in Irish history . . . The Pale! That's it! It's the Pale stillgoing on being a Pale long after the need for it had ceased. I don'tthink that kind of place is much good to Irishmen. You'd better come toCambridge!. . . "

"I can't, Gilbert. My father's set his heart on my going to Trinity, andI must go. I'd give the world to go with you and Ninian and Roger, butI'll have to do what he wants. Anyhow, I can join you in London when youcome down, and we can spend our holidays together. I'll get my father toask you all to Ireland the first vac. After you've gone up, and perhapsMrs. Graham'll ask us all to Boveyhayne. . . . "

7

Remembering what he had said to Gilbert about Boveyhayne, he rememberedMary Graham. He had not seen her since he had been to Boveyhayne atEaster, but he had written several times to her, lengthy letters, andhad received short, shy replies from her; and sometimes he had tried toinduce Ninian to talk about her. But "She isn't a bad little flapper!"was all that Ninian would say of his sister, and there was littlecomfort to be derived from that speech. Now, standing here in thiswindow-corner, looking over the fields that stretched away to the Antrimmountains, Henry felt that Mary was slipping swiftly out of his life. Itmight be a very long time before he saw her again. . . . How beautiful shehad looked that day when she stood on Whitcombe platform and waved herhand to him as the train steamed out of the station! He _must_ marryher. Mrs. Graham _must_ ask him to spend the next summer at Boveyhayneso that he could meet Mary again. Anyhow he would write to her. He wouldtell her all he was doing. He would describe his life at Trinity to her. He would remind her continually of himself, and perhaps she would notforget him. Girls, of course, were very odd and they changed their mindsan awful lot. Ninian might invite some chap from Cambridge toBoveyhayne. . . . That would be like Ninian, to go and spoil everythingwithout thinking for a moment of what he was doing. . . . If only Mary andhe were a few years older, they could become formally engaged, and theneverything would be all right, but Mary was so young . . . 

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

1

Soon after Henry had returned to Ballymartin, John Marsh came to Mr. Quinn's house to prepare him for Trinity. "He'll put you in the way ofknowin' more about Ireland nor I can tell you, Henry, " Mr. Quinn said tohis son on the evening before Marsh arrived, "an' a lot more nor you'lllearn at Rumpell's, or, for that matter, at Trinity. "

"Then why do you want me to go to Trinity?" Henry asked, still unable toconceal his disappointment at not being sent to Cambridge with hisfriends. 

"I've told you that already, " Mr. Quinn replied firmly, closing his lipsdown tightly. "I want you to have Irish friends as well as Englishfriends, and I've learned this much from livin', that a man seldom makesfriends . . . _friends, _ mind you . . . After he's twenty-five. You onlymake acquaintances after that age. I'd like well to think there werepeople in Ireland that had as tight a hold on your friendship, Henry, asGilbert Farlow and them other lads have. . . . An' there's another thing, "he went on, leaning forward as he spoke and wagging his forefinger atHenry. "If you go to Trinity with a kindly feelin' for Ireland, it'll besomething to think there's one man in the place that has a decentthought for his country an' isn't an imitation Englishman. Who knowswhat good you might do there?" He let his speculations consume him. "Youmight change the character of the whole college. You . . . You might makeit Irish. You . . . You might be the means of turnin' the Provost into anIrishman an' start him takin' an interest in his country. The oul' ladmight turn Fenian an' get transported or hung!. . . "

When he had ceased to speculate on what might happen if Henry began anIrish crusade in Trinity, he spoke again of Marsh. 

"You'll like him, " he said. "I know you will. He's a bit off his head, of course, but that's neither here nor there. The man's a scholar an' Ithink he writes bits of poetry. I've never seen any of his pieces, butsomebody told me he wrote things. I'd like well to have a poet in thehouse!"

"Is he a Catholic?" Henry asked. 

His father nodded his head. "An' very religious, too, I believe, " hesaid. "Still, that's neither here nor there. I met him up in Dublin. Ernest Harper told me about him!"

Ernest Harper was the painter-poet who had influenced so many young menin Ireland, and Mr. Quinn had come into the circle of his friendsthrough the Irish co-operative movement. He had made a special visit toDublin to consult Harper about the education of his son, telling him ofhis desire that Henry should have a strong national sense . . . "but noneof your damned theosophy, mind!. . . " and Harper had recommended JohnMarsh to him. Marsh had lately taken his B. A. Degree and he was anxiousto earn money in circumstances that would enable him to proceed to hisM. A. 

"That lad'll do rightly, " said Mr. Quinn, and he arranged to meet Marshin the queer, untidy room in Merrion Square where Harper edited hisweekly paper. "He has the walls of the place covered with pictures ofbig women with breasts like balloons, " Mr. Quinn said afterwards when hetried to describe Ernest Harper's office, "an' he talks to you aboutfairies 'til you'd near believe a leprechaun 'ud hop out of thecoalscuttle if you lifted the lid!"

Soon afterwards, they met, and Mr. Quinn explained his purpose to Marsh. "I'm not a Nationalist, thank God, nor a Catholic, thank God again, butI'm Irish an' I want my son to know about Ireland an' to feel as Irishas I do myself!"

Marsh talked about Nationalism and Freedom and English Misrule, but Mr. Quinn waved his hands before his face and made a wry expression at him. "All your talk about the freedom of Ireland is twaddle, John Marsh . . . If you don't mind, I'll begin callin' you John Marsh this minute . . . An'I may as well tell you I don't believe in the tyranny of England. TheEnglish aren't cruel--they're stupid. That's what they are--Thick! Asthick as they can be, an' that's as thick as God thinks it's decent tolet any man be! But they're not cruel. They do cruel things sometimesbecause they don't know any better, an' they think they're doin' theright things when they're only doin' the stupid thing. That's where wecome in! Our job is to teach the English how to do the right thing. "They smiled at him. "An' I'm not coddin, '" he went on. "I mean everyword I say. It's not Home Rule for Ireland that's needed--it's IrishRule for England; an' I'll maintain that 'til my dyin' day. . . . Butthat's neither here nor there. I think you're a fool, John Marsh, to goabout dreamin' of an Irish Republic . . . You don't mind me callin' you afool, do you? . . . But you love Ireland, and I'd forgive a man a greatdeal for that, so if you'll come an' be tutor to my son, I'll be obligedto you!"

And John Marsh, smiling at Mr. Quinn, had consented. 

"That's right, " Mr. Quinn said, gripping the young man's hand andwringing it heartily. "I like him, " he added, turning to Ernest Harper, "an' he'll be good for Henry, an' I daresay I'll be good for him. You'vean awful lot of slummage in your skull, " he continued, addressing Marshagain, "but begod I'll clear that out!"

"Slummage?" Marsh asked questioningly. 

"Aye. Do you not know what slummage is?"

He described it as a heap of steamy, flabby grain that is rejected bydistillers after the spirit has been extracted from it. "An' it's onlyfit to feed pigs with, " he said, ending his description. "An' the kindof stuff you're lettin' out of you now is only fit for pub-patriots. How soon can you come to Ballymartin. The sooner the better!"

He tried to drop the discussion of politics, but was so fond of ithimself that before he had settled the date of Marsh's appearance atBallymartin, he was in the middle of another discussion. His head wasfull of theories about Ireland and about the world, and he loved to lethis theories out of his head for an airing. He very earnestly desired tokeep Ireland different from England. "Ireland's the 'country' of thiskingdom, an' England's the 'town, '" he sometimes said, or when his moodwas bitter, he would say that he wished to preserve Ireland as a placein which gentlemen could live in comfort, leaving England to be thenatural home of manufacturers and mill-owners. 

"But it's no good talkin' of separatin' the two countries, " he said toMarsh, "an' it's no good talkin' of drivin' the English out of Irelandbecause you can't tell these times who is English an' who is Irish. We've mingled our blood too closely for any one to be able to tell who'swhat. If you started clearin' out the English, you'd mebbe clear me out, for my family was planted here by William of Orange . . . An' thedamnedest set of scoundrels they were, too, by all accounts!. . . An'mebbe, Marsh, you yourself 'ud be cleared out!. . . Aye, an' you, too, Ernest Harper, for all you're waggin' your oul' red beard at me. You'reScotch, man, Scotch, to the backbone!. . . "

Harper rose at him, wagging his red beard, and filling the air withterrible prophecies!. . . 

"Ah, quit, man!" said Mr. Quinn, and he turned and winked at Marsh. "Doyou know what religion he is?" he said, pointing his finger at Harper. "He's a Nonconformin' Theosophist!" And he roared at his own joke. 

"You can no more separate the destinies of England an' Ireland in theworld, " he went on, "nor you can separate the waters of the Liffey an'the Mersey in the Irish Sea. Bedam, if you can!"

Mr. Quinn liked to throw out these aphorisms, and he spent a great dealof time in inventing them. Once he flung a company of Dublin gossipsinto a rage because he declared that Dublin was called "the whisperinggallery" and "the city of dreadful whispers" because it was populated bythe descendants of informers and spies. That, he declared, was whyDublin people were so fond of tittle-tattle and tale-bearing andscandal-mongering. "The English hanged or transported everydecent-minded man in the town, an' left only the spies an' informers, an' the whole of you are descended from that breed. That's why you can'tkeep anything to yourselves, but have to run abut the town tellin'everybody all the secrets you know!" And he charged them with constantlygiving each other away. He repeated this generalisation about the Dublinpeople to John Marsh. "An' I tell you what'll happen to you, youngfellow, one of these days. You'll be hanged or shot or transported orsomethin', an' half the people of this place'll be runnin' likelightnin' to swear an information against you, as sure as Fate. If everyou think of startin' a rebellion, John Marsh, go up to Belfast an'start it. People'll be loyal to you there, but in this place they'd sellyou for a pint of Guinness!"

He was half serious in his warning to Marsh, but . . . "I should be gladto die for Ireland, " Marsh replied, and it was said so simply that therewas no priggishness in it. "I can think of no finer fate for anIrishman. "

Mr. Quinn made a gesture of impatience. "It 'ud be a damn sight betterto live for Ireland, " he exclaimed angrily. 

2

Henry was in the garden when John Marsh arrived, accompanied by Mr. Quinn. Two letters had come to him that morning from England--one fromGilbert Farlow and the other from Mary Graham, and he was reading themagain for the seventh or eighth time when the dogcart drove up to thehouse. 

 _My dear old ass, _ Gilbert wrote, _why grizzle and grouse at the Bally Awful! That's my name now for things which can't be helped. I've taught it to Ninian, but he persists in calling it the Bloody Awful, which is low. He says that doesn't matter because he is low. Roger and I have had to clout his head rather severely lately . . . It took two of us to do it. . . . Roger held his arms while I clouted him . . . Because he has become fearfully democratic, meaning by that, that anybody who knows more than his alphabet is an enemy of the poor. Roger and I are dead nuts on aristocracy at present. We go about saying, "My God, I'm a superman!" and try to look like Bernard Shaw. Roger only succeeds in looking like Little Lord Fauntleroy. But all this is away from the point, which is, why grizzle and grouse at the Bally Awful. If your papa will send you to T. C. D. , you must just grin and bear it, my lad. I've never met anybody from Trinity. . . . I suppose people do come out of it after they get into it . . . But if you're careful and remember the example of your little friends, Gilbert and Ninian and Roger, you'll come to no harm. And when you do come to London, we'll try to improve what's left of your poor mind. It would be splendid to go to Ballymartin for the summer. Tell your papa that Ninian and Roger and I solemnly cursed him three times for preventing you from coming to Cambridge, and then gave him three cheers for asking us to Ireland. The top of the morning to you, my broth of a boy, and the heavens be your bed, bedad and bejabers, as you say in your country, according to Punch. Yours ever, Gilbert. _

 _P. S. What about that two bob you owe me?_

Mary's letter was shorter than Gilbert's. 

 _I think it's awfully horrid of your father not to let you go to Cambridge with Ninian and the others. I was so looking forward to going up in May Week and so was Mother. Of course, we shall go anyhow, but it would have been much nicer if you had been there. You would love Boveyhayne if you were here now. The hedges are full of wild roses and hazelnuts and there is a lovely lot of valaria on our wall. Old Widger says there will be a lovely lot of blackberries in September if everything goes well. I went out in a boat yesterday with Tom Yeo and I caught six dozen mackerel. You would have blubbed if you'd seen them flopping about in the bottom of the boat and looking so nice, and they were nice to eat. I love mackerel, don't you? Mother sends her love. Do write soon. I love getting letters and you write such nice ones. Your affectionate friend, Mary Graham. P. S. Love. _

Mary always signed herself his affectionate friend. He had tried to makeher sign herself his loving sweetheart, but she said she did not like todo that. 

3

He hurriedly put the letters away, and rose to greet John Marsh who cameacross the lawn to him, talking to Mr. Quinn. 

"This is John Marsh, Henry, " Mr. Quinn said when he came up to him, andHenry and Marsh shook hands and murmured greetings to each other. "I'llleave you both here to get acquainted with each other, " Mr. Quinncontinued. "I've a few things to do about the house!" He went off atonce, leaving them together, but before he had gone far he turned andshouted to Henry, "You can show him through the grounds! He'll want tostretch his legs after bein' so long in the train!"

"Very well, father!" Henry answered, and turned to Marsh. 

His first impression of his tutor was one of insignificance. Marsh'sclothes were cheap and ready-made, and they seemed to be a size toolarge for him. That, indeed, was characteristic of him, that he shouldalways seem to be wearing things which were too big for him. His tie, too, was rising over the top of his collar. . . . But the sense ofinsignificance disappeared from Henry's mind almost immediately afterMarsh had offered his hand to him and had smiled; and following thesense of insignificance came a feeling of personal shame that wasincomprehensible to him until he discovered that his shame was causedbecause he had thought slightingly of Marsh, even though he had done soonly for a few moments, and had allowed his mind to be concerned aboutthe trivialities of clothes when it should have been concerned with thenature of the man who wore them. Henry's mind was oddly perverse; he hadbeen as fierce in his denunciation of convention as ever Gilbert Farlowhad been, but nevertheless he clung to conventional things withsomething like desperation. It was characteristic of him that he shouldpalliate his submission to the conventional thing by inventing asensible excuse for it. He would say that such things were too trivialto be worth the trouble of a fight or a revolt, and declare that oneshould save one's energies for bigger battles; but the truth was that hehad not the moral courage to flout a convention, and he had a queer, instinctive dislike of people who had the courage to do so. . . . He knewthat this habit of his was likely to distort his judgments and make himshrink from ordeals of faith, and very often in his mind he tried tosubdue his cowardly fear of conventional disapproval . . . Withoutsuccess. But John Marsh had the power to conquer people. The gentlenessof him, the kindly smile and the look of high intent, made men of meanermotive feel unaccountably ashamed. 

He was a man of middle height and slender build. His high, broad browwas covered by heavy, rough, tufty hair that was brushed cleanly fromhis forehead and cut tidily about the neck so that he did not lookunkempt. His long, straight nose was as large as the nose of asuccessful business man, but it was not bulbous nor were the nostrilswide and distended. It was a delicately-shaped and pointed nose, withnarrow nostrils that were as sensitive as the nostrils of a racehorse:an adventurous, pointing nose that would lead its owner to valiantlengths, but would never lead him into low enterprises. He had grey eyesthat were quick to perceive, so that he understood things speedily, andthe kindly, forbearing look in them promised that his understandingwould not be stiffened by harshness, that it would be accompanied bysympathy so keen that, were it not for the hint of humour which theyalso held, he might almost have been mawkish, a sentimentalist tooeasily dissolved in tears. His thick eyebrows clung closely to his eyes, and gave him a look of introspection that mitigated the shrewdness ofhis pointing nose. There was some weakness, but not much, in the full, projecting lower lip and the slightly receding chin that caused hisshort, tightened upper lip to look indrawn and strained; and the big, ungainly, jutting ears consorted oddly with the serious look of highpurpose that marked his face in repose. It was as though Puck had turnedpoet and then had turned preacher. One looked at the fleshy lower lipand the jutting ears, and thought of a careless, impish creature; onelooked at the shapely, pointing nose and the kindly, unflinching eyes, and thought of a man reckless of himself in the pursuit of some finepurpose. One saw immediately that he was a man who could be moved easilywhen his sympathies were touched . . . But that he could hardly bedissuaded from the fulfilment of his good intent. His Nationalism waslike a cleansing fire; it consumed every impure thing that mightpenetrate his life. It was so potent that he did ridiculous things inasserting it. . . . It was typical of him that he should gaelicise hisname, and equally typical of him that he should be undecided about thecorrect spelling of "John" in the ancient Irish tongue. He had calledhimself "Sean" Marsh, and then had called himself "Shane" and "Shaun"and "Shawn. " Once, for a while, he transformed "John" into "Eoin" andthen, tiring of it, had reverted to "Sean. " But this restlessness overhis name was not a sign of general instability of purpose. He might varyin the expression of his belief, but the belief itself was as immovableas the mountains. 

4

It was said of him that on one occasion he had taken a cheque to a bankin Dublin to be cashed. An English editor had printed one of his poemsand had paid for it . . . And he was not accustomed to receiving money forhis poems, which were printed mostly in little Irish propagandajournals! He had endorsed the cheque in Gaelic, and the puzzled bankmanager had demanded that it should be endorsed in English. . . . Marsh hadgiven him a lecture on Irish history that lasted for the better part ofhalf-an-hour . . . And then, because the manager looked so frightened, hehad consented to sign his name in English. 

5

They left the garden and walked slowly to the top of an ascending fieldwhere an old farm-horse, quit now of work, grazed in peace. It raisedits head as they walked towards it, and gazed at them with blurred eyes, and then ambled to them. They stood beside it for a few moments whileMarsh patted its neck with one hand and allowed it to nuzzle in the palmof the other. "I love beasts, " he said, "Dogs and cats and birds andhorses and cows . . . I think I love cows best because they've got suchbig, soft eyes and look so stupid and reproachful . . . Except that dogsare very nice and companionable and faithful . . . But so are cats. . . . "

"Faithful? Cats?" Henry asked. 

"Oh, yes . . . Quite faithful if they like you. Why should they befaithful if they don't? Poor, old chap! Poor, old chap!" he murmured, thrusting his fingers through the horse's worn mane. "Of course, horsesare very nice, too, " he went on. "And birds! . . . I suppose one lovesall animals. One has to be very brutal to hurt an animal; hasn't one?"

Henry laughed. "The Irish are cruel to animals, " he said, "but theEnglish aren't!"

Marsh flushed. "I've never been in England, " he replied, looking away. 

"Never?" Henry exclaimed. 

"No, and I shall never go there!"

There was a sudden ferocity in his voice that startled Henry. "But why?"he asked. 

"Why?. . . " Marsh's voice changed its note and became quiet again. "I'mIrish, " he said. "That's why! I don't think that any Irishman ought toput his foot in England until Ireland is free!"

Henry snapped at him impatiently. "I hate all that kind of talk, " hesaid. 

Marsh looked at him in astonishment. "You hate all . . . What talk?" heasked. 

"All that talk about Ireland being free!"

"But don't you want Ireland to be free?" Marsh asked. 

They had walked on across the field until they came to a barred gate, and Marsh climbed on to the top bar and perched himself there whileHenry stood with his back against the gate and fondled the muzzle of thehorse which had followed after them. 

"I don't know what you mean when you say you want Ireland to be free!"Henry exclaimed. 

"Don't know what I mean!. . . " Marsh's voice became very tense again, andhe slipped down from the gate and turned quickly to explain his meaningto Henry, but Henry did not wait for the explanation. "No, " heinterrupted quickly. "Of course, I don't know much about these things, but I've read some books that father gave me, and I've talked to myfriends . . . One of them, Gilbert Farlow, is rather clever and he knows alot about politics . . . He argues with his father about them . . . And Ican't see that there's much difference between England and Ireland. People here don't seem to me to be any worse off than people overthere!"

"It isn't a question of being worse off or better off, " Marsh replied. "It's a question of being _free. _ The English are governed by theEnglish. The Irish aren't governed by the Irish. That's the differencebetween us. What does it matter what your condition is so long as youknow that you are governed by a man of your own breed and blood, andthat at any minute you may be in his place and he in yours, and yetyou'll be men of the same breed and blood? I'd rather be governed badlyby men of my own breed than be governed well by another breed. . . . "

Henry remembered Ulster and his father and all his kinsmen scatteredabout the North who had sworn to die in the last ditch rather than begoverned by Nationalists. "That's all very well, " he said, "but thereare plenty of people in Ireland who don't want to be governed by yourbreed, well or bad!"

"They'd consent if they thought we had the ability to govern well, "Marsh went on. "Anyhow, we couldn't govern Ireland worse than theEnglish have governed it!"

"Some people think you could!. . . "

But Marsh was in no mood to listen to objections. "You can't be freeuntil you are equal with other people, and we aren't equal with theEnglish. We aren't equal with anybody but subject people. And they lookdown on us, the English do. We're lazy and dirty and ignorant andsuperstitious and priest-ridden and impractical and . . . And comic!. . . MyGod, _comic_! Whenever I see an Englishman in Ireland, running round andfeeling superior, I want to wring his damned neck . . . And I should hateto wring any one's neck. "

Henry tried to interject a remark, but Marsh hurried on, disregardinghis attempt to speak. 

"How would they like it if we went over to their country and maderemarks about them?" he exclaimed. "My brother went to London once andhe saw people making love in public . . . Fellows and girls hugging eachother in the street and sprawling about in the parks . . . All over eachother . . . And no one took any notice. It wasn't decent. . . . How wouldthey like it if we went over there and made remarks about _that?_ . . . "

Henry insisted on speaking. "But why should you hate the English?" hedemanded, and added, "I don't hate them. I like them!"

"I didn't say I hated the English, " Marsh replied. "I don't. I don'thate any race. That would be ridiculous. But I hate the belief that theEnglish are fit to govern us, when they're not, and that we're not fitto govern ourselves, when we are. I'd rather be governed by Germans thanbe governed by the English!. . . " Henry moved away impatiently. "Yes, Iwould, " Marsh continued. "At all events, the Germans would govern uswell. . . . "

"You'd hate to be governed by Germans!"

"I'd hate to be governed by any but Irishmen; but the Germans wouldn'tmake the muddles and messes that the English make!. . . "

"You don't know that, " Henry said. 

But Marsh would not take up the point. He swung off on a generalisation. "There won't be any peace or happiness in Ireland, " he said, "until theEnglish are driven out of it. Even the Orangemen don't like them. They're always making fun of them!. . . "

Henry repeated his assertion that he liked the English, conscious thatthere was something feeble in merely repeating it. He wished that hecould say something as forceful as Marsh's statement of his dislike ofEngland, but he was unable to think of anything adequate to say. "I likethe English, " he said again, and when he thought over that talk, thereseemed to be nothing else to say. How could he feel about the English asJohn Marsh, who had never lived in England, felt? How could he dislikethem when he remembered Gilbert Farlow and Roger Carey and NinianGraham and Mrs. Graham and Old Widger and Tom Yeo and Jim Rattenbury . . . And Mary Graham. His father had always spoken contemptuously ofEnglishmen, but he had never been moved by this violent antipathy tothem which moved Marsh . . . And most of his talk against England was onlytalk, intended to sting the English out of their complacency . . . And hewas eager to preserve the Union between the two countries. But Marshwished to be totally separate from England. He was vague, very vague, about points of defence, and he boggled badly when Henry, trying tothink like a statesman, talked of an Army and a Navy . . . His mindwandered into the mists of Tolstoyianism and then he ended by suggestingthat England would attend to these matters in self-defence. He could notsatisfy Henry's superficial enquiries about the possibilities of tradeconducted in Gaelic . . . But he was positive about the need forseparation, complete and irremediable separation, from England. 

"We're separated from them physically, " he said, "and I want us to beseparated from them politically and spiritually. They're a debasedpeople!. . . " Henry muttered angrily at that, for his mind was still fullof Mary Graham. "They're a debased people . . . That's why I want to getfree of them . . . And all the debasing things in Ireland are part of theEnglish taint. We've nothing in common with them. They're a race offactory-hands and manufacturers; we're a race of farmers and poets; andyou can never reconcile us. All you can do is to make us like them . . . Or worse!"

Henry remembered how his father had fulminated against the smoothEnglishman who had proposed to turn Glendalough into a place like thePotteries or Wigan. 

"But isn't there some middle course?" he said weakly. "Isn't there someway of getting at the minerals of Wicklow without making Glendalough aplace like Wigan?"

"Not if the English have anything to do with it, " Marsh answered. "Idon't know what Wigan is like. . . . I suppose it's horrible . . . But it'snatural to Englishmen. They trail that sort of place behind themwherever they go. Slums and sickness and fat, rich men! If they hadanything to do with developing Wicklow they'd make it stink!. . . "

"Well, I don't know, " Henry said wearily, for he soon grew tired ofarguments in which he was an unequal participator. "I like the Englishand I can't see any good in just hating them!"

"They found a decent, generous race in Ireland, " Marsh exclaimed, "andthey've turned it into a race of cadgers. Your father admits that. Askhim what he thinks of Arthur Balfour and his Congested DistrictsBoard!. . . "

They went back to the house, and as they went, they talked of books, andas they talked of books, Marsh's mind became assuaged. He had latelypublished a little volume of poems and he spoke of it to Henry in a shyfashion, though his eyes brightened and gleamed as he repeated somethingthat Ernest Harper had said of them . . . But then Ernest Harper alwaysspoke kindly of the work of young, sincere men. 

"I'll give you a copy if you like, " Marsh said to Henry. 

"Oh, thank you!" Henry exclaimed. "I should love to have it. I suppose, "he went on, "it's very exciting to have a book published. "

"I cried when I first saw my book, " Marsh answered very simply. "Isuppose women do that when they first see their babies!. . . "

But Henry did not know what women do when they first see their babies. 

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

1

All through the summer, Henry and John Marsh worked together, makingIrishry, as Marsh called it. They studied the conventional subjects inpreparation for T. C. D. But their chief studies were of the Irishtongue and Irish history. Marsh was a Gaelic scholar, and he had mademany translations of Gaelic poems and stories, some of which seemed toHenry to be of extraordinary beauty, but most of which seemed to him tobe so thoughtless that they were merely lengths of words. There appearedto be no connexion between these poems and tales and the life he himselfled--and Marsh's point was that the connexion was vital. One evening, Henry, who had been reading "The Trojan Women" of Euripides, turned toMarsh and said that the Greek tragedy seemed nearer to him than any ofthe Gaelic stories and poems. He expressed his meaning badly, but whatit came to was this, that the continuity of life was not broken in theEuripidean plays: the life of which Henry was part flowed directly fromthe life of which Euripides was part; he had not got the sensation thathe was a stranger looking on at alien things when he had read "TheTrojan Women, " "I can imagine all that happening now, " he said, "but Ican't imagine any of that Gaelic life recurring. I don't feel any lifein it. It's like something . . . Something odd suddenly butting intothings . . . And then suddenly butting out again . . . And leaving noexplanation behind it!"

He tried again, with greater success, to explain what he meant. "It'slike reading topical references in old books, " he said. "They meannothing to us even when there are footnotes to explain them!"

Marsh had listened patiently to him, though there was anger in hisheart. "You think that all that life is over!" he said, and Henry noddedhis head. 

"Listen, " said Marsh, taking a letter from his pocket, "here is a poem, translated from Irish, that was sent to me by a friend of mine inDublin. His name is Galway, and I'd like you to know him. Listen! It'scalled 'A Song for Mary Magdalene. '"

He read the poem in a slow, crooning voice that seemed always on thepoint of becoming ridiculous, but never did become so. 

 O woman of the gleaming hair (Wild hair that won men's gaze to thee), Weary thou turnest from the common stare, For the Shuiler[2] Christ is calling thee. 

 O woman with the wild thing's heart, Old sin hath set a snare for thee: In the forest ways forespent thou art, But the hunter Christ shall pity thee. 

 O woman spendthrift of thyself, Spendthrift of all the love in thee, Sold unto sin for little pelf, The captain Christ shall ransom thee. 

 O woman that no lover's kiss (Tho' many a kiss was given thee) Could slake thy love, is it not for this The hero Christ shall die for thee?

They were quiet for a while, and then Marsh turned to Henry and said, "Is that alien to you?"

"No, " he answered, "but I did not say that it was all alien!. . . "

"Or this?" Marsh interrupted, taking up the manuscript again. "Galwaysent these translations to me so that I might be the first to see them. He always does that. This one is called 'Lullaby of a Woman of theMountain. '"

 Little gold head, my house's candle, You will guide all wayfarers that walk this country. 

 Little soft mouth that my breast has known, Mary will kiss you as she passes. 

 Little round cheek, O smoother than satin, Iosa will lay His hand upon you. 

 Mary's kiss on my baby's mouth, Christ's little hand on my darling's cheek!

 House, be still, and ye little grey mice, Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs. 

 Moths on the window, fold your wings, Little black chafers, silence your humming. 

 Plover and curlew fly not over my house, Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over this mountain. 

 Things of the mountain that wake in the night time, Do not stir to-night till the daylight whitens. 

"That's alive, isn't it?" Marsh, now openly angry, demanded. "Do youthink that song doesn't kindle the hearts of mothers all over theworld?. . . I can imagine Eve crooning it to little Cain and Abel, and Ican imagine a woman in the Combe crooning it to her child!. . . " The Combewas a tract of slum in Dublin. "It's universal and everlasting. Youcan't kill that!"

"Then why has it got lost?"

"It isn't lost--it's only covered up. Our task is to dig it out. It'sworth digging out, isn't it? The people in the West still sing songslike that. Isn't it worth while to try and get all our people to singthem instead of singing English music-hall stuff?. . . "

2

It was in that spirit that Marsh started the Gaelic class inBallymartin. "And the Gaelic games, " he said to Henry, "we'll revivethem too!" Twice a week, he taught the rudiments of the Irish languageto a mixed class of boys and girls, and every Saturday he led theBallymartin hurley team into one of Mr. Quinn's fields. . . . 

There had been difficulty in establishing the mixed classes. The farmersand the villagers, having first declared that Gaelic was useless tothem--"they'd be a lot better learnin' shorthand!" said JohnMcCracken--then declared that they did not care to have their daughters"trapesin' about the loanies, lettin' on to be learnin' Irish, an' themonly up to devilment with the lads!" But Marsh overcame that difficulty, as he overcame most of his difficulties, by persistent attack; and inthe end, the Gaelic class was established, and the Ballymartin boys andgirls were set to the study of O'Growney's primer. Henry was employed asMarsh's monitor. His duty was to supervise the elementary pupils, leaving the more advanced ones to the care of Marsh. It was while he wasteaching the Gaelic alphabet to his class, that Henry first met SheilaMorgan. 

She came into the schoolroom one night out of a drift of rain, and asshe stood in the doorway, laughing because the wind had caught herumbrella and almost torn it out of her hands, he could see theraindrops glistening on her cheeks. She put the umbrella in a corner ofthe room, leaving it open so that it might dry more quickly, and thenshe shook her long dark hair back and wiped the rain from her face. Hewaited until she had taken off her mackintosh and hung it up in thecloakroom, and then he went forward to her. 

"Have you come to join the class?" he asked, and she smiled and noddedher head. "It's a coarse sort of a night, " she added, coming into theclassroom. 

He did not know her name, and he wondered where her home was. He kneweverybody in Ballymartin, and many of the people in the country outsideit, but he had never seen Sheila Morgan before. 

"I thought I might as well come, " she said, "but I'm only here for awhile!"

Then she did not belong to the village. "Yes?. . . " he said. 

"It's quaren dull in the country, " she continued, "an' the classes'llhelp to pass the time. I wish it was dancin', but!"

Dancing! They had not made any arrangements for dancing, though theGaels were very nimble on their feet. He glanced at Marsh reproachfully. Why had Marsh omitted to revive the Gaelic dances?

"Perhaps, " he said to Sheila, "we can have dancing classes later on. . . . "

"I'll mebbe be gone before you have them, " she answered. 

"How long are you staying for?" he asked. 

"I don't know. I'm stopping with my uncle Matthew . . . It's him hasHamilton's farm . . . An' I'm stoppin' 'til he knows how his health'll be. He's bad. . . . "

He remembered Matthew Hamilton. "Is he ill?" he said. 

"Aye. He's been sick this while past, an' now he's worse, an' my auntKate asked me to come an' stop with them to help them in the house. He'snot near himself at all. You'd think a pity of him if you seen the wayhe's failed next to nothin'. . . . Is it hard to learn Irish?"

"You'd better come an' try for yourself, " he replied, and then he ledher up to Marsh and told him that a new pupil had come to join theclass. There was some awkwardness about names. . . . "Och, I never told youmy name, " she said, laughing as she spoke. "Sheila Morgan!" shecontinued. "I live in County Down, but I'm stayin' with my uncleMatthew, " she explained to Marsh. 

"Do you know any Gaelic at all?" Marsh asked. 

"No, " she replied. "I never learned it. Are you goin' to have anydancin' classes?"

Henry insisted that they ought to have had dancing classes as well as ahurley team. "The hurley's all right for the boys, " he said, "but we'venothing for the girls. . . . "

"But you'd want boys at the dancin' as well, " Sheila interrupted. "Ican't bear dancin' with girls!"

"No, of course not, " said Henry. 

Marsh considered. "Who's to teach the dancing?" he asked, adding, "Ican't!"

"I'd be willin' to do that, " Sheila said. "Mebbe you'd join the classyourself, Mr. Marsh?"

Marsh laughed, but did not answer. 

"It'll be great value, " she went on. "There's nothin' to do in theevenin's . . . Nothin' at all . . . An' it's despert dull at night withnothin' to do!. . . "

"I'll think about it, " said Marsh. "You can begin your Gaelic studynow, " he added. "Mr. Quinn'll give you a lesson!. . . "

3

It was Jamesey McKeown who caused the decision to hold the dancingclasses to be made as quickly as it was. Jamesey was one of the pupilsin the advanced section of the Gaelic class . . . A bright-witted boy ofthirteen, with a quick, sharp way. One day, Marsh and Henry had climbeda steep hill outside the village, and when they reached the top of it, they found Jamesey lying there, looking down on the fields beneath. Hischin was resting in the cup of his upturned palms. 

"God save you, Jamesey!" said Marsh, and "God save you kindly!" Jameseyanswered. 

The greeting and the reply are not native to Ulster, but Marsh had madethem part of the Gaelic studies, and whenever he encountered friends healways saluted them so. His pupils, falling in with his whim, repliedto his salute as he wished them to reply, but the older people merelynodded their heads or said "It's a soft day!" or "It's a brave day!" or, more abruptly, "Morra, Mr. Marsh!" The Protestants among them suspectedthat the Gaelic salutation was a form of furtive Popery. . . . 

They sat down beside the boy. "I suppose you'll be leaving school soon, Jamesey?" Marsh asked. 

"Aye, I will in a while, " Jamesey answered. 

"What class are you in?"

"I'm a monitor, Mr. Marsh. I'm in my first year!. . . "

Henry sat up and joined in the conversation. "Then you're going to be ateacher?" he said. 

"No, I'm not, " Jamesey replied. "My ma put me in for the monitor to getthe bit of extra education. That's all!"

"What are you going to be, Jamesey? A farmer?" said Marsh. 

"No. I wouldn't be a farmer for the world!. . . "

"But why?"

The boy changed his position and faced round to them. "Sure, there'snothin' to do but work from the dawn till the dark, " he said, "an' younever get no diversion at all. I'm quaren tired of this place, I cantell you, an' my ma's tired of it too. She wudden be here if she couldhelp it, but sure she can't. It's terrible in the winter, an' the win'fit to blow the head off you, an' you with nothin' to do on'y look aftera lot of oul' cows an' pigs an' things. I'm goin' to a town as soon asI'm oul' enough!. . . "

They talked to him of the beauty of the country. . . . 

"Och, it's all right for a holiday in the summer, " he said. 

. . . And they talked to him of the fineness of a farmer's life, but hewould not agree with them. A farmer's life was too hard and too dull. Hewas set on joining his brother in Glasgow. . . . 

"What does your brother do, Jamesey?" Marsh asked. 

"He's a barman. "

"A barman!" they repeated, a little blankly. 

"Aye. That's what I'm goin' to be . . . In the same place as him!"

They did not speak for a while. It seemed to both of them to beincredible that any one could wish to exchange the loveliness of theAntrim country for a Glasgow bar. . . . 

"What hours does your brother work?" Marsh asked drily. 

"He works from eight in the mornin' till eight at night, an' it's lateron Saturdays, but he has a half-day a week til himself, an' he has allday Sunday. They don't drink on Sunday in Glasgow!"

Marsh smiled. "Don't they?" he said. 

"It's long hours, " Jamesey admitted, "but he has great diversion. D'yeknow this, Mr. Marsh!" he continued, rolling over on his side andspeaking more quickly, "he can go to a music-hall twice on the one nightan' hear all the latest songs for tuppence. That's all it costs him. Hegoes to the gallery an' he hears gran', an' he can go to two music-hallsin the one night . . . _in the one night_, mind you . . . For fourpence!Where would you bate that? You never get no diversion of that sort inthis place . . . Only an oul' magic-lantern an odd time, or the Band ofHope singin' songs about teetotallers!. . . "

That was the principal burden of Jamesey's complaint, that there was nodiversion in Ballymartin. "If you were to go up the street now, " hesaid, "you'd see the fellas stan'in' at the corner, houl'in' up thewall, an' wonderin' what the hell to do with themselves, an' nevergettin' no answer!. . . "

"You never hear noan of the latest songs here, " he complained again. "Igot a quare cut from my brother once, me singin' a song that I thoughtwas new, an' he toul' me it was as oul' as the hills. It was more nor ayear oul', anyway!. . . "

4

They came away from the hill in a mood of depression. It seemed to Henrythat the Gaelic Movement could never take root in that soil. What wasthe good of asking Jamesey McKeown to sing Gaelic songs and till theland when his heart was hungering for the tuppeny excitements of aGlasgow music-hall? What would Jamesey McKeown make of Galway'stranslations? Would

 O woman of the gleaming hair (Wild hair that won men's gaze to thee), Weary thou turnest from the common stare, For the Shuiler Christ is calling thee. 

bind him to the nurture of the earth when

 What ho! she bumps

called him to Glasgow?

"We must think of something!" Marsh was saying, but Henry was busy withhis own thoughts and paid no heed to him. 

What, after all, had a farm to offer a quick-witted man or woman? Thatgirl, Lizzie McCamley of whom his father had spoken once, she hadpreferred to go to Belfast and work in a linen mill and live in a slumrather than continue in the country; and Jamesey McKeown, who was soquick and eager and anxious to succeed, had weighed farms and fields andhills and valleys in the balance and found them of less weight and valuethan a Glasgow bar and a Glasgow music-hall. Henry remembered that hisfather was more interested in the land than most men--and he resolved toask for his opinion. What was the good of all this co-operation, thisstruggle to discover the best way of making the earth yield up the meansof life, this effort to increase and multiply, when nothing they coulddo seemed to make the work attractive to those who did it?. . . 

Marsh was still murmuring to him. "I see, " he was saying, "thatsomething must be done. That girl . . . What's her name?. . . Sheilasomething?. . . "

"Sheila Morgan!" Henry said. 

"Yes. Sheila Morgan . . . She said something about dancing classes, didn'tshe? We'll start a dancing class . . . We'll teach them the Gaelicdances!. . . "

It suddenly seemed funny to Henry that Marsh should propose to solve theLand Problem . . . The real Land Problem . . . By means of dancing classes. 

"They'll want more than that, " he said. "They can't always be dancing!"

"No, " Marsh answered, "but we can begin with that!"

Marsh's depression swiftly left him. He began to speculate on the futureof the countryside when the Gaelic revival was complete. There would beGaelic games, Gaelic songs, Gaelic dances and a Gaelic literature. "Idon't see why we shouldn't have a theatre in every village, with villageactors and village plays. . . . There must be a great deal of talent hiddenaway in these houses that never comes out because there is no one tobring it out. . . . I wish you were older, Henry, and were quit of Trinity. You and I . . . And Galway . . . Of course, we must have Galway . . . Mightstart the Movement on a swifter course than it has now!. . . " He broke offand made a gesture of impatience. "Oh, my God, why can't a man do more!"he said. 

5

Henry put the question to his father, and Mr. Quinn considered it for awhile. 

"I don't know, " he answered, "what to say. You'd think people would findmore to interest them in the land than in anything else . . . But theydon't. There's so much to do, an' it's so varied, an' you have it allunder your own eye . . . You begin it an' carry it on and you end it . . . An' yet somehow!. . . An' then the whole family understands it and cantake an interest in it. You'd think that that would hold them. Thereisn't any other trade in the world that'll take up a whole family an'give them all somethin' to talk about an' think over an' join in. ButI've never known a bright boy or girl on a farm that wasn't itchin' toget away from it to a town!"

"But something'll have to be done, father!" Henry urged. "We must havefarmers!. . . "

"Aye, something'll have to be done, but I'm damned if I know what. Isuppose when they've developed machinery more an' can make transiteasier . . . But sometimes I half think we'll have to breed people for theland . . . Thick people, slow-witted people, clods . . . An' just let themroot an' dig and grub an' . . . An' breed!" He got up as he spoke, andpaced about the room. "No, Henry, I've got no remedy for you! TheAlmighty God'll have to think of a plan, _I_ can't!"

6

Sheila Morgan did not know any of the ancient Gaelic dances, nor did anyone in Ballymartin. She knew how to waltz and she could dance the polkaand the schottishe. "An' that's all you need!" she said. There were twoold women in the village who danced a double reel, and Paddy Kane was agreat lad at jigs. . . . 

"Perhaps later on, " Marsh said, "we can get some one to teach themGaelic dances!"

And so the classes began. Marsh had announced at the Language class thatthe first of the Dancing Classes would be held on the following Thursday. . . And on Thursday every boy and girl and young man and woman inBallymartin had crowded into the schoolroom where the class was to beheld. 

"There are more here than come to the Language class, " Marsh exclaimedin astonishment when he entered the room. 

"Dancing seems to be more popular than Gaelic, " Henry replied. 

"I don't know how we shall teach them all, " Marsh went on. "I can'tdance . . . And she can't possibly teach them all!"

But there was no need to teach them to dance--they had all learned todance "from their cradles, " as some one said, and in a little while theroom was full of dancing couples. 

Sheila Morgan had gone smilingly to John Marsh as he entered the room. "We're all ready, " she said, and waited. 

"Oh, yes!" he replied, a little vaguely. 

She looked at him for a few moments, and then went on. "If you were tolead off, " she suggested. 

"Me? But I can't dance!. . . "

"You can't dance!"

"No, " he continued. "Somehow, I've never learnt to dance!" She lookeddisappointed. "I thought mebbe you an' me 'ud lead off, " she said. 

"I'm sorry, " he replied. "Perhaps Mr. Quinn can dance!. . . "

Henry gave his arm to her and they walked off, to begin the slowprocession round the room until all the couples were ready. 

"I think Mr. Marsh is the only one in the place that can't dance, "Sheila said, as she placed her hand on Henry's shoulder. 

He put his arm round her waist and they moved off in the dance. "Isuppose he is, " he answered. 

7

He danced with her several times. Her cheeks were glowing and the lustreof her eyes was like the sparkle of the stars. Her lips were slightlyparted, and now and then her breath came quickly. As they swung roundand round, she sometimes closed her eyes and then slowly opened themagain. He became aware of some strange emotion that he had never knownbefore. 

"I love dancin', " she murmured, half to herself. 

"Yes, " he replied, scarcely knowing that he was speaking. 

"I love dancin', " she said again, and again he said "Yes" and nomore. . . . 

He led her to a seat at the side of the room and sat down on the chairnext to it. They did not speak, but sat there watching the swiftmovements of the other dancers. Marsh was somewhere at the other end ofthe room, looking on . . . A little puzzled, a little disturbed . . . Butpleased, too, because the dancers were pleased. He was wondering why theinterest in the Gaelic language was not so strong as the interest in thewaltz. "A foreign dance, too . . . Not Gaelic at all!"

But Henry had forgotten the Gaelic movement, and was conscious only ofthe girl beside him and her glowing cheeks and her bright eyes and thesoftness of her. . . . She was older than he was, a couple of years and henoticed that she had just "put up" her hair. It had been hanging looselywhen he first saw her, and he wondered which he liked better, the loose, hanging hair, or the hair bound round her head. Her slender white neckwas revealed now that her hair was up, and it was very beautiful, but hethought that after all, his first sight of her, as she stood in thedoorway, the raindrops still on her face, and flung back the long, loosestrands of dark hair that lay about her shoulders . . . He still thoughtthat was the loveliest vision of her he had seen. . . . 

Then he remembered Mary Graham. She, too, had long loose hair that layin dark lengths about her shoulders, and her eyes, too, could shine . . . But she was a girl, and Sheila was a woman!. . . He was engaged to Mary, of course . . . Well, was it an engagement? They had been sweethearts andhe had told her he loved her and she had said that she would marry him. . . And all that . . . But they were kids when that happened. Ninian hadcalled him a sloppy ass!. . . This was different. His feeling for SheilaMorgan was different from his feeling for Mary Graham. He had never feltfor any one as he felt for Sheila. He seemed unaccountably to be moreaware of Sheila than he was of Mary. He could not altogether understandthis difference of sensation . . . But sometimes when he had been withMary, he had forgotten that she was a girl . . . She was just some onewith whom he was playing a game or going for a walk or taking a bathe inthe sea. But he could not forget that Sheila was a woman. When he haddanced with her and his arm was about her waist and her fingers were inhis . . . He seemed to grow up. He felt as if something at which he hadbeen gazing uncomprehendingly for a long time, had suddenly become knownto him. He recognised something . . . Understood something which hadpuzzled him. 

"Let's dance again, " he said, standing up before her. 

"All right, " she answered, rising and going to him. 

"I love dancing, " he said to her. 

"Yes, " she murmured in reply. 

8

When the dance was over, he took her to her uncle's farm. Marsh, overcome by headache, had gone home before the dance was ended, andHenry felt glad of this. He waited in the porch of the schoolhouse whileSheila put on her coat and wrap, and wondered why his feeling for herwas so different from his feeling for Mary Graham, and while hewondered, she came to him, gathering up her skirts. 

"Isn't the sky lovely?" she said, glancing up at the stars, as theywalked out of the school-yard into the road. 

He glanced up too, but did not answer. 

"Millions an' millions of them, " she said. "You'd wonder the sky 'udhold them all!"

"Yes, " he said. 

"Many's a time I wonder about the stars, " she went on. "Do you everwonder about them?"

"Sometimes. "

"Do you think there's people in them, the same as there is on theearth?"

"I don't know, " he answered. 

"This is a star, too, isn't it?" she asked. 

"Yes. "

"An' shines just like them does?"

"Yes, I think so!"

"That's quare!" She walked on for a few yards without speaking, and hereyes were fixed steadily on the starry fields. "It's funny, " she said, "to think mebbe there's people up there lookin' at us an' them mebbethinkin' about this place what we're thinkin' of them. Wouldn't you loveto be able to fly up to one of them an' just see if it's true?. . . "

He laughed at her and she laughed in response. "I'm talkin' blether, "she said, stumbling over a stone in the road. 

"Mind!" he warned her, putting out his hand to steady her. 

"I was nearly down that time, " she said. "These roads is awful in thedark . . . You can't see where you're goin' or what's in the way!"

"No, " he replied. 

Her arms were crooked because she was holding her skirts about herankles, and as she stumbled against him a second time, he put out hishand and caught hold of her arm, and this time he did not withdraw it. He slipped his arm inside hers and drew her close to him, and so theywalked on in the starlight up the rough road that led to MatthewHamilton's farm. 

"It's quaren late, " she said, moving nearer to him. 

"Yes, " he answered. 

There was a rustle in the trees as the night wind blew through thebranches, and they could hear the silken murmur of the corn as it bentbefore the breeze. Now and then there was a flutter of wings in a hedgeas they passed by, and the low murmurs of cattle and sheep came from thefields. 

"I wish it were next Thursday, " he said. 

"So do I, " she replied. 

"I wish we could have two dancing-classes in the week instead of one!"

"So do I, " she said. 

"But we can't manage that, " he continued. "You see we have two nightsfor the Language class!. . . "

"You could have one night for the Language class, " she said, "and twonights for dancing!"

"I don't think Marsh would like that, " he answered. 

They walked on for a while, thinking of what Marsh would say, and thenshe broke the silence. 

"I don't see the good of them oul' language classes, " she said. 

"Don't you?"

"No. I'd rather be dancin' any day!. . . "

9

He left her at the gate that led into the farmyard. 

"Good-night, " he said, holding out his hand to her. 

"Good-night!" she replied. 

But still he did not move away nor did she open the gate and pass intothe yard. 

"I shall look forward to Thursday, " he said. 

"So shall I!"

"Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

He still held her hand in his and as she made a movement to draw itaway, he suddenly pulled her to him and put his arms about her andkissed her. 

"Sheila!" he said. 

"Let me go!" she whispered. 

She drew away from him, and stood looking at him for a few moments. Thenshe pushed the gate open and walked into the yard. 

"Good-night!" she said. 

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 2: Shuiler: a tramp or beggar. ]

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

1

His habit had been to work in the morning with Marsh, and then, afterlight luncheon, they walked through the country during the afternoon, climbing hills or tramping heavily through the fields or, going off onbicycles, to bathe at Cushendall. Sometimes, Mr. Quinn accompanied themon these expeditions, and then they had fierce arguments about Ireland, but more often Marsh and Henry went off together, leaving Mr. Quinnbehind to ponder over some problem of agriculture or to wrangle withWilliam Henry Matier on what was and what was not a fair day's work. Butnow, Henry began to scheme to be alone. On the day after he had takenSheila Morgan to her uncle's farm, he had been so restless andinattentive during his morning's work that Marsh had asked him if hewere ill. 

"I'm rather headachy, " he had answered, and had gladly accepted theoffer to quit work for the day. 

"Would you like to go out for a walk?" Marsh had asked. "The freshair!. . . "

And Henry had replied, "No, thanks! I think I'll just go up to my room!"

He had gone to his room and then, listening until he had heard Marsh goout, he had descended the stairs and, almost on tiptoe, had gone out ofthe house by a side-door, and, slipping through the paddock as if hewere anxious not to be seen, had run swiftly through the meadows andcornfields until he reached the road that led to Hamilton's farm. He hadnot decided what he was going to do when he had reached the farm. Sheilawould probably be busy about the house or she might have work to do inthe farmyard. Now that her uncle was ill, some of his labour would haveto be done by others. But he would be less in the way, he thought, inthe morning than he would be in the evening when the cows were beingmilked . . . Though he might offer to help her to strain the milk andchurn it, if she did that, and he could scald the milk-pans and . . . Dolots of things! The evening, however, was still a long way off, but themorning was . . . _now!_ And he wished very much to be with Sheila . . . Now. . . This moment!

He saw her before she saw him. She had her back to him, and she wasbending over her uncle who was sitting at the door of the farmhouse, with a rug wrapped round his legs. Henry, suddenly shy, stood still inthe "loanie, " looking at her and trying to think of something to say toher which would make his appearance there at that hour natural; butbefore he had thought of something that was suitable, she turned and sawhim, and so he went forward, tongue-tied and awkward. 

"Here's Mr. Quinn!" she said to her uncle . . . She had never known him asMaster Henry, and she had not yet learned to call him by his Christianname alone. 

The farmer looked up. "You mane Mr. Henry, " he said, and Henry, listening to him, felt that at last he was near manhood, for people wereshedding the "Master. "

"Good-morning, Hamilton!" he said, holding out his hand to the farmer. "How're you to-day?"

"Middlin', sir . . . Only middlin'. This is the first I've been out of thehouse this long while, but the day's that warm, I just thought I'd liketo get a heat of the sun, bad or no bad. It's a terrible thing to behelpless like this . . . Not able to do a han's-turn for yourself!. . . "

"Ah, quit, Uncle Matt!" Sheila interjected. "Sure, you'll soon be allright an' runnin' about like a two-year oul'!" She turned to Henry. "He's an awful man for wantin' to be doin' things, an' it's sore worktryin' to get him to sit still the way the doctor says he's to sit. Always wantin' to be up an' doin' somethin'! Aren't you, Uncle Matt?"

"Ay, daughter, I am. I was always the lad for work!. . . "

"You're a terrible oul' provoker, so you are. You're just jealous, that's it, an' you're heart-feard we'll mebbe all learn how to lookafter the farm better nor you can!"

The old man smiled and took hold of her hand and fondled it. "You're theright wee girl, " he said affectionately. "Always doin' your best to keepa man's heart up!"

"Indeed, then, " she said briskly, "you gimme enough to do to keep yourheart up. You're worse nor a cradleful of childher!. . . Here, let me wrapthis shawl about your shoulders! Aren't you the oul' footer to belettin' it slip down like that?. . . There now!"

He lay back in his chair while she folded the shawl about him, andsmiled at her. "God content you, daughter!" he murmured. 

2

"Well!" she said to Henry as they moved towards the byre. 

He had sat with the farmer for a while, talking of the weather and thecrops and the prospects of the harvest, and then, seeing Sheila goingacross the yard, he had followed her. 

"Well?" she said, looking at him quizzically. 

He did not know what to say, so he stood there smiling at her. Her armswere bare to the bend, and the neck of her blouse was open so that hesaw her firm, brown throat. 

"Well!" he replied, still smiling, and "Well?" she said again. 

She went into the byre, and he followed her to the door, and stoodpeering into the dark interior where a sick cow lay lowing softly. 

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Sheila called to him. 

"I have a whole lot to say, " he replied, "but I don't know how to sayit!"

She laughed at that, and he liked the strong, quick sound of herlaughter. "You're the quare wee fella, " she exclaimed. 

_Wee fellow!_ He flushed and straightened himself. 

"I was passing along the road, " he said stiffly, "and I thought I'd comeup and see your uncle!. . . "

"Oh!" she answered. 

"Yes. My father was wondering yesterday how he was getting on, so I justthought I'd come over and see him. I suppose you're busy?"

"You suppose right!"

He moved a step or two away from the door of the byre. "Then I won'thinder you in your work, " he said. 

"You're not hinderin' me, " she replied, coming out of the dark byre asshe spoke. "It would take the quare man to hinder _me_! Where's Mr. Marsh this mornin'?"

"Oh, somewhere!"

"I thought you an' him was always thegether. You're always aboutanyway!"

He felt strangely boyish while she was talking. Last night, when he haddrawn her to him and had kissed her soft, moist lips, he had feltsuddenly adult. While his arms were about her, he was conscious ofmanhood, of something new in his life, something that he had beengrowing to, but until that moment had not yet reached . . . And now, standing in the strong sunlight and looking into her firm, laughingeyes, his manhood seemed to have receded from him, and once more he was. . . A wee fellow, a schoolboy, a bit of a lad. . . . His vexation must havebeen apparent in his expression, for she said "What ails you?" to him. 

"Nothing, " he replied, turning away. 

It was she who was making him feel schoolboyish again. She looked socapable and so assured, standing outside the byre-door, with a smallcrock in her hands, that he felt that she was many years older than hewas, that she knew far more than he could hope to know for a longtime. . . . 

She put the crock down and came close to him and took hold of his arm. "What ails you?" she said again, peering up into his face and smiling athim. 

He looked at her with sulky eyes. "You're making fun of me, " he said. 

She shook his arm and pushed him. "G'long with you!" she said. "A biglump of a fella like you, actin' the chile!. . . " She picked up the crockand handed it to him. "Here, " she said, "carry that into the house, willyou, an' ask me aunt Kate to give you the full of it with yella male, an' then hurry back. I'll be up in the hayloft, " she added, moving off. 

3

He laid the crock of yellow meal down on a wooden box in the barn, andthen climbed up the ladder to the hayloft. 

"Wheesht, " she said, holding up her hand. "There's a hen sittin' here, an' I don't want her disturbed!" He climbed into the loft as quietly ashe could. "They'll soon be out now, " she went on, "the lovely weethings!. . . What did you come here for, the day?"

"To see you!" he answered. 

"Then that was a lie about comin' to see my Uncle Matt?"

He nodded his head. 

"I thought as much. Sit down here by the side of me!"

He sat down on the hay where she bade him. "Are you angry with me?" heasked, making a wisp of hay. 

"What would I be angry for?"

He did not know. Last night, perhaps, when he had kissed her?

"Oh, that!" she said. "Sure, that's nothin'!"

"Nothing?"

Why, then, had she left him so suddenly? She must have known how much hehad to say to her. . . . 

"Look at the time it was!" she exclaimed. "An' me havin' to get up atfive an' let the cows out. . . . _You_ weren't up at no five, I'll bet!" Hehad risen at eight. "Eight!" she exclaimed. "That's no hour of the dayto be risin'. If you were married to me, I'd make you skip long beforethat hour!"

Married to her!. . . 

"Sheila, " he whispered, taking hold of her arm. 

"Well?" she said, thrusting a hay-stalk into his hair. 

"I love you, Sheila!" he whispered, coming closer to her. 

"Do you, indeed?" she answered. 

"I do, Sheila, I do. . . . "

He raised himself so that he was kneeling in front of her. His shynesshad left him now, and the words were pouring rapidly out of his mouth. 

"The minute I saw you in the door of the schoolroom that night, I was inlove with you. I was, indeed!"

"Were you?"

"Yes. I couldn't help it, Sheila, and the worst of it was I didn't knowwhat to say to you. And then, last night . . . When we were walking up the'loanie' together and I was holding your arm . . . You know!. . . Likethis. . . . " He took hold of her arm as he spoke and pressed it in his. . . . "I felt like . . . Like. . . . "

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Like anything. You _will_ marry me, Sheila? You _do_ loveme?. . . "

She withdrew her arm from his and struck him lightly with a wisp of hay. "You're in a terrible hurry all of a sudden!" she said. "One minute youhardly know me, an' the next minute you're gettin' ready to be marriedto me. You're a despert wee fella!"

_Wee fellow_ again!

"I'm not so very young, " he said. 

"What age are you?" she asked. 

"I'm nearly seventeen, " he replied. 

She jumped up and stood over him. "God save us, " she said, "that's thepowerful age. You'd nearly bate Methusaleh!"

He stood up beside her. "Now, you're laughing at me again, " hecomplained. 

"No, I'm not, " she answered. 

She laid her hand on his shoulder and gripped it firmly, and stood thus, looking at him intently. Then she drew him into her arms and kissed him. "I like you quaren well, " she said, holding him to her. 

"Do you, Sheila?"

"Aye, of course I do, or I wouldn't be huggin' you like this, would I?Did you bring the yella male?"

He nodded his head. "It's down below, " he said. 

"Dear, oh, dear, " she sighed. "I've wasted a terrible lot of time onyou, Mr. Quinn!. . . "

"Call me 'Henry, '" he said. 

"I'll call you 'Harry, '" she answered. 

"You can call me anything you like!. . . "

She pinched his cheek. "You're a dear wee fella, " she said. He did notmind being called a "wee fella" now. "But you're keepin' me from mywork, " she went on. 

He seized her hand impetuously. "Take a day off, " he said, "and we'll gofor a long walk together!"

She laughed at him. "You quality people is the great ones for talk, " shereplied. "An' how could I take a day off an' me with my work to do?"

"Well, this evening then, " he urged. 

"There'll be the cows to milk!. . . "

"I'll come and help you. "

"But sure you can't milk!"

"No, I can't milk, of course, but I can do anything else you want done. I can hold things and . . . And run messages . . . And just help you. Can'tI? And then, when you've finished your work, we'll go and sit in theclover field. . . . "

"An' get our death of cold sittin' on the damp ground. Dear O, but mentalks quare blether!"

He tried to persuade her that dew was not damping. . . . "Ah, quit!" sheexclaimed . . . And then he begged for her company in a walk along theBallymena Road. 

"I suppose I'll have to give in to you, " she said. "You're a terriblefella for coaxin'!"

She moved towards the trap where the head of the ladder showed, andprepared to descend from the loft. 

"What time will I come for you?" he asked, following her. 

"Half-seven, " she answered, going down the ladder. "I'll be well done mywork then!"

He stood above her, looking down through the trap. "We generally havedinner at half-past seven, " he said. 

"You should have your dinner in the middle of the day, like us, " sheanswered, and added, decisively, "It's half-seven or never!"

"All right, " he exclaimed, stooping down carefully and putting his feeton a rung of the ladder. "I'll come for you then. I'll manage itsomehow. "

4

He told his father that he did not want any dinner. John Marsh hadenquired about his headache, and Henry had said that it was better, butthat he thought he would like to be quiet that evening. He said, too, that he had made up his mind to go for a long, lonely walk. "But whatabout your dinner?" Mr. Quinn had said, and he had answered that he didnot want any. "If I'm hungry, " he added, "I can have something before Igo to bed. "

He felt vaguely irritated with John Marsh who first pestered him . . . That was the word Henry used in his mind . . . With sympathy and thenlamented that his headache would prevent him from helping that eveningat the Gaelic language class. "Still, I suppose well manage, " he endedregretfully. 

"I don't suppose there'll be many at the class, " Henry replied almostsneeringly. 

"Why?" said Marsh. 

"Oh, well, " Henry went on, "after last night!. . . "

"You mean that they think more of dancing than they do of the language?"Marsh interrupted, and there was so much of anxiety in the tone of hisvoice that Henry regretted that he had sneered at him. 

"Well, that's natural, " he said, trying to think of some phrase thatwould mitigate the unkindness of what he was saying, and failing tothink of it. "After all, it _is_ much more fun to dance than to learngrammar. . . . "

"But this is the _Irish_ language, " Marsh persisted, as if the Irishnessof the tongue transcended the drudgery of learning grammar. 

Mr. Quinn crumpled the _Northern Whig_ and threw it at Marsh's head. "You an' your oul' language!" he exclaimed. "What good'll it do anybodybut a lot of professors. Here's the world tryin' to get Latin an' Greekout of the universities, an' here's you tryin' to get another deadlanguage into them!"

There followed an argument that developed into a wrangle, in the midstof which Henry, flinging a consolatory speech to Marsh, escaped from thehouse. "You'll get all the keen ones to-night, " he said. "That'll besome consolation to you!"

It was too soon to go up to Hamilton's farm. The dairy work would hardlybe done, and there would be the evening meal to prepare, and he knewthat he would not be welcome in the middle of that activity. He did notwish to return to the room where his father and John Marsh were arguingabout the Irish language, nor did he wish to go and sit in his own roomuntil the time came to go and meet Sheila. If Hannah were to make somesandwiches for him, in case he should feel hungry, he would go to thebottom fields and lie in the long grass by the brook until it was timeto meet Sheila. He went downstairs to the kitchen and found Hannah busywith the night's dinner. 

"Well, Master Henry!" she said. 

He told her of his headache and his desire for a solitary walk, andasked her to cut sandwiches for him. 

"I will with a heart an' a half, " she said, "when I've strained thesepotatoes. Sit down there a while an' content yourself till I'vedone. . . . "

He took the sandwiches from her and went off to the bottom fields. Thesky was full of mingled colours and long torn clouds that looked likeflights of angels, and hidden in the fold of one great white strip ofcloud that stretched up into the heavens, the sickle moon shone faintly, waiting for the setting sun to disappear so that she should shine outwith unchallenged refulgence. He stood a while to look at the glory ofthe sky, and munched his sandwiches while he looked. He had always had asensuous love of fine shapes and looks; the big bare branches of an oldtree showing darkly against a winter sky or the changing colour ofclouds at sunset, transfused at one moment to the look of filmy gold asthe sun sent his rays shining upwards, darkened at the next, when thesun had vanished, so that they had the colour of smoke and made a stainas if God had drawn a sooty thumb across the sky; but now hissensuousness had developed, and he found himself full of admiration forthings which hitherto he had not observed. That evening, when thecart-horses were led home, he had suddenly perceived that their greatlimbs were beautiful. He had stood still in the lane to watch them goingby, and had liked the heavy plunging sound of their hoofs on the roughroad, and the faded look of the long hair that hung about their houghs;but more than these he had liked the great round limbs of them, so fullof strength. He remembered that once at Boveyhayne, Mary Graham and hehad argued about the sea-gulls. She had "just loved" them, but he hadqualified his admiration. He liked the long, motionless flight of thegulls as they circled through the air, and the whiteness of theirshapely bodies and the grey feathers on their backs, but he disliked thesmall heads they had and the long yellow beaks and the little black eyesand the harsh cry . . . And he had almost sickened when he saw themfeeding on the entrails that were thrown to them by the fishermen. . . . But now, since he had fallen in love with Sheila Morgan, it seemed tohim that everything in the world was beautiful; and lying here in thelong grass, he yielded himself to the loveliness of the earth. He layback and closed his eyes and listened to the sounds that filled the air, the noise of pleased, tired things at peace and the subdued songs ofroosting birds. He could hear shouts from the labourers in the distanthayfields and, now and then, the slow rattle of a country cart as itmoved clumsily along the uneven roads that led from the fields to thefarmyards. There was a drowsy buzz of insects that mingled oddly withthe burble of the stream and the lowing of the cattle. . . . He lay thereand listened to a lark as it flew up from the ground with a queer, agitated flutter of wings, watching it as it ascended high and higheruntil it became a tiny speck, and then he sat up and watched it as itdescended again, still flying with that queer, agitated flutter ofwings, until it came near the earth, when its song suddenly ceased andit changed its flight and fell swiftly to its nest. 

He rose up from the grass and walked over to the stream and dipped hishands into it, splashing the water on to the grass beside him. Thesunlight shone on his hand and made the wet hairs shine like goldenthreads. . . . 

5

He was kneeling there at the side of the stream, looking at the wet glowof his hand when the fear of death came to him, and instantly he wasterrified when he thought that he might die. The consciousness of lifewas in him and the desire to continue and to experience and to know werequickening and increasing. It seemed to him then that if he were to dieat that moment, he would have been cheated of his inheritance, that hewould have a grievance against God for all eternity. . . . He moved awayfrom the brook and sank back into the grass, shaken and disconcerted. Until that moment, he had never thought of death except as a vague, inevitable thing that came to all creatures some time . . . Generally whenthey were old and had lost the savour of life. He had never seen a deadman or woman and he was unfamiliar with the rites of burial. He knew, indeed, that people die before they grow old, that children die, butuntil that moment, death had not become a personal thing, a thing thatmight descend on _him_. . . . 

He shut his eyes and tried to dose the thought of death out of his mind, but it would not go away. He began to sing disconnected staves of songsin the hope that he would forget that he was mortal. . . . There was a songthat Bridget Fallon had taught him when he was a child, and now aftermany years, he was singing it again:

 There were three lords came out of Spain, They came to court my daughter Jane. My daughter Jane, she is too young, And cannot bear your flatt'ring tongue. So fare you well, make no delay, But come again another day. . . . 

But the thought of death still lay heavy on his mind, and so he got upand left the field and hurried along the road that led to Hamilton'sfarm. 

"Oh, my God, " he cried to himself, "if I were to die now, just when I'mbeginning to know things!. . . "

He began to run, as if he would run away from his own thoughts. The tornstrips of clouds, that had looked like molten gold, were now darkening, and their darkness seemed ominous to him. The steepness of the "loanie"made him pant and presently he slackened his pace and slowed-down towalking. His eyes felt hot and stiff in their sockets and when he puthis hand on his forehead, he felt that it was wet with sweat. 

"I'm frightened, " he said to himself. "Scared!. . . "

He wiped his forehead and then crumpled his handkerchief in his hotpalms. 

"I'm rattled, " he went on to himself. "That's what I am. Oh, my God, I_am_ scared!. . . "

He looked about him helplessly. He could see a man tossing hay in afield near by, and he watched the rhythmical movement of his fork as itrose and fell. 

"I couldn't die now, " he thought. "I _couldn't_. It wouldn't be fair. Iwouldn't let myself die . . . I wouldn't!"

And as suddenly as the fear of death had fallen on him, it left him. 

"Good Lord!" he said aloud, "what an ass I am!"

6

Sheila was sitting on a stool in front of the door. Her uncle had goneto bed, and her aunt, tired after her day's work and her attendance onthe sick man, was lying on the sofa, dosing. 

"I wondered were you comin', " Sheila said as he came up to her. 

"You knew I'd come, " he answered. 

"I didn't know anything of the sort, " she exclaimed, getting up from thestool. "Fellas has disappointed me before this. "

"Have you had other sweethearts?" he asked, frowning. 

She laughed at him. "I've had boys since I was that high, " she replied, holding out her hand to indicate her height when she first had asweetheart. "What are you lookin' so sore about? D'ye think no one neverlooked at me 'til you came along? For dear sake!"

She rallied him. Was she the first girl he had ever loved? Was she? Ah, he was afraid to answer. As if she did not know! Of course, she was notthe first, and dear knows she might not be the last. . . . 

"I'll never love any one but you, Sheila!. . . "

"Wheesht will you, or my aunt'll hear you!"

"I don't care who hears me!. . . "

"Well, I do then. Come on down the loanie a piece, an' you can say whatyou like. I love the way you talk . . . You've got the quare nice Englishaccent!"

He followed her across the farmyard and through the gate into the"loanie. "

"My father wouldn't like to hear you saying that, " he said. 

"Why?" she asked. "Does he not like the English way of talkin'?"

"Indeed, he does not. He loves the way you talk, the way all the Ulsterpeople talk!. . . "

"What! Broad an' coarse like me?" she interrupted. 

Henry nodded his head. "He doesn't think it's coarse, " he said. "Hethinks it's fine!"

Sheila pondered on this for a few moments. "He must be a quare man, yourda!" she said. 

They walked to the foot of the "loanie" and then turned along theBallymena road. 

"Does he know you come out with me?" she said. 

"Who?" he answered. 

"Your da. "

"No. You see!. . . " He did not know what to say. It had not occurred tohim to talk about Sheila to his father, and he realised now that if ithad, he probably would not have done so. 

"But if you're goin' to marry me?. . . " Sheila was saying. 

"Oh, of course, " he replied. "Of course, I shall have to tell him aboutyou, won't I? I just didn't think of it. . . . Then you're going to marryme, Sheila?" he demanded, turning to her quickly. 

"Och, I don't know, " she answered. "I'm too young to be married yet, an'you're younger nor me, an' mebbe we'd change our minds, an' anywaythere's a quare differs atween us. "

"What difference is there between us?" he said, indignantly. 

"Aw, there's a quare deal of differs, " she maintained. "A quare deal. You're a quality-man!. . . "

"As if that matters, " he interrupted. 

"It matters a quare lot, " she said. 

They sat down on a bank by the roadside and he took hold of her hand andpressed it, and then he put his arm about her and drew her head down onto his shoulder. 

"Somebody'll see you, " she whispered. 

"There's no one in sight, " he replied. 

"Do you love me an awful lot?" she asked, looking up at him. 

"You know I do. "

"More nor anybody in the world?"

He bent over and kissed her. "More than anybody in the world, " heanswered. 

"You're not just lettin' on?" she continued. 

"Letting on!"

"Aye. Makin' out you love me, an' you on'y passin' the time, divertin'yourself?"

He was angry with her. How could she imagine that he would pretend tolove her?. . . 

"I do love you, " he insisted, "and I'll always love you. I feel that . . . That!. . . "

He fumbled for words to express his love for her, but could not findany. 

"Ah, well, " she said, "it doesn't matter whether you're pretendin' ornot. I'm quaren happy anyway!"

She struggled out of his embrace and put her arms round his neck andkissed him. She remained thus with her arms round him and her face closeto his, gazing into his eyes as if she were searching for something. . . . 

"What are you thinkin', Sheila?" he asked. 

"Nothin', " she said, and she drew him to her and kissed him again. 

"I wish I was older, " he exclaimed presently. 

"Why?"

"Because I could marry you, then, and we'd go away and see all theplaces in the world. . . . "

"I'd rather go to Portrush for my honeymoon, " she said. "I went therefor a trip once!"

"We'd go to Portrush too. We'd go to all the places. I'd take you toEngland and Scotland and Wales, and then we'd go to France and Spain andItaly and Africa and India and all the places. "

"I'd be quaren tired goin' to all them places, " she murmured. 

"And then when we'd seen everything, we'd come back to Ireland and starta farm. . . . "

She sat up and smiled at him. "An' keep cows an' horses, " she said. 

"Yes, and pigs and sheep and hens and . . . All the things they have. Ducks and things!"

"I'd love that, " she said, delighted. 

"We'd go up to Belfast every now and then, and look at the shops and buythings!. . . . "

"An' go to the theatre an' have our tea at an eatin'-house?"

"We'd go to an hotel for our tea, " he said. 

"Oh, no, I'd be near afeard of them places. I wasn't reared up to thatsort of place, an' I wouldn't know what to do, an' all the peoplelookin' at me, an' the waiters watchin' every bite you put in yourmouth, 'til you'd near think they'd grudged you your food!"

They made plans over which they laughed, and they mocked each other, teasing and pretending to anger, and he pulled her hair and kissed her, and she slapped his cheeks and kissed him. 

"I'd give the world, " she said, "to have my photograph took in alow-neck dress. Abernethy does them grand!. . . " She stopped suddenly andturned her head slightly from him in a listening attitude. 

"What's up?" he asked. 

"Wheesht!" she replied, and then added, "D'ye hear anything?"

He listened for a moment or two, and then said, "Yes, it sounds like ahorse gallopin'. . . . " They listened again, and then she proceeded. "You'dnear think it was runnin' away, " she said. 

The sound of hooves rapidly beating the ground and the noise ofquickly-revolving wheels came nearer. 

"It _is_ runnin' away, " she said, getting up from the bank and movinginto the middle of the road where she stood looking in the directionfrom which the sound came. 

"Don't stand in the road, " Henry shouted to her. "You might get hurt. "

She did not move nor did she appear to hear what he was saying. He had astrange sensation of shrinking, a desire not to be there, but he subduedit and went to join her in the middle of the road. 

"Here it is, " she said, turning to him and pointing to where the roadmade a sudden swerve. 

He looked and saw a galloping horse, head down, coming rapidly towardsthem. There was a light cart behind it, bumping and swaying so that itseemed likely to be overturned, but there was no driver. It was stillsome way off, and he had time to think that he ought to stop thefrightened animal. If it were allowed to go on, it might kill some onein the village. There would be children playing about in the street. . . . 

"I'll stop it, " he said to himself, and half-consciously he buttoned hiscoat. 

He tried to remember just what he ought to do. William Henry Matier hadtold, him not to stand right in front of a runaway horse, but to move tothe side so that he could run with it. He would do that, and then hewould spring at its head and haul the reins so tightly that the bitwould slip back into the horse's mouth. . . . He moved from the middle ofthe road, and was conscious that Sheila had moved, too. His breath wascoming quickly, and he felt again that sense of shrinking, that curiousdesire to run away. He saw a wheel of the cart lurch up as it passedover a stone in the road, and instantly panic seized him. "My God, " hethought, "if that had been me!. . . He saw himself flung to the ground bythe maddened horse and the wheel passing over his body, crunching hisflesh and bones. He had the sensation of blood gushing from his mouth, and for a moment or two he felt as if he had actually suffered thephysical shock of being broken beneath the cart wheel. . . . 

"I can't!" he muttered, and then he turned and ran swiftly to the sideof the road and climbed on to the bank, struggling to break through thethorn hedge at the top of it. His hands were torn and bleeding and oncehe slipped and fell forward and his face was scratched by the thorns. . . . 

7

He had thrown himself over the hedge and had lain there, with his eyesclosed, trembling. He was crying now, not with fright, but with remorse. He had failed in courage, and perhaps the horse had dashed into thevillage and killed a child. . . . He wondered what Sheila would say, andthen he started up, his eyes wide with horror, thinking that perhapsSheila had been killed. He climbed up the bank, and jumped over the lowhedge into the roadway. There were some men approaching him, comingfrom the direction in which the horse had come, but he did not pay anyheed to them. He began to run towards the village. A little distancefrom the place where he and Sheila had stood to watch the oncominganimal, the road made another bend, and when he had reached this bend, he met Sheila. 

"You needn't hurry _now_, " she said. 

He did not hear the emphasis she laid on the word "now. " "Are you allright?" he asked anxiously. 

She did not answer, but strode on past him. 

"Are you all right?" he repeated, following after her. 

"It's a bit late to ask that, " she said, turning and facing him. "Imight 'a' been killed for all you cared, so long as you were safeyourself!"

He shrank back from her, unable to answer, and the men came up, beforeshe could say anything else to him. 

"Did ye see the horse runnin' away?" one of them said to her. 

"You'll find it down the road a piece, " she replied. "It's leg's broke. It tum'led an' fell. Yous'll have to shoot it, I s'pose!"

They supposed they would. The driver had been drinking and in hisdrunkenness he had thrashed the poor beast. . . . "But he'll never thrashanother horse, the same lad, " said the man who told them of thecircumstances. "He was pitched out on his head, an' he wasn't worthpicking up when they lifted him. Killed dead, an' him as drunk as afiddler! Begod, I wouldn't like to die that way! It 'ud be a quare thingto go afore your Maker an' you stinkin' wi' drink!"

The men went on, leaving Sheila and Henry together. She stood watchingthe men, oblivious seemingly of Henry's presence, until he put out hishand and touched hers. 

"Sheila!" he said. 

She snatched her hand away from him. "Lave me alone!" she exclaimed, andmoved to the side of the road further from him. 

"I meant to try and stop it, " he said, "but somehow I couldn't I . . . Idid my best!"

He had followed her and was standing before her, pleading with her, butshe would not look at him. He stood for a while, thinking of somethingto say, and then put out his hand again and touched hers. "Sheila, " hesaid. 

She swung round swiftly and struck him in the face with her clenchedfist. 

"How dare you touch me!" she cried and her eyes were full of fury. 

"Sheila!"

"Don't lay a finger on me . . . You . . . You coward you! You were afeard tostop it, an' you run away, cryin' like a wee ba!" He tried to come toher again, but she shrunk away from him. "Don't come a-near me, " sheshouted at him. "I couldn't thole you near me. I'd be sick!. . . "

She stopped in her speech and walked away from him. He stared after her, unable to think or move. He could feel the smart of her blow tingling inhis face, and he put his hand up mechanically to his cheek, and as hedid so, he saw that his hand was still trembling. He could see herwalking quickly on, her head erect and her hands clenched tightly by herside. He wanted to run after her, but he could not move. He tried tocall to her, but his lips would not open. . . . 

The light was fading out of the sky, and the night was covering up thehills and fields, but still he stood there, staring up the road alongwhich she had passed out of his sight. People passed him in the dusk andgreeted him, but he did not answer, nor was he aware when they turned tolook at him. Once, he was conscious of a loud report and a clatter offeet, but he did not think of it or of what it meant. In his mind, smashing like the blows of a hammer, came ceaselessly the sound ofSheila's voice, calling him a coward. . . . 

8

It was quite dark when he moved away. His mouth was very dry and hiseyes were hot and sore, and his legs dragged as he walked. He was tiredand miserable and he had a frightful sense of age. That morning he hadwakened to manhood, full of pleasure in the beauty of living and growingthings; now, he was like an old man, longing for death but afraid tolose his life. There were stars above him, but no moon, and the talltrunks of the trees stood up like black phantoms before him, moaning andcrying in the wind. He could hear the screech-owls hooting in the dark, and the lonely yelp of a dog on a farm. 

He began to hurry, walking quickly and then running, afraid to lookback, almost afraid to look forward . . . And as he ran, suddenly he fellon something soft. His hands slipped on wetness that smelt. . . . 

In the darkness he had fallen over the body of the horse which had beenshot while he was standing where Sheila had left him. He gaped at itwith distended eyes, and then, with a loud cry, he jumped up and fledhome, with fear raging in his heart. 

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

1

He fell asleep, after a long, wakeful night, and did not hear the maidwho called him. Mr. Quinn, when he was told of the heaviness of Henry'sslumber, said "Let him lie on!" and so it was that he did not rise untilnoon. He came down heavy-eyed and irritable, and wandered about thegarden in which he took no pleasure. Marsh came to him while he wasthere, full of enthusiasm because more pupils had attended the Languageclass than he had anticipated. 

"That girl, Sheila Morgan, wasn't there!"

"Oh!" said Henry. 

"I thought she'd be certain to come. She seemed so anxious to join theclass. Perhaps she was prevented. I hope you'll be able to cometo-night, Henry!. . . "

Henry turned away impatiently. "I don't think I shall go again, " he saidin a surly voice. 

Marsh stared at him. "Not go again!" he exclaimed. 

"No. "

"But!. . . "

"Oh, I'm sick of the class. I'm sick of the whole thing. I'm sick ofIrish!. . . "

Marsh walked away from him, walked so quickly that Henry knew that hewas trying to subdue the sudden rage that rose in him when people spokeslightingly of Irish things, and for a few moments he felt sorry andready to follow him and apologise for what he had said; but the sorrowpassed as quickly as it came. 

"It's absurd of him to behave like that, " he said to himself, and wenton his way about the garden. 

Presently he saw Marsh approaching him, and he stood still and waitedfor him. 

"I'm sorry, Henry, " Marsh said when he had come up to him. 

"It was my fault, " Henry replied. 

"I ought not to have walked off like that . . . But I can't bear to hearany one talking!. . . "

"I know you can't, " Henry interrupted. "That's why I ought not to havesaid what I did!"

But Marsh insisted on bearing the blame. "I ought to have rememberedthat you're not feeling well, " he said, reproaching himself. "I get sointerested in Ireland that I forget about people's feelings. That's mychief fault. I know it is. I must try to remember. . . . I suppose youdidn't really mean what you said?"

"Yes, I did, " Henry replied quickly. 

"But why?"

"I don't know. I just don't want to. What's the good of it anyhow?. . . "

Good of it! Henry ought to have known what a passion of patriotism hisscorn for the Language would provoke. 

"Oh, all right, John!" he said impatiently. "I've heard all that before, and I don't want to hear it again. You can argue as much as you like, but I can't see any sense in wasting time on what's over. And the Irishlanguage is over and done with. Father's quite right!"

Marsh's anger became intensified. "That's the Belfast spirit in you, " heexclaimed. "The pounds, shillings and pence mood! I know what you thinkof the language. You think, what is the commercial value of it? Will itenable a boy to earn thirty shillings a week in an office? Is it asuseful as Pitman's Shorthand? That's what you're thinking!. . . "

"No, it's not, but if it were, it would be very sensible!"

"My God, Henry, can't you realise that a nation's language is the soundof a nation's soul? Don't you understand, man, that if we can't speakour own language then our souls are silent, dumb, inarticulate?. . . Don'tyou see what I mean?. . . And all the time we're using English, we're likepeople who read translations. I don't care whether it is commerciallyvaluable or not. That's not the point. The point is that it's _us_, thatit's _our_ tongue, _our_ language, that it distinguishes us from theEnglish, insists on our difference from them. Do you see what I mean, Henry? We _are_ different, aren't we? You realise that, don't you? We_are_ different from the English, and nothing will ever make us likethem. My God, I'd hate to be like them!. . . "

Henry fled from him, and, scarcely knowing what he was doing, ran acrossthe fields towards Hamilton's farm. As he went up the "loanie, " heremembered that Sheila had struck him in the face in her rage at hiscowardice, and he stopped and wondered whether he should go on or not. And while he was waiting in the "loanie, " she came out of a field, driving a cow before her. 

2

She did not speak, though he waited for her to say something. The cowambled up the "loanie, " and Sheila, glancing at him as if she did notrecognise him, passed on, following it. 

"Sheila!" he called after her, but she did not answer, nor did she turnround. 

"I want to speak to you, " he said, going after her. 

"I don't want to speak to you, " she replied, without looking at him. 

"But you must!. . . " He thrust himself in front of her, and tried to takehold of her hands, but she eluded him. She lifted the sally rod she hadin her hand and threatened him with it. "I'll lash your face with thisif you handle me, " she said. 

"All right, " he answered, dropping his hands and waiting for her to beathis face with the slender branch. 

She looked at him for a few moments, and then she threw the sally rodinto the hedge. 

"What do you want?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was quieter. 

The cow, finding that it was not being followed, cropped the grass inthe hedge and as they stood there, facing each other, they could hearthe soft munch-munch as it tore the grass from the ground. 

"What do you want?" Sheila said again. 

"I want to speak to you!. . . "

"Well, speak away!"

But he did not know what to say to her. He thought that perhaps if hewere to explain, she would forgive, but now that the opportunity toexplain was open to him, he did not know what to say. 

"Are you turned dummy or what?" she asked, and the cruelty in her voicewas deliberate. 

"Sheila, " he began, hesitatingly. 

"Well?"

"I'm sorry about last night!"

"What's the good of bein' sorry?. . . "

"I meant to stop it!. . . "

"I daresay, " she said, laughing at him. 

"I did. I did, indeed. I can't help feeling nervous. I've always beenlike that. I want to do things . . . I try to do them . . . But somethinginside me runs away . . . That's what it is, Sheila . . . It isn't me thatruns away . . . It's something inside me!"

"Bosh, " she said. 

"It's true, Sheila. My father could tell you that. I always funk things, not because I want to funk them, but because I can't help it. I'd givethe world to be able to stop a horse, like that one last night, but Ican't do it. I get paralysed somehow!. . . "

"I never heard of any one like that before, " she exclaimed. 

"No, I don't suppose you have. If you knew how ashamed I feel of myself, you'd feel sorry for me. I was awake the whole night!"

"Were you?"

"Yes. I kept on thinking you were angry with me and that I was a coward, and I could feel your fist in my face!. . . "

"I'm sorry I hit you, Henry!"

"It doesn't matter, " he replied. "It served me right. And then when Idid sleep, I kept on dreaming about it. Do you know, Sheila, I fell overthe horse last night in the dark . . . They left it lying in the roadafter they shot it . . . And my hands slithered in the blood!. . . "

"Aw, the poor baste!" she said, and she began to cry. "The poor dumbbaste!"

"And I kept on dreaming of that . . . My hands dribbling in blood. . . . Och!. . . "

He could not go on because the recollection of his dreams horrified him. They had moved to the side of the "loanie" and he mechanically stoppedand plucked a long grass and began to wind it round his fingers. 

"I think and think about things, " he murmured at last. 

She put out her hand and touched his arm. "Poor Henry, " she said. 

He threw the grass away and seized her hand in his. 

"Then you'll forgive me?" he said eagerly. 

She nodded her head. 

"And you'll still be my sweetheart, won't you, and go for walks withme?. . . "

She withdrew her hand from his. "No, Henry, " she said, "you an' me can'tgo courtin' no more!"

"But why?"

"Because I couldn't marry a man was afeard of things. I'd never be happywith a man like that. I'd fall out with you if you were a collie, I knowI would, an' I'd be miserable if my man hadn't the pluck of any otherman. I'm sorry I bate you last night, but I'd do it again if it happenedanother time . . . An' there'd be no good in that!"

"But you said you'd marry me!. . . "

"Och, sure, Henry, you know well I couldn't marry you. You wouldn't belet. I'm a poor girl, an' you're a high-up lad. Whoever heard tell ofthe like of us marryin', except mebbe in books. I knew well we'd nevermarry, but I liked goin' about with you, an' listenin' to your crack, an' you kissin' me an' tellin' me the way you loved me. You've a quarenice English voice on you, an' you know it well, an' I just liked tohear it . . . But didn't I know rightly, you'd never marry the like ofme!"

"I will, Sheila, I will!"

"Ah, wheesht with you. What good 'ud a man like you be to a girl likeme. I'll have this farm when my Uncle Matt dies, an' what use 'ud you beon it, will you tell me, you that runs away cryin' from a frightenedhorse?"

"You could sell the farm!. . . "

"Sell the farm!" she exclaimed. "Dear bless us, boy, what are you sayin'at all? Sell this farm, an' it's been in our family these generationspast! There's been Hamiltons in this house for a hundred an' fifty yearsan' more. I wouldn't sell it for the world!"

"But I must have you, Sheila. I must marry you!"

"Why must you?"

"I just must!. . . "

She turned to look at the grazing cow, and then turned back to him. "That's chile's talk, " she said. "You must because you must. Away onhome now, an' lave me to do my work. Sure, you're not left school yet!"She left him abruptly, and walked up to the cow, slapping its flanks andshouting "Kimmup, there! Kimmup!" and the beast tossed its head, and ranforward a few paces, and then sauntered slowly up the "loanie" towardsthe byre. 

"Good-bye, Henry!" Sheila called out when she had gone a little way. 

"Will you be at the class to-night!" he shouted after her. 

"I will not, " she answered. "I'm not goin' to the class no more!"

He watched her as she went on up the "loanie" after the cow, hoping thatshe would turn again and call to him, but she did not look round. Hecould hear her calling to the beast, "Gwon now! Gwon out of that now!"and then he saw the cow turn into the yard, and in a moment or twoSheila followed it. He thought that she must turn to look at him then, and he was ready to wave his hand to her, but she did not look round. "Gwon now! Gwon up out of that!" was all that he heard her saying. 

3

His father was standing at the front door when he returned home. Mr. Quinn's face was set and grave looking, and he did not smile at his son. 

"I want you, Henry, " he said, beckoning to him. 

"Yes, father?" Henry replied, looking at his father in a questioningfashion. "Is anything wrong?"

Mr. Quinn did not answer. He turned and led the way to the library. 

"Sit down, " he said, when Henry had entered the room and shut the door. 

"What is it, father?"

"Henry, what's between you an' that niece of Matt Hamilton's?"

"Between us!"

"Aye, between you. You were out on the Ballymena road with her lastnight when I thought you were in bed with a sore head. "

All the romance of his love for Sheila Morgan suddenly died out, and hewas conscious of nothing but his father's stern look and the stiff setof his lips as he sat there at his writing-table, demanding what therewas between Henry and Sheila. 

"I'm in love with her, father!" he answered. 

"Are you?"

"Yes, father, but she's not in love with me. She's just told me so. "

"You've seen her this mornin' again?"

"Yes. "

"Well, I'm glad she has more sense nor you seem to have. Damn it, Henry, are you a fool or what? The whole of Ballymartin's talkin' about thepair of you. Do you think that you can walk up the road with afarm-girl, huggin' her an' kissin' her an' doin' God knows what, an' thewhole place not know about it?"

"I didn't think of that, father!. . . "

"Didn't think of it!. . . Look here, Henry, Sheila Morgan's a respectablegirl, do you hear? an' I'll not have you makin' a fool of her. I knowthere's some men thinks they have a right to their tenants' daughters, but by God if you harmed a girl on my land, Henry, I'd shoot you with myown hands. Do you hear me?"

Henry looked at his father uncomprehendingly. "Harm her, father!" hesaid. 

"Aye, harm her! What do you think a girl like that, as good-lookin' asher, gets out of goin' up the road with a lad like you that's born aboveher! A bellyful of pain, that's all!"

"I don't know what you mean, father!"

"Well, it's time you learned. I'll talk to you plumb an' plain, Henry. I'll not let you seduce a girl on my land, do you hear? They can do thatsort of thing in England, if they like . . . It's nothin' to me what theEnglish do . . . But by God I'll not have a girl on my land ruined by youor by anybody else!"

Mr. Quinn's voice was more angry than Henry had ever heard it. 

"Father, " Henry said, "I want to marry Sheila!. . . "

"What?"

Mr. Quinn's fist had been raised as if he were about to bang his desk toemphasise his words, but he was so startled by Henry's speech that heforgot his intention, and he sat there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, withhis fist still suspended in the air, so that Henry almost laughed at hiscomical look. 

"What's that you say?" he said, when he had recovered

"I want to marry her, but she won't have me!"

Mr. Quinn's anger left him. He leant back in his revolving chair andlaughed. 

"By God, that's good!" he said. "By God, it is! Marry her! Oh, dear, oh, dear!"

"I don't know why you're laughing, father!. . . "

"An' I thought you up to no good. Oh, ho, ho!" He took out hishandkerchief and rubbed his eyes. "Well, thank God, the girl's got morewit nor you have. In the name of God, lad, what would you marry herfor?"

"Because I love her, father!"

"My backside to that for an answer!" Mr. Quinn snapped. "You know wellyou couldn't marry her, a girl like that!"

"I don't know it at all!. . . "

"Well, I'll tell you why then. Because you're a gentleman an' she isn'ta lady, that's why. There's hundreds of years of breedin' in you, Henry, an' there's no breedin' at all in her, nothin' but good nature an' goodlooks!. . . "

"The Hamiltons have lived at their farm for more than a hundred andfifty years, father!"

"So they have, an' decent, good stock they are, but that doesn't putthem on our level. Listen, Henry, the one thing that's most important inthis world is blood an' breedin'. There's people goes about the worldsayin' everybody's as good as everybody else, but you've only got tosee people when there's bother on to find out who's good an' who isn't. It's at times like that that blood an' breedin' come out!. . . "

It was then that Henry told his father of his cowardice when the horseran away. He told the whole story, and insisted on Sheila's scorn forhim. Mr. Quinn did not speak while the story was being told. He sat atthe desk with his chin buried in his fingers, listening patiently. Onceor twice he looked up when Henry hesitated in his recital, and once heseemed as if he were about to put out his hand to his son, but he didnot do so. He did not speak or move until the story was ended. 

"I'm glad you told me, Henry, " he said quietly when Henry had finished. "I'm sorry I thought you were meanin' the girl an injury. I beg yourpardon for that, Henry. The girl's a decent girl, a well-meant girl . . . A well-meant girl!. . . I wish to God, you were at Trinity, my son! Comeon, now, an' have somethin' to ate. Begod, I'm hungry. I could ate ahorse. I could ate two horses!. . . " He put his arm in Henry's and theyleft the library together. "You'll get over it, my son, you'll get overit. It does a lad good to break his heart now an' again. Teaches him theway the world works! Opens his mind for him, an' lets him get a notionof the feel of things!. . . "

They were just outside the dining-room when he said that. Mr. Quinnturned and looked at Henry for a second or two, and it seemed to Henrythat he was about to say something intimate to him, but he did not doso: he turned away quickly and opened the door. 

"I suppose John Marsh is eatin' all the food, " he said withextraordinary heartiness. "Are you eatin' all the food, John Marsh? I'llwring your damned neck if you are!. . . "

4

That evening, after dinner, Mr. Quinn and John Marsh were sittingtogether. Henry had gone out of the room for a while, leaving Mr. Quinnto smoke a cigar while John Marsh corrected some exercises by thestudents of the Language class. 

"Marsh!" Mr. Quinn said suddenly, after a long silence. 

Marsh looked up quickly. "Yes, Mr. Quinn!" he replied. 

"Henry's in love!. . . "

"Is he?"

"Yes. With that girl. Sheila Morgan, Matt Hamilton's niece!"

Marsh put his exercises aside. "Dear me!" he exclaimed. 

There did not appear to be anything else to say. 

"So I'm goin' to send him away, " Mr. Quinn went on. 

"Away?"

"Yes. I don't quite know where I shall send him. It's too soon yet tosend him up to Trinity. I've a notion of sendin' you an' him on awalkin' tour in Connacht. The pair of you can talk that damned language'til you're sick of it with the people that understands it!"

Marsh was delighted. He thought that Mr. Quinn's proposal was excellent, and he was certain that it would be very good for Henry to come intocontact with people to whom the language was native. 

"Wheesht a minute, Marsh!" Mr. Quinn interrupted. "I want to talk to youabout Henry. It's a big thing for a lad of his age to fall in love!"

"I suppose it is. "

"There's no supposin' about it. It is! He's just at the age when womenbegin to matter to a man, an' I don't want him to go an' get into anybother over the head of them!"

"Bother?"

"Aye. Do you never think about women, John Marsh?"

"Oh, yes. Sometimes. One can't help it now and then!. . . "

"No, begod, one can't!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. "Do you know this, JohnMarsh, I never can make out whether God did a good day's work the day Hemade women! They're the most unsettlin' things in the world. You'd thinkto look at me, I was a fairly quiet sort of a steady man, wouldn't you?Well, I'm not. There's whiles when a woman makes my head buzz . . . Justthe look of her, an' the way she turns her head or moves her legs. I'm ahefty fellow, John Marsh, for all I'm the age I am, an' I know what itis to feel damn near silly with desire. But all the same, I can keepcontrol of myself, an' I've never wronged a woman in my life. That's abig thing for any man to be able to say, an' there's few that can sayit, but I tell you it's been a hell of a fight!. . . "

He lay back in the chair and puffed smoke above his head for a while. "Ahell of a fight, " he murmured, and then did not speak for a while. 

"Yes?" said John Marsh. 

"I've been down the lanes of a summer night, an' seen young girls fromthe farms about, with fine long hair hangin' down their backs, an' themsmilin' an' lovely . . . An' begod, I've had to hurry past them, hurryhard, damn near run!. . . Mind you, they were good girls, John Marsh! Idon't want you to think they were out lookin' for men. They weren't. Butthey were young, an' they were just learnin' things, an' I daresay Icould have had them if I'd tried . . . An' I don't think there's any realharm in men an' women goin' together . . . But we've settled, all of us, that, real or no real, there is _some_ sort of harm in it, an' we'veagreed to condemn that sort of thing, an' so I submit to the law. Do youfollow me?"

"No, not quite. Those sort of things don't arise for me. I'm a Catholicand I obey the Church's laws!. . . "

"I know you do. But I'm a man, not a Catholic!. . . Now, don't lose yourtemper. I couldn't help lettin' that slip out. . . . What I mean is this. There's a lot of waywardness in all of us, that's pleasant enough ifit's checked when it gets near the limit of things, but there has to bea check!"

"Yes?" Marsh said. "And in my case the check is the Church, theexpression on earth of God's will!. . . "

"Well, in my case it isn't. In my case it's my sense of responsibilityas a gentleman. We've got ourselves into crowds that must be controlledsomehow, and there isn't much room for wayward people in a crowd. That'swhy geniuses get such a rotten time. Now, my notion of a gentleman is aman who controls the crowd by controllin' himself. D'you follow me? Heknows that the crowd'll bust up an' become a dirty riot if it's let outof control, an' he knows that he can influence it best an' keep the whiphand of it, if it knows that he isn't doin' anything that he tells itnot to do. D'you see?"

"Yes, " Marsh said. "That's the Catholic religion!. . . "

"I know as well as I'm livin', " Mr. Quinn went on, "that I have enoughpower over myself to know when to stop an' when to go on. That's beenbred in me. That's why I'm a gentleman. But I know that if I let myselfdo things that I can control, I'll be givin' an example to hundreds ofother people who aren't gentlemen an' can't control themselves . . . Don'tknow when to stop an' when to go on . . . An' so I don't do them. An'that's a gentleman's job, John Marsh, an' when gentlemen stop that, thenbegod it's good-bye to a decent community. That's why England's goin' toblazes . . . Because her gentlemen have forgotten the first job of thegentleman: to keep himself in strict control, to be reticent, to concealhis feelings!"

But John Marsh would not agree with him. "England is going to blazes, "he said, "because England has lost her religion. If England wereCatholic, England would be noble again!. . . "

"Just like France and Spain and Italy, " Mr. Quinn replied. "Bosh, JohnMarsh, bosh! I tell you, the test of a nation is this question ofgentlemen!. . . "

"The test of a nation is its belief in God . . . Its church, " said JohnMarsh. 

"Well, Ireland believes in God, doesn't it? The Catholic Church isfairly strong here, isn't it? An' what sort of a Church is it? Agentleman's church or a peasant's church? Look at the priests, JohnMarsh, look at them! My God, _what_ bounders! Little greedy, grubbin'blighters, livin' for their Easter offerin's, an' doin' damn little fortheir money. What do you think takes them into the church? Love of God?Love of man? No, bedam if it is. Conceit an' snobbery an' the desire fora soft job takes about nine out of ten of them. . . . Well, well, I'mrunnin' away from myself. What I want to say is this: the Catholicchurch'll never be worth a damn in Ireland or anywhere else, 'til itspriests are gentlemen. No church is worth a damn unless its priests aregentlemen!"

"But what do you mean by gentlemen, Mr. Quinn?"

"I mean men who are keepin' a tight hold on themselves. Mortifyin' theirflesh . . . All that sort of stuff . . . So that they won't give the mob anexcuse for breakin' loose!"

Marsh wondered why Mr. Quinn was talking in this strain and tried todraw him back to the subject of Henry's love of Sheila. 

"I'm comin' to that, " said Mr. Quinn, pointing his cigar at him. "Listen, John, there were two men that might have done big things inIrelan' and Englan'--Parnell an' Lord Randolph Churchill, an' theydidn't because they weren't gentlemen. They couldn't control themselves. There isn't a house in Ulster that hasn't got the photographs of thosetwo men in some album. . . . "

"Parnell?" Marsh exclaimed. 

"Aye, Parnell. Him an' Randy Churchill side by side in the one album!Lord bless me, John Marsh, the Ulster people took great pride inParnell, even the bitterest Orangeman among them, because he was a man, an' not a gas-bag like Dan O'Connell. Of course, he was aProtestant!. . . But he couldn't keep from nuzzlin' over a woman . . . An'up went everything. An' Randy Churchill . . . I mind him well, aflushed-lookin' man. . . . I heard him talkin' in Belfast one time . . . Hebust up everything because he would not control himself. If he'd been agentleman . . . But he wasn't . . . The Churchills never were. . . . Nor wasParnell. Well, now, I don't want Henry to go to bits like that. Henry'sgot power of some sort, John . . . I don't know what sort . . . But there'spower in him . . . And I want it to come out right. He's the sort that'llgo soft on women if he's not careful. He'd be off after every young, nice-lookin' girl he meets if he were let . . . An' God knows what the endof that would be. There's this girl, Sheila Morgan . . . You've seenher?. . . "

Marsh nodded his head, and said, "She comes to the Language class. "

"Well, you know the sort she is: fine, healthy, good-lookin', lustygirl. That sort stirs the blood in a lad like Henry. I want him to getinto the state in which he can look at her an' lave her alone! Do youfollow me?"

"Yes. "

"He's not in that state now. He's soft, oh, he's damned soft. Look here, John Marsh, do you know what I think about young fellows? I thinkthey're the finest things in the world. Youth, I mean. An' I figure itout this way, that Youth has the right to three things: love an' workan' fun; an' it ought to have them about equally. The only use of oldpeople like me is to see that the young 'uns don't get the proportionsall wrong, too much love an' not enough work, or the other way round. Henry's very likely to get them all wrong, an' I want to see that hedoesn't. Now, you understand me, don't you? I'm a long-winded man, an'it's hard to make out what I'm drivin' at, but that can't be helped. Everybody has a nature, an' I have mine, an' bedam to it!"

"What do you want me to do?" Marsh asked, putting his exercisestogether. 

"I want you to try an' put some big wish into his heart, " Mr. Quinnreplied. "Try an' make him as eager about Irelan' as you are. I want himto spend himself for something that's bigger than he is, instead ofspendin' himself on something that's smaller than he is. "

"But why not do that yourself, Mr. Quinn?"

Mr. Quinn got up from his chair and walked about the room. "It's veryhard for a man to talk to his son in the way that a stranger can, " hesaid. "An' besides I . . . I love Henry, John Marsh, an' my love for himupsets my balance!"

"Can't you control that, Mr. Quinn?" Marsh asked. 

"Control it! Begod, John Marsh, if you were a father you wouldn't asksuch a damn silly question. Here, have a cigar! Henry's comin' back!"

When Henry entered the room, his father was lying back in his chair, puffing smoke into the air, while John Marsh was cutting the end of hiscigar. 

"The post's come in, " he said. 

"Anything for me?" his father asked. 

"No. There was only one letter. For me. It's from Ninian Graham!"

"Nice chap, Ninian Graham, " Mr. Quinn murmured. 

"He wants me to go over to Boveyhayne for a while. "

"Does he?"

"Yes. Gilbert Farlow's staying with them. I should like to go. "

"Well, we'll see about it in the morning, " said Mr. Quinn. "I wasthinking of sending you on a walking tour with John here. To Connacht!"

"You could talk to the people in Irish, Henry, " John added. 

Henry twirled Ninian's letter in his fingers. "I'd like to go toBoveyhayne, " he said. "I want to see Ninian and Gilbert again!. . . "

"But the language, Henry!. . . "

"I hate the damned language!" Henry exclaimed passionately. "I'm sick ofIreland. I'm sick of!. . . "

Mr. Quinn got up and put his hand on Henry's shoulder. 

"All right, Henry, " he said. "You can go to Boveyhayne!"

5

Up in his bedroom, Henry re-read Ninian's letter, and then he replied toit. Ninian wrote:

_Blighter:_

_Gilbert's here. He's been here for a week, and he says you ought to behere, too. So do I. Can't you come to Boveyhayne for a fortnight anyhow?If you can stay longer, do. Gilbert says it's awful to think that you'regoing to that hole in Dublin where there isn't even a Boat Race, and theleast you can do is to come and have a good time here. I can't think whyIrish people want to be Irish. It seems so damn silly. Gilbert's writinga play. He has done about a page and a half of it, and it's most awfulbilge. He keeps on reading it out to me. He read some of it to me lastnight when I was brushing my teeth which is a damn dangerous thing todo, and I had to clout his head severely for him. He is a chap. He gotpoor Mary into a row on Sunday. We took him to church with us, and whenthe Vicar was reading the first lesson, all about King Solomon swankingbefore the Queen of Sheba and showing off his gold plate, Gilbert turnedto Mary and said out loud, "Ostentatious chap, Solomon! Anybody couldsee he was a Jew!" and Mary burst out laughing. The Vicar wasfrightfully sick about it, and jawed Gilbert after the service, and themater told Mary the truth about herself. I must say it was rather funny. I very nearly laughed myself. Do be a decent chap and come over soon. You'll just be in time for the mackerel fishing. Gilbert and Mary and Iwent out with Jim Rattenbury yesterday and caught dozens. _

 _Your affectionate friend, _

 _Ninian Graham. _

Henry's reply was:

_Dear Ninian:_

_Thanks awfully. I'll come as soon as I can get away. I spoke to myfather to-night, and he says I can go to Boveyhayne. I'll send atelegram to you, telling you when to expect me. I'm looking forward toreading Gilbert's play. I hope he'll have more of it written by the timeI get to Boveyhayne. A page and a half isn't much, is it? and I don'twonder you get sick of hearing it over and over. I shall have to writesomething, too, but I don't know what to write about. We can talk ofthat when we meet. It is awfully kind of Mrs. Graham to have me again. Please thank her for me, and give my love to Mary and Gilbert, and tellhim not to be an old ass, yapping like that in church. No wonder thevicar was sick. _

 _Your affectionate friend, _

 _Henry Quinn. _

THE NINTH CHAPTER

1

Three days later, Henry left Ballymartin and travelled to Belfast in thecompany of John Marsh. In Belfast they were to separate: Marsh was toreturn to Dublin and Henry was to cross by the night boat to Liverpool, and proceed from there to London, and then on from Waterloo toBoveyhayne. Marsh, a little sad because the Ballymartin classes must nowcollapse, but greatly glad to return to the middle of Irish activitiesin Dublin, had turned over in his mind what Mr. Quinn had said aboutHenry's future, and he was wondering exactly what he should say toHenry. They had several hours to spend in Belfast, and Marsh proposedthat they should visit the shipyards and, if they had time, inspect alinen mill; and Henry, who had always felt great pride when he saw thestocks and gantries of the shipyards and reflected that out of themultitudinous activities of Ulster men the greatest ships in the worldwere created, eagerly assented to Marsh's proposal. Mr. Quinn had giventhem a letter of introduction to a member of the great firm of Harlandand Wolff, and Mr. Arthurs, because of his friendship for Mr. Quinn, conducted them through the yard himself. 

They stayed so long in the shipyard that there was no time left for thevisit to the linen mill, and so, when they had had tea, they set off tothe Great Northern Railway station where Marsh was to catch his train toDublin. 

Mr. Arthurs' immense energy and his devotion to his work and hisextraordinary pride not only in the shipyard but in the men who workedin it had made a deep impression on Marsh and Henry. He seemed to knowthe most minute details of the vast complication of functions thatoperated throughout the works. While they were passing through one ofthe shops, a horn had blown, and instantly a great crowd of men and ladshad poured out of the yard on their way to their dinner, and Mr. Arthurs, standing aside to watch them, and greeting here one and thereanother, turned to Marsh and said, "Those are my pals!" Thousands ofmen, grimy from their work, each of them possessed of some peculiarskill or great strength, thousands of them, "pals" of this one man whoseactive brain conceived ships of great magnitude and endurance! Mr. Arthurs had passed through the shipyard from apprenticeship todirectorship: he had worked in this shop and in that, just as the menworked, and had learned more about shipbuilding than it seemed possiblefor any man to learn. "He knows how many rivets there are in the_Oceanic_, " one of the foremen in the yard said to Marsh when they werebeing shown round. "He's the great boy for buildin' boats!"

Marsh, until then, had never met a man like Mr. Arthurs. His life hadbeen passed in Dublin, among people who thought and talked andspeculated, but seldom did; and he had been habituated to scoffing talkat Belfast men . . . "money-grubbers" . . . Mitigated, now and then, by agrudging tribute to their grit and great energy and resource. Mr. Arthurs had none of the money-grubbing spirit in him; his devotion tohis work of shipbuilding was as pure as the devotion of a Samurai to thehonour of Japan; and Marsh, who was instantly sensitive to the presenceof a noble man, felt strongly drawn to him. 

"I wish we could get him on our side, Henry!" he said, as they sat inthe station, waiting for the train to draw up to the platform. "I'd giveall the lawyers we've got for that one man!"

"Father thinks Tom Arthurs is the greatest shipbuilder that's everlived, " Henry answered. 

"He might be the greatest Irishman that's ever lived, " Marsh rejoined, "if he'd only give a quarter of the devotion to Ireland that he gives toships. "

"I suppose he thinks he's giving all his devotion to Ireland now . . . Andhe is really. Isn't he, John? His firm is famous all over the world, andhe's one of the men that have made it famous. It must be very fine forhim to think that he's doing big things for his country!"

Marsh nodded his head. "We're rather foolish about Belfast in Dublin, "he said. "After all, real work is done here, isn't it? And the chiefindustry of Dublin . . . What is it? Absolutely unproductive! Porter!Barrels and barrels of it, floating down the Liffey and nothing, _nothing real_, floating back! I like that man Arthurs. I wish to heavenwe had him on our side!"

"He's a Unionist, " Henry replied. 

It occurred to Marsh, in the middle of his reflections on Tom Arthurs, that he should ask Henry what he proposed to do for Ireland. 

"I'd like to do work as big and fine as Arthurs does, " he said. "Wouldn't you, Henry?"

"Yes. "

"What _do_ you propose to do, Henry?"

"I don't know. I haven't thought definitely about that sort of thingyet. I've just imagined I'd like to do _something_. I'm afraid I can'tbuild ships!. . . "

"There are other things besides ships, Henry!"

"I know that. John, I'm going to say something that'll make you angry, but I can't help that. When Tom Arthurs was showing us over the Island, I couldn't help thinking that all that Gaelic movement was a frightfulwaste of time!" Marsh made a gesture, but Henry would not let him speak. "No, don't interrupt me, John, " he said. "I must say what I feel. Lookat the Language class at Ballymartin. What's been the good of all thework you put into it?"

"We've given them a knowledge of a national separateness, haven't we?"

"Have we? They were keener on the dances, John. I don't believe we'vedone anything of the sort, and if we had, I think it would be a pity!"

"A pity! A pity to make the Irish people realise that they're Irish anddifferent from the English!"

"Oh, you won't agree, I know, John, but I think Tom Arthurs is doingbetter work for Ireland than you are, " Henry retorted. 

"He's doing good work, very good work, but not better work than I am. He's establishing an Irish industry, but I'm helping to establish anIrish nation, an Irish soul!. . . "

"That's what you want to do, but I wonder whether it's what you aredoing, " said Henry. 

They were silent for a while, and before they spoke again, the trainbacked into the station, and they passed through the barriers so thatMarsh could secure his seat. 

"Well, what do _you_ propose to do for Ireland?" Marsh asked again, whenhe had entered his carriage. 

"The best I can, I suppose. I don't know yet!. . . "

Marsh turned quickly to Henry and put his hand on his shoulder. "Henry, "he said, "I hope you don't mind . . . I know about Sheila Morgan andyou!. . . "

"You know?. . . "

"Yes. I'm sorry about that. I don't think you should let it upset you!"

Henry did not reply for a few moments, but sat still staring in front ofhim. In a sub-conscious way, he was wondering why it was that thecarriages were not cleaner. . . . 

"I'm frightfully miserable, John, " he said at last. 

"But why, Henry?"

"Oh, because of everything. I don't know. I'm a fool, I suppose!"

"You're not going to pieces just because you've fallen in love with agirl and it's turned out wrong? My dear Henry, that's a poor sort of aspirit!"

"I know it is, but I'm a sloppy fellow!. . . "

"This affair with Sheila Morgan is all the more reason why you shouldthink of something big to do. I wish you were coming to Dublin with menow. Dublin's very beautiful in the summer, and we could go up into themountains and talk about things. "

"Oh, well, we shall meet in Dublin fairly soon, " Henry replied, smilingat Marsh. It had been settled that he was to enter Trinity a littleearlier than his father had previously planned. 

"Yes, that's true!"

The hour at which the train was due to depart came, and Henry got out ofthe carriage and stood on the platform while Marsh, his head thrustthrough the window, talked to him. 

"You might write to me, " he said. "We ought not to drift away from eachother, Henry!. . . "

"We won't do that. We'll see each other in Dublin. "

"Yes, of course. You must meet Galway when you come back. He's aschoolmaster and a barrister and a poet and heaven knows what not. He'sa splendid fellow. Perhaps he'll persuade you to take more interest inIrish things!"

"Perhaps!"

The guard blew his whistle, and the train began to move out of thestation. 

"Don't get too English, Henry!" Marsh shouted, waving his hand infarewell. 

Henry smiled at him, but did not answer. 

"Good-bye!" Marsh called to him. 

"Good-bye!" Henry answered. 

The train swung round a bend and disappeared on its way south, andHenry, strangely desolate, turned and walked away from the station. 

2

In the excitement of leaving Ballymartin and sightseeing in theshipyard, he had almost forgotten Sheila Morgan, but now, his mindstimulated by his talk with Marsh and his spirit depressed by hisloneliness, his thoughts returned to her, and it seemed to him that hedetested her. She had insulted him, struck him, humiliated and shamedhim. When he remembered that he had told her of his love for her and hadasked her to marry him, and had been told in reply that she wanted aman, not a coward, he felt that he could not bear to return to Irelandagain. His mood was mingled misery and gladness. At Boveyhayne, thankheaven, he would be free of Sheila and probably he would never think ofher again. Gilbert and Ninian would fill his mind, and of course therewould be Mrs. Graham and Mary. Mary! It was strange that he should havelet Mary slip out of his thoughts and let Sheila slip into them. He hadactually proposed to Mary and she had accepted him, and then he had lefther and forgotten her because of Sheila. He remembered that he had notreplied to the letter she had written to him before John Marsh came toBallymartin. He had intended to write, but somehow he had not done so. . . And then Sheila came, and it was impossible to write to her. Hewondered what he should say to her when they met. Would she come toWhitcombe station to meet him? What was he to say to her?. . . 

He had treated her shabbily. Of course, she was only a kid, as Ninianhimself would say, but then he had made love to her, and anyhow shewould be less of a kid now than she was when he last saw her. . . . He gottired of walking about the streets, and he made his way to the quays andpassed across the gangway on to the deck of the steamer. A cool air wasblowing up the Lagan from the Lough, and when he leaned over the side ofthe ship he could see the dark skeleton shape of the shipyard. Histhoughts were extraordinarily confused, rambling about his father andSheila Morgan and John Marsh and Mary Graham and Tom Arthurs and Irelandand ships and England and Gilbert Farlow and Ninian and Roger. . . . 

"I ought never to have thought of any one but Mary, " he said to himselfat last. "I _really_ love her. I was only . . . Only passing the time withSheila!"

"Well, thank God I'll soon be in Devonshire, " he went on, "and out ofall this. If only my Trinity time were over, and I were settled inLondon with Gilbert and the others, I'd be happy again!" He thought ofJohn Marsh, and as he leant over the side of the boat, looking down onthe dark water flowing beneath him, he seemed to see Marsh's eager face, framed in the window of the railway carriage. He almost heard Marshsaying again, "Well, what do _you_ propose to do for Ireland?. . . "

"Oh, damn Ireland, " he said out loud. 

He walked away from the place where he had imagined he had seen Marsh'sface peering at him out of the water, and as he walked along the deck, he could hear the noise of hammering in the shipyard made by the men onthe night-shift. Tom Arthurs's brain was still working, though TomArthurs was now at home. 

"That's real work, " Henry murmured to himself, "and a lot better thangabbling about Ireland's soul as if it were the only soul in the world!Poor old John! I disappoint him horribly. . . . " He was standing in thebows of the boat, looking towards the Lough. "I wonder, " he said tohimself, "whether Mary'll be at Whitcombe station!"

3

The peculiar sense of isolation which overwhelms an Irishman when he isin England, fell upon Henry the moment he climbed into the carriage atLime Street station. None of the passengers in his compartment spoke toeach other, whereas in Ireland, every member of the company would havebeen talking like familiars in a few minutes. About an hour after thetrain had left Liverpool, some one leant across to the passenger facinghim and asked for a match, and a box of matches was passed to himwithout a word from the man who owned them. "Thanks!" said the passengerwho had borrowed the box, as he returned it. No more was said by any onefor half an hour, and then the man opposite to Henry stretched himselfand said, "We're getting along!" and turned and laid his head againstthe window and went to sleep. 

"We _are_ different!" Henry thought to himself. "We're certainlydifferent . . . Only I wonder does the difference matter much!"

He tried to make conversation with his neighbour, but was unsuccessful, for his neighbour replied only in monosyllables, and sometimes did noteven articulate at all, contenting himself with a grunt. . . . 

"Well, why should he talk to me?" Henry thought to himself. "He isn'tinterested in me or my opinions, and perhaps he wants to read orthink!. . . "

Marsh would have denied that the man wanted to think. He would havedenied that the man had the capacity to think at all. Henry rememberedhow Marsh had generalised about the English. "They live on theirinstincts, " he had said. "They never live on their minds!" and he hadquoted from an article in an English newspaper in which the writer hadlamented over the decline and fall of intellect among his countrymen. The writer declared that no one would pay to see a play that made agreater demand upon the mind than is made in a musical comedy, and thateven this slight demand was proving to be more than many people couldbear: the picture palace was destroying even the musical comedy. 

"But are we any better than that?" Henry had asked innocently, andMarsh, indignant, had declared that the Irish were immeasurably betterthan _that_. 

"But are we?" Henry asked himself as the train swiftly moved towardsLondon. 

And through his mind there raced a long procession of questions forwhich he could not find answers. His mind was an active, searching mind, but it was immature, and there were great gaps in it that could only befilled after a long time and much experience. He had not the knowledgewhich would enable him to combat the opinions of Marsh, but someinstinct in him caused him to believe that Marsh's views of England andIreland were largely prejudiced views. "I don't feel any less friendlyto Gilbert and Ninian and Roger than I do to John Marsh or any otherIrishman, and I don't feel that John understands me better than theydo!" That was the pivot on which all his opinions turned. He could onlyargue from his experience, and his experience was that this fundamentalantagonism between the Irish and the English, on which John Marshinsisted, did not exist. When Marsh declared passionately that he didnot wish to see Ireland made into a place like Lancashire, he was onlystating something that many Englishmen said with equal passion about theunindustrialised parts of England. Gilbert Farlow denounced mill-ownerswith greater fury than Mr. Quinn denounced them. . . . It seemed to Henrythat he could name an English equivalent for every Irish friend he had. 

"There are differences, of course, " he said to himself, remembering thesilent company of passengers who shared his compartment, "but they don'tmatter very much!"

"I wish, " he went on, "John Marsh weren't so bitter against the English. Lots of them would like him if he'd only let them!"

He looked out of the window at the wide fields and herds of cattle andcomfortable farmhouses, built by men whose lives were more or lesssecure, and . . . "Of course!" he exclaimed in his mind. "That's thesecret of the whole thing! When our people have had security for life aslong as these people have had it, their houses will be as good as theseare, and their farms as rich and clean and comfortable!"

One had only to remember the history of Ireland to realise that many ofthe differences between the English and the Irish were no more than thedifferences between the hunter and the hunted, the persecutor and thepersecuted. How could the Irish help having a lower standard of lifethan the English when their lives had been so disrupted and disturbedthat it was difficult for them to have a standard of life at all? Now, when the disturbance was over and security of life had been obtained(after what misery and bitterness and cruel lack of commoncomprehension!) the Irish would soon set up a level of life that mightultimately be higher than that of the English. 

"Of course, " said Henry, remembering something that his father had said, "there'll be a Greedy Interval!"

The Greedy Interval, the first period of prosperity in Ireland when thepeasants, coming suddenly from insecurity and poverty to safety andwell-being, would claw at money like hungry beasts clawing at food, hadbeen the subject of many arguments between Mr. Quinn and John Marsh, Mr. Quinn maintaining that greed was the principal characteristic of apeasant nation, inherent in it, inseparable from it. 

"Look at the French, " he had said on one occasion. "By God, they buriedtheir food in their back-gardens rather than let their hungry soldiershave it in the Franco-German War! Would an aristocrat have done that, John Marsh? They saw their own countrymen who had been fighting forthem, starving, and they let them starve!. . . "

It was the same everywhere. "I never pass a patch of allotments, " hesaid, "without thinkin' that their mean, ugly, _little_ look is justlike a peasant's mind, an' begod I'm glad when I'm past them an' can seewide lands again!" Peasants were greedy, narrow, unimaginative, lackingin public spirit. In France, in Belgium, in Holland and Russia, in allof which countries Mr. Quinn had travelled much, there was a peasantspirit powerfully manifested, and almost invariably that manifestationwas shown in a mean manner. 

"That's what your wonderful Land Laws are going to do for Ireland!" Mr. Quinn had exclaimed scornfully. "_We're_ to be thrown out of our land, an' louts like Tom McCrum are to be put in our place!. . . "

Henry had sympathised with his father then, but he felt that the best ofthe argument was with John Marsh who had replied that the Irishlandlords would never have been dispossessed of their land, if they hadbeen worthy of it. "If they'd thought as much about theirresponsibilities as they thought about their rights, they'd still havetheir rights!" he said. 

"I suppose that's so, " Henry said to himself, picking up a paper that hehad bought in Liverpool and beginning to read. "I must talk to Gilbertabout it!"

4

Ninian and Gilbert met him at Whitcombe station. As he stood on thelittle platform of the carriage, he could see that Mary was not withthem, and he felt disappointed. She might have come, too!. . . 

"Here he is, " he heard Gilbert shout to Ninian as the train drew up. "Hilloa, Quinny!"

"Hilloa, Gilbert!"

"Hop out quickly, will you!"

He hopped out as quickly as he could and said "Hilloa!" to Ninian, whosaid "Hilloa!" and slapped his back and called him an old rotter. 

"Widger'll take your luggage, " Gilbert said, taking control of theirmovements as he always did. "Hang on to this, Widger, " he added, takinga handbag from Henry and throwing it into Widger's arms. "Show him therest of your stuff, Quinny, and let's hook off. We're going to walk toBoveyhayne. You'll need a stretch after sitting all that time, andNinian's getting disgustingly obese, so we make him run up and down theroad over the cliff three times so's to thin him down!. . . "

"Funny ass!" said Ninian. 

"Mrs. Graham wanted Mary to come with us, but we wouldn't let her. We'retired of females, Ninian and I, and Mary's very femaley at present. She's started to read poetry!. . . "

"Out loud!" Ninian growled. "I'm sick of people who read out loud to me. When Mary's not spouting stuff about 'love' and 'dove' and 'heavenabove' and that sort of rot, Gilbert's reading his damn play to me!"

"I'll read it to you, Quinny!" Gilbert said, linking his arm in Henry's. 

They had left the station, and were now walking along the unfinishedroad above the shingle. There was a heat haze hanging over the smoothblue sea, so that sky and water merged into each other imperceptibly. Infront of them, they could see the white cliffs of Boveyhayne shining inthe descending sun. There were great stalks of charlock, standing out ofthe grass on the face of the cliffs, giving them a golden head. 

"If Marley's on Whitcombe beach, we'll row over to Boveyhayne, " saidNinian. "You'd like to get on to the sea, wouldn't you, Quinny?"

Henry nodded his head. 

"No, " said Gilbert, "we won't. We'll sit here for a while, and I'll readmy play to Quinny. I carry it about with me, Quinny, so that I can readit to Ninian whenever his spirits are low!"

"I never saw such a chap!" Ninian mumbled. 

"This great, hairy, beefy fellow, " Gilbert went on, seizing hold ofNinian's arm with his disengaged hand, "does not love literature!. . . "

Ninian broke free from Gilbert's grip. "Marley is on the beach, " hesaid, and ran ahead to engage the boat. 

"Well, Quinny!" said Gilbert, when Ninian had gone. 

"Well, Gilbert!" Henry replied. 

"How's Ireland? Still making an ass of itself?"

Henry made no answer to Gilbert's question because he knew that ananswer was not expected. Had any one else spoken in that fashion to him, any other Englishman, he would probably have angered instantly, butGilbert was different from all other people in Henry's eyes, and wasprivileged to say whatever he pleased. 

"Gilbert, " he said, "I want to have a long jaw with you aboutsomething!. . . "

The English way of speaking came naturally to him, and he said "a longjaw about something" as easily as if he had never been outside anEnglish public school. 

"What?" Gilbert said. 

"Oh, everything. Ireland and things!"

"All right, my son!"

"You see!. . . "

"Wait though, " said Gilbert, "until we catch up with Ninian. He ought tohear it, too. He has a wise old noddle, Ninian, although he's such a fat'un. . . . My God, Quinny, isn't he getting big? If he piles up any moremuscle, hell have to go to Trinity Hall and join the beefy brutes andget drunk and all that kind of manly thing!" They came up with Ninian ashe spoke. "Won't you, Ninian?"

"Won't I what?" Ninian replied. 

"Have to go to Trinity Hall if you go on being a beefy Briton. Hilloa, Marley!"

"Good-evenin', sir!" said old Marley. 

They got into the boat, and Ninian rowed them round the white cliff toBoveyhayne beach, where they left the boat and walked up the villagestreet to the lane that led to Boveyhayne Manor. 

"Henry wants to talk about the world, Ninian!" said Gilbert as they leftthe beach. "We'd better have a good old gabble after dinner to-night, hadn't we?"

"It doesn't matter what I say, " said Ninian, "you'll gabble anyhow. Anything to keep him from reading his blooming play to me!" he added, turning to Henry. 

5

He had a sense of disappointment when he met Mary. In his reaction fromSheila Morgan, he had imagined Mary coming to greet him with somethingof the alert youthfulness with which she had met him when he firstvisited Boveyhayne, but when she came into the hall, a book inher hand, he felt that there was some stiffness in her manner, aself-consciousness which had not been there before. 

"How do you do?" she said, offering her hand to him like any well-bredgirl. 

She did not call him "Quinny" or show in her manner or speech that hewas particularly welcome to her. 

"I suppose, " he thought to himself, "she's cross because I didn't answerher letter!"

He resolved that he would bring her back to her old friendliness. . . . 

"I expect you're tired, " she said. "We'll have tea in a minute or two. Mother's lying down. She's not very well!"

She would have said as much to a casual acquaintance, Henry thought. 

"Not well!" he heard Ninian saying. "What's the matter with her?"

"She's tired. I think she's got a headache. There was a letter fromUncle Peter!" Mary answered, and her tone indicated that the letter fromUncle Peter accounted for everything. 

"Oh!" said Ninian, scowling and turning away. 

They went into the drawing-room to tea, and Henry had a sense ofintruding on family affairs, mingled with his disappointment becauseMary was not as he had expected her to be. It might be, of course, thatthe letter from Uncle Peter had affected Mary almost as much as itseemed to have affected Mrs. Graham, and that presently she would be asnatural as she had been that other time . . . But then he remembered thatGilbert had said that she was "being very femaley at present. " Shepoured out tea for them as if she were a new governess, and she reprovedNinian once for saying "Damn!" when he dropped his bread and butter. . . . 

"Mary's turned pi!" said Ninian. 

She frowned at him and told him not to be silly. 

"She calls the Communion Service the Eucharist, and crosses herself andflops and bows!. . . "

"You're very absurd, Ninian!" she said. 

Almost unconsciously, he began to compare her to Sheila Morgan. Heremembered the free, natural ways of Sheila, and liked them better thanthese new, mannered ways of Mary. How could any one prefer thisstiltedness to that ease, this self-consciousness to that state of beingunaware of self?. . . In Belfast, when he had left John Marsh, and in hisloneliness had thought of the way Sheila had humiliated him, he had hada sharp sense of revulsion from her, a loathing for her, a desire neverto see her again; but now, sitting here looking at Mary and oppressed byher youngladyishness, his longing for Sheila came back to him withgreater strength, and he resolved that he would write to her that nightand beg her to forgive him for his cowardice and let him be hersweetheart again. . . . 

"Will you have some more tea!" Mary was saying to him, and he started atthe sound of her voice. 

"Oh, thanks!" he said, passing his cup to her. 

"Thinking, Quinny?" Gilbert exclaimed, reaching for a bun. 

"Eh? Oh, yes! I was thinking!" he answered. "What time does the eveningpost go out?" he said to Ninian. 

"Six-twenty-five, " Ninian answered. 

"Thanks. I just want to write to Ireland!. . . "

"It'll get there just as soon if you post it to-morrow, " said Gilbert. 

Mary left them. "I'm going up to mother, " she said, as she got up fromthe tea table. "She's awfully sorry she couldn't be down to welcomeyou, " she added to Henry who had moved to open the door for her. 

"I hope she'll soon be better, " he answered. 

When she had gone, Ninian got up and cursed lustily. 

"Damn and blast him, " he said. 

They did not speak. They knew that Ninian's anger had some relation toMrs. Graham's headache and the letter from Uncle Peter, and they feltthat it was not their business to speak, even though Ninian had drawnthem into the affair. 

"I'm sorry, " said Ninian, sitting down again. "I ought not to havebroken out like that before you chaps, but I couldn't help it. "

Henry coughed as if he were clearing his throat, but he did not speak, and Gilbert sat still and gazed at the toe of his shoe. 

"He always upsets mother, damn him!" Ninian looked up at them. "My UnclePeter married a girl in a confectioner's shop at Cambridge. He's thatkind of ass! He never writes to mother except when he's in a mess, andhe always expects her to get him out of it. I can't stand a man who doesthat sort of thing. She's an awful bitch, too . . . His wife! We had themhere once!. . . My God!"

Ninian lay back in his seat and remained silent for a while as if hewere contemplating in his mind the picture of Uncle Peter and his wifeon that awful visit to Boveyhayne. They waited for him to continue. 

"I used to feel ashamed to go into the village, " he said at last. "Theway she talked to the fishermen--one minute snubbing them, and the next, talking to them as if she were a servant-girl. They didn't like it. JimRattenbury hated it, I know. She wasn't one of us and she wasn't one ofthem. A damned in-between, that's what she was. And Uncle Peter used toget drunk!. . . I'm awfully sorry, you chaps, I oughtn't to be boring youlike this!"

"That's all right, " said Gilbert. 

"I was jolly glad when they went, " Ninian went on. "Jolly glad! Poormother had a hell of a time while they were here!"

"I suppose so, " Henry murmured, hardly knowing what to say. 

"I can't understand a man marrying a woman like that, " Ninian said. "Imean, I can understand a fellow ragging about with a girl, but I can'tunderstand him marrying her and . . . And upsetting things!"

It was on the tip of Henry's tongue to say something aboutNinian's belief in democracy, for he remembered that Gilbert, in one of his letters, had declared that Ninian had become aI'm-as-good-as-you-and-a-damn-sight-better-politician, but he did notsay it. 

"The girl isn't happy. Anybody can see she isn't happy, and Uncle Peterisn't happy, and between them they make us damn miserable. That kind ofmarriage is bound to fail, _I_ think. People ought to marry in their ownclass!. . . "

"Unless they're big enough to climb out of it, " said Gilbert. 

"_She_ isn't!"

It came to Henry suddenly that he was proposing to do what Ninian'sUncle Peter had done: marry a girl who was not of his class. He listenedto Ninian and Gilbert as they talked of this intimate mingling ofclasses, and wondered what they would say if they knew of Sheila. Gilbert and Ninian were agreed that on the whole it was foolish for aman to marry that kind of girl. "It doesn't work, " said Gilbert, and hetold a story of a man whom his father had known, an officer in theIndian army who developed communist beliefs when he retired and hadmarried his cook. "It's a ghastly failure, " said Gilbert. 

"I'm all for equality, " Ninian said, "but it's silly to think that we'realways equal now. We're not!. . . "

"And never will be, " Gilbert interjected. 

"I don't agree with you, Gilbert. I think that things like habits andmanners can be fairly equalised!. . . "

"Minds can't!"

"No, of course not; but decent behaviour can, and it's silly to startmingling classes until you've done that. You rub each other the wrongway over little things that don't really matter, but that irritate likeblazes. I've talked about it with mother. She used to think I was thesort of chap who'd do what Uncle Peter did. Uncle Peter frightened meoff that kind of thing!"

It was absurd, Henry thought, to think that all women were like UnclePeter's wife. Sheila was not that sort of girl at all. She would notmake a man feel ashamed!. . . 

He broke off in the middle of his thoughts to listen to Gilbert who wasenunciating a doctrine that was new to Henry. 

"There are aristocrats and there are plebs, " said Gilbert, "and theywon't mingle. That's all about it. I believe that the majority of theworking people are different from us, not only in their habits . . . That's nothing . . . Just the veneer . . . But in their nature. We've beenachieved somehow . . . Evolution and that sort of thing . . . Because theyneeded people to look after them and direct them and control them. We'reas different from working people as a race-horse is from a cart-horse. Things that are quite natural to us are simply finicky fussy things tothem. I wish to God talking like this didn't make a fellow feel like aprig!. . . "

He broke off almost angrily. 

"Let's go out, " he said. "I want to smoke!"

"But it's true all the same, " he went on when they got outside, almostas if he had not broken his speech. "Whether we tried for it or not, we've got people separated into groups, and we'll never get them out ofthem. Some of us are servants and some of us are bosses, and we'vedeveloped natures like that, and we can't get away from them!" Henryreminded them of men who had climbed from low positions to highpositions. "They're the accidents, " Gilbert went on. "They provenothing, and I'm certain that if you could go back into their ancestry, you'd find they sprang from people like us, who had somehow slithereddown until the breed told and a turn up was taken!. . . "

They argued round and round the subject, admitting here, denyingthere. . . . 

"Anyhow, " Gilbert ended, "it is true that a man who marries a villagegirl makes a mistake, isn't it?"

"Not always, " Henry replied. 

"Nearly always, " said Gilbert. 

"Uncle Peter made a mistake anyhow, " Ninian said. 

6

He went to his room, pleading that he was tired, to write his letter toSheila before dinner. As he was going upstairs, Mary began to descend, and he saw that her look was brighter. 

"Go back, " she called to him, waving her hand as if to thrust him downthe stairs again. "It's unlucky to pass people on the stairs. Don't youknow that?"

He descended again as she bade him, laughing as he did so, and waiteduntil she had come down. 

"Mother's much better now, " she said when she had reached his side. "She's coming down to dinner. "

"I'm awfully glad, " he replied. He hesitated for a second or two, standing with one foot on the last step of the stairs. "I say, Mary, " hesaid. 

"Yes, Quinny!" she answered, turning to him. 

So she had not forgotten that she had called him by his nick-name. 

"I say, Mary, " he said again, still undecided as to whether he shouldspeak his mind or not. 

"Yes?" she repeated. 

He went up a step or two of the stairs. "Oh, I don't know, " heexclaimed. "I only wanted to say how nice it is to be here again!"

"Oh, yes!" Mary said, and he imagined that her tone was one ofdisappointment. 

"I'll be down presently, " he went on, and then he ran up the stairs tohis room. 

"I don't know, " he said to himself, as he closed his door. "I'm damnedif I know!"

He sat down at the writing-table and spread a sheet of notepaper infront of him. "I wish I knew!. . . " he murmured, and he wrote down thedate. "Mary is awfully nice, and I like her of course, but Sheila!. . . "

He put the pen down again and sat back in his chair and stared out ofthe window. Out in the farmyard, he could hear the men bedding thehorses, and there was a clatter of cans from the dairy where the womenwere turning the milk into cream. He could hear a horse whinnying in itsstall . . . And as he listened he seemed to see Sheila, as he had seen heron her uncle's farm before he had failed in courage, standing outsidethe byre with a crock in her hands and a queer, teasing look in hereyes. "You're the quare wee fella!" she was saying, and then, "I likeyou quaren well!. . . "

He seized the pen again and began to write. 

7

He had almost finished the letter when Gilbert knocked on his door andshouted, "Can I come in, Quinny?"

He put the letter under the blotting paper, and called, "Yes, Gilbert!"in reply. 

"Aren't you ready yet?" Gilbert asked. 

"No, not yet, but I won't be long changing!"

"Righto!" said Gilbert, going to the other window and looking across thefields. "Rum go about Ninian's uncle, isn't it?" he said, playing withthe tassle of the blind. 

"Eh?" said Henry. 

"There must be something low in a man who marries a woman like that, don't you think?"

"Oh, I don't know. Why should there be?"

"Obvious, isn't it? I mean, there can't be much in common otherwise, canthere? Unless the man's a sentimental ass. It's as if you or I were tomarry one of the girls out there in the yard, milking the cows. She'd beawfully useful for that job . . . Milking cows . . . But you wouldn't wanther to be doing it all the time. It depends, I suppose, on what you wantto do. If you've got any ambition!. . . "

He did not finish the sentence, but Henry understood and nodded his headas if he agreed with him. 

"I must trot off, " Gilbert said suddenly, going towards the door. "I'mkeeping you!. . . " He paused with his fingers on the handle of the door. "I say, Quinny, " he said, "do you know anything about women?"

"No, not much, " Henry answered. "Do you?"

"No. Funny, isn't it?" he replied, and then he went out of the room. 

Henry sat still for a moment, staring at the closed door, and thenturned back to the writing-table and took the letter to Sheila frombeneath the blotting-paper. He read it through and sat staring at ituntil the writing became a dancing blur. . . . He got up, carrying theletter in his hand, and went to the door and opened it. He tried to call"Gilbert!" but the name came out in a whisper, and before he could callagain, he heard the noise of laughter and then the sound of a youngvoice singing. Mary was downstairs, teasing Ninian. He could hearNinian, half laughing, half growling, as he shouted, "Don't be an oldass, Mary!"

He shut the door and went back to the writing-table, still holding theletter in his hand, and while he stood there, a gong was sounded in thehall. 

"Lord!" he said, "I shall have to hurry!" and he tore up the letter andput it in the waste-paper basket. 

8

They passed their time in bathing and boating and walking, and sometimesMary was with them, but mostly she was not. They went out in themornings, soon after breakfast, taking food with them, and seldomreturned until the evening. They took long tramps to Honiton and LymeRegis and Sidmouth, and once they walked to Exeter and returned home bytrain. Mary liked boating and bathing, but she did not care for walking, and the distances they travelled were beyond her strength; and so itcame about that gradually, during Henry's stay at Boveyhayne, she ceasedto take part in their outings. It seemed odd to him that she did notmake any reference to their love-making. She called him "Quinny" and wasfriendly enough, but she called Gilbert by his Christian name and was asfriendly with him as she was with Henry. He felt hurt when he thought ofher indifference to him. "You'd think she'd forgotten about it!" he saidto himself one evening when he was sitting alone with her in the garden, and he oscillated between the desire to ignore her and the desire tohave it out with her; but he dallied so long between one desire and theother that Gilbert and Ninian and Mrs. Graham had joined them before hehad made a decision. He could not understand Mary. She seemed to havegrown shy and quiet and much less demonstrative than she had been whenhe first knew her. 

"Mary's growing up, " Mrs. Graham said to him one evening, irrelevantly;and of course she was, but she had not grown up so much that thereshould be all this difference between Mary now and Mary then. 

"Oh, well!" he generally concluded when his thoughts turned to her, "she's only a kid!"

And sometimes that explanation seemed to satisfy him. There were othertimes when it failed to satisfy him, and he told himself that Mary wasjustly cold to him because he had not been loyal to their compact. Hehad not answered her letters and he had made love to Sheila Morgan. "Isuppose, " he said to himself, "I'd be at Ballymartin now, making love toSheila, if it hadn't been for that horse!"

He tried on several occasions to talk to Mary about her unansweredletter, to invent some explanation of his neglect, but always he failedto say anything, too nervous to begin, too afraid of being snubbed, tooeager to leave the explanation over until the next day; and so he never"had it out" with her. 

"I am a fool!" he would say to himself in angry rebuke, but even whilehe was reproaching himself, his mind was devising an excuse for hisbehaviour. "We're really too young, " he would add. "It's silly of me tothink of this sort of thing at all, and Mary's still a schoolgirl!. . . "

"I'll just say something to her before I go away, " he thought. "Something that will . . . Explain everything!"

Then Mr. Quinn wrote to him to say that he was in London on business. Hewas anxious that Henry should come to town so that they could return toIreland together. "We'll go to Dublin, " he wrote, "and I'll leave youthere. You needn't come to Ballymartin until the end of the first term. "

He felt strangely chilled by his father's letter. This jolly holiday atBoveyhayne was to be the end of one life, and the journey to Dublin wasto be the beginning of another; and he did not wish to end the one lifeor begin the other. He could feel growing within him, an extraordinaryhatred of Trinity College, and he almost wrote to his father to say thathe would rather not go to a University at all than go to T. C. D. It wascruel, he told himself, to separate him from his friends and compel himto go to a college that meant nothing on earth to him. 

"I shan't know any one there, " he said to Gilbert and Ninian, "and Iprobably won't want to know any one. It's a hole, that's what it is, arotten hole. If the dons were any good, they'd be at Oxford orCambridge!. . . "

"You're not much of a patriot, " Ninian said. 

"I don't want to be a damned patriot. I want to be with people I like. Idon't see why I should be compelled to go and live with a lot of peopleI don't know and don't care about, just because I'm Irish and they'reIrish, when I really want to be with you and Gilbert and Roger. . . . Ihaven't seen Roger since I left Rumpell's and I don't suppose I shallsee him for a long time!"

Gilbert tried to mock him out of his anger. "This emotion does youcredit, young Quinny!" he said, "and we are touched, Ninian and I. Aren't we, Ninian! But you must be a man, Quinny! Four years hence, weshall all meet in London, _Deo volente_, and we'll be able to comparethe education of Ireland with the education of England. Oh, Lordy God, Isometimes wish we hadn't got minds at all. I think it must be lovely tobe a cow . . . Nothing to do but chew the damned cud all day. No soul toconsider, no mind to improve, no anything!. . . "

Gilbert and he left Boveyhayne together, but Gilbert was only going asfar as Templecombe with him, where he was to change on his way toCheltenham. Ninian and Mary saw them off at Whitcombe, and when heremembered the circumstances in which she had seen him off before, Henryhad a longing to take hold of her arm and lead her to the end of theplatform, as he had done then, and tell her that he was sorry foreverything and beg her to start again where they had left off that day. . . But Gilbert was there and Ninian was there, and there was noopportunity, and the train went off, leaving the explanation unmade. 

9

"Good-bye, Quinny!" Gilbert said at Templecombe. 

"Good-bye, Gilbert!" Henry answered in a low tone. 

"I suppose you'll write to me some day?"

"I suppose so. Yes, of course!. . . "

"Ripping day, isn't it? Shame to be wasting it in a blooming train!"

"Yes!"

He wished that the train would break down so that he need not part fromGilbert yet, but while he was wishing, it began to move. Gilbert stoodback from the carriage and waved his hand to him, and Henry leant withhis head through the window of his carriage, smiling. . . . 

"Damn Trinity, " he said, sitting back in his seat, and lettingdepression envelop him. "Damn and blast Trinity!. . . "

THE SECOND BOOK

OF

CHANGING WINDS

 I write of Youth, of Love, and have Accesse By these, to sing of cleanly-Wantonnesse. 

 HERRICK. 

THE FIRST CHAPTER

1

Henry Quinn climbed into a carriage at Amiens Street station and satback in his seat and puffed with pleasure, blowing out his breath with along "poo-ing" sound. He was quit of Trinity College at last! Thank God, he was quit of it at last! The hatred with which he had entered Trinityhad, in his four years of graduation, been mitigated . . . There were eventimes when he had kindly thoughts of Trinity . . . But every letter hereceived from Gilbert Farlow or Ninian Graham or Roger Carey stirred theresentment he felt at his separation from his friends who had gone toCambridge, and so, in spite of the kindlier feeling he now had for theCollege, he was happy to think that he was quitting it for the lasttime. "But it isn't Irish, " he insisted when his father complained ofhis lack of love for Trinity. "It's . . . It's a hermaphrodite of acollege, neither one thing nor another, English nor Irish. I alwaysfeel, when I step out of College Green into Trinity, that I've steppedright out of Ireland and landed on the point of a rock in the middle ofthe Irish Sea . . . And the point pricks and is damned uncomfortable!"

"You've got the English habit of damning everything, Henry!" his fatherreplied at a tangent. 

But Henry would not be drawn away from his argument. 

"The atmosphere of the place is all wrong, " he went on. "The Provostlooks down the side of his nose at you if he thinks you take an interestin Ireland!"

Mr. Quinn, in his eagerness to defend his College from reproaches whichhe knew to be deserved, reminded Henry that the Provost had aconsiderable reputation as a Greek scholar, but his effort onlydelivered him more completely into Henry's hands. 

"But, father, " Henry said, "you yourself used to say what's the good ofknowing all about Greece when you don't know anything about Ireland. Idon't care about Greece and all those rotten little holes in the Ĉgean. . . That's dead and done with . . . But I do care about Ireland whichisn't dead and done with!"

It was then that Mr. Quinn found consolation. "Well, anyway, you'velearned to love Ireland, " he said. "Trinity's done that much for you!"

"Trinity hasn't done it for me, " Henry answered, "I did it for myself. "

Lying back in his seat, waiting for the train to steam out of thestation on its journey to Belfast, Henry remembered that conversationwith his father, and his mind speculated freely on his attitude towardsTrinity. "I don't care, " he said, "if I never put my foot inside thegates again!"

Something that Patrick Galway said to him once, when he and John Marshwere talking of Trinity, came back to his memory. "The College is livingon Oliver Goldsmith and Edmund Burke, " Galway said, and added, "It'slike a maiden lady in a suburb giving herself airs because hergreat-grandfather knew somebody who was great. It hasn't produced a manwho's done anything for Ireland, except harm, not in the last hundredyears anyhow. Lawyers and parsons and officials, that's the best Trinitycan do! If you think of the Irishmen who've done anything fine forIreland, you'll find that, when they came from universities at all, theycame from Oxford or Cambridge, anywhere on God's earth but Trinity. Horace Plunkett was at Oxford. . . . "

"Eton, too!" Marsh had interjected. 

"Yes, Eton!" Galway went on. "Think of it! An Irish patriot coming fromEton where you'd think only Irish oppressors would come from! IfPlunkett had been educated in an Irish school and sent to Trinity, doyou think he'd have done anything decent for Ireland?"

"Yes, " Henry had replied promptly. "He's that kind of man!"

"No, he wouldn't, " Galway retorted. "They'd have educated the decencyout of him, and he'd have been a . . . A sort of Lord Ashtown!"

But Henry would have none of that. He would not believe that a man'snature can be altered by pedagogues. 

"Horace Plunkett would have been a good Irishman if he'd been born andreared and educated in an Orange Lodge, " he said. 

"I'm not talking about natures, " Galway replied. "I'm talking aboutbeliefs. They'd have told him it was no good trying to build up an Irishnation. . . . "

"He wouldn't have believed them, " Henry retorted. "Damn it, Galway, doyou think a man like Plunkett would let a lot of fiddling schoolmastersknock him off his balance?"

"I'm a schoolmaster, " Galway answered, "and I know what schoolmasterscan do!" His voice changed, deepening, as he spoke. "I know what theyoung teachers in Ireland mean to do!"

"What do they mean to do?" Henry had asked jokingly. 

"Make Irishmen, " Galway answered. 

"If only Trinity would make Irishmen, " he went on, "we'd all be saved adeal of trouble. But it won't, and when a man of family, like Plunkett, is born with good will for Ireland, he has to go to England to beeducated. And he ought to be educated in Ireland, and he would be ifTrinity were worth a damn. I wish I were Provost, I'd teach Irishmen tobe proud of their birth!"

"Well, when we've made Ireland a nation, " said Henry, chaffing him, "we'll make you Provost of Trinity!" and Galway, though he knew thatHenry was jesting, smiled with pleasure. 

"When Ireland is a nation!" Marsh murmured dreamily. 

2

It was extraordinary, Henry thought, how little at home he had felt inDublin. He had the feel of Ballymartin in his bones. He had kinship withthe people in Belfast. At Rumpell's and at Boveyhayne he had had nosensation of alien origin. He had stepped into the life of the school asnaturally as Gilbert Farlow had done, and at Boveyhayne, even when hestill had difficulty in catching the dialect of the fishermen, he hadfelt at home. But in Dublin, he had an uneasy feeling that after all, hewas a stranger. In his first year at Trinity, he had been brutallycontemptuous of the city and its inhabitants. "They can't even put upthe names of the streets so that people can read them, " he said to JohnMarsh soon after he arrived in Dublin. "They're so _damned_incompetent!" And Marsh had told him to control his Ulster blood. "You're right to be proud of Ulster, " he had said, "but you oughtn't togo about talking as if the rest of Ireland were inhabited by fools!"

"I know I oughtn't, " Henry replied, "but I can't help it when I see theway these asses are letting Dublin down!"

That was how he felt about Dublin and the Dublin people, that Dublin wasbeing "let down" by her citizens. His first impression of the city wasthat it was noble, even beautiful, in spite of its untidiness, itsdistress. He would wander about the streets, gazing at the fine oldGeorgian houses, tumbling into decay, and feel so much anger against theindifferent citizens that sometimes he felt like hitting the firstDublin man he met . . . Hitting him hard so that he should bleed!. . . 

"I feel as if Dublin were like an old mansion left by a drunken lord inthe charge of a drunken caretaker, " he said to Marsh. "It's horrible tosee those beautiful houses decaying, but it's more horrible to thinkthat nobody cares!"

Marsh had taken him one Sunday to a house where there were ceilingsthat were notable even in Dublin which is full of houses with beautifulceilings. 

"If we had houses like that in Belfast, " Henry had said, as they cameaway, "we wouldn't let them become slums!"

"No, " retorted Marsh, unable to restrain himself from sneering, "you'dmake peep-shows out of them and charge for admission!"

"Well, that would be better than turning them into slums, " Henryanswered good-humouredly. 

"Would it?" Marsh replied. 

"_Would it?_" Henry wondered. The train was now on its way to Belfast, and, looking idly out of the window, he could see the waves of the IrishSea breaking on the sands at Malahide, heaving suddenly into aglassy-green heap, and then tumbling over into a sprawl of white foam. Would it? he wondered, thinking again of what Marsh had said about theGeorgian houses with their wide halls and lovely Adams ceilings. Therewas no beauty of building at all in Belfast, and no one there seemedanxious that there should be: in all that city, so full of energy andpurpose and grit and acuteness of mind, there did not appear to be oneman of power who cared for the fine shape or the good look of things;but, after all, was that so very much worse than the state of mind ofthe Dublin people who, knowing what beauty is, carelessly let it decay?He began to feel bitterly about Ireland and her indifference to cultureand beauty. He told himself that Ireland was the land of people who donot care. . . . 

"They've got to be made to care!" he said aloud. 

But how was it to be done?. . . 

His sense of being an alien in Dublin had persisted all the time that hehad lived there. The Dublin people were gregarious and garrulous, and hewas solitary and reflective. Marsh and Galway had taken him to houseswhere people met and talked without stopping, and much conversation withmiscellaneous, casually-encountered people bored Henry. He had no giftfor ready talk and he disliked crowds and he was unable to carry ona conversation with people whom he did not know, of whose very names hewas ignorant. Sometimes, he had envied Marsh and Galway because of theease with which they could converse with strangers. Marsh would talkabout himself and his poems and his work with an innocent vanity thatmade people like him; but Henry, self-conscious and shy, could not talkof himself or his intentions to any but his intimates. Sitting here, inthis carriage, from which, even now, he could see in the distance, veiled in clouds, the high peaks of the Mourne mountains, he tried toexplain this difference between Marsh and himself. Why was it that theseDublin men were so lacking in reticence, so eager to communicate, whilehe and Ulstermen were reserved and eager to keep silent? He set hisproblem in those terms. He identified himself as a type of theUlsterman, and began to develop a theory, flattering to himself, toaccount for the difference between Dublin people and Ulstermen . . . Untilhe remembered that Ernest Harper was an Ulsterman. Mr. Quinn had takenHenry to see Harper on the first Sunday evening after they had arrivedin Dublin from England, and Harper had received him very charmingly andhad talked to him about nationality and co-operation and the Irish dramaand the strange inability of Lady Gregory to understand that it was notshe who had founded the Abbey Theatre, until Henry, who had never heardof Lady Gregory, began to feel tired. He had waited patiently for achance to interpolate something into the monologue until hope began toleave him, and then, with a great effort he had interrupted the flow ofHarper's vivid talk and had made a reference to a picture hanging on thewall beside him. It showed a flaming fairy in the middle of a darkwood. . . . 

"Oh, yes, " Harper said, "that's the one I saw!"

"You saw?" Henry had exclaimed in astonishment. 

And then he remembered that Harper spoke of fairies as intimately asother men speak of their friends. . . . 

"Good God!" he thought, "_where am I?_" and wondered what Ninian Grahamwould make of Ernest Harper. 

Harper was an Ulsterman, and so was George Russell, whom people called"A. E. " Marsh and Galway, now almost inseparable, had taken Henry tohear George Russell speaking on some mystical subject at the HermeticClub, and Henry, bewildered by the subject, had felt himselfirresistibly attracted to the fiery-eyed man who spoke with so littleconsciousness of his audience. After the meeting was ended, he hadwalked part of the way home with Russell and had listened to him as hesaid the whole of his lecture over again . . . And he left him with afeeling that Russell was unaware of human presences, that the company ofhuman beings was not necessary to him, that his speech was addressed, not to the visible audience or the visible companion, but to an audienceor a companion that no one but himself could see. Was there any one onearth less like the typical Ulsterman than George Russell, who preachedmysticism and better business, or Ernest Harper who took penny tramridesto pay visits to the fairies?

No, this theory of some inherent difference between Ulstermen and otherIrishmen would not work. There must be some other explanation of Henry'sdislike of crowds, his silence in large companies, his inability toassert himself in the presence of strangers. Why was it that he wasunable to talk about himself and the things he had done and the thingshe meant to do as Marsh talked? It was not because he was more modest, had more humility, than Marsh; for in his heart, Henry was vain. . . . Andwhile he was asking himself this question, suddenly he found the answer. It was because he was afraid to talk about himself, it was because hehad not got the courage to be vain and self-assertive in crowds. Hisinability to talk among strangers, to make people cease their ownconversation in order to listen to him, was part of that cowardice thathad prevented him from diving into the sea when he went with his fatherto swim at Cushendall and had sent him shivering into the shelter ofthe hedge when the runaway horse came galloping down the Ballymenaroad. . . . 

This swift, lightning revelation made him stand up in the carriage andgape at the photographs of Irish scenery in front of him. 

"Oh, my God!" he said to himself, "am I always to be tortured likethis?"

4

He sat back in his seat and lay against the cushions without moving. Hesaw himself now very clearly, for he had the power to see himself withthe closest fidelity. He knew now that all his explanations wereexcuses, that the bitter things he had sometimes said of those who hadqualities which he had not, were invented to prevent him from admittingthat he was without courage. Any fight, mental or physical, unnerved himwhen it brought him into personal contact with his opponents. He couldwrite wounding things to a man, but he could not say them to him withoutlosing possession of himself and his tongue; and so he passed from thetemper of a cool antagonist to that of an enraged shrew. He had tried toexplain the garrulity of the Dublin people by saying that they wereobliged to talk and to persist in talking because "otherwise they'dstart to think!" but he knew now that that was not an accurateexplanation, that it was an ill-natured attempt to cover up his own lackof force. 

"And that's worse than cowardice, " he said to himself, "to excuse my ownfunkiness by pretending that courage isn't courage!"

He remembered that he had invented a bitter phrase about Yeats one nightwhen he had seen the poet in a house in Dublin. "Yeats is behaving as ifhe were the archangel Gabriel making the Annunciation!" he had said, andthe man to whom he had said it had laughed and asked what Henry thoughtYeats was announcing. 

"A fresh revision of one of his lyrics, " he had replied. . . . 

"And I'd give the world, " he said now, "to be able to put on hispontifical air!"

He had a shrinking will; his instinct in an emergency was to back awayfrom things. He had not got the capacity to compel men to do his biddingby the simple force of his personality. If he succeeded in persuadingpeople to do things which he suggested to them he was only able to do soafter prolonged discussion, sometimes only after everything else hadfailed. At Rumpell's, Gilbert had made suggestions as if they werecommands that must instantly be obeyed . . . And they had been instantlyobeyed; but when Henry made suggestions, either people did not listen tothem or, having listened to them, they acted on some other suggestion, until at last, Henry, disheartened, seldom proposed anything until thelast moment, and then he made his proposal in a way which seemed toindicate that he thought little of it; and when some of his suggestionswere accepted and had proved, in practice, to be good, his attitude hadbeen, not that of the man who is absolutely sure of himself, but ratherof the man who gasps with relief because something that he thought wasvery likely to be a failure, had proved to be a success. 

Depression settled on him so heavily that he began to believe that hewas bound to fail in everything that he undertook to do, and when hethought of the bundle of manuscript in his portmanteau, he had a suddeninclination to take it out and fling it through the window of thecarriage. He had not spoken of his writing to any one except John Marsh, and to him, he had only said that he intended to write a novel some day. Once, indeed, he had said, "I've written quite a lot of that novel Itold you about!" but Marsh, intent on something else, had answeredvaguely, "Oh, yes!" and had changed the conversation, leaving Henry toimagine that he had little faith in his power to write. He had been sodespondent after that, that he had gone back to College and, havingre-read what he had written, had torn the manuscript in pieces andthrown it into the grate because it seemed so dull and tasteless. He hadnot written a word after that for more than a month, and he might nothave written anything for a longer period had he not heard from GilbertFarlow that he had finished a comedy in three acts and had sent it toMr. Alexander. The news stimulated him, and in a little while he wasitching to write again. In the evening, he began to re-write the storyand thereafter it went on, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, until itwas finished. His feelings about it changed with remarkable rapidity. Heread it over, in its unfinished state, many times, feeling at one timeit was excellent, and at another time that it was poor, flatulent stuff, without colour or vivacity. 

Writing did not give pleasure to him: it gave him pain. He felt none ofthat exultation in creating characters which he had been told was partof the pleasures of an author. There were times, indeed, when he felt amitigated joy in writing because his ideas were fluent and words felleasily off his pen, but even on those occasions, the labour of writinghurt him and exhausted him. The times of pleasurable writing were shortinterludes between the long stretches of painful writing, little oasesthat made the journey across the desert just possible. And then therewere those periods of appalling misery when, having ended a chapter, hewondered what he should make his people do next. He would leave them, landed neatly at the end of some adventure or emotional crisis, feelingthat the story was going on splendidly and that his power to write wasfull and strong, and then, having written the number of the nextchapter, he would reach forward to write the first word . . . And suddenlythere was devastation in his mind, and "My God! I don't know what tomake them do now!" he would say. 

He had read in a literary journal that some authors planned theirstories before they began to write them. They prepared a summary of thetale, and then enlarged the summary. They knew exactly what was tohappen in each chapter. A character could not move or rise or sit downor turn pale or look pleased without the author having known about itlong before the act was performed. It was as if the author could countthe very hairs on the heads of his people. "Just like God!" Henry hadsaid to himself when he had finished reading the article. . . . He hadtried to make a plan, and, after much labour, had completed one; but itwas useless to him, for when he came to write out the story, hischaracters kicked it aside and insisted on behaving in some other waythan he had planned that they should behave. It was as if they had takentheir destinies into their own hands and insisted on living their livesin accordance with their own wishes instead of living them in accordancewith his. . . . It was fortunate then that he began to read "TristramShandy, " for when he saw how Sterne's pen, refusing to obey him, hadfilled some of his pages with curly lines and dots and confusions, hadeven declined to fill a chapter at all, impudently skipping it, herealised that authors are but creatures in the hands of some force thatwills them to create things which they cannot control and sometimescannot understand. 

Writing his book had given him one pleasure. On the day on which hewrote the last word of it, he felt joy. Before he began to write, he hadread in Forster's "Life of Dickens" that the great novelist had partedfrom his characters with pain. Henry parted from his characters withpleasure. "Thank God, " he said, as he put down his pen, "I've finishedwith the brutes!"

He had enjoyed reading the story in its finished state, and when he hadpacked the manuscript into his portmanteau, he had felt that the storywas good, and had sat in a chair dreaming of the success it would makeand the praise he would receive for it. He tried to calculate the numberof copies that would be sold, basing his calculations on the totalpopulation of the British Isles. "There are over forty millions ofpeople in England and Wales alone, " he said to himself, "and anotherten millions, say, in Scotland and Ireland . . . About fifty millions inall. I ought to sell a good many copies . . . And then there's America!"He thought that ten per cent. Of the population might buy the story, andbelieved that his estimate was modest until he remembered that ten percent. Of fifty millions is five millions!. . . 

And that made him laugh. Even he, in his wildest imaginings, did notdream of selling five million copies of his novel. 

5

He wished now that he had asked John Marsh and Patrick Galway to readthe story and tell him what they thought of it. They were honest men, and would criticise his work frankly. At that moment, he had aninsatiable longing to know the truth, mingled with a strange fear ofknowing it. What he wished to know was whether or not he had thepotentialities of a great author in him. He knew that his story was notcommonplace stuff, but he was afraid that it might only be middlingwriting, and he did not wish to be a middling writer. If he could not bea great writer, he did not wish to be a writer at all. There werethousands and thousands of novels in the world which did no more for menthan enable them to put their minds to sleep. Henry did not wish to adda book to their number. There were other books, fewer in number thanthose, which showed that their authors had some feeling for life, butnot enough, and these authors went on, year after year, producing one ormore novels, each of which "showed promise, " but never showedachievement. The life these men pursued always eluded them. It wasimpossible for Henry to join the crowd of people who produced bookswhich perished with the generation that they pleased. That much he knew. But he was eager that he should not fall into the ranks of thesemi-great, the half-clever; and his fear was that his place was intheir midst. 

While he was ruminating in this manner, he remembered that GilbertFarlow had written to him a few days before he left Dublin, and heceased to think of his career as a writer and began to search hispockets for Gilbert's letter. 

"I'll show the manuscript to Gilbert, " he said to himself. "Old Gilbertloves telling people the truth!"

He found the letter and began to read it. "_Quinny_, " it began, forGilbert had abandoned "dears" because, he said, he sometimes had towrite to people who were detestable:

_"Quinny: How soon can you get quit of that barrack in Dublin where yourmisguided father thinks you are being taught to be Irish? Cast your eyeson the address at the head of this notepaper. It is a noble house thatRoger and I have discovered. Ninian has seen it and he approves of it. Isaid I'd break his blighted neck for him if he disapproved of it, whichmay have had something to do with his decision, though not much, forNinian has become a very muscular young fellow and I shouldn't haveliked the job of breaking his neck very much. Roger and I have been herefor a week now, and Ninian joins us at the end of the month. He's downat Boveyhayne at present, catching lobsters and sniffing the air, all ofwhich he says is very good for him and would be better for me. And you. And Roger. There is a tablet on the front wall of the house, fixed bythe London County Council, which says that Lord Thingamabob used to livehere sometime in the eighteenth century. The landlord tried to raise therent on that account, but we said we were Socialists and would expectthe rent to be decreased because of the injury to our principles causedby residence in a house that had been inhabited by a member of thecursed, bloated and effete aristocracy. He begged our pardon and saidthat in the circumstances, he wouldn't charge anything extra, but he hadus in the end, the mouldy worm, for he said that it was the custom tomake Socialists pay a quarter's rent in advance. The result was thatRoger had to stump up . . . I couldn't for I was broke . . . Which made dearlittle Roger awfully unpleasant to live with for a whole day. I offeredto go back and tell the man that we weren't Socialists at all, butImproved Tories, but he said I'd done enough harm. It's a pity that oldRoger hasn't got a better sense of humour. _

_We have chosen two rooms for you, one to work in, and the other tosleep in. We're each to have two rooms, so that we can go and be morosein comfort if we want to; but I daresay in the evenings we'll want to betogether. I've thought out a scheme of decoration for your room--allpink rosebuds and stuff like that. Roger asked me not to be an ass whenI told him of it. His notion is a nice quiet distemper. Perhaps you'dbetter see to the decoration yourself although I must say I alwaysthought your taste was perfectly damnable. _

_By-the-way, there's a ghost in this house. It's supposed to be theghost of Lord Thingamabob, and I believe it is. I saw it myself threenights ago, and it was as drunk as a fiddler. My God, Quinny, it's aterrible thing to see an intoxicated spook. Roger wouldn't believe mewhen I told him about it afterwards. He said I was drunk myself and thathe heard me tumbling up the stairs to bed. Which is a lie. I did see it, and it was drunk. I heard it hiccough! I wouldn't say it was drunk if itwasn't. De mortuis nil nisi bonum, Quinny, and it would be a very dirtytrick to slander a poor bogey that can't defend itself. It looked verylike its descendant, Lord Middleweight, and it had the same soppy grinthat he has when he thinks he's said something clever. Damned ass, thatchap!_

_Alexander sent my comedy back. He sent a note along with it and told mewhat a clever lad I am and more or less hinted that when I've grown up, I can send him another play. I suppose he thinks I'm a kid inknickerbockers. The result of this business is that I'm going to try andget a job as a dramatic critic. If I do, God help the next play heproduces. I'm a hurt man, and I shall let the world know about it. I'mhalf-way through another piece which will take some place by storm, Ihope. It's a very bright play, much better than the muck Oscar Wildewrote, not so melodramatic, and tons better than anything Bernard Shawhas written. It's all about me. _

_We've got an old woman called Clutters to housekeep for us. I chose heron account of her name, and it is a piece of good luck that she cooksextraordinarily well. There is also a maid, but we don't know her name, so we call her Magnolia. I'm really writing all this rot to get myselfinto the "twitter-twitter" mood. One of the characters in my new comedytalks like a character in a book by E. F. Benson, and I have to workmyself up into a state of babbling fatuity before I can write her linesfor her. _

_Come to London as soon as you can. _

 _Gilbert. "_

6

The prospect of settling in London in the society of his schoolfriendspleased him. Marsh and Galway had tried to persuade him to make his homein Dublin, pleading that it was the duty of every educated Irishman tolive in Ireland. "We haven't got many educated men on our side, " Marshsaid, "not a hundred in the whole of Ireland, and we need people likeyou!" They talked of political schemes that must be prepared for theparliament that would some day be re-established in College Green. "Andthey can only be prepared by educated men, " Marsh said. 

Henry would not listen to them. His longing was to be with Gilbert andRoger and Ninian in London. Dublin made very little appeal to him, andthe job of regenerating Ireland was so immense that it frightened him. "I haven't got a common ground with you people, " he said to Marsh andGalway. "You're Catholic to start off with, and I'm like my father, Ithink the Catholic religion is a contemptible religion. And you're notinterested in anything but Ireland and the Gaelic movement. I'minterested in everything!"

"Don't you want to do _anything_ for Ireland then?" John Marsh hadasked. 

"Oh, yes! I'll vote for Home Rule when I get a vote, " he had replied. 

"I know what your end will be, " Patrick Galway added in a sullen voice. "You'll become a Chelsea Nationalist . . . Willing to do anything forIreland but live in it!"

Well, who would want to live in Ireland with its penny-farthingpolitics! London for him! London and a sense of bigness, of wide ideasand the constant interplay of many minds!

He would talk to his father about Gilbert's proposal. There would be allsorts of subjects to discuss with him, that and the question of anallowance and the question of a career. . . . 

The train ran swiftly through the suburbs of Belfast and presentlypulled up at the terminus. He descended from his carriage and called ajarvey who drove him across the city to the Northern Counties stationwhere he took train again. It was late that night when he arrived atBallymartin. 

THE SECOND CHAPTER

1

Mr. Quinn had become more absorbed in the Irish AgriculturalCo-Operative Movement, and he used the home farm for experiments inscientific cultivation. His talk, when Henry returned home, was mainlyabout a theory of tillage which he called "continuous cropping, " and itwas with difficulty that Henry could persuade him to talk aboutGilbert's proposal that he should join the household in Bloomsbury. 

"I'm glad you've come home, Henry, " he said after breakfast on themorning following Henry's return. "This system of continuous cropping issplendid, but it wants careful attention. You've got to adjust itcontinually to circumstances . . . You can't follow any rules about it . . . And if you'll just stay here and help me with it, we'll be able to dowonders with the home farm!"

Henry did not wish to settle in Ballymartin, at all events not for along time. 

"I want to go to London, father!" he said. 

"London! What for?" Mr. Quinn exclaimed, and then before Henry could saywhy he wished to go to London, he added, "You'll have to settle onsomething, Henry. I always meant you to take over the estate fairlysoon, to work things out with me. Don't you want to do that?"

"Not particularly, father!"

"Well, what's to become of you, then? Do you want to go into the Army?It's a bit late!. . . "

"No, father!"

"Or the Navy? But you should have gone to Osborne long ago if you wantedto do that!"

Henry shook his head. 

"Well, what do you want to do. Are you thinkin' of the law?"

"I don't care about the law, father!. . . "

"I don't care about it myself, Henry. I was no good at it, an' mebbethat's the reason I think so little of it. But we have to have lawyersall the same. It would be a good plan now to sentence criminals to belawyers, wouldn't it? 'The sentence of the Court is that you be takenfrom this place an' made to practise at the Bar for the rest of yournatural life, an' may the Lord have mercy on your soul!' Begod, Henry, that's a great notion!"

Henry interrupted his father's fancy. "I want to write, " he said. 

"Write!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. "Write what?"

"Books. Novels, I think!. . . "

Mr. Quinn put down his paper and gaped at his son. "Good God, " he said, "an author!"

"Yes, father. "

"You're daft, Henry!"

Henry got up from his chair, and went across to his father and took holdof his shoulder affectionately. "No, father, I'm not, " he answered. 

"Yes, you are, I tell you. You're clean cracked!. . . "

"I've written one novel already. "

Mr. Quinn threw out his hands in a despairing gesture. "Oh, well, " hesaid, "if you've committed yourself. . . . Where is it?"

"It's upstairs in my room. The manuscript, I mean. Of course, it hasn'tbeen published yet. "

A servant came into the room to clear away the remains of the breakfast, and Mr. Quinn got up from his chair and walked through the open windowon to the terrace. 

"What's it about?" he said to Henry who had followed him. 

"Oh, love!" Henry answered, seating himself beside his father. 

Mr. Quinn grunted. "Huh!" he said, gazing intently at the gravel. "Is itsloppy?"

"I don't think so, father. At least, I hope it isn't!"

"Or dirty?"

"No, it isn't dirty. I _know_ it isn't dirty, " Henry said veryemphatically. 

Mr. Quinn did not answer for a while. He got up from his seat and walkedto the end of the terrace where he busied himself for a few moments intending to a rosebush. Then he returned to the seat where Henry hadremained, and said, "Will you let me read it, Henry?"

"Why, yes, father. Of coarse, I will, " Henry answered, rising and movingtowards the house. "I'd like you to read it, " he added. "Perhaps you'lltell me what you think of it?"

"I will, " Mr. Quinn replied, closing his lips down tightly. 

"I'll just go and get it, " Henry said, and he went into the house. 

Mr. Quinn remained seated on the terrace, looking rigidly in front ofhim, until Henry returned, carrying a pile of manuscript. He took thepaper from him without speaking, and glanced at the first sheet on whichHenry had written in a large, clear hand:

 DRUSILLA: A NOVEL BY HENRY QUINN. 

and then he turned the page and read what was written on the secondsheet:

 TO MY FATHER

He looked at the dedication for a longer time than he had looked at thetitle-page, and his hand trembled a little as he held the paper. 

"I thought you wouldn't mind, father!" Henry said. 

"Mind!" Mr. Quinn replied. "No, I don't, Henry. I . . . I like it, my son. Thanks, Henry. I . . . " He got up and moved quickly towards the window. "I'll just go in an' start readin' it now, " he said. 

2

He returned the manuscript to Henry on the following afternoon. "I'veread worse, " he said. 

He walked to the end of the terrace and then walked back again. Then heshouted for William Henry Matier, who came running to him. He pointed toa daisy on the lawn and asked the gardener what the hell he meant by notkeeping the weeds down. 

"Ah, sure, sir!. . . "

"Root the damn thing up, " Mr. Quinn shouted at him, "an' don't let mesee another about the place or I'll shoot the boots off you! I don'tknow under God what I keep you for!"

"Now, you don't mean the half you say, sir!. . . "

"You're not worth ninepence a week!"

"Aw, now, " said Matier, who knew his master, "I'm worth more'n that, sir!"

"How much are you worth? Tell me that, William Henry Matier!"

William Henry rooted up the daisy, and then said that he wouldn't liketo put too high a price on himself. . . . 

"You'd be a fool if you did, " Mr. Quinn interrupted. 

" . . . But I'd mebbe be worth about double what you named yourself, sir!"

"Eighteenpence!" Mr. Quinn exclaimed. 

"Aye, that or a bit more. Were you wantin' anything else, sir!" Hewinked heavily at Henry as he turned away. 

"You're not worth the food you eat, " Mr. Quinn said. 

"Aw, now, sir, you never know what anybody's worth 'til you have need ofthem, " Matier replied. "A man mightn't be worth a damn to you one day, an' he'd mebbe be worth millions to you the next!"

"There's little fear of you bein' worth millions to any one. Run on nowan' do your work if you've any work to do!" Mr. Quinn turned to Henry asthe gardener went off. "I suppose you'll be wantin' to live in Londonfor the rest of your life?"

"I should like to go there for a while anyway, father!"

"Huh! All you writin' people seem to think there's no life to be seenanywhere but in London. As if people hadn't got bowels here as well asin town!"

"I don't think that, father!. . . "

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter whether you think it or not, you'll not behappy 'til you get to London, I suppose. You'll stay here a wee whileanyway, won't you? You've only just come home, an' it's a long timesince I saw you last!"

"I'll stay as long as you like, father. "

"Very well, then. I'll tell you when I've had enough of your company an'then you can go off to your friends. How much money do you think you'llneed in London? Don't ask for too much. I need every ha'penny I have forthe work. You've no notion what a lot it costs to experiment wi' land, an' I'm not as rich as you might imagine!"

Henry hesitated. He had never talked about money with his father, and hehad a curious shyness about doing so now. "I don't know, " he replied. "Would two hundred a year be too much?. . . "

"I'll spare you two hundred an' fifty!"

"Thank you, father. It's awfully good of you!"

"Ah, wheesht with you! Sure, why wouldn't a man be good to his own son. I suppose now you want to hear what I think of your book?"

Henry smiled self-consciously. "Yes, I should like to know your opinionof it. I thought at first you didn't think much of it. You didn't sayanything!. . . "

"I'll give you a couple of years to improve it, " Mr. Quinn answered. "If you can't make it better in that time, you're no good!"

"I suppose not. "

"An' don't hurry over it. Go out an' look about you a bit. There's a lotof stuff in your story that wouldn't be there if you had any gumption. Get gumption, Henry!"

"I'll try, father. Of course, I know I'm very inexperienced. . . . "

"You are, my son, an' what's more you're tellin' everybody how littleyou know in that book of yours. Man, dear, women aren't like that!. . . Well, never mind! You'll find out for yourself soon enough. Mind, Idon't mean to say that there aren't some good things in the book. Thereare . . . Plenty! If there weren't, I wouldn't waste my breath talkin' toyou about it. But there are things in it that are just guff, Henry, justguff. The kind of romantic slush that a young fellow throws off when hefirst realises that women are . . . Well, women, damn it! . . . I wish toGod, you would write a book about continuous croppin'! Now, there's asubject for a good book! There's none of your damned love aboutthat!. . . "

3

He had not seen Sheila Morgan since the morning after he had failed tostop the runaway horse. Many times, indeed, she had been in his mind, and often at Trinity, in the long sleepless nights that afflict a youngman who is newly conscious of his manhood, he had turned from side toside of his bed in an impotent effort to thrust her from his thoughts. He made fanciful pictures of her in his imagination, making her verybeautiful and gracious. He saw her, then, with long dark hair that hadthe lustre of a moonless night of stars, and he imagined her, sittingclose to him, so that her hair fell about his head and shoulder and hecould feel the slow movement of her breasts against his side. He wouldclose his eyes and think of her lips on his, and her heart beatingquickly while his thumped so loudly that it seemed that every one musthear it . . . And thinking thus, he would clench his fists with futileforce and swear to himself that he would go to her and make her marryhim. Once, when he had spent an afternoon at the Zoo in the PhoenixPark, he had lingered for a long while in the house where the tigers arecaged because, suddenly, it seemed to him that the graceful beast withthe bright eyes resembled Sheila. It moved so easily, and as it moved, its fine skin rippled over its muscles like running water. . . . 

"I don't suppose she'd like to be called a tigress, " he had thought tohimself, laughing as he did so, "but that's what she's like. She'sbeautiful. . . . "

And later in that afternoon, he thought he saw a resemblance betweenMary Graham and a brown squirrel that sat on a branch and cracked nuts, throwing the shells away carelessly . . . The Mary he had known when hefirst went to Boveyhayne, not the Mary he had seen on his last visit. 

He wondered whether Sheila had altered much, and then he wondered whatchange four years had made in Mary Graham. Sheila, who had been dominantin his mind in his first year at Trinity, had receded a little into thebackground by the time he had quitted Dublin, but Mary, never veryprominent, had retained her place, neither gaining nor losing position. It was odd, he thought to himself, that he had not been to Boveyhayne inthe four years he had been at T. C. D. Mrs. Graham had invited him thereseveral times, but he had not been able to accept the invitations: oncehis father had been ill, and he had had to hurry to Portrush, where hewas staying, and remain with him until he was well again; and anothertime he had been with Gilbert Farlow at his home in Kent; and anothertime had agreed to go tramping in Connacht with Marsh and Galway. Ninianand Gilbert and Roger had spent a holiday at Ballymartin. . . . Ninian tooka whole week to realise that he was in Ulster and not in Scotland, andGilbert begged hard for the production of a typical Irishman who wouldsay "God bless your honour!" and "Bedad!" and "Bejabers!" and pretendednot to believe that there were not any "typical Irishmen" . . . And wentaway, vowing that they would compel Mr. Quinn to invite them to staywith him in the next vac. It was then that Ninian decided that he wouldlike to be a shipbuilder. Mr. Quinn had taken them to Belfast to see thelaunch of a new liner, and Tom Arthurs had invited them all to join theluncheon party when the launch was over. The Vicereine had come fromDublin to cut the ribbon which would release the great ship and send itmoving like a swan down the greasy slips into the river; and Tom Arthurshad conducted her through the Yard, telling her of the purpose of thismachine and that engine until the poor lady began to be dubious of hercapacity to launch the liner. There were other guides, explaining, asTom Arthurs explained, the functions of the Yard to the visitors, butNinian had contrived to attach himself to Tom Arthurs and he listened tohim as he talked, as simply as was possible, of the way in which greatships are built. Thereafter, Ninian had tongue for none but Tom Arthurs, and he told him, when the party was over and the guests were leaving theYard, that he would like to work in the Island. Tom had doubted whetherCambridge was the proper preparation for shipbuilding. . . . "I was out ofmy apprenticeship when I was your age, " he said . . . But he said thatNinian could think about it more seriously and then come to him when histime at Cambridge was up. 

"I'm thinking seriously of it now, " said Ninian. 

"All right, my boy!" Tom Arthurs answered, laughing, and slapped him onthe back. "We'll see what we can do for you!"

And Ninian, flushing like a girl, went away full of happiness, and soonafterwards began to imitate Tom Arthurs' Ulster speech in the hope thatpeople would think he was related to the shipbuilder or, at all events, a countryman of his. 

It was odd, indeed, that Henry had not seen Mary in that time, but itwas still more odd that he had not seen Sheila. Matt Hamilton had diedsoon after Henry had entered Trinity, but Mrs. Hamilton still had thefarm which, people understood, was to be left to Sheila when her auntdied. He had not cared to go to the farm . . . A mixture of pride andshyness prevented him from doing so . . . But he had hoped to meet her onthe roads about Ballymartin. "Perhaps by this time, " he said to himself, "she will have forgotten my funk!" But although he frequently loiteredin the roads about the "loanie, " he never met her, and it was not untilhe said some casual things to William Henry Matier that he discoveredthat she was not at the farm. "I heerd tell she was visitin' friends inBilfast!" Matier said, and with that he had to be content. Ninian andGilbert and Roger were at Ballymartin then, and he had littleopportunity to mourn over her absence; indeed, when he remembered thatthey were with him, he was glad that she was not at the farm: theirpresence would have made difficulties in the way of his intercourse withher. He would try to be alone at Ballymartin, in the next vacation, andthen he would be able to bring her to his will again. But he did notspend the next vacation at home, and so, with this and other absencesfrom Ballymartin, he was unable to see her for the whole of his time atTrinity. Neither he nor his father had spoken of her since the day whenMr. Quinn had solemnly led him to the library to rebuke him for hissweethearting. Mr. Quinn, indeed, had almost forgotten about Henry'slovemaking with Sheila, and when he met the girl and remembered thatthere had been lovemaking between his son and her, he thought to himselfthat Henry had probably completely forgotten her. . . . 

He wished to see her again, and his desire became so strong that hestarted to walk across the fields to the "loanie" that led toHamilton's farm before he was aware of what he was about. His mindfilled again with the visions he had had of her at Trinity, and heimagined that he saw her every now and then hiding behind a tree, readyto spring out on him and startle him with a loud whoop, or running fromhim and laughing as she ran. . . . 

4

He met her in the "loanie, " and for a few moments he did not recogniseher. She was sitting on the grass, in the shade of a hedge, huddling ababy close to her breast, and he saw that she was suckling it. 

"Oh, Henry, is that you?" she said, starting up hurriedly so that thebaby could not suck. She drew her blouse clumsily together, but thefretful child would not be pacified until she had started to feed itagain, and so she resumed her seat on the grass. 

"I didn't know you were back, " she said, holding the baby up to her. "Are you here for long?"

He did not answer immediately. He had not yet completely realised thatthis was Sheila whom he had been eager to marry, and then when heunderstood at last that this indeed was she, something inside him keptexclaiming, "But she's got a baby!" and he wondered why she was feedingit. 

"Are you married, Sheila?" he said. 

She laughed at him, and answered, "That's a quare question to be askin', an' me with this in my arms!" She looked at the baby as she spoke. 

"I didn't know you were married, " he replied. "I was coming up to thefarm to see you!"

"I've been married this year past, " she said. 

"I didn't know, " he murmured. "No one told me!. . . "

And suddenly he saw that her face was coarser than it had been when heloved her. Her hair was tied untidily about her head, and he could seethat her hands, as she held the child, were rough and red, and that hernails were broken and misshapen. Her boots were loosely laced, and sheseemed to be sprawling. . . . 

"I'm all throughother, " she said, as if she realised what was in hismind and was anxious to excuse herself to him. "This wee tory hardlygives me a minute's peace, an' my aunt's not so well as she was!"

He nodded his head, but did not speak. 

"Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked after a while. 

"It's a boy, " she said, "an' the very image of his da. He's a lovelychild, Henry. Just look at him!"

He came nearer to her and looked at the baby who had his little fingersat her breast as if he would prevent her from taking it from him. Thechild, still sucking, looked up at him with greedy-sleepy eyes. 

"Isn't he a gran' wee fella?" she went on, eyeing her son proudly. 

"Whom did you marry?" he asked. 

"You know him well, " she answered. "Peter Logan that used to keep theforge . . . That's who I married. D'ye mind the way he could bend a bar ofiron with his two hands?. . . "

Henry remembered. "Doesn't he keep the forge now?" he asked. 

"No, he sold it to Dan McKittrick when he married me. We needed a man onthe farm, an' he's gran' at it. There isn't a one in the place can batehim at the reapin', an' you should see the long, straight furrows he canplough. The child's the image of him, an' I declare by the way he'stuggin' at me . . . Be quit, will you, you wee tory, an' not be hurtin' mewith your greed!. . . He'll be as strong as his da, an' mebbe stronger!"

"Are you stayin' long?" she said again. 

"No, " he answered. "I'm going to London!. . . "

"London! Lord bless us, that's a long way!"

"I'm going soon . . . In a day or two, " he went on, making his resolutionas he spoke. The sight of her bare breast embarrassed him, and he wantedto go away quickly. 

"You're a one for roamin' the world, I must say!" she said. "You're nosooner here nor you're away again. Mebbe you'll come up an' see my aunt. . . She was talkin' about you only last week . . . An' Peter'd be rightan' glad to welcome you!"

"No, thanks, not to-day, " he answered. "I've something to do at home . . . I'm sorry!. . . "

"But you said you were comin' to see me!. . . "

"I know, but I've just remembered something . . . I'm sorry!" He wasspeaking in a jerky, agitated manner and he began to move away as if hewere afraid that she would detain him. "I'll come another time, " headded. 

"Well, you're the quare man, " she said. "Anybody'd think you were afeardof me, the hurry you're in to run away!"

He laughed nervously. "Of course, I'm not afraid of you, " he exclaimed. "Why should I be?"

"I don't know!" She looked at him for a few seconds, and then thewhimsical look that he remembered so well came into her eyes. "D'ye mindthe way you wanted to marry me, Henry?" she said. 

"Yes . . . Yes! Ha, ha!"

"An' now I've this! It's a quaren funny, isn't it?"

"Funny?"

"Aye, the way things go. I wonder what sort of a child I'd a' had if I'dmarried you!"

"I really don't know!. . . I'm afraid I must go now!"

"Well, good-bye, Henry! I'll mebbe see you again some time!"

She held out her hand to him and he took it, and then dropped itquickly. 

"Yes, perhaps, " he answered, and added, "Good-bye!"

He went off quickly, not looking back until he had reached the foot ofthe "loanie, " and then he stood for a second or two to watch her. Shewas busy with her baby again. He could see her white breast shining inthe sunlight, and her head bent over the sucking child. 

"Well, I'm damned, " he said to himself, as he hurried off. 

And as he hurried home, his mind set on quitting Ballymartin as speedilyas possible, he remembered the casual way in which she had spoken oftheir possibly meeting again. "I'll mebbe see you some time!" she hadsaid. So indifferent to him as that, she was, so happy in her love forher husband whom he remembered as a great big, hairy, tanned man whobeat hot iron with heavy hammers and bent it into wheels and shoes forhorses. 

"She takes more interest in that putty-faced brat of hers than she doesin me, " he said to himself, angrily, and then, so swift were his changesof mood, he began to laugh. "Of course, she does, " he said aloud. "Whyshouldn't she? It's hers, isn't it?"

He remembered her young beauty and contrasted it with her appearancewhen he saw her in the "loanie" with her child. In a few years, hethought, she would be like any village woman, worn out, misshapen, tired, with gnarled knuckles and thickened hands. Already she had begunto neglect her hair. . . . 

"It's a damned shame, " he murmured. "If she'd married me she'd have kepther looks!. . . "

"But she wouldn't marry me, " he went on. "I wasn't man enough forher. . . . My God, I wish I was out of this!"

5

"Father, " he said when he got home, "I'd like to go to London at once!"

"You can't go this minute, my son. There's no train the night!"

"I mean, I want to go as soon as possible!"

Mr. Quinn glanced sharply at him. "You're in a desperate hurry all of asudden, " he said. "What's up?"

"Nothing, father, only I want to get to work, and I can't work here!. . . "

"Restless, are you? I was hopin' you'd give me a bit of your company awhile longer!. . . "

"I'm sorry, father!. . . "

"That's all right, my boy, that's all right. When do you want to go?"

"To-morrow!"

"You've only been home a short time. . . . Never mind! I'll come up toBelfast an' see you off. There's a Co-operative Conference there the dayafter the morra, an' I may as well go up with you as go up alone!"

Henry knew that his father was hurt by his sudden decision to leaveBallymartin, and he felt sorry for the old man's disappointment, but hefelt, too, that he could not bear to stay near Hamilton's farm atpresent, knowing that Sheila, whom he had loved and idealised, waslikely to meet him in the roads at any moment, a baby in her arms, perhaps at her breast, and a husband somewhere near at hand. 

"I must go, " he told himself. "I must get over this. . . . "

6

Mr. Quinn and he travelled to Belfast together on the following morning, and they spent the hour before the steamer sailed for Liverpool inpacing up and down the deck. 

"You can write to me when you get to London, " Mr. Quinn said, and Henrynodded his head. 

He was very conscious now of his father's disappointment, and althoughhe was determined to go to London, he was moved by the affectionate wayin which the old man tried to provide for his needs on the journey. 

"Hap yourself well, " he had said when they crossed the gangway on to theboat. "These steamers never give you enough clothes on your bunk. I'dput my overcoat on top of the quilt if I were you!. . . "

They stood for a time looking across the Lagan at the shipyard, andtalked about the possibility of Ninian Graham entering the shipbuildingfirm, and then they moved to the side of the boat that was against thequay-wall. The hour at which the steamer was to depart was drawing nearand the number of passengers had increased. They could hear the noise ofthe machinery as the cargo was lowered from the quay into the hold, andnow and then, the squealing of pigs as the drovers pushed them up thegangways. A herd of cattle came through the sheds and stumbled in astartled, stupid fashion on to the lower decks, while the droversthwacked them and shouted at them. There was a small crowd of people, friends of passengers and casual onlookers, standing on the quay waitingto see the ship go out, and some of them were shouting messages to theirfriends. Henry had always liked to watch crowds at times such as this, and often in Dublin, he had spent a while in Westland Row Station, looking at the people who were going to England. He was so interested inthe crowd on the quay that he did not hear his father speaking to him. 

"I want to speak to you, Henry, " the old man said, and then receiving noanswer, he said again, "I want to speak to you, Henry!"

"Yes, father?" Henry answered, without looking up. 

"Turn round a minute, Henry!. . . " He hesitated, and Henry turning round, saw that his father was embarrassed. 

"What is it, father?" he said. 

"I just wanted to say something to you, Henry. You see, you're beginnin'another life . . . Out of my control, if you follow me . . . Not that I evertried to boss you. . . . "

"No, father, you've never done that. You've been awfully decent to me!"

"Ah, now, no more of that! I just wanted to say somethin' to you, only Idon't rightly know how to begin. . . . " He fumbled for words and then, asif making a reckless plunge, he blurted out, "Do you know much, Henry?"

"Know much?" Henry answered vaguely. 

"Aye. About women an' things? Did you know any women in Dublin?"

"Oh, yes, a few!" Henry answered. 

"Did . . . Did you have anything to do with them?"

"Anything to do with them!"

"Aye!"

Henry began to comprehend his father's questions. "Oh, I . . . I kissedone or two of them!" he said. 

"Was that all?" Mr. Quinn's voice was so low that Henry had difficultyin hearing him. 

"Yes, father, " he answered. 

"You know, don't you, that there's other things than kisses? Or do younot know it?"

Henry nodded his head. 

"I'm . . . I'm not interferin' with you, Henry. I'm not just askin' forthe sake of askin' . . . But . . . Well, do you know anything about those. . . Things?"

He moved slightly as he spoke, as if, by moving, he could take the edgeoff his question. 

"I know about them, father. Something!" Henry said huskily, for hisfather's questions embarrassed him strangely. 

"You've never . . . You've never!. . . "

"No, father!"

Mr. Quinn turned away and looked over the side of the boat. He seemed tobe watching a piece of orange peel which floated between the wall andthe side of the boat. The first bell of warning to friends of passengerswas sounded, and he turned sharply and looked at his son. "I'll have tobe goin' soon, " he said. 

"That's only the first bell, father, " Henry replied. "There's plenty oftime yet!"

"Aye!" Mr. Quinn glanced about the deck which was now covered bypassengers. "You'll have plenty of company goin' over, " he said. 

"Yes!"

They were making conversation with difficulty. Mr. Quinn felt nervousand a little unhappy because Henry was leaving him so soon, and Henryfelt disturbed because of the strange conversation he had just had withhis father. He had a shamed sense of intrusion into privacies. 

"It's very interestin' to see a boat goin' out to sea, " Mr. Quinn wassaying. "I used to come down here many's a time when I was a youngfellow just to watch the steamers goin' out. Did you ever stan' on topof a hill an' watch a boat sailin' out to sea?"

"No, I don't remember doing that!"

"It's a fine sight, that! You see her lights shinin' in the dark a longway off, but you can't see her, except mebbe the foam she makes, an'begod you near want to cry. That's the way it affects me anyway. . . . Henry, if you ever get into any bother over the head of a woman, you'lltell me, won't you, an' I'll stan' by you!" He said this so suddenly, coming close to Henry as he said it, that Henry was startled. "You'llnot forget, " he went on. 

"No, father, I won't forget!"

"I've been wantin' to say that to you for a good while, but it's a hardthing for a man to say to his own son. I could say it easier to somebodyelse's son nor I can to you. London's a quare place for a young fella, Henry, but it's no good preachin' to men about women . . . No good at all. The only thing you can do is to stan' by a man when he gets into bother. That's all, except to hope to God he'll not disgrace his name if he'syour son. You know where to write to, Henry, if you need any help!. . . Hilloa, there's the second bell!"

They could hear the sailors calling out "Any more for the shore!" andthe sound of hurried farewells and the shuffle of awkward feet along thegangways. 

"Good-bye, Henry!"

"Good-bye, father!"

"You'll not forget to write now an' awhile?"

"I'll write to you the minute I get to London!"

"Ah, don't hurry yourself! You'll mebbe be tired out when you arrive. Just wait 'til the mornin', an' write at your leisure. . . . "

"Hurry up, sir!" an impatient sailor said. 

"Ah, sure, there's plenty of time, man! Good-bye, Henry! I believe I'mthe last one to go ashore. Well, so long!"

They shook hands, and then the old man went down the gangway. 

"Any more for the shore?" the sailor shouted, unloosing the rope thatheld the gangway fast to the ship. Then the gangway was cast off. A bellrang, and in an instant the sound of the screws beating in the water washeard. A shudder ran through the boat as the engines began to move, andslowly the gap between the ship and the quay widened. Henry smiled athis father, and the old man blinked and smiled back. The passengersleant against the side of the boat and shouted farewells and messages totheir friends on shore. "Mind an' write!" "Remember me to every one, will you!" "Tell Maggie I was askin' for her!" Then hats were waved andhandkerchiefs were floated like flags. . . . A woman stood near to Henryand cried miserably to herself. . . . The ship swung into the middle of theLagan and began to move down towards the sea. Henry could still see hisfather, standing under the yellow glare of a large lamp hanging from theshed. He had taken off his hat, and was waving it to his son. It seemedto Henry suddenly that the old man's hair was very grey and thin. . . . Hetook out his handkerchief and waved it vigorously in response. Somewhere in the steerage people were singing a hymn:

 'Til we me . . Ee . . Eet, 'til we me . . Eet, 'Til we meet at Je . E . Su's feet . . . Jesu's feet, 'Til we me . . Ee . . Eet, 'til we me . . Eet, God be with you 'til we meet again!

The slurring, sentimental sounds became extraordinarily human and movingin the dusky glow, and he felt tempted to hum the words under his breathin harmony with the singers in the steerage; but two men were standingbehind him, and he was afraid they would overhear him. He could hear oneof them saying to his companion, "I always say, eat as much as you canstuff inside you, an' run the risk of bein' sick. Some people makes apoint of eatin' nothin' at all when they're crossin' the Channel, butthey're sick all the same, an' they damn near throw off their insides. Adrop of whiskey is a good thing!. . . "

The boat was making way now, and the people on the quay were ceasing tohave separate outlines: they were merging in a big, dark blur under theyellow light. Henry could not see his father at the spot where he hadstood when the ship moved away, and he felt disappointed when he thoughtto himself that the old man had not waited until the last moment. Thenhe saw a figure hurrying along the quays, waving a large whitehandkerchief. . . . It was his father, trying to keep pace with the boat, and Henry shouted to him and waved his hands to him in a kind ofdelirium. Gradually the boat outstripped the old man, and at last hestood still and watched it disappearing into the darkness. He was stillwaving to Henry, but no sound came from him. He seemed to be terriblyalone there on the dark quay. . . . Henry shuddered in the night air, andglancing about him saw that most of the passengers had gone down to thesaloon or to their cabins. He, too, was almost alone. He turned to lookagain at his father, straining to catch the last glimpse of him, andwhile he was straining thus, he heard the old man's voice vibratingacross the river to him. "Good-bye Henry!" he shouted. "God bless you, son!" and Henry felt that he must leap overboard and swim back to theshore. He waved his handkerchief towards the place where his father wasstanding and tried to shout "Good-bye, father!" to him, but his voicerattled weakly in his throat, and he felt tears starting in his eyes. 

"It's silly of me to behave like this, " he murmured to himself, rubbinghis eyes with his hand. 

The boat had passed between the Twin Islands and was now sailing swiftlydown the Lough towards the Irish Sea. The lights on the quay faded intoa faint yellow blur, like little lost stars, and presently, when thecold airs of the sea struck him sharply, he turned and went towards thesaloon. 

"I hope to goodness it'll be smooth all the way over, " he said tohimself. 

THE THIRD CHAPTER

1

Roger Carey and Gilbert Farlow met him at Euston. 

"Hilloa, Quinny!" Gilbert said, "I've been made a dramatic critic, andI'm to do my first play to-night!"

"Hurray!" he answered, and turned to greet Roger. 

"We've bagged a taxi, " Gilbert went on. "The driver looks cheeky . . . That's why we hired him. We'll give him a tuppenny tip and then we'llgive him in charge!. . . "

"All taxi drivers are cheeky, " Roger interrupted. 

"But this is a very cheeky one!. . . Hi, porter!"

It was extraordinarily good to be with Gilbert and Roger again;extraordinarily good to hear Gilbert's exaggerated speech and see himordering people about without hurting their feelings; extraordinarilygood to listen to Roger's slow, unflickering voice as he stated thefacts . . . For Roger had always stated the facts. In all theirdiscussions, it was Roger who reminded them of the essential things, refusing persistently to be carried away by Gilbert's imagination orNinian's impatience. People were sometimes irritated by Roger's slow, imperturbable way of speaking . . . They called him a prig . . . But as theyknew him better, they lost their irritation and thought of him withrespect. "But we're all prigs, " Gilbert said once in reply to some onewho sneered at Roger. "Ninian and Quinny and Roger and me, we'refrightful prigs. That's because we're so much brainier than most people. Of course, Roger was Second Wrangler, and that affects a man, I suppose, but he's terribly clever, young Roger is!. . . "

As they drove home, Gilbert told their news to Henry. 

"Ninian's coming up to-morrow . . . Sooner than he meant to. He's verykeen on going to Harland and Wolff's, but he's afraid he's too old tobegin building ships. Tom Arthurs says he ought to have gone straight tothe Island from Rumpell's instead of going to Cambridge, and poor oldNinian was horribly blasphemous about it all. It's funny to hear himtrying to talk like an Orangeman . . . He mixes it up with Devonshiredialect . . . And thinks he's imitating Tom Arthurs. I suppose he'll haveto content himself with building railways and things like that. It's agreat pity!"

"I don't believe he really wants to be a shipbuilder, " Roger said. "Helikes Tom Arthurs, and he wants to be what Arthurs is. That's all. IfArthurs were a comedian, Ninian would want to be a comedian, too!"

"It must be splendid, " Henry murmured, "to be able to influence peoplelike that!"

The taxi drew up to the door of a house in one of the quieter Bloomsburysquares, and Henry, looking out of the window, while Gilbert opened thedoor of the cab, saw that the garden in the centre of the square wasvery green. He could see figures in white flannels running and jumping, and the sound of tennis balls, as they collided with the racquets, pleased him. 

"Your room overlooks the square, " Gilbert said, as Henry got out of thecab. 

"Splendid!" he replied. "I shall imagine I'm in Dublin when I look outof the window. It's just like Merrion Square!. . . "

"Well, pay the cabby, will you? I'm broke!" said Gilbert. 

"You always are, " Roger murmured. 

2

Ninian joined them on the following day, very cheerless and irritable. It was impossible for him to enter the shipbuilding firm owing to hisage, and so he had decided to enter the offices of a firm of engineersin London. "Anybody can build a damned railway, " he said, "but it takesa man to build a ship. I'd love to build a liner . . . One that couldcross the Atlantic in four days!"

"Four days!" Gilbert scoffed. "My dear Ninian, boats don't crawl acrossthe ocean! People want boats that will take them to New York intwenty-four hours!. . . "

"And now, young fellows!" he went on, "it's time that we thoughtseriously about our immortal souls!"

"Oh, is it?" said Ninian. 

"Yes, it is, " Gilbert replied. 

They had dined, and were now sitting in Gilbert's room in the laxattitude of people who have eaten well and are content. 

"Here we are, " Gilbert went on, using his pipe as a modulator of hispoints, "four bright lads simply bursting with brains, and the questionis, what is to become of us? The Boy: What Will He Become? Take Roger, for example, will he become Lord Chancellor of England, or a footlinglittle Registrar of a footling County Court?. . . "

"I haven't had a brief yet, " Roger interrupted, "so that question'ssomewhat premature, isn't it?"

"I'm not talking about _now_ . . . I'm talking about the future, " Gilbertreplied. "We ought to have some notion of what we're going to do withour lives. . . . As a matter of fact, " he continued, "your career's fairlycertain, Roger. With all that brain oozing out of you, you're bound tobecome great. But what about little Ninian here? And Quinny? And me?Ninian's a discontented sort of bloke, and he's quite likely to make amess of things unless we look after him. He may turn out to be a verygreat engineer or he may go back to Boveyhayne and play theturnip-headed squire!. . . "

"Always rotting a chap, " Ninian mumbled. 

"And Quinny . . . What about little Quinny? He's written a novel!. . . "

"Written a what?" Ninian demanded, sitting up sharply. 

"Have you, Quinny?" said Roger. 

Henry blushed and nodded his head. "It isn't good, " he said. "I shallhave to re-write it!"

"My Lord, " said Ninian, "fancy one of us writing a book!"

Gilbert slapped him on the side of the head. "You forget, Ninian, thatI've written a play!. . . "

"A play's not a book!. . . "

"_My_ plays are books, " Gilbert retorted. "Well, now, " he went on, "what's to become of little Quinny: a tip-top novelist with a limitedcirculation or a third-rater who sells millions?"

"What about yourself?" Ninian said. 

"I'm coming to myself. Will I become a great dramatist, like Shakespeareand Bernard Shaw and all those chaps, or merely turn out hack plays?. . . "

"And the answer is?"

"I don't know, but I'll tell you in ten years' time. We're a brainy lotof lads, and I'm the brainiest of the lot!. . . "

"Oh, no, you're not, " said Ninian. "I've quite a respectable amount ofbrain myself, but the very best brain in the room belongs to Roger. Doesn't it, Roger?"

"I don't despise my brain, Ninian!" Roger answered. 

"Observe the modest demeanour of the truly great man, " Gilbertexclaimed. "You'll have to go into politics, Roger. It isn't any goodbeing a barrister unless you do!"

"I've thought of that, " Roger answered. "At the moment, I'm wonderingwhich side I'm on. I might manage to get a seat as a Liberal, but Idon't believe it would be of much use to me if I got it. I think I shalljoin the Tories!. . . "

"Are you a Tory?" Ninian said, "I thought you were a Liberal!"

"No, I'm a barrister. You see, " he went on, as if he were arguing acase, "the Liberal majority is too big and there are far too manyclever young men in the party. I should only be one of a crowd if I wentinto the House now as a Liberal . . . And of course I'm not likely to begiven a chance of standing for a seat because they've a lot of people onthe list already. But the Tories have hardly any clever chaps left. There's Balfour and there's Chamberlain . . . And then what is there?"

"Nothing!" said Gilbert. 

"A clever man of my age has the chance of a lifetime with the Toriesnow, " Roger continued. "Look at F. E. Robinson . . . And he's only athird-rater!"

Gilbert told a story of the early days of the Tory Party after theGeneral Election of 1900 when the Tories had been completely routed bythe Liberals. "The Tory remnant was as thick-headed as it could be, " hesaid, "and the Liberals were bursting with brains. Balfour came into theHouse one night . . . He'd just been re-elected . . . And he sat down besideChamberlain. They were frightfully blue. Balfour had a look at theLiberals, and then he turned to his own back-benches and had a look atthe Tories. Of course, it may not be true, but they say he went palewith fright. He turned to Chamberlain and said, "My God, Joseph!" andthen Chamberlain turned and looked at the Tories and said, "My God, Arthur!" You see, Chamberlain never noticed things until Balfour pointedthem out to him, and then he noticed them too much. They went out of theHouse immediately afterwards and shook hands with each other, andChamberlain said 'Arthur, _we're_ the Opposition!' And so they were. Poor Balfour was awfully lonely after Chamberlain crocked up. Not a soulon his own side that was fit to talk to! It was easy enough for F. E. Robinson to make a name in a crowd like that. And they loathe him, too. He's such a bounder! But they need a fellow to heave mud, so they put upwith him. Roger's got more brains in his little finger than that fellowhas in his whole body. Haven't you, Roger?"

"People don't have brains in their little fingers, " Roger answered. 

"You should join the Tories, Roger, " Ninian said. "There really isn'tmuch difference between them. My father was a Conservative, but my UncleGeoffrey was a Liberal. When father was in, uncle was out. It amountedto the same thing in the end!. . . "

"But Roger ought to be a different sort of Tory!" Gilbert exclaimed. "It's no good having all his brain if he's just going to peddle aroundwith the same old stuff. . . . "

"I don't intend to do that, " said Roger. 

"Well, what do you intend to do?"

Ninian seized a cushion and put it behind his back. 

"Let's have a good old argle-bargle, " he said. "What do you say, Quinny?"

Henry, who had not joined in the discussion, leant forward and smiled. "Oh, I like listening to you, " he answered. "You're all so sure ofyourselves!. . . "

Gilbert turned on him. "Well, aren't you sure of yourself?" he demanded. 

"No, I'm not, " Henry answered. "I never am!"

"That's queer, " said Gilbert. 

"Damned queer, " said Ninian. 

"Why are you so uncertain of yourself?" Roger asked. 

"Don't you feel sure that you'll be a great novelist?" Gilbert addedbefore Henry had time to reply to Roger's question. 

"I know jolly well I shall be a clinking good engineer!" Ninian said. 

Henry had a shy unwillingness to discuss himself in front of the others, although they were his closest friends. He felt that he could not sitstill while they watched him as he told them of his ambitions and hisfears. 

"Oh, don't let's talk about me, " he said. "Go on with yourargle-bargle. " He was speaking hurriedly, so that he had difficulty inarticulating his words. "You were saying something, Ninian, weren't you. . . No, it was you, Roger, about politics!. . . "

"Oh, yes!" Roger answered. 

"Rum chap, you are!" Gilbert said to Henry in a low voice. 

3

"You see, " said Roger, "my notion is to restore the prestige of theTories. Somehow, they've let themselves get the reputation of beingconsciously heartless. The Liberals go about proclaiming that they arethe friends of the poor, and the inference is that the Tories are thefriends of the rich!"

"So they are, " said Ninian. 

"So are the Liberals!" said Roger. 

"So's everybody!" said Gilbert. 

"But the Tories aren't culpably the friends of the rich, " Rogercontinued. "I mean, they don't go into parliament with the intention ofexploiting poor men for the benefit of rich men. It isn't true that theyare indifferent to the fate of poor men; but they have allowed theLiberals to give them that character. I've always said that the Torieshave the courage of the Liberals' convictions!. . . "

Gilbert lay back on the floor with his arms under his head. "I rememberthe first time you said that. It was in the Union!" he exclaimed. 

"I shall say it again in the House some day, " Roger retorted. "I'm nottrying to be funny when I say that. I think the history of the ToryParty shows very plainly that the Tories have done very admirable thingsfor the working-people: Factory Acts and Housing schemes and Workmen'sCompensation Acts. Well, I want the Tory Party to remember that it isthe custodian of the decency of England. It isn't decent that thereshould be hungry children and unemployed men and badly-housed families. That kind of thing is intolerable to a gentleman, and a Tory is agentleman. It seems to me inconceivable that a Tory should be willing tomake money by cheating a child out of a meal . . . But there are plenty ofLiberals who do that. And I'm against all this legislation which makessome public authority do things for people which they ought to be doingfor themselves. I mean, I hate the notion of the State feeding hungryschool-children because the parents cannot afford to feed them, when theproper thing to do is to see that the parents are paid enough for theirwork to enable them to feed their children themselves. I suppose I'msloppy . . . The Fabians used to say so at Cambridge . . . But I prefer thespectacle of a family round its own table to the spectacle of a crowd ofassorted youngsters round a municipal school table! And I don't thinkwe're getting the most out of our people! Just think of the millions ofmen and women in this country who really do not earn more than theirkeep! That isn't good enough. If you can only just keep yourself going, then you've no right to go . . . Except to hell as quickly as possible. Myidea is that we waste potentialities at present, not by squanderingthem, but by never using them. All those poor people, for example, howdo we know that some of them, if given an opportunity, would not beamazingly worth while! There must be a great deal of brain-power simplychucked away or misused. I know that lots of people believe that men ofgenius work their way up to their level no matter how low down theybegin, but I doubt that, and anyhow I'm not talking of geniuses . . . I'mtalking of the average clever man . . . There must be men of good averagequality lost in slums because none of us have taken the trouble to clearthe ground for them. And the ground has to be cleared! You can't growwheat on a sour soil. I often think when I see some hooligan broughtinto Court that, given a real chance, he might have been a better judgethan the man who sends him to gaol. The Tory's job is to restore thebalance of things. It isn't only to maintain the level, but to raise itand to keep on raising it. . . . I believe in the State of Poise, ofequitable adjustment, in which every man will be able to move easily tohis proper place. . . . There are so many obstacles now in the way of manfinding his place that, even if he has the strength to get over them, heprobably won't have the strength to fill it. . . . "

"My view, perhaps, is narrower than yours, Roger, " Henry said, "but Isee all these people chiefly as men and women who are shut out ofthings: books and pictures and plays and music and all the decentthings. I don't believe that if they had the chance they would all readMeredith and admire Whistler and go to see Shaw's plays and want tolisten to Wagner . . . That's not the point, and anyhow the middle and theupper classes are not all marvellously cultured. My point is that theirlives are such that they don't even know of Meredith and Whistler andShaw and Wagner. They don't even know of the second-rate people or thethird rate. Magnolia, for instance . . . I suppose she reads novelettes, and when she grows out of novelettes, she won't read anything. And shecan't afford to go to a West End theatre. . . . When I think of thesepeople, millions of 'em, I think of them as people like Magnolia, completely shut out of things like that, not even aware of them. . . . "

They spent the remainder of the evening in argument, their talk rangingover the wide field of human activity. They established a system ofcontinual criticism of existing institutions. "Challenge everything, "said Gilbert; "make it justify its existence. " They tried to discoverthe truth about things, to shed their prejudices and to see the facts oflife exactly as they were. "The great thing is to get rid of Slop!" saidRoger. "We've got to convince the judge as well as move the jury. Itisn't enough to make the jury feel sloppy . . . Any ass can do that. You've got to convince the old chap on the bench or you won't get averdict. That's my belief, and I believe, too, that the jury is morelikely to listen to reason than people imagine!"

They did not finish their argument that evening nor on any particularevening. They were spread over a long period, and were part of theprocess of clearing their minds of cobwebs. 

Gilbert had dedicated his life to the renascence of the drama and hadwritten a couple of plays which, he admitted to his friends, had not gotthe right stuff in them. "I don't know enough yet, " he said once toHenry, "but I'm learning. . . . " His dramatic criticism was very pointed, and he speedily acquired a reputation among people who are interested inthe theatre, as an acute but harsh critic, and already attempts had beenmade by theatrical managers either to bribe him or get him dismissedfrom his paper. The bribing process was quite delicately operated. Onemanager wrote to him, charmingly plaintive about his criticism, andinvited him to put himself in the manager's place. "I assure you, " hewrote, "I would willingly produce good work if I could get it, but Ican't. Come and see me, and I'll show you a pile of plays that havearrived within the last fortnight. I know quite well, without readingthem, that not one of them will be of the slightest worth!" And Gilberthad gone to see him, and had been received very charmingly and told howclever he was, and then the manager had offered to appoint him reader ofplays at a pleasant fee!. . . Following that attempt at bribery came theanger of an actor-knight who declined to admit Gilbert to his theatre, apiece of petulance which delighted him. 

"The great big balloon, " he said to his editor when he was told of whatthe actor-knight had said over the telephone. "My Lord, when I hear himspouting blank verse through his nose!. . . "

"That's all very fine, " the editor retorted ruefully, "but yourcriticism's doing us a lot of harm. Jefferson of the Torch Theatrecancelled his advertisement the day after your notice of his new playappeared!"

"Ridiculous ass!" said Gilbert. 

"Well, if you say his play's the worst that's ever been put on anystage, what do you expect him to do? Fall on your neck and say, 'Blessyou, brother!'? You might try to be kinder to them, Farlow, and do forthe love of God remember the advertisement manager. If you could get thehuman note in your stuff!. . . "

"The what?"

"The human note. I'm a great believer in the human note. "

Gilbert left the office as quickly as he could and went home. He cameinto the dining-room where the others were already seated at their meal. 

"You're late again, Gilbert, " said Roger. "Hand over your sixpence!"

Roger, who was never late for anything, had instituted a system of finesfor those who were late for meals. The fine for unpunctuality at dinnerwas sixpence. 

"I haven't got a tanner, damn it, " Gilbert snapped, "and I'm looking forthe human note. That's why I'm late. My heavenly father, I'm hungry!What is there?"

"Sixpence for being late for dinner, " said Roger quietly, "and tuppencefor blasphemy!"

He entered the amounts in the "Ledger, " and then returned to his seat. "You already owe six and threepence, " he said, as he sat down, "and thisevening's fines bring it up to six and elevenpence. You ought to paysomething on account, Gilbert!. . . "

"Pass the potatoes and don't bleat so much!" said Gilbert. "Look here, Quinny, " he said as he helped himself to the potatoes, "what's the humannote, and don't you think tuppence is too much for blasphemy?"

"Ask Ninian, " Henry answered. "He knows all about humanity!"

"No, he doesn't. Bally mechanic! Aren't you, Ninian? Aren't you a damnlittle mechanic with a screw-driver for a soul!. . . "

"You'll get a punch on the jaw in a minute, young fellow me lad!" Ninianexclaimed, leaning over the table and slapping Gilbert on the cheek. 

"Fined fourpence for threat of physical violence and ninepence forexecuting the same, " Roger murmured. "I'll enter it presently. "

"Somebody should slay Roger, " Gilbert said. "Somebody should take holdof his neat little neck and wring it!. . . "

They finished their meal and sat back in their chairs, smoking andchattering. 

"What's all this about the human note, Gilbert?" Henry asked, andGilbert explained what had happened to him in the editor's room. "Istopped a bobby in the Strand and asked him about it, " he said, "but hetold me to move on. You ought to know what the human note is, Quinny. You're a novelist, and novelists are supposed to know everythingnowadays!"

He did not wait for Henry to explain the meaning of the human note. "Iknow what Dilton means by it, " he said. "When _he_ talks of the humannote he means the greasy touch!"

"Slop in fact!" said Roger. 

"That's it. Slop! My God, these journalists do love to splash about intheir emotions. They can't mention the North Pole without gulping intheir throats. Dilton gave me an example of the human note. There was abye-election in the East End the other day and one of the candidates puthis unfortunate infants into 'pearlies' and hawked them about theconstituency in a costermonger's barrow, carrying a notice with 'Votefor Our Daddy!' on it. Dilton damned near blubbed when he told me aboutit!"

"Rage?" said Henry. 

"Rage!" Gilbert exclaimed. "Good Lord, no! The man was moved, touched!. . . He blew his nose hard, and then told me that one touch ofnature makes the whole world kin! I'm damned if he didn't write aleading article about it . . . And they give him a couple of thousand ayear for organising sniffs for the million. All over England, I supposethere were people snivelling over those brats and telling each otherthat one touch of nature makes the whole world kin!. . . Oof! gimme thewhisky, somebody, for the love of the Lordy God! I want to be sick whenI think of the human note!"

"Well, of course, " said Roger, "the slop is there, and it's no goodgetting angry about it. What I want is a Party that won't deal in it. I've always believed that the mob likes an honest man, even if it doescall him a Prig, and I'm perfectly certain that when a Prig gets letdown by the mob it's because in some subconscious way it knows he's onlypretending to be honest . . . Unless, of course, it's gone off its headwith passion of some sort: Boer war jingoism and that kind of thing. Andmy notion of a member of parliament is a man who represents some degreeof general feeling. If he doesn't represent that general feeling he canonly do one of two things: try to convert the general opinion to hispoint of view or else, if he can't convert it, tell it he'll be damnedif he'll represent it any longer. That's the attitude I shall adopt inthe House!. . . "

But Gilbert thought that this was a dangerous attitude to maintain. 

"If you maintain it too long, you'll never get an office, " he said, "andso the only work you'll be able to do will be critical work: you'llnever get a chance to do anything constructive; and if you let theGovernment nobble you, and give you an Under Secretaryship the momentthey see you getting dangerous, then you're done for. And anyhow, Idon't believe in independent members of parliament. A certain number ofsheep are necessary in every organisation, in parliament as much asanywhere else. It would be absolutely impossible to carry on Governmentif the whole six hundred and seventy members of parliament were asclever and as independent as Lord Hugh Cecil. You must have sheep andlots of 'em!. . . "

"But they needn't be dead sheep, " said Roger. "They needn't be mutton, need they?"

"No, they needn't be mutton, but they must be sheep, " Gilbert replied. 

"All the politicians I've ever met, " said Ninian, "were like New Zealandlamb . . . Frozen!"

Gilbert leaped on him and slapped his back, capsizing him on to thefloor. "Ninian, my son, " he said, "that's a good line. Do you mind if Iput it in my comedy. It doesn't matter whether you do or not, but I'dlike your consent. "

"Don't be an old ass, " said Ninian. 

"Can I use that line about the New Zealand lamb?. . . "

"Yes, yes . . . Any damn thing . . . Only get off my chest! You're . . . You're squeezing the inside out of me. Get up, will you!. . . "

"I'm really quite comfortable, thanks, Ninian. If it weren't for thiswhacking big bone here!. . . "

He did not complete the sentence, for Ninian, with a heaving effort, threw him on to the floor, where they scrambled and punched eachother. . . . 

"There is a fine of eighteenpence, " said Roger, "for disorderly conduct. I'll just enter it against you both!"

The combatants rose and routed Roger, and when they had disposed of him, Ninian agreed to let Gilbert use his line about the frozen meat. "Ishall expect you to put a note in the programme that the epigram in thesecond act was supplied by Mr. Ninian Graham, " he said. 

"_The_ epigram!" Gilbert exclaimed. "_The_ epigram!"

"Why, will there be any more?" said Ninian innocently. 

Hostilities thereupon broke out again. 

4

They sat up late that night talking of themselves and of England andpublic affairs. Roger was interested in Trade Unions, and he lamentedthe fact that the Tories had allowed an alliance to be formed betweenLabour and Liberalism. "Ask any workman you meet in the street whetherhe'd rather work for a Liberal or a Tory, and I bet you what you like, the chances are that he'll plump for the Tory. His experience is thatthe Tory's the better employer, and the reason why that's so is that theLiberal conducts his business on principles, whereas the Tory conductshis on instincts. In principle, the Liberal concedes most things to theworkman, but in practice he doesn't: in principle, the Tory concedesnothing to the workman, but in practice he treats him decently. Theworkman knows that, but the fool goes and votes for the Liberal, and thefool of a Tory lets him!. . . You know, " he went on, "this Trade Unionmovement has got on to wrong lines altogether. Their chief functionseems to be to protect their members from . . . Well, from being cheated. That's what it comes to. I don't blame 'em. They've had to behave likethat. I don't think any one can read Webb's 'Industrial Democracy' and'The History of Trade Unionism' without feeling that, on the whole, employers have been rather caddish to workmen . . . So I don't blame theUnions for making so much fuss about their rights. But I'd like to seethem making as much fuss about the quality of the work done by theirmembers. That's their real function. It isn't enough to keep up thestandard of wages and of conditions of employment--they ought also tokeep up the standard of work!"

This led them into a wrangle about the responsibility for the blame forthis indifference to quality of work. 

"I suppose, " said Roger, "employers and employed are to blame. I thinkmyself it's the result of a world tendency towards hustle . . . To get thething done as quickly as possible without regard to the quality of it. I suppose a modern contractor would break his heart if he were asked tospend his lifetime on _one_ cathedral . . . But people were proud to dothat in the Middle Ages. We'd build half a dozen cathedrals while aMiddle Ages man was decorating a gargoyle!"

"Well, we have this comfort, " said Ninian, "the modern builder's stuffwon't last as long as Westminster Abbey!"

"I hate all this bleat about the Middle Ages, " Gilbert exclaimed. "I'msurprised to hear you, Roger, talking like that fat papist, Belloc. One'ud think to hear you talking that no one ever did shoddy work until thenineteenth century, but Christopher Wren let a lot of shoddy stuff intoSt. Paul's Cathedral. There were fraudulent contractors then, andjerry-builders, just as there are now, and there probably always will bepeople who give a bad return for their wages!. . . "

"That's why I want to see the Tory Party resuscitated, " said Roger. "Iwant to limit the number of such people and to make every man feel thatit's a gentlemanly thing to do your best, whatever your job is, and thatpayment has nothing whatever to do with the way you do your work!"

The whole industrial system would need re-shaping, the whole socialsystem would need re-shaping, the Empire would need re-shaping. 

"This craving for cheapness has cheapened nothing but life, " said Roger, "and it brings incalculable trouble with it. I mean, a ha'penny savednow means pounds lost later. Oh, that's a platitude, I know, but we payno heed to it. I've never been to America, but we know quite well thatone of the most serious problems for the Americans is the negro problem. I heard a Rhodes scholar talking about it once. He simply foamed at themouth. He hadn't any plan for it . . . Didn't seem to realise that a plancould be made . . . And you know they've only got that problem through thegreediness of their ancestors. Negroes aren't native to America. Theplanters wanted cheap labour and so they imported them . . . And the endof that business is the Negro Problem!"

"And lynchings and a Civil War in between, " Henry murmured. "That's themost hateful part of it . . . The killing and the bitterness. "

"Great Scott!" said Ninian, "think of all those Yankees killing eachother so that niggers might wear spats and top hats and sing coon songsin the music halls!. . . Damn silly, I call it!"

"We've got to make people believe that it isn't what you get thatmatters, but what you do, " Roger went on. "All this footling squabblebetween workmen and employers about a farthing an hour more or afarthing an hour less . . . Isn't decent . . . It isn't gentlemanly. Oh, Iknow very well that the counter-jumper thinks it's very clever to tricka customer out of a ha'penny . . . But it doesn't last, that kind ofprofit. We lost America because we behaved like cads to the colonists, and we'll lose everything if we continue to play the counter-jumpertrick. It isn't very popular now to talk about gentlemen . . . Peoplesneer at the word . . . But I'd rather die like a gentleman than live likea cad . . . And that's the spirit I want to see restored to the ToryParty. It's awfully needed in England now!"

They began to lay plans for an Improved Tory Party that included analliance with Labour and a closer confederation of the colonies, together with a definite understanding with America. 

"And what about Ireland?" said Henry. 

"Oh, of course, Ireland must have Home Rule and be treated like acolony. Nobody but a fool wants to treat it in any other way!" saidRoger. 

"There are an awful lot of fools in the world, " Gilbert said. 

"I know that, " Roger retorted, "but need we trouble about them?"

"We've got to get a group of fellows together on much the sameprinciple as the Fabian Society . . . No one to be admitted unless he hasbrains and is willing to work without payment. _Look_ at the work thatSidney Webb and Bernard Shaw and all those people did for Socialism _fornothing_, even paying for it out of their own pockets when they weren'tover-flush . . . My goodness, if we can only get people with that kind ofspirit into our group, we'll mould the world! By the way, we ought topinch some ideas from the Fabians! We could meet somewhere . . . Here, tobegin with. And when we've got a group of fellows together with somenotion of what we all want to do, we can start inviting eminent ones totalk to us . . . And heckle the stuffing out of them!"

Gilbert was able to tell them a great deal about the origin of theFabian Society . . . For his father was one of the founders of it . . . Andhe told them how the Society had invited Mr. Haldane to talk to them . . . And of the way in which they had fallen on him in the discussion andleft all his arguments in shreds when the meeting ended. . . . "If we canget Balfour or Asquith or some other Eminent Pot here, " he said, "andsimply argue hell's blazes out of him . . . My Lordy God, that 'ud begreat!"

"They're not likely to come, " said Ninian. 

"I don't know. Eminent Ones sometimes do the most unusual things!"

Ninian yawned and stretched his arms. "I move that this House be nowadjourned!" he said. 

But they ignored his sleepiness, and he would not move away from theircompany. 

"Well, we've settled what our future is to be, " said Gilbert. 

"What is it to be?" Ninian interrupted, stifling another yawn. 

"Weren't you listening? We're to be Improved Tories . . . And we're toimprove the Universe, so to speak. We've just settled it. All the OldBirds are to be hoofed out of office, and we're to take their places, and I thoroughly approve of that. In my opinion, any man who wants tooccupy a place of authority after the age of sixty should be publiclyand cruelly pole-axed. I can't stand old men . . . They're so cowardly andso obstinate and so conceited!"

"The great thing, " said Roger, "is to keep ourselves from sloppiness. Wemustn't make fools of ourselves!"

"The principal way in which a man makes a fool of himself, " Gilbertadded, "is in connexion with the female species. Is that what you mean, Roger?" Roger nodded his head. "Pay attention to that, Ninian, " Gilbertwent on. "You have a weakness for females, I've noticed!"

Ninian, suddenly forgetting his fatigue, sat up in his seat. "I say, let's jaw about women, " he said. 

"No, " Gilbert replied. "We won't . . . Not at this hour of the morning!"But, disregarding his decision, he went on, "My view of women is that weall make too much fuss about 'em! Either we damn them excessively or wepraise them excessively. They're a cursed nuisance in literature. Allthe writers seem to think that man was made for woman or woman for man, and they write and write about sex and love as if there weren't otherthings in the world besides women!"

"I'd like to know what else we were made for?" Henry said. 

"We were made to do our jobs, " Roger answered. "I believe in what I maycall the modified anchorite . . . Women are too emotional and get betweena man and his work. Love is an excellent thing . . . Excellent . . . Butthere are other things!. . . "

"What else is there?" Henry demanded almost crossly. He felt vaguelystirred by what was being said, vaguely antagonistic to it. 

"Oh, lots of things, " Roger answered. "Fighting for your place, movingmultitudes to do your will . . . Oh, lots of things!"

Gilbert had read some of Henry's novel, and he now began to talk aboutit. 

"You turn on the Slop-tap too often, " he said. "Quinny, my son, you're aclever little chap, but you're frightfully sloppy. I've read a lot moreof your novel. . . . "

"Yes?" said Henry, nervously anxious to hear his criticism. 

"Slop!" Gilbert continued. "Just slop, Quinny! Women aren't like lumpsof dough that a baker punches into any shape he likes, and they aren'tsticks of barley sugar. . . . "

"No, they aren't, " Roger interrupted. "Wait till you see my cousinRachel. . . . "

"Have you got a cousin, Roger? How damned odd!" said Gilbert. 

"Yes. I must bring her round here one evening. She's not a bad female. . . Quite intelligent for her sex. Go on!"

"They're like us, Quinny!" Gilbert continued. "They're good in parts andbad in parts. That's the vital discovery of the twentieth century, andI've made it!. . . "

Henry had been eager to hear Gilbert's criticism of his novel, but thiskind of talk irritated him, though he could not understand why itirritated him, and his irritation drove him to sneers. 

"I suppose, " he said, "you want to substitute Social Reform and ImprovedToryism for Romance. Lordy God, man, do you want to put eugenics andblue-books in place of the love of woman?"

"You're getting cross, Quinny!. . . "

"No, I'm not!"

"Oh, yes, you are . . . Very cross . . . And you know what the fine for itis. If you want my opinion, here it is. I _am_ prepared to accepteugenics and blue-books as a substitute for the love of women . . . Ifthey're interesting, of course. That's all I ask of any one or anything. . . That it shall interest me. I don't care what it is, so long as itdoesn't bore me. Women bore me . . . Women in books and plays, I mean . . . Because they're all of a pattern: lovebirds. I've never seen a play inwhich the women weren't used for sloppy emotional purposes. The minute Isee a woman walking on to the stage, I say to myself, 'Here comes theSlop-tap!' and as sure as I'm alive, the author immediately turns thetap on and the woman is over ears and head in slop before we'retwo-thirds through the first act. And they're not like that in reallife, any more than we are. We aren't continually making goo-goo eyes, nor are they. I'm going to write a play one of these days that willstagger the civilised world, I tell you! It'll be bung full of women butit won't have a word of slop from beginning to end!. . . "

"It'll be a failure, " said Ninian. 

"Oh, from the box-office point of view, no doubt!. . . "

"No, from the common sense point of view. I'm on the side of Quinny inthis matter, and I'm as much of an authority on women as you are, Gilbert. I've loved three different barmaids and a young woman in atobacconist's shop, and I say, what the hell is the good of talking allthis rubbish about men and women trotting round as if male and female Hehad not created them. When I see a woman, if she's got any femininityabout her at all, I want to hug her and kiss her, and I do so, if I can, and so does any man if he is a man. I belong to the masculine gender andshe belongs to the feminine . . . And that's all there's to be said aboutit. If we were neuters, we'd be characters in your play, Gilbert. . . . "

"I don't want to kiss every girl I meet, " said Gilbert. 

They howled at him in derision. "Oh, you liar!" said Henry, forgettinghis anger. 

"You hug women all day long, you Mormon!" Ninian roared, "or you wouldif they'd let you!"

"That's why you react so strongly from love in your plays, " Roger saidjudicially. "You can't leave them alone in real life. . . . "

"I don't mean to say I haven't kissed a girl or two, " Gilbert admitted. 

"_A girl or two!_ Listen to him!" Ninian went on. "Oh, listen to theinnocent babe and suckling. A girl or two! Look here, let's make acensus of 'em. What was the name of that girl whose brother got sentdown? Lady Something?. . . "

"Lady Cecily!. . . "

"Shut up!" Gilbert shouted at them, and his voice was full of rage. Hestood over them, glaring at them fiercely. . . . 

"I say, Gilbert!" said Henry, "what's up?"

He recovered himself. "I'm sorry, " he said. "I didn't mean to lose mytemper!"

"That's all right, Gilbert, " Ninian murmured. "It was my fault. Ioughtn't to have rotted you like that!"

"It doesn't matter, " Gilbert answered. 

5

They were silent for a while, disconcerted by Gilbert's strange outburstof anger, and for a few moments it seemed as if their argument must endnow. Ninian began to yawn again, and he was about to propose once morethat they should go to bed, when Gilbert resumed the discussion. 

"You make no allowance for reticence, " he said to Henry. "That's whatRoger really wants in politics . . . Reticence!"

"In everything, " Roger exclaimed

"I know, " Gilbert went on. "When I first went in to the _Daily Echo_office, I saw a notice in the sub-editor's room which tickled me todeath. Elsden, the night editor, had put it up, and it said that theword 'gutted' was not to be used in describing the state of a houseafter a fire. I went to Elsden . . . I like him better than any one elsein the _Echo_ office . . . And asked him what was the matter with theword. 'Well, my dear chap, ' he said, 'think of guts! I mean to say, _Guts_! Hang it all, we must cover up something!' I thought he was beingrather old-maidish then, but I'm not sure now that Elsden's point ofview hasn't got something behind it. He just wanted to be decently quietabout things that aren't pretty! I don't think it's necessary to blurtout everything, and I'm certain that if you keep on washing your dirtylinen in public, people will end up by thinking you've got nothing elsebut dirty linen. Your characters, " he added, turning to Henry, "goabout, splashing in their emotions as if they were trick swimmers or . . . Or damn little journalists. I tell you, Quinny, love's a private, furtive thing, a secret adventure, and open exposure of it is a sort ofprofanity. . . . "

"No, " said Henry emphatically. "Love's made nasty by secrecy!" He beganto spread himself. He had been reading some of the authors of the YellowBook period. "It seems to me, " he said, "that the marriage rite isbroken, incomplete. In a healthy state, the whole function would beperformed in public . . . In . . . In a cathedral, say. There'd be aprocession of priests in golden chasubles, and acolytes swinging carvedcensers, and boys with banners, and hidden choirs chanting longlitanies. . . . "

"I shall be sick in a minute!" said Gilbert. "You're talking like anover-ripe Oscar Wilde, Quinny, and if you were really that sort ofanimal I'd have you hoofed out of this. Get out the whisky, Ninian, forthe love of the Lordy God! This ĉsthetic stuff makes my inside wobble!"

Ninian went to the sideboard and took hold of the whisky bottle. "Idon't much like that sort of talk myself, " he said. "It's tooclever-clever for my taste. I shouldn't let it grow on me, Quinny, if Iwere you. You'll get a reputation like bad eggs, and people'll thinkyou've strayed out of your period and got lost. As a matter of fact, Gilbert, you don't really want whisky, and you're only going to drink itfor effect, so you shan't have any!"

He returned to his seat, as he spoke, and sat down. Henry had a quicksense of shame. He had spoken insincerely, for effect . . . In order toimpress them with his cleverness, and their answer to him filled himwith a sense of inferiority. He felt that they must despise him, andfeeling that, he began to despise himself. 

"My own feeling about these things, " said Ninian, "is perfectly simple. I believe in lust. I'm a lustful man myself, and so, I believe, isRoger!. . . "

"No, I'm not, " Roger exclaimed. 

"Well, I am, " Ninian proceeded. "Lust is the motor force of theworld. . . . "

"No, it isn't, " Gilbert interrupted. "The whole of civilisation dependsupon the human stomach. If men would live without eating . . . The wholeof this society would dissolve. Lust is subordinate to the stomach, Ninian. You've never seen a starving man in a purple passion, have you?"

Ninian leant forward and tapped the table with his knuckles. "I say thatlust is the motor force of the world, " he said, "and I think you mightlet me finish my sentences, Gilbert. You are so eager to vent your ownviews that you won't let any one else vent his. . . . "

"What's the good of venting your views if they're wrong, damn it!" saidGilbert. 

"Well, let me finish venting 'em anyhow. Assuming that I'm right, I sayyou should treat lust exactly as you treat the circulation of yourblood: don't fuss about it. It's a natural function, neither beautifulnor ugly. It's just there, and that's all about it. The fellow whodithers about it as if he'd invented a new philosophy on the day hefirst slept with a woman, is a dirty, neurotic ass. So is the fellow whopretends that there's no such thing as sex in the world. Male and femalecreated He them, and I can tell you, He jolly well knew what He was upto!"

Roger flicked the ash from his cigarette and coughed slightly. 

"I think, " he said, "we talk too much about these things. They pass thetime, of course, but not very profitably. Whatever the Universal Motivemay be . . . I'm talking, of course, without prejudice . . . It'll expressitself in complete disregard of our feelings and views. I have had noexperience of women otherwise than in the capacity of a mother, severalaunts, a nurse, a number of cousins, and also some waitresses inrestaurants. . . . "

"Roger's never kissed a woman in a sexual sense in his life, " Gilbertinterrupted. 

"I have never seen the necessity of it, " Roger said. 

"But aren't you curious to know what it's like? After all, it's a formof experience, " Henry asked, looking at Roger with curiosity. 

"Having scarlet fever is a form of experience, but I don't wish to knowwhat it's like, " Roger answered. 

"My God, you are a prig, Roger!" said Gilbert simply. 

"I know that, " Roger answered. "That's why I don't get on with women. They find me out. No, " he continued, "I've no experience of women inthat way. I daresay I shall get experience some day, but in themeantime, I've got my job to do. . . . "

"We shall have a virgin Lord Chancellor on the woolsack, " said Gilbert, "and then may God have mercy on all poor litigants!"

"We really ought to go to bed, " Ninian protested. 

"Not yet, " Henry exclaimed. 

He had recovered from his feeling of dejection, and he was eager toretrieve the good opinion which he thought he had lost. 

"My own view, " he said, beginning as they always began their oracularpronouncements, "my own view is that we make the mistake of thinking inmasses instead of in individuals. Everybody who tries to reform theworld, tries to make it uniform, but what we want is the most completediversity that's obtainable. It's the variations from type that maketype bearable!. . . "

"That's a good phrase, Quinny. Where'd you get it from?" Gilbertinterrupted. 

Henry flushed with pleasure. "I made it up, " he answered. "All men aredifferent, " he went on, "and therefore the morals that suit one personare unlikely to suit another person. Roger doesn't bother about women. He looks upon them as a . . . A sideline. Don't you, Roger? He'll marry indue course, and he'll have one woman, and he'll have her all to himself. Won't you, Roger?"

"Probably, " Roger replied, "but there's no certainty about thesethings. "

Henry proceeded. "Gilbert wants lots and lots of women, but he doesn'twant to talk about it, and he wants to keep his women and his workseparate . . . In watertight compartments, as it were. As if you could dothat! And Ninian wants to have a good old hearty coarse time like . . . Like Tom Jones . . . And then he'll repent and praise God and lay hisstick about the backsides of all the young sinners he meets!"

"No, I don't, . . . " said Ninian, but Henry, having started, would not lethimself be interrupted. "I want to have lots and lots of women, " he wenton hurriedly, "but I don't care who knows about them. I like talkingabout my love-affairs. . . . "

"Well, why don't you talk about 'em?" Gilbert demanded. 

Henry was nonplussed. His speech became hesitant. "I . . . I said I'd liketo talk about them, " he replied. "I didn't say I would do so. . . . " Hehurried away from the subject. "But chiefly, " he said, "I don't wantanything permanent in my life. Now, do you understand? Roger's like theRock of Ages . . . The same yesterday, to-day and forever, but I want tobe different to-morrow from what I am to-day, and different again theday after. Endless variety for me!"

"It'll be an awful lot of trouble, " said Gilbert. 

"That doesn't matter. Now my argument is that I have a different naturefrom Roger and all of you, but I'm not a worse man than any of youare. . . . "

"No, no, of course not, " they asserted. 

"I'm just different, that's all. The man who loves one woman and cleavesto her until death do them part isn't a better man or a worse man thanthe chap who loves a different woman every year, and doesn't cleave toany of them. He's just different. You see, " he continued, pleased withthe way he was enunciating his opinions, "we are of all sorts. There arelustful men and there are men who have scarcely any sex impulse at all, and there are coarse men and refined men, and . . . And all sorts of men, and they're all necessary to the world. I say, why not recognise thedifferences between them and leave it at that! It's silly to try and fitus all with the same system of morals when nobody but a fool would tryto fit us all with the same size hat!"

"You don't make any allowance for the views of women, " Roger said. 

"Oh, yes, I do, " Henry retorted quickly. "There is as much variety amongwomen as there is among men. Some of them are monogamous and somearen't. That's all!"

Gilbert stretched his legs out in front of him and then drew them backagain. "Our little Quinny's got this world neatly parcelled out, " hesaid. "Hasn't he, coves? There he sits, like a little Jehovah, handingout natures as if they were school-prizes. 'Here, my little lad, here'syour set of morals. Now, run away and make a hog of yourself with thewomen!' 'Here, my little lad, here's your set of morals. Now, run awayand be a bally monk!'"

"Exactly!" said Henry. "That's my view!"

"Well, all I can say, " said Ninian, "is that it won't do. This may be atom-fool sort of a world, but it gets along in its tom-fool way a lotbetter than it will in your neat arrangement of things. . . . "

"Besides, " Roger said, taking up the argument from Ninian, "there is acommon measure in life. Oh, I know quite well that there are differencesbetween man and man, but there are resemblances, too, and what we've gotto do . . . The Improved Tories, I mean . . . Is to discover which is themore important, the resemblances of men or the differences of men. As alawyer, of course, I only know what's in my brief, but as a man, I'minterested!"

"The question is, " said Gilbert, "are women a damned nuisance that oughtto be put down, or are they not? I say they are, but I like 'em all thesame, and that only shows what a blasted hole I'm in. I like kissingthem . . . It's no good pretending that I don't. . . . "

"Not a bit, " said Ninian. 

"And I kiss 'em whenever I get a chance, " Gilbert continued, "but allthe same I'd like to be a whopping big icicle so as to be able to ignore'em . . . Like Roger!"

Ninian got up, resolved on going to bed. "Come on, " he said, stretchinghimself. "Our jaw about women doesn't appear to have solved anything!"

"It never will, " Roger answered, rising too. "We shall still be jawingabout them this day twelvemonth. . . . "

"D. V. , " said Gilbert. 

"But we won't get any forrarder!"

"Rum things, women!" said Ninian, moving towards the door, "but verynice . . . Very nice, indeed!"

"My goodness me, I am tired, " Gilbert yawned. "Oh, so tired! But we'vesettled everything, haven't we? The empire and women and so on? GreatScott, " he exclaimed, "we forgot to say anything about God!"

"So we did, " said Ninian, and he turned back from the door. 

"The Improved Tories really ought to make up their minds aboutreligion, " Gilbert went on. 

"Can't we leave that until to-morrow?" Roger complained. "We needn'ttalk about Him to-night, need we? I'm frightfully sleepy!. . . "

6

While Henry was undressing, he remembered how angry Gilbert had beenwith Ninian and Roger because they had mentioned the name of a girl forwhom he had cared. 

"Awfully rum, that!" he said to himself, sitting on the edge of his bed. 

He tried to recall her name. "Lady something!" he said, and then saidseveral times, "Lady . . . Lady . . . Lady!. . . " in the hope that the namewould follow. But he could not remember it. 

"Odd that I never heard of her before. "

He put on his dressing-gown, and opened the door of his room. "I'll askold Ninian, " he said, as he went out. 

Ninian, who had been yawning so heavily downstairs, was now sitting upin bed, reading a copy of the _Engineer_. 

"Hilloa, " he exclaimed as Henry entered the room in response to his"Come in!"

"I say, Ninian, what was the name of the girl that Gilbert was so goneon at Cambridge? Lady something or other! He was rather sick with youfor mentioning her. . . . "

"Oh, Lady Cecily Jayne!"

"Is that her name? Who is she?"

"Society female, " said Ninian. "Takes an interest in literature and artin her spare time, but she doesn't know anything about either of them. Her brother was in our college until he got sent down. That was howGilbert met her. She came up one May week and made eyes at Gilbert. Shewasn't married then!. . . "

"Is she married?" Henry interrupted. 

"Oh, yes. She used to be Lady Cecily Blandgate . . . Her father's the Earlof Bucklersbury. She's a big female. . . . "

"What do you mean? Fat?"

"No. Tall, " said Ninian. 

"Is she good-looking?"

"Yes, she is, and rather amusing, too, in a footling sort of way. She'sgot a fearful appetite, and she thinks of herself all day long. I knowbecause she damn near ruined me over cream buns once. "

"I suppose Gilbert was in love with her?. . . "

"I suppose so. He didn't tell me and I didn't ask, but he mooned aboutwith her and looked awfully sloppy when he passed her things. You knowwhat I mean. He'd hand her a plate of bread and butter, and look at heras much as to say, 'This is really my heart I'm handing you!' I neversaw a chap look such an ass!"

"Has she been married very long?"

"Oh, a year or two. I don't know. I'm not very interested in her. Toomuch of a female for my taste. Extremely entertaining in the evening andthe afternoon, but awfully boring in the morning!. . . "

"Sounds like sour grapes, Ninian!"

"Oh, I've been in love with her if that's what you mean. We all were, even old Roger. In fact, I kissed her once . . . Or was it twice? She'sthe sort of woman a chap does kiss somehow. I couldn't think of anythingelse to do when I was with her. That's why she's so dull. She splashesher sex about as if she were distributing handbills. I'm surprised thatyou don't know her. She's a very well-known female. . . . "

"I've been in Ireland, Ninian. . . . "

"So you have. I'd forgotten that. Of course, if you will live in a placelike that, you can't expect to be familiar with the wonders ofcivilisation. Ever see the _Daily Reflexion_?"

"Oh, yes, we get that in Ireland all right!"

"Do you, indeed! Well, praise God from Whom all blessings flow. If youbuy a copy of to-morrow's _Daily Reflexion_, you'll probably see herphotograph in it, or a paragraph about her. Roger says people pay tohave themselves mentioned once a month in that sort of rag!"

"What's her husband like?" Henry asked. 

"God made him, but nobody knows why. I believe chorus girls call him'Chummie. ' That's his purpose in life. I say, Henry, there's a rippingsketch of a new kind of engine in this paper. I wish you'd let meexplain it to you. . . . "

"Who is her husband?" said Henry. 

"Who is who's husband?"

"Lady Cecily Jayne's!. . . "

"Lordy God, man, you're not talking about her still, are you? Herhusband is . . . Let me see . . . Oh, yes, he's Lord Jasper Jayne. His namesounds like the hero of a servant's novelette, but he doesn't look likethat. He looks like a chucker-out in a back-street pub. His father's theMarquis of Dulbury. He's the second son. The eldest is sillier, but it'sall been hushed up. Anything else you want to know?"

"I'm just interested, that's all!"

"Her brother . . . I told you, didn't I? . . . Was at Cambridge with us. Hecame down a year before we did. As a matter of fact, he was sent downand told to stay down. He ducked a proctor in a water-butt and the donswere very cross about it. He's not a bad fellow. I think we'll ask himround here one evening. Lady Cecily's very fond of him . . . She used tocome up to Cambridge to see him . . . Before the affair with the proctor, of course . . . And Gilbert and I took her and another female out in apunt once!"

Henry, who had been sitting in an arm-chair while Ninian told him aboutLady Cecily Jayne, got up and walked across the room. 

"Gilbert was very upset when you mentioned her name, " he said. "Isuppose her marriage was a blow to him?"

"Oh, I don't know. Look here, Quinny, if you're going to jaw any moreabout this female, you can just hop off to your own room, but if you'dlike to hear me explaining these diagrams to you, you can stay. . . . "

"Do you ever see Lady Cecily now?" Henry asked, ignoring what Ninian hadsaid. 

"Now and again. Gilbert sees her quite often. . . . "

"Does he?" Henry said eagerly. 

"Yes. At first nights. She goes to the theatre a lot. Do you want tomeet her?"

There was some confusion in Henry's voice as he answered, "I should liketo meet her. You see, I've never known a really beautiful woman. . . . "

"Aren't there any in Ireland?"

"Oh, yes. Plenty. Peasant girls, particularly!" He thought for a momentor two of Sheila Morgan, and then hurriedly went on. "But I've neverknown a really beautiful woman. You see, Ninian, ours is a fairly lonelysort of house, and I've spent most of my time either there or at T. C. D. Or at Rumpell's, and somehow I've never got to know any one. . . . "

"Well, you'd better ask Gilbert to take you with him to a first-night. She's sure to be there, and you can ask him to introduce you to her. Andnow, you can hoof out, young fellow!. . . "

Henry went back to his own room and got into bed, but he did not sleepuntil the dawn began to break. His thoughts wandered vaguely about hismind, bumping up against one recollection and then against another. Heremembered Sheila Morgan and the bright look in her eyes that eveningwhen she had hurriedly come into the Language class out of the rain . . . And while he was remembering Sheila, he found himself thinking of MaryGraham and the way in which she would put up her hand and throw her longhair from her shoulders. Then came memories of Bridget Fallon . . . Andalmost mechanically he began to murmur a prayer to the Virgin. "HailMary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongwomen, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus!. . . "

He turned over on his side, pulling the bedclothes more closely abouthim. "Cecily Jayne, " he murmured in a sleepy voice. "What a pretty name, that is!"

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

1

Their days were spent in work. Ninian and Roger left the house soonafter nine o'clock, Ninian to go to the office of his engineering firmin Victoria Street, Roger to go to his chambers in the Temple, leavingHenry and Gilbert to work at home. In the evening, provided that therewas not a "first-night" to call Gilbert to the theatre, they talked ofthemselves and of their future. Their egotism was undisguised. They hadset their minds on a high destiny and were certain that they wouldachieve it, so they did not waste any energy, as Gilbert once said, inpretending that they were not remarkably able. In a short time, theygathered a group of friends about them who were, they thought, likely towork well and ably, and it became the custom for their friends to visitthem on Thursday evening. Gilbert began the custom of asking some one todine with them on Thursday, and the guest was expected to account forhimself to the group that assembled after dinner. The Improved Tories, according to Gilbert, wanted heart-to-heart talks from people ofexperience. If a guest treated them to flummery, they let him know thatthey despised his flummery and insisted on asking him questions of apeculiarly intimate character. There were less than a dozen people inthe group, apart from Roger and Ninian and Gilbert and Henry, but eachof them had distinguished himself in some fashion at his college. HilaryCornwall had taken so many prizes and scholarships that he had lostcount of them, and when he entered the Colonial Office, it became acommonplace to say of him that he was destined to become PermanentUnder-Secretary at a remarkably youthful age. Gerald Luke had producedtwo little books of poetry of such quality that people believed that hewas in the line of great tradition. Ernest Carr had edited Granta soably that he was invited to join the staff of the _Times_. Then therewere Ashley Earls, who had had a play produced by the Stage Society, andPeter Crooks, the chemist, and Edward Allen, who was private secretaryto a Cabinet Minister, and Goeffrey Grant, another journalist, andClifford Dartrey, who spent his time in research work and had alreadyproduced a book on Casual Labour in the Building Trades in return forthe Shaw Prize at the London School of Economics. 

They called themselves the Improved Tories, although most of them wouldhave voted at an election for any one but a Conservative candidate. Ashley Earls and Gerald Luke were Socialists and had only consented tojoin the group because they were told that the purpose of it was lesspolitical than sociological. 

"You see, " Gilbert said to them, "it isn't good for England to have aTory Party so dense as this one is, and you'll really be doing usefulwork if you help to improve their quality. What is the good of anOpposition which can do nothing but oppose? Look at that fellow, SirFrederick Banbury! What in the name of God is the good of a man likethat? He doesn't make anything . . . He just gets in the way. Of course, that's useful . . . But he doesn't know when to get out of the way . . . Which is much more useful. And there ought to be people who aren'tcontent either to get in the way or just get out of it . . . There oughtto be people who can shove things along. But there aren't . . . ExceptBalfour, and he's getting old and anyhow he hasn't got much health. Yousee what I mean, don't you? There ought to be a strong Opposition, otherwise the Liberals will develop fatty degeneration of the politicalsense. . . . The trouble with a lot of these fellows is that they believethat twaddle that Lord Randolph Churchill talked about the duty of anOpposition being to oppose. Of course it isn't. The duty of theOpposition is to criticise and to improve, if they can. . . . "

And so Ashley Earls and Gerald Luke joined the group of Improved Tories, not as members, but as critics. It was they who induced the others tojoin the Fabian Society. "You can become subscribers . . . That won'tcommit you to anything . . . And then you'll be able to attend all themeetings and get all the publications. It'll be good for you!. . . "

The supply of political guests was not of the quality they desired. Theeminent politicians were either too busy or too scornful to accept theirinvitations. F. E. Robinson was impertinent to them until he heard thatMr. Balfour was interested in their proceedings . . . Had even asked to beintroduced to Roger Carey . . . And then he offered to address them onYoung Toryism, but they told him that they did not now wish to hear him. They had taken Robinson's measure very quickly. "Police-court lawyer!"they said, and ceased to trouble about him. Mr. Balfour never attendedthe group, but they consoled themselves to some extent by reading hisbook on Decadence and arguing about it among themselves. If, however, they were not able to secure many of the Eminent Ones, they were able tosecure plenty of the Semi-Eminent, far more than they wanted, and forhalf a year, they listened to politicians of all sorts, Old Tories andYoung Tories, Liberal Imperialists and Radicals, Fabian Socialists andSocial Democrats, heckling them and being heckled by them. At the end ofthat six months, Gilbert revolted against politicians. 

"These aren't the people who really matter, " he said. "They don't startthings. We want to get hold of the people with new ideas . . . The men whobegin movements and the men who aren't always wondering what theirconstituents will say if they hear about it!"

Then followed a term with men who might have been called cranks. BernardShaw declined to dine with them . . . He preferred to eat at home. . . . "Voluptuous vegetarian!" said Gilbert . . . But he talked to them for anhour on "Equality" and tried to persuade them to advocate equal incomesfor all, asserting that this was desirable from every point of view, biological, social and economic. Following Bernard Shaw, came EdwardCarpenter, very gentle and very gracious, denouncing modern civilisationin words which were spoken quietly, but which, in print, read like athunderstorm. Alfred Russell Wallace, whom they invited to talk onEvolution, came and talked instead on the nationalisation of land. Hesat, huddled in a chair, very old and very bright, with eyes thatsparkled behind his glasses . . . And suddenly, in the middle of hisdiscourse on land, he informed them that he had positive proof of theexistence of angels. "My God, he'll want to make civil servants of 'em!"Gilbert whispered to Henry. . . . Sir Horace Plunkett dined with them onenight, eating so little that he scarcely seemed to eat at all, and hepreached the whole gospel of co-operation. It was through him that theygot hold of an agricultural genius called T. Wibberley, anEnglish-Irishman, who reorganised the entire farming system on a basisof continuous cropping inside an hour and ten minutes. Wibberley knewHenry's father, and for the first time in his life Henry learned thatMr. Quinn's agricultural experiments were of value. . . . Then came H. G. Wells, smiling and very deprecating and almost inarticulate, to tellthem of the enormous importance of the novelist. They got him into acorner of the room, when he had finished reading his paper, andpersuaded him to make caricatures of them . . . And while he was makingthe caricatures, he talked to them far more brilliantly than he had readto them. G. K. Chesterton and Hilaire Belloc came to lecture and stayedto drink. Chesterton's lecture would have been funny, they agreed, ifthey had been able to hear it, but he laughed so heartily at his jokes, as he, so to speak, saw them approaching, that he forgot to make them. His method of speech was a mixture of giggle and whisper. "Chuckle-and-squeak!" Gilbert called it. Belloc whispered dark thingsabout Influential Families and Hebrews and seemed to think that a manwho changed his name only did so with the very worst intentions. He andChesterton said harsh things about the Party System, and they babbledbeatifically about the Catholic Church. . . . "Two big men like thatgabbling like a couple of priest-smitten flappers!" said Gilbert indisgust as he listened to them. "Them and their Cathlik Church!" headded, imitating Belloc's way of pronouncing the word "Catholic. "Mouldy, grovelling, fat Papists! he called them, and vowed that he wouldresign from the Improved Tories if any more of that sort were asked toaddress them. That was because some one had suggested that CecilChesterton should also be invited to dine with them. "He's simplyBelloc's echo, " Gilbert protested. "I should feel as if I were listeningto his master's voice. Besides, he's fatter than Belloc and he's adamned jiggery-pokery Papist too! Why don't these chaps go and coverthemselves with blue woad and play mumbo-jumbo tricks before the villageidol! That 'ud be about as intelligent as their Popery!" They intendedto ask Lord Hugh Cecil to talk to them about Conservatism, but when theyread his book on the subject they decided that such a Conservative wasutterly damnable . . . And so they asked his brother, Lord Robert, instead, and found that his point of view, although much more human andless logical than that of Lord Hugh, was antipathetic to theirs. 

"Let's get Garvin!" Gilbert suggested, when they discussed the questionof a more improved Tory than Lord Robert. "The Cecils are no good . . . They're too superstitious!" which was his way of saying that they weretoo religious. "They're worse than priests: they're . . . They're laymen!I propose that we ask Garvin to come and talk to us. He seems to beshoving the Tories all over the place!" So they invited the editor ofthe _Observer_ to dine and talk with them, and he came, a quick, eager, intense man, with large, starting eyes, who spoke so quickly that hiswords became entangled and were wrecked on his teeth. They liked him, but they were dubious of his right to represent the Tory spirit. Itseemed to them that this eager, thrusting-forward man, who banged thetable in his earnestness, might carry a political party off its feet inhis passion, but they were afraid that the feet would trail, that theparty would be reluctant to be lifted. "He's Irish, " said Roger injudgment. 

"It isn't any good, " Gilbert remarked, when Garvin had gone home, "trying to persuade the English to spread their wings. They haven't gotany. Garvin 'ud do better if he'd hold a carrot in front of them . . . They'd follow that. Quinny, " he added, "you ought to ask Garvin for ajob on the _Observer_. They say he can't resist an Irishman!"

"I will, " Henry replied. 

"Oh, and there's a chance of doing book reviews on the _MorningReport_!" Geoffrey Grant said. "I told Leonard, the literary editor, about you, and he said he'd look at you if you went round one day!"

"I'll go and look at him, " Henry answered. 

2

While they were spending their evenings in this fashion, Henry, workingsteadily in the mornings, completely revised his novel. Gilbert, workingless steadily than Henry, finished a new comedy and sent it to SirGoeffrey Mundane, the manager of the Pall Mall Theatre, who utterlyastounded Gilbert by accepting it. 

"Quinny!" he shouted, running up to Henry's room with the letter whichhad been delivered by the mid-day post, "Mundane's accepted 'The MagicCasement'!"

"What's that?" said Henry, turning round from his desk. 

"He's accepted it, Quinny! I always said he was a damned good actor, andso he is. My Lord, this is ripping! He says _it's a splendid comedy_ . . . So it is . . . _as good as Oscar Wilde at his best_ . . . Oh, better, damnit, better . . . And will I _please come and see him on Friday morning ateleven o'clock_ . . . I'll be there before he's out of bed!. . . I say, Quinny, we ought to do something, ought'nt we? Is it the correct thingto get drunk on these occasions?"

His joy was so extravagant that Henry felt many years older thanGilbert, and he patted him paternally on the shoulder and told him todevelop the stoic virtues. 

"I'm most frightfully pleased, Gilbert!" he said, when he had done withthe paternal manner. "When's he going to put the play on?"

"He doesn't say. The thing he's doing now is no damn good, and he'llprobably take it off soon. Perhaps he'll produce 'The Magic Casement'after that. Quinny, it is a good play, isn't it? Sometimes I get a mostshocking hump about things, and I think I'm no good at all. . . . "

"Of course, it's a good play, Gilbert!. . . "

"Yes, but is it good enough?"

"I don't know. I don't suppose anything ever is. I thought 'Drusilla'was a great book until my father read it, and then I thought it wasrubbish. . . . "

"It wasn't rubbish, Quinny, and the revised version is really good. "

"I think that, too, but sometimes I'm not sure!"

"Isn't it damnable, Quinny, this job of writing? You never get anysatisfaction out of it. I'd like to make cheeses . . . I'm sure people whomake cheeses feel that they've just made the very best cheese that canbe made . . . But I'm always seeing something in my work that might havebeen done better. "

Henry nodded his head. "I suppose, " he said, "it'll always be like thatI think, " he went on, "Maiden is going to take my novel. I saw Redderyesterday!. . . " Redder was his agent . . . "and he says Maiden's thelikeliest person. I shan't get much. Forty or fifty pounds on account ofroyalties, but it's a start!"

"The great thing, " said Gilbert, "is to get into print. I wonder howmuch I'll make out of my play!"

"More than I shall make out of my novel, " Henry answered. His talks withMr. Redder had modified Henry's ideas of the profits made by novelists. 

Gilbert started up from the low chair into which he had thrown himself. "I'm going to start on another play this minute!" he said. "My head'ssimply humming with ideas!" He stopped half way to the door, and turnedtowards Henry again. "You were working when I came in, " he said. "Whatare you doing?"

"I've started another novel, " Henry answered. 

"Oh! Done much of it?"

"No, only the title. I'm calling it 'Broken Spears. '"

"Damn good title, too, " said Gilbert. 

3

The book was published long before Gilbert's play was produced; for SirGeoffrey Mundane had taken fright at Gilbert's play. He was afraid thatit was too clever, too original, too much above their heads, and soforth. "I'd like to produce it, " he said. "I'd regard it as an honour tobe allowed to produce it, but the Pall Mall is a very expensive theatreto maintain and I don't mind telling you, Mr. Farlow, that I lost moneyon that last piece, too much money, and I must retrieve some of it. Yourplay is excellent . . . Excellent . . . In fact, it's a piece of literature. . . Almost Greek in its form . . . Greek . . . Yes, I think, Greek . . . Remarkable plays those were, weren't they? . . . Have you seen thisportrait of me in to-day's _Daily Reflexion_ . . . Quite jolly, I think. . . But it won't be popular, Mr. Farlow, and I must put on somethingthat is likely to be popular!"

Gilbert found Sir Geoffrey's sudden changes of conversation curiouslyinteresting, but the hint of disaster to "The Magic Casement" disturbedhim too much to let his interest absorb him. 

"Then you've decided not to do the play?" he said, with a throb ofdisappointment in his voice. 

Sir Geoffrey rose at him, fixing his eye-glass, and patted him on theshoulder. "No, _no_, " he said. "I didn't mean _that_. I'll produce theplay gladly . . . Some day . . . But not just at present. If you care toleave it with me. . . . "

Gilbert wondered what he ought to say next. Sir Geoffrey might retainthe play for a year or two, and then decide that he could not produceit. 

"Perhaps, " he said, "you'd undertake to do it within a certain time. . . . "He wanted to add that Sir Geoffrey should undertake to pay a fine if hefailed to produce the play within the "certain time, " but his couragewas not strong enough. He was afraid that Sir Geoffrey might be offendedby the suggestion and return the play at once. He wished that he hadgone to Mr. Redder, as Henry had done, and asked him to place the playfor him. "Redder'd stand no humbug, " he said to himself. 

Sir Geoffrey murmured something about the undesirability of committingoneself, and added that Gilbert should be content to wait for a yearwithout any legal undertaking. "Of course, " he said magnanimously, "ifyou can place the play elsewhere, don't let me stand in your way!" butGilbert, alarmed, hurriedly said that he would be glad to leave the playwith him for the time he mentioned. "I'd like you to take the part ofRupert Westlake, " he said. "I don't think any one could play it so wellas you could!" and Sir Geoffrey, still responsive to flattery, smiledand said he would be delighted to create the part. 

The play which he produced instead of "The Magic Casement" ran for sixweeks, bringing neither profit nor honour to Sir Geoffrey, who began tolose his head, with the result that he produced another play which was agreater failure than its predecessor. Then came a revival of an oldplay which had a moderate amount of success, and "I'll do your playnext, " he said to Gilbert. "I shall certainly do your play next!"

It was because of these delays in the production of "The Magic Casement"that Henry's novel, "Brasilia, " was published much earlier than the playwas performed. He had rewritten it so extensively that it was almost anew novel, very different from the manuscript which his father had read, and it received a fair number of reviews. The critics whose judgment hevalued, praised it liberally, but the critics whose judgment hedespised, either damned it or ignored it. Gilbert said it was splendid. "There's still some Slop in it, " he said, "but it's miles better thanthe first version. " Roger liked it. He said, "I like it, Quinny!" andthat was all, but Henry knew that his speech was considerable praise. Ninian's praise was extravagant, and he was almost like a child in hispleasure at receiving an inscribed copy from Henry. He spent the betterpart of an afternoon in going to bookshops and asking the grosslyignorant assistants why they had not got "Drusilla" prominently placedin the window. The assistants were not humiliated by his charge of grossignorance, nor were they impressed by his statement that the _Times_Literary Supplement had described the book as "remarkable. " So manyremarkable books are published in the course of a season that theassistants do not attempt to remember them; and so many friends ofremarkable young authors wish to know why the works of these remarkableyoung men are not stacked in the window that the assistants have learnedto look listlessly at the people who make the demands. Ninian boughtthree copies of the novel, and sent one to his mother and one to theHeadmaster of Rumpell's and one to his uncle, the Dean of Exebury. "Thatought to help the sales, Quinny!" he said. "I bought 'em in threedifferent shops, and I stuffed the chaps that I'd been to other placesto get it, but found they were sold out!"

"That'll make two copies Mrs. Graham'll have, " Henry replied. "I've sentone to her to-day. . . . "

"Well, she can give the other one to Mary, " said Ninian. 

The book was not a success. Including the number sold to the libraries, only three hundred and seventy-five copies were sold, but the financialfailure of the book did not greatly depress Henry, for he had the praiseof his friends to console him. His father's letter had heartened himalmost as much as the review in the _Times_. "_It's great stuff_, " hewrote, "_and I'm proud of you. I didn't think you could improve it somuch as you have done. Hurry up and do another one!_"

His second book, "Broken Spears, " was in proof before Sir GeoffreyMundane decided to produce "The Magic Casement, " and for a while he wasat a loose end. He could not think of a subject for another story, although he had invented a good title: Turbulence. He sat at his desk, forcing himself to write chapters that ended ingloriously. He wrotepages and pages, and in the evening threw them into the wastepaperbasket. "My God, " he said to himself one morning, when he had beensitting at his desk for over an hour without writing a word, "I believeI've lost the power to write!"

He got up, terrified, and went to Gilbert's room. 

"Hilloa, bloke!" said Gilbert, looking round at him as he entered. 

"Are you busy, Gilbert?" he asked. 

"I'm kidding myself that I am, but between ourselves, Quinny, I'mreading Gerald Luke's last book. That chap's a poet. He's as good asAlfred, Lord Tennyson. Listen to this!. . . "

But Henry did not wish to listen to Gerald Luke's poems. 

"Gilbert, " he said, "I believe I'm done!"

"Done?" Gilbert exclaimed, putting down the book of poems. 

"Yes. I don't believe I shall ever do another book. . . . "

"Silly ass!"

"I can't think of anything. My mind's like pap. I keep on writing andwriting, but I only get a pile of words. That was bad enough, but to-dayI can't write at all. I simply can't write. . . . "

"Haven't you got a theme?"

"Vaguely, yes, but the thing won't come to life. The people lie aboutlike logs, and . . . Damn them, they won't move!"

"Look here, " said Gilbert, "I'm tired of work. Let's chuck it for awhile. You're obviously off colour, and a holiday'll do you good. Let'sgo out somewhere for the day anyhow. I've a first night this evening. We'll wind up with that!"

"What's the play?" Henry asked. 

"A revival. They're bringing Wilde's 'The Ideal Husband' on at the St. James's again, " Gilbert answered. "Alexander's very good in it. . . . "

"That's the fashionable theatre, isn't it?"

Henry's knowledge of London was still very limited, and he seldomvisited the theatre, chiefly because Gilbert, who had to visit them all, spoke of the English drama with contempt. 

"Yes, " Gilbert replied. "All the Jews and dukes go there. Suppose we gofor a row on the Serpentine, Quinny? You can pull the oars for an hour. It'll do you no end of good, and I'll lie in the bottom of the boat andwatch you. That'll do me no end of good. Come on, let's get out ofthis!"

4

They came away from the boathouse, and as they walked towards Hyde ParkCorner, a motor-car drove slowly past them. 

"Who's that?" said Henry, as Gilbert raised his hat to the lady who wasseated in the car. 

"Lady Cecily Jayne, " Gilbert answered. 

"Oh!. . . She's very beautiful. "

"Think so?"

"Yes. "

"I'll introduce you to her to-night. She's certain to be at the theatre. We ought to make certain of getting a ticket for you, Quinny. Let's godown to the theatre and book a seat. "

They came out of the Park and walked down Piccadilly to St. James'sStreet and presently turned the corner of the street in which thetheatre is situated. Henry was able to secure a stall, but it was notnext to Gilbert's. It was in the last row. 

"Never mind, " said Gilbert, "we can meet between the acts. My seat's atthe end of a row, and you can easily get out of yours. If Cecily's in abox, she'll probably ask us to stay in it. She likes to have peopleabout her!"

Henry wanted to talk about Lady Cecily to Gilbert, but the tone of hisvoice as he said, "She likes to have people about her!" prevented himfrom doing so. It was odd, he reflected, that Gilbert had never confidedin him about her, odder still that there had been no talk of her in theBloomsbury house since the night on which Henry and Ninian had discussedGilbert's outburst of anger when her name was mentioned. Gilbert, couldbe very secretive, Henry thought. . . . 

"She's very beautiful, " he said aloud. 

Gilbert nodded his head. 

"Very beautiful!" Henry repeated. 

"You're an impressionable young fellow, Quinny!" said Gilbert. "I won'tcall you 'sloppy' again because I'm tired of telling you that, butreally that's what you are. You've only got to see a beautiful woman fora couple of seconds and you start buzzing round her like a bumble bee. Of course, I'm sloppy myself. We're all sloppy. Damn it, here we are, two healthy young fellows who ought to be working hard, and we'rewasting a fine morning in gabbling about women. . . . "

"Not women, Gilbert! Lady Cecily!. . . "

"Lady Cecily! Lady Cecily!. . . " He stopped suddenly and turned to Henry. "I suppose you know about her and me?" he said. 

"Very little, " Henry answered. 

"Let's have some tea. Well go in here!" The abrupt change disconcertedHenry for a moment or two, but he followed Gilbert into the tea-shop. 

"I can see you're ready to fall in love with her, " Gilbert said, as theydrank their tea. 

"Don't be an old ass!" Henry replied, feeling confused. 

"She'll ask you to come and see her, and you'll waste a lot of time nextweek trying to meet her. . . . "

Henry laughed nervously. "You're rather ridiculous, Gilbert, " he said. "I've never seen Lady Cecily before. I'm just interested in her becauseshe's so beautiful. That's natural enough, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, it's natural enough, and Lady Cecily will like your interestin her beauty!"

The bitterness of his tone was remarkable. Henry felt, as he listened tohim, that there were open wounds. . . . 

"Don't call her Cecily until you've known her two days, " Gilbert wenton. "She's very particular about that sort of thing. And don't fall toomuch in love. It'll take you longer to get over it than it took me!"

"I hate to hear you talking like that, Gilbert. Anybody'd think you werea dried-up old rip. You're frightfully cynical. . . . "

"That's because I'm so young, Quinny. I'm younger than you are, you know. . . Six months . . . But I'll grow up. I _will_ grow up, Quinny, I swear Iwill, and get full of the milk of lovingkindness. Pass the meringues. They play the devil with my inside, but I like them and I don't care . . . Only Lord help the actors to-night!"

"I suppose Lady Cecily got tired of you, Gilbert, " Henry saiddeliberately. He felt angry with him and tried to hurt him. The beautyof Lady Cecily had filled him with longing to meet and know her, and hehad a strange sense of jealousy when he thought of Gilbert's friendshipwith her. 

"No, " Gilbert answered, "I don't think she got tired of me. I think shestill cares for me as much as ever she did!. . . "

"Damned conceit!" Henry exclaimed, laughing to cover the jealousy thatwas in him. 

"Oh, no, Quinny, not really. You'll understand that soon, I expect!" Hepushed his tea-cup away from him, and sat back in his chair. "I supposeit is caddish to talk of her like this, " he went on. "One ought to bearone's wounds in silence and feel no resentment at all . . . But somehowshe draws out the caddish part of me. There are women like that, Quinny. There's a nasty, low, mean streak in every man, I don't care who he is, and some women seem to find it very easily. Here, let's get out of this. You pay. I've had a sugary bun and a couple of meringues. . . . "

5

Later in the evening they went to the theatre together. As they walkedup the steps into the entrance hall, Henry saw Lady Cecily standing in asmall group of men and women who were talking and laughing veryheartily. 

"There she is!" he whispered to Gilbert. 

"Who is?"

"Lady Cecily!"

"Oh, so she is. Let's find our seats!"

"Perhaps you could catch her eye, Gilbert. . . . "

"Catch my grandmother!" said Gilbert. "Come on!"

But if Gilbert were not willing to catch Lady Cecily's eye, Lady Cecilywas very willing to catch his. She saw him walking towards the stalls, and she left her group of friends and went over to him and touched hisarm. "Hilloa, Gilbert!" she said, holding her hand out to him. "Ithought I should see you here to-night!"

She spoke in louder tones than most women speak, and her voice soundedas if it were full of laughter. There was something in her attitudewhich stirred Henry, something which vaguely reminded him of a proudanimal, stretching its limbs after sleep. Her thick, golden hair, cunningly bound about her head, glistened in the softened light, and hecould almost see golden, downy gleams on her cheeks. She held her skirtsabout her, as she stood in front of Gilbert, and Henry could see hercurving breasts rising and falling very gently beneath her silken dress. The odour of some disturbing perfume floated from her. . . . He moved astep nearer to her, wondering why Gilbert did not smile at her nor showany signs of pleasure at meeting her. It seemed to him to be impossiblefor any one but the most curmudgeonly of men to behave so ungraciouslyto so beautiful a woman, or to resist her radiant smiles. She turned tohim as he moved towards her, and he saw that her eyes were grey. Heheard Gilbert mumbling the introduction. 

"So glad!" she said, shaking hands with him. He had expected her to bowto him, and had not been prepared for the offer of her hand. He inwardlycursed his clumsiness as he changed his gesture. "I saw you in the Parkwith Gilbert this afternoon, didn't I?" she added. 

"Yes, " he answered, and could say no more. Shyness had fallen on him, and he stood before her, grinning fatuously, and twisting a button onhis waistcoat, but unable to speak. "Yes, " he said, after a while, "Iwas with Gilbert in the Park this afternoon!"

"Speak up, you fool!" he was saying to himself. "Here's the loveliestwoman you've ever met waiting for you to speak to her, and all you cando is to repeat her phrases as if you were a newly-breeched brat apingits parent. Speak up, you fool!. . . "

He felt his face turning red and hot. Almost before he knew what he wassaying his tongue began to wag, and he heard himself saying, in a stiff, stilted voice, "It was very nice in the Park this afternoon!. . . " _Oh, banal fool_, he thought, _she will despise you now, as if you were agreat, gawky lout_. . . . 

She turned away from him, and spoke to Gilbert. "I've been at Dulbury, "she said, "for six weeks. That's where I got all this brown!. . . " Shelaughed and pointed to her cheeks. "I'm so glad to get back. The countrybores me stiff. Nothing to see but the scenery. Oh dear!" She almostyawned at her remembrance of the country. "And things are always bitingme or stinging me. I'm miserable all the time I'm there!"

"Then why do you go?" said Gilbert. 

"Jimphy wanted to go. Jimphy thinks it's his duty to show himself to thetenants now and again. It's the only return he can make, poor dear, forall that rent they pay!"

Gilbert said "Hm!" and then turned to go to the stalls. "It's Jimphy'sbirthday to-day, " she said, and he turned to her again. "That's whywe're here to-night. Together, I mean. He's treating me to a box. Comeround and talk to us, Gilbert, after the first act . . . And you, too, Mr. . . . Mr!. . . "

She fumbled over his name. Gilbert, as is the custom in England whenintroducing people, had spoken the name so indistinctly that she had notheard it. 

"Quinn!" he said. 

"Of course, " she replied. "Mr. Quinn. I'm awfully stupid about names. You'll come, too?"

"I should like to!"

"Do. Gilbert, don't forget. Jimphy's very morose this evening. He'sthirty-one to-day, and he thinks that old age is creeping over him!"

"All right, " said Gilbert gloomily, and then he and Henry went to theirseats. 

"Who is Jimphy?" said Henry, as they walked down the stairs into theauditorium. 

"Her husband. Didn't you notice something hanging around in thevestibule while we were talking to her?"

"No. There were so many people about!"

"Well, if you had noticed something hanging around, that would have beenJimphy. His real name is Jasper, but Cecily never calls any one by hisreal name . . . Except me. She can't think of a name for me!"

They entered the auditorium and stood for a moment looking about thetheatre. People were passing quickly into their seats now, and thetheatre was full of an eager air, of massed pleasure, and a loud buzz ofconversation spread over the stalls from the pit where rows of youngwomen whispered to each other excitedly as this well-known person andthat well-known person entered. 

"That's 'er, that's 'er!" one girl said in a frenzied whisper to hercompanion. 

"Viola Tree?" the other girl, gazing vacantly into the stalls, replied. 

"No, silly! Ellen Terry! Clap, can't you?"

And they clapped their hands as the actress went to her seat. 

There was more clapping when Sir Charles Wyndham came in and took hisseat. 

"Is it Viola Tree?" the girl repeated. 

"No, silly. It's Wyndham. Bray-vo! Seventy, if 'e's a day, an' don'tlook it. My word, I am enjoyin' myself, I can tell you! Everybody's 'ereto-night. Of course, it's St. James's, of course!. . . "

Popular criminal lawyers came in and sat next to racing marquises; andlords and ladies mingled with actresses who very ostentatiouslyaccompanied their mothers. A few men of letters and a crowd of dramaticcritics, depressed, unenthusiastic men, leavened the mass of thesemi-great. The rest were the children of Israel. 

"Jews to the right of us, Jews to the left of us!. . . " Gilbert said. 

"Anti-Semite!" Henry replied. 

"Only in practice, Quinny, not in theory. I'll see you at the interval!"

"If you nip out of your seat as the curtain goes down, " said Henry, "wecan both get up to her box before the rush!. . . "

"There won't be any rush. "

"Well, anyhow, we can get up to the box pretty quickly!"

Gilbert walked away without replying, and Henry sat back in his seat andwatched the boxes so that he might see Lady Cecily the moment sheentered. His stall was in the last row, against the first row of thepit, and the girls who had applauded Miss Terry and Sir Charles Wyndhamwere still identifying the fashionable people. 

"I tell you it _is_ 'im, " said the more assertive of the two. 

"I sawr 'is picture in the _Daily Reflexion_ the time that feller . . . Wot's 'is name . . . The one that 'anged all 'is wives in the coal-cellar. . . You know!. . . "

"I know, " the other girl replied. "'Orrible case, I call it!"

"Well, 'e defended 'im. I sawr 'is picture in the _Daily Reflexion_myself. Very 'andsome man, eh? They do say!. . . "

Lady Cecily came into her box, followed by her husband, and Henry lookedsteadily up at her in the hope that she would see him, but she did notglance in his direction. He could see that she had found Gilbert in theaudience, but Gilbert was not looking at her. An odd sensation ofjealousy ran through him. He suddenly resented her familiarity withGilbert. He remembered that she had called him by his Christian name, that she distinguished between him and other men by calling him by hisproper name, and not by some fanciful perversion of it. If only shewould call _him_ by his Christian name!. . . 

She was leaning on the edge of the box, and looking about theauditorium. 

"That's Lydy Cecily Jyne!" he heard the assertive girl behind himsaying. 

"'Oo?'"

"Lydy Cecily Jyne. _You_ know!"

Her husband leant back in his seat, stifling a yawn as he did so, andHenry saw that he was a faded, insignificant-looking man whose headsloped so sharply that it seemed to be galloping away from his forehead;but he did not pay much attention to him. His eyes were fixed on LadyCecily. 

"A bit 'ot, she is, " the girl behind him was saying. "Well, I mean tosay!. . . "

But what she meant to say, Henry neither knew nor cared. The lights inthe theatre were lowered, leaving only the bright, warm glow of thefootlights on the heavy curtain. He could see Lady Cecily's face stillgolden and glowing even in the darkness. 

"My dear, " said the girl behind him, "the things I've 'eard . . . Well, they'd fill a book!"

Then the curtain went up and the play began. 

He saw her leaning forward eagerly to watch the stage, and presently heheard her laughing at some piece of wit in the play: a clear, joyfullaugh; and as she laughed, she turned for a few moments and gazed intothe darkened theatre. Her beautiful eyes seemed to him to be shiningstars, and he imagined that she was looking straight at him. He smiledat her, and then jeered at himself. "Of course, she can't see me, " hesaid. 

He tried to interest himself in the traffic of the stage, but histhoughts continually wandered to the woman in the box above him. 

"She's the loveliest woman I've ever seen, " he said to himself. 

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

1

She turned to greet them as they entered the box. "Come and sit besideme, Gilbert!" she said. "Mr. Quinn . . . Oh, you don't know Jimphy, doyou?" She introduced Henry to her husband who mumbled "How do!" in asulky voice, and stood against the wall of the box twisting hismoustache. The shyness which had enveloped Henry in the vestibule of thetheatre still clung about him, and he felt awkward and tongue-tied. LordJasper Jayne did not help Henry to get rid of his shyness. There was a"Who-the-devil-are-you?" look about him that made easy conversationimpossible and any conversation difficult. Lady Cecily was chatting toGilbert as if she had been saving up all her conversation for a monthpast exclusively for his ears; and Henry could hear a recurrentphrase. . . . "But, Gilbert, it's ages since you've been to see me, and youknow I like you to come!. . . " that jangled his temper and made him feelsavage towards his friend. . . . 

He made an effort to be chatty with Lord Jasper. "How do you like theplay?" he said, as pleasantly as he could, for it was not easy to bechatty with Lord Jasper, whose coarse, flat features roused a sensationof repulsion in Henry. 

"I don't like it, " he replied. "Rotten twaddle!"

"Oh!" Henry exclaimed. 

There did not appear to be anything more to say, nor did Lord Jasperseem anxious to continue the conversation; but just when it appearedthat the effort to be pleasantly chatty was likely to be abortive, LordJasper suddenly walked towards the door of the box. "Come and have adrink!" he said. 

Henry did not wish to go and have a drink, and he paused irresolutelyuntil Lady Cecily suddenly leant forward and said with a laugh, "Yes, dogo with Jimphy, Mr. Quinn. Gilbert and I have such a lot to say to eachother, and Jimphy's not in a good temper. Are you, Jimphy, dear? Yousee, " she went on, "he wanted to go to the Empire, but I made him bringme here!. . . Do cheer up, Jimphy, dear! Smile for the company!. . . "

Lord Jasper opened the door of the box and went out, and Henry, raginginwardly, followed him. Before he had quite shut the door again, LadyCecily had turned to Gilbert. Her hand was on his sleeve, and she wassaying, "But Gilbert, darling!. . . " He shut the door quickly and almostran after Lord Jasper. She was in love with Gilbert, and Gilbert was inlove with her. A woman would not put her hand so affectionately on aman's arm and call him "Gilbert, darling!" if she were not in love withhim. She had wished to be alone with Gilbert . . . Had practically turnedhim out of the box so that she might be alone with Gilbert . . . Had notwaited for him to close the door before she began to fondle him . . . AndGilbert had spoken so bitterly of her!. . . 

He followed on the heels of Lord Jasper, passing through a throng of menin the passages and on the stairs, until he reached the bar. "Whisky andsoda?" said Lord Jasper, and Henry nodded his head. 

"I hate theatres, " Lord Jasper said. 

"Oh!" Henry replied. 

That seemed to be the only adequate retort to make to anything thatJimphy said. 

"Yes, I can't stand 'em. Cecily let me in to-night . . . On a chap'sbirthday, too. She might have chosen the Empire!"

"You like music-halls then?"

"They're all right. Better than theatres anyhow. I like to see girlsdancing and . . . And . . . All that kind of thing!"

A bell rang, warning them that the second act was about to begin. 

"I suppose we ought to go back, " said Henry, putting his glass down. Hehad barely touched the whisky and soda. 

"No hurry, " Lord Jasper replied. "No hurry. And you haven't drunk yourwhisky? Cecily's quite happy with that chap, Farlow. . . . I don't like himmyself . . . Oh, I say, he's a pal of yours, isn't he? Well, it doesn'tmatter now. I don't like him, and he doesn't like me. I know he doesn't. I can always tell a chap doesn't like me because I generally don't likehim. Have another, will you?"

Henry shook his head. 

"I think we ought to be getting back, " he said, "I hate disturbingpeople after the curtain's gone up!"

"You don't want to see that rotten play, do you? Look here . . . I'veforgotten your name! Sorry!. . . "

"Quinn. Henry Quinn!"

"Oh, Quinn! You're not English, are you?"

"I'm Irish. "

"Are you? That's damn funny! Well, anyhow, what I was going to say wasthis. You don't want to see this rotten play, do you?"

"I do rather!. . . "

"No, you don't, Quinn. No, you don't. And I don't want to see it, either. Very well, then, what's to prevent you and me going to theEmpire together, eh? We can come back for Cecily!. . . "

Henry stared at Lord Jasper. "But we can't do that, " he protested. 

"Oh, yes we can. Cecily won't mind. She'll be glad. We'll go and tellher . . . And look here, Quinn, I'll introduce you to a girl I know . . . Very nice girl . . . Perfect lady . . . Lives with her mother as a matter offact . . . Eh?"

"I'd much rather see the play!"

"Oh, all right, " Lord Jasper said sulkily. "All right!"

Henry moved towards the door of the bar, but Lord Jasper made no attemptto follow him. "Aren't you coming?" he said, pausing at the door. 

"No, " Lord Jasper replied. "I don't want to see the damn play. I shallhave another drink, and then I shall go to the Empire by myself. Youbetter go back to Cecily and . . . And that chap Farlow. She won't noticeI'm not there!"

"You'd better come and tell her yourself, hadn't you?" Henry said. 

Lord Jasper deliberated with himself for a few moments. 

"All right, " he said. "I will. I'll come presently. You tell her, willyou, that I'll come presently. P'raps you'll change your mind, Quinn, and come with me to the Empire after you've had another dose of thisdamn play. A chap doesn't want to see a play on a chap's birthday!. . . "

It occurred to Henry that Lord Jasper Jayne was slightly drunk. He hadswallowed the second whisky and soda rather more expeditiously than hehad swallowed the first, and no doubt he had dined well. There was ableary look in his eyes that signified a heated brain. . . . 

"My God, " Henry said to himself, "that beautiful woman married to this. . . This swine!"

"I'm thirty-one to-day, ole f'la, " Lord Jasper continued, coming over toHenry and taking hold of his arm. "Thirty-one. I'm getting on in years, ole f'la, that's what I'm doing . . . Sere and yellow, so to speak . . . Anda chap my age doesn't want to be bothered with a damn play. He wantssomething . . . Something substansl!. . . " He fumbled over the word"substantial" and then fell on it. "Something substansl, " he repeated. "Now, if you come with me!. . . "

"I say, you mustn't talk so loudly, " Henry warned him. "The curtain'sgone up, and you'll disturb people. . . . "

"All right, ole f'la, all right. I won't say another word!"

They stumbled along the passages to the door of the box, and entered asquietly as they could. 

"We thought you'd got lost, " said Lady Cecily, smiling at Henry. 

"No . . . No, " he replied, "we didn't get lost!"

2

Gilbert was sitting in the seat where Jimphy had sat earlier in theevening. "Gilbert is going to stay here, " said Lady Cecily. "Won't youstay, too, Mr. Quinn!"

"Won't I be crowding you?. . . " he said. 

"Oh, no, " she replied. "Jimphy doesn't want to see the play anyhow, andhe'll be quite happy if he has some one to talk to in the bar betweenthe acts!. . . "

He felt the blood rushing violently to his head, and in his anger healmost got up and walked out of the box. That she should use him to keepher sottish husband entertained while she made love to Gilbert, filledhim with a sensation that came near to hatred of her. Gilbert had notspoken since they returned to the box, but it was clear from his mannerthat there had been love-making. . . . He crushed down his anger, and stoodbehind Lady Cecily while the play went on. Her bare shoulders had asoft, warm look, in the subdued light . . . He was conscious ofbeautifully shaped ears nestling in golden hair . . . And the anger in himbegan to die. Once she moved slightly in her seat, and looked round asif she wanted to speak. He leant over her. 

"Do you want anything?" he asked. 

"My wrap, " she said. 

He picked up the flimsy wrap and put it about her shoulders, and sheturned to him and smiled and said, "Thank you!" and instantly all theanger in him perished. He had admired her before, admired her ardently, but now he knew that he loved her, must love her always. . . . 

There was a sound of heavy breathing, and he turned to look at Jimphy. 

"Wake him up, " said Lady Cecily in a whisper. "Poor dear, he always goesto sleep when he's annoyed!"

He tiptoed across the box and shook the sleeper's arm. 

"Eh? What is it?" Lord Jasper said, as he opened his eyes and gapedabout him, and then, as he became conscious of his surroundings, hesaid, "Is it over yet?"

"No. The second act isn't finished yet!"

"Oh, Lord!" he groaned. 

"It'll be over in a few minutes!"

"Thank God! I can't stick plays . . . Not this sort anyhow. I don't mind amusical comedy now and again, although I think you can have too much ofthat. . . . "

Lady Cecily turned and waved her hand at her husband. "Ssh, Jimphy!" shewhispered. "You're making a frightful row!"

The second act ended soon afterwards, and Lord Jasper scrambled to hisfeet . . . He had been sitting on the ground at the back of the box, yawning and yawning . . . And made for the door. "Come and have a drink, Quinn!" he said. 

"No, thanks, " Henry replied. 

"Come on. Be a sport!"

"Do go with him, Mr. Quinn, please, " Lady Cecily said. "He's sure to getlost or troublesome or something. Aren't you, Jimphy dear?"

"Aren't I what!"

"Aren't you sure to get lost or troublesome or something!"

Lord Jasper did not reply to his wife. "Come along, Quinn!" he said. "Cecily thinks she's being comic!. . . "

Henry hesitated for a moment or two. He did not wish to go to the bar, and he was sick of the sight of Lord Jasper. He wished very much to staywith Lady Cecily, and he felt hurt because she had urged him toaccompany her husband. He would have to do as she had asked him, ofcourse. . . . While he hesitated, Gilbert got up quickly from his seat andwent to the door of the box. "I'll come with you, Jimphy!" he said, andthen, almost pushing Lord Jasper in front of him, he went out, closingthe door of the box behind him. Henry stared at the door for a second ortwo, nonplussed by the swiftness of Gilbert's action, and then he turnedto Lady Cecily. A look of vexation on her face instantly disappeared andshe smiled at Henry. 

"Come and sit here, " she said, "and tell me all about yourself. Ihaven't really got to know you, have I? Gilbert says you're Irish!"

"Yes, " he answered, sitting down. 

"How jolly!" she said. 

"Do you think so?"

"Oh, yes. It's supposed to be awfully jolly to be Irish. All the Irishpeople in books seem to be very amused about something. I suppose it'sthe climate. They say there's a great deal of rain in Ireland. . . . "

"Yes, " he answered vaguely, "there is some sometimes!"

She questioned him about Gilbert and Ninian Graham and Roger Carey. 

"It must be awfully jolly, " she said, "to be living together like that, you four men!"

He noticed that Lady Cecily always spoke of things being "awfully jolly"and wondered why her vocabulary should be so limited in its expressionsof pleasure. 

"We get on very well together, " he replied, "and it's very lively attimes. Gilbert's very lively. . . . "

"Is he?" she said. "He always seems so . . . So . . . Well, not lively. Idon't mean that he's solemn or pompous, but he's so . . . So anxious tohave his own way, if you understand me. Now, I'm not like that!" Shebroke off and laughed. "Oh, I don't quite mean that. I am selfish. Iknow I am. I love having my own way, but if I can't have a thing just asI want it . . . Well, I'm content to have it in the way that I can. Now, do you understand?"

Henry nodded his head. 

"Gilbert isn't like me, " she continued. "He says to himself, 'I musthave this thing exactly in this way. If I can't have it exactly in thisway, then I won't have it at all!' and it's so silly of him to behavelike that!"

Henry looked up at her in a puzzled fashion. "What is it he wants?. . . Ibeg your pardon, I'm being impertinent!"

"Oh, no!" she replied, smiling graciously at him. "He wants . . . Oh, hewants everything like that. Haven't you noticed?"

"No, " Henry answered, "I haven't. "

"Well, you will some day. My motto is, Take what you can get in the wayyou can get it. It's so much easier to live if you act on thatprinciple!"

"Gilbert's an artist, Lady Cecily, and he can't act on that principle. No artist can. He takes what he wants in the way that he wants it orelse he will not take it at all!"

"Exactly. That's what I've been saying. And it's so silly. But nevermind. He's young yet, and he'll learn!"

She turned to gaze at the audience, and Henry, not knowing what else todo and having no more to say, looked too. He could think of plenty offine things to say to her, but he could not get them on to his tongue. He wanted to tell her that he had scarcely heard a word of what was saidin the first act of the play because he had filled his mind withthoughts of her, and had spent most of the time in gazing up at her asshe sat leaning on the ledge of her box; but when he tried to speak, hismouth seemed to be parched and his tongue would not move. 

3

"Do you like this play?" she asked. 

"No, " he replied. 

"Why? I thought everybody admired Wilde's wit. It's clever, isn't it?"

"I don't like it!"

"But it's supposed to be awfully clever!" she insisted. 

"It's a common melodrama with bits of wit and epigram stuck on to it!"Henry answered. 

"Oh, really!"

"The wit isn't natural . . . It doesn't grow naturally out of the life ofthe play, I mean. It's stuck on like . . . Like plaster images on thefront of a house. The witty speeches aren't spontaneous . . . They don'tcome inevitably!. . . I'm afraid I'm not making myself very clear, butanyhow, I don't like the play. I don't like anything Wilde wrote, except'The Ballad of Reading Gaol, ' and even that's not true. That's reallywhy I dislike his work. It isn't true, any of it. It's all lies. . . . "

"How awfully interesting!"

"Do you know 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol'? he asked. 

"No. . . . Oh, yes! I have read it. Of course, I have. Somebody lent it tome or I bought it or something. . . . Anyhow, I have read it, but I can'tremember. . . . "

"Do you remember the lines?. . . 

 _For all men kill the thing they love, But all men do not die. "_

"I seem to remember something . . . " she said vaguely. 

"Well, that's a lie. All men don't kill the thing they love. Wildecouldn't help lying even when he was most sincere!"

"That's awfully interesting, " Lady Cecily said. "Do you know I've neverthought of that before. Won't you come and see me one afternoon, Mr. Quinn?"

"I should like to, " he said, and as he spoke, the door of the box openedand Gilbert entered, followed by Lord Jasper. 

Lady Cecily turned eagerly to Gilbert. "Oh, Gilbert, " she said, "Mr. Quinn promised to come and see me one afternoon. You'll bring him, won'tyou? Come on Wednesday, both of you!"

"I should like to, " Henry murmured again. 

"I don't think I can come on Wednesday, " Gilbert said. 

"Oh, yes, you can, " Lady Cecily exclaimed, "and if you can't, you cancome some other day. You'll come, Mr. Quinn, won't you?"

"Yes, Lady Cecily!. . . "

"And. . . . Jimphy, dear, do be nice and ask them to come to supper with usafter the play. We're going to the Savoy afterwards. I thought it wouldplease Jimphy to go there because he'd be sure not to like the play. . . . "

"Yes, you come along, you chaps!" Jimphy said, willingly. 

"I can't. I'm sorry, " Gilbert replied. "I've got to go down to FleetStreet and write a notice of this play!"

"Can't you put it off for once, Gilbert!" Lady Cecily said. 

Gilbert laughed. "I should like to see Dilton's face if I were to dothat. . . . "

"Dilton! Dilton!! Who is Dilton?" she demanded. 

"My editor. Very devoted to the human note, Dilton is. No, Cecily, I'msorry, but I must go down to Fleet Street. Henry can go with you. "

She paused for a moment, and then said, "How long will it take you towrite the notice of the play?" she asked, adding before he could answer, "Can't you do it now?"

"Yes, Gilbert, " Henry said, "you can do it now. You know the play, andyou've seen the acting in two acts. . . . "

Gilbert looked at him very directly, and when he spoke, his voice wasvery firm. "No, " he said, "I must go down to Fleet Street!"

Lady Cecily was cross and hurt, and she turned away pettishly. 

"Oh, very well!" she said shortly. 

There was a slight air of restraint among them . . . Even Lord Jasperseemed to feel it. It was he who spoke next. 

"You can come and join us at the Savoy after you've done your . . . Whatyoumaycallit, can't you?" he said. 

Gilbert paused for a moment. He looked as if he were undecided as towhat he should say. Then he said, "Yes, I can do that . . . If I get awayfrom the office in time!"

Henry was about to say, "Why, of course, you can get away in plenty oftime!" but he checked himself and did not say it. 

"Oh, that will do excellently, " said Lady Cecily, all smiles again. 

Then the lights of the theatre were lowered and the third act began. 

4

When the play was over, they drove to Fleet Street in Lord Jasper'smotor-car. Lady Cecily had suggested that they should take Gilbert tohis newspaper office in order to save time, and he had consented readilyenough. 

"We might wait for you!. . . " she added, but Gilbert would not agree tothis proposal. "It isn't fair to keep Jimphy from his birthday treat anylonger, " he said, "and I may be some time before I'm ready!"

She was sitting next to Gilbert, and Henry and Jimphy were together withtheir backs to the chauffeur. She did not appear to be tired nor had thesparkle of her beautiful eyes diminished. She lay against the paddedback of the car and chattered in an inconsequent fashion that was oddlyamusing. She did not listen to replies that were made to her questions, nor did she appear to notice that sometimes replies were not made. Itseemed to Henry that she would have chattered exactly as she was nowchattering if she had been alone. Neither Gilbert nor Jimphy answeredher, but Henry felt that something ought to be said when she made adirect remark. 

"Isn't Fleet Street funny at this time of night?" she said. "So quiet. Ido hope the supper will be fit to eat. Oh, Gilbert, I wish you'd saysomething in your notice of Wilde's play about his insincerity. I feltall the time I was listening to the play that . . . That it wasn't true!'"

Gilbert sat up straight in his seat and looked at her. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, " she went on. "The wit seemed to be stuck on to the play . . . Itwasn't part of it!. . . "

Gilbert leant back in his seat again. "You've been talking to Henryabout Wilde, haven't you?"

She laughed lightly and turned towards Henry. "Oh, of course. Mr. Quinn, I always repeat what other people say. I forget that they've said it tome and think that I've thought of it myself!"

Henry professed to be pleased that she had accepted his ideas socompletely. 

"But, of course, " she continued, "what you said was quite true. I'vealways felt that there was something wrong with Wilde's plays. . . . "

"I can't think what you all want to talk about a play for. I never seeanything in 'em to talk about!" Jimphy murmured sleepily. 

"Go to sleep, Jimphy, dear. Well wake you when we get to the Savoy. . . . "

"Always ragging a chap!" Jimphy muttered, and then closed his eyes. 

The car turned down one of the narrow streets that lead from FleetStreet to the Thames Embankment, and then turned again and stopped. 

"Oh, is this your office, Gilbert?" Lady Cecily said. "Such an ugly, dark looking place! But I suppose it's interesting inside? Newspaperoffices are supposed to be awfully interesting inside, aren't they?"

"Are they?" Gilbert replied, as he got out of the car. "I've nevernoticed it. Noisy holes where no one has time to think. Good-bye. "

"Not 'good-bye, ' Gilbert! We shall see you soon at the Savoy, shan'twe?"

"Oh, yes. Yes. I'd almost forgotten that!"

The car drove off, threading the narrow steep street slowly. They couldhear the deep rurr-rurr of the printing machines coming from thebasements of the buildings, and now and then great patches of pallidblue light shot out of open windows. Motor-vans and horse-waggons weredrawn up against the pavements in front of the office-doors, waiting forthe newly-printed papers. Bundles of _Daily Reflexions_ were alreadyprinted and were being thrown on to the cars and waggons fordistribution. 

"Are they printed already?" Lady Cecily said. 

"Most of them were printed at nine o'clock, " Henry replied. "Theha'penny illustrated papers go all over the country before the ordinarypapers are printed at all!"

"How awfully clever of them!" she said. 

The car turned into Fleet Street and quickly drove up to the Savoy. 

"Thank God!" said Jimphy. "I shall get some fun out of my birthday now!"

"Jimphy loves his food, " Lady Cecily exclaimed. "Don't you, Jimphy?Don't you love your little tum-tum?. . . "

They entered the hotel and found the table which had been reserved forthem. There was a queer, hectic gaiety about the place, as if every onepresent were making a desperate effort to eat, drink _and_ be merry. People greeted Lady Cecily as she passed them and muttered, "'loa, Jimphy!" Henry had never been to a fashionable restaurant before, andthe barbaric beauty of the scene fascinated him. The women wereriotously dressed, and the colours of their garments mingled and mergedlike the colours of a sunset. There was a constant flow of peoplethrough the room, and the chatter of animated voices and bursts oflaughter and the jingling, sentimental music played by the orchestramade Jimphy forget how bored he had been at the theatre. The slightlyfuddled air which he had had in the bar of St. James's had left him andhe began to talk. 

"Ripping woman, that!" he said to Henry, indicating a slight, dark girlwho had entered the restaurant in company with a tall, flaxen-hairedman. "Pretty little flapper, I call her! I like thin women, myself. Well, slender's a better word, isn't it? What you say, Cecily?"

Lady Cecily had tapped her husband's arm. "Ernest Lensley's just comein, " she said. "He's with Boltt. Go and bring them both here. They can'tfind seats, poor dears!"

Ernest Lensley and Boltt were fashionable novelists. Lensley was animpudent-looking man with very blue eyes who had written a number ofpopular stories about society women who "chattered" very much in the waythat Lady Cecily chattered. The heroine of his best-known book wasmodelled, so people said, on the wife of a Cabinet Minister, andthousands of suburban Englishwomen professed to have an intimateknowledge of the statesman's family life solely because they had readLensley's novel. It was a flippant, vulgar book, the outcome of aflippant, vulgar mind. Boltt had a wider public than Lensley. Boltt, atall, thin, stooping man, with peering eyes, had discovered "the humannote" of which Gilbert's editor prated continually. He was a precise, priggish man, extraordinarily vain though no vainer than Lensley, who, however, had an easy manner that Boltt would never acquire. He spoke inthe way in which one might expect a "reduced gentlewoman, poor dear!" tospeak, and there was something about him that made a man long to kickhim up a room and down a room and across a room and back again. Hisheroes were all big, burly, red-haired giants, who wore beards and oldclothes and said "By God, yes!" when they admired the scenery, and leda vagabond life in a perfectly gentlemanly manner until they met theheroine. . . . His heroines constantly fell into situations which wereextremely compromising in the eyes of a censorious world, but they werenever completely compromised. The whole world knew, before theconclusion of the story, that the heroine had been falsely suspected. Ifshe had spent the night in the hero's bedroom, she had done so with thebest intentions, under the strictest chaperonage . . . Usually that of herdear, devoted old nurse, God bless her!. . . Whose presence in the bedroomhad been hidden, until the middle of the penultimate chapter, from theheroine's friends and relatives. The hero, of course, poor, manly, broken giant, had been ill, suffering from a fever, and in his deliriumhad called for her, discontent until she had put her cool firm hand uponhis hot brow, and the doctor had said that if she would stay with him, she would save his life. So she had flung her reputation to the windsand had hurried to his bedroom. . . . It was pretentious, flatulent stuff, through which a thin stream of tepid lust trickled so gently that itseemed like a stream of pretty sentiment, and it was written with suchcleverness that young ladies in Bath and Cheltenham and Atlantic City, U. S. A. , were tricked into believing that this was Life . . . Real Life. . . . 

Lensley and Boltt followed Jimphy eagerly to Lady Cecily's table. Lensley was glad to sit with her: Boltt was glad to be certain of hissupper. Lensley enjoyed listening to Cecily's babble because he couldalways be certain of getting something out of her speech that would justfit into his next novel: Boltt liked his contiguity to members of thegoverning class. They completely ignored Henry after they had beenintroduced to him. 

"Mr. Quinn is writing a novel, too!" said Lady Cecily. 

"Oh, yes!" said Lensley. 

"Indeed!" Boltt burbled. 

Thereafter they addressed themselves exclusively to Lady Cecily and herhusband. Lensley told Lady Cecily that she was to be the heroine of hisnext book. "I'm studying you now, dear Lady Cecily!" he said. "Jottingyou down in my little book . . . All your little plaguey ways andspeeches!. . . "

"How awfully exciting!" she replied, and her eyes seemed to becomebrighter, and she leant towards the novelist as if she meant to revealherself more clearly to him. 

"You'll be angry with me when you see the book, " he said. "Dreadfullyangry. You know poor Mrs. Maldon was very hurt about '_Jennifer_'!" Mrs. Maldon was the wife of the Cabinet Minister. 

"I shan't mind what you say about me, " Lady Cecily said, "so long as youmake me the heroine of the book. What are you going to call it?. . . "

"The Delectable Lady!"

"How awfully nice!. . . "

5

Henry began to feel bored. He wished that Gilbert would come. Gilbertwould soon rout this paltry little tuppenny-ha'penny Society novelistwith his pretty-pretty chatter and his pretty-pretty blue eyes and hisair of being a knowing dog. Lady Cecily seemed to have forgotten Henryaltogether. . . . He turned to Lord Jasper who was trying hard not to yawnin Mr. Boltt's face. Mr. Boltt had been a surveyor at one period of hislife, and his favourite theme of conversation was Renascencearchitecture. He was now telling Jimphy of the glories of FrenchCathedrals, and Jimphy, who cared even less for French Cathedrals thanhe cared for English ones, was wondering just how he could change theconversation to a discussion of the latest ballet at the Empire andparticularly of a girl he knew who was a perfect lady and, as a matterof fact, lived with her mother. The supper party seemed likely to enddismally, and Henry, when he was not wishing that Gilbert would come, was wishing that he himself had not come. He could not understand why itwas that he had so much difficulty in talking easily with strangers. Lensley was prattling as if he were determined to discharge an entirenovelful of "chatter" at Lady Cecily, and Boltt's little clipped, pedantic voice recited a long rigmarole about a glorious view in Francewhich he had lately seen while motoring in that country. Boltt admiredNature in the way in which any man of careful upbringing would admire areally nice woman. . . . 

Henry had lately reviewed a book by Boltt for a daily paper, and he hadexpressed scorn for it and its stuffed dummies, masquerading as men andwomen . . . And Boltt, who took himself very seriously indeed, had writtena letter of complaint to the editor of the paper. Henry wondered whatBoltt would say if he knew that the review had been written by him, andan imp in him made him interrupt the long recital of the glories ofFrance. 

"The _Morning Report_ had a good go at your last novel, Boltt!" he said. 

The novelist looked reproachfully at Henry, as if he were rebuking himfor indelicacy. 

"I never see the _Morning Report_, " he replied loftily. 

"Oh, then, I suppose you didn't see the review. I thought you probablygot clippings from a Press-cuttings agency!. . . "

"Yes, oh, yes, I do. I seem to remember that the _Morning Report_ wasunkind. Not quite fair, I should say!"

Lord Jasper began to take an intelligent interest in the conversation. "Have you published another book, Boltt?" he asked innocently. 

"Yes . . . A . . . Lord Jasper . . . I have!" Mr. Boltt said, and there wassome sniffiness in his tones. He was accustomed to lengthy reviews onthe day of publication, and it annoyed him to think that there was someone in the world, some one, too, with whom he was acquainted, who didnot know that the publication of one of his books was an event. 

"I can't think how you writing chaps keep it up, " said Jimphy. "Icouldn't write a book to save my life!. . . "

"No?" said Mr. Boltt, smiling in the way of one who says to himself, "God help you, my poor fellow, God help you!"

"I suppose it's all a question of knack, " Jimphy continued. "You getinto the way of it and you can't stop. Sometimes a tune gets into myhead and I have to keep on humming it or whistling it. I'm not whatyou'd call a sentimental fellow at all, but that song . . . You know, about the honeysuckle and the bee . . . I _could not_ get that song out ofmy head. I thought I should go cracked over it. Always humming it orwhistling it . . . And I suppose if you get an idea for a yarn into yourhead, Boltt, well, it's something like that!"

Lady Cecily had exhausted the "chatter" of Mr. Lensley. 

"What's that!" she exclaimed. 

"Lord Jasper is describing the processes of literature to me, LadyCecily, " said Mr. Boltt sarcastically. "I have been greatly interested. "

The man's conceit irritated Henry and he longed to disconcert him. 

"Yes, " he said. "It all began by my saying something about a review ofBoltt's last novel in the _Morning Report!_ . . . "

Mr. Boltt made motions with his hands. "Really, " he said, "Lady Cecilyisn't in the least interested in my effusions. "

"Oh, but I am, Mr. Boltt, " Lady Cecily interrupted. "What did the papersay? I'm sure it was very flattering!. . . "

"The reviewer said that the book would probably please the vicar's onlydaughter, but that it wouldn't impose upon her when she grew up. . . . "

"Oh!" said Lady Cecily. 

"Some rival, I'm afraid!" Mr. Boltt murmured. "Some one who dislikesme. . . . "

"The chief complaint was that your people aren't real. . . . " Henrycontinued, though Mr. Boltt frowned heavily. 

"Yes. I don't think we need discuss the matter further, Mr. . . . "

"Quinn!!" said Henry. 

He felt happier now that he had pricked the egregious fellow's vanity. 

"Silly of 'em to say that, " said Lord Jasper. "Boltt sells a tremendousnumber of books, don't you, Boltt? More than Lensley does. And thatshows, doesn't it? If a chap can sell as many books as Boltt sells . . . Well, he must be some good. I've never read any of 'em, of course, butthen I'm not a chap that reads much. All the same, a chap I know saysBoltt's all right, and he's a chap that knows what he's talking about. Imean to say, he's written books himself!"

Lady Cecily was no longer interested in the history of Mr. Boltt'snovel. The meal was almost at an end, and Gilbert had not arrived. Sheglanced towards the door, looking straight over Mr. Lensley's head, andHenry could see that she was fidgeting. 

"Gilbert's a long time, " he said to her. 

She did not answer, and before he could repeat his remark to her, LordJasper exclaimed, "I say, you know, we ought to be getting home, Cecily. It's getting jolly late!. . . "

"Let's wait a little longer, " she said, "Gilbert hasn't come yet!"

"But I mean to say, this place'll be closing soon. . . . " Mr. Boltt made asatirical remark on the ridiculously early hours at which restaurantsare compelled by law to close in England. In France, he said . . . ButLord Jasper did not wait to hear what is done in France. 

"He won't come now, " he said. "He wouldn't have time to eat any supperif he were to come . . . And it's getting jolly late, and I'm jollytired!"

He got up from the table as he spoke. "Very well, " said Lady Cecily, rising too. 

The others followed her example, and Boltt and Lensley prepared toescort Lady Cecily to the door, but she gave her hand to them and said"Good-night!"

"It's so nice to have seen you both, " she said. "No, don't trouble. Mr. Quinn will come with me!"

Lord Jasper had gone on in front to find his car, and Lady Cecily andHenry walked down the room together until they came to the courtyardwhere the car was waiting for them. 

"Tell Gilbert I'm angry with him, " she said. "He must come and see mesoon and tell me how sorry he is. You'll come, too, perhaps, Mr. Quinn!"

He found his tongue suddenly. "I will, Lady Cecily, " he said. "I'll comeeven if he doesn't. I've enjoyed to-night tremendously. . . . "

"Have you, Mr. Quinn?"

"Yes. . . . "

"I say, come along, " Lord Jasper shouted to them. 

"Poor Jimphy's getting fractious. You can tell me how much you'veenjoyed to-night when we meet again!"

He took her to the car, and watched her as she gathered her skirts abouther and climbed inside. 

"Can't we drop you at your house!" said Lord Jasper. "It won't be anytrouble to do so!"

"No, thanks, " Henry replied. "I'd rather walk home. It's such abeautiful night!"

Lord Jasper followed Lady Cecily into the car. "You're a romantic chap, Quinn!" he said, and then, as an afterthought, he added quickly, "I say, we must arrange to go to the Empire together some evening. You're thesort of chap I like. . . . "

Lady Cecily waved her hand to him. As the car moved off he saw herbeautiful face leaning against the side of the car, and he longed totake her in his arms and kiss her. Then the car turned, and drovequickly off. He stood for a moment or two looking after it, andcontinued to stand still even when it had swung out of the courtyardinto the Strand. Then he walked slowly away from the restaurant. He hadnot gone very far when his arm was touched, and, turning round, he sawGilbert. 

6

"Hilloa, " he said, "you're late!"

"No, I'm not, " Gilbert replied. 

"Yes, you are. The Jaynes have gone!"

"I saw them going. I've been here for over half-an-hour, waiting foryou!"

"Over half-an-hour! What's up, Gilbert?"

Gilbert put his arm in Henry's and made him move out of the Savoycourtyard. "Come down to the Embankment, " he said. "It's quieter there. I want to talk to you!"

"But hadn't we better go home? We can talk on the way. It's late. . . . "

"No. I want to go to the Embankment. Damn it all, Quinny, it's asentimental place for a heart-to-heart talk, isn't it?"

"You aren't drunk, Gilbert, I suppose?"

"Never so sober in my life, Quinny. Besides, I don't get drunk. Peoplewho talk about beer and whisky as much as I do, never get drunk. Comealong, there's a good chap!"

"Very well . . . Only I'm not going to stay long. I'm no good for work theday after I've had a long night. . . . "

"I won't keep you long. How did the supper-party go off?"

"Damnably. Two tame novelists turned up . . . Boltt and Lensley!"

"Those asses!"

"Yes. Lensley 'chattered' to Lady Cecily, and Boltt bored and bored andbored. . . . I took him down a bit. I rubbed in the _Morning Report_review. The little toad could hardly sit still! Of course, he affectedthe superior person attitude!"

"God be merciful to him, poor little rat! He wants to be a wicked, hell-for-leather fellow, but he hasn't got the stomach for it! What didCecily say when I didn't turn up?"

"She looked rather cross. She told me as we came away to tell you shewas angry with you. You're to go and apologise to her as soon aspossible!"

"Did she?"

"Yes. I say, Gilbert, why didn't you turn up?"

They had reached the Embankment, and they crossed to the riverside andleant against the parapet. 

"Because I was afraid to, " said Gilbert. 

"Afraid to!"

"Yes. Can't you see I'm in love with her?"

"Well, I guessed as much. . . . "

"I love her so much that she can do what she likes with me, and all shelikes to do is to destroy me!"

"Destroy you!"

"Yes. If you love Cecily, she demands the whole of your life. Every bitof it. She consumes you. . . . Oh, I know this sounds like a pennydreadful, Quinny, but it's true. I've asked her to run away with me, butshe won't come. She says she hates scandal and she likes her socialposition. My God, I feel sick when I see Jimphy with her . . . Like adamned big lobster putting his . . . His claws about her. He isn't a badfellow in his silly way, but I can't stand him as Cecily's husband!"

"I know what you mean, " said Henry. 

"I thought that if Cecily and I were to go away together, we could getour lives into some sort of perspective, and then I could go on with mywork and have her as well, but she won't go away with me. She wants meto hang around, being her lover . . . And I can't do that, Quinny. It'smean and furtive, and I hate that. You're always listening for some onecoming . . . A servant or the husband or some one . . . And I can't standthat. If I love a woman, I love her, and I don't want to spend part ofmy life in pretending that I don't. I loathe myself when I have tochange the talk suddenly or move away when a door opens. . . . Do youunderstand, Quinny?"

Henry nodded his head, but did not speak. 

"Once when I'd been begging Cecily to go away with me, Jimphy walkedinto the room . . . And I had to pretend to be talking about somenasturtiums that Cecily had grown. I felt like a cad. That's what'srotten about loving another man's wife. It's the treachery of the thing, the pretending. . . . I've often wondered why it is that love of that sortseems so romantic and splendid in books and so damnably mean when itcomes into the Divorce Court . . . But when I met Cecily I knew why . . . It's because of the treachery and the deceit. I used to think that itwas beautiful in books because artists were able to see the hiddenbeauty, and ugly in the Divorce Court because ordinary people only sawthe surface things . . . But I'm not sure now. "

He stopped speaking, but Henry did not speak instead. He did not knowwhat to say; he felt indeed that there was nothing to be said, that hemust simply listen. He watched the electric signs on the other side ofthe river as they spelt out the virtues of Someone's Teas and Another'sWhisky, and wondered how long it would be before Gilbert said somethingelse. He was beginning to be bored by the business, and he felt sleepy. He was jealous too, when he thought that Gilbert had kissed Cecily andhad been held in her beautiful arms. . . . 

"Cecily doesn't mind about the shabbiness of it, " he heard Gilbertsaying. "We've talked about that, and she says it doesn't matter a bit. All that matters to her is that she shan't be found out . . . Too publiclyanyhow! She called me a prig when I said that I was afraid of taintingmy work. . . . "

"Tainting your work?"

"Yes. Perhaps it is priggish of me, but I feel that if I'm mean in onething I may be mean in another. I'm terribly afraid of doing bad work, Quinny, and I got an idea into my head that if I let taint into my lifein one place, I couldn't confine it and it would spread to other places. Do you see? If I let myself get into a rotten position with Cecily, Imight write down. . . . "

"I don't see that, " said Henry. "Because you love a married woman, itdoesn't follow that you'll pot-boil. "

"No, perhaps not. But I was afraid of it. I suppose it was priggish ofme. That wasn't the only thing, however. I knew that if I did whatCecily wanted me to do, I'd spend most of my time with her or thinkingabout her. I can't work if I'm doing that, for I think of her and longfor her. . . . Oh, let's go home. It isn't fair to keep you here listeningto my twaddle!"

But they did not move. They gazed down on the swiftly-flowing river, andpresently they heard Big Ben striking one deep note. 

"One o'clock!" said Gilbert. 

"What are you going to do about it, Gilbert?" Henry asked at last. 

"I'm going away from London. I've chucked my job on the _DailyEcho_. . . . "

"Good Lord, man, what for?"

"Well, I'm fed-up with the English theatre to begin with, and I'm fed-upwith journalism too . . . And it's the only way I can get free of Cecily. I must finish the new comedy and I can't finish it if I stay in townand see Cecily. She won't let me finish it. She'll make me go here andgo there with her. Shell keep me making love to her when I ought to beworking. God damn women, Quinny!"

"You're excited, Gilbert!"

"Yes, I know I am. When I'm with Cecily, I'm like a jelly-fish. Shesucks the brains out of me. She doesn't care whether I finish my comedyor not. She doesn't care what happens to my work so long as I hangaround and love her and kiss her whenever she wants me to. My brains goto bits when I'm with her. I'm all emotion and sensation . . . Just likethose asses Lensley and Boltt. Quinny, fancy spending your life turningout the sort of stuff those two men write. They've written about a dozenbooks each, and I suppose they're good for twenty or thirty more. I'drather be a scavenger!"

They walked along the Embankment towards Waterloo Bridge. 

"I'm going to Anglesey, " Gilbert said. "I shall go and stay there untilthe end of the summer!"

"I shall miss you, Gilbert. So will Ninian and Roger!"

"I shall miss you three, but it can't be helped. I'm the sort of man whosuccumbs to women . . . I can't help it. If they're beautiful and soft andfull of love . . . Like Cecily . . . They down me. Their femininity topplesme over, and there's no work to be got out of me while I'm like that. But my work's of more consequence to me than loving and kissing, Quinny, and if I can't do it while I'm Cecily's lover, then I'll go away fromher and do it!"

"What makes you think you could do it if she were to go away with you?"

"I don't know. Hope, I suppose. "

They walked up Villiers Street into the Strand, and made their waytowards Bloomsbury. 

"I suppose, " said Gilbert, "you wouldn't like to come to Anglesey too?"

Henry hesitated for a few moments. He had a vision of Lady Cecily'sbeautiful face leaning against the padded side of the car, and heremembered that she had smiled and waved her hand to him. . . . 

"No, " he replied, "I don't think so . . . Not at present at any rate!" andthen, added in explanation, "If I go, too, the house will be broken up. That would be a pity!"

"I forgot that, " Gilbert answered. "Yes, of course!"

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

1

Gilbert did not leave London, as he had intended, for Sir GeoffreyMundane definitely decided to produce "The Magic Casement" in successionto the play which was then being performed at his theatre. He hadalready discussed the caste with Gilbert, and on the morning after thescene on the Embankment, he telephoned to Gilbert, telling him that hehad made engagements for the play, and would like to fix a date on whichhe should read the manuscript to the company. "Any day'll suit me, "Gilbert had informed him, and Sir Geoffrey thereupon settled that thereading should take place two days later. "I suppose, " he said, "you'dlike to attend the rehearsals?" and Gilbert, forgetting his resolutionto fly from Lady Cecily, said that he would. He thought that theexperience would be very valuable to him. He became so excited at theprospect of seeing a play of his performed at a West End theatre that hewas unable to sit still, and his language, always extravagant, becameabsurd. He broke every rule that Roger had invented. "It'll take all theroyalties you'll receive to pay off this score!" Roger said, thrustingthe fine-book before him. 

"Poo!" said Gilbert. "I'll buy up the Ten Commandments with one night'sroyalty! Oh, it's going to be a success, I tell you. It'll run for ayear . . . More than that . . . Two years!. . . " He began to estimate thenumber of performances the play would receive. "Six evening performancesand two matinées every week for fifty-two weeks! Eight times fifty-two, Roger . . . You were a Second Wrangler, you ought to know that! Fourhundred and sixteen! Lordy God, what a lot! And if I get ten poundsevery time it's done . . . Oh-h-h! Four thousand, one hundred and sixtypounds! And then there'll be American rights and provincial rights. . . . I'll tell you what I'll do, coves! I'll buy you all a stick ofbarley-sugar each, or a penn'orth of acid-drops . . . Which 'ud youlike?. . . "

It was during the rehearsals of "The Magic Casement" that "BrokenSpears" was published. 

"It isn't as good as 'Drusilla, '" they said to Henry, when they had readit, "but it'll be more popular!"

It was. The critics who had praised "Drusilla" were not impressed by"Broken Spears, " but the critics who had been indifferent to "Drusilla"praised "Broken Spears" so extravagantly that six thousand copies of itwere sold in six months, apart from the copies which were sold to thelending libraries, and the sale of "Drusilla, " in consequence of thesuccess of "Broken Spears, " increased from three hundred andseventy-five copies to one thousand five hundred and eighty. Mr. Quinn, in thanking Henry for a copy of it, merely said, in direct reference tothe book, "_I see you've been tickling the English. Don't go on doingit!_" and the effect of this criticism was so stimulating that Henrydestroyed the three chapters of "Turbulence" which were in manuscriptand started to re-write the book. Literary agents now began to write tohim, telling him how charmed they were with his work and how certainthey were of their ability to increase his income considerably; and apublisher of some enterprise and resource wrote to him and said that hewould like to see his third book. 

"You look as if you were established, Quinny!" said Roger, and Henryblushed and murmured deprecatingly about himself. 

"How's the Bar?" he said. 

"Oh, it's not bad. I got a fellow off to-day who ought to have had sixmonths hard, " Roger answered. "And a new solicitor has given me abrief. We ought to ask him to dinner and feed him well. F. E. Robinsonalways tells his butler to bring out the second-quality wine forsolicitors. Snob!"

"We seem to be getting on, don't we, coves?" Gilbert interjected. "Lookat all these press-cuttings!. . . "

He held out a fistful of slips which had come that evening from aPress-Cutting Agency. "All about me, " he said, "and the play. Mundaneknows more about the preliminary puff than any one else in England. Hecalls me 'this talented young author from whom much may be expected. ' Inever thought I should get pleasure out of a trade advertisement, but Ido. I'm lapping up this stuff like billy-o. I saw a poster on the sideof a 'bus this afternoon, advertising 'The Magic Casement. ' Mundane'sname was in big letters, and you could just see mine with the naked eye. I hopped on to the 'bus and went for a fourpenny ride on it, so's Icould touch the damn thing . . . And I very nearly told the conductor whoI was. It's no good pretending I'm not conceited. I am, and I don'tcare. Where's Ninian?"

"Not come in yet. How'd the rehearsals go to-day?" Roger answered. 

"Better than any other day. They're beginning to feel their parts. It'sabout time, too. I felt sick with fright yesterday, they were so wooden. Mundane might have been the village idiot, instead of the fine actor heis . . . But they're better now. Ninian's late!"

"Is he? He'll be here presently. By the way, my Cousin Rachel's comingto town to-morrow. She's been investigating something or other . . . Factory life, I think. I thought I'd bring her here to dinner. She maybe interesting. "

"Do, " said Gilbert, and then, as he heard the noise of the street-doorbeing closed, he added, "There's Ninian now!"

Ninian, on his way to his room, stopped for a moment or two, to shoutat them, "I say, the mater and Mary've come up from Devon. I got a wirethis afternoon. I'm not grubbing with you to-night. They want to go to atheatre, and I've got to climb into gaudy garments and go with them. . . . "

He closed the door and ran up the stairs, but before he reached thefirst landing, Gilbert called after him, "I say, Ninian!"

"Yes, " he answered, pausing on the stairs. 

"Bring them to dinner to-morrow night. Roger's Cousin Rachel is coming, and we may as well make a party of it. Gaudy garments and liqueurs. Doyou think they'll stay for the first night of my play?"

"That's one of the reasons why they've come up, " Ninian answered. 

2

Rachel Wynne and Mrs. Graham and Mary dined with them on the followingevening, and it seemed to Henry when he saw Mary entering Ninian'ssitting-room that she was a stranger to him. He had known her as a childand as a young, self-conscious girl, but this Mary was a woman. He feltshy in her presence, and when, for a few moments, he was left alone withher, he hardly knew what to say to her. They had been "Quinny" and"Mary" to each other before, but now they avoided names. . . . He spoketritely about her journey to London, reminding her of the slowness ofthe train between Whitcombe and Salisbury, and wondered whether sheliked London better than Boveyhayne. His old disability to say thethings that were in his mind prevented him from re-establishing hisintimacy with her. He tried to say, "Hilloa, Mary!" but could not do so, and his shyness affected her so that she stood before him, fingering herfan nervously, and answering "Yes" and "Oh, yes!" and "No" and "Oh, no!"to all that he said. He liked the sweep of her hair across her brow andthe soft flush in her cheeks and the slender lines of her neck and thegleam of a gold chain that held a pendant suspended about her throat. Hethought, too, that her eyes shone like lustres in the light, andsuddenly, as he thought this, he felt that he could speak to her withhis old freedom. He moved towards her, shaping his lips to say, "Oh, Mary, I . . . " but the door opened before he could speak, and Rachel Wynneentered the room with Roger and Mrs. Graham. 

"Yes, Quinny?" Mary said, saying his name quite easily now. 

He laughed nervously and looked at the others. "I've forgotten what Iwas going to say, " he said, and went forward to greet Mrs. Graham. 

"My cousin, Rachel Wynne, " said Roger, introducing her to him. 

Rachel Wynne was a tall, thin girl, with a curious tightened look, as ifshe were keeping a close hold on herself. When she held out her hand tohim, he had a sensation of discomfort, not because her clasp was firm, but because she seemed to be looking, not through him, but into him. Hewas very sensitive to the opinion of people about him, feeling veryquickly the dislike of any one who did not care for him, and in a momenthe knew that Rachel Wynne was antipathetic to him. Henry was always rudeto people whom he disliked . . . He could not be civil to them, howeverhard he might try to be so, but his feeling in the presence of peoplewho disliked him, was one of powerlessness: he was tongue-tied andnervous and very dull, and his faculties seemed to shrivel up. There wasa look of cold efficiency about Rachel Wynne that frightened him. Sheseemed to be incapable of wasting time or of waywardness. Her career atNewnham, Roger had told him, had been one of steady brilliance. "Therewasn't a flicker in it, " he had said to Henry. "Rachel's alwayswell-trimmed!"

There were no ragged edges about Rachel Wynne. Her frock was neatlymade, so neatly that he was unaware of it, and her hair was boundtightly to her head by a black velvet ribbon. She had a look of coldtidiness, as if she had been frozen into her shape and could not bethawed out of it; but she was not cold in spirit, as he discoveredduring dinner when the conversation shifted from generalities aboutthemselves to the work she had lately been doing. They had been talkingabout Gilbert's play, and then Mrs. Graham had turned to Henry and toldhim how much she liked his novels. Her tastes were simple, and shepreferred "Broken Spears" to "Drusilla. " "Of course, 'Drusilla' is veryclever!" she said a little deprecatingly, and then she turned to Racheland asked her whether she had read Henry's novels. 

"No, " Rachel answered. "I very seldom read novels!. . . "

He felt contempt for her. Now he knew why he had been chilled by herpresence. She belonged to that order of prigs which will not readnovels, preferring instead to read "serious" books. Such a woman wouldtreat "Tom Jones" as a frivolous book, less illuminating than sometedious biography or history book. She might even deny that it had anyillumination at all. . . . He could not prevent a sneer from his retort toher statement that she seldom read novels. 

"I suppose, " he said, "you think that novels are not sufficientlyserious?"

"Oh, no, " she answered quickly. "I just haven't time for novel-reading!"

That seemed to him to be worse than if she had said that she preferredto read solid books. A novel, in her imagination, was a light diversionin which one only indulged in times of unusual slackness. No wonder, hethought to himself, all reformers and serious people make such a mess ofthe social system when they despise and ignore the principal means ofknowing the human spirit. 

"That's a pity, " he said aloud. "I should have thought that you'd findnovels useful to you in your work. I mean, there's surely more chance ofunderstanding the people of the eighteenth century if you readFielding's 'Tom Jones' than there is if you read Lecky's 'England in theEighteenth Century. '"

"Is there?" said Rachel. 

"Of course, there is, " Gilbert hurled at her from the other side of thetable. "Fielding was an artist, inspired by God, but Lecky was simply afact-pedlar, inspired by the Board of Education. Why even that dull ass, Richardson, makes you understand more about his period than Lecky does!"

"Perhaps, " said Rachel, in a tone which indicated that there was nodoubt in her mind about the relative values of Lecky and Fielding. Sheturned to Henry. "I wish you'd write a book about the factory system, "she said. "That would be worth doing!"

He disliked the suggestion that "Broken Spears" and "Drusilla" had notbeen worth doing, and he let his resentment of her attitude towards hiswork affect the tone of his voice as he answered, "I don't know anythingabout factories!"

"You should learn about them, " she retorted. 

No, he did not like this woman, aggressive and assertive. He turned tospeak to Mary . . . But Rachel Wynne had not finished with him. 

"I've spent six months in the north of England, " she said, reaching forthe salted almonds. "I've seen every kind of factory, model andotherwise!"

"Oh, yes, " he answered, vaguely irritated by her. He wished that shewould talk to her other neighbour and leave him in peace with Mary. Asan Improved Tory, he knew that he ought to get all the information aboutfactories out of her that he could, but as Henry Quinn, he had no otherdesire than to be quit of her as quickly as possible. 

"And I think the model factories are no better than the rotten ones, "she went on. 

"What's that you say?" Roger called to her from the other side of thetable. 

She repeated her remark. "I went over a model factory last week . . . Acocoa and chocolate works . . . And I'd rather be a tramp than work init, " she went on. 

"But isn't it rather wonderfully organised?" Roger asked. 

"Oh, yes, it's marvellously arranged. There are baths and gymnasia andcontinuation classes and free medical inspection and model houses andsavings banks and all the rest of it . . . But I'd rather be a tramp, Itell you. . . . You see, even with the best of employers, genuinelyphilanthropic people eager to deal justly with the workers who maketheir fortunes for them, the factory system remains a rotten one. Youcan't make a decent, human thing out of it because it's fundamentallyvile!. . . "

"My dear Rachel!. . . " Roger began, but she would not listen tointerruptions. 

"They look just as pale and 'peeked' in model factories as they do inbad ones. They're cleaner, that's all. The firm sees that they wash, butit can't prevent them from becoming ill, and they're all ill. They don'tlook any better than the people in the bad factories. They look worse, because they're cleaner and you can see their illness more easily. Butthat isn't all. They have no hope of ever controlling the firm . . . They'll never be allowed to own the factory . . . That will always belongto the Family. The best that the clever ones can look forward to is alittle managership. Most of them can't look forward to anything butbeing drilled and washed and medically inspected and modelly housed andmorally controlled. . . . Oh, it isn't worth it, it isn't worth it. I'drather be a dirty, insanitary tramp!"

A kind of moral fury possessed her, and they sat still, listening to herwithout interrupting her. 

"I saw three girls at a machine, " she went on, "and one of them did somelittle thing to a chocolate box and then passed it on to the secondgirl who did a further little thing to it and then passed it to thethird girl who did another little thing to it, and then it was finished, and that was all. They do that every day, and the man who took me roundtold me that the firm had to catch 'em young, otherwise they can'tacquire the knack of it. I saw girls putting pieces of chocolate intotinfoil so quickly that you could hardly see their movements; and theydo that all day. And they have to be caught young . . . Before they'veproperly tasted life. They wouldn't do it otherwise, I suppose. That'syour factory system for you! And think of the things they produce. Chocolate boxes full of sweets! There was one girl who spent the wholeof her working days in pasting photographs of grinning chorus girls onto box-lids. I should go mad if I had to look at that soppy grin all daylong. . . . "

Mrs. Graham murmured gently, but her words were not audible. Rachelwould not have heard them if they had been. 

"Well, " said Gilbert, "what do you want to do about it?"

"I'm a reactionary, " Rachel answered. "I'm against all this . . . Thisprogress. We're simply eating up people's lives, and paying meanly forthem. I'd destroy all these factories . . . The whole lot. They aren'tworth the price. And I'd go back to decent piggery. What is the good ofa plate when it means that some girl has been poisoned so that it can bebought cheaply?"

"But we must have plates?" Henry said. 

"Why?" she retorted. 

"Well!" he rejoined, smiling at her as one smiles at a foolish child. 

"Oh, I know, " she went on, "you think I'm talking wildly. I've heard allabout your Improved Toryism. Roger's told me about it. You all thinkthat you are the anointed ones, and that the bulk of people are born todo what they're told. You won't have whips for your slaves . . . You'llhave statutes. You won't sell them . . . You'll socialise them. Cogs inwheels, you'll make them! Oh, it isn't worth while living like that. Youdon't even let a man do a whole job . . . You only let him do a part ofone, and you're trying to turn him into an automaton more and more everyday. He's to press a button . . . And that's all. Presently, he'll _be_ abutton!. . . "

"My dear Rachel, " Roger said, "you don't imagine, do you, that the wholeworld's going to turn back to . . . Piggery as you call it? We've spentcenturies in creating this civilisation. . . . "

"Is it worth while?" she demanded. 

"Yes. . . . "

"Prove it, " she insisted. 

"Well, of course, that's a job, isn't it? I can't prove it in a fewminutes. . . . "

"You can't prove it, Roger, " she interrupted. "If all this civilisationwere worth while, you wouldn't need to prove it: it would be obvious. We'd only have to look out of the door to see the proof. "

"I don't say that the factory system is satisfactory at present. Itisn't; but it can be improved. . . . "

"No, it can't, Roger. It's unimprovable. I dare you to go to any modelfactory in England and study it with an honest mind and then say that itis worth while. It makes the people ill . . . They get no pleasure out oftheir work. . . . "

"We could shorten the hours in factories, " Henry suggested. 

"If you do that, you admit that the thing is rotten, and can only beendured in short shifts!" she retorted. "And who wants his hoursreduced? A healthy man wants to work as long as he can stand up. I don'twant my hours reduced. I'll go on working until I drop . . . But Iwouldn't work for two seconds if I didn't like the job!" She turnedagain to Henry. "Why don't you write a book exposing the factory system. It would be much more useful than all this lovey-dovey stuff. I'd givethe world for a book like that . . . As good as Tolstoy's 'War and Peace'or 'Dickens's 'Oliver Twist'!. . . "

3

Mary had not spoken at all while Rachel harangued them on the questionof the factory system, but that was not surprising, for Rachel had notgiven any of them a chance to say more than two or three words. InNinian's sitting-room, when Gilbert turned to her and asked her what shethought of factories, she blushed a little, conscious that they had allturned to look at her, and answered that she had never seen a factory. 

"Never seen a factory!" Rachel exclaimed, and was off again indenunciation. 

Henry went and sat beside Mary while Rachel told tales of sweaters thatcaused Mrs. Graham to cry out with pain. 

"Mary!" he said to her under his breath. 

"Yes, Quinny, " she answered, turning towards him and speaking as softlyas he had spoken. 

He fumbled for words. "It's . . . It's awfully nice to see you again, " hesaid. 

"It's nice to see you all again, " she replied. 

"You're . . . You're so different, " he went on. 

"Am I?" She paused a moment, and then, smiling at him, said, "So areyou. "

"Am I very different?" he asked. 

"In some ways. You're quite famous now, aren't you?"

"Famous?" he said vaguely. 

"Yes. Your novels. . . . "

He laughed. "Oh, dear no, not anything like famous!"

"Well-known, then. "

"Moderately well-known. That's all. But what's the point?"

"Well, that's the point, " she replied. "You were only 'Quinny' before, but now you're the moderately well-known novelist, and I'm afraid ofyou. . . . "

"Don't be absurd, Mary!"

"But I am, Quinny. I read a review of one of your books in some paper, and it called you a very wise person, and said you knew a great dealabout human nature or something of that sort. Well, one feels ratherawful in the presence of a person like that. At least, I do!"

He felt that she was chaffing him, and he did not want to be chaffed byher. He liked the "Quinny" and "Mary" attitude, and he wished that shewould forget that he had written "wise" books. 

"You're making fun of me, " he said. 

"Oh, no, I'm not, " she answered quickly. "I'm quite serious!"

He did not answer for a few moments. He could hear Rachel's passionatevoice saying, "They get seven shillings a week . . . In theory. There arefines . . . " and he wondered why it was that she repelled him. Hersincerity was palpable . . . It was clear that she was hurt by themiseries of factory girls . . . But in spite of her sincerity, he feltthat he could not bear to be near her. "If she'd only talk of somethingelse, " he thought . . . And then returned to Mary. 

"Do you remember that time at Boveyhayne?" he said. 

"Which time?" she asked. 

"The first time. "

"Yes. "

He swallowed and then went on. "Do you remember what I said to you . . . On the platform at Whitcombe?"

She spoke more quickly and loudly as she answered him. "Oh, yes, " shesaid, "we got engaged, didn't we? We _were_ kids!. . . "

Mrs. Graham caught the word "engaged. "

"Who's engaged?" she asked. 

"No one, mother, " Mary answered. "Quinny and I were talking about thetime when we were engaged!. . . "

He felt a frightful fool. What on earth had possessed her that sheshould treat the matter in this fashion?

"Were you engaged, dear?" Mrs. Graham said. 

"Oh, yes, mother. Don't you remember? Of course, we were kids then!. . . "

Why did she insist on the fact that they were "kids" then?

"I remember it, " Ninian interjected. "Old Quinny was frightfully sloppyover it. Oh, I say, I met Tom Arthurs to-day. He's going to Southamptonto-morrow. The _Gigantic's_ starting on her maiden trip, and he's goingover with her. I wish to goodness I could go too!"

"Why don't you?" Mrs. Graham said. It seemed to her too that if Ninianwished to do anything that was sufficient reason why he should beallowed to do it. 

"I can't get away, " he answered. "We're busier than we've ever been. ButI'm going to Southampton to see the _Gigantic_ start. The biggest boatin the world! My goodness! Tom's awfully excited about it. You'd thinkthe _Gigantic_ was his son!. . . "

Henry thanked heaven that at last the conversation had veered fromfactories and his engagement to Mary. He tried to fasten it to the_Gigantic_. 

"What are you so busy about that you can't go with Tom?" he asked. 

"Oh, heaps of things! Old Hare's keen on building a Channel Tunnel, andhe's spent a good deal of time working the thing out!"

Mrs. Graham had always imagined that the proposal to build a Tunnelbetween France and England was a joke, and she said so. 

"Good heavens, mother!" Ninian exclaimed. "Old Hare isn't a joke. Thething's as practicable as the Tuppenny Tube. People have beenexperimenting for half-a-century with it. Joke, indeed! They've madeseven thousand soundings in forty years!. . . "

"Really!" said Mrs. Graham. 

"And borings, too . . . Lots of them . . . In the bed of the Channel. They've started a Tunnel, two thousand yards of it from Dover, under thesea, and there isn't a flaw in it. Hardly any water comes through, although there isn't a lining to the walls . . . Just the bare, greychalk. I was awfully sick when I was told I couldn't go to Harland andWolff's, but I don't mind now. Building a Channel Tunnel is as big a jobas building the _Gigantic_ any day, and Hare is as brainy as TomArthurs!"

He became oratorical about the Channel Tunnel, and he told them storiesof remarkable borings on both sides of the sea. 

"There's a big thick bed of grey chalk all the way from England toFrance, " he said, "and the water simply can't get through it. They'vemade experimental tubes from our side and from the French side, and theylet people into them, and it was all right. No mud, no water, no foulair . . . Perfectly sound!"

He quoted Sartiaux, the French engineer, and Sir Francis Fox, theEnglish engineer. "They don't fool about with wildcat schemes, I cantell you. Why, Fox built the Mersey Tunnel and the Simplon Tunnel . . . And the Channel Tunnel is as easy as that!"

There were to be two tubes, each capable of carrying the ordinaryBritish railway, bored through a bed of cenomian chalk, two hundred feetthick on an average. 

"We could have an extra tunnel for motor-cars, if necessary!" saidNinian. "Just think of the difference there'd be if we had the Tunnel. You could buzz from London to Paris in five or six hours withoutchanging, and you'd never get seasick!. . . "

"That would be nice, " said Mrs. Graham. 

"And you'd be safer in the Tunnel than you'd be on the Channel. There'dbe a hundred and fifty feet of watertight chalk between you and thesea!"

They argued about the Tunnel. How long would it take to construct? "Oh, six or seven years!" Ninian answered airily. "What about War? SupposingEngland and France went to War with each other?"

"We could flood a long section of the Tunnel from our side, and theycouldn't pump the water out from theirs, " he answered. "Of course, Idon't know much about it, but when you get chaps like Hare and Sartiauxand Fox talking seriously about it, you listen seriously to them. Anyhow, I do. Old Hare told me yesterday I was getting on nicely!. . . "

Mrs. Graham was delighted. "Did he, dear?" she burbled at Ninian. 

"Yes, " Ninian answered, "he said I wasn't such an ass as he'd thought Iwas. Oh, I'm getting on all right!"

4

Henry sat back in his chair while they talked, and let his mind fillwith thoughts of Mary. She was listening to Ninian, not as if sheunderstood all that he was saying, but as if she were proud of him, andwhile he watched her, he felt his old affection for her surging up inhis heart. He had described a young, fresh girl in "Drusilla, " and hehad fallen in love with his description. Now, looking at Mary, herealised that unconsciously he had drawn her portrait. "I must have beenin love with her all the time, " he thought, "even when I was runningafter Sheila Morgan!"

He looked at her so steadily that she felt his gaze, and she turned tolook at him. She smiled at him as she did so, and he smiled back at her. 

"Isn't it interesting to hear about the Tunnel?" she said. 

"Eh?. . . Oh, yes! Yes. Awfully interesting. . . . "

5

"You know, " said Roger when Mrs. Graham and Mary and Rachel had gone, "we really haven't talked enough about this factory system. Rachel'swild about it, of course . . . She's a girl . . . But she's got more senseon her side than we have on ours. It really isn't any good ignoring it. It's too big to be overlooked. I think we ought to have a course oftalks about the whole thing. We could get people to come and tell us allthey know. Rachel's got a lot of information. We could pick it out ofher. And then there's that woman . . . What's her name . . . Mc something. . . Who knows all about factories . . . Mc Mc Mc . . . "

"Mary McArthur, " said Gilbert. 

"Yes. That's her name. I wonder if she'd come and dine with us. Youknow, we haven't had any women. That's an oversight, isn't it?" Hewalked towards the door as he spoke. "I'm going to bed now, " he said. "I've got a county court case in the morning at Croydon, and I shallhave to get up early. Good-night!"

"Good-night, Roger!" they murmured sleepily. 

"Oh, by the way, " he added, "Rachel and I are engaged. I thought I'dtell you!"

He shut the door behind him. 

6

They sat up, gaping at the closed door. 

"What'd he say?" said Ninian. 

"He says he's engaged to that blooming orator!" Gilbert answered. 

"But, damn it, why?" said Ninian. 

"And we've got the lease of this house for another two years!" Henryexclaimed. "I suppose he'll want to get married and . . . All that!"

They were silent for a while, contemplating this strange disruption oftheir affairs. 

"Of course, people do get engaged!" said Ninian, and then he relapsedinto silence. 

"I've been in love myself, " Gilbert said, "but . . . This is excessive. Weought to do something. Can't we get up a memorial or something?. . . "

Ninian sat upright, pointing a finger at them. "You know, chaps, " heexclaimed, "Roger's ashamed of himself. He didn't tell us 'til he'd gotto the door, and then he damn well hooked it!"

"He's been trapped, " Gilbert said. "Females are always trappingchaps!. . . "

"We ought to save him from himself!" Ninian stood up as he spoke. 

"But supposing he doesn't want to be saved?" Henry asked. 

"We'll save him all the same, " Ninian answered. 

"Let's go on a deputation to him, " Gilbert suggested. "We will put itreasonably to him. Well tell him that he mustn't do this thing. . . . Oh, Lord, coves, it's no good. This house is doomed. A female has done it!"

"If it had been you, Gilbert, or Quinny, " said Ninian, "I'd have thoughtit was natural. You're that sort! But old Roger . . . Well, there's nodoubt about it, God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. Let's go to bed. I'm fed-up with everything!"

7

Henry switched off the light and got into bed. He shut his eyes andtried to sleep, but sleep would not come to him. He lay blinking at theceiling for a while, and then he got up and went into his sitting-roomand got out his manuscript and began to write. He wrote steadily forhalf-an-hour, and then he put down his pen and read over what he hadwritten. 

"No, " he said, crumpling the paper and throwing it into the wastepaperbasket, "that won't do!"

He walked about the room for a few minutes, and then he went back tobed, and lay there with his hands clasped about his head. 

"I don't see why I shouldn't get married myself, " he said, and then hewent to sleep. 

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

1

In the morning, Ninian and Roger rose early, for Ninian was going toSouthampton to see the _Gigantic_ start on her maiden voyage to America, and Roger had a case at a county court outside London. In a vague way, Ninian had intended to talk to Roger about his engagement, to reasonwith him, as he put it. Gilbert had pointed out that the chiefemployment of women is to disrupt the friendships of men. "Men, " he hadsaid to Ninian and Henry after Roger had gone to bed, "take years tomake up a friendship, and then a female comes along and busts it up in acouple of weeks!" Ninian did not intend to let Miss Rachel Wynne breakup _their_ friendship, and he planned a long, comprehensive and settlingconversation with Roger on the subject of females generally and ofRachel Wynne particularly. In bed, he had invented an extraordinarilyconvincing argument, before which Roger must collapse, but by the timehe had finished shaving, the argument had vanished from his mind, andhis convincing speech shrivelled into a halting, "I say, Roger, oldchap, it's a bit thick, you know!" and even that ceased to exist when hesaw Roger, with the _Times_ propped against the sugar bowl, eating baconand eggs as easily as if he had never betrothed himself to any woman. 

"Hilloa, Roger!" said Ninian, sitting down at the table, and reachingfor the toast. 

"Hilloa, Ninian!" Roger murmured, without looking up. 

Magnolia entered with Ninian's breakfast and placed it before him. 

"Anything in the _Times_?" Ninian said, pouring out coffee. 

"Usual stuff. The bacon's salt!. . . "

The time, Ninian thought, was hardly suitable for a few home-thrustingwords on the subject of marriage, so he reminded Roger that he was goingto Southampton. 

"Tom Arthurs has promised to show me over as much of the _Gigantic_ aswe can manage in a couple of hours. That won't be as much as I'd like tosee, but I'll try and go over her when she comes back from New York. Anymustard about?"

"You'll be back again to-night, I suppose?"

"Probably. You're right . . . This bacon is salt, damn it!"

Roger rose from the table and moved to the window where he stood for awhile looking out on the garden. It seemed to Ninian that in a moment ortwo he would speak of his engagement, and so he sat still, waiting forhim to begin. 

"Well, " said Roger, turning away from the window and feeling for hiswatch, "I must be off. So long, Ninian!"

He went out of the room quickly and in a little while, Ninian heard thestreet door banging behind him. 

"Damn, " he said to himself, "I've just remembered what I was going tosay to him!"

He had finished his breakfast and left the house before Gilbert andHenry came down from their rooms. Henry was too tired to talk much, andGilbert, finding him uncommunicative, made no effort to makeconversation. He picked up the _Times_ and contented himself with themorning's news, while Henry read a letter from John Marsh which had comeby the first post. 

"_I'm interested in your Improved Tories_, " he wrote, "_I think thescheme is excellent. You sharpen your wits on other people's, and youkeep in touch with all kinds of opinions. That's excellent! Your father, and you, too, used to say we were rather one-eyed in Dublin, and Ithink there's a good deal of truth in that, so I'm trying to get agroup of people in Dublin to form a society somewhat similar to yourImproved Tories. Did you ever meet a man called Arthur Griffiths whenyou were here? He is a very able, but not very sociable, man, and sopeople do not know him as well as they ought to . . . And his tongue islike a flail . . . So that most of the people who do know him, don't likehim. The Nationalist M. P. 's detest him. Well, several years ago hefounded a society which he called the Sinn Fein Movement, and theprinciple of the thing is excellent up to a point. Do you remember anyof your Gaelic? Sinn Fein means 'we ourselves, ' and that is theprinciple of the society. The object is to induce Irishmen to do forthemselves, things that are done for them by Englishmen. It ought toappeal to your father. Griffiths got the idea, I think, from Hungary. We're to withdraw our representatives from the English parliament andstart an Irish Government on the basis of a Grand Council of the CountyCouncils. We're to have our own consular service, our own National Bankand Stock Exchange and Civil Service, and a mercantile marine so that wecan trade direct with other countries. And we're to nationalise therailways and canals and bogs (which are to be reclaimed) and take overinsurance and education and so forth. All this is to be done by theGeneral Council of the County Councils in opposition to anything of thesort that is done by the English Government in preparation for the daywhen there is an Irish Government when, of course, the General Councilwill be merged in the Government. Oh, and we're to have Protection, too!It seems rather a lot, doesn't it? but the idea is excellent and, ifmodified considerably, fairly practical. Griffiths has antiquatednotions of economics, however, and some of the things he says prevent mefrom joining him. His great idea is to attract capital to Ireland bytelling capitalists how cheap Irish labour is. That seems to me to be anabominable proposal, likely to lead to something worse than Wigan andall those miserable English towns your father dislikes so heartily. Andprobably, of all his proposals, it is the most likely to succeed. That'swhy I'm opposed to him at present. I cannot bear the thought of seeingEngland duplicated in Ireland. But the scheme has merit, and Galway andI are plotting to capture the movement from Griffiths. We think that ifwe could graft the Sinn Fein on to the Gaelic League, we'd be on the wayto establishing Irish independence. Our people are becoming verymaterialistic, and we must quicken their spirits again somehow. DouglasHyde is the trouble, of course. He wants to keep the Gaelic League clearof politics. As if you can possibly keep politics out of anything inIreland! We want to make every Gaelic Leaguer a conscious rebel againstEnglish beliefs and English habits. I wish you'd come over and join us. It'll be very hard, but exhilarating, work. You've no notion of howsordid and money-grubbing and English the mass of our people arebecoming. It's a man's job to destroy that spirit and revive the old, careless, generous, God-loving Irish one. . . . _"

"Still harping on that old nationality, " Henry thought to himself, whenhe had finished reading the letter. 

He was in no mood for thoughts on Ireland. His mind was still full ofthe idea that had come into his head the previous night. _Why should henot get married?_ The idea attracted and repelled him. It would, hethought, be very pleasant to live with . . . With Mary, say . . . To loveher and be loved by her . . . Very pleasant . . . But one would have toaccept responsibilities, and there would probably be children. He woulddislike having to leave Ninian and Roger and Gilbert, particularlyGilbert, and his share in the meetings of the Improved Tories wouldbegin to dwindle. On the other hand, there would be Mary . . . If he wereto lose his friends and the careless, cultured life they led in theBloomsbury house, he would gain Mary, and perhaps she would more thancompensate for them. . . . 

Gilbert interrupted his thoughts. 

"Rum go, this about Roger, isn't it?" he said. 

Henry nodded his head. "I hadn't any idea of it, " he replied. "I'd nevereven heard of her until he said she was coming to dinner!"

"I had, " Gilbert said, "but I didn't think he was going to let the lifeforce catch hold of him. Close chap, Roger! He never gives himself away. . . And that's the sort that's most romantic. You and I are obviouslysloppy, Quinny, but somehow we miss all the messes that reticent, closechaps like Roger fall into. You don't much like her, do you?"

"Well, I'm not what you might call smitten by her, but that's becauseshe seems to think I'm wasting time in writing novels. She's toostrenuous for me. I like women who relax sometimes. She'll orate to himevery night, just as she orated to us, about people's wrongs. . . . "

"Mind, she's clever!" said Gilbert. 

"Oh, I don't deny that. That's part of my case against her. Really andtruly, Gilbert, do you like clever women?"

"Really and truly, Quinny, I don't. Perhaps that's not the way to putit. I like talking to clever women, but I shouldn't like to marry one ofthem. I'm clever myself, and perhaps that's why. There isn't room formore than one clever person in a family, and I think a clever man shouldmarry an intelligently stupid woman, and vice versa. You can argue withclever women, but you can't kiss them or flirt with them. All the cleverones I've ever known have had something hard in them . . . Like a lump ofsteel. Men aren't like that! They can be hard, of course, but theyaren't always exhibiting their hardness. Clever women are. "

Henry tossed Marsh's letter across the table to Gilbert. 

"Read that, " he said, "while I look through the _Times_!"

They both rose from the table, and sat for a while in the armchairs oneither side of the fireplace. 

"You know, Quinny, " said Gilbert, as he took Marsh's letter out of itsenvelope, "I often think we're awfully young, all of us!"

"Young?"

"Yes. Immature . . . And all that. We're frightfully clever, of course, but really we don't know much, and yet you're writing books and I'mwriting plays and Ninian's building Tunnels and Roger's playing ducksand drakes with the law . . . And not one of us is thirty yet. Lord, Iwish Roger hadn't got engaged. That sort of thing makes a man think!"

He read Marsh's letter and then passed it back to Henry. 

"Seems all right, " he said. "It's a pity those Irish fellows haven't gota wider outlook. Sitting there fussing over their mouldy island whenthere's the whole world to fuss over! I must be off soon. There's arehearsal of my play this morning. . . . "

"I say, Gilbert, " Henry interrupted, "do you think I ought to go andjoin this Irish Renascence business?"

"How can I tell? It probably won't amount to much. I should take anintelligent interest in it, if I were you. Perhaps you can induce Marshto come over and talk to the Improved Tories about it. What are youdoing this morning?"

"Oh, working!"

"Well, so long!"

"So long, Gilbert. You'll be back to lunch, I suppose?"

"I don't think so. The rehearsals are very long now. You see, the play'sto be done on Wednesday. . . . "

2

When Gilbert had gone, Henry, having glanced through the _Times_, wentup to his room and began to write, but he did not continue at hismanuscript for very long. The words would not roll lightly off his pen:they fell off and lay inertly about the paper. He was accustomed now toperiods during which his mind seemed to have lost its power to operate, and he was not alarmed by them. He knew that it was useless to attemptto do any work that morning, so he left his room and, telling Mrs. Clutters that he would not return to lunch, went out of the house andwandered about the streets for a while without any purpose. It was notuntil he saw the sign on a passing motor-'bus that he decided on what heshould do. "Hyde Park Corner" was on the sign, and he called to theconductor and presently mounted to the roof of the 'bus and was driventowards the Park. 

"I wonder, " he thought to himself, "whether I shall see Lady Cecilyto-day!"

Lady Cecily had curiously disappeared from their lives. Gilbert, absorbed in the production of his play, had not spoken of her again, norhad he made any mention of his proposal to leave London and go toAnglesey. He had resigned from the staff of the _Daily Echo_, and, sincehe no longer attended first-nights at the theatre, he had not seen LadyCecily since the night on which "The Ideal Husband" was revived. Henryhad said to himself on several occasions that he would go and see LadyCecily, but he had not done so. He did not care to go alone, and hecared less to ask Gilbert to go with him . . . But to-day, as suddenly asshe had quitted his thoughts, Lady Cecily came into them again, and, ashe sat on top of the omnibus, he hoped that he would see her in thePark. "If not, " he said to himself, "I'll call on her this afternoon!"

He descended from the 'bus at Hyde Park Corner and hastily entered thePark. He crossed to the Achilles monument and debated with himself as towhether he should sit down or walk about, and decided to sit down. IfLady Cecily were in the Park, he told himself, she would pass his chairsome time during the morning. He chose a seat near the railings and satdown and waited. There was a continual flow of carriages and cars, butnone of them contained Lady Cecily, and when he had been sitting foralmost an hour, he told himself that he was not likely to see her thatmorning. He rose, as he said this to himself, and turned to walk acrossthe grass towards Rotten Bow, and as he turned, he saw Jimphy. He wasnot anxious to meet Jimphy again, and he pretended not to see him, butJimphy came up to him, smiling affably, and said "Hilloa, Quinn, oldchap!" so he had to be as amiable as he could in response to thegreeting. 

Jimphy wanted to know why it was that he and Henry had not met againsince the night that "Cecily let a chap in for a damn play, " andreminded him of their engagement to visit the Empire together. "Anyhow, "he said, "you can come and lunch with us. Cecily'll be glad to see you. I said I'd come home to lunch if I could find some one worth bringingwith me, so that's all right!"

"How is Lady Cecily?" Henry asked, as he and Jimphy left the Parktogether. 

"Oh, I expect she's all right, " Jimphy answered. "I forgot to ask thismorning, but if she'd been seedy or anything she'd have told me aboutit, so I suppose she's all right!"

"When's this play of Farlow's coming on?" Jimphy asked on the doorstepof his house. 

"Wednesday, " Henry answered. 

"Cecily's made me promise to go and see it with her. What sort of apiece is it?"

They entered the house as he spoke. 

"It's excellent. . . . "

"Is it comic?"

"Well, I suppose it is. He calls it a comedy, " Henry said. 

"So long as there's a laugh in it, I don't mind going to see it. I can'tstand these weepy bits. 'Hamlet' and that sort of stuff. Enough to givea chap the pip! Oh, here's Cecily!"

Henry turned to look up the stairs down which Lady Cecily was coming, and then he went forward to greet her. 

"How nice of you, " she said. "Has Gilbert come, too?"

"No, " he answered, chilled by her question. "He has a rehearsal thismorning!"

"Oh, yes, of course, " she said. "His play! I forgot. We're going to seeit on Wednesday. I hope it's good!"

"It's very good, " Henry replied. 

3

Jimphy left them after lunch. He was awfully sorry, old chap, to have totear himself away and all that, but the fact was he had an appointment. . . An important appointment . . . And of course a chap had to keep animportant appointment. . . . 

"We'll forgive you, Jimphy!" Lady Cecily said, and then he went away, begging Henry to remember that they must go to the Empire together onenight. 

"Well?" said Lady Cecily when her husband had gone, "how are you allgetting on?"

She was reclining on a couch, with her feet resting on a cushion, and asshe asked her question she pointed to another cushion lying on a chair. He fetched it and put it behind her back. 

"Splendidly, " he answered. "Is that right?"

She settled herself more comfortably. "Yes, thanks, " she said. "I readyour novel, " she went on. 

"Did you like it?"

"Oh, yes. Of course, I liked it. I suppose you're writing another booknow!" He nodded his head, and she went on. "I wish I could write books, but of course I can't. Mr. Lensley says I live books. Isn't that nice ofhim? Do you put real people in your books, or do you make them all up?Do you know, I think I'll have another cigarette!"

He passed the box of cigarettes to her and held it while she made up hermind whether she would smoke an Egyptian or a Turkish. Her delicatefingers moved indecisively from the one brand to the other. "You likeTurkish, don't you?" he said, wishing that he could take her slenderhand in his and hold it forever. 

"Choose one for me, " she said, capriciously, lying back and clasping herhands about her head. 

He took a cigarette from the box and offered it to her, but she did nothold out her hand to take it, and he understood that he was to place itbetween her lips. His fingers trembled as he did so, and he turnedhurriedly to find the matches. 

"Behind you, " she said, and he turned and picked them up. 

He lit a match and held it to her cigarette, and while he held it, herfingers touched his. She had taken hold of the cigarette to remove itfrom her lips. . . . He blew out the light and threw the match into theash-tray, and then went and sat down in the deep chair in which he hadbeen sitting when she asked him to get the cushion for her. 

"Why didn't you call before?" she said, lazily blowing the smoke up intothe air. 

It was difficult to say why he had not called before, so he answeredvaguely. There had been so much to do of late. . . . 

"And Gilbert? He doesn't rehearse all day long, does he?"

"No, not all day, but he's pretty tired by the time he gets home. "

"Why didn't he come to the Savoy that night?" she asked. 

He wished she would not talk about Gilbert. He could not tell her thereal reason why Gilbert had not kept his promise to join thesupper-party and he was a poor hand at inventing convincing lies. 

"There was some trouble at his office, I think, " he said, "and hecouldn't get away until too late!. . . "

"He didn't write or come to see me!" she protested. 

It was probable that Gilbert forgot his duty in the excitement ofhearing that his play was to be produced. . . . 

"I suppose so, " she said. 

She talked to him about his books and about Ireland. She had been toDublin once and had gone to the Viceregal Lodge . . . Lady Dundrum hadtaken her to some function there . . . And she was eager for thetittle-tattle of the Court. Was it true that Lord Kelpie was indifferentto his lady?. . . Henry knew very little of the Dublin gossip. "I haven'tbeen there since I left Trinity, " he said, in explanation, "and the onlypeople who write to me don't take any interest in Court functions!"

He rose to go, but she asked him to stay to tea with her, and so heremained. 

"I don't suppose any one will call, " she said, "but in case . . . "

She told a servant that she was "not at home" to any one, and Henry, wondering why she had done so, felt vaguely flattered and as vaguelynervous. Her beauty filled him with desire and apprehension and left himhalf eager, half afraid to be alone with her. He understood Gilbert'sfear that if he yielded to Cecily, she would destroy him. There wassomething in this woman that overpowered the senses, that made a man aswill-less as a log, and left him in the end, spent, exhausted, incapable. He saw the danger that had frightened Gilbert, but he couldnot make up his mind to run away from it. There was something soexquisitely sensual in her look as she lay on the couch, looking at himand chattering in the Lensley style, that he felt inclined to yieldhimself to her, even if in yielding he should lose everything. 

"Of course, " he said to himself, "this is all imagination. She doesn'twant me at all . . . She wants Gilbert!"

She asked for another cigarette, and he took one and placed it in herlips and lit it for her, and again his fingers touched hers, and againhe trembled with unaccountable emotion. As he bent over her, holding thematch to the cigarette, he felt the blood rushing to his head and for amoment or two his eyes were blurred and he could not see clearly. Thenhis eyes cleared and he saw that she was looking steadily at him, and heknew that she understood what was passing in his mind. He dropped thematch on to the ash-tray and bent a little nearer to her. He would takeher in his arms, he said to himself, and hold her tightly to him. . . . 

"Won't you sit down, " she said, pointing to his chair. 

He straightened himself, but did not move away. His eyes were stillintent on hers, as if he could not avoid her gaze, and for a whileneither of them spoke or moved. Then she smiled at him. 

"You're a funny boy, " she said. "Won't you sit down!" and again shepointed to the chair. 

His answer was so low that he could hardly hear himself speak, and atfirst he thought she had not heard him. "I'd better go, " he said. 

"Not yet, " she answered. "You needn't go yet!"

"I'd better. . . . "

She put out her hand and made him sit down. 

"There's no hurry, " she said. 

He leant back in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms of it andfolding his fingers under his chin. 

"You look frightened, " she said. 

"I am, " he answered. 

"Of me?" He nodded his head, and she laughed. "How absurd!" she said. "I'm not a bit terrifying. . . . "

He was not trembling now. He felt quite calm, as if he had resignedhimself to what must be. 

"No, I . . . I know you're not, " he said, "only . . . "

"Only what?"

"I don't know!"

She put her cigarette down and turned slightly towards him. 

"Funny boy!" she said. "Funny Irish boy!"

He smiled foolishly at her, but did not answer. He knew that if hespoke at all, he would say wild things that could not be withdrawn orexplained away. 

"Funny scared Irish boy!" she said, and he could see the mockery in hereyes. "Such a frightened Irish boy!. . . "

He could hold out no longer. She had put her hand out towards him . . . Why he could not tell . . . And impulsively he seized it and clasped ittightly in his. His grasp must have hurt her, for she cried a little andtried to withdraw her hand, but he would not let go his hold of ituntil, kneeling beside her, he had put his arms about her and kissedher. 

"I love you, " he said. "You know I love you. . . . "

"Don't!"

"I loved you the minute I set eyes on you, and I wanted to meet youagain . . . And then I was jealous of Gilbert because you took so muchnotice of him and so little of me, and . . . I love you, I love you!"

She thrust him from her. "You're hurting me, " she said, and she pantedas she spoke. 

"I want to hurt you, " he answered. 

"But you mustn't. . . . "

He did not let her finish her sentence. He pressed his lips hard on hersuntil his strength seemed to pass away from him. He felt in some strangeway that her eyes were closed and that she was moaning. . . . 

He put his arms about her again, and drew her head gently on to hisbreast. "My dear, " he said softly, bending over her and kissing herhair. 

She lay very still in his arms, so still that he thought she had fallenasleep. Her long lashes trembled a little, and then she opened her eyes, sighing contentedly as she did so. He smiled down at her, and she smiledin response. Then she put her hand up and stroked his cheek and ruffledhis hair. 

"Funny Irish boy!" she said again. 

4

He climbed on to a 'bus which bore him eastwards. It was impossible, inhis state of exaltation, to go home and eat in the company of theothers. Ninian would probably be back from Southampton, unbalanced withadmiration for Tom Arthurs and the _Gigantic_, and then Gilbert wouldtell him how Sir Geoffrey Mundane had behaved during the rehearsal andhow exasperating Mrs. Michael Gordon, the leading lady, had been. "She'sbrilliant, of course, " he had said about her once, "but if I were herhusband I'd beat her!" He could not endure the thought of spending theevening in the customary company of his friends. They would want totalk, they would draw him into the conversation, and he neither wishedto talk nor to listen. His desire was only to remember, to go over againin his mind that long, passionate afternoon with Cecily. . . . So he hadtelephoned to Mrs. Clutters telling her that he would not be in todinner, and then, climbing on to a 'bus, had allowed himself to becarried eastwards, not knowing or caring whither he was being carried. 

He paid no heed to the other passengers on the 'bus, nor did he interesthimself in the traffic of the streets. When the conductor came, demanding fares, he asked for a ticket to the terminus, but did notbother to ask where the terminus was. His mind was full of golden hairand warm, moist lips and soft, disturbing perfume and the touch of ashapely hand. Cecily had insisted on calling him "Paddy" because he wasIrish and because so many Englishmen are called "Henry, " and when he hadleft her, she had offered her lips to him and, when he had kissed her, had told him she would see him again soon. "When Gilbert's play isdone, " she said, and added, "Tell Gilbert I shall expect him to come andtalk to me after the first act!"

He had been jealous when she said that. "You don't really care for me, "he had said. "You really love Gilbert!"

"Of course I love Gilbert, " she had answered, laughing at him andpatting his cheek, "but I love you, too. I love lots of people! . . . "

Then, ashamed of himself, he had left her. It was caddish of him tospeak of Gilbert to her, for Gilbert was his friend and her lover. Ifone were to try and take a friend's mistress from him, one should atleast be silent about it. But how could he help these outbursts ofjealousy! He cared for Gilbert far more than he cared for any man . . . But he could not prevent himself from raging at the thought that Gilberthad but to hold out his arms and Cecily would run to be clasped in them. "I'm a makeshift, " he said to himself. "That's all!"

But even if he were only a makeshift, that was better than being shutaway from her love altogether. "I daresay, " he thought, "she's as fondof me as she is of any one!" and he wondered whether she really lovedGilbert. It was difficult for him to believe that she could yield soeasily to him and love Gilbert deeply, and he soothed his conscience bytelling himself that Cecily was one of those women who are in love withlove, ready to accept kisses from any ardent youth who offers them toher. He remembered his contribution to the discussion on women and theway in which he had insisted on infinite variety of experiences. Cecilywas, as a woman, what he had wished to be as a man. We had to recognisethe differences of nature, he had said, but somehow he did not greatlycare to see his principle put into practice by Cecily. There wassomething very fine and dashing and Byronic and adventurous in a manwith a spacious spirit, but after all, women were women, and one did notlike to think of adventuring women. He wanted to have Cecily to himself. . . He did not wish to share her with Gilbert or with Jimphy or with anyone, and it hardly seemed decent that Cecily should wish to spread heraffections over three men. "And there may be others, too!" All this talkabout sex-equality had an equitable sound . . . His intellect agreed thatif men were to have amorous adventures, then women should have them too;if men were to be unfaithful without reproach, then women should beequally without reproach in their infidelity . . . But his instinct criedout against it. He wanted his woman to himself even though he might notkeep himself for her alone. 

"And that's the beginning and the end of the sex-question, " he said. "Wesimply aren't willing to let women live on our level. In theory, the manwho goes to a prostitute is as bad as she is, but in practice, we don'tbelieve it, and women don't believe it either, and nothing will evermake us believe it. And it's the same with lovers and mistresses. Itsimply doesn't seem decent to a man who keeps a mistress that his wifeshould have a lover. You can't help having instincts!. . . "

5

The 'bus drove over London Bridge and presently he found himself in therailway station. It was too early yet to eat, and he made up his mind togo for a walk through Southwark. None of them had ever been in theslums. They had set their minds against suggestions that they shouldlive in Walworth or Whitechapel or Bethnal Green in order that theymight get to know something of the lives of the very poor. "That'ssimply slush, " Gilbert had said. "We shouldn't live like them. We'd havefour good meals every day and baths every morning, and we'd only feelvirtuous and 'smarmy' and do-good-to-the-poor-y. My object is to get ridof slums, not to go and live in the damn things and encourageslum-owners by paying rent regularly. All those Settlement people . . . Really, they're doing the heroic stunt for their own ends. They'll gointo parliament and say they have intimate knowledge of the way inwhich the poor live because they've lived with them . . . And it's all myeye, that stuff!"

The notion had made a faint appeal to Henry, but he had not responded toit because of the way in which the others had sneered at it and becausehe liked pleasant surroundings. Once, in Dublin, he had wandered out ofSt. Stephens's Green and found himself in the Combe, and the sights hehad witnessed there had sickened him so that he had hurried away, andalways thereafter had been careful not to enter side streets with whichhe was not familiar. Now, he felt that he ought to see a London slum. One had to have a point of view about poor people, and it was difficultto have a point of view about people of whom one was almost totallyignorant. 

He walked slowly up the Borough High Street, uncertain of himself and ofthe district. He would want something to eat presently, and if he wereto venture too far into the slums that lay hidden behind St. George'sChurch and the Elephant, he might have difficulty in finding a placewhere he could take a meal in comfort. He stood for a few momentsoutside the window of a shop in which sausages and steaks and onionswere being fried. There was a thick, hot, steamy odour coming from thedoor that filled him with nausea, and he turned to move away, but as hedid so, he saw two sickly boys, half naked, standing against the windowwith their mouths pressed close to the glass. They were eyeing thecooking food so hungrily that he felt pity for them, and he touched oneof them on the shoulder and asked him if he would like something to eat. The boy looked at him, but did not answer, and his companion cameshuffling to his side and eyed him too. 

"Wouldn't you like some of that . . . That stuff!" Henry said, pointing toa great slab of thick pudding, padded with currants. 

One of the boys nodded his head, and Henry moved towards the door of theshop, bidding them both to follow him. 

"Give these youngsters some of that pudding!" he said to the man behindthe counter: a fat, flaccid man with a wet, steamy brow which heperiodically wiped with a grimy towel. 

"'Ere!" said the man, cutting off large pieces of the pudding andpassing it across the counter to the boys who took it, without speaking, and began to gnaw at it immediately. 

"Wod you say for it, eih?" the man demanded. 

They mumbled unintelligibly, their mouths choked with the food. 

"Pore little kids, they don't know no better! Nah, then, 'op it, youtwo! That'll be fourpence, sir!"

Henry paid for the pudding and left the malodorous shop. The childrenwere standing in the shadow outside, one of them eating wolfishly, whilethe other held the pudding in front of him, gaping at it. . . . 

"Don't you like it?" Henry said, bending down to him. 

"'E can't eat it, guv'nor!" the other boy said. 

"Can't eat it?"

"No, guv'nor, 'e can't. I'll 'ave to eat it for 'im. . . . "

"But why can't you eat?" Henry asked, turning to the boy who still gapedhelplessly at the pudding. 

The child did not answer. He stared at the pudding, and then he staredat Henry, and as he did so, the pudding fell from his hands, and hebecame sick. . . . 

"'Ere, wod you chuckin' it awy for?" the other boy said, droppingquickly to the ground and picking up the pudding. 

"He's ill, " Henry said helplessly. 

"'E's always ill, " the boy answered, stuffing pieces of the recoveredpudding into his mouth. 

A policeman was standing at the corner, and Henry went to him and toldhim of the child's plight. 

"Sick is 'e?" the constable exclaimed. 

"Yes, " Henry answered. "He looked hungry, poor little chap, and so Ibought him some of the pudding they sell in that shop!"

The policeman looked at him for a few moments. "Well, of course, youmeant it kindly, sir!" he said, "but if I was you I wouldn't do thatagain. If you'll excuse me sayin' it, sir, it was a damn silly thing todo!"

"Why?"

"Why! 'Alf the kids about 'ere is too 'ungry to eat. That kid ought tobe in the 'ospital by rights. Don't never give 'em no puddin' or stufflike that, sir. Their stomachs can't stand it. Nah, then, " he said tothe sick child, "you 'op 'ome, young 'un. You didn't ought to be 'angin'about 'ere, you know, upsettin' the traffic an' mykin' a mess on thepyvement. Gow on! Git aht of it!"

The boys ran off, leaving Henry staring blankly after them. "'E'll beall right, sir!" said the policeman. "It's no good tryin' to do nothinkfor 'em. They're down, guv'nor, an' that's all about it. I seen a lot ofyooman nature down about 'ere, an' you can tyke it from me, them kids isdown an' they'll stay down, an' that's all you can say about it. Good-night, sir!"

"Good-night!" said Henry. 

He moved away, feeling sick and miserable and angry. 

"It's beastly, " he said to himself. "That's what it is. Beastly!"

6

His mind was occupied by violent thoughts about the two children whom hehad fed with currant pudding, and he did not observe what he was doingor where he was going. He was in a wide, dark street where there weretram-lines, but he could not remember seeing a tramcar pass by. He wastired and although he was not hungry, he was conscious of a missed meal, and he was thirsty. "I'd better turn back, " he said to himself, turningas he did so. He wondered where he was, and he resolved that he wouldask the first policeman he met to tell him in what part of London he nowwas and what was the quickest way to get out of it. 

"It was silly of me to come here at all, " he murmured, and then heturned quickly and stared across the street. 

A woman had screamed somewhere near by . . . On the other side of thestreet, he thought . . . And as he looked, he saw figures struggling, andthen they parted and one of them, a woman, ran away towards a lamppost, holding her hands before her in an appealing fashion, and crying, "Oh, don't! Don't hit me!. . . " The other figure was that of a man, and as thewoman shrank from him, the man advanced towards her with his fistuplifted. . . . 

Henry could feel himself shrinking back into the shadow. 

"He's going to hit her, " he was saying to himself, and he closed hiseyes, afraid lest he should see the man's fist smashing into the woman'sface. He could hear a foul oath uttered by the man and the woman'sscream as she retreated still further from him . . . And then, tremblingwith fright, he ran across the street and thrust himself between them. "Oh, my God, what am I doing?" he moaned to himself as he stood in theglare of the yellow light that fell from the street lamp. He felt ratherthan saw that the woman had risen from the ground and run away themoment the man's attention was distracted from her, and a shudder offear ran through him as he realised that he was alone. He could see theman's brutal face and his blazing, drink-inflamed eyes, and in themiddle of his fear, he thought how ugly the man's eyebrows were . . . Onelong, black line from eye to eye across the top of his nose. The man, his fist clenched and raised, advanced towards him. "He's going to hitme now, " Henry thought. "He'll knock me down and . . . And kick me!. . . These people always kick you!. . . "

He stood still waiting for the blow, mesmerised by the man's blazingeyes; but the man, though his fist was still clenched, did not strikehim. He reeled up to him so closely that Henry was sickened by thesmell of his drink-sodden breath. "Fight for a woman, would you?" heshouted at him. "Eih? P'tect a woman, would you?. . . "

Henry wanted to laugh. The man was repeating phrases from melodramas!. . . 

"Tyke a woman's part, eih? I know you, you bloody toff! You . . . Youthink you're a bloody 'ero, eih, p'tectin' a woman from 'er 'usband!" Hepushed Henry aside, almost falling on the pavement as he did so. "I've agoo' mind to break your bloody neck for you, see, bloody toff, interferin' . . . 'usband an' wife. See? Thash what I'll do!. . . "

He came again at Henry, but still he did not strike. He mumbled hismelodramatic phrases, swaying in front of Henry, and threatening tobreak his neck and punch his jaw and give him a thick ear, but he did nomore than that, and while he threatened, a crowd gathered out of theshadows, and a woman, with bare arms, touched Henry's arm and drew himaway from the drunken man. "You 'op it, mister, " she said, "or you'llget 'urt!" She pushed him out of the crowd, slapping a lad in the facewho had jostled him and said, "Gawblimey, look at Percy!" and when shehad got him away from them, she told him again to 'op it. 

"Thank you!. . . " he began. 

"Don't you wyste no time, mister, but 'op it quick, " she interrupted, giving him a push forward. 

"But I don't know where I am, " he replied. 

"Dunno w'ere you are!. . . Well, of course, you look like that! You're inBermondsey, mister, an' if you tyke my advice you'll go 'ome an' sty'ome. People like you didden ought to be let out alone! You go 'ome toyour mother, sir! The first turnin' on the right'll bring you to thetrams. . . . "

He did as she told him, hurrying away from the dark street as quickly ashe could. He was trembling. Every nerve in his body seemed to bestrained, and his eyes had the tired feel they always had when he wasdeeply agitated. 

"My God, " he said, "what an ass I was to do that!"

7

Gilbert and Roger were sitting together when he got home. 

"Hilloa, Quinny!" Gilbert exclaimed as he looked at Henry's white face. "What have you been up to?"

He told them of his adventure in Bermondsey. 

"You do do some damn funny things, Quinny!" said Gilbert, going to thesideboard and getting out the whisky. "Here, have a drop of this stuff. You look completely pipped!"

"I don't think I should make a habit of knight-errantry, if I were you, "said Roger. "Not in slums at all events!"

"Has Ninian come back yet?" Henry asked, sipping the whisky. 

"He's gone to bed. The _Gigantic_ got off all right, but there wastrouble at the start. She fouled a cruiser or something. Ninian's fullof it. He'll tell you the whole rigmarole in the morning. You'd bettertrot off to bed when you've drunk that, and for God's sake, Quinny, don't try to be heroic again. You're not cut out for that sort ofjob!. . . "

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

1

Mrs. Graham and Mary and Rachel Wynne dined with them on the first nightof "The Magic Casement. " Rachel, fresh from a Care Committee, composedmostly of members of the Charity Organisation Society and the wives ofprosperous tradesmen, was inclined to tell the world what she thought ofit, but they diverted her mind from the iniquities of the Care Committeeby congratulating her on her engagement to Roger. She blushed and gaveher thanks in stammers, looking with bright, proud eyes at Roger; andwhen they saw how human she was, they forgot her hard efficiency and hersociological angers, and liked her. Gilbert urged her to tell them talesof the C. O. S. And the Care Committee, and rejoiced loudly when shedescribed how she had discomfited a large, granitic woman . . . TheMayor's wife . . . Who had committed a flagrant breach of the law in heranxiety to penalise some unfortunate children whose father was anagitator. "If I were poor, " Rachel said, "I'd hit a C. O. S. Person onsight! I'd hit it simply because it was a C. O. S. Person! That would beevidence against it!" She enjoyed calling a C. O. S. Person, "it, " andHenry felt that perhaps some of the difficulty with the Mayor's wife wasdue to the pleasure that Rachel took in rubbing her up the wrong way. Hesuggested that tactful treatment. . . . 

"You can't be tactful with that kind of person, " she asserted instantly. "You can only be angry. You see, they love to badger poor people. It'ssheer delight to them to ask impertinent questions. There's a big streakof Torquemada in them. They'd have been Inquisitors if they'd been bornin Spain when there were Inquisitors!" She paused for a second or two, and then went on rapidly. "I never thought of that before. Why, ofcourse, that's what they are. They've been reincarnated . . . You know, transmigration of souls . . . And that fat woman, Mrs. Smeale. . . . " Mrs. Smeale was the Mayor's wife . . . "was an Inquisitor before she was . . . Was dug up again. I can see her beastly big face in a cowl, and hotpincers in her hands, plucking poor Protestants' flesh off their bones. . . And she's doing that now, using all the rotten rules and regulationsas hot pincers to pluck the spirit out of the poor! Of course, she doesit all for the best! So did the Inquisitors! She doesn't want toundermine the moral character of the poor, and they didn't want to letthe poor heretic imperil his soul. . . . I'd like to inquisit her!. . . "

"There isn't a word 'inquisit, ' Rachel!" said Roger. 

"Well, there ought to be, " she answered. 

Henry pictured her, in her committee room, surrounded by hard women, opposing herself to them, fighting for people who were not of her classagainst people who were, and it seemed to him that Rachel was veryvaliant, even if she were tactless, much more valiant than he could be. Rachel belonged to the fearless, ungracious, blunt people who are not tobe deterred from their purpose by ostracism or abuse, and Henry realisedthat such courage as hers must inevitably be accompanied byaggressiveness, a harsh insistence on one's point of view, and worst ofall, a surrender of social charm and ease and the kindly regard of one'sfriends. "I couldn't do that, " he thought to himself. It was easy enoughto sneer at such people, to call them "cranks, " but indisputably theyhad the heroic spirit, the will to endure obloquy for their opinions. "Isuppose, " he reflected, "the reason why one feels so angry with suchpeople is partly that nine times out of ten they're in the right, andpartly that ten times out of ten they've got the pluck we haven't got!"And he remembered that Witterton, a journalist whom he had met at theoffice of the _Morning Record_, had climbed on to the plinth inTrafalgar Square during the Boer War and made a speech in denunciationof Chamberlain and the Rand lords, and had been badly mauled by the mob. "By God, that's courage!" he murmured. That was the sort of personRachel was. He could see her opposing herself to mobs, but he could notsee himself doing so. Probably, he thought, he would be on the fringe ofthe crowd, mildly deprecating violence and tactlessness. . . . 

He came out of his ruminations to hear Mrs. Graham telling Rachel howpleased she was to hear that Roger and she were engaged. "My dear, " shesaid, "I'm very glad!" and then she kissed Rachel. 

"Come here, Roger, " she added, and when he had ambled awkwardly up toher, she took his head in her hands and kissed him too. . . . 

"I've a jolly good mind to get engaged myself, " said Gilbert. 

"Well, why don't you?" Mrs. Graham retorted. 

"I would, only I keep on forgetting about it, " he answered. "Couldn'tyou kiss me 'Good-luck' to my play?"

"I could, " she replied, and kissed him. 

Then they insisted that she should kiss them all, and she did as theyinsisted. She was very gracious and very charming and her eyes werebright with her pleasure in their youth and spirits . . . So bright thatpresently she cried a little . . . And then they all talked quickly andkicked one another's shins under the table in order to enforce tactfulbehaviour. 

2

They sat in one of the two large boxes of the Pall Mall Theatre. Gilbertwas nervous and restless, and after the play began, he retreated to theback of the box and sat down in a corner. 

"What's up, Gilbert?" Henry whispered to him. "Are you ill?"

"Ill!" Gilbert exclaimed, looking up at Henry with a whimsical smile. "Man, Quinny, I'm dying! Go away like a good chap and let me die inpeace. Tell all my friends that my last words were. . . . "

Henry went back to his seat beside Mary and whispered to her thatGilbert was too nervous and agitated to be sociable . . . "some sort ofstage fright!. . . " and they pretended not to notice that he was huddledin the darkest corner of the box. "Thank goodness, " Henry said to theothers, "a novelist doesn't get a storm of nerves on the day ofpublication!" Leaning over the edge of the box, he could see Lady Cecilysitting in the stalls, with Jimphy by her side . . . And for a while heforgot the play and Mary and Gilbert's agitation. She was sittingforward, looking intently at the stage, and as he watched her, shelaughed and turned to Jimphy as if she would share her pleasure withhim, but Jimphy, lying back in his stall, was fiddling with hisprogramme, utterly uninterested. She glanced up at the box, her eyesmeeting his, and smiled at him. 

"Who is it?" said Mary, leaning towards him. 

"Oh . . . Lady Cecily Jayne!" he answered, discomposed by her question. 

"She's very beautiful, isn't she?"

"Yes. "

They turned again to the stage and were silent until the end of thefirst act. There was a burst of laughter, and then the curtaindescended, to rise again in quick response to the applause. 

"Cheering a chap at his funeral!" said Gilbert, groaning with delight ashe listened to the shouts and handclaps. 

They turned to him and offered their congratulations. 

"Five curtain-calls, " said Roger. "Very satisfactory!"

"It's splendid, Gilbert, " Mrs. Graham exclaimed. "I'm sure it'll be agreat success!"

"Oh, dear, O Lord, I wish it were over!" Gilbert replied. 

"Let's fill him with whisky, " said Ninian, rising and taking hold ofGilbert's arm, and he and Henry took him and led him to the bar wherethey met Jimphy, looking like a lost rabbit. 

"Hilloa, Jimphy!" they exclaimed, and he turned gleefully to welcomethem. Here at all events was something he could comprehend. Hecongratulated Gilbert. "Jolly good, old chap! Have a drink, " he said, and insisted that they should join him at the bar. "Of course, " he addedprivately to Henry, "this sort of stuff isn't really in my line . . . Jolly good and all that, of course . . . But still it's not in my line. All the same, a chap has to congratulate a chap. Oh, Cecily wants you togo and talk to her. You know where she is, don't you?"

He turned to listen to Ninian who was describing the accident which hadhappened when the _Gigantic_ started on her first trip to America. "Shejolly near sank a cruiser, " he was saying as Henry moved away from thebar. "That was the second accident. The first time, she broke from hermoorings. . . . "

He pushed his way through the crowd of drinking and gossiping men, andentered the stalls. Lady Cecily saw him coming, and she beckoned to him. 

"Who is that nice girl in the box?" she asked, as he sat down inJimphy's seat. "She sat beside you. . . . "

"Oh, Ninian's sister, " he replied. "Mary Graham. "

"She's very pretty, isn't she?"

"Yes. . . . "

He would have said more, but it suddenly struck him as comical that LadyCecily should speak of Mary almost in the words that Mary had used whenshe spoke of Lady Cecily. He looked up at the box and saw that Mary wastalking to her mother, and something in her attitude sent a pang throughhis heart. 

"I _do_ love Mary, " he said to himself, "but somehow . . . Somehow I loveCecily too!"

Lady Cecily was speaking to him and he turned to listen. 

"I want you to introduce me to Ninian's sister, " she said. 

"Yes, " he answered reluctantly, though he could not have said why he wasreluctant to introduce her to Mary. 

"After the next act, " she went on, and he nodded his head. 

Then Jimphy returned, and Henry got up and left her, and hurried back tothe box. The second act had begun when he reached it, and he tiptoed tohis seat and sat down in silence. Mary looked round at him, smiling, andthen looked back at the stage, and again he felt that odd reluctance tobring Lady Cecily and her together. 

3

At the end of the second act, he turned to Mary and said, "Lady Cecilywants to be introduced to you. I said I'd bring her here after thisact!"

"Do, " Mary answered. 

As he walked towards the door of the box, he remembered Gilbert and hebent towards him and said quietly, "Oh, Gilbert, I'm going to fetch LadyCecily. She wants to talk to Mary!. . . "

"Righto!" Gilbert replied, without looking up. 

Henry hesitated. "You . . . You don't mind, do you?" he said, and thenwished that he had remained silent. 

"Mind!" Gilbert looked up. "Why should I mind?"

"I thought perhaps . . . But of course if you don't mind, that's allright!"

He hurried out of the box, feeling that he had intruded into privateplaces. He had intended to be considerate and had achieved only theappearance of prying. "That's like me!" he thought, as he descended thestairs that led to the stalls. "I wonder why it is that I'm full ofsympathy and understanding and tact in my books, and such a clumsy foolin life!"

He entered the stalls, and as he did so, Lady Cecily rose to join him. Jimphy had already gone to the bar. He held the curtain for her and shepassed through. "Isn't it clever?" she said, speaking of the play, andhe nodded his head. The passage leading up from the stalls was full ofchattering people, but when they reached the narrow corridor which ledto the box, there was no one about. . . . 

"Cecily!" he said in a low voice. 

"Yes, Paddy!" she answered, looking back over her shoulder. 

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards him. 

"Some one will see you, " she said. 

"No, they won't, " he replied, "and I don't care. . . . "

He kissed her ardently. "My dear!" he murmured with his lips on hers. 

She pushed him from her. "You _are_ a fool, " she said. 

"I couldn't help it!"

Their voices were low lest the people in the box should hear them. 

"You must never do that again, " she said. "I'd never have forgiven youif any one had seen us!"

"What are you afraid of, Cecily?" he asked. 

She made a gesture of despair. "Haven't you _any_ sense?" she said. 

She turned to go towards the box again, but he caught hold of her handand held her. 

"Cecily, " he whispered, "you know I love you, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, " she answered impatiently, snatching her hand from his, "butyou needn't tell everybody about it!"

"And you love me, too. Don't you?"

"Let's go and join the others!. . . "

He held her again. "No, Cecily, " he said, "you must listen to me!"

"Well, what is it?"

"Cecily!" He was breathing hard, and it seemed to him that he could onlyspeak by forcing words out of himself. "Cecily . . . Come with me! . . . "

"That's what I want to do, but you keep me hanging about here. If anyone were to see us!. . . "

"I don't mean that, " he interrupted. "You know quite well what Imean!. . . "

"What _do_ you mean? I don't know!. . . "

He went closer to her, trying to waken her passion by the strength ofhis. "I want you to leave Jimphy and come away with me, " he said. 

"Leave Jimphy!"

"Yes. You're not happy . . . You're not suited to each other. Come withme!"

"Like this?" she said, holding out her hands and mocking him. 

"That doesn't matter, " he urged. "We'll go somewhere. . . . "

"Fly to Ireland, I suppose, in evening dress! Poor Paddy, you're soIrish, aren't you? Please don't be an idiot!"

She went on towards the door of the box, and he followed after her. "Cecily!" he said. 

"Not to-night, " she answered. "I want to be introduced to that nicegirl, Mary Graham, and I really must congratulate Gilbert . . . I supposehe's here . . . It's such a clever play!"

She opened the door of the box and went in, and, hesitating for amoment, he went after her. 

4

She stayed in the box, sitting between Mrs. Graham and Mary, until theend of the play. The curtain had gone down to applause and laughter andhad been raised again and a third and fourth time, and then the audiencehad demanded that the author should appear. Somewhere in the gallery, they could hear the faint groan of the man who attends all first nightsand groans on principle. "I'd like to punch that chap's jaw!" Ninianmuttered, glancing up at the gallery indignantly. There was moreapplause and a louder and more insistent shout of "Author! Author!" andthe curtain went up, and Gilbert, very nervous and very pale, came on tothe stage and bowed. Then, after another curtain call, the lights werelowered and the audience began to disperse. 

There was to be a supper party at the Carlton, because the Carlton wasnearer to the Pall Mall than the Savoy, and Sir Geoffrey Mundane andMrs. Michael Gordon had accepted Gilbert's invitation to join them. "It'll cost a hell of a lot, " Gilbert said to Henry, "but what's moneyfor? When I die, they'll put on my tombstone, '_He was born in debt, helived in debt, he died in debt, and he didn't care a damn. So be it!_'He extended his invitation to Jimphy and Lady Cecily. 

"You didn't come to Jimphy's birthday party, " she objected. 

"Didn't I?" he replied. "Well, both of you come to my party . . . That'llmake up for it!"

Gilbert did not appear to be affected by Cecily's presence. He hadgreeted her naturally, behaving to her in as friendly a way as he wouldhave behaved if she had been Mrs. Graham. Henry, remembering the sceneon the Embankment, had difficulty in understanding Gilbert's easymanner. Had he been in Gilbert's place, he knew that he would have beenawkward, constrained, tongue-tied. Undoubtedly, Gilbert had _savoirfaire_. So, too, had Cecily. Her look of irritation with Henry haddisappeared as she entered the box. He, following after her, had beennervous and self-conscious, feeling that the flushed look on his facemust betray him to his friends; but Cecily had none of theseawkwardnesses. She behaved as easily as if the scene with Henry had nottaken place. "You'd think she hadn't any feelings, " he murmured tohimself, and as he did so, it seemed to him that in that moment he knewCecily, knew her once and for all. _She had no feelings, no particularfeelings for any one, not even for Gilbert. _ She was a beautiful animal, eager for emotional diversions, but indifferent to the creature thatpleased her after it had pleased her. If Henry were to quit her now andnever return to her, she might some day say, "I wonder where poor Paddyis!" and turn carelessly to a new lover; but that would be all. Gilberthad piqued her, perhaps, but he had done no more than that, thoughprobably it was more than Henry could ever hope to do, and she hadyawned a little with the tedium of waiting for him, and then had decidedto yawn no more. . . . 

He fell among platitudes. "Like a butterfly, " he said to himself. "Justlike a damned butterfly!"

Well, he thought, mentally cooler because of his revelation, that is anattitude towards life that has many advantages. One might call Cecily astoical amorist, an erotic philosopher. "Love where you can, and don'tbother where you can't!" might serve her for a motto. "And, really, that's rather a good way of getting through these plaguey emotions ofours!" he told himself. "Only, " he went on, "you can't walk in that wayjust because you think it's a good one!"

He sat between Lady Cecily and Mary at supper, but he did not talk agreat deal to either of them, for Mary was chattering excitedly to SirGeoffrey Mundane, and Cecily was persuading Ninian that engineering hadalways been the passion of her life. "I quite agree, " she was saying, "aChannel Tunnel would be very useful and . . . And so convenient, too. I've often said that to Jimphy, but dear Jimphy doesn't pretend tounderstand these things!" She had turned to him once and, in a whisper, had said, "Which of you is in love with Mary?" but he had pretended tobe wooden and hard of understanding. 

"My dear Paddy, " she said, raising her eyebrows, "I believe you'resulking . . . Just because I wouldn't run away with you. You're as bad asGilbert!"

"You're perfectly brutal, " he said under his breath. 

"Aren't you exaggerating?" she replied. "And if I had gone off with you, we'd have missed this nice supper. Do be sociable, there's a dear Paddy, and perhaps I'll run away with you next Tuesday!"

There was a babble of conversation about them, and much laughter, forGilbert, reacting from his fright, was full of bright talk, and SirGeoffrey, reminiscent, capped it with entertaining tales of dramatistsand stage people. It was easy for Cecily and Henry to carry on theirconversation in quiet tones without fear of being overheard. 

"You treat me like a boy, " he said reproachfully. 

"You are a boy, Paddy dear, and a very nice boy!"

"I suppose, " he retorted, "it's impossible for you to understand that Ilove you. . . . "

"Indeed, it isn't, " she interrupted. "I understand that quite easily. What I can't understand is why you wish to spoil everything by sillyproposals to . . . To elope!. . . "

"But I love you, " he insisted. "Isn't that enough to make youunderstand?"

She shook her head, and turned again to Ninian. 

"You see, " Ninian said, "you bore through this big bed of chalk fromboth sides. . . . "

"But how do you know the two ends will meet?" she asked. 

"Oh, engineers manage that sort of thing easily, " Ninian answered. "Think of the Simplon Tunnel!. . . "

"Yes!" she said, to indicate that she was thinking of it. 

"Well, that met, didn't it?"

"Did it?" she replied. "Oh, but of course it must have met. I've beenthrough it!. . . "

"There was hardly an inch of divergence between the two ends, " he wenton. . . . 

"Hell's flames!" Henry said to himself. 

5

"I must see you, " he said to her when the party had broken up and shewas going home. "I must see you alone!"

"I do hope you're not going to be a nuisance, Paddy!" she replied. 

He put her cloak about her shoulders. "Will you meet me at thesuspension bridge over the lake in St. James's Park to-morrow ateleven?. . . "

"That's awfully early, Paddy, and St. James's Park is such a long wayfrom everywhere. Couldn't you come to lunch? Jimphy'll be glad to seeyou. He seems to like you for some reason!"

"I want to talk to you alone, and we're not likely to be disturbed inSt. James's Park. You must come, Cecily!"

"Oh, all right, " she answered. "But I shan't be there before twelve. Youcan take me to lunch somewhere. . . . "

"Very well, " he said. "I'll be at the bridge at twelve, and I'll waitfor you . . . Only, come as soon as you can, Cecily!"

"I can't think why you want to behave like this, Paddy. It's somelodramatic. Gilbert was just the same!. . . "

He felt that he could hit her when she said that, and he turned awayfrom her so quickly that her cloak slipped from her shoulders. 

"Oh, Paddy!" she exclaimed. 

"I beg your pardon!" he answered, turning again and picking the cloakfrom the ground. 

"You're so . . . So selfish, " she said. "You want everything to be just asyou like it. You're just like Gilbert . . . Where is Gilbert?. . . I mustsay good-night to him . . . And that nice girl, Mary. I think it's a veryclever play, and she's such a nice girl, too. Oh, Gilbert, there youare! Good-night! I've enjoyed everything so much . . . A nice play and anice supper. Good-night, and do come and see me soon, won't you. Why notcome to-morrow with Paddy?. . . "

"Paddy?" said Gilbert. 

"Yes, Henry Quinn. I call him Paddy. It seems natural to call him Paddy. He's so Irish. Do come with him to-morrow, and bring all your presscuttings with you and read them to me. Paddy wants to talk to me. . . . "

Henry walked away from them. What sort of woman was this? he askedhimself. Was she totally insensitive? Was it impossible for her torealise that she was hurting him?. . . 

"Good-night, Quinny!"

He turned quickly to take Mary's hand. 

"We're going back to Devonshire the day after to-morrow, " she said. 

"Are you?" he murmured vaguely. 

"Yes. Good-night, Quinny!"

"Aren't you tired?" he asked. 

"Oh, no, " she answered. "I've enjoyed myself awfully much. Here'sNinian! He's taking us back to our hotel. Good-night, Quinny!"

He hesitated for a moment or two. He wanted to suggest that he should gowith her instead of Ninian, but before he could speak he saw Cecilymoving down the room towards the street. 

"Good-night, Mary!" was all he said. 

6

Roger had taken Rachel home, and so, when Ninian had gone off with hismother and Mary, there were only Henry and Gilbert left. 

"Let's go home, Quinny, " Gilbert said. "I'd like to walk if you don'tmind!"

"Very well, " Henry replied. 

They left the hotel and strolled across the street towards the NationalGallery. 

"I wish it were the morning, " Gilbert said. "I want to see thenewspapers!"

"It doesn't greatly matter what they say, does it?" Henry answered. "Theplay's a success. The audience liked it. "

"I want to read the notices all the same. Of course, I want to readthem. I shall spend the whole of to-morrow reading and re-reading them. Just vanity!"

They walked past the Gallery, and made their way through the complicatedstreets that lie behind the Strand, about Covent Garden, towardsBloomsbury. They did not speak for some time, for they were tired andtheir minds were too full of other things. Once indeed, Gilbert began tospeak . . . "I think I could improve the second act a little . . . " but hedid not finish his sentence, and Henry did not ask him to do so. It wasnot until they were nearly at their home that Henry spoke to Gilbertabout Cecily. 

"Are you going to Lady Cecily's to-morrow?" he said. 

"Eh?" Gilbert exclaimed, starting out of his dreams. "Oh, no, I thinknot! Why?"

"I only wondered. She asked you, you know!"

They walked on in silence until they reached the door of their house. 

"I say, Quinny, " said Gilbert, while Henry opened the door, "you seem tobe very friendly with Cecily!"

Henry fumbled with the key and muttered, "Damn this door, it won'topen!"

"Let me try!. . . "

"It's all right now. I've done it! What were you saying, Gilbert?"

They entered the house, shutting the door behind them, and stood for awhile in the hall, removing their hats and coats. 

"Oh, nothing, " Gilbert replied. "I was only saying you seemed veryfriendly with Cecily!"

"Well, yes, I suppose I am, but not more than most people. Are you goingto bed now or will you wait up for Ninian and Roger?"

"I shan't sleep if I go to bed . . . I'm too excited. I shall read for awhile in my room . . . Unless you'd like to jaw a bit!"

Henry shook his head. "No, " he said, "I'm too tired to jaw to-night. Seeyou in the morning. Good-night, Gilbert!"

"Good-night, Quinny!"

Henry went to his bedroom, leaving Gilbert in the hall, and began toundress. His mind was full of a flat rage against Cecily. She hadconsented to meet him in St. James's Park, and then, almost as she hadmade her promise, she had turned to Gilbert and had invited him to callon her, in his company, at the time she had appointed for his privatemeeting with her. He did not wish to see her again. "She's fooling me, "he said, throwing his coat on to a chair so that it fell on to theground where he let it lie. "I've not done a stroke of work for days onher account, and she cares no more for me than she does for . . . Foranybody. I won't go and meet her to-morrow, damn her! I'll send amessenger to say I can't come, and then I'll drop her. It isn't worthwhile going through this . . . This agony for a woman who doesn't care acurse for you!"

"I'm not going to be treated like this, " he went on to himself while hebrushed his teeth. "I'm not going to hang about her and let her treat meas she pleases. She can get somebody else, some one who is morecomplacent than I am, and doesn't feel things. I hope she goes to thePark and waits for me. Perhaps that'll teach her to understand what aman feels like. . . . "

But of course she would not go to the Park and wait for him. He wouldsend an express messenger with a note to tell her that he was unable tokeep the appointment. 

"I'll write it now, " he said to himself and he stopped in the middle ofwashing his face and hands to find notepaper. "Damn, my hands are wet, "he said aloud, and picked up a towel. 

"_Dear Lady Cecily_, " he wrote, when he was dry, using the formaladdress because he wished to let her know that he was ill friends withher, "_I am sorry I shall not be able to meet you to-day as we arrangedlast night_. " He wondered what excuse he should make for breaking offthe appointment, and then decided that he would not make any. "I won'tadd anything else, " he said, and he signed himself, "_Yours sincerely, Henry Quinn_. " "She'll know that I'm sick of this . . . Messing about. Idon't see why I should explain myself to her!"

He sealed the envelope and put the letter aside, and sat for a whiledrumming on his table with the pen. 

"Mary's worth a dozen of her, " he said aloud, getting up and going tobed. 

THE NINTH CHAPTER

1

They all rose early the next day. Ninian had been out of the housebefore any of them had reached the breakfast room, and when he returned, his arms were full of newspapers. 

"What's Walkley say?" said Gilbert. "That's all I want to know!"

They opened the _Times_, and then, when they had read the criticism of"The Magic Casement, " they murmured, "Charming! Splendid! Oh, ripping!"while Gilbert, sitting back in his chair, smiled beatifically and said, "Read it again, coves. Read it aloud and slowly!"

While they were reading the notices, Henry went off to a post office, and sent his letter to Lady Cecily by express messenger. "That'ssettled, " he said, as he returned home, for he had been afraid that hemight change his mind. As he was shaving that morning, he had falteredin his resolution. "I'd better go, " he had said to himself, and then hadadded weakly, "No, I'm damned if I will!" Well, it was settled now. Theletter was on its way to her. She would probably be angry with him, butnot as angry as he was with her, and perhaps they would not meet againfor a long while. So much the better. Now he could get on with his bookin peace. Gilbert was right. Women _do_ upset things. Well, thisparticular woman would not upset him again. . . . 

They had read all the notices when Henry returned, and were now atbreakfast. Roger was relating the latest legal jest about Mr. JusticeKirkcubbin, a poor old man who persisted in clinging to the Bench inspite of the broadest hints from the _Law Journal_, and Ninian wasmaking mysterious movements with his hands. 

"What's the matter, Ninian?" Henry asked, as he sat down at the table. 

Ninian, while searching for the notices of Gilbert's play, had seen asentence in a serial story in one of the newspapers. . . . "_Her handsfluttered helplessly over his breast_" . . . And he was trying to discoverexactly what the lady had done with her hands. "She seems to have justflopped them about, " he said, and he turned to Gilbert. "Look here, Gilbert, " he said, "you try it. I'll clasp you in my arms as the heroclasped this female, and you'll let your hands flutter helplessly overmy breast!"

"I'll let my fist flutter helplessly over your jaw, young Ninian!. . . "

"I don't believe she let her hands do anything of the sort, " Ninian wenton. "She couldn't have done it. An engineer couldn't do it, and I don'tbelieve a female can do what an engineer can't do!"

"I suppose, " he added, getting up from the table, "Tom Arthurs is halfway across now. I wish I could have gone with him. What a holiday!"

"Talking of holidays, " Gilbert said, "I'm going to take one, and as youdon't seem in a fit state to do any work, Quinny, you'd better take onetoo, and come with me!"

"Where are you going?" Roger asked. "Anglesey?"

"No. I thought of going there, but I've changed my mind. I shall go toIreland with Quinny. "

"Ireland!" Henry exclaimed, looking across at Gilbert. 

"Yes. Dublin. We can go to-night. I've never been there, and I'd like toknow what these chaps, Marsh and Galway, are up to. That whatdoyoucallitmovement you were telling me about?. . . You know, the thing that means 'astitch in time saves nine' or something of the sort!"

"Oh, the Sinn Fein movement!"

"Yes. That's the thing. The Improved Tories ought to know aboutthat. . . . "

"That reminds me, " said Roger, "of an idea I had in the middle of thenight about the Improved Tories. We ought to publish our views onproblems. The Fabians do that kind of thing rather well. We ought toimitate them. We ought to study some subject hard, argue all round it, and then tell the world just how we think it ought to be solved. Ithought we might begin on the problem of unemployment. . . . "

"Good Lord, do you think we can solve that!" Ninian exclaimed. 

"No, but we might find a means of palliating it. My own notion. . . . "

"I thought you had some scheme in your skull, Roger!" said Gilbert. "Let's have it!"

"Well, it's rather raw in my mind at present, but my idea is that theway to mitigate the problem of unemployment, perhaps solve it, is tojoin it on to the problem of defence. Supposing we decided to create abig army . . . And we shall need one sooner or later with all theseententes and alliances we're forming . . . The problem would be to form itwithout dislocating the industrial system. My idea is to make itcompulsory for every man to undergo military training, about a couple ofmonths every year, and call the men up to the camp in times of tradedepression. You wouldn't have to call them all up at once . . . Tradesaren't all slack at the same time . . . And you'd arrange the period oftraining as far as possible to fit in with the slack time in each job. Imean, people who are employed in gasworks could easily be trained in thesummer without dislocating the gas industry . . . Colliers, too, andpeople like that . . . And men who are slack in the winter, like builders'men, could be trained in the winter. That's my idea roughly. There'd betraining going on all the year round, and of course you could vary theduration of the period of training . . . Never less than two months, butlonger if trade were badly depressed. You'd save a lot of misery thatway . . . You'd keep your men fit and fed and their homes going . . . Andyou'd have the nucleus of a large army. I don't see why we shouldn'tbring the Board of Education in. If we were to raise the school age tosixteen, and then make it compulsory for every boy to go into a cadetcorps or something of the sort for a couple of years, you'd relieve thepressure on the labour market at that end enormously, and you'd make thejob of getting the army ready much easier in case of emergency. A coupleof years' training to begin with, followed by a couple of months'further training every year, would make all the difference in the worldto us militarily, and it would do away, largely, with the unemployed!"

"How about apprentices?" said Gilbert. "If you raise the school age tosixteen and then make all the boys go into training until they areeighteen, you're going to make a big difficulty in the way of gettingskilled labour!"

"I don't think so. As far as I can make out the period of apprenticeshipis much too long. Five or six years is a ridiculous time to ask a boy tospend in learning his job, and any trade unionist will tell you thatevery apprentice spends the first year or two in acting as a sort ofmessenger: fetching beer and cleaning up things. I suppose the realreason why the period of indenture is so long is because the Unionsdon't want to swamp the labour market with skilled workers. Well, whyshouldn't we reduce the period of apprenticeship by giving the boy amilitary training? You see, don't you, what a problem this is? I thoughtof talking about it to the Improved Tories, and when we'd argued it overa bit, we'd put our proposals into print and circulate them amonginformed people, and invite them to come and tell us what they think ofthe notion from their point of view . . . Trade Union secretaries andmilitary men and employers and people like that . . . And then, we mightpublish a book on it. Jaurés wrote a book on the French Army . . . A verygood book, too . . . So there isn't anything remarkably novel about thenotion, except, perhaps, my idea of linking the military problem on tothe unemployment problem. You and Quinny could write the book, Gilbert, because you've got style and we want the book to be written so thatpeople will read it without getting tied up. Of course, if you must goto Ireland, you must, but it seems a little needless, doesn't it?"

"This business will take time, " Gilbert replied. "Tons of time. I don'tthink our visit to Ireland will affect it much. You'll come with me, won't you, Quinny?"

Henry nodded his head. "At once, if you like, " he answered, hopingindeed that Gilbert would suggest an immediate departure. If Lady Cecilywere to hear that he had left London. . . . 

"To-night will do, " said Gilbert. 

2

"Are you going to work?" Gilbert said to Henry, when the others hadgone. 

"I think so, " Henry replied. "I haven't written a word for days. You?"

"I'll go and have a squint at the Pall Mall . . . Just to make sure thatlast night wasn't a dream. I'll come back to lunch. It 'ud be ratherjolly to go on from Dublin and see your father, Quinny?"

"Yes . . . That's a notion. I'll write and tell him we're coming. Bringback the afternoon papers when you come, Gilbert, I'd like to see whatthey say about the play!"

"Righto!" said Gilbert. 

Henry sat on in the breakfast room, after Gilbert had gone, reading thecriticisms of "The Magic Casement, " and then, when he had finished, hewent up to his room and began to work on "Turbulence. " He wrote steadilyfor an hour, and then read over what he had done. 

"This is better, " he murmured to himself, pleased with what he hadwritten, and he prepared to go on, but before he could start again, there was a knock on the door, and Magnolia came in. 

"You're wanted on the telephone, sir!" she said. 

"Who is it?"

"I don't know, sir. They didn't say!"

He went downstairs and took up the receiver. "Hilloa!" he said. 

"Is that you, Paddy?" was the response. 

"Cecily!"

"Yes. I've just had your letter. Are you very cross, Paddy?"

He felt perturbed, but he tried to make his voice sound as if he wereindifferent to her. 

"No, " he replied, "I'm not cross at all. . . . "

"Oh, yes, you are, Paddy. You're very cross, and you're going to teachme a lesson, aren't you?"

He could hear her light laugh as she spoke. 

"I can't _make_ you believe that I'm not cross at all, " he said. 

"No, you can't. Paddy!" Her voice had a coaxing note as she said hisname. 

"Yes. "

"Come to lunch with me. Jimphy's gone off for the day somewhere. . . . "

"I'm sorry!. . . "

"Do come, Paddy. I want you to come. I do, really!"

He paused for a second or two before he replied. After all why should henot go?. . . 

"I'm sorry, " he said, "but I really can't lunch with you. I'm going toIreland!. . . "

"Going where?"

"Ireland. To-night! I'm going with Gilbert!"

"But you can't go this minute. Paddy, you _are_ cross, and you'respiteful, too. If you aren't cross, you'll come and lunch with me. Youought to come and say 'good-bye' to me before you go to Ireland. . . . "

"I've got a lot to do . . . Packing and things!"

"You can do that afterwards!" Her voice became more insistent. "Paddy, Iwant you to come. You must come!. . . "

He hesitated, and she said, "Do, Paddy!" very appealingly. 

It would be weak, he told himself, to yield to her now . . . She wouldthink she had only to be a little gracious and he would be at her feetimmediately; and then he thought it would be weak not to yield to her. "It'll look as if I were afraid to meet her . . . Running away like this. Or that I'm sulking . . . Just petulant!"

"All right, " he said to her, "I'll come!"

"Come now!"

He nodded his head, forgetting that she could not see him, and shecalled to him again, "You'll come now, won't you?"

"Yes, " he replied. "I'll come at once!"

He put up the receiver and reached for his hat. "I wonder what shewants, " he thought, "perhaps she really does love me and my letter'sfrightened her!" His spirits rose at the thought and he went jauntily tothe door and opened it, and as he did so, Ninian, pale and miserable, panted up the steps. 

"My God, Quinny!" he exclaimed, almost sobbing, "the _Gigantic's_ gonedown!"

"The what?"

"The _Gigantic's_ gone down! It's in the paper. Look, look!" He wasunbalanced by grief as he thrust the _Westminster Gazette_ and the_Globe_ into Henry's hands. 

"But, damn it, she can't have gone down, " Henry said, "she's a Belfastboat . . . She can't have gone down!"

"She has, I tell you, and Tom Arthurs . . . Oh, my God, Quinny, he's gonedown too! The decentest chap on earth and . . . And he's been drowned!"

Henry led him into the house. "I went out to get the evening papers tosee about Gilbert's play, " he went on, "and that's what I saw. I saw herat Southampton going off as proud as a queen . . . And now she's at thebottom of the Atlantic. And Tom waved his hand to me. He was going toshow me over her properly when he came back. Isn't it horrible, Quinny?What's the sense of it . . . What the hell's the sense of it?"

"She can't have gone down . . . " Henry said, as if that would comfortNinian. 

"She has, I tell you. . . . "

Henry went to the sideboard and took out the whisky. 

"Here, Ninian, " he said, pouring out some of it, "drink that. You'reupset!. . . "

"No, I don't want any whisky. God damn it, what's the sense of a thinglike this! A man like Tom Arthurs!. . . "

There was a noise like the sound of a taxi-cab drawing up in front ofthe house, and presently the bell rang, and then, after a moment or two, the door opened, and Mrs. Graham came hurrying into the room. 

"Ninian! Where's Ninian?" she said wildly to Henry. 

"He's here, Mrs. Graham!"

She went to him and clutched him tightly to her. "Oh, my dear, my dear, "she said. 

"What is it, mother?" he asked, calming himself and looking at her. 

"I telephoned to your office, but you weren't there, so I came here tofind you. I couldn't rest content till I'd seen you!"

"What is it, mother?"

"That ship, Ninian. If you'd been on it . . . You wanted to go, and I saidwhy didn't you . . . Oh, my dear, if you'd been on it, and I'd lost you!"

He put his arms about her and drew her on to his shoulder. "I'm allright, mother!" he said. 

Henry left the room hurriedly. He went to the kitchen and called to Mrs. Clutters. "I won't be in to lunch, " he said. "Don't let any one disturbMrs. Graham and Mr. Graham for a while. They . . . They've had bad news!"

Then he went out of the house. The taxi-cab in which Mrs. Graham hadcome was still standing outside the door. 

"I ain't 'ad me fare yet, " said the driver. 

"All right!" said Henry. "I'll pay it. "

He gave Cecily's address to the man, and then he got into the cab. 

3

He could hear the newspaper boys crying out the news of the disaster ashe was driven swiftly to Cecily's house. The sinking of the great shiphad stunned men's minds and humiliated their pride. This beautifulvessel, skilfully built, the greatest ship afloat, had seemedimperishable, the most powerful weapon that man had yet forged to subduethe sea, and in a little while, recoiling from the hidden iceberg, shehad foundered, broken as easily as a child's toy, carrying all hervanity and strength to the bottom. . . . 

"It isn't true, " he kept on saying to himself as if he were trying tocontradict the cries of the newsvendors. "She's a Belfast boat andBelfast boats don't go down. . . . "

He felt it oddly, this loss. The drowning of many men and women andchildren affected him merely as a vague, impersonal thing. "Yes, it'sdreadful, " he would say when he thought of it, but he was not moved byit. When he remembered Tom Arthurs he was stirred, but less than Ninianhad been. He could see him now, just as he had stood in the shipyardthat day when John Marsh and Henry had been with him, and he had watchedthe workmen pouring through the gates. "Those are my pals!" he hadsaid. . . . Poor Tom Arthurs! Destroyed with the thing that he hadconceived and his "pals" had built! But perhaps that was as he wouldhave wished. It would have hurt Tom Arthurs to have lived on after the_Gigantic_ had gone down. . . . It was not the drowning of a crowd ofpeople or the drowning of Tom Arthurs that most affected Henry. It wasthe fact that a boat built by Belfast men had foundered on her maidentrip, on a clear, cold night of stars, reeling from the iceberg's blowlike a flimsy yacht. He had the Ulsterman's pride in the Ulsterman'spower, and he liked to boast that the best ships in the world were builton the Lagan. . . . 

"By God, " he said to himself, "this'll break their hearts in Belfast!"

The cab drew up before the door of Cecily's house, and in a little whilehe was with her. 

"Have you heard about the _Gigantic_?" he said, as he walked across theroom to her. 

"Oh, yes, " she answered, "isn't it dreadful? Come and sit down here!"

He had not greeted her otherwise than by his question about the_Gigantic_, and she frowned a little as she made room for him beside heron the sofa. 

"That great boat!. . . " he began, but she interrupted him. 

"I suppose you're still cross, " she said. 

"Cross?"

"Yes. You haven't even shaken hands with me!"

He remembered now. "Oh!" he said in confusion, but could say no more. 

"Are you really going to Ireland?" she asked, putting her hand on hisarm. 

"Yes, " he answered, feeling his resolution weakening just because shehad touched him. 

"But why?"

"You know why!" he said. 

Her hand dropped from his arm. "I don't know why, " she exclaimedpettishly, and he saw and disliked the way her lips turned downwards asshe said it. 

"I can't bear it, Cecily, " he exclaimed. "I must have you to myself or. . . Or not have you at all!"

"Perfectly absurd!" she murmured. 

"It isn't absurd. How can you expect me to feel happy when I see yougoing off with Jimphy? Can't you understand, Cecily? Here I am with younow, but if Jimphy were to come into the room, I should have to . . . Togive way, to pretend that I'm not in love with you!"

"I can't see what difference it makes, " she said. "Jimphy and I don'tinterfere with each other. It's ridiculous to make all this fuss. Idon't see any necessity to go about telling everybody!. . . "

"I didn't propose that, " he interrupted. 

"Yes, you did, Paddy, dear! You asked me to run away with you, andwhat's that but telling everybody?"

He felt angry with her for what seemed to him to be flippancy. "I'm inearnest, Cecily!" he said. "I'm not joking!"

"I'm in earnest, too. I don't want to run away with you . . . Not becauseI don't love you . . . I do love you, Paddy, very much . . . But it's soabsurd to run away and make a . . . A mountain out of a molehill. Weshould be awfully miserable if we were to elope. We'd have to go to somehorrid place where we shouldn't know anybody and there'd be nothing todo. Really, it's much pleasanter to go on as we are now, Paddy. You cancome here and take me to lunch sometimes and go to the theatre with mewhen Jimphy wants to go to a music-hall, and . . . And so on!"

He could not rid himself of the notion that she was "chattering" in theLensley style. 

"It would be decenter to go away together, " he said. 

She moved away from him angrily. "You're a prig, Paddy!" she exclaimed. "You can go to Ireland. I don't care!"

He got up as if to go, but did not move away. He stood beside herirresolutely, wishing to go and wishing to stay, and then he bent overher and touched her. "Cecily, " he said, "come with me!"

"No!" she answered, keeping her back to him. 

"Very well, " he said, and he walked across the room towards the door. His hand was on the handle when she called to him. 

"Aren't you going to stay to lunch?" she said. 

"You told me to go!. . . "

"Yes, but I didn't mean immediately. I shall be all alone. "

He went back to her very quickly, and sat down beside her and folded herin his arms. 

"I loathe you, " he cried, with his lips pressed against her cheek. "Iloathe you because you're so selfish and brutal. You don't really carefor me. . . . "

"Oh, I do, Paddy I . . . "

"No, you don't. You were making love to Ninian last night!. . . "

"So that's it, is it?. . . "

"No, it isn't. Ninian doesn't care about you or about any woman. He'snot like me, a soft, sloppy fool. You don't love me. If I were to leaveyou now, you'd find some one to take my place quite easily. Lensley orBoltt!. . . "

"They're too middle-aged, Paddy!"

He pushed her away from him. "Damn it, can't you be serious!" he shoutedat her. 

"You're very rude, " she replied. 

"I'd like to beat you! I'd like to hurt you!. . . "

She smiled at him and then she put her arms about his neck and drew himtowards her. "You don't loathe me, Paddy, " she said softly, soothing himwith her voice, "you love me, don't you?"

"Will you come away with me? Now?"

"No!" She kissed him and got up. "Let's go to lunch, " she said. 

He felt that he ought to leave her then, but he followed her meeklyenough. 

"I don't think I'll stay to lunch, " he said weakly. 

"Yes, you will!" she replied. "You can take me to a picture galleryafterwards!. . . "

4

They did not go to a picture gallery. The spring air was so fresh thatshe declared she must go for a drive. 

"Let's go to Hampstead!" he said, signalling to a taxi-driver. "Wellhave tea at Jack Straw's Castle!"

"Yes, let's!" she exclaimed. 

She had tried to persuade him not to return to Ireland, but he hadinsisted that he must go because of his promise to Gilbert. 

"Do you care for Gilbert more than you care for me?" she had asked, making him wonder at the casual way in which she spoke Gilbert's name. It seemed incredible, listening to her, that Gilbert had been herlover. . . . 

"It's hardly the same thing, " he replied. 

Then, after more pleading and anger, she had given in. 

"Very well, " she said, "I won't ask you again, and don't let's talkabout it any more. Well enjoy to-day anyhow!"

The taxi-cab carried them swiftly to Hampstead. 

"Well get out at the Spaniards' Road, " he said, "and walk across theHeath. It's beautiful now!"

"All right, " she answered. 

They did as he said, and walked about the Heath for nearly an hour. Thefresh smell of spring exhilarated them, and they sat for a little whileon a seat which was perched on rising ground so that they were able tosee far beyond the common. Young bracken fronds were thrusting theircurled heads upwards through the old brown growth; and the buds on theblackened boughs were bursting from their cases and offering delicategreen leaves to the sunlight; and the yellow whins shone like littlegolden stars on their spiky stems. Henry's capacity for sensuousenjoyment was fully employed, and he would willingly have sat thereuntil dusk, drawing his breath in with as much luxurious feeling as awoman has when she puts new linen on her limbs. He would have liked tostrip and bathe his naked body in the Highgate Ponds or run with barefeet over the wet grass . . . But Cecily was tired of the Heath. 

"Isn't it time we got some tea?" she said, getting up and looking abouther as if she were searching for a tea-shop. 

"I suppose it is, " he answered reluctantly, and he rose too. "We go thisway, " he said, moving in the direction of Jack Straw's Castle. "Let'scome back to the Heath, " he added, "after we've had tea!"

"But why?" she asked. 

"Oh, because it's so beautiful. "

"I thought it was getting chilly, " she objected. 

5

"I don't see why you want to go to Ireland, " she exclaimed, as shehanded a cup of tea to him. 

"I've told you why, " he said. 

"Oh, but that isn't a reason. And why does Gilbert want to go? He isn'tIrish. "

"I suppose!. . . "

"It's so absurd to go rushing about like this. I should have thoughtGilbert would want to stay in town now that his play is on. Is it asuccess? I haven't looked at the papers, but then I never do. I can'tread newspapers . . . They're so dull. This tea is nice. And it's muchnicer in town now than it can possibly be in Ireland. Besides, I don'twant you to go!"

He let her chatter on, hoping that she would exhaust her interest in hisvisit to Ireland and begin to talk of something else, but he did notknow that Cecily had greater tenacity than might appear from theincoherence of her conversation. She held on to a subject until it wassettled irrevocably. She looked very charming as she sat opposite tohim, and he wondered how Jimphy could be so careless of her loveliness. The sunlight shining through the window above her head kindled her hairso that the ripples of it shone like gold, and the delicate sunburntflush of her cheeks deepened in the soft glow. He put out his hand andtouched her fingers. "Beautiful Cecily!" he said, and she smiled becauseshe liked to be told how beautiful she was. 

"But you're going to Ireland, " she said. 

He did not answer. 

"You say you'd do anything for me, " she proceeded, "but when I ask younot to go to Ireland, you refuse. If you really love me!. . . "

"I do love you, Cecily!"

"Well, why don't you stay in town! It's so queer to go away the momentyou get to know me!" She began to laugh. 

"What's the joke?" he asked. 

"Oh, I've just remembered how little we know of each other. You kissedme the first time you came to my house!"

"I loved you the moment I saw you . . . That day in the Park when I waswith Gilbert . . . I loved you then. I didn't know who you were, but Iloved you. I couldn't help it, Cecily. You were looking at Gilbert andthen your eyes shifted and you looked at me, and I loved you, dear. Iworried Gilbert to tell me about you!. . . "

"What did he say?" she interrupted eagerly, leaning her elbows on thetable and resting her chin in the cup of her hands. 

"He told me who you were, " Henry answered awkwardly. 

"But didn't he say anything else?. . . Didn't he?. . . "

"I've forgotten what he said. . . . Then I saw you at the St. James's . . . He told me you often went to first-nights, and I went specially, hopingto see you!. . . "

"Dear Paddy, " she said, "and you were so shy!"

"And so jealous and angry because you talked all the time to Gilbert, and ignored me. You made me go out of the box with Jimphy, and as Iwent, I saw you putting your hand out to touch Gilbert, and I heard youcalling him, 'Gilbert, darling. ' . . . "

She laughed, but did not speak. 

"And I was frightfully jealous. Gilbert's my best friend, Cecily, but Ihated him that night. I suppose . . . Oh, I don't know!"

"What were you going to say!" she asked. 

He looked at her intently for a few moments. Her grey eyes were full oflaughter, and he wondered whether she would answer his questionseriously. 

"Well?" she said. 

"Do you still love Gilbert, Cecily! Am I . . . Just some one to fill inthe time . . . Until Gilbert!. . . "

She sat back in her seat, and the laughter left her eyes. 

"Let's go!" she said. 

But he did not move. "You do love him, " he persisted, "and you don'tlove me. . . . "

"Are you going to Ireland with him?" she demanded. 

"Yes!"

"Very well, then!" The tightened tone of her voice indicated that therewas no more to be said, but he would not heed the warning, and persistedin demanding explanations. 

"If you go to Ireland with Gilbert, " she said, "I'll never speak to youagain!"

She closed her lips firmly, and he saw the downward curve of them again, and while he pondered on what she had said, the thought shot across hismind that that downward curve would deepen as she grew older. "She'llget very bad-tempered!. . . "

"I mean it, " she said, interrupting his thought and compelling him topay heed to her. "I'll never speak to you again if you go away now. "

"But I've promised, Cecily!" he protested. 

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't see what that's got to do with it, "she answered. 

6

They came out of the inn, and stood for a few moments before the door. 

"Shall we go back to the Heath?" he said. 

"No, " she replied. "Let's go home. "

"Very well!"

He felt broken and crushed and tongueless. Cecily did not speak to himas they walked towards the Spaniards' Road, nor did he speak to her. Theangry look on her face deterred him. 

He hailed a taxi, and they got into it and were driven down Fitzjohn'sAvenue and homewards. Once she turned to him and said again, "Are yougoing to Ireland with him?" but when he answered, "I must, Cecily, Isaid I would!" she turned away again and did not speak until the taxidrew up before her door. 

"Perhaps you'd rather I didn't come in?" he said, expecting that shewould dismiss him, but she did not do so. 

"Jimphy may be at home, " she said, "and probably he'd like to see you!"

"I thought he'd gone away for the day!"

"He may have returned. "

She went up the steps of the house while he paid the driver of thetaxi-cab, and spoke to the servant who had opened the door. 

"He's not in, " she said to Henry when he joined her. 

"Then I won't . . . "

"Come in, " she interrupted. "I want to say something to you!"

He followed her into the hall and up the stairs to the drawing-room, where she left him while she went to her room to take off her outdoorgarments. He moved aimlessly about until she returned. She had changedher clothes, and was wearing a loose golden silk teagown with a girdleround it, and the gold in her hair seemed to be enriched by the gold inher dress. She went up to him quickly, putting her hands on hisshoulders and drawing him close to her. 

"Paddy!" she said, and her voice was very tense. 

"Yes?" he answered. 

"I've never asked you to do anything for me, have I?" She put her armsround his neck and kissed him. He tried to answer her, but could notbecause her lips were tightly pressed on his. 

"You won't go, will you?" she murmured, closing her eyes and tighteningher hold on him. 

He struggled a little. . . . "Why don't you want me to go with Gilbert?" hesaid. 

But she did not answer his question. She drew him back to her again, whispering, "I love you, Paddy, I love you. I don't love any one elsebut you!"

He threw his arms about her, and they stood there forgetful ofeverything. . . . 

She moved a little, and he led her to the sofa where they sat downtogether. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he put his arms aroundher and drew her warm, yielding body close to his. He could feel thebeating of her heart. . . . 

"You won't go, will you, Paddy?" she whispered. 

"No, " he answered, bending over her and kissing her. 

She drew herself closer to him. "Dear Paddy!" she said. 

7

He went up to Gilbert's room immediately after he returned home. All theway back from Lady Cecily's, he had told himself that he must tellGilbert at once that he was not going to Ireland because he was in lovewith Cecily "and because she's in love with me!" and he had repeated hisresolution many times to himself in the hope that by thinkingexclusively of it, there would be no opportunity for other thoughts tocome into his head. He shrank from the meeting with Gilbert, for hisconscience hurt him because of his betrayal of Gilbert's love andfriendship. He had palliated his conduct by saying to himself thatGilbert had given Cecily up, but the excuse would not serve to absolvehim from the sense of unfriendly behaviour. 

"I'm making excuses for myself, " he murmured. 

"That's all I'm doing. The decent thing is to go to Gilbert and tell himeverything . . . Or . . . Or I could write it. I could write a long letterto him and get Magnolia to give it to him. . . . Perhaps that 'ud be betterthan telling him. It'll be difficult to get a chance to say anything tohim with Roger and Ninian about. . . . "

He broke off his thoughts and spoke out loud. "You're funking it, " hesaid. "Damn you, you're funking it!"

"I must tell him myself, " he went on. "I must stand up to some one. Ican't go on funking things forever. . . . "

It was odd, he thought, that he had no feeling for Jimphy. He had notany sense of shame because he had made love to Jimphy's wife. Jimphyappeared to him only in a comic light. Yet Jimphy had professedfriendship for him. "Of course, " he said, "they don't love each other!"but in this mood of self-confession which held him, he admitted that hewould have felt no contrition even if Jimphy had been devoted to Cecily. 

"He's a born cuckold!" he went on. "I might be afraid to take his wifefrom him, but I wouldn't be ashamed to do it. No one would. . . . "

He had opened the door and gone quickly up the stairs, hoping that hewould not meet any of the others. Gilbert would probably be in his studyor in his bedroom, and so he could talk to him at once and get the thingover. He knocked on the study door, and then, receiving no answer, opened it and looked in. Gilbert was not there. He went to the bedroomand called "Are you in, Gilbert?" but there was no response. "I supposehe's downstairs, " he said to himself, and he walked part of the way downto the dining-room, stopping midway when he saw Magnolia. 

"Tell Mr. Farlow I want to speak to him, " he called to her. "Up in mystudy!"

He went to his room, and stood staring out of the window until Gilbertcame. 

"Hilloa, Quinny, what's up?" Gilbert said, as he entered the study. 

Henry turned to him. He could _feel_ the pallor of his cheeks, sonervous was he. 

"Gilbert, " he said desperately, "I want to talk to you!"

"Yes?. . . "

"I'm not going to Ireland with you!"

"Not going!. . . Why?"

He moved mechanically towards Gilbert and stopped at the table where hewrote. He stood for a few moments, fingering things, turning over piecesof foolscap and tapping the table with a paper knife. 

"What is it, Quinny?" Gilbert said again, and as he spoke, he came up toHenry and touched him. "Is it . . . Is it anything about Cecily?" Henrynodded his head. "I thought so, " Gilbert continued. He moved away andsat down. "Well, tell me about it, " he said. 

"I'm in love with her, Gilbert!"

"Yes. "

"I . . . I asked her to run away with me!. . . "

Gilbert laughed. "You have hustled, Quinny, " he said. "And she wouldn't, eh?"

"No!" Gilbert's laughter stimulated him, and he spoke more fluently. "But she's in love with me. She told me so. I've just come from her. Andshe wants me to stay in town. "

"To be near her?"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose so. I had to tell you. I felt that I must tell you. Gilbert, I'm ashamed, but I can't help it. I love her so much that I'd. . . I'd do anything for her. "

Gilbert did not move nor did he speak. He sat in his chair, looking veryintently at Henry. 

"I can't understand myself, " Henry went on. "My feelings are hopelesslymixed up. I want to do decent things and I loathe cads, but all the sameI do caddish things myself. I want to be straight, but I'm not straight. . . . It's awfully hard to explain what I mean, but there's something inme that seems to keep pulling me out of line, and I haven't enough forcein me to beat it. I suppose it's the mill in my blood. My grandfatherwas a mill-owner. "

Gilbert shook his head and smiled. "I don't think your notions ofheredity are sound, Quinny. Is that all you have to confess?"

"All?"

"Yes. There isn't anything else?"

"No. I wanted to tell you that I'm ashamed, but I must tell you, too, that although I'm ashamed, I shan't stop loving Cecily. I can't. . . . "

Gilbert got up and went over to him. He sat on the edge of the table sothat Henry, when he looked up, had to gaze straight at him. 

"You're a rum bloke, Quinny, " he said. "I'm always telling you that, aren't I? But you were never so rum as you are now. It's no goodpretending that I don't feel . . . Feel anything about Cecily. I do. ButI've known about you and her for some while. I knew you'd fall in lovewith her that day in the Park when you were excited about her beauty andwere so anxious that I should introduce you to her. Of course, I knewyou'd fall in love with her. I'm not a dramatist for nothing. So whatyou say isn't news. I mean, it doesn't surprise me. Quinny, I'm awfullyfond of you, old chap, much more than I am of Ninian or Roger. I expectit's because you're such a blooming baby. I'm not really upset aboutyour being in love with Cecily. That had to be. But I'm awfully upsetabout you!"

"Me, Gilbert?" Henry said, looking up in astonishment. 

"Yes. You haven't got much resolution, have you? Cecily has only got toblub a little or kiss you a few times, and you're done for . . . She cando what she likes with you. You haven't got the courage to run away fromher, and you haven't the power to stand up to her and say 'Be-damned toyou'!"

"No, I know that!"

"So, I think I'll just kidnap you, Quinny. I think I'll make you come toIreland with me. . . . "

"You can't do that, Gilbert!"

"Can't I, by God!" Gilbert's voice had changed from its bantering noteto a note of resolve. "Do you think I'm going to let my best friend makean ass of himself, and do nothing to prevent him? Quinny, you're an ass!You're too fond of running about saying you can't help this and youcan't help that . . . And spilling over! And what do you think's going tobe the end of this business? I suppose you imagine that Cecily'll changeher mind some day, and run away with you? Do you think she'll run awaywith _you_ when she wouldn't run away with me? Damn you, you've got anerve to think a thing like that. . . . "

"I don't think that, Gilbert, " Henry interjected. 

"Oh, yes, you do! Of course, you do! That's natural enough. I wouldn'tmind so much if I thought there were a chance that she would run awaywith you, but she won't!"

"You wouldn't mind!. . . "

"No. Why should I? If she won't run away with me, she couldn't do betterthan run away with you. And there'd be a chance then that you'd get onwith your job. You'd soon shake down into some sort of balance if youwere together, but you'll never get level if you go on in the way you'regoing now. You'll run up into one emotional crisis and down intoanother, and you'll spend the time between them in . . . In recovering. That's all. And your work will go to blazes. I _know_, Quinny. You see, I was your predecessor. . . . "

"But Cecily's proud of my work. . . . "

"She was proud of mine. So she said. Look here, Quinny, _buck up_! Howmuch of your new novel have you written since you knew her!"

"Not very much, of course, but!. . . "

"Exactly. I couldn't work either when . . . When I was your predecessor. Cecily's greedy, Quinny! She wants _all_ of you . . . And she has thepower to make you give the whole of yourself to her. If you think that'all for love and the world well lost' is the right motto for a man . . . Then Cecily's your woman. But is it? Hang it all, Quinny, you haven'tdone your work yet . . . You've only begun to do it!"

He got off the table and began to search among Henry's papers. 

"What are you looking for?" Henry asked. 

"I want the manuscript of 'Turbulence. ' Where is it?"

"I'll get it. What do you want it for?"

He opened a drawer and took out the few sheets of the novel that werewritten. 

"Is that all?" said Gilbert. 

"Yes, " Henry answered. 

"Cecily doesn't seem to inspire you, Quinny, does she, any more than sheinspired me? You haven't written a whole chapter yet. . . . Do you rememberwhat we swore at Rumpell's?"

"We swore a whole lot of things!. . . "

"Yes, but the most important thing? We swore we'd become Great. I don'tknow that any of us ever will be Great. . . . I get the sensation now andthen that we're frightfully crude, even Roger, but we can becomesomething better than one of Cecily's lovers, can't we?"

"I don't know that I want to be anything else. . . . "

"For shame, Quinny!"

Gilbert put the manuscript back into the drawer from which Henry hadtaken it. 

"You'll come to Ireland with me?" he said. 

"No, Gilbert, I won't!"

"You will. I'll break your jaw if you don't come. I'll knock thestuffing out of you if you don't come. We can catch the night train andbe in Dublin to-morrow morning!. . . "

"I promised Cecily I wouldn't go. . . . "

"And you promised me you would go. I've packed all the things I want, and it oughtn't to take you long to pack a trunk. I'll come and help youafter dinner . . . There's the gong . . . Well just have time if you hopround quickly. Ninian can telephone for a taxi to take us to Euston!"

"It's no good, Gilbert. . . . "

"Come on. I can smell onions, and I'd risk my immortal soul for onions. Boiled, fried, stewed or roasted, Quinny, there's no vegetable to beatthem. . . . "

8

"I'm not going, Gilbert!. . . "

"You are going!"

They had finished dinner and were now in Henry's bedroom. Gilbert hadinstructed Ninian to telephone for a taxi. Then, shoving Henry beforehim, he had climbed the stairs to Henry's room and started to pack histrunk. 

"You can't make me go!. . . "

Gilbert took an armful of shirts from the chest of drawers and droppedthem into the trunk. "Once, when I was wandering in Walworth, " he said, "I heard a costermonger threatening to give another costermonger a thickear, a bunged-up eye and a mouth full of blood. That's what you'll getif you don't hop round. What suits do you want!"

Henry did not answer. He walked to the window and stood there, peeringout at the trees in the garden. A taxi-cab drove up to the door andpresently Ninian came bounding up the stairs to tell them of itsarrival. 

"Tell him to wait, " said Gilbert, and Ninian hurried back to do so. "Ifyou won't choose your suits yourself, " he went on to Henry, "I shallhave to do it for you. Socks, socks, where the hell do you keep yoursocks?. . . "

It seemed to Henry that he could see Cecily's face shining out of thedarkness. He could feel her arms about him and hear her beautiful voicetelling him that she loved him. "I won't go, " he said to himself. "Iwon't go!. . . "

"If you'd only help to pack, we'd save heaps of money, " Gilbertgrumbled. "It's sickening to think of that taxi sitting out theretotting up tuppences. Come and sit on the lid of this trunk, will you?"

Henry did not move from the window. Gilbert straightened himself. For amoment or two he could not see clearly because he was giddy withstooping. Then he crossed the room and took hold of Henry's arm. 

"Come on, Quinny, " he said, pulling him towards the trunk. 

"What's the good of fussing like this, Gilbert, when I've told you Iwon't go. . . . "

"Well, sit on the trunk anyhow. I may as well close the thing now I'vefilled it. . . . "

9

He called Ninian, and between them they carried the luggage downstairsto the cab. 

"Now then, Quinny!" said Gilbert. 

"I'm not going, I tell you. . . . "

"Get into the cab, damn you. Go on!"

He shoved him forward so that he almost fell against the step of thetaxi, and Ninian caught hold of him, and they lifted him and heaved himinto the taxi. 

"Get in, Ninian, " said Gilbert. He turned and shouted up the hall toRoger. "Come on, Roger! You'd better come and see us off!"

None of them spoke during the short drive to Euston. Henry sulked in acorner of the cab, telling himself that it was monstrous of Gilbert totreat him in this fashion, and vowing that nothing would induce him toget into the train . . . And then, his mind veering again, telling himselfthat perhaps it would be a good thing to go to Ireland for a while. Cecily had chopped and changed with him. Why should he not chop andchange with her?. . . Neither Ninian nor Roger made any remark on thepeculiarity of the journey to Ireland. They had known in the morningthat Gilbert and Henry were going away that night, but it was clear thatsomething had happened since then, that Gilbert was more intent on thejourney than Henry. . . . No doubt, they would know in good time. Probably, Ninian thought to himself, that woman Jayne is mixed up in it. . . . 

"You get the tickets, Ninian, " Gilbert said when they reached Euston. "Firsts. Democracy's all right in theory, but I don't like it in arailway carriage!"

"Where's the money?" said Ninian. 

"Money! What do you want money for? All right! Here you are! You can payme afterwards, Quinny!"

They had only a few minutes in which to get into the train, and Gilbert, putting his arm in Henry's and hurrying him towards the Irish mail, wasglad that the wait would not be long. 

"It's ridiculous to behave like this, " said Henry, as they shoved himinto a carriage. 

"I know it is, " Gilbert answered. He turned to Roger. "We may want grubduring the night. Get some, will you! Sandwiches will do and hard-boiledeggs, if you can get 'em. . . . "

He turned to Henry. "You're my friend, Quinny, " he said, "I can't letyou make a mucker of everything, can I?"

Henry did not answer. 

"I know exactly how you feel, " Gilbert went on. "I should feel like itmyself if I were in your place, but if I were, Quinny, I'd be damnedglad if you'd do the same for me!"

10

"Good Lord!" Gilbert exclaimed, as the train drove out of London, "Iforgot to pack your toothpaste. . . . "

THE THIRD BOOK

OF

CHANGING WINDS

 . . . Quitted all to save A world from utter loss. 

 PARADISE LOST. 

THE FIRST CHAPTER

1

As the boat turned round the end of the pier and moved up the harbour toher berth, Gilbert, eyeing the passengers, caught sight of Henry andinstantly hallooed to him. The passage from Kingstown had been smooth, and Henry, heartened by the sea air and sunshine, pressed eagerlythrough the throng of passengers so that he might be near the gangwayand so be among the first to descend from the steamer. He called agreeting to Gilbert, and then, the boat being berthed, hurried forwardto the gangway. He could not get off the steamer as quickly as he wishedfor the number of passengers on board was very large, and he fidgetedimpatiently until he was able to get ashore. 

"We'll send this bag on by the waggonette, " Gilbert said, when they hadshaken hands and congratulated each other on their healthy looks, "andwalk over to Tre'Arrdur, and we'll gabble on the way. Here, " he added, taking a letter out of his breastpocket, "you can read that while I findthe man. It's from Ninian. It came this morning!. . . "

He seized Henry's bag and hurried off with it, leaving Henry to followslowly or remain where he was, as he pleased, and then, before Henry hadtime to do more than take the letter from its envelope and glancecarelessly at the first page of it, he came quickly back. "Come up, " hesaid, putting his arm in Henry's. "You can read it as you go along. There's not much in it!"

They left the pier and passed through the station into the street. 

"Holyhead, " said Gilbert, "is a good place to get drunk in! We won'tlinger!. . . "

They took the lower road to Tre'Arrdur Bay because it was quieter thanthe upper road, and as they walked, Henry read Ninian's letter. 

"He seems to like South America, " he said, returning the letter toGilbert when he had finished with it. 

Gilbert nodded his head. "That old Tunnel of his doesn't get itselfbuilt, does it? But it must be great fun building a railway in a placelike that. There's a revolution on the first and third Tuesdays of themonth, and the President of the Republic and the Emperor of the Empireare in power for a fortnight and in exile for another one. So Niniansays. He told Roger in his last letter that he had had to kick theemperor's backside for him for interfering with the railway contract. . . . Oh, by the bye, Rachel's produced an infant. She says it's like Roger, but Roger hopes not. He says it's like nothing on earth. He came to seeme off from Euston yesterday and when I asked him to describe it to me, he said he couldn't . . . It was indescribable. It looks _raw_, he says. It must be frightfully comic to be a father, Quinny!"

"I don't see anything comic about it, " Henry replied. "I'd rather liketo be a father myself. "

"Well, why don't you become one. They say it's easy enough. First, youget a wife. . . . "

"What sort of an infant is it? Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Great Scott!" said Gilbert, "I forgot to ask that. That was verycareless of me. Look out, Quinny, here's a motor, and that's HolyMountain on the right. We'll go up it to-morrow, if you like. It's notmuch of a climb. Just enough to jig you up a bit. There's a chap in thehotel who scoots up mountains like a young goat. He asked me to go upSnowdon with him, but when I asked him what the tramfare was, he wasslightly snorty in his manner. How's the novel getting on?"

"It'll be out in September. I corrected the final proofs last month. Ithink it's rather good. "

"Better than 'Turbulence' or 'The Wayward Man'?"

"Yes, I think so. I'm calling it 'The Fennels. ' That's the name of thepeople it's about. I've taken an Ulster family and . . . Well, that's whatI've done. I've taken an Ulster family and just shown it. My fatherlikes it much better than anything else I've done, although he was verykeen on 'Turbulence. '"

"How is your father?"

"Oh, much better, thanks, but still a bit shaky. He hates all thisVolunteer business in Ireland. You remember John Marsh, don't you, andGalway? You saw them in Dublin that time!. . . " Gilbert nodded his headand so Henry did not complete his sentence. "Well, they're up to theirnecks in the opposition Volunteers. I saw John in Dublin yesterday for afew minutes. He was very excited about the gun-running in Ulster! Damnedplay-acting! He could hardly spare the time to say 'How are you?' to me, he was so anxious to be off to his drilling. He hasn't done any writingfor a long time now. He's become very friendly with Mineely!. . . "

"Is that the Labour man?"

"Yes. I liked him when I met him, but he's frightfully bitter since thestrike. He's got more brains than all the others put together, and heinfluences John tremendously. I don't wonder at his bitterness. Theemployers _were_ brutal in that strike, Gilbert, and Mineely will neverforget it. He'll make trouble for them yet, and they'll deserve all theyget. He said to me 'They won't deal reasonably with us, so they can'tcomplain if we deal unreasonably with them. They set the police on tous. . . . '"

"What's he going to do then?"

"I don't know, but he's drilling his men as hard as ever he can. Hemeans to hit back. After he'd spoken about the police, he said, 'Thenext time we go to them, we'll have guns in our hands. Mebbe they'lllisten to us then!' He's like John . . . He doesn't care what happens tohimself. All those people, John and Galway and Mineely, have a contemptfor death that I can't understand. I loathe the thought of dying . . . Butthey don't seem to mind. It's their religion partly, I suppose, but it'ssomething more than religion. If they were poor, like the slum people, Icould understand it better. You can't frighten _them_ by threatening tokill them. Their life is such a rotten one that they'd be much betteroff if they were dead, even if there were no heaven, and I suppose theyfeel that . . . And of course the Catholic religion teaches them todespise life! But it isn't all religious fervour or the apathy of peoplewho're too poor to mind whether they live or die. Marsh and Galway andMineely are moved by a sort of nationalistic ecstasy . . . Marsh andGalway more than Mineely, I think, because there's a bitterness in himthat isn't in them. They think of Ireland first, and he thinks ofstarving workmen first. They're Ireland mad. They really don't valuetheir lives a happorth. They'd love to be martyrised for Ireland. It's akind of lust, Gilbert. They get a sensual look on their faces . . . Almost. . . When they talk of dying for Ireland. "

"It's a little silly of us English people who love life so much to tryand govern a people like that, " said Gilbert. 

2

Much had happened to them in the two years that had elapsed since theday on which Gilbert carried Henry off to Dublin. The Bloomsburyhousehold had come to an end. Suddenly and, as it seemed to them, inexplicably, Mrs. Clutters had died. It had never occurred to any ofthem that Mrs. Clutters could die. They seldom saw her. The kitchen washer domain, and Magnolia was her messenger. If they had any preferencesor prejudices concerning food, they made them known to Magnolia, andMagnolia made them known to Mrs. Clutters. Ninian returning home in anepicurean mood, might announce that he had seen mushrooms in agreengrocer's window. "Magnolia, " he would say, "let there bemushrooms!" and Magnolia would answer, "Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" andbehold in the morning there would be mushrooms for breakfast. Or Gilbertwould give their opinion of a dish. "Magnolia, we do not like scrambledeggs. We like our eggs boiled, fried, poached, beaten up in milk, Mr. Graham even likes them raw, but none of us like them scrambled!. . . " andMagnolia would say, "Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" and so scrambled eggsceased to be seen on their breakfast table. Magnolia always said, "Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" If they had informed her that the Judgment Day wasto begin that afternoon at three o'clock, Magnolia, they felt sure, would say, "Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" and go on with her work. . . . Thereseemed to be no adequate excuse for Mrs. Clutters' death . . . "an'everythink goin' on so nice an' all!" as Magnolia said . . . And yet shehad died. There had been delay in serving breakfast, and Roger, anxiousto catch a train, had been impatient. 

"Magnolia!" he shouted from the door, "Magnolia!"

"Yes, sir!" Magnolia answered in an agitated voice. 

They waited for her to add "Certainly, sir!" but she did not do so, andthey looked oddly at each other, feeling that something unusual hadhappened. 

"We're waiting for breakfast, " Roger said in a less impatient voice. 

"Yes, sir, I'm comin', sir!. . . "

Magnolia appeared at the door, very red in the face and very worried inher looks, and placed a covered dish in front of Roger who was thefather of the four, appointed to carve and to serve. 

"What's this?" Roger demanded when he had removed the cover. 

"Please, sir, it's eggs, sir! Fried eggs, sir! That's what it's supposedto be, sir!" Magnolia replied dubiously. 

"It's a bad imitation, Magnolia!" Gilbert said. "I think I'll just havebread and marmalade this morning!"

He reached for the marmalade as he spoke, and Henry, eyeing the eggswith disrelish, murmured, "After you, Gilbert!"

"Tell Mrs. Clutters I want her, " Roger said to Magnolia. 

"Please, sir, she's not very well in herself this mornin'. . . . "

"Not very well!"

"Do you mean to say she's ill?" Ninian shouted. 

"Yes, sir. It was me fried the eggs, sir!"

"But . . . But she can't be ill, " Ninian continued. 

"Well, she is, sir. That's what she says any'ow. 'You'll 'ave to cookthe breakfis yourself', she says to me, an' when I said I didn't know'ow, she said 'Well, you must do the best you can, that's all!' an' Idone it, sir. She don't look well at all!. . . "

"How long has she been ill?" Roger asked. 

"I don't know, sir. She didn't tell me. She was groanin' a bit yesterdayan' the day before, but she wouldn't give in. I said to 'er, 'If I wasyou, Mrs. Clutters, I'd 'ave a doctor an' chance it!' an' she told me to'old me tongue, so of course I wasn't goin' to say no more, not afterthat. I mean to say, I can take a 'int as good as any one. . . . "

"We'd better send for a doctor, " Roger said, interrupting Magnolia. "I'll telephone to Dunroon. He lives quite near!" Then he remembered hiscounty court case. "You'd better telephone, Quinny! I _must_ catch thistrain. Take these . . . Eggs away, Magnolia. We won't say anything moreabout them. You did your best!"

"Yes, sir, I did, but I told 'er I didn't know 'ow. . . . "

"All right!" said Roger, passing the dish to her. 

3

Dr. Dunroon suggested that they should send for Mrs. Clutters' friends. 

"Is it serious, doctor?" Henry asked, and the doctor nodded his head. "She's dying, " he said. 

"Dying!"

Magnolia, disregarding the conventions, had stood by, openly listeningto what they were saying, and when she heard the doctor say that Mrs. Clutters was dying, she let a howl out of her that startled them. Thedoctor turned to her quickly. 

"Hold your tongue, " he said, "or she'll hear you. Anybody 'ud think youwere dying by the noise you're making!"

Magnolia blubbered away. "I 'ate to 'ear of anybody dyin', " she said. "Inever been in a 'ouse before where it's 'appened, an' besides she's beengood to me!" Her mind wandered off at a tangent "Any'ow, " she said, wiping her eyes, "I done me best. No one can't never say I ain't done mebest, an' the best can't do no more!"

"Has she got any friends, Magnolia?. . . "

It seemed to them to be extraordinary that this woman had lived in theirhouse, had worked and cared for them, and yet was so much a stranger tothem that now, in this time of her coming dissolution, they did not knowwhere her friends were to be found, whether indeed, she had any friends. "That's very English, " Henry thought; "in Ireland we know all about ourservants!"

"Well, I _think_ 'e's 'er 'usband, " Magnolia replied. "Any'ow, 'e wasdrunk when 'e come!. . . "

They had assumed that Mrs. Clutters was a widow, a childless widow. . . . 

"I've seen 'im 'angin' about two-three times, an' when I said to 'er, 'Mrs. Clutters, there's your friend 'angin' about the corner of thestreet, she tole me to mind me own business, an' then she 'urried out. Of course, it 'adn't got nothink to do with me, 'oo 'e was, an' when shetole me to mind me own business, I took the 'int. . . . "

"Do you know where he lives?" Gilbert asked. 

"No, sir, I don't. When she told me to mind me own business!. . . "

The approach of Death had made Magnolia amazingly garrulous. She saidmore to them that morning than she had said to them all the rest of thetime she had been in their service . . . And mixed up with herreminiscences of what Mrs. Clutters had said to her and what she hadsaid to Mrs. Clutters, there was a continual statement of her fear anddislike of death, followed by the assertion that no one 'ad ever died ina house she'd worked in before. 

"You'd think she was blaming us for it, " Gilbert said afterwards. 

"Well, you'd better go and ask her to tell you where her husband lives, "Henry said to her, but she shrunk away from him when he said that. 

"Oh, I couldn't go near no one what was dyin', " she said. "I ain't usedto it, an' I don't like it!"

Ninian shoved her aside. "I'll go, " he said. 

"We'd better get some one to look after her, " Gilbert proposed whenNinian had gone. "Magnolia's no damn good!. . . "

"No, sir, I ain't . . . Not with dead people I ain't!"

"Clear out, Magnolia!" Gilbert shouted at her. "Go and make the beds orsit in the kitchen or something!"

"Yes, sir, certainly, sir!" Magnolia answered, and then she left theroom. 

"I've never felt such a helpless ass in my life before, " Gilbert went onwhen she had shut the door behind her. "I simply don't know what to do!"

"We can't do anything, " Henry murmured. "Dunroon said he'd come in againin a short while. Perhaps if we were to get a nurse or somebody. There'ssure to be a Nurses' Home near to. Can't we ring up somebody?"

He got hold of the telephone book and began to turn over the pagesrapidly. 

"What are you looking for?" Gilbert asked. 

"Nursing Homes, " he answered. 

"That's no good. Let's send round to Dunroon's!. . . "

"He won't be there!"

"Some one'll be there. We'll ring 'em up!. . . "

Dr. Dunroon's secretary was there, and she knew exactly what to do. "Oh, very well, " she said in a voice so calm that Gilbert felt reassured. "I'll send some one round as soon as possible!"

Ninian came down the stairs before they had finished telephoning to Dr. Dunroon's secretary. 

"I'm going to fetch her husband, " he whispered to Henry, and then heleft them. 

4

"Let's go out, " Gilbert said suddenly to Henry. 

The nurse had arrived, and was busy in attendance on Mrs. Clutters. Magnolia, full of the antagonism which servants instinctively feeltowards nurses, was maintaining a grievance in the kitchen. "Givin' 'erorders, as if she was some one!" she was mumbling to herself. "Toobossy, she is!. . . "

"It's no good trying to do any work to-day, " Gilbert went on. "I . . . Icouldn't make up things with her . . . Up there!"

They told Magnolia that they would have their meals out, and that sheneed not trouble to cook anything for them, and they sent for the nurseand explained their circumstances to her. "That's all right, " she saidcheerfully, "I'll look after myself!"

They set off towards Hampstead, but after a while they found themselvesreturning to Bloomsbury. They could not keep away from the house. . . . They tried to eat a meal at the Vienna Café, but they could not swallowthe food, so they paid their bill and went away. They wandered into theBritish Museum, and tried to interest themselves in Egyptology. . . . 

"This female, " said Gilbert, pointing to the mummy of the Priestess ofAmen-Ra, "is supposed to bring frightful ill-luck to you if you squintat her. There was a fellow at Cambridge who was cracked about her . . . Used to come here in vac. And make love to her . . . Sit here for hoursspooning with a corpse. I often wanted to smack his face for him!"

"Pose, I expect!" Henry replied. "I should have thought it was ratherdull to get smitten on a woman who's as dead as this one is. . . . "

They remembered Mrs. Clutters. . . . 

"Let's go back and see what's happened, " Gilbert said, turning away fromthe case which held the Priestess. . . . 

Ninian met them in the hall. "She's dead, " he said. "Her husband's inthe kitchen. I found him in a lodging-house in Camden Town, and I shouldsay he's a first-class rotter!"

5

They sat together that evening without speaking. There was to have beena meeting of the Improved Tories to talk over Roger's plan for enlargingthe Army and mitigating the problem of unemployment. They could not getmessages to people in time, and so part of the evening was spent inwhispered explanations at the door to those who turned up. 

"I think I'll go to bed, " Ninian said, but he did not move, nor did anyof them move. It was as if they wished to keep together as long aspossible. 

Magnolia, red-eyed from weeping, had come to them earlier in theevening, declaring that she was frightened. 

"What are you afraid of?" Roger snapped at her. 

"'Er!" she answered. 

"But she's dead!. . . "

"Yes, sir, " Magnolia said, "that's why! I don't like goin' upstairs bemeself, sir!. . . "

"Oh, rubbish, Magnolia!" Roger exclaimed. 

"I can't 'elp bein' afraid, sir. I know she's dead an' can't do me no'arm . . . Not that she'd want to do me any 'arm . . . I will say that for'er . . . But some'ow I'm afraid all the same, sir. I can't 'elp it!"

"I want to get a book out of my room, " Henry interjected, "so I'll goupstairs with her!"

"Oh, thank you, sir, " said Magnolia gratefully. "I know she wouldn't'arm me if she could 'elp it, not if she was alive any'ow, but they'redifferent when they're dead!. . . " She broke down, blubbering hopelessly. "Oh, I wish I was 'ome, " she moaned. 

"Come on, Magnolia!" Henry said, opening the door for her. 

"That girl's getting on my nerves, " Gilbert murmured when she had gone. 

Magnolia followed Henry upstairs. They had to pass the room in which thedead woman lay, and Magnolia, when she reached the door, gave a littlesqueal of fright and ran forward, thrusting past Henry. . . . "Don't be afool, Magnolia!" he said, catching hold of her arm and steadying her. 

"I'm frightened, sir!" she moaned, looking up at him with dilated eyes. 

"There's nothing to be afraid of. Come along!"

He took her to her room and opened the door for her. 

"You're all right now, aren't you?" he said, switching on the light. 

"Yes, thank you, sir!"

"Good-night, then!"

"Good-night, sir!"

When she had shut the door, he heard her turning the key in the lock, and he smiled at her precaution. "That wouldn't hinder Mrs. Clutters'ghost if she . . . If she started to walk!" he thought to himself, as hedescended the stairs to his room. He had switched off the light onMagnolia's landing, but there was a light showing dimly up the stairsfrom the landing beneath. It shone faintly on the door of the room inwhich Mrs. Clutters' body was lying. He went down the stairs towards thedoor, and then, half-way down, stopped. He could not look away from thedoor . . . He felt that in a moment or two it would open, and Mrs. Clutters, in her grave-clothes, would stand in the shadow and look athim with fixed eyes. . . . 

"Don't be a fool!" he said aloud, shaking his head and dashing his handacross his eyes as if he were trying to sweep something away. "I'mnervy, that's what it is, " he went on, still speaking aloud. "I'm worsethan Magnolia!. . . "

He descended the rest of the stairs, determined not to show any sign offear, and then, as he passed the door, he shut his eyes and hurried by. He ran down the next flight of stairs, afraid to look back, and did notpause in his running until he had reached the ground floor. He stoodstill in the hall for a few minutes to recover himself, and then heentered the room where the others were sitting. 

They looked up at him. 

"All right?" Ninian asked, and Henry nodded his head. 

"You haven't brought the book, " Roger said. 

"No, " he answered, "No . . . I changed my mind. I didn't really want thebook. I just said that to . . . To get Magnolia out of the room!"

6

Mrs. Clutters' husband insisted on seeing them after the funeralbecause, he said, he wished to thank them for all they had done for"'er!" He made a jerk over his shoulder with his thumb when he said"'er, " and they gathered that he was indicating the direction of KensalGreen cemetery. He was very maudlin and drunk, and Ninian thought thathe ought to be kicked. 

"I'm shorry, " he said, "to be thish con . . . Condish'n, gemmem, but y'seeit's like this. A gemman said to me, y'see, 'Bert, ' 'e says . . . Thash myname . . . Bert, called after Queen's 'usban' . . . Gaw' bless 'er!. . . Alber' the Goo' they called '_im_ . . . Not me, oh, Lor' no!. . . Thishgemmam, 'e says to me, 'Bert, ' 'e says, 'come an' 'ave one!' an' so o'course I '_ad_ to 'ave one. Thash 'ow 'twas, see! Shorry to be in thishdisgrashful state . . . Thish sad occas'n, gemmem. Very shorry! _I_ thankyou!" He turned to leave them, staggering towards the door. "I ain'tbeen a good 'usban' to 'er, " he went on, again making the jerkinggesture over his shoulder with his thumb. "Thash a fac'. I ain't. But I'pologise. I'm shorry! Can't say no more'n that, can I? Goo'-ni', gemmem!"

And then he staggered out. 

"Somebody ought to do him in, " said Ninian, going to see that he leftthe house as quickly as possible. 

"Well, " said Roger, when Ninian had returned, "what are we going to donext?"

"Sack Magnolia, " said Gilbert. 

"And then?" Roger went on. 

"I don't know, " Gilbert replied. 

"I suppose we can get another housekeeper, " Henry suggested. 

"Yes, we could do that, " said Gilbert. 

Roger got up and moved about the room for a few moments. "I think Ishall get married, " he said at last. "I've got to get married some time, and I might as well get married now. This . . . This business seems toprovide an opportunity, don't you think?"

"It's a pity to break up the house, " Gilbert murmured. 

"It'll have to be broken up some day, " Roger retorted. 

Ninian joined in. "There's talk of a big railway contract in SouthAmerica, and I might have to go. Hare spoke of sending me. In about sixmonths' time. . . . "

"We might let the house furnished for the remainder of the lease, " Rogerwent on. "Perhaps some one would take the furniture over altogether. . . . I could use some of it, of course, for my house when I get married!"

"You've settled it then!" said Gilbert. 

"Not exactly. I haven't said anything to Rachel yet. The idea occurredto me in the chapel while the parson was saying the Burial Service!"

"I could have hit that fellow, " Gilbert exclaimed. "Gabbling it off likethat! I suppose he was in a hurry to get home to tea!"

They sat in silence for a while, each of them conjuring up thevision of the cold little service in the cemetery chapel. Magnolia, clothed in black, had sobbed loudly, while Mr. Clutters sniffedand said "A-men" very emphatically, and the parson, regarding thelittle group of mourners with the curiosity of a man who is boredby death and the ritual of burial, gabbled away: _NowisChristrisenfromthedeadandbecomethefirstfruitsofthemthatsleptforsince_

_Bymancamedeathbymancamealso_

_Theresurrectionofthedead. . . . _

"It means breaking up everything, " Gilbert still protested. 

"Things are always breaking up, " said Roger. 

"I suppose so, " Gilbert replied. 

Henry had not taken part in the conversation, but had lain back in hischair, with his hands clasped behind his head, lazily listening to whatthey were saying. 

"I don't think I'd like to go on living here, " he exclaimed, "particularly if Roger and Ninian go away. Perhaps we could share a flator something, Gilbert?"

"That's a notion, " Gilbert answered. 

"There's no reason why the Improved Tories should collapse just becauseI'm going to get married, " Roger asserted. "This house really isn't themost convenient place to meet. We might hire a room in a hotel near theStrand and meet there. . . . "

7

The house was let unfurnished. The incoming tenant was willing to takeon the remainder of their lease and continue in occupation of the houseafter its expiry, but he had furniture of his own, and so he had no usefor theirs. Roger took his furniture to a small house in Hampstead, andoffered to buy most of what was left, but they would not listen to hisproposals. "We'll give it to you as a wedding present, " they insisted. "If there's anything you don't want, well sell it!" Magnolia waspresented with a couple of months' wages and a new dress, and bidden toget another home as soon as she could conveniently do so . . . And thenthe house was abandoned. 

"It's funny, " said Gilbert, as they shut the door behind them for thelast time, "it's funny that we hardly ever thought of that old woman, and yet, the minute she dies, we sort of go to pieces. We didn't evenknow she'd got a husband. Her name was Jennifer. I saw it on the coffinlid!. . . "

Their arrangements for quitting the house were not completed for a monthafter the burial of Mrs. Clutters, and before they finally settled theiraffairs, Ninian was told that he was to proceed to South America withthe junior partner. He was to have a couple of months' leave . . . "Ishall go down to Boveyhayne, " he said . . . After which he would leaveEngland for a lengthy while. "And then there were three!" said Gilbert, when Ninian told them of his appointment. "Three little clever boys, " hewent on, "going up to fame. One little clever boy got married and thenthere were two!. . . "

Until they could make some settlement of their future, they decided tolive in a boarding house in Russell Square. 

"We shall loathe it, " Gilbert said, "but that will be good for us!"

8

And then Roger and Rachel got married. They walked into a Registrar'soffice, with Gilbert and Ninian and Henry to bear them company, andmade their declarations of fealty to each other. 

"My father would have been horrified, " Roger said at luncheonafterwards. "If he'd been alive, Rachel, we'd have had to get married ina church!"

Rachel smiled. "I shouldn't have minded, Roger!" she answered. "You'lllaugh, I know, when I tell you that half-way through the service I beganto long for a surplice and the Voice that Breathed O'er Eden. A marriagein a church is a lot prettier than one in a Registrar's office!. . . "

"If only the Mayor of the Borough had performed the ceremony, " Gilbertlamented. "In his nice furry red robes and cocked hat, joining you twotogether in the name of the Borough of Holborn, he 'd have looked ratherjolly! Roger, we ought to get the Improved Tories to consider thequestion of Civil Marriage. We want more beauty in it. Rachel, my dear, I haven't kissed you yet. I look upon myself as Roger's best man, and Iought to kiss you!"

"Very well, Gilbert, " she answered, turning her face towards him. 

"You've deceived us all, Rachel, " he said as he kissed her. "We'd madeup our minds to hate you because you were taking our little Roger fromus, and at first we thought we were right to hate you because you wereso aggressive to us, but you've deceived us. We don't hate you. We likeyou, Rachel!"

"Do you, Gilbert?" She turned to Ninian and Henry. "Do you like me, too?" she said. 

"I shouldn't mind marrying you myself, " Ninian replied. 

"I don't see why Gilbert should get all the kisses, " said Henry. "Afterall, I more or less gave you away, didn't I? I was there anyhow!. . . . "

So she kissed Ninian and Henry too. Then, a little later, Roger and shewent off to spend a honeymoon in Normandy. 

9

"I feel horribly lonely somehow, " said Gilbert to Henry. Ninian, in ahurry to catch the train for Boveyhayne at Waterloo, had left them atCharing Cross. 

Henry nodded his head. 

"This marrying and giving in marriage is the devil, isn't it?" Gilbertwent on. "We ought to cheer ourselves up, Quinny!"

"We ought, Gilbert!"

"Let's go and see my play. Perhaps that'll make us feel merry andbright!. . . "

"No, " said Henry. "It wouldn't. It 'ud depress us. We'd keep thinking ofNinian and Roger. I think we ought to get drunk, Gilbert, very andincredibly drunk. . . . "

"I should feel like Mrs. Clutters' husband if I did that, " Gilbertanswered. "Aren't there any other forms of debauchery? Couldn't we go toa music-hall or a picture-palace or something? Or we might discuss ourfuture!. . . "

"I'm sick of this boarding house we're in, " Henry exclaimed. 

"So am I, but I don't feel like setting up house again. I'm certainyou'd go and get married the moment we'd settled into a place. . . . "

"I'm not a marrying man, Gilbert, " Henry interrupted. 

"Well, what are you, Quinny?"

"I don't know!"

They were wandering aimlessly along the streets. They had drifted alongRegent Street, and then had drifted into Oxford Street, and were goingslowly in the direction of Marble Arch. 

"Quinny!" said Gilbert after a while. 

"Yes?" Henry answered. 

"Have you . . . Have you seen Cecily since you came back?"

"Yes. Twice!"

Gilbert did not ask the question which was on the tip of his tongue, butHenry was willing to give the answer without being asked. 

"She didn't appear to know I'd been away, " he said. 

"She knew all the same!. . . "

"She just said, 'Hilloa, Paddy I' and went on talking to the otherpeople who were there too. I tried to outstay them, but Jimphy came inthe first time, and there was a painter there the second time, whowouldn't budge. He's painting her portrait. I've not seen her since. . . . "

"You're glad, aren't you, that I kidnapped you, Quinny?"

"In a way, yes!"

"You got on with your book, anyhow. You'd never have done that if you'dstayed in town, trailing after Cecily!"

"I can't quite make you out, Gilbert, " Henry said, turning to hisfriend. "Are you in love with Cecily?"

Gilbert nodded his head. "Of course, I am, but what's the good? Cecilydoesn't love me any more than she loves you. She doesn't love any manparticularly. She's . . . Just an Appetite. You and I are no more to herthan . . . Than the caramel she ate last Tuesday. The only hope for us isthat we shall grow out of this caramel state or at all events get theupper hand of it. . . . In the meantime, what are we going to do?"

"Work, I suppose. 'Turbulence' is nearly finished, and I'm itching toget on with a new story I've thought of. I'm calling it 'The WaywardMan. ' . . . "

"We might go into the country. . . . "

"Or hire a furnished flat for a while. . . . "

"Or do something. . . . Lordy God, Quinny, we're getting frightfully vagueand loose-endy. We really must pull ourselves together. There's abun-shop somewhere about. Suppose we have tea?"

10

They took a furnished flat in Buckingham Street, and lived there whileHenry completed "Turbulence" and saw it through the press. Gilbert hadfinished another comedy soon after the production of "The MagicCasement, " and Sir Geoffrey Mundane had asked for a first option on it. "The Magic Casement" was not a great popular success, but it "paid itsway, " as Sir Geoffrey said. It was performed for a hundred and twentytimes in England, and for three weeks in America, where it failedlamentably. "I never did think much of a republic!" Gilbert said when heheard of the play's failure. 

Roger and Rachel had settled in their house in Hampstead soon afterGilbert and Henry had taken the furnished flat, and after a while, someof the old routine of their lives, except that part of it represented byNinian, went on as before. Most of Ninian's leave was spent in quellinghis mother's alarms about his journey to South America. "It's a splendidchance for me, mother!" he insisted. "It's jolly decent of old Hare togive it to me!"

"But it's so far away, Ninian, dear, and if anything were to happen toyou!. . . "

"Nothing'll happen to me, mother . . . Nothing serious anyhow. Heaps ofchaps go off to places like that without turning a hair!"

"But I've only got you, Ninian!" Mrs. Graham objected. 

"You've got Mary, too, and I shall come back to you!"

One evening, as they walked along the road that leads to Sidmouth, sheput her arm in his, and drew him near to her. 

"Ninian, dear, " she said very softly and hesitatingly as if she wereafraid to say all that was in her mind. 

"Yes, mother!"

"Ninian, I sometimes wish . . . "

Again she hesitated, and again he said, "Yes, mother?"

Her speech took another direction. "There have been Grahams atBoveyhayne for four hundred years, dear, and there's only you left now. "

He looked at her uncomprehendingly. "Well, mother!. . . "

"My dear, we can't let it go away from us. It's us, and we're it, and ifanything were to happen to you, and a stranger were to come here!"

"But, my dear mother, " he interrupted, "nothing's going to happen to me, and no one's going to get Boveyhayne away from us. Why should anyone?. . . "

She put her free hand on his sleeve. "When Roger married Rachel, " shesaid, "I wished . . . I wished that you were Roger, Ninian!"

"You want me to get married, mother?"

She did not answer, but her clasp on his arm tightened. 

"A chap can't marry a girl just for the sake of getting married, mother!. . . "

"No, dear, I know, but . . . "

"I've not seen a girl yet that I wanted particularly. You see, I've beenawfully busy at my job!. . . I know how you feel, mother, aboutBoveyhayne, and I feel like that myself sometimes. I used to think itwas rather rot all this talk about Family and keeping on and . . . Andthat kind of thing, but I can't help feeling proud of . . . Of all thoseold chaps who went before me, and . . . All that, and I'd hate to breakthe line . . . Only I can't just go up to a girl and . . . And say, 'We wantsome . . . Some babies in our house!' . . . "

"No, dear, you can't say _that_, of course, but there are plenty of nicegirls about, and if you would just . . . Just think of some of them, instead of always thinking of works and tunnels and things!. . . Ofcourse, I know that tunnels are very interesting, Ninian, but . . . ButBoveyhayne!. . . "

She did not say any more. She stood by the gate of a field, looking overthe valley of the Axe to the hilly country that separates Dorset fromDevon, seeing nothing because her eyes were full of tears. He slippedhis arm from hers and put it round her waist and drew her close to him. "All right, mother!" he said. 

"My dear!" she said, reaching up and kissing him. 

11

They dined together on Ninian's last night in England. Rachel, with fineunderstanding, insisted that they should dine alone, although they urgedher to join them. 

"I say, you chaps, " Ninian said to them, "you might go and see my matersometimes. She'd be awfully glad. Quinny, you haven't been to Boveyhaynefor centuries. . . . If you'd go, now and then, you'd cheer the mater up. She's awfully down in the mouth about me going!"

"Righto, Ninian!" said Gilbert. 

"Mary was saying what a long time it was since you were there, Quinny, "Ninian went on. 

"Did she?" Henry answered. 

"Yes. I hope you'll go down sometime. "

"I will, " he said. 

THE SECOND CHAPTER

1

Mrs. Graham invited Gilbert and Henry to spend Christmas at Boveyhayne, and they gladly accepted her invitation, but a week before they were dueto go to Devonshire, Mr. Quinn fell ill, and Henry, alarmed by thereports which were sent to him by Hannah, wrote to Mrs. Graham to saythat he must travel to Ireland at once. He hurried home to Ballymartin, and found that his father was more ill even than Hannah had hinted. 

"I wouldn't have let her send for you, Henry!" he said, apologetically, "only I was afraid . . . I mightn't see you again!"

He tried to cheer his father by protesting that in a little while hewould be astride his horse again, directing the farm experiments asvigorously as ever, but Mr. Quinn shook his head. "I don't think so, Henry!" he said. "I'll not be fit for much anyway. You'll have to lend ahand with the estate, my son. "

"I'll help all I can, father, but I'm not much of an agriculturist!. . . "

"Well, you can't be everything. That new book of yours . . . The one yousent me the other day!. . . "

"'Turbulence, ' father?"

"Aye. It's a gran' book, that. I'd like well to be able to write a bookof that sort. I'm proud of you. Henry!"

Henry blushed and turned away shyly, for direct praise alwaysembarrassed him, but he was very pleased with his father's praiseswhich gave him greater pleasure than the praises of any one else, evenGilbert. 

"You'll stay home a while, now you're here, Henry, son, won't you?"

"Yes, father, as long as you like!"

"That's right. You'll be able to work away here in peace and quietness. Nobody'll disturb you. I suppose you're started on another book?"

Henry told him of "The Wayward Man. " . . . 

"That's a great title, " he said. "You're a gran' one at gettin' goodtitles for your books, Henry. I was readin' a bit in the paper about youthe other day, an' I near wrote to the man an' told him you were my son, I was that pleased. Ease this pillow under my head, will you? Thanks, boy!"

He took Henry's hand in his. "I'm right an' glad to have you homeagain, " he said, smiling at him. "Right an' glad!"

2

The whole of "The Wayward Man" was completed before Mr. Quinn was wellenough to move about easily. Henry spent the morning and part of theafternoon on his novel, giving the rest of the day to his father. Sometimes, in his walks, Henry met young farmers and labourers returningfrom the Orange Hall where they had been doing such drill as can be doneindoors. On Saturday afternoons, they would set off to join othercompanies of the Ulster Volunteer Force in a route march. JameseyMcKeown had begun to learn wireless telegraphy and was already expertwith flag-signals and the heliograph. Peter Logan, who had marriedSheila Morgan, had been promoted to be a sergeant. . . . "I supposeSheila's a nurse?" Henry said to him the first time he met him. 

"She's nursin' a wean, Mr. Henry!" Logan replied, winking heavily. "We've a couple already, an' there'll be another afore long. She's aspunctual as the clock, Sheila. She's a great woman for fine, healthychildher!"

"Well, that's what you want, isn't it?" Henry said. 

"Aye, you're right, sir. You are, indeed. There's nothin' til beat a lotof young childher about the house. Will you come an' see the drill?. . . "

Henry went to see a display in a field just outside Ballymartin. The menmarched and counter-marched, and charged and skirmished, and didphysical drill until they were tired and sweating, while their womenlooked on in pride and pleasure. Sheila was there, too, and Henry wentto her and sat beside her while the military manoeuvres took place. She made no impression on him now . . . He saw her simply as acountrywoman in the family way . . . A little blowsy and dishevelled andred with exertion. 

"For dear sake, Henry!" she said in greeting, holding out her hand tohim. 

"Well, " he said, "when does the war begin?"

"Aw, now, " she answered, "don't ask me! Sure, I'm never done coddin'Peter about it. But it's the grand health, Henry. You'd never believethe differs it's made to that wee lad, Gebbie, that serves in Dobbin'sshop. I declare to my God, he had a back as roun' as a hoop 'til theystarted these Volunteers, but now he's like a ramrod. He's a marvel, that lad! Teeshie Halpin's taken a notion of him since he straightenedup, an' as sure as you're living she'll have him the minute they canscrape a few ha'pence thegether to buy a wheen of furniture. Well, ifthe Volunteers never does no more nor that, they'll have done well, fordear knows, Andy Gebbie was an affront to the Almighty, an' him stoopin'that way!"

"But are they going to fight, Sheila?. . . "

"Ah, get away with you, man!" said Sheila. "What in the name of allthat's good an' gracious, would they be fightin' for? Sure, they'relettin' on, to frighten the English out of their wits!" She changed thetalk to more interesting discourse. "I've two childher now, " she said. 

"So Peter was telling me, " he answered. 

"A wee boy an' a wee girl. An' terrible wee tories they are, too!They're about somewhere with their aunt Kate. An' how an' all are you, Henry?"

"I'm very well, Sheila. "

"You're lookin' gran'. I hear you write books, but I never read noan ofthem!"

"Would you like to read them?" he asked. 

"I would, fine. Dear, oh, I often wonder how anybody can write books. Inever was no hand at writin' anything, not even a letter. But I supposethere's a knack in it, an' once you learn it, you're all right!"

"Yes, " he replied, "that's about it. I'll send my books to you. I'd havesent them before if I'd thought you'd care to read them!"

"You might 'a' knowed rightly, I'd be glad to have them. . . . "

3

But Sheila's good-natured scorn for the Ulster Volunteer Force did notconvince Henry. One could not look at these drilling men, and feelsatisfied that they were pretending to be angry or that they did notmean what they said, when they declared that they would die in the lastditch rather than consent to be governed by Nationalists. Mr. Quinnspent much time in denouncing Sir Edward Carson and his friends, but hedid not doubt for a moment that the followers would fight. He had verylittle faith in the sincerity of the politicians. "That fellow, F. E. Smith, " he exclaimed wrathfully, "what in hell is he doin' over here, I'd like to know? I'd like to kick his backside for him, an' pack himback to wherever he come from!" And there was F. E. Robinson, too, bounding about Ulster like a well-polished young gentleman from theGaiety chorus, and delivering historical orations that filled the crowdwith amazement. 

"He's the great cod, that lad!" Mr. Quinn said. "He's worse nor Smith. He come down here to Ballymartin, an' he made a speech all about KingJames's foreign policy, and mentioned a whole lot of people that theOr'ngemen never heard tell of. It would 'a' done well for a lecture atthe Queen's College . . . You should 'a' seen the men nudgin' one another, an' askin' who he was, an' what in the name of God he was talkin' about!'Why doesn't he curse the Pope an' 'a' done wi' it!' one fellow said toanother. 'That lad curse anybody!' says the other one. 'Sure, he'd nearboak[3] himself if he done the like of that!' Aye, there's a lot ofbletherin' about the Volunteers, but all the same I don't like the looko' things, an' if they're not careful there'll be bother. It'll take themen at the top all their time to hold the bottom ones down. It oughtnever to have been allowed to begin with. The minute they started theirdrillin' an' palaver, they ought to 'a' been stopped. Have you seen JohnMarsh lately, Henry?"

"I saw him when I was in Dublin a few months ago with Gilbert Farlow. He's drilling, too!. . . "

"It's fearful, that's what it is. Fightin' an' wranglin' like that! Iwish I could get him up here a while. I'd talk to him, an' try an' putsome sense into him. Do you think would he come if I was to ask him?"

"I daresay, father. Shall I write to him for you?"

"Aye, do, Henry. I like that fellow quaren well, an' I'd be sorry if anyharm come to him. He's the sort gets into any bother that's about! Writeto him now, will you, an' you'll catch the evenin' mail!"

Henry got writing materials and wrote the letter in his father's room. "Will that do?" he said, passing it to Mr. Quinn for inspection. 

"That'll do fine, " Mr. Quinn replied, when he had finished reading it. "Matier'll take it to the letterbox!"

"I don't know what the world's comin' to, " he went on, a littlefractiously. "There's a fellow wouldn't harm a fly, drillin' and gettin'ready to shoot people. An' Irish people, too! One lot of Irishmenwantin' to shoot another lot!. . . They're out of their minds, that'swhat's wrong wi' them. There's Matier . . . You'd think at his age, he'dhave more sense, but nothin'll do him but he must be off of an evenin'formin' fours. And what for? I'd like to know. I says to him, 'WilliamHenry, who do you want to kill?' 'The Home Rulers an' the Papishes!'says he. 'Quit, man, ' says I, 'an' talk sense. ' 'I am talkin' sense, 'says he. 'You're not, ' I says to him. 'D'you mean to stan' there an'tell me you want to kill Hugh Kearney?' 'I do not indeed, ' says he. 'What put that notion in your head?' 'Isn't he a Catholic an' a HomeRuler?' says I. I had him properly when I said that, for him an' HughKearney is like brothers to one another. 'Would you kill him?' I says toMatier. 'No, sir, I wouldn't, ' he answers me back. 'I'd shed me heart'sblood for him!' And he would, too!. . . I've always been against HomeRule, Henry, an' you know well why, but I'm more against this sort ofthing than I am against that, and anyway I'm not so sure it wouldn't bebetter in the long run. There's too much Socialism in England, an' wehave to put up with the results of it because of the Union. TheSocialists get this law an' that law passed, an' we have to suffer it inIreland because we're tied up to England. . . . "

4

John Marsh came to Ballymartin. Henry had sent a private note to him, urging him to accept his father's invitation. "_He's very ill, _" hewrote, "_and he would like to see you. I'm afraid he may not get better, although there's a chance. . . . _"

"There you are, John Marsh!" Mr. Quinn said to him, as he entered thebedroom. "An' what damned nonsense are you up to now, will you tell me?"

John smiled at him. "You're to get well at once, " he answered. "We can'thave you lying ill at a time like this!"

"An' aren't you an' the like of you enough to make any man ill? Comehere to me, an' let me have a look at you. I can't see you rightly inthat light. . . . You're lookin' pale on it, John. What ails you?"

"I'm tired, that's all. I shall be all right in the morning. . . . "

"You're workin' yourself to death! That's what you're doin'. Sit downthere by the side of the bed till I talk to you!"

John drew a chair up to the old man's bedside, and sat down on it as hehad been bidden. Henry, anxious lest his father should overtax hisstrength, sat at the foot of the bed. 

"An' what are you drillin' for?" Mr. Quinn demanded of John. 

"We must defend ourselves, Mr. Quinn. . . . "

"Defend me granny! An' who's goin' to harm you?" Henry made a motion asif he would quieten his father, but the old man shook him off. "Leave mealone, Henry, " he said, "an' let me have my say!" He turned again toJohn Marsh. "Isn't there the English Army to defend you if anybody triesto injure you? What call have you to start another lot of damnedvolunteers to be makin' ill-feelin' in the country for?"

"We must be prepared to defend ourselves, " John insisted. "We can'ttrust the English. . . . "

And so they wrangled until Mr. Quinn, too tired to continue, sent Henryand Marsh from his room. 

"Take him away an' talk to him, Henry!" he said. "He'll not be happy'til he's in bother, that lad. Away on with you, John!. . . "

5

It was while John Marsh was at Ballymartin, that the mutiny at theCurragh Camp took place. The soldiers had been ordered to Ulster tomaintain order . . . And their officers had refused to go. 

"I thought you said we could depend on the English Army, " John exclaimedto Mr. Quinn in very excited tones. "This looks like it, doesn't it? Ifthey'd been ordered to march on _us_, they'd have done it quick enough. That's why we're drilling, Mr. Quinn. We've got to defend ourselves. Supposing the Ulster Volunteers attack us!. . . "

"They won't, " Mr. Quinn snapped at him. 

"But supposing they do, are we to sit down and let them do it? I tellyou we daren't trust to the English. They'll promise everything and givenothing. That's the nature of them. They're a treacherous race!. . . "

"I wish to my God you had some sense, John Marsh, " said Mr. Quinn. 

"Oh, I know you think I'm a madman, but you can't deny facts, and thefacts are that the English have systematically betrayed the Irishthroughout their history. If there's a war on, they go down on theirhands and knees and ask us to win it for them . . . They offer us the sunand the moon and the stars for our help . . . But the minute they've gotover their fright, they start plotting to get out of their promises. They've done it before and they'll do it again. I want our Volunteers tobe more than a defensive organisation. I want them to be an offensiveorganisation. If we don't look out very sharply well find that theEnglish have ruined Ireland again. They've started to do it openly now. You've heard, haven't you, about the Cunard Line and Queenstown?. . . " Itappeared that the Cunard Line had abandoned Queenstown as a port of callfor American liners. . . . That means absolute ruin for Queenstown!. . . Casement tried to get the Hamburg-Amerika line to send their boatsinstead, and they'd agreed to do so . . . All the preparations were madeto welcome the first of their boats . . . And then the scheme wasabandoned by the Germans. The English Foreign office got at them!. . . "Oh, of course, it's only Ireland, and Irish people and Irish interests canbe neglected and ruined without a blush so long as the English interestsare safe. . . . More and more I'm convinced that we've got to separate fromthem. They're a common-minded people. You know they are! They'rehucksters . . . They think in . . . In ha'porths!. . . "

6

The attempt to bring John Marsh to reason was a failure, and he wentback to Dublin more resolved to make the Volunteers an offensive bodythan he had been when he arrived. He had seen a review of the UlsterVolunteer Force in Belfast and the setness of the men impressed him. "They'll fight all right, " he said. "I don't suppose their leaders haveany stomach for fighting, but the men have plenty. By God, I wish theywere on our side!"

"Well, why don't you try to get them on your side!" Henry demanded. "Your notion of conciliating them is to start getting ready to fightthem!"

"We have tried to conciliate them, " Marsh replied. "When Carson formedhis Provisional Government, some of us asked him to extend it to thewhole of Ireland. Do you think we wouldn't rather have Carson thanRedmond? He's got _some_ stuff in him anyhow, but Redmond!. . . "

He made a gesture of contempt. "I've no use, " he said, "for a man wholooks so like Napoleon without being Napoleon!"

"But Carson wouldn't, " he went on. "It's all very well to say'Conciliate Ulster!' but Ulster won't let us conciliate her. The Ulsterpeople have nothing but contempt for us, and they ram Belfast down ourthroats until we're sick of it. And a lot of their prosperity is justgood luck and . . . And favour. They've been well looked after by theEnglish, and they're near everything . . . Coalfields and Lancashire. Doyou think if Galway was where Belfast is, it wouldn't be as prosperous?If they're so almighty clever as they say they are, why don't they comeand lead us, instead of clinging on to England like a pampered kid?. . . "

Henry listened patiently to John. There must, he thought, be somepowerful motive for so much passion. He had come to look uponnationality as a contemptible thing, a fretful preoccupation with littleaffairs, but when he faced the fury of John Marsh, he could not denythat this passion, whether it be little or big, will bring the world tobroils until it be satisfied. He did not now feel that irritation whichhe had formerly felt when John derided the English or called them byopprobrious names. He could make allowances for the anger of thedispossessed. "That kind of talk, " he thought, "kills itself. Marsh hasonly to let himself go along enough, and he'll let himself goaltogether. He'll exhaust his abuse. . . . "

He remembered that when Gilbert and he had arrived in Dublin after theirflight from London, they had tried to discover just what Marsh and hisfriends meant to do with Ireland when they had gained control of thecountry . . . But Marsh and his friends had no plans. They talked vaguelyof the national spirit and of self-government, but they could not beinduced to name a specific reform to which they would set their minds. Some one had given a copy of Dale's Report of Irish Elementary Educationto Henry, and he had read it with something like horror. It seemed tohim that here was the whole Irish problem, that when this was solved, everything was solved . . . But when he spoke of it to Marsh and hisfriends he found that most of them had never heard of Dale's Report, were scarcely aware of the fact that there was an Irish educationproblem. "We'll deal with that after we've got Home Rule, " they wouldsay, waving their hands in the airy fashion in which futile peoplealways wave their hands. And so it was with everything else. They woulddeal with that _after_ they had got Home Rule. Gilbert and Henry hadexplored the Combe and the dreadful swamp of slums reaching up fromRingsend and spilling almost into the gardens of Merrion Square. . . . 

"But don't they know about this?" Gilbert asked in amazement. "I mean, haven't they any eyes . . . Or noses?"

"They'll deal with that _after_ they've got Home Rule, " Henry answeredmiserably. 

They had gone back to their lodgings in a state of deep depression. Wherever one went in Dublin, one was followed by little whiningchildren, demanding alms in the cadging voice of the professionalbeggar, and many of them were hopelessly diseased. . . . 

"I thought the Irish were very religious and moral?" Gilbert said once, as they passed a group of sickly children sitting at the entrance to acourt of Baggot Street. 

"Why?" Henry replied. 

"These kids are syphilitic, " Gilbert answered. "The place is full ofsyphilis!"

"Dublin is a garrison town and a University town, " said Henry, with ashrug of his shoulders. "There are eight barracks in Dublin . . . It's themost be-barracked city in the Kingdom. . . . Oh, we're terribly moral, weIrish. As moral as ostriches. If you pick up a Dublin newspaper, it's amillion to one you'll see a reference to 'the innate purity of the Irishwomen, ' written probably by a boozy reporter. No, Gilbert, you're wrongabout these kids. They're not syphilitic. . . . Good Lord, no! That'sEnglish misgovernment. Wait 'til they've got Home Rule . . . And thosekids won't be syphilitic any more!. . . "

They had met a man at Ernest Harper's who wore the kilt of the Gael, andhad listened to him while he bleated about the beautiful purity of theIrish women. He was a convert to Catholicism and Nationalism andanti-Englishism, and he had the appearance of a nicely-brought-up saint. "He looks as if he had just committed a miracle, and is afraid he may doit again!" Gilbert whispered to Henry. This man purred at them. "Thepriests have kept Ireland pure, " he murmured. "Many harsh things havebeen said about them, but no one has ever denied that they have keptIreland pure!"

"I do, " said Henry, full of desire to shock the Celt. 

"You do?. . . "

"Anybody can keep a man pure by putting him in prison. That's what thepriests have done. They've put the Irish people in gaol!. . . "

The kilted Celt shrank away from him. He was sorry, but he could notpossibly sit still and listen to such conversation. He hoped that he wasas broad-minded as any one, but there were limits. . . . Very wisely, hethought, the Church!. . . 

"Blast the Church!" said Henry, and the kilted Celt had gone shiveringaway from him. 

"That kind of person makes me foam at the mouth, " Henry muttered toGilbert "The Irish people aren't any purer than any other race. It's allbunkum, this talk about their 'innate purity. ' If you clap thepopulation into gaol, you can keep them 'pure, ' in act anyhow, and ifthe priests won't let the sexes mingle openly, they can get up aspurious purity just like that. If a girl gets into trouble in Ireland, she goes to the priest and confesses, and the priest takes jolly goodcare that the man marries her. That's why the rate of illegitimacy is solow. And anyhow, the bulk of the people are agricultural, and countrypeople are more continent than any other people. It's the same inEngland, but the English don't go about bleating of their 'innatepurity. ' I tell you, Gilbert, the trouble with this country isself-consciousness. . . . "

"Home Rule ought to cure that!" said Gilbert. 

"That's why I'm a Home Ruler, " Henry replied. "If you chaff thesepeople, they get angry and want to fight. If anybody were to get up in apublic hall and say about the Irish one-quarter of the things thatBernard Shaw says in public about the English, the audience would flayhim alive and wreck the building. They're too little to stand chaffeasily. It takes a big people to bear criticism good-naturedly. . . . Allthe same, Gilbert, your damned countrymen are to blame for all this!"

"I know that, " said Gilbert, "but your damned countrymen seem determinedto remain like it!"

8

Mr. Quinn and Henry had talked of Ireland and of John Marsh, after Johnhad returned to Dublin. 

"Sometimes, " said Mr. Quinn, "I think that the best thing for Irelandwould be to let the two sides fight. That might bring them together. Onedamned good scrap . . . And they might shake hands and become reconciled. There was as much antagonism and bitterness between the North and Southin America as there is between the North and South in Ireland . . . And onthe whole, I think the Civil War did a lot of good!"

"It's a damned queer country, Henry!" he went on, lying down and drawingthe bedclothes up about his neck. "Damned queer!"

"I suppose they all know what they're up to, " he continued, lookingintently at the ceiling. "But I don't!"

"Are you comfortable, father?" Henry asked, bending anxiously over Mr. Quinn who had a grey, tired look on his face. 

"Yes, thank you, Henry, I'm . . . I'm comfortable enough!" He turned hishead slightly and gazed at Henry for a few moments without speaking. Then he smiled at him. "I tried hard to make an Irishman out of you, Henry, " he said. 

"I am an Irishman, father!"

"Aye, but a _very_ Irishman. Many's a time I wonder what you are. Whatare you, Henry? You're not English an' you're not Irish. What are you?"

"I don't know, father. I'm very Irish when I'm in England, and I'm veryEnglish when I'm here!"

"That's no good, Henry. All you do is to make both sides angry. Youshould be something all the time!"

"I try to be fair, " said Henry. 

"That'll not lead you very far. Well, well, the world's the world, andthere's an end of it!"

9

Sitting in the garden that evening, looking towards the hazy hills, Henry wondered, too, what he was. Indeed, he told himself, he lovedIreland, but then he loved England, also. Once, when he was in Trinity, he had trudged up into the mountains, and had sat on a stone and gazeddown on the city and, beyond it, to the sea, and while he had sat there, a great love of his country had come into his heart, and he had foundhimself irrationally loving the earth about him, just because it wasIrish earth. He had tried to check this love which was conquering him, and he had scraped up a handful of earth and rubbed his fingers in it. "Soil, " he had murmured aloud. "Just soil . . . Like any other soil!" andthen, suddenly, overpoweringly, irresistibly, something had quickened inhim, and while he was murmuring that the earth he had scraped up was"just soil, " he had raised it to his lips and had kissed it. . . . And asquickly as the impulse to kiss the earth came to him, came alsorevulsion. "That was a sloppy thing to do, " he said to himself, and heflung the earth away from him. 

He had stayed there until the evening, lulled by the warm wind that blewabout the mountains, and soothed by the soft, kindly smell of burningturf. There was an odour of smouldering furze near by, and the air wasfull of pleasant sounds: the rattle of carts, the call of a man to adog, the whinnying of horses and the deep lowing of cows. He turned onhis side and looked seawards. The sun had set in a great field of goldencloud, throwing splashes of light down the sides of the mountains andturning little rain-pools into pools of fire; but now the dusk wassettling down, and as Henry looked towards the sea, he saw lightsshining out of the houses, making warm and comforting signals in thedark. Dublin lay curled about the Bay, covered by smoke that was piercedhere and there by the chimney-stacks of factories. There, beneath him, were little rocking lights on the boats and ships that lay in KingstownHarbour or drifted up and down the Irish Sea, and over there, across theBay, the great high hump of Howth thrust itself upwards. A tired shipsailed slowly up to the city, trailing a long line of white foam behindher. . . . He stood up and looked about him; and again the love of Irelandcame into his heart, and this time he did not try to check it. Heyielded to it, giving himself up to it completely. . . . 

"You can't help it, " he murmured to himself. "You simply can't helpit!. . . "

But he loved England, too. There had been nights when he had lovedLondon as a man might love his mother . . . When the curve of the Thames, and the dark shine of its water against the arches of Waterloo Bridge, and the bulging dome of St. Paul's rising proudly out of the haze andsmoke, and the view of the little humpy hills at Harrow that was seenfrom the Hampstead Heath . . . When all these became like living thingsthat loved him and were loved by him. Once, with Gilbert, he hadwandered over Romney Marsh, from Hythe to Rye, and had felt that Kentand Sussex were as close to him as Antrim and Down. And Devonshire, fromnorth and south, was friendly and native to him. He had tramped aboutExmoor and had seen the red deer running swiftly from the hunt, and hadclimbed a bare scarp of Dartmoor, startling the wild ponies so thatthey ran off with their long tails flying in the air, scattering theflocks of sheep in their flight. The very names of the Devonshire riverswere like homely music to him, and he would say the names over tohimself for the pleasure of their sound: Taw and Tamar and Torridge, theTeign and the Dart and the Exe, and the rivers about Boveyhayne, the Sidand the Otter, the Coly, the Axe and the Yarty. . . . 

"I'm not de-nationalised, " he insisted. "I love Ireland and England. I'mpart of them and they are part of me, and we shall never beseparate. . . . "

10

He had stayed at Ballymartin until he had completed "The Wayward Man. "His father's health had varied greatly, but soon after the publicationof the new novel, it mended and, although he did not recover his oldstrength and vigour, he was well enough to move about and superintendthe work on his farm. 

"You can go back to London now, Henry!" he said to his son one morning, after breakfast. "I know you're just itchin' to get back there, an' I'msure I'm sick, sore an' tired of the sight of you. Away off with you, now!" And Henry, protesting that he did not wish to go, had gone toLondon. Gilbert's second comedy, "Sylvia, " had been produced by SirGeoffrey Mundane and, like "The Magic Casement, " had achieved a fairamount of success. "But I haven't done anything big yet, " Gilbertcomplained to Henry. "My aim's better than it was, but I'm still missingthe point. Perhaps the next one will hit it. . . . "

In London, Henry began "The Fennels, " but after he had written a coupleof chapters, he found himself unable to proceed with it. 

"I must go back to Ireland, " he said to Gilbert. "I want the feel ofUlster. I can't get it into this book unless I'm there, somehow!" Andso, sooner than he had anticipated, he returned to Ballymartin, where"The Fennels" was finished, and there he stayed until Gilbert wrote andasked him to join him at Tre'Arrdur Bay. 

"You can't get much nearer to Ireland than that, " he wrote: "You hopinto the boat at Kingstown and hop out of it again at Holyhead and thereyou are!. . . "

"I shall be back again in a month, father!" he had said to Mr. Quinn, and then he had taken train to Belfast, where he was to change forDublin and thence go to Wales. 

In Belfast, there was great excitement because the Ulster Volunteers hadsuccessfully landed a cargo of guns that were purchased in Germany. TheVolunteers had seized the coastguard stations at Larne and at Donaghadeeand Bangor, overawing the police, and there had been much jocularity. Itwas all done in excellent taste. Had it not been for the death of acoastguard through heart failure, there would have been nothing to marthe jolly entertainment. . . . 

11

"I suppose John Marsh was sick about the gun-running in Ulster?" saidGilbert to Henry, as they approached the hotel at Tre'Arrdur Bay atwhich they were to stay. 

"No, I don't think so. He seemed to think it was rather fine of theUlstermen to do it. You see, it's put the Government in a hole, and thatpleases him. He was very mysterious in his talk, and full of hints!. . . "

"Are they going to run guns, too?" Gilbert asked. 

"I shouldn't be surprised, " said Henry. "One of these days a gun'll gooff, and then they'll stop playing the fool, I suppose!"

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: Transcriber's note: No footnote text was found for thisfootnote marker. ]

THE THIRD CHAPTER

1

"Roger's getting all his facts in fine trim for the book on a NationalArmy, " Gilbert said after lunch. "The thing's been much bigger than anyof us imagined, but Roger's a sticker, and he's got a lot done!"

"I'd nearly forgotten about that business, " Henry replied. 

"Roger hasn't forgotten. He's been spending a great deal of time inBermondsey lately, and I shouldn't be surprised if the local Toriesadopt him as their candidate at the next election. I don't suppose he'llget in. It'll be a pity if he doesn't. Rachel's making it easier forhim. Roger says she's popular with the girls in the jam factories . . . And of course that's very useful. You see, Rachel tells the girls totell their mothers to tell their fathers to vote for Roger when the timecomes, and the fathers'll have to do it or they'll get a hell of a timefrom their women. I can tell you, Quinny, Rachel knows what's what. She's going to ask some of the jam-girls out to tea and show them thebaby!. . . "

"Good old British Slop, Gilbert! Do you remember how we swore that wewould never have anything to do with Slop?. . . "

"We've had a lot to do with it. Roger was right. The Slop is there andyou've got to make allowances for it, and after all, why shouldn'tRachel show her baby to the girls? Damn it all, a baby is a remarkablething, when you come to think of it. All that wriggle and bubble andsqueak and kick . . . And Lord only knows what'll come out of it! Weought to get married, Quinny, and father a few brats. My own notion isto get hold of a nice, large, healthy female of the working-class andset her up in a very ugly house in a very ugly suburb, near a municipalpark, and give her three pounds a week for herself, and an allowance forevery child she produces. I could have all the pride and pleasure ofparenthood without the boredom and nuisance of being a husband, and theyoungsters would probably be young giants. The girl wouldn't mind howmany she had, and she'd feed 'em herself. There'd be no damned bottleand no damned limitation. And I'd put all the boys in the Navy, and I'dmake cooks out of the girls . . . _cooks_, Quinny, not food-murderers, andI'd call the first boy Michael John, and the second boy Patrick Jamesand the third boy Peter William and the fourth boy Roger Henry GilbertNinian. . . . "

"And what would you call the girls?"

"Wait a minute! I haven't done with the boys yet. And I'd call the fifthboy Matthew. I'd call the first girl Margaret, and the second girlBridget, and the third girl Rachel, and the fourth girl Mary, and I'mdamned if I know what I'd call the fifth girl, so I'd let her motherchoose her name. And they'd all know how to swim, and manage a boat, andbox, and whistle with two fingers in their mouths, and the girls' chiefambition would be to get married and have babies. They'd have acompetition to see who could have the most. And their husbands would allbe big, hearty men. Margaret would marry a blacksmith, and Bridget 'udmarry a fisherman, and Rachel 'ud marry a farmer, and Mary'd marry asoldier and the other one would marry a sailor. Mary's man 'ud be asergeant-major, a fat sergeant-major, and the other one's 'ud be aboatswain or a chief gunner. I'd have so many grandchildren that I'dnever be able to remember which were mine and which belonged to the mannext door!. . . "

"You'd want a great deal of money for that lot, Gilbert!"

"I suppose I would. But I think that men of quality ought to havechildren by strong, healthy women of the working-class. I think there'sa lot to be said for the right of the lord, don't you? It was good forthe race . . . Kept up the quality of the breed! I shall have to thinkseriously about this. . . . "

"You'd better look out for a farmer's daughter while you're here, " Henrysuggested. 

"What! A Welshwoman! Good God, no!! My goodness, Quinny, you ought tobring that fellow, John Marsh, to Wales for a few months. That 'ud curehim of his Slop about nationality. I came to Wales, determined to likethe Welsh, and I've failed. That's all. I've failed hopelessly. I toldmyself that it was absurd to believe that a whole nation could be as badas English people say the Welsh are . . . But it isn't absurd . . . Of theWelsh anyhow. They're all that everybody says they are, only about tentimes worse. I've been all over this country one time and another, andthey're simply . . . Mean. They're a dying race, thank heaven! They'vekept themselves to themselves so much that their blood is like water, and so they're simply perishing. They wouldn't absorb or be absorbed . . . And so they're just dying out. Your lot were wiser than the Welsh, Quinny!"

"The Irish?"

"Yes. They absorbed all the new blood they could get into their veins, and so, whoever else may perish, the Irish won't. This nationalitybusiness is all my eye, Quinny. You don't want one strain in a country. You want hundreds of strains. You want to mingle the bloods. . . . I don'tbelieve there's a pure-blooded Irishman in Ireland or out of it. . . . Oh, the Welsh! Oh, the awful Welsh! Inbreeding in a nation is the very devil. . . And it makes 'em so damned uncivil. Oh, a shifty, whining race, theWelsh!. . . "

2

There are many bays on that coast, and in one of these, where they couldeasily get to deep water, they bathed every morning, drying themselvesin the sun when they were tired of swimming. They would haul themselvesout of the sea by clutching at the long tassels of sea-weed, and thenlie down on the bare, warm rocks while the sun dried the salt into theirskins. Once, while they were lying in this fashion, Gilbert turned toHenry and said, "Have you been to Boveyhayne at all since Ninian wentaway?"

"No, " Henry answered. "I was to have gone with you that Christmas, butmy father's illness prevented me, and I haven't been since. "

"Why don't you go? They'd be glad to see you, and Ninian'd like it. "

"I must go one of these days. How is Mrs. Graham? I suppose you've seenher lately?"

"She was all right when I saw her. Mary's rather nice!"

Henry did not say anything, and Gilbert, having waited for a while, wenton. 

"I always thought you and Mary. . . . "

He broke off suddenly and sat up. "It's getting a bit chilly, " he said. "I think I'll dress!"

"There's no hurry, Gilbert, " Henry answered. "You didn't finish what youwere saying. "

"It's none of my business. I've no right to. . . . "

"Oh, yes, you have, Gilbert, " Henry interrupted, sitting up too. "Goon!"

"Well, I always thought that you and Mary were . . . Well, liked eachother. That was why I was so puzzled when you got fond of Cecily. I feltcertain that you'd marry Mary. Why don't you, Quinny? She's an awfullynice girl, and you and she are rather good pals, aren't you?"

"I don't know, Gilbert. I think I love Mary better than any one I'veever met, and yet I seem to lose touch with her very easily!"

"Oh, I shouldn't count Cecily. Cecily is anybody's sweetheart!. . . "

"But it wasn't only Cecily. There was a girl . . . A farm-girl in Antrim. I never told you about her. Her name was Sheila Morgan . . . She's marriednow . . . And I went straight from Mary to her. Of course, I was a kidthen, but still I'd told Mary I was fond of her, and we'd arranged toget married when we grew up . . . And then I went home and made love toSheila Morgan!"

"None of these women held you, Quinny!" said Gilbert. 

"No, that's true, and Mary has, although I seldom see her. I thoughtthat I could never love anybody as I loved Sheila Morgan . . . Until I metCecily . . . And then I thought I should never love any one as I loved her. . . But somehow Cecily doesn't hold me now, and Mary does. I can't tellyou when I ceased to love Cecily . . . I don't really know that I haveceased to love her . . . It just weakened, so gradually that I did notnotice it weakening. All the same, if I were to see Cecily now, I shouldprobably want her as badly as ever. "

"You might, Quinny, but you wouldn't go on wanting her. You see, shewouldn't want you for very long, and my general opinion is that youcan't keep on giving if you get nothing in return . . . Unless, of course, you're a one-eyed ass. A healthy, intelligent man, if he loves a womanwho doesn't love him . . . Well he goes off and loves some one else . . . And quite right, too. These devoted fellows who cherish their blightedaffections forever . . . Damn it, they deserve it. They've got noimagination! I don't think Cecily'd hold you now, Quinny, not for verylong anyhow. I wish you'd marry Mary. You quite obviously love her, andshe quite obviously loves you. . . . Oh, Lordy God, I wish I could lovesomebody. I wish I were a young man in a novelette, with a nice, clear-cut face and crisp, curly hair and frightfully gentlemanly waysand no brains so that I could get into the most idiotic messes. . . . Whyaren't there any aphrodisiacs for men who cannot love any one inparticular, Quinny! If you'd had the sense to have a sister, I shouldprobably have married her. Roger's family runs to nothing but males, andRachel can't honestly recommend any of her female relatives to me. If Ithought Mary'd have me, I'd marry her, but I know she wouldn't. I usedto think it was awful to want to believe in God and not be able tobelieve in Him, but it's a lot worse to want to love and not be able tolove. I shall have to marry an actress. That's all!"

They dressed in the shelter of the rocks, and then went back to thehotel to lunch. 

"I'd like to marry Mary!. . . " Henry began. 

"Why don't you, then?" Gilbert interrupted. 

"Because I feel that I must go to her absolutely undivided, Gilbert. Doyou know what I mean? I want to be able to go to her, knowing that noother woman can sway me from her for a second. It would be horrible tobe married to her and feel something lurking inside me, just waiting fora chance to spring out and . . . And make love to some one else!"

"You've changed a lot, Quinny, since the days when you pleaded forinfinite variety. You wanted a wife for every mood!. . . "

Henry laughed. "We did talk a lot of rot when we first went to London, "he said, putting his arm in Gilbert's. 

"It wasn't all rot. My contributions to the discussion were verysensible. I wonder what's the excitement up there! The papers arein!. . . "

There was a group of visitors sitting on the seats in front of the hoteland they were reading the newspapers which had just been sent out fromHolyhead. 

"Let's go and ask, " Henry exclaimed, and they both went on morequickly. 

"Any news?" Gilbert shouted as they mounted the steps leading from thecarriage-way to the terrace. 

"Yes. Bad news from Ireland, " a visitor answered. 

"From Ireland!" Henry said. 

"Yes. The Nationalists landed some guns at Howth!. . . "

"Yes, yes!" Henry said excitedly. 

"And there was a scrap between the people and soldiers!. . . "

"The soldiers!"

The visitor nodded his head. "Some damned ass, " he said, "had orderedthe soldiers out, and . . . Well, there was a row. The crowd stoned thesoldiers . . . And soldiers are human like anybody else . . . They fired onthe crowd!. . . "

"Fired on them!"

"Yes. Several people were killed. It's a bad business, a damned badbusiness!. . . "

3

There was an unreasonable fury in Henry's heart. "It's a clever jokewhen the Ulster people do it, " he said, raging at Gilbert. "Andeverybody agrees to look the other way, but it's a crime when theNationalists do it, and it can only be punished by . . . By shooting. Isuppose it's absolutely impossible for the English to get anyunderstanding into their thick heads!. . . "

"Don't be an old ass, Henry. You're not going to improve a rotten badbusiness by hitting about indiscriminately. I daresay the people whowere responsible for the thing were Irishmen. I've always noticed thatwhen anything really dirty is done in Ireland, it's an Irishman who doesit. . . . "

"A rotten Unionist!. . . "

"Irish, all the same! The only thing that you Irish are united about isyour habit of blaming the English for your own faults and misbehaviour. If I had the fellow who was responsible for this business I'd shoot himout of hand. I wouldn't think twice about it. If a man is such an ass asall that, he ought to be put out of the world quick. But then I'mEnglish. The Irish'll make a case out of him. They'll orate over him, and they'll get frightfully cross for a fortnight, and then they'll donothing. You know as well as I do, Quinny, that the English aren'tunfriendly to the Irish, that they really are anxious to do the decentthing by Ireland. It isn't us: it's you. We're not against you . . . You're against yourselves. There are about seventy-five differentparties in Ireland, aren't there, and they all hate each other likepoison?"

"I wonder if John Marsh was hurt!. . . "

"I don't suppose so. There'd have been some reference to him in thepaper if he'd been hurt. "

"This was what he was hinting at when I saw him in Dublin, " Henry wenton. "He talked about 'doubling it' and said that two could play at thatgame!"

He was calmer now, and able to talk about the Dublin shooting with somediscrimination. 

"I don't know why they want to 'run' guns at all, " he said. "Thetit-for-tat style of politics seems a fairly foolish one. . . . I think Ishall go back to Ireland to-morrow, Gilbert. I feel as if I ought to bethere. This business won't end where it is now. I know what John Marshand Galway and Mineely are like. Whatever bitterness was in them beforewill be increased enormously by this. Mineely's an Ulsterman, and he'llmake somebody pay for this. He doesn't say much . . . He's like Connolly. . . Connolly's the brains behind Larkin . . . But he keeps things insidehim, deep down, but safe, so that he can always get at them when hewants them!"

"What sort of man is he, Quinny?" Gilbert asked. "I didn't see him whenwe were in Dublin. "

"He looks like a comfortable tradesman, and he's a kindly sort of chap. You'd never dream that he was an agitator or that he'd want to lead arebellion. I don't believe he likes that work, either. I think thatinside him his chief desire is for a decent house with a garden, wherehe can grow sweet peas and cabbages and sit in the evening with his wifeand children. He has more balanced knowledge than most of the people heworks with. Marsh and Galway have had a better education than Mineely, but they haven't had his experience or his knowledge of men, and so theycan't check their enthusiasm. He was in America for a long while, andhe's lived in England, too. He wrote a quite good book on the IrishLabour Movement that would have been better if he'd made more allowancefor the nature of the times. If the employers hadn't behaved so brutallyover the strike, Mineely might have become the solvent of a lot ofill-will in Ireland; but they made a bitter man out of him then, and Isuppose it's too late now. He'll go on, getting more and more bitteruntil. . . . Do you remember that story by H. G. Wells, Gilbert, called 'Inthe Days of the Comet'?"

"Is that the green vapour story?"

"Yes. Well, we want a green vapour very badly in Ireland, something toobliterate every memory and leave us all with fresh minds!"

"Miracle-mongering won't lead you very far, Quinny. It's no good howlingfor a vapour to heal you. You've just got to take your blooming memoriesand cure 'em yourselves, by the sweat of your brows! And, look here, Quinny, there doesn't seem any good reason why you should dash back toIreland because of this business. I always think that the worst row inthe world would never have come to anything if people hadn't done whatyou propose to do, rushed into it just because they thought they oughtto be there. They congest things . . . They use up the air and make theplace feel stuffy . . . And then they get cross, and somebody shovessomebody else, and before they know where they are, they're splittingeach other's skulls. If they'd only remained dispersed. . . . "

"But I'd like to be there!. . . "

"I know you would. We'd all like to be there, so's we could sayafterwards we'd seen the whole thing from beginning to end. That's justwhy we shouldn't be there. It isn't the principals in the row that makeall the trouble, Quinny . . . It's the blooming spectators!. . . "

4

He let himself be persuaded by Gilbert to stay in Wales, and they spentthe next two or three days in tramping about the island of Anglesey. Thedays were bright and sunny, and the rich sparkle of the sea tempted themfrequently to the water. There were many visitors at the hotel, some ofwhom were Irish people from Dublin, but mostly they came from Liverpooland Manchester; and with several of them, Gilbert and Henry becamefriendly. There was a schoolmaster who made a profession ofmountain-climbing and a hobby of religion; and a doctor who told comicstories and talked with good temper about Home Rule, to which he wasopposed; and a splendid old man, with his wife, who was interested inco-operation and was eager to limit armaments; and a wine merchant fromLiverpool who had come to the conclusion that the world, on the whole, was quite a decent place to live in; and a dreadful little stockbrokerwho belonged to the Bloody school of politicians and talked about theEmpire as if it were a music-hall; and an agent of some sort fromManchester who had reached that stage of prosperity at which he wasbeginning to wonder whether, after all, Nonconformity was not a grievousheresy and the Church of England a sure means of salvation. And therewere others, vague people of the middle class, kindly and comfortableand inarticulate, with no particular opinions on anything except thedesirability of four good meals every day and a month's holiday in thesummer. There were daughters, too . . . All sorts and conditions ofdaughters! Some that were hearty and athletic, living either in the seaor on the golf-links; and others that were full of their sex, unable toforget that men are men and women are women, and never the two shallcome together but there shall be wooing and marrying. . . . There were afew who were eager to use their minds . . . And they quoted their parentsand the morning papers to Gilbert and Henry. . . . 

Surprisingly, their feeling about the Howth gun-raid became cool. Inthat exquisite sunlight, beneath the wide reach of blue sky, it wasimpossible to experience rancour or maintain anger. They swam and baskedand swam again, and let their eyes look gladly on young shapely girls, running across the grassy tops of the piled rocks, and were sure thatthere could be nothing on earth more beautiful than the spectacle ofpink arms gleaming through white muslin, unless it might be the fullbrown ears of wheat now bending in the ripening rays of sunshine. . . . Andagain, after dinner, they would sit in a high, grassy corner of the bay, listening to the lap of the sea beneath them, while the stars threwtheir faint reflections on the returning tide. . . . 

Exquisite peace and quiet, long days of rich pleasure and sweet nightsof rest, kindliness and laughter and the friendly word of casualacquaintances . . . And over all, the enduring beauty of this world. 

THE FOURTH CHAPTER

1

Gilbert looked up from the paper as Henry came out of the hotel. 

"I say, Quinny, " he said, "I think there's going to be a war!"

"A what?" Henry exclaimed. 

"A war!. . . "

"But where?"

Henry sat down on the long seat beside Gilbert, and looked over hisshoulder at the paper. 

"All over the place!" Gilbert answered. "The Austrians want to have a goat the Serbians, and the Russians mean to have one at the Austrians, andthen the Germans will have to help the Austrians, and that'll bring theFrench in, and . . . And then I suppose we shall shove in some where!"

Henry took the paper from Gilbert's hands. "But what have we got to dowith it?" he said, hastily scanning the telegrams with which the newscolumns were filled. 

"I dunno!. . . "

"It's ridiculous. . . . What's there to fight about? Damn it all, mynovel's coming out in a month! What's it about?"

"You remember that Archduke chap who got blown up the other day?. . . "

"Yes, I remember!"

"Well, that's what it's about!"

"But, good God, man, they can't have a war about a thing like that. . . . "

"It looks as if they thought they could. Anyhow, they're going to try!"said Gilbert. 

"Just because an Archduke got killed? Damn it, Gilbert, that's whatthey're for!. . . "

There was a queer look of fright in the faces of the visitors to thehotel. The boy from Holyhead had been slow in coming with the papers, and the first news that came to them came from a man who had been intothe town that morning. 

"There's going to be a war, " he had shouted to the group of peoplesitting on the terrace. 

"Don't be an ass!" they had shouted back at him. 

"Yes, there is. The whole blooming world'll be scrapping presently!" Hespoke with the queer gaiety of a man who has abandoned all hope. "Justas I was getting on my feet, too!" he went on. He suddenly unburdenedhimself to a man who had only arrived at the hotel late on the previousevening . . . They had never seen each other before . . . But now they wererevealing intimacies. . . . 

"Just getting on my feet, " the man who had brought the news went on. 

"It'll be very bad for business, I'm afraid!. . . "

"Bad. Goo' Lor', man, it's ruin . . . Absolute ruin! I'll be up the pole, that's where I'll be. And I was thinking of getting married, too. Justthinking of it, you know . . . Nothing settled or anything . . . And now . . . Damn it, what they want to go and have a war for? _We_ don't want one!"

Then the boy with the newspapers appeared, and they rushed at him andtore the papers from his bag. . . . 

"By Jove!" they said, "it's . . . It's true!"

"I told you it was true. You wouldn't believe me when I told you. Youknow, it's a Bit Thick, that's what it is. I've been a Liberal all mylife, same as my father . . . And then this goes and happens! What _is_ achap to do?. . . "

He wailed away, filling the air with prophecies of doom and disaster. They could hear him, as he rushed about the hotel telling the news, taking people into corners and informing them that it was a Bit Thick. There was something pitiful about him . . . He had climbed to acomfortable competence from a hard beginning . . . And something comical, too, something that made them all wish to laugh. The veneer of mannerswhich he had acquired with so much trouble had worn off in a moment, andthe careful speech, the rigid insistence on aspirates, to speak, took toits heels. He appeared to them suddenly, carrying an atlas. 

"Where the 'ell is Serbia anyway?" he demanded. "I can't find the damnplace on the map!"

2

They stood about, gaping at each other, unable to realise what hadhappened to them. One of the windows of the drawing-room was open, andthe subdued buzz of women's voices came through it to the terrace. Monotonously, exasperatingly, one querulous voice sent a fretfulquestion through the bewildered speeches of the women . . . "But what's itabout? That's what I want to know. I've asked everybody, but nobodyseems to know!" Some one made an inaudible reply to the querulous voice, and then it went on: "Serbia! That's what some one else said, but wearen't Serbia. We're England, and I don't see what we've got to do withit. If they want to go and fight, let them. That's what I say!. . . "

Gilbert and Henry sat in the middle of the group on the terrace, listening to what was being said about them. They had thrown thenewspapers aside . . . There was hysteria in the headlines . . . And weresitting in a sort of stupor, wondering what would happen next. Thebuzzing voice, demanding to be told what the war was about, stilldroned through the window, irritating them vaguely until the man who hadfirst brought the news got up from his seat, and went to the window andshut it noisily. 

"Damn 'er, " he said, as he came back to his seat. "'Oo cares whether sheknows what it's about or not! What's it got to do with 'er any'ow. Shewon't 'ave to do none of the fightin'!"

Fighting!

Henry sat up and looked at the man. Why, of course, there would befighting . . . And perhaps England would be drawn into the war, andthen!. . . 

A girl came out of the hotel, with towels under her arm, and called tothem. "Coming to bathe?" she said. 

They looked at her vacantly. "Bathe!" said Henry. 

"Yes. It's a ripping morning!"

They stood up, and looked towards the sea that was white with sunshine. . . And then turned away again. It seemed to Henry as if, down there bythe rocks, in a splash of sunlight, a corpse were lying . . . Festering. . . . He sat down again, mechanically picking up a newspaper andreading once more the telegrams he had already read many times. 

"Come along, " the girl said. "You might just as well bathe!"

Gilbert looked up at her and smiled. "I was just wondering, " he said, "what one ought to do!"

3

The banks had closed, and there was an alarm about money and a deeperalarm about food. . . . Panic suddenly came upon them, and in a shortwhile, visitors began to pack their trunks in their eagerness to gethome. The women felt that they would be safer at home . . . They wanted tobe in familiar places. "I really ought to be at home to look after myhouse, " a man said to Henry. "They're a rough lot in our town, and ifthere's any shortage of food . . . They'll loot, of course! I don't likebreaking my holiday, but!. . . "

He did not complete his sentence . . . No one ever completed a sentencethen . . . But went indoors. . . . 

And telegrams came incessantly, telegrams calling people home, telegramsannouncing that others were not coming, telegrams containing informationof the war. . . . 

"I suppose, " said Gilbert, "if anything comes of this, well have to dosomething!. . . "

"Do something?" Henry murmured. 

"Yes, I suppose so. . . . "

Perkins came to him, Perkins who had an agency in Manchester. 

"You know, " he said, "I don't call this place safe. It's right on thecoast . . . Slap-up against the sea . . . And you know, if a German cruiserwas to drop a shell right in the middle of us, we'd look damn silly, Ican tell you!"

"We have a navy too, " said Gilbert. 

"Yes, I know all about that, but that wouldn't be much consolation to meif I was to get blown up, would it? You know, I do think they ought todraw the blinds down at night so's the light won't show out at sea. Imean to say, there's no sense in running risks, is there?"

"No . . . No, of course not!"

"I think I'll go and suggest that to the proprietor. I've just been upto Manchester to see how things are going on there. Bit excited, ofcourse. Nobody seems to know what to do, so they just sit down andcancel everything. Silly, I call it. I went to my office to get myletters, and every blessed one was cancelling an order. I mean to say, that's no way to go on . . . Losing their heads like that. And you knowthey'll need my stuff later on . . . If we go in!"

"Your stuff?" Henry said. 

"Yes. I deal in black!. . . "

"Christ!" said Gilbert, getting up and walking away. 

"Your friend seems a bit upset, doesn't he?" Mr. Perkins murmured toHenry. 

4

They went into Holyhead, and wandered aimlessly about the station. Marvellously, men in uniform appeared everywhere. The reservists, navaland military, had been called up, and while Gilbert and Henry stood inthe station, a large number of them went away, leaving tearful, puzzledwomen on the platform. That morning the boots at the hotel had beencalled up to join his Territorial regiment. He had been carrying a trunkon his back, when the call came to him, and, chuckling, he dropped thetrunk, and skipped off to get ready. "I'm wanted, " he said . . . And thenhe went off. 

And still people went about, bemused and frightened, demanding what itwas about. . . . 

"Well have to go in, " some one said in the station. "I can't see how wecan stay out!. . . "

"I can't see that at all, " his neighbour replied. "We've got nothing todo with it!"

"If the Germans won't leave the Belgians alone!. . . "

Perkins interrupted again. "We've got a Belgian cook in our hotel, " hesaid. "It . . . It sort of brings it all home to you, that!"

There were rumours that the working-people were resolute against thewar. . . . 

"And so are the employers, " said Perkins. "I can tell you that. I've notmet anybody yet who wants a war!"

And as the rumours flew about, they grew. One could see a rumour beginand swell and change and increase. 

"I tell you what, " said Perkins. "These Germans have been damn wellasking for it, and I hope they'll damn well get it. I know a few Germans. . . Manchester's full of 'em . . . And I don't like 'em. As a nation, Idon't like 'em. They . . . They get on my nerves, that's what they do!"

There was talk about German organisation, German efficiency, Germanmilitarism. . . . 

"They don't think anything of a civilian in Germany. The soldier'severything. And women . . . Oh, my God, the way they treat women! I'veseen German officers . . . I've seen 'em myself . . . Chaps that aresupposed to be gentlemen . . . Going along the street, and shoving womenoff the pavement!. . . "

"You know, " said Perkins, "I don't really think much of the Germansmyself. I mean to say, they got no initiative. That's what's the matterwith 'em. Do you know what a German does when he wants to go across thestreet? He goes up to a policeman and asks him. And what does thepoliceman do? Shoves him off the pavement!. . . I'd break his jaw for himif he shoved me!"

They stayed on, wondering sometimes why they stayed, and then atmidnight, a troop train steamed into the station, and a crowd of tiredsoldiers alighted from the carriages and prepared to embark. 

"My God, it's begun!" said Perkins. "Where you chaps going to?" he askedof a soldier. 

"I dunno, " the soldier answered. "Ireland, I think. I 'eard we was goin'to put down these bleedin' Orangemen that's bin makin' so much fusslately, but some'ow I don't think that's it. 'Ere, mate, " he added, thrusting a dirty envelope into Perkins's hand. "That's my wife'saddress. I 'adn't time to write to 'er . . . We was sent off in a 'urry. . . You might just drop 'er a line, will you an' say I'm off!. . . "

"Right you are, " said Perkins. 

"Tell 'er I think I'm off to France, see, on'y I don't know, see!There's a rumour we're goin' to Ireland, but I don't think so. Youbetter tell 'er that. An' I'm all right, see. So far any'ow!. . . "

"God!" said Perkins, as the soldiers moved towards the transport, "don't it make you feel as if you wanted to cry!. . . "

In the morning, they knew that England had declared war on Germany. 

"Of course, " said Gilbert, "we couldn't keep out of it. We simply had togo in!"

They had gone down to the bay to bathe. "This'll be my last, " Gilbertmuttered as they stripped, "for a while anyhow!"

"But you're not going yet, " Henry said. 

"I think so, " Gilbert replied. "I don't know how the trains are running, but I shall try to get back to London to-night. "

"But why?. . . "

"Oh, I expect they'll need chaps. Don't you think they will?"

"Do you mean you're going to . . . Enlist?"

"Yes. That seems the obvious thing to do. They're sure to need people, "Gilbert answered. 

"I suppose so, " said Henry. 

"I don't quite fancy myself as a soldier, Quinny. I'm not what you'dcall a bellicose chap. I shan't enjoy it very much, and I expect I shallbe damned scared when it comes to . . . To charging and that sort of thing. . . But a chap must do his share. . . . "

"I suppose so, " Henry said again. 

It seemed to him to be utterly absurd that Gilbert should become asoldier, that his sensitive mind should be diverted from its properfunctions to the bloody business of war. 

"I've always jibbed a bit when I heard people talking about England inthe way that awful stockbroker in the hotel talks about it, " Gilbert wassaying, "and I loathe the Kipling flag-flapper, all bounce and brag andbloodies . . . But I feel fond of England to-day, Quinny, and nothing elseseems to matter much. And anyhow fighting's such a filthy job that itought to be shared by everybody that can take a hand in it at all. Itdoesn't seem right somehow to do your fighting by proxy. I should hateto think that I let some one else save my skin when I'm perfectly ableto save it myself. . . . "

"But you've other work to do, Gilbert, more important work than that. There are plenty of people to do that job, but there aren't many peopleto do yours. Supposing you went out and . . . And got . . . Killed?. . . "

"There's that risk, of course, " said Gilbert, "but after all, I don'tknow that my life is of greater value than another man's. A clerk's lifeis of as much consequence to him as mine is to me. "

"I daresay it is, Gilbert, but is it of as much consequence to England?I know it sounds priggish to say that, but some lives are of more valuethan others, and it's silly to pretend that they're not. "

"I should have agreed with you about that last week, Quinny. Youremember my doctrine of aristocracy?. . . Well, somehow I don't feel likethat now. I just don't feel like it. Those chaps we saw at Holyhead, going off to France . . . I shouldn't like to put my plays against thelife of any one of them. I couldn't help thinking last night, while Iwas lying in bed, that there I was, snugly tucked up, and out there . . . Somewhere!. . . " He pointed out towards the Irish Sea . . . "those chapswere sailing to . . . To fight for me. I felt ashamed of myself, and Idon't like to feel ashamed of myself. You saw that soldier giving hiswife's address to Perkins? Poor devil, he hadn't had time to say'Good-bye' to her, and perhaps he won't come back. I should feel like acad if I let myself believe that my plays were worth more than thatman's life. And anyhow, if I don't write the plays, some one else will. I've always believed that if there's a good job to be done in the world, it'll get done by somebody. If this chap fails to do it, it'll be doneby some other chap. . . . Will you come into Holyhead with me and enquireabout trains? There's a rumour that a whole lot of them have been takenoff. They're shifting troops about. . . . "

6

Gilbert was to travel by the Irish mail the next day. He had made up hismind definitely to go to London and enlist, and Henry, having failed todissuade him from his decision, resolved to go to London with him. Theyhad talked about the war all day, insisting to each other that it couldnot be of long duration. There was a while, during the first two orthree days' fighting, when the Germans seemed to have been held by theBelgians, that they had the wildest hopes. "If the Belgians can keepthem back, what will happen when the French and British get at them?"But that time of jubilee hope did not last long, and again the air wasfull of rumours of disaster and misfortune. The Black Watch had been cutto pieces. . . . 

There was a sense of fear in every heart, not of physical cowardice, butof doubt of the stability of things. This horrible disaster had beenforetold many times, so frequently, indeed, that it had become a joke, and novelists had written horrific accounts of the ills that wouldswiftly follow after the outbreak of hostilities. Credit would disappear. . . And all that pretence at wealth, the pieces of paper and the scripsand shares, would be revealed at last as . . . Pieces of paper. Silver, even, would be treated with contempt, and there would be a scramble forgold. And people would begin to hoard things . . . And no one would trustany one else. There would be suspicion and fear and greed and hate . . . And very swiftly and very surely, civilisation would reel and topple andfall to pieces. . . . At any moment that might happen. So far, indeed, things were still steady . . . Calamity had not come so quickly asimaginative men had foretold . . . But presently, when the slums . . . Therich man's reproach . . . Had become hungrier than they usually were, there would be rioting . . . And killing. . . . One began to be frightfullyconscious of the slums . . . And the rage of desperate, starving people. One imagined the obsessing thought in each mind: _Here we are, eatingand drinking and being waited upon . . . And perhaps to-morrow!. . . _

But no one, in forecasting the European Disaster, had made allowance forthe obstinacy of man or taken into account the resisting power of humansociety. As if man, having built up this mighty structure ofcivilisation, would let it be flung down in a moment without trying tosave some of it! As if man, having in pain and bloody sweat discoveredhis soul, would let it get lost without struggling to hold and preserveit!. . . 

Gilbert and Henry came into the drawing-room, where the women werewhispering to each other. Inexplicably, almost unconsciously, theirvoices had fallen to whispers . . . As if they were in church or a corpsewere above in a bedroom. . . . Four of the women were playing Bridge, butnone of them wished to play Bridge; and as Gilbert and Henry entered theroom, they put down their cards and looked round at them. 

"Is there any more news?" one of them said, and Gilbert told them of therumours that had been heard in Holyhead. 

"They say the Black Watch have been cut to pieces, " he said. 

The whispering stopped. . . . They could hear the clock's regulartick-tick. . . . 

"Oh, the poor men . . . The poor men!" an old woman said, and her fingersbegan to twitch. . . . 

Almost mechanically, the Bridge players picked up their cards. "It'syour lead, partner!" one of them said, and then she threw down hercards, and rising from her chair, went swiftly from the room. 

"Oh, the poor men . . . The poor men!" the old woman moaned. 

7

They sat on the rocks after tea and while they sat there, they saw agreat ship sailing up the sea, beautiful and proud and swift; and theyjumped up and climbed to the highest point of the cliff to watch her goby. They knew her, for there had been anxiety about her for two days, and as they watched her sailing past, they cheered and waved their handsalthough no one on the great vessel could see them. A girl came runningto them. . . . 

"What is it?" she said. 

"It's the _Lusitania_, " they answered. "She's dodged them, damn them!"

"Oh, hurrah!" the girl shouted. "Hurrah! Hurrah!"

8

And then the strain lifted. The _Lusitania_ had won home to safety. TheGermans, greedy for this great prize, had failed to find her. Civilisation still held good . . . If the world were to go down in thefight, it would go down proudly, hitting hard, hitting until thelast. . . . 

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

1

It was odd, that journey from Holyhead to London, odd and silent; forall the way from Wales to Euston they passed but one train. They drovethrough the long stretch of England, past wide and windy fields wherethe harvesters were cutting the corn, through the dark towns of thePotteries, by the collieries where the wheels still revolved as thecages were lowered and raised, and then, plunging into the outer areasof London, they drove swiftly up to the station. In the evening, theywent to Hampstead to see Roger and Rachel, and found them readingnewspapers. 

"I don't seem able to do anything else, " said Roger. "I buy everyedition that comes out. I read the damn things over and over, and then Iread them again. . . . "

Rachel nodded her head. "So do I, " she said. 

A girl came in, a friend of Rachel, who had been in Finland when the warbegan. She had hurried home by Berlin, where she had spent an hour ortwo, while waiting for a train, before England declared war onGermany. . . . 

"What were they like?" Gilbert asked. 

"Wild with excitement. We went to a restaurant to get something to eat, and while we were there, the news came that Russia was at war withthem. . . . My goodness! There was a Russian in the room, and they went forhim!. . . I had my aunt with me, and I was afraid she'd get hurt, so wecleared out as quickly as we could, and when we got to the station, wehad to fight to get into the train. My aunt fainted . . . And they werebeastly to us, oh, beastly! I tried to get things for her, but theywouldn't give us anything! They kept on telling us we'd be shot, andthreatening us!. . . They were frightened, those big fat men werefrightened. If you'd touched them suddenly, they'd have squealed . . . Like panic-stricken rabbits!. . . "

They sat and talked and talked, and gloom settled on them. What was tobe the end of this horrible thing which no one had desired, but no onewas able to prevent. 

"I believe they all lost their nerve at the last, " Roger said, "and theyjust . . . Just let things rip. They call it a brain-storm in America. They lost their heads . . . And they let things rip. My God, what a thingto have happened!"

They sat in silence, full of foreboding, and then the girl who had comefrom Finland went home. 

"It's all up with the Bar, I suppose!" said Roger, when he had let herout. "Whatever else people want to do, they won't want to go to law. Having a youngster makes things awkward!. . . "

"If you should need any money, Roger, " said Gilbert, "you might let meknow!"

"And me, Roger!" said Henry. 

"Thanks awfully!" Roger replied. "I won't forget. I've got some, ofcourse, and Rachel has a little. I daresay we'll manage. It can't lastlong. A couple of months, perhaps!. . . "

"I can't see how it can last longer. It's too big, and . . . Oh, it can'tlast longer!"

"Kitchener says three years!. . . "

"He wants to be on the safe side, I suppose, but my God, three years of. . . Of that!. . . "

2

Rachel got up suddenly. "You haven't seen my baby yet, " she said. 

"So we haven't, " Gilbert exclaimed. "Where is it?"

"She's upstairs asleep. You must come quietly!. . . "

"It's a girl, then?" said Henry. 

Rachel nodded, and led the way upstairs to the bedroom where the babylay in her cot. 

"Isn't she a darling?" she said, bending over the child. 

They did not answer, afraid, as men are in the presence of a sleepingchild, that they might disturb her; and while they stood looking at thecot, Rachel bent closer to her baby, and lightly kissed her cheek. 

They moved away on tiptoe. 

"What do you call her?" Henry whispered to Roger, as they left thebedroom. 

"Eleanor, " he answered. "That was my mother's name. Jolly little kid, isn't she?"

Gilbert turned and went back to the bedroom. Rachel was still bendingover the baby, and she looked up at him warningly. He went up to the cotand, leaning towards Rachel, whispered, "Do you mind if I kiss her, too, Rachel? I'm going to enlist to-morrow, and perhaps I won't get so good achance as this!. . . "

She stood up quickly and put her arms round him. "Oh, Gilbert!" shesaid, and then she drew him down, so that he could kiss the baby easily. 

3

Henry told Roger of Gilbert's intention, while Rachel and Gilbert werein the bedroom with the baby. 

"Enlist?" said Roger. 

Henry nodded his head. 

"Well, of course!. . . " Roger began, and then he stopped. "I suppose so, "he said, moving towards the tray which Rachel had brought into the roomearlier in the evening. "Whisky?" he said. 

"No, thanks, Roger!" Henry answered. "He's going down to-morrow!"

"He'd better wait a few days. There's been a hell of a scrum already tojoin. Queues and queues of chaps, standing outside Scotland Yard allday. He'd better wait 'til the rush is over. . . . "

"I think he'd rather like to be in the rush, " Henry said. 

Then Rachel came into the room, followed by Gilbert. 

"Roger, " she said, "Gilbert's going to enlist!. . . "

"So Quinny's just been telling me. Have a whisky, Gilbert?"

"No, thanks, old chap, " said Gilbert, "but if you have a cigarette!. . . "

"I'll get them, " Rachel exclaimed. 

She brought the box of cigarettes to him, and while he was choosing one, she said to Roger, "I was so excited when he told me, that I got up andhugged him!"

"Good!" said Roger. 

4

They walked home to Bloomsbury, where they had easily obtained rooms, for the sudden withdrawal of Germans and Austrians had left Bloomsburyin a state of vacancy. As they went down Haverstock Hill towards ChalkFarm, an old man lurched against them. 

"All the young chaps, " he mumbled thickly. "Thash wot sticks in mygizzard! All the young chaps! Gawblimey, why don't they tyke the oleones!. . . "

"Steady on, " Gilbert exclaimed, catching his arm and holding him up. "You'll fall, if you're not careful!"

"Don't marrer a damn wherrer I do or not!" He reeled a little, andGilbert caught hold of him again. "I woul'n be a young chap, " hemuttered, "not for . . . Not for nothink. You . . . You're a young chap, ain't you? Yesh you are! You needn't tell me you ain't! I can see aswellsh anythink! You're a young chap ri' enough. Well . . . Well, Gawd, 'elp you, young feller! Thash all I got to sy . . . Subjec!' Goo-ni', gen'lemen!" He staggered off the pavement, and went half way across thedeserted street. Then he turned and looked at them for a few moments. "Ain't it a bloody treat, eih?" he shouted to them. "_Ain't_ it a bloodytreat?"

"Drunk, " said Gilbert. 

Henry did not reply, and they walked on through Chalk Farm, throughCamden Town, into the tangle of mean streets by Euston, and then acrossthe Euston Road to Bloomsbury. They did not speak to each other untilthey were almost at their destination. 

"It's awfully quiet, " said Henry, turning and looking about him. 

"I don't see any one, " Gilbert answered, "except that old fellow aheadof us!. . . "

"No!"

They walked on, and when they came up to the old man, who walked slowly, and heavily in the same direction, they called "Good-night!" to him. Helooked round at them, an old, tired, bewildered man, and he made agesture with his hands, a gesture of despair. "Ach, mein freund!" hesaid brokenly, and again he made the suppliant motion with his hands. 

"Poor old devil!" Gilbert muttered almost to himself. 

5

They went to their rooms at once, too tired to talk to each other, andHenry, hurriedly undressing, got into bed. But he could not sleep. "Isuppose I ought to join, too!" he said to himself, as he lay on hisback, staring at the ceiling. "Gilbert and I could go together!. . . "

But what would be the good of that? The war would be over quite soon. Even Roger thought it would be over in a couple of months, and if thatwere so, there would be no need for him to throw up his work and take tosoldiering. "It'll be over before Gilbert's got through his training. Long before!. . . "

"Anyhow, I can wait until the rush is over. I might as well go onworking as stand outside Scotland Yard all day, waiting to be takenon. . . . Or I could apply for a commission!. . . "

He lay very still, hoping that he would fall asleep soon, but sleepwould not come to him. He sat up in bed, and glanced about the room. 

"I suppose, " he said aloud, "they're fighting now!"

He lay down again quickly, thrusting himself well under the bedclothesand shut his eyes tightly. "Oh, my God, isn't it horrible!" he groaned. 

He saw again that crowd of hurried soldiers detraining at Holyhead, thinking that perhaps they were going to Ireland, but not quite sure . . . And he could see them stumbling up the gangways of the transport, eachman heavily accoutred; and sometimes a man would laugh, and sometimes aman would swear . . . And then the ship sailed out of the harbour, rounding the pier and the breakwater, churning the sea into a long whitetrail of foam as she set her course past the South Stack. . . . They couldsee the lights on her masthead diminishing as she went further away, andthen, as the cold sea wind blew about them, they shivered and wenthome. . . . Now, lying here in this stillness, warm and snug, Henry couldsee those soldiers, huddled together on the ship. He could imagine them, murmuring to one another, "I say, d'ye think we _are_ goin' to Ireland?"and hear one answering, "You'll know in three hours. We'll be there_then_, if we are!" and slowly there would come to each man theknowledge that their journey was not to Ireland, but to France, andthere would be a tightening of the lips, an involuntary movement hereand there and then. . . . "Well, o' course, we're goin' to France! 'Oo the'ell thought we was goin' anywhere else?" The ship would carry themswiftly down the Irish Sea and across the English Channel . . . And afterthat!. . . 

"Some of them may be dead already, " he murmured to himself. 

Torn up suddenly from their accustomed life, hurried through thedarkness along the length of England, and then, after long, cold nightson the sea, landed in France and set to slaying. . . . 

"And they won't know what's it for?"

But did that matter? Would it be any better if they were aware of thecause of the fight? One lived in a land and loved it. Surely, that wassufficient?

In his mind, he could still see the soldiers, but always they weremoving in the dark. He could see very vividly the man who had askedPerkins to write to his wife . . . And it seemed to him that he was stilldemanding of passers-by that they should write to her. "Tell 'er I'm allright, " he kept on saying. "So far, any'ow!. . . "

He turned over on his side, dragging the clothes about his head, andtried to shut out the vision of the soldiers marching through the fieldsof France, but he could not shut it out. They still marched, endlessly, ceaselessly marched. . . . 

6

When they got to Scotland Yard, there was a great crowd of men waitingto be enlisted. 

"You'd better come again, Gilbert, " Henry said. "You'll have to hangabout here all day, and then perhaps you won't be reached!"

"I think I'll hang about anyhow, " Gilbert answered. 

He had become queerly quiet since the beginning of the War. The old, light-hearted, exaggerated speech had gone from him, and when he spoke, his words were abrupt and colourless. He took his place at the end ofthe file of men, and as he did so, the man in front of him, afringe-haired, quick-eyed youth with a muffler round his neck, turnedand greeted him. "'Illoa, myte!" he said with the cheery friendliness ofthe East End. "You come too, eih?"

Gilbert answered, "Yes, I thought I might as well!"

"Well 'ave to wyte a 'ell of a time, " the Cockney went on. "Some of'em's bin 'ere since six this mornin'. Gawblimey, you'd think they wasgivin' awy prizes. I dunno wot the 'ell I come for. I jus' did, sortof!. . . "

Some one standing by, turned to a recruiting sergeant and whisperedsomething to him, pointing to the guttersnipes in the queue. 

"Fight!" said the recruiting sergeant. "Gawd love you, guv'nor, they'dfight 'ell's blazes, them chaps would!"

Henry tried again to induce Gilbert to fall out of the queue and waituntil there was more likelihood of being enlisted quickly, but Gilbertwould not be persuaded. 

"You'll have to get something to eat, " Henry urged. "They'll never getnear you until this evening, and if you've got to fall out to get food, you might as well fall out now!"

"I think I'll wait, " Gilbert repeated. "Perhaps, " he went on, "you'llget me some sandwiches. Get a lot, will you. This chap in front of medoesn't look as if he'd brought anything!"

"You could get a commission, Gilbert, easily, " Henry said. 

"I don't think I should be much good as an officer, Quinny. . . . Go andget the sandwiches like a decent chap!"

Henry went away to do as Gilbert had bidden him, and after a while, hereturned with a big packet of sandwiches and apples. 

"I shan't wait, Gilbert, " he said. "I can't stand about all day. I'llcome back when the rush is over. . . . "

"But why, Quinny?"

"I'm going to join, too, with you!. . . "

"You're going to join?. . . That's awf'lly decent of you, Quinny!"

"Decent! Why? It isn't any more decent than your joining is!"

"P'raps not, but I always think it's very decent of an Irishman to fightfor England. If there doesn't seem any chance of my getting in to-day, I'll come back to tea. There's a fellow here says this is the second dayhe's been waiting!"

Henry went away. He walked along the Embankment towards Blackfriars, andwhen he had reached the Temple, he turned up one of the steep streetsthat link the Embankment to Fleet Street. 

"I'll go and see Delap, " he said to himself. 

Delap was the editor of a weekly paper for which Henry had sometimeswritten articles. Delap, however, was not at the office, but Bundy, themanager of the paper, who was also the financier, was there. 

"It's all up with us, " said Bundy. "We're closing down next week!"

"Closing down!"

"Yes. We're bust. Damn it, we're getting on splendidly, too. Justturning the corner! We should have had a magnificent autumn if it hadn'tbeen for this. . . . "

He came away from Bundy, and walked aimlessly down Fleet Street. "Lotsof other people would have had a fine autumn if it hadn't been forthis, " he thought to himself, and then he saw Leadenham and Crowborough, who worked on the _Cottenham Guardian_. They were very pale andtired-looking. 

"Hilloa!" he said, slapping Leadenham on the back. 

Leadenham jumped . . . Startled! "Oh, it's you, " he said, smiling weakly. 

"Yes. What's up? You look frightened!" He turned to greet Crowborough. 

"Well, we're all rather jiggered by this, " Leadenham replied. "We'regoing to get something to eat. Come with us?"

They went into a tea-shop and sat down. "Is the _Guardian_ all right?"Henry asked. 

"Oh, yes, " said Leadenham wearily, "as right as anything is. Nobody inFleet Street knows how long his job'll last. Half the men on the _DailyCircle_ have had the sack. Some of our chaps have gone! Fleet Street'sfull of men looking for jobs. About fifty papers have smashed up sincethe thing began . . . Sporting papers mostly. It frightens you, this sortof thing!. . . "

He came away from Fleet Street as quickly as possible. The nervous, hectic state of the journalists made him feel nervous too. 

"I'd better get among less jumpy people, " he said to himself, and hehurried towards Charing Cross. And there he met Jimphy. He did notrecognise him at first, for Jimphy was in khaki, and he would havepassed on without seeing him, had Jimphy not caught hold of his arm andstopped him. 

"Cutting a chap, damn you!" said Jimphy. . . . 

"Good Lord, I didn't know you!"

"Thought you didn't. Where you going?"

"Oh, nowhere. Just loafing about. Gilbert's down at Scotland Yard tryingto enlist. "

"Is he, begad? Everybody seems to be trying to enlist. He'd much bettertry to get a commission. I'm going home now. You come with me, Quinny. Hi, hi!. . . " He hailed a taxi-cab, and, without waiting to hear whatHenry had to say, bundled him into it. 

"Lord, " he exclaimed, as he leant back in the cab, "it's years an' yearsan' years since I saw you. Well, what do you think of this for a ballywar, eh? Millions of 'em . . . All smackin' each other. I'm going outsoon!" He leant out of the window and shouted at the driver, "Hi, youchap, hurry up, will you!

"I don't seem able to get anywhere quick enough nowadays, " he said as hesat back again in his seat. "You know, " he went on, "we've never been tothe Empire yet, you an' me. Damned if we have! Never mind! We'll go whenthe War's over!"

7

There were half a dozen women in the drawing-room with Cecily when Henryand Jimphy entered it. In addition to the women, there were aphotographer and Boltt. The photographer had finished his work and waspreparing to depart, and Boltt was talking in his nice little clippedvoice about the working-class. It appeared that the working-class hadnot realised the seriousness of the situation. The other classes hadbeen quick to understand and to offer themselves, but theworking-class. . . . No! Oo, noo! Boltt had written an article in the_Evening Gazette_ full of gentle reproach to the working-class, butwithout effect. The working-class had taken no notice. "Democracy, dearladies, " said Boltt, with a downward motion of his fingers. "Democracy!"A newspaper, a Labour newspaper, had been rather rude to Boltt. It hadput some intimate, he might say, impertinent, questions to Boltt, butBoltt had borne this impertinent inquisition with fortitude. He had notmade any answer to it. . . . 

"Hilloa, Paddy!" Lady Cecily called across the room to Henry. "Aren'tyou at the war?"

"Well, no, I only got to London. . . . "

"Oh, but everybody's going. Jimphy and everybody! Except Mr. Boltt, ofcourse. He's unfit or something. Aren't you, Mr. Boltt?"

"Ah, if I were only a young man again, Lady Cecily!. . . "

"But he's writing to the papers, and that's something, isn't it?" Cecilyinterrupted. "And I'm making mittens for the soldiers. We're all makingmittens. Except Mr. Boltt, of course. "

"Who was the johnny who's just gone out?" Jimphy demanded. "Was he thechap who sells the stuff you make the mittens out of?. . . "

"Oh, no, Jimphy, he was a photographer. We're all to have ourphotographs in the _Daily Reflexion_. . . . "

"Except Mr. Boltt?" Henry asked maliciously. 

"No, Mr. Boltt's to be in it too. Holding wool. I've been photographedin three different positions . . . Beginning to knit a mitten, half-waythrough a mitten, and finishing a mitten. I was rather anxious to betaken with a pile of socks, but I can't knit socks!. . . "

"You can't knit mittens either, " said Jimphy. 

It appeared that Lady Cecily's maid was allowed to undo her mistress'sfalse stitches and finish the mittens properly. . . . 

"Well, of course, I'm not really a knitter, " Cecily admitted, "but Ifeel I must do something for the country. I've a good mind to take upnursing. I met Jenny Customs this morning, and she says it's quite easy, and the uniform is rather nice. . . . "

"But don't you require to be trained?" Henry asked dubiously. 

"Oh, yes, if you're a professional. But I'm not. I'm doing it for thecountry. Jenny Customs went to a First Aid Class, and learnt quite a lotabout bandaging. She can change sheets while the patient is in bed, andshe says he can scarcely tell that she's doing it. I should love to beable to do that. She told me a lot of things, and I really know thefirst lesson already. I can shake a bottle of medicine the properway!. . . "

"Can't we have tea or something?" said Jimphy. "Oh, by the way, Cecily, Quinn says that chap Gilbert Farlow's hanging about Scotland Yard. . . . "

"Goodness me, what for?" Cecily demanded in a startled voice. "He hasn'tdone anything, has he?"

"No, of course he hasn't. He's trying to enlist!"

"Enlist!" she said. 

"Yes. Silly ass not to ask for a commission!" said Jimphy. 

Boltt burbled about the priceless privilege of youth. If only he were ayoungster once again!. . . 

They drank their tea, while Jimphy discoursed on the war. Henry hadentered Cecily's house with a feeling of alarm, wondering whether shewould be friendly to him, wondering whether he would be able to lookinto her eyes and not care . . . And now he knew that he did not care. There was something incredibly unfeeling and trivial about Cecily, something . . . Vulgar. While the world was still reeling from the shockof the War, she was arranging to be photographed with mittens that shehad not made and could not make. The portrait would be reproduced in the_Daily Reflexion_ under the title of "Lady Cecily Jayne Does Her Bit. ". . . But she was beautiful, undeniably she was beautiful. As he looked ather, she raised her eyes, conscious perhaps of his stare, and smiled athim. . . . 

"She'd smile at anybody, " he said to himself. "If she had any feeling atall for me, she'd be angry with me!"

She came to him. "I wish you'd tell Gilbert to come and see me, " shesaid, sitting down beside him. 

"Very well, " he answered, "I will!"

"I'm sure he'll look awfully nice in khaki. And I should love to see himsaluting Jimphy. He'll have to do that, you know, if he's a private. . . . "

8

He got away as soon as he could decently do so, and went back toBloomsbury. "That isn't England, " he told himself, "that mitten-making, posturing crew!" and he remembered the great queues of men, standingoutside Scotland Yard, struggling to get into the Army, and sufferingmuch discomfort in the effort. 

"Perhaps, " he said to himself, "Gilbert's at home now. I wonder if hemanaged to get in!"

A man and a woman were standing at the corner of a street, talking, andhe overheard them as he passed. 

"'Illoa, Sarah, " the man said, "w'ere you goin', eih?"

"Goin' roan' the awfices, " she answered, "to see if I kin get a job o'charin'!"

"Gawblimey!" said the man, laughing at her. 

"Well, you got to do somethink, 'aven't you? No good sittin' on yourbe'ind an' 'owlin' because there's a war on, is there?"

There was more of the spirit of England in that, Henry thought, than inCecily's mitten-making. . . . 

Gilbert was not at home when he reached the Bloomsbury boarding-house. "Still trying, I suppose, " Henry thought. 

There was a telegram for him. His father was ill again, "seriously ill"was the message, and he was needed at home. 

He hurriedly wrote a note to be given to Gilbert when he returned, incase he should not see him again, but before he had begun his packing, Gilbert came in. 

"It's all right, " he said. "I've joined. I've had a week's leave. . . . I'mdamned tired!"

"My father's ill again, Gilbert. I've just had a telegram, and I'm goingback to-night!. . . "

"I'm awf'lly sorry, Quinny!" Gilbert said, quickly sympathetic. 

"I met Jimphy at Charing Cross. He's in khaki. He took me back to tea. Cecily's making mittens!. . . "

"She would, " said Gilbert. 

"She told me to tell you to go and see her!"

"Did she, indeed?"

"You'll stay here, I suppose, " Henry went on, "until you're called up?"Gilbert nodded his head. "Let me know what happens to you afterwards, will you?"

"Righto!"

"I'll come back as soon as I can, Gilbert!"

THE SIXTH CHAPTER

1

Mr. Quinn died at Christmas. The old man, weakened by his long illness, had been stunned by the War, and when his second illness seized him, hemade no effort to resist it. He would lie very quietly for a long while, and then a paroxysm of fury would possess him, and he would shake hisfist impotently in the air. "If they wanted a war, " he shouted once, "why didn't they go and fight it themselves. They were paid to keep thepeace, and . . . And!. . . "

He fell back on his pillow, exhausted, and when Henry, hurrying up thestairs to him the moment he heard the shout, reached him, he was gaspingfor breath. "It's all right, son!" he said when he had recoveredhimself. "It's all right!. . . "

"It's foolish of you, father, to agitate yourself like that, " Henry saidto him, putting his arms round him and lifting him into a morecomfortable position. 

"I can't help it, Henry, when I think of . . . Of all the young lads!. . . By God, they'd no right to do it!. . . "

"Hush, father!. . . "

"They'd no right to do it! You'd think they were greedy for blood . . . Young men's blood!" He pointed to an English newspaper lying on thefloor. "Did you read that paper?" he said. 

"Yes. "

"Houndin' them into it, " the old man went on. "Yellin' for young men! ByGod, I'd be ashamed . . . Parsons an' women an' old men that can't fightthemselves, houndin' young men into it! If they'd any decency, they'dshut up. . . . "

"All right, father!"

"The man that owns this paper . . . Whatshisname!. . . "

"It doesn't matter, does it? Lie still and be quiet!"

"I can't be quiet. Like a damned big monster, yellin' for boys to eat. Has he any childher, will you tell me?. . . "

"I don't know, father!"

"Of course he hasn't. An' here he is, yelpin' in his damned rag everyday, 'Fee-fo-fum, I smell the blood of a young man!' Why don't theyshove him at the Front . . . The very front!"

"You must keep quiet, father!"

"All right, Henry, all right!"

He was silent for a few minutes, and then he began again, in a quietervoice. "I'd have put the men that made it, the whole lot of them, in thefront rank, and let them blow themselves to blazes. Old men sittin' inoffices, an' makin' wars, an' then biddin' young men to pay the price ofthem! By God, that's mean! By God, that's low!. . . "

"But old men couldn't bear the strain of it, father!" Henry interjected, and he recalled some of the horrors of the trenches where the soldiershad stood with the water reaching to their waists; but Mr. Quinninsisted that the old men should have fought the war they made. 

"Who cares a damn whether they can bear it or not, " he said. "Let 'emdie, damn 'em! They're no good!" He turned quickly to Henry, anddemanded, "What good are they? Tell me that now!" but before Henry couldmake an answer to him, he went off insistently, "They're no good, I tellyou. I know well what they're like . . . Sittin' in their clubs, yappin'an' yappin' an' demandin' this an' demandin' that, an' gettin' on oneanother's nerves; an' whatever happens it's not them that suffers forit: it's the young lads that pays for everything. Look at the way theold fellows go on in Parliament, Henry! By God, I want to vomit when Iread about them! Yappin' an' yappin' when they should be down on theirknees beggin' God's forgiveness. . . . "

He spoke as if he were not himself an old man, and it did not seemstrange to Henry that he should speak in that fashion, for Mr. Quinn'sspirit had always been a young spirit. 

"An' these wee bitches with their white feathers, " he went on, "ought tobe well skelped. If I had a daughter, an' she did a thing like that, byGod, I'd break her skull for her!"

"I suppose they think they're doing their duty, father, and they'reyoung!. . . "

"There's women at it, too. I read in the paper yesterday mornin' thatthere was grown women doin' it. There's nobody has any right to bid aman go to that except them that's been to it themselves. If the womenan' the parsons an' the old men can't fight for their country, they canhold their tongues for it, an' by God they ought to be made to holdthem. . . . "

He asked continually after Gilbert. 

"He's a sergeant now, father. He's been offered a commission, but hewon't take it!. . . "

"Why?"

"Oh, one of his whimsy-whamsies, I suppose. He says the non-commissionedofficers are the backbone of the Army, and he prefers to be part of thebackbone. You remember Ninian Graham, father?"

"I do, rightly!. . . "

"He's come home to join. He's in the Engineers!"

Mr. Quinn did not make any answer to Henry. He slipped a little furtherinto the bed, and lay for a long while with his eyes closed, so longthat Henry thought he had fallen asleep; but, just when Henry began totiptoe from the room, he opened his eyes again, and suddenly they werefull of tears. 

"The fine young fellows, " he said. "The fine young lads!"

2

And at Christmas, he died. He had called Henry to him that morning, andhad enquired about "The Fennels, " which had lately been published aftera postponement and much hesitation, and about the new book on whichHenry was now working. 

"That's right, " he said, when he heard that Henry was working steadilyon it. "It'll keep your mind from broodin'. How's the Ulster bookgoin'?"

"'The Fennels'?"

"Ay. You had hard luck, son, in bringing out your best book at a timelike this, but never matter, never matter!. . . "

"I don't know how it's doing. It's too soon to tell yet. The reviewshave been good, but I don't suppose people are buying books at present!"

"You've done a good few now, Henry!"

"Five, father. "

"Ay, I have the lot there on that ledge so's I can take them down easilyan' look at them. I feel proud of you, son . . . Proud of you!"

He began to remind Henry of things that had happened when he was a boy. His mind became flooded with memories. "Do you mind Bridget Fallon?" hewould say, and then he would recall many incidents that were connectedwith her. "Do you mind the way you wanted to go to Cambridge, an' Iwouldn't let you, " and "Do you mind the time you took the woollen ballsfrom Mr. Maginn's house?. . . . "

Henry remembered. Mr. Maginn, the vicar of Ballymartin, had invitedHenry to spend the afternoon with his nephew and niece and some otherchildren. They had played a game with balls made of coloured wool, andwhile they were playing, Henry, liking the pattern of one of them, hadput it into his pocket. It had been missed, and there had been a searchfor it, in which Henry had joined. He was miserable, and he wanted toconfess that he had the ball, but every time he opened his lips to saythat he had it, he felt afraid, and so he had refrained from speaking. He felt, too, that every one knew that he had taken it, but still hecould not confess that he had it, and when they said, "Isn't it queer? Iwonder where it's gone!" he had answered, "Yes, isn't it queer?" Theyhad abandoned the search, and had played another game, but all thepleasure of the party was lost for Henry. He kept saying to himself, "You've got it. _You've_ got it!. . . "

He had hurried home after the party was over, and when he reached theshrubbery, he dug a hole and buried the ball in it. He had closed hiseyes as he took it out of his pocket, so that he should not see thebright colours of it, and had heaped the earth on to it as if he couldnot conceal it quickly enough . . . But burying it had not quieted hismind. He felt, whenever he met Mr. Maginn, that the vicar looked at himas if he were saying to himself, "You stole the woollen ball!. . . . " Atthe end of the month, he had gone to his father and told him of it, andMr. Quinn had cocked his eye at him for a moment and considered thesubject. 

"If I were you, Henry, " he had said, "I'd dig up that ball and take itback to Mr. Maginn and just tell him about it!"

Henry could remember how hard it had been to do that, how he hadloitered outside the gates of the vicarage for an hour, trying to forcehimself to go up to the door and ask for the vicar . . . And how kind Mr. Maginn had been when, at last, he had made his confession!

Oh, yes, he remembered!. . . 

"You were a funny wee lad, Henry, " Mr. Quinn said, taking his son's handin his. "Always imaginin' things!" He thought for a second or two. "Isuppose, " he went on, "that's what makes you able to write books . . . Imaginin' things! Ay, that's it!"

They sat in quietness for a while, and then Mr. Quinn fell asleep, andHenry went down to the library and worked again on his new novel, forwhich he had not yet found a title; and in his sleep, Mr. Quinn died. 

3

Henry had finished a chapter of the book, and he put down his pen, andyawned. He was tired, and he thought gratefully of tea. Hannah wouldbring a tray to his father's room. There would be little soda farls andtoasted barn-brack, and perhaps she would have made "slim-jim, " andthere would be newly-churned butter and home-made jam, which Hannah, inher Ulster way, would call "Preserve. " . . . 

He got up from the table and went into the hall. 

"Will tea be long, Hannah?" he called down the stairs, leading to thekitchens. 

"Haven't I it near ready?" she answered. 

He had gone up the staircase at a run, and had entered his father'sroom, expecting to see him sitting up. . . . 

"Hilloa, " he said, stopping sharply, "still asleep!" and he went out ofthe room and called softly to Hannah, now coming up the stairs, to takethe tray to the library. "He's asleep, Hannah!" he said almost in awhisper. 

"He's never asleep at this hour, " she answered. 

And somehow, as she said that, he knew. He went back into the room andleant over his father, listening. . . . 

"Is he dead, Master Henry?" Hannah said, as she came into the room. Shehad left the tray on a table on the landing. 

Henry straightened himself and turned to her. "Yes, Hannah!" he saidquietly. 

The old woman threw her apron over her head and let a great cry out ofher. "Och, ochanee!" she moaned, "Och, och, ochanee!. . . "

4

He had none of the terror he had had when Mrs. Clutters lay dead in theBloomsbury house. He went into the room and stood beside his father'sbody. The finely moulded face had a proud look and a great look ofpeace. "I don't feel that he's dead, " Henry murmured to himself. "Ishall never feel that he's dead!"

"I wasn't with him enough, " he went on. "I left him alone too often. . . . "

Extraordinarily, they had loved each other. Underneath all thatroughness of speech and violence of statement, there was greattenderness and understanding. He spoke his mind, and more than his mind, but he was generous and quick to retract and quicker to console. "I'm anUlsterman, " he said once. "Ulster to the marrow, an' begod I'm proud ofit!"

"But I'm Irish too, " he added, turning to John Marsh as he said it, fearful lest he should have hurt John's feelings. "Begod, it's gran' tobe Irish. I pity the poor devils that aren't!. . . "

He was a great lover of life, exulting in his strength and vigour, shouting sometimes for the joy of hearing himself shout. "And shy, too, "Henry murmured to himself, "shy as a wren about intimate things!"

The sight of his father's placid face comforted him. One might cry overother people, but not over _him_. Henry felt that if he were to weep forhis father, and the old man, regaining life for a moment were to openhis eyes and see him, he would shout at him, "Good God, Henry, what areyou cryin' about? Go out, man, an' get the fresh air about you!. . . "

He put his hand out and touched the dead man. 

"All right, father!" he said aloud. . . . 

5

There was much to do after the burial, and it was not until thebeginning of the Spring that Henry left Ballymartin. He had completedhis sixth novel, and had asked that the proofs should be sent to him asspeedily as possible so that he might correct them before he leftIreland, and while he was waiting for them, he had travelled to Dublinfor a few days, partly on business connected with his estate and partlyto see his friends. Mr. Quinn had spent a great deal of money on hisfarming experiments, the more freely as he found that Henry's booksbrought him an increasing income, and so Henry had decided to let thesix hundred acres which Mr. Quinn himself had farmed. At first, he hadthought of selling the land, but it seemed to him that his father wouldhave liked him to keep it, and so he did not do so. He settled hisaffairs with his solicitors, and then returned to Ballymartin; butbefore he did so, he spent an evening with John Marsh, whom he foundstill keenly drilling. 

"But why are you drilling now?" he asked. "This hardly seems the time tobe playing at soldiers, John!"

"I'm not playing, Henry. I _am_ a soldier!"

It was difficult to remember how many armies there were in Ireland. TheUlster Volunteers still sulked in the North. The National Volunteers hadsplit. The politicians, alarmed at the growth of the Volunteer Movementamong their followers, had swooped down on the Volunteers and "captured"them. John Marsh and Galway and their friends had seceded, and, underthe presidency of a professor of the National University, JohnMacNeill, had formed a new body, called the Irish Volunteers. Thepoliticians, failing to understand the temper of their time, worked todiscourage the growth of the Volunteer Movement, and the result of theirefforts was that the more enthusiastic and courageous of the NationalVolunteers seceded to the Irish Volunteers. 

"We're growing rapidly, " John said to Henry. "They're flocking out ofthe Nationals into ours as hard as they can. We've got Thomas MacDonaghand Patrick Pearse and a few others with us, and we're trying to link upwith Larkins' Citizen Army. Mineely's urging Connolly on to our side, but Connolly's more interested in the industrial fight than in thenational fight. But I think we'll get him over!"

Their objects were to defend themselves from attack by the UlsterVolunteers if attack were made, to raise a rebellion if the Home RuleBill were not passed into law, and to resist the enactment ofconscription in Ireland. The burden of their belief was still the fearof betrayal. "But you're going to get Home Rule, " Henry would say tothem, and they would answer, "We'll believe it when we see the Kingopening the Parliament in College Green. Not before. We know what theEnglish are like. . . . "

Henry had suggested to them that they should offer the services of theirvolunteers to the Government in return for the immediate enactment ofthe Bill, but they saw no hope of such an offer being accepted andhonoured. "The minute they'd got us out of the way, they'd break theirword, " said Galway. "Our only hope is to stay here and make ourselves asformidable as we can. You can't persuade the English to do the decentthing . . . You can only terrorise them into it. Look at the way theUlster people have frightened the wits out of them!. . . "

"But the Ulster people haven't frightened the wits out of them. I can'tunderstand you fellows! You sit here with preconceived ideas in yourheads, and you won't check them by going to see the people you'retheorising about. You keep on saying the same thing over and over again, and you won't listen to any one who tells you that you've got hold ofthe wrong end of the stick!. . . "

"My dear Henry, " said John, "our history is enough for us. Even sincethe war, the English have tried to belittle the Irish. They've done themost inept, small things to annoy us. They'd have got far more men fromIreland than they have done, if they 'd behaved decently; but theycouldn't. They simply couldn't do the decent thing to Ireland. That'stheir nature. . . . I'd have gone myself!. . . "

"You?"

"Yes. I think the Germans are in the wrong. I think they've behavedbadly, and anyhow, I don't like their theory of life. But the Englishcouldn't treat us properly. We wanted an Irish Division, with Irishofficers, and Irish colours, and Irish priests . . . But no! They actuallystopped some women in the South from making an Irish flag for the Irishregiments!. . . What are you to do with people like that. If they aren'ttreacherous, they're so stupid that it's impossible to do anything withthem, and we'd much better be separate from them!"

"I should have thought that Belgium showed the folly of that sort ofthing, " said Henry. "A little country can't keep itself separate from abig one. It'll get hurt if it does. "

"Belgium fought, didn't she?" John answered. "I daresay we should getbeaten, too, but we could fight, couldn't we?"

Henry went away from them in a state of depression. It seemed impossibleto persuade them to behave reasonably. Fixed and immovable in theirminds was this belief that England would use them in her need . . . Andthen betray them when her need was satisfied. 

He went back to Ballymartin and corrected his proofs. 

"I'll go over to England next week, " he said to himself when he hadrevised the final proofs and posted them to his publishers. 

6

Mrs. Graham had written to him when his father died. "_My dear Henry_, "she wrote, "_I know how you must feel at the death of your father, and Iknow, too, that you will not wish to have your sorrow intruded on. Aletter is a poor thing, but, my dear, I send you all my sympathy. Inever saw your father, but Ninian has often spoken of him to me, and Iknow that his loss must be almost unbearable to you. Perhaps he wasglad, as I should be glad, to slip away from the thought and memory ofthis horrible war, and that may bring comfort to you. If you feel lonelyand unhappy at home, come to Boveyhayne for a while. You know how gladwe shall be to have you. It is very quiet here now, more than a hundredof our men have gone into the Navy or the Army, and the poor women arefull of anxiety about them. Ninian has just been moved to Colchester. Idaresay he has written to you before this. If you would like to come toBoveyhayne just send a telegram to me. That will be sufficient. Believeme, my dear Henry, Your sincere friend, Janet Graham. _"

 * * * * *

He remembered Mrs. Graham's letter now, and he went to his writing deskand took it from the notes of condolence he had received. Ninian andGilbert and Roger had written to him, short, abrupt letters that he knewwere full of kindly concern for him, and Rachel had written too. Therewas a letter from Mary. 

 * * * * *

_Dear Quinny, you don't know how sorry I am. It must be awful to loseyour father when you and he have been such chums. I can only justremember my father, and how I cried when he was taken away, and so Iknow how hard it must be for you. Your friend, Mary. _

 * * * * *

He read Mrs. Graham's note, and Mary's several times, and as he readthem, he had a longing to go to Boveyhayne again. The house atBallymartin was so lonely, now that his father's heavy footsteps nolonger sounded through the hall. Sometimes, forgetting that he was dead, Henry would stop suddenly and listen as if he were listening for hisfather's voice. Since his return from Dublin, he had felt his loss morepoignantly than he had before he went away. In the old days, his fatherwould have been at the station to meet him. There would have been ahearty shout, and. . . . 

"I must go, " he said to himself, "I must go. I can't bear to be herenow. "

He went down to the village and telegraphed to Mrs. Graham telling herthat he would be with her two days later, and while he was in the postoffice, the _Belfast Evening Telegraph_ came in. 

"I'll take my copy with me, " he said to the post-mistress, and he openedit at once to read the news. There was a paragraph in a corner of thepaper, which caught his eye at once. It announced the death in action ofLord Jasper Jayne. 

"My God!" he said, crumpling the paper as he gaped at the announcement. 

"Is it bad news, sir?" the post-mistress asked. 

"A friend of mine, " he answered, turning to her. "Killed at the Front!"

"Aw, dear, " she said. "Aw, dear-a-dear! An' there'll be plenty more, sir. There's young fellas away from the village, sir. My own nephew'saway. You mind him, don't you, sir! Peter Logan!. . . "

"Peter Logan!"

"Ay, he used to keep the forge 'til he married Matt Hamilton's niece, an' then he took to the land. Nothin' would stop him, but to be off. Nothin' at all would stop him. I toul' him myself the Belgians wasCatholics an' the Germans was Protestants, but nothin' would stophim. . . . "

"Sheila Morgan's husband, " Henry murmured. 

"Ay, " she answered, "that was her name before she was married. He'strainin' now, an' in a while, I suppose, he'll be off like the rest ofthem. Och, ochanee, sir, isn't this a terr'ble world, wi' nothin' butfightin' an' wringlin'? Will that be all you're wantin', sir?"

"Yes, thanks, " he said. 

Poor old Jimphy! They had all been contemptuous of him . . . And now!. . . 

Cecily would be free now! Oh, but what of that? Poor Jimphy! He had notwished for much from life . . . And sometimes it had seemed that he hadgot much more than he needed. . . . 

"The best of us can't do more than he did, " Henry thought as he walkedhome. "A man can't give more than he's got, and Jimphy's giveneverything!"

7

He started up, and looked about the room, and while he listened, hecould hear the big clock in the hall sounding three times. He wasshivering, though he was not cold. In his dream, he had seen Jimphy, allbloody and broken. . . . 

"Oh, my God, how horrible!" he groaned. 

He got up and went to the window, but he could not see beyond the hightrees, which swayed and moaned and took strange shapes in the wind. Hisdream still held his mind, and as he looked into the darkness and sawthe bending branches yielding and rebounding, it seemed to him that hesaw the soldiers rushing forward and heard their cries, hoarse with warlust or stifled by the blood that gushed from their mouths as theystaggered and fell . . . And as he had seen him in his dream, so he sawJimphy again, running forward and shouting as he ran, until suddenlywith a queer wrinkled look of amazement on his face, he stopped, andthen, clasping his hands to his head, tumbled in a shapeless heap on theground . . . But now it seemed to him that as Jimphy fell, his facechanged: it was no longer Jimphy's face, but his own. 

"My God, it's me!" he cried, shrinking away from the window, andclutching at the curtains as if he would cover himself with them. "MyGod, it's _me_!"

He shut his eyes tightly and stumbled back to bed. He bruised himselfagainst a chair, but he was afraid to open his eyes, and he rolled intobed, covering himself completely with the clothes, and buried his facein his folded arms. In his mind, one thought hammered insistently: _Imust live! I must live! I must live!_

8

"I'm run down, " he said to himself in the morning. "That's what's thematter with me. I'm run down!"

His father's death had affected him, he thought, far more than he hadimagined. He would be all right again after a rest in Devonshire. It wasnatural that he should be in a nervous state . . . Quite natural. He wouldgo straight to Boveyhayne from Liverpool. He could catch the BournemouthExpress, and change at Templecombe. . . . "That's what I'll do, " he said, and he hurried downstairs to prepare for his journey. 

THE SEVENTH CHAPTER

1

He changed his mind at Liverpool. "I'll go to London first, " he said, "and see Roger and Rachel. I might as well hear anything there is tohear!" And so he had telegraphed to Roger who met him at Euston. 

"Gilbert's going out in a few days, " Roger said, when they had greetedeach other. 

"Out?"

"Yes. He's going to the Dardanelles!. . . This job's serious, Quinny!" headded grimly. "Our two months' estimate was a bit out, wasn't it? Isuppose you haven't heard from Ninian lately? He hasn't written to mefor a good while. "

"Not lately, " Henry answered, "but I shall hear of him to-morrow when Iget to Boveyhayne. I'll write and let you know!"

"My Big Army book's gone to pot, of course!" Roger went on. "At presentanyhow!. . . "

"The War's done for the Improved Tories, I suppose?"

"Absolutely. They've all enlisted. Ashley Earls is in the R. A. M. C. Hewent in last week. He couldn't go before . . . He was ill. You rememberErnest Carr. He tried to enlist when the War began, but he was socrippled with rheumatism that they hoofed him out. Well, he's beenliving like a hermit ever since to get himself cured, and he says he'sgoing on splendidly. He thinks he'll be able to join before long. . . . "

"I wonder if I ought to join, " he went on, more to himself than toHenry. "I've thought and thought about it . . . But I can't make up mymind. I've got a decent connexion at the Bar now, and if I go into theArmy, I shall lose it. The fellows who don't go will get my work. And ifthe War lasts as long as Kitchener reckons, I shall be forgotten by thetime I get back . . . And I shall have to begin again at an age when mostmen have either established themselves or cleared out of the professionaltogether. I want to do what's right, but I can't reconcile my twoduties, Quinny. I've a duty to England, of course, but I think I have abigger duty to Rachel and Eleanor. If they'd only conscript us all, thisproblem wouldn't arise . . . Not so acutely anyhow. I suppose theGovernment is having a pretty hard time, but they do seem to act thegoat rather! There's a great deal of talk about a man's duty to England, but very little talk about England's duty to the man. However!. . . " Hedid not finish his sentence, but shrugged his shoulders and looked away. 

"I don't feel happy, " he went on after a while, "when I see other menjoining up, but I've got to think of Rachel and Eleanor. . . . When I wasgoing to meet you, Quinny, I passed a chap on crutches. His leg wasoff!. . . He made me feel damned ashamed. I suppose that's why they letthe wounded go about in uniform so freely; to make you feel ashamed ofyourself. That's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid I shall rush off to therecruiting office in a burst of emotion . . . And I must think of Racheland Eleanor!. . . "

"I don't see why you should go before I do, Roger, " Henry interjected. 

"Are you going, Quinny?"

Henry flushed. It hurt him that there should be any question about it. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"I don't think of you as a soldier, Quinny!"

"I don't think of myself as one!" He paused for a moment, and then, impetuously, he turned to Roger. 

"Roger, " he said, "do you think I'm . . . Neurotic? Would you say I'm . . . Well, degenerate?"

"Don't be an ass, Quinny!"

"I'm serious, Roger. I'm not just talking about myself, and sloppingover!"

"You're highly strung, of course, but I shouldn't say you were neurotic. You're healthy enough, aren't you!"

"Oh, yes, I'm healthy enough, but I'm such a damned coward, Roger, andsometimes some perfectly uncontrollable fear seizes me . . . Sillyfrights. I never told you, did I, how scared I was when Mrs. Cluttersdied!. . . " He told Roger how he had trembled outside the door of the deadwoman's room. "Things like that have happened to me ever since I was akid. I make up my mind to join the Army, and then I suddenly getpanicky, and I can almost feel myself being killed. I'm continuallyseeing the War . . . Me in it, crouching in a trench waiting for the orderto go over, and trembling with fright . . . So frightened that I can't doanything but get killed . . . And it's worse when I think of myselfkilling other people . . . I feel sick at the thought of thrusting abayonet into a man's body . . . Squelching through his flesh . . . MyGod!. . . "

"Yes, I know, Quinny!" Roger said. "One does feel like that. But whenyou're there, you don't think of it . . . You're more or less off yourhead . . . You couldn't do it if you weren't. They work you up to a kindof frenzy, and then you . . . Just let yourself go!"

"But afterwards! Don't you think a man 'ud go mad afterwards when hethought of it? I should. I know I should. I'd lie awake at night and seethe men I'd killed!. . . "

A passenger in the train had told a story of the trenches to Henry, whonow repeated it to Roger. 

"One of our men got hold of a German in a German trench, and hebayonetted him, but he did it clumsily. There wasn't enough room to killhim properly . . . He couldn't withdraw the bayonet and stick it in againand finish the man . . . And there they were, jammed together . . . And theGerman was squealing, oh, horribly . . . And our men had to come and haulthe British soldier out of the trench. He'd gone off his head!. . . "

"One oughtn't to think of things like that, Quinny!"

"But if you can't help it? What terrifies me is that I might turn funk. . . Let my lot down!. . . "

"You wouldn't. You're the sort that imagines the worst and does thebest. I shouldn't think of it any more if I were you. A month atBoveyhayne'll pull you all right again. . . . "

"It's dying that I'm most afraid of. Some of these papers write columnsand columns of stuff about 'glorious deaths' at the front, but itdoesn't seem very glorious to me to be dead before you've had a chanceto do your job . . . Killed like that . . . Blown to bits, perhaps . . . Sothat they can't tell which is you and which is some one else!. . . "

Roger nodded his head. "Our journalists contrive to see a great deal ofglory in war . . . From Fleet Street, don't they, Quinny!"

"Sometimes, " Henry proceeded, "I think that the worst kind of cowardiceis to love life too much. That's the kind of coward I am. I love living. I used to cry when I was a kid at the thought that I might die and notbe able to run about and look at things that I liked! And that makes youfunky. You're afraid to take risks, for fear you should lose your lifeand have to give up the pleasure of living. I suppose that's what theBible means when it says that 'whosoever shall lose his life, shall findit. ' This hunt for security melts the marrow in your backbone!. . . "

"Perhaps, " said Roger. "Where you go wrong, I think, is in imaginingthat courage consists in hurling yourself recklessly on things . . . Innot caring a damn. I don't think that that's courage . . . It's simplyinsensibility . . . A sort of permanent imperceptiveness. Really, Quinny, if you don't feel fear, there's not much of the heroic in your acts. That kind of man isn't much braver when he's plunging at Germans thanhe is when he's plunging at a motor-omnibus or getting into a 'scrum' atRugger. He simply doesn't see any difference. It's something to plungeat, and so he plunges. I haven't much faith in the Don't-Care-a-DamnBrigade. They're more anxious to get V. C's than to get victories. Theircourage is just egoism . . . They're thinking, not of their country, butof themselves. The real hero, I think, is the man who makes himself dosomething that he's afraid to do, who goes into a thing, trembling withfright, but nevertheless goes into it. Did you ever meet LéonLorthiois?" he said quickly. 

"You mean the French painter who used to hang about the Café Royal?"Henry replied. 

"Yes. He was killed the other day in France. "

"I hadn't heard. Poor chap!"

"I think he showed extraordinary courage. He started off from London tojoin the French Army . . . All his friends dined him jolly well . . . Andwished him good-luck, and so on, and then he went off. And a week later, he turned up again with a cock-and-bull story about having been arrestedas a deserter. He said he'd escaped from prison and, after a lot ofdifficulty and hardship, got back to England. But he hadn't doneanything of the sort. He'd funked it at the last. He got as far asDover, and then he turned back . . . Frightened. He stayed in London for awhile . . . And then he tried again . . . And this time he didn't funk it!They say he was fighting splendidly when he was killed. Men have got theV. C. For less heroic behaviour than that. He'd conquered himself. I usedto despise that fellow because he wore eccentric clothes and had hishair cut in a silly fashion . . . But I feel proud now of having knownhim!"

2

Mary met him at Whitcombe, and they walked home, sending his trunk andportmanteau on in the carriage with Widger. He had anticipated theirmeeting with strange emotion, feeling as if he were returning to herafter a time of misunderstanding, richer in knowledge, more capable ofsympathy. He had not seen her since the first performance of "The MagicCasement, " and very much had happened to them since then. His desire forCecily seemed to have died. He had not troubled to visit her in London. . . He could have found time to do so, had he been anxious to see her. . . But he had not the wish. He had not written to her about Jimphy . . . He could not bring himself to do that . . . And the thought that she mightwish to see him did not stir his mind. He felt for her what a man feelsfor a woman he has loved, but now loves no more: neither like nordislike, but, occasionally, curiosity that did not last long. She movedhim as little as Sheila Morgan had done when he saw her in the field atBallymartin, big with child, watching her husband drilling. 

"There are permanent things in one's life, and there are impermanentthings . . . And you can't turn the one into the other, " he thought tohimself, as the little branch railway drove down the Axe Valley. "Iwanted Cecily . . . And then I didn't want her. There's no more to be saidabout it than that!"

There were very few people waiting on the platform when the train drewinto Whitcombe, and so Henry and Mary saw each other immediately, andwhen he saw her, standing on the windy platform, with her hand to herhat, he felt more powerfully than he had ever felt it, his old love forher surging through him. Nothing could ever divert him from her for verylong . . . Inevitably he would return to her . . . Whatever of permanencethere was in his life was centred in her. He led her out of the stationand they walked along the road at the top of the shingle . . . And as theywalked, suddenly he turned to her and, drawing her arm in his, told herthat he loved her. 

"I haven't much to offer you, Mary . . . I'm a poor sort of fellow at thebest . . . But I need you, and!. . . "

She did not answer, but she looked up at him with shining eyes. . . . 

"My dear!" he said, and drew her very close to him. 

3

They went up the path over the red cliffs and then climbed the steepsteps that led to the top of the White Cliff. The night was beginning togather her clouds about her, but still they did not hurry homewards. Farout, they could see the trawlers returning to the Bay, dipping andrising and plunging and reeling before the wind as from a heavy blow, and then, when it seemed that they must fall, righting themselves andmoving swiftly homewards. Beneath them, the sea splashed in great thickwaves that tossed their spray high in the air, and the gulls andjackdaws spun round and up and down or huddled themselves in the shelterof the cliffs. 

"Mary!" he said, putting his arm about her. 

"Yes, Quinny!" she answered so quietly that he could not hear her abovethe noise of the sea and the wind. 

He raised her lips to his and kissed her. 

"My dear!" he said again. 

4

There was news of Ninian for them when they reached the Manor. Mrs. Graham, with his letter in her hand, met them at the door. 

"He's coming home on leave, " she said. "He'll be here to-morrow night. Then he's going out!. . . "

She turned away quickly, after she had spoken, and they followed hersilently into the drawing-room. She stood for a while at the window, gazing down the avenue where the oaks and the chestnuts mingled theirbranches and made a covering for passers-by. 

"I'll just go upstairs, " Henry began, but before he could leave theroom, Mrs. Graham turned away from the window and went to him. 

"I've put you in your old room, Henry, " she said. "How are you! Youdon't look well!"

"I'm tired . . . But I shall be all right presently. I'll just go upstairsnow!. . . "

He left her hurriedly, for Mary was anxious to tell her mother of theirbetrothal, and he wished her to know as quickly as possible. He dalliedin his room so that she might have plenty of time in which to learnMary's news. He sat on the wide window-seat and let his mind roam overhis memories. It was in this room that he had first told himself that heloved Mary . . . It was at this very window he had stood while he resolvedthat he would marry Sheila Morgan, and again had considered what Ninianand Gilbert had said about men who marry out of their class. Almost heexpected to hear the door opening as Gilbert walked in, just as he haddone then. . . . 

"It's no good mooning like this, " he said to himself, and then he wentdownstairs again. 

Mary was sitting beside her mother, holding her hand, and as he enteredshe turned to look at him, and smiled so that he knew what he must do, and so, without hesitation, he crossed the room to Mrs. Graham andkissed her. 

"I'm very glad, Henry!" she said. "Sit down here!"

She moved so that he could sit beside her, and when he had settledhimself, she put her hand on his shoulder. "It's nice to have you backagain, " she said. 

They spent the time until dinner in desultory talk that sometimes lapsedinto lengthy silence. A high wind was blowing up from the sea, and whenthey had dined, they drew their chairs close to the fire, and satquietly in the warmth of it. They could hear the heavy rustle of theleaves as the trees swayed in the wind, and now and then raindrops felldown the chimney and sizzled in the hot coals. The lamps were leftunlit, and the firelight made long shadows round the room, flickeringover the old polished furniture and the silverware and the dimportraits of dead Grahams. . . . 

Mary moved from her chair and, placing a cushion on the floor betweenHenry and her mother, she sat down and leant her head against him. Hebent forward slightly, and placed his hand on her shoulder, and as hedid so, she put hers up and took hold of it and so they sat in exquisitepeace and quietness until the rising wind, gathering itself together ingreater strength, flung itself heavily on the house and shook itroughly. In the lull, they could hear the rain beating sharply on thewindows . . . And as they listened to the noise of the storm, their mindswandered away, and in their imagination they could see the soldiers inFrance, crouching in the dark trenches, while the wind and rain beatabout them without pity; and in the mind of each of them, probingpainfully, was this persistent thought: Here we are in this comfort . . . And there they are _in that_!

5

When Mary had gone to bed, Mrs. Graham began to talk of her to Henry. 

"I always knew that she and you would marry, Henry, " she said, "evenwhen you seemed to have forgotten about her. You . . . You were very fondof Lady Cecily Jayne, weren't you, Henry?" He nodded his head. He wantedto explain that that was over now, that it had been a passing thing thathad no durability, but he could not make the explanation, and so he didnot say anything. "I thought her a very beautiful woman, " Mrs. Grahamwent on. "If I'd been a boy I think I should have loved her, too. Boysare like that!"

She was so gentle and kind and understanding that he lost his shyness, and he confided in her as he would like to have confided in his motherif she had been alive. 

"Inside me, " he said, "I always loved Mary, even when I was obsessed by. . . By some one else. I can't tell you how happy I am, Mrs. Graham. Ifeel as if I'd got home after a long and bitter journey . . . And I don'twant to go away again ever. Just to look at Mary seems sufficient . . . Toknow that she's there . . . That I can put out my hand and touch her. . . . "

"Ninian will be glad, too, " she said, speaking quickly to cover up thedifficulty he had in finishing his speech. 

"We've been awfully good friends, we four, " he replied, "Ninian andRoger and Gilbert and I. I've always felt about them that we could go onwith our friendship just where we left off, even if we were separatedfrom each other for years. We're all proud of each other. I used tothink, when we first lived in that house in Bloomsbury, that we'd neverseparate . . . That we'd form a sort of brotherhood of work and friendship. . . Roger always preached about The Job Well Done . . . But, of coursethat was impossible. We were bound to diverge and separate . . . All sortsof things compel men to do that. Roger married, and now Gilbert andNinian are soldiers. . . . "

"I feel proud and afraid, " Mrs. Graham said. "I'm glad that Ninian hasjoined . . . I think I should hate it if he hadn't . . . And yet I wish toothat . . . That he weren't in it. I'm not much of a patriot, Henry. I lovemy son more than I love my country. I've never been able to understandthose women one reads about who offer their sons gladly. I don't offerNinian gladly. I offer him . . . That's all. I know that men have todefend their country, and I love England and I'm proud to be English . . . But when I've said all that, it's very little when I remember that Ilove Ninian. I suppose that that's a selfish thing to say . . . But Idon't care whether it is or not!. . . " She stopped for a moment or two, and then, with a change of voice, she said, "Do you think the war willlast long, Henry?"

"I don't know, " he replied. "Nobody seems able to form any estimate. When it began I thought it couldn't possibly last for longer than twomonths, but it looks like going on for a very long time yet. We moveforward and we move back . . . And more men are killed. That's the onlyresult of anything at present!"

"It's strange, " she murmured, "how indifferent one becomes to the deathlists. I thought my heart would break when I saw the first Devoncasualties, but now one simply doesn't feel anything . . . Just a vagueregret. Sometimes I think I'm growing callous. I can't feel anythingwhen I read that thousands of men have been killed and wounded. It'salmost as if I were saying to myself, 'Is that all? Weren't theremore?. . . ' I'm not the only one like that. People don't like to admit it, but I've heard people confessing . . . I confess myself . . . That I get a. . . Kind of shocked pleasure out of a big casualty list! . . . Oh, isn'tit disgusting, Henry? One gets more and more coarse every day, lesssensitive!. . . "

"Yes, " he said, nodding his head and staring into the fire which was nowburning down. 

And everywhere, it seemed to him, that coarsening process was going on, a persistent blunting of the feelings, an itching desire for more andgrimmer and bloodier details. One saw it operating in kindly women whovisited soldiers in hospital or took them for drives . . . Anuncontrollable wish to hear the ghastlier things, a greedy anxiety for"experiences. " . . . And the soldiers loathed these prying women in whomlust had taken a new turn: the love lust had turned to blood lust, andthose who had formerly itched for men (and even those who had not)itched now for horrors, more and more horrors. . . . "Tell me, now, " theywould say, "did you kill any Germans? I suppose you saw some awfulthings. . . . "

One saw this coarsening process operating on men with incredibleswiftness. Their tastes became edgeless . . . They entertained themselveswith big, splashy things, asking for noise and glare and an inchoatemassing of colour, and crowds and crowds of bare girls. There was ademand for Nakedness, not the nakedness of cleanly, natural things, butthe Nakedness that is partly covered, the Nakedness that hints atNakedness. . . . 

"That's inevitable, I suppose, " Henry thought to himself. 

The sloppier journalists made a cult of blasphemy and foul speech. Thedrill-sergeant was regarded as the most entertaining of humourists, anddecent men who had never done more than the normal and healthy amount ofswearing, began to believe that it was impossible to be manly unless onebloodied every time one spoke: and swearing, which is a good andwholesome and manly and picturesque thing, suddenly became like thegibbering of an idiot. . . . One was led to believe that the drill-sergeantspent his time in ordering men to "bloody well form bloody fours!" Itwas immaterial to the sloppier journalists that the drill-sergeant didnot do anything of the sort . . . And so the legend grew, of a great Armygoing into battle, not with the old English war-cries on their lips orwith new cries as noble, but with "Bloody!" for their watch-word, and"Who were you With Last Night!" for their war-song. . . . 

6

"I often wonder what things will be like when the war is over, " Mrs. Graham said. "Men can't live like that without some permanent effect. Their habits will be rougher, more elementary, I suppose, and they'llvalue life less highly. I don't see how they can help it. You can't seemen killed in that careless way . . . And feel any sanctity about life. Ithink life will be harsher for women after the war than it wasbefore. . . . "

She remembered that Ninian's father had always declared that theFranco-German War had brutalised Germany. 

"He'd lived in Germany for a long while, " she said, "and peopleadmitted that Germany had changed after the War . . . Grown coarser andleas kindly!. . . "

They talked on in this strain until the clock chimed twelve. The stormstill blew over the house, but the rain had ceased, and when they lookedout of the window, they could see a rift in the clouds, through whichthe moon tore her way. 

"Good-night, Henry, " she said, bending towards him, and he kissed hercheek and then opened the door for her. 

"Good-night!" he said. 

7

Ninian came home on the next day, and when they had told him the news ofHenry's engagement to Mary, he was full of cheers. "Good!" he said. "NowI shall be able to keep you in order, young fellow. I shall be aRelation!. . . "

"Oh, I've a note for you, " he exclaimed, as they drove home. "It's fromGilbert. I met him in town. He'll be on his way out before I get back. He'd like to have come down here, but he couldn't manage it. He sent hislove to you, Mary, and you, mother! He looks jolly fit . . . Never seenhim look fitter!"

He handed Gilbert's note to Henry who put it in his pocket. He wouldread it, he told himself, when he was alone. 

"We're hopping off to France next week, " Ninian said. "I suppose, " headded, turning again to Henry, "you saw that Jimphy Jayne was killed. Rough luck, wasn't it? I met a fellow who was in his regiment . . . Homeon sick-leave . . . And he says Jimphy fought like fifty. Gilbert saysCecily's bearing up wonderfully!"

"He's seen her then?" Henry asked. 

"Yes. She met him in the street . . . And as he says, she's bearing upwonderfully. He didn't say a great deal, but I imagine he didn't admirethe attitude much. Rum woman, Cecily!" He had grown together more sincehe had been to South America, and his figure, that was alwaysloose-looking and a little hulking, had been tightened up by histraining. 

"I don't like your moustache, Ninian, " his mother said, looking withdisfavour at the "tooth-brush" on his upper lip. 

"Nor do I, " he replied, "but you have to wear something on your face . . . They don't think you can fight if you don't . . . And this sort of thingis the least a chap can do for his king and country. When are you twogoing to get married?"

His conversation jumped about like a squib. 

"Oh, not yet, " Mrs. Graham hurriedly exclaimed. "There's plenty oftime. . . . "

"I should like to get married at once, " said Henry. 

"No, not yet, " Mrs. Graham insisted. "I won't be left alone yetawhile. . . . "

There was a learned discourse from Ninian on lengthy engagements whichfilled the time until the carriage drove up to Boveyhayne House, whereit was dropped as suddenly as it was begun. 

Indoors, Henry read Gilbert's letter. 

 * * * * *

"_My dear Quinny_, " he wrote, "_I'm writing this in Soho with a pen thatwas made in hell. _" Then there was a splutter of ink. "_There_, " theletter went on, "_that's the sort of thing it does. I believe this penwas brought to Soho by the first Frenchman to open a café here, and it'sbeen handed down from proprietor to proprietor ever since. Ninian and Ihave been dining together, and as he's going down to Boveyhayneto-morrow, I thought I might as well write to you because I shan't seeyou again for a while. I'm off to Gallipoli in a day or two. I dinedwith Roger and Rachel last night, and they told me that you lookedrather pipped before you went to Devonshire. I hope you'll soon be allright again. I wish we could have met, but it can't be helped. We mustjust meet when we can. It seems a very long while, doesn't it, since wewere at Tre'Arrdur together? It'll be jolly to be there again when thewar's over. You've no idea how interested I've become in this job, farmore interested than I ever imagined I should be. And I've changed verylargely in my attitude towards the War. I 'joined up' chiefly because Ifelt an uncontrollable love for England that made me want to do thingsthat were repugnant to me, and also because I thought that the Germanshad behaved very scurvily to the Belgians; but I don't feel thoseemotions now particularly. I do, of course, feel proud of England, andthe sight of a hedgerow makes me want to get up on my hindlegs andcheer, but I've got something else now that had never entered into mycalculations at all . . . And that is an extraordinary pride in myregiment and a strong desire to be worthy of it. I've just been readinga book about it, a history of the regiment, and it's left me with asense of inheritance . . . As I should feel if I were the heir of an oldestate. This thing has a history and a tradition which gives me afeeling of pride and, perhaps more than that, a sense of responsibility. . . . 'You mustn't let it down' I keep telling myself, and I feel aboutall the men who served in the regiment from the time it was formed, thatthey are my forefathers, so to speak. I feel their ghosts about me, notthe alarming sort of spook, but friendly, sympathetic ghosts, and Iimagine them saying to me, 'Sergeant Farlow, you've got to live up tous!' I've not told any one else about this, because I'm afraid of beingcalled a sloppy ass . . . And perhaps it is sloppy . . . But you'llunderstand what I feel, so I don't mind telling you. I shall write toyou as often as I can, and you must write to me and tell me what you'redoing. I wish we could have gone out together. Sometimes I get acreepy-crawly sort of feeling that nearly turns me inside out . . . Afeeling that this is good-bye for good, but I suppose most fellows getthat just before they go out. I began another play about a month ago, and I think it will be good, much better than anything else I've done. Iwish I had time to finish it before leaving home. This is rather a messof a letter, and I must chuck it now, for Ninian is getting tied up inan effort to cultivate a cordial understanding with the waiter, and Ishall have to rescue them both or there'll be a rupture between theAllies. Give my love to Mary and Mrs. Graham. I'd have gone toBoveyhayne to see them if I possibly could, tell them. So long, oldchap!_

 "_Yours Ever_, "_Gilbert Farlow_. "

 * * * * *

He showed the letter to Mary, and as he gave it to her, he felt a newpleasure in his love for her, the pleasure of sharing things, of havingconfidences together. 

"Gilbert's a dear, " she said, when she had finished reading the letter. "It would be awfully hard not to be fond of him!"

He took the letter and put it in his pocket, and then he put his arm inMary's and led her to the garden where the spring flowers were blowing. "I've had great luck, " he said. "I have Gilbert for my friend and I haveyou, Mary, to be my wife, and I don't know that I deserve either!"

"Silly Quinny!" she said affectionately. 

8

They spent the days of Ninian's leave in visiting all the familiarplaces about Boveyhayne. It seemed almost that Ninian could not seeenough of them. He would rise early, rousing them with insistent shouts, and urge them to make haste and prepare for a long walk; and all daythey tramped along the roads, up the combes and down the combes, overcommons, through woods, lingering in the lanes to pluck the wildflowersthat grew profusely in the hedgerows, or listening to the mating birdsthat flew continually about them. They walked along the Roman Road toLyme Regis in the east, and along the Roman Road again to Sidmouth inthe west, returning in the dark, tired and hungry; and sometimes theywent into the roadside public-houses because of the warm, comfortablesmell they had, and because they liked to listen to the slow, burringvoices of the labourers as they drank their beer and cider and talked ofthe day's doings. There was a corner of the Common, near the edge of thecliff, where they could lie when the sun was warm, and look out over theChannel to where the Brixham trawlers lay in a line along the horizon. Westwards, the red clay cliffs ran up and down in steeply undulatinglines as far as they could see, and near at hand, in a wide valleybeyond the gloomy combe that leads to Salcombe Regis, they could veryplainly see the front of Sidmouth. In the east, they could look up thewooded valley of the Axe, and, beyond the vari-coloured Haven Cliff, seethe Dorset Hills that huddled Charmouth and Bridport, and further out, like an island in mist, the high reach of Portland Bill. . . . 

In this corner of the Common, they spent the last day of Ninian's leave. Behind them was a great stretch of gorse in bloom, and brown bracken, mingled with new green fronds, from which larks sprang up, singing andsoaring. They had eaten sandwiches on the Common, and in the afternoon, had climbed down the steep side of the combe to a farm to tea, and, thenthey had climbed up the combe again, and had sat in their corner, watching the Boveyhayne trawlers blowing home; and as they sat there, they became very quiet. In this solitude and peace, the outrage of warseemed to have no meaning. . . . 

Ninian stirred slightly. He raised himself on his elbow and looked abouthim. . . . 

"Let's go home, " he said quickly, getting up as he spoke. He went to hismother and helped her to rise, and when she was standing up, he took herarm and drew it through his, and led her towards the village; and whenthey had gone up the grassy path through the bracken, and were well onthe way home, Mary and Henry followed after them. 

"Ninian feels things more than he admits, " Henry whispered to her. 

9

They made poor attempts at gaiety that night, and Ninian tried to makeoratory about Engineers. He divided his discourse into two parts: oneinsisting that the war would be won by engineering feats; the otherinsisting that it might be lost because of the contempt of most of themilitary men for Engineers, which, Ninian said, was another word forBrains. "They don't think we're gentlemen, " he said. "I met a 'dug-out'last week, and he was snorting about the Engineers . . . Hadn't a happorthof brains in his skull, the ass . . . And I asked him why it was that hethought so little of them. Do you know what he said? 'Oh, ' says he, 'they're always readin' books an' . . . An' inventin' things!' That's thekind of chap we've got to endure! Isn't he priceless? I very nearly toldhim he ought to be embalmed . . . Only I thought to myself he'd think thatwas the sort of remark an engineer would make. Plucky old devil, ofcourse, but nothing in his head. If you shook it, it wouldn't rattle!. . . He seemed to think he'd only got to say, 'Now, then, boys, give 'emhell!' and the Germans 'ud just melt away. As I said afterwards, it'sall very well, to say 'Give 'em hell, ' but you can't give it to 'em, ifyou don't know what it's like!. . . "

But the oratory failed, and the gaiety fizzled out, and after a whileMrs. Graham, finding the silence and her thoughts insupportable, leftthem and went to bed. 

"Come and say 'Good-night' to me, " she said to Ninian as she left theroom. 

"All right, mother!" he answered. 

He tried to take up the theme of engineering again. "It's no goodtrying to chivy Germans in the way you chivy foxes. You've got to think, and think hard. That's where we come in!. . . " But it was a poor effort, and he abandoned it quickly. 

"I think, " he said, "I'll go up and say 'Good-night' to mother. Youtwo'll see to things!. . . "

"Righto, Ninian, " Henry answered. 

Mary came and sat beside him when Ninian had gone. 

"I'm trying to feel proud, " she said, "but. . . . "

"Don't you feel proud?" he asked, fondling her. 

"No. I'm anxious. It would hurt mother terribly if anything were tohappen to Ninian, " she answered. 

"Nothing will happen to him. . . . "

One said that just because it was comforting. 

"Quinny, " she said, drawing herself up to him and leaning her elbows onhis knees, "do you love me really and truly?. . . "

He put his arms quickly about her, and drew her close to him, and kissedher passionately. 

"But you haven't loved only me, " she said, freeing herself. 

He did not answer. 

"I've never loved any one but you, " she went on. "I haven't been able tolove any one but you. I've tried to love some one else . . . Tried veryhard!"

"Who was it?" he asked. 

"No one you knew. It was after I'd seen you with Lady Cecily Jayne. Iwas jealous, Quinny!. . . "

"My dear, " he said, flattered by the oneness of her love for him. 

"But I couldn't. I just couldn't. I suppose I'm rather limited!" Shemade a wry smile as she spoke. "I felt stupid beside her. She talked soeasily, and I couldn't think of anything to say. You must have thought Iwas a fool, Quinny!"

"No, Mary!. . . "

"Oh, but I was. I got stupider and stupider, and the more I thought ofhow stupid I was, the stupider I got. I could have cried with vexation. Do you remember Gilbert's party . . . I mean when it was over and we weregoing home?"

"Yes. "

"I _prayed_ that you'd come with mother and me. I thought Ninian wouldgo with mother, and you'd go with me . . . But you didn't!"

"I remember, " he answered. "I wanted to go with you. . . . "

"Why didn't you?"

"Some one came up . . . I've forgotten . . . Something happened, and so Ididn't. I wanted to, Mary!"

"I thought then that you and I would never! . . . Why did you ask me tomarry you, Quinny?"

"Because I love you, Mary. . . . "

"But . . . Did you mean to marry me or did you just . . . Sort of . . . Notthinking, I mean!. . . Oh, it's awf'lly hard to say what's in my mind, butI want to know whether you love me really and truly, Quinny, or onlyjust asked me to marry you impulsively . . . When you weren't thinking?"

"I came here loving you, Mary. I didn't mean to tell you about it sosoon as I did . . . That was impulse . . . I couldn't help it . . . The momentI saw you as the train came into the station, I felt that I must ask youat once. It would have been rather awkward if you'd said, 'No. ' Isuppose I should have had to go straight back to London again!. . . But Icame here loving you. I've loved you all the time . . . Even when I wasn'tthinking of you, but of some one else. I've come back to you always inmy thoughts!. . . "

"Do you remember, " she said, "the first time you asked me to marry you, Quinny?"

"Yes. "

"I've meant it ever since then. You hurt me when you went to Ireland anddidn't answer my letter. . . . "

"I know!" he exclaimed. 

"How do you know?"

"I just know. And when I talked to you about it, that time in Bloomsburywhen you and Mrs. Graham and Rachel came to dine with us. . . . "

"I made fun of it, didn't I? But I had to, Quinny. You'd been unkind, and I had to make some sort of a show, hadn't I? I had to keep my prideif I couldn't keep anything else. "

"We've been stupid, both of us. "

"You have, " she retorted. 

"I have, " he said. "I've been frightfully stupid. That's what puzzlesme. I'm clear-sighted enough about the people I make up in my books. Thecritics insist on my understanding of human motives, and I know that Ihave that understanding. I can get right inside my characters, and Iknow them through and through . . . But I'm as stupid as a sheep aboutmyself and about you and . . . Living people. I suppose I exhaust all myunderstanding on my books!"

"Well, it doesn't matter, Quinny, dear, " she said. "I'll understand forthe two of us!. . . "

10

In the morning, Ninian went away. They drove to Whitcombe Station withhim and saw him off. They had been anxious about Mrs. Graham and dubiousof her endurance at the moment of parting . . . But she had insisted ongoing to the station, and so they had not persisted in theirpersuasions. And she had held herself proudly. 

"Good-bye, my dear, " she said, hugging Ninian tightly, and smiling athim. "You'll write to me . . . Often!"

"Every day, " he replied. "If I can!"

It had been difficult to fill in the few moments between their arrivalat the station and the departure of the train. They said little emptythings . . . Repeated them . . . And then were silent. . . . 

Then the train began to move, and Mrs. Graham, snatching quickly at him, had kissed him as he was carried off. They stood at the end of theplatform, watching the train driving quickly up the valley until itstopped at Coly. Then they heard the whistle of the engine, and saw thesmoke curling up, and again the train moved on, and then they could seeit no more. 

"We'll walk home, " Mary whispered to Henry. "She'd much better go backby herself!"

And so they left her, still smiling, though now and then, her handstrembled. 

THE EIGHTH CHAPTER

1

A month after Gilbert and Ninian had left England, Henry went to Londonfor a couple of days on business connected with his books. Mrs. Grahamhad asked him to return to Boveyhayne instead of going to Ireland, untilhe was fully well again, and he had gladly accepted her invitation. Hehad written a few pages of a new book that pleased him, and he wasanxious to complete the story before he entered the Army. Writing irkedhim, but he could not abstain from writing . . . Some demon drove him toit, forcing him to his desk when all his desire was to be out in thelanes with Mary or sailing about the bay with Tom Yeo and JimRattenbury. There were times when he loathed this labour of writingwhich came between him and the pleasure of living, so that he sometimessaw foxgloves and bluebells and primroses and violets and wilddaffodils, not as the careless beauty of a Devonshire lane, but aspicturesque material for a description in one of his chapters. And hisbeastly creatures would not lie still in his study until he returned toattend to them, but insisted on following him wherever he went, thrusting themselves upon his notice continually, whether the time wasopportune or not. He would walk with Mary, perhaps to Hangman's Stone, and suddenly he would hear her saying, "What are you thinking of, Quinny?" and he would come out of his silence with a start, and say, "Oh, my book, Mary!" and find that he had been walking by her side, unaware of her, unaware of anything but these abominable paper peoplewho deluged his mind with their being . . . And when they got toHangman's Stone, he thought always, "What a good title for a story!"

"But I can't leave it alone, " he would say to himself, and then he wouldcompare himself to a drunkard, eager to be quit of his drink, but unableto conquer his craving. And he had pride in it, too. That was whatdistinguished him from the drunkard and the drug-taker. They had nopride in their drunkenness or their drugged senses, but he had pride inhis books, and constantly in his mind was the desire that before hejoined the Army, he should leave another book behind him, that his lifeshould be expressed substantially in a number of novels, so that if heshould die in battle, he would have left something by which men mightremember him. 

He had talked to Mary about his position, but she had insisted that thiswas a decision he must make for himself. Her view, and the view of hermother, was that a woman ought not to take the responsibility of urginga man to endure the horror and danger of such a war as this. "Womencan't go into the trenches themselves, " Mrs. Graham said, "and they'veno right to ask any one else to go!" That was what his father had said. 

"But somebody must go, and there are people who have to be told aboutthings, " he objected. 

"I think, " Mrs. Graham answered, "I'd rather be killed than be defendedby a man who was white-feathered into doing it, and I know I shouldnever be happy again if I'd nagged at a man until he joined the Army, and he was killed. . . . I think that some women will have haunted mindsafter this War!"

"It's the Government's job to say who shall go and who shall stay, " Maryadded. "That's what they're there for, and it's mean of them to shuffleout of their responsibility and let a lot of flappers and old maids dotheir work for them!"

Then their talk had taken a new turn, and in the end it was settled thatMary and he were to be married when the new book was finished, and thenhe would join the Army. There had been a difficulty with Mrs. Graham, but Mary over-ruled her. 

"I won't let him go until he marries me, " she said, shutting her lipsfirmly and looking very resolutely at her mother. 

"Roger and I might go in together, " Henry suggested. "I had a letterfrom him saying he thought he would join soon. Rachel's going to live inthe country. . . . "

"She can come here if she likes, " Mrs. Graham interjected. "You'd bettertell her that when you go to town. She can stay with us until the war'sover. . . . "

"There's the baby, of course!" Henry reminded her. 

"I know, " she answered. "I'd like to hear a baby in this houseagain. . . . "

2

London was strangely sensitive, easily exalted, easily depressed, listening avidly to rumours, even when they were clearly absurd. It wasthe least English of the cities, far, far less English than the villagesand country towns. London's nerves were often jangled, but the nerves ofBoveyhayne were never jangled. London jumped up and down like aJack-in-the-box, but Boveyhayne moved steadily on. There were times whenLondon was so un-English as to believe that England might be beaten . . . But Boveyhayne never imagined that for a moment. Boveyhayne did notthink of the defeat of England, because it had never occurred toBoveyhayne that England could be beaten. Old Widger would sometimes say, "They Germans be cunning!" or "Us'll 'ave to 'it a bit 'arder avore usknocks 'un out!" but Old Widger never imagined for a moment that "'un, "as he always called the Kaiser, would not sooner or later get knockedout, and so he went on with his work, pausing now and then to say, "'Er's a reg'lar cunnin' old varmint, 'er be!" almost with as muchadmiration as if he were talking of a fox or an otter that had eludedthe hounds many times. But the cunningest fox falls to the hounds in theend of some chase, and Widger did not doubt that "Keyser" would fall, too. Boveyhayne, was very English in its reserves and its dignity. London might squeal for reprisals, but Boveyhayne never squealed. Whenthe Germans torpedoed a merchant ship, Old Widger said, "It hain't verymanly, be it, sir?" and that was all. Old Widger was not indifferent orwithout imagination . . . But he had self-respect, and he could not squeallike a frantic rabbit even when he was in pain. He could hit, and hecould hit hard, but he did not care to claw and scratch and bite!. . . 

Henry disliked London then, but he comforted himself with the thoughtthat it resembled all capital cities, that its population was not anative population, but one that shifted and changed and had notradition. Old Widger had lived in the same cottage all his life: hisfather had lived there too; and his family, for several generationsbefore his father, had lived and worked in Boveyhayne. They had habitsand customs so old that no one knew the meaning of them. When Widger'swife died, Widger and his family had gone to church on the Sunday afterher burial, as all the Boveyhayne bereaved do, and had sat through theservice, taking no part in it, neither kneeling to pray nor rising tosing nor responding to the invocations. But Old Widger did not know whyhe had behaved in that fashion, nor did any one in Boveyhayne. "Don'tseem no sense in it, " he said, but nevertheless he did it, and nothingon earth would have prevented him from doing it. It was the custom. . . . 

But there was no custom in London. There were no habits, no traditions, nothing to hold on to in times of crisis or distress. There was no onein London who had been born and had spent all his life in one house, ina house, too, in which his father had been born and had lived and haddied. People took a house for three years . . . And then moved to anotherone. Locality had no meaning for them . . . They hardly knew the names oftheir neighbours . . . They were not surrounded by cousins . . . The roadsand streets had no meaning or memories for them . . . They were justthoroughfares, passages along which one walked or drove to a railwaystation or a shopping centre. . . . 

And while Old Widger, if the thought had been put into his mind, wouldstoutly have answered, "Us ain't never been beat!" a Londoner would haveanswered, "My God, supposing we are beaten?. . . " Victory might be long inbeing won. Widger would admit that. But "us ain't never been beat" hewould maintain. The Londoner would admit that victory might never be won. . . And in making the admission, de-nationalised himself. Widger, obstinate, immovable, imperturbable, kindly, unvengeful and resolute, was English to the marrow . . . And when Henry thought of England as aconquering country, he thought of it as a nation of Widgers, not as anation of Cockneys. 

"And it _is_ a nation of Widgers, " he said to himself. "The Cockneysshout more, print more, and they squeal a lot, but the Widgers are inthe majority!"

It was not until night fell that Henry's love of London was restored. When the sky-signs were put out, and the shop-lights were diminished, and the running flames announcing the merits of this one's whisky andthat one's tea were quenched, London became again an ancient city that aman could love. . . . 

"It's worth fighting for?" Henry murmured to himself as he stood on theterrace of Trafalgar Square, before the National Gallery, and lookedabout him at the dusk-softened outlines and the rich highways ofshadows. One would not fight for the England that squealed through theha'penny papers . . . One would gladly throttle that England . . . One wouldnot fight for the England of the Stock Broker and the Mill Owner . . . Butone would fight hard, fight until death, for the England of Old Widgerand the England of this darkened, dignified and beautiful London. 

3

He had attended to his business with his publishers, and was walkingalong the Strand towards Charing Cross, when he became aware of a thrillof emotion running through the crowd that stood on either side of theroad. 

"What is it?" he said to a bystander. 

"The wounded!" was the answer. 

He pressed forward, and stood on the edge of the pavement, and as he didso, the ambulances came put of the station. There was a moment of deep, hurting silence, and then came cheers and waving handkerchiefs and sobs. . . . There was a parson standing at Henry's elbow, and he cheered as ifhe were intoning . . . Little sterilised hurrahs . . . And there was a womanwho murmured continually, "Oh, God bless them! God bless them all!"while she cried openly, unrestrainedly. Unceasingly, the ambulancesseemed to pass on to the hospitals, and the soldiers, pale from theirwounds and tired after their journey by sea and train, lay back in queerdisregard of the crowd that cheered them. Now and then, one moved hishand in greeting or smiled . . . But most of them were irresponsive, dazed, perhaps hearing still the sound of the smashing artillery and thecries of the maimed and dying, unable to believe that they were backagain in a place where there was no fighting, where men and women walkedand talked and did their work and took their pleasure in disregard ofdeath and a bloody and abrupt end. . . . There was a private motor-car inthe middle of the procession of ambulances, and inside it was a woundedofficer with his wife . . . And she did not care who looked on nor whatwas said, she held him in her arms and kissed him and would not let himgo. . . . 

"Oh, my God, " Henry murmured to himself, as the cars went by, "I can'tbear this!. . . "

He wanted to kill Germans . . . It seemed to him then that nothing elsemattered but to kill Germans . . . That one must put aside the generousbeliefs, the kindly intentions, one's work, one's faith, everything . . . And kill Germans; unceasingly, without relenting . . . Kill Germans; thatfor every wound these men bore, for every drop of blood they had lost, for every pang they had endured, for every tear that their women hadshed . . . One must kill Germans. 

He withdrew from the crowd. Somewhere near at hand, there was arecruiting office. He remembered to have seen a large guiding signoutside St. Martin's Church. He would go there!. . . 

He had to wait until the procession of motor-ambulances had passed by, and then he crossed the street and went to find the recruiting office. "I'm excited, " he said to himself. "I'm full of emotion. That's what Iam. I'm over-wrought. Those soldiers!. . . "

In his mind, he could see the woman in the motor-car, hugging herwounded husband . . . And a soldier, lying on a stretcher in an ambulance, with his head swathed in bandages, near a little window . . . Feeblytrying to wave his hand to the crowd. . . . 

"It's no good being sloppy, " he told himself. "One can't win a war by. . . Spilling over. One's got to keep one's head!"

He turned the corner of the Church and saw the recruiting office, covered with posters, in a narrow lane. He walked towards it, slackeninghis pace as he did so . . . And then he walked past it. 

"I can't go in now, " he thought. "I must see Roger first . . . And there'sthe book to finish . . . And Mary!. . . "

4

He had seen Roger and Rachel, and was now on his way back toBoveyhayne. . . . Roger had agreed that he would not join without Henry. "Ican't go yet, " he had said. "When I've saved a little more, I'll go in. I want to leave Rachel and Eleanor as secure as I can!"

There was another boom in recruiting just then, following on anotherGerman outrage. 

"It'll take them some time to shape the crowd they're getting now, "Roger had said, "so that we won't be hindering them if we hang back fora while. I should have thought you'd want to go into an Irish regiment, Quinny!"

"It doesn't very much matter, does it, what the regiment is?" Henry hadanswered. "The labels are more or less meaningless now. And I'd like tobe with some one I know!"

He had given Mrs. Graham's invitation to Rachel, and Rachel had sent herthanks to Mrs. Graham. She would be glad to go to Boveyhayne wheneverything was settled. 

Things were clearer now. In a little while, Mary and he would bemarried. Then he could go with Roger. He would have to see his lawyersin Dublin . . . There would be a marriage settlement to make and businessconnected with the estate to settle . . . And that done, and his bookready for the printers, he would be free. 

"I wish the next two months were over, " he said to himself. 

He had to change at Salisbury, and while he was waiting for the slowtrain to Exeter, he met Mullally. He had looked at him, vaguelywondering who he was and why his face should seem familiar, untilrecollection had come to him, and then, with a return of the oldaversion, he had turned away, hoping that Mullally had not seen orrecognised him. But Mullally had recognised him, and, unable as ever tounderstand that his acquaintance was not wanted, he came to Henry andheld out his hand. 

"I thought it was you, " he said. "I wasn't sure at first, but when youturned away . . . There was something about your back that was familiar. . . I knew it was you. _How_ are you? I haven't seen you since you leftRumpell's, though I've heard of you, of course, and read of you, too!You've become quite well-known, haven't you?"

Henry smiled feebly, an unfriendly, unresponsive, mirthless smile, aswas his wont when he was in the presence of people whom he disliked. 

"I've often wondered about you, " Mullally went on, unembarrassed byHenry's obvious wish to get away from him. 

"Oh, yes, " Henry replied, saying to himself, "I wish to God my trainwould come in!"

"Yes, I've often wondered about you, " Mullally went on. "And aboutFarlow and Graham and Carey. You were great friends, you four, weren'tyou? I'd have called you 'The Heavenly Twins' only there were four ofyou, and 'quadruplets' is a difficult word for a nickname, don't youthink? I mean to say 'The Heavenly Quadruplets' doesn't sound nearly soneat as 'The Heavenly Twins. ' It's funnier, of course! What's become ofthem all? I saw somewhere that Farlow'd written a play, but I didn't seeit. I've read one or two of your books, by the way. Quite good, Ithought! What did you say'd become of them?"

"Carey's in London . . . At the Bar, " Henry answered. "I've just beenstaying with him. He's married!. . . "

"Dear me! And has he any . . . Little ones?"

Oh, that was like Mullally! He would be sure to say "little ones" whenhe meant "children. "

"He has a daughter!"

"Oh, indeed! He must be very gratified. And Farlow and Graham, how arethey, and what are they doing?"

"Farlow's in Gallipoli and Graham's in France!. . . "

"Oh, this dreadful war, " Mullally exclaimed, wrinkling his features. "I'm greatly opposed to it. I've been addressing meetings on thesubject!"

"Have you?" Henry asked with more interest than he had previously shown. 

"Yes, I'm totally opposed to it. All this secret diplomacy and race forarmaments . . . That's at the bottom of it all. My dear Quinn, somemembers of the Cabinet have shares in armament works. It's easy enoughto see why we're at war!. . . "

Henry could not prevent himself from laughing. 

"Do you mean to say you think they got up the war on purpose so's to getbigger dividends on their armament shares?"

Mullally shrugged his shoulders. "I don't wish to impute motives, " hesaid. "No, I should not care to do that. I believe in the goodintentions of my fellow man, but all the same, it's very peculiar. Itlooks bad!. . . "

"You always were a bloody fool, Mullally, and you're a bloodier one now. Good afternoon!" said Henry, turning to look at the train which was nowentering the station. 

He hurried to secure a carriage, and while he was settling his bag onthe rack, he heard the voice of Mullally bleating in his ear. 

"I'm going to Exeter, too, " he said. "I'll just get in with you. I havea third class ticket, but if they ask for the excess, I can pay it!"

"Oh, damn!" said Henry to himself. 

5

"I can understand the difficulty you have in believing that people couldbehave so . . . So basely, " Mullally said, as the train carried them outof Salisbury. 

"I don't believe it at all, " Henry answered, "and I think that any onewho does believe it is a malicious-minded ass!"

"But they hold the shares . . . You can see the list of shareholders atSomerset House for yourself . . . And they'll take the profits. I'm quitewilling to believe in the goodness of the average man . . . In fact, I'vedenounced the doctrine of Original Sin very forcibly before now . . . ButI must say that there's something very suspicious about this business. Very suspicious. And you know some of the soldiers are reallyrather!. . . "

"Rather what?" said Henry. 

"Well, I don't like saying anything about anybody, but some of them arenot all that they should be. They should set an example, and they don't. I've heard some very startling things about the behaviour of thesoldiers. Very startling things. I don't want to say anything that maysound unpleasant, but I suggest that you should read the Report of theRegistrar-General when it comes out. It will cause some consternation, Ican promise you. Young women, Quinn, simply can't be kept away from thesoldiers, and I've been told . . . Well!. . . "

Again he shrugged his shoulders, and turned his palms upwards and raisedhis eyebrows. A Member of Parliament had written to the _Morning Post_about it . . . A Conservative member of Parliament, not a Liberal or aSocialist, mark you, but a Conservative. . . . 

"Two thousand cases expected in one town, " Mullally whispered. "Knows itfor a fact. Seen the girls!. . . "

Mullally proposed a calculation. They were to work out the number ofunmarried girls who would shortly become mothers, using the ConservativeM. P. 's letter as a basis of calculation. 

"Thousands and thousands, " he prophesied. "Hundreds of thousands. _All_illegitimate. I believe, of course, that we make too much fuss about themarriage laws, Quinn, but still . . . There are limits, don't you think? Imean, we must make changes slowly, not in this . . . This drastic fashion. But what are you to expect? When the very Cabinet Ministers are provedto have shares in munition works, is it any wonder that the commonsoldier runs riot?. . . "

"I get out at the next station, " said Henry. 

"Do you?" said Mullally. "But I thought you didn't change until you gotto Whitcombe Junction?"

"I don't" said Henry, "but I get out at the next station!"

"I see, " said Mullally. 

"About time, " Henry thought. 

6

After dinner, he asked Mary to walk to the village with him. 

"Isn't it late?" Mrs. Graham objected. 

"Oh, no, " he answered. "It's a beautiful moonlight night, and I feel Iwant to stretch my legs. I've been cooped up in the train best part ofthe day. Come along, Mary!"

"I'll just get my coat, " she said. 

When they were ready, he put his arm in hers, and they walked down thelong lane, past the copse and through the pine trees, to the village. 

"It's very quiet to-night, " Mary said. 

"Extraordinarily still, " he answered. 

There was no one in the village street and there were no lights shiningfrom any of the windows, except from the bedroom of a cottage near thesea. 

"They've all gone to bed very early, haven't they?" he said, glancingabout the deserted street. 

"But it isn't early, Quinny, " she replied. "It's quite late. It must benearly ten o'clock. We had dinner much later to-night because your trainwas so long in getting in!"

"Well, they're missing a gorgeous night, all of them, " he exclaimed, holding her tightly. 

They walked to the fisherman's shelter and stood against the iron railon top of the low cliff. The moon had made a broad path of golden lightacross the bay, from the shingle to the pinnacle on the nearer of thetwo headlands, and they could see the golden water flowing through thehole in the cliff. 

"I'd love to bathe now, " Mary said. "I'd love to swim all along thatsplash of moonlight to the caves and back again. . . . "

A belated sea-gull cried wearily overhead and then flew off to its nestin the cliffs. 

"The water's awfully black looking outside the moonlight, " Henryexclaimed. 

"Ummm!" she answered. 

They shivered a little in the cold air, and instinctively they drewcloser to each other. Beneath them, lying high on the shingle, were thetrawlers, lying ready for the morning when the fishermen would push themdown into the sea. 

"Tom Yeo and Jim Rattenbury are going to have a motor put into theirtrawler, " Mary said. "It'll make a lot of difference to them. They'll beable to go out even when there isn't any wind. "

Henry did not answer. He had a strange sense of fear that wasinexplicable to him. He seemed to be outside himself, outside his ownfear, looking on at it and wondering what had caused it. He felt as ifsomething were pulling at him, trying to force him to look round . . . Andhe was afraid to look round. . . . He shuddered violently. 

"Are you cold, Quinny?" Mary said anxiously, turning to him. 

"Yes, " he answered quickly, wishing to account for his sudden shiveringin a way that would not alarm her. "We'd better go back!. . . "

What was the matter? Why was he so suddenly afraid and so strangelyafraid? If it had been dark, very dark, and he had been alone . . . But itwas bright moonlight . . . So bright that one could almost see to read . . . And Mary was with him . . . And yet he was afraid to look round at theWhite Cliff. Something inside him, apart from him, seemed to feel thatif he looked up the long steep path over the White Cliff . . . _he wouldsee something_. 

"Come on, Mary!" he said, turning to go, and turning in such a way thathe could not see the Cliff. 

They walked rapidly up the street. . . . "That'll warm me, " he explainedto Mary . . . And as he walked, he was afraid to look back. 

"What the devil's the matter with me?" he kept saying to himself untilthey reached the end of the lane leading to the Manor. 

"You're walking too quickly, Quinny!" Mary said, holding back. 

"I'm sorry, dear, " he exclaimed, slackening his pace reluctantly. 

He had never had this sensation before . . . As if a fear had been stuckon to him, a fear that was not part of his nature, a thing outside himtrying to get inside him. . . . He forgot that Mary had complained of therapidity with which he was walking, and he set off again. The pine treeshad a black, ominous look, and the sound of the wind blowing throughtheir needles was like continuous moaning. 

"Are you trying to win a race, Quinny?" Mary said. 

He laughed nervously. "No. I'm . . . I'm sorry!. . . "

As they passed the copse, he shut his eyes, and so he stumbled over therough ground and almost fell. 

"What is it, Quinny?" Mary demanded, catching hold of him. 

"It's nothing, " he said. "I'm tired, that's all. . . . "

7

He shut the door behind him quickly, and fastened the bolts. Mary hadgone into the drawing-room, and when he had secured the door, hefollowed her. 

"Mother's gone to bed, " she said, and then, going to him and putting herhands on his shoulder, she added, "What is it, Quinny? Something's upsetyou. I know it has!"

He looked at her for a few moments without speaking. 

"Tell me, please!" she insisted. 

He put his arm about her and led her to the armchair by the fire, andwhen she was seated, he sat down on the floor beside her. 

"I didn't want to tell you until we got home, " he said. "I didn't wantto frighten you. . . . "

"What was it? Was there anything there?. . . "

"I don't know what it was, Mary, but I suddenly felt frightened . . . Aqueer kind of fright. I was afraid to look round for fear I should seesomething . . . I don't know what . . . On the cliff. I felt that somethingwanted me to look round, and I wouldn't. I didn't dare to look round. All the way up the street, I felt that something wanted me to lookround. . . . I'm not afraid now!"

"How queer, " she said in a low voice. 

"I've never felt anything like it before . . . Half afraid and half notafraid!. . . "

He began to talk about Mullally. "He's a toad, that fellow, " he said, "an . . . An enlarged toad!"

"I'm going to bed, " she interrupted. "Good-night, Quinny!"

She bent her face to his. 

"Good-night, my dear!" he said, kissing her fondly. 

8

Three days later, when he had almost forgotten his fright on the cliffs, he went down to the village to get the morning papers. 

"What's the news, " he said to one of the villagers whom he met on theway. 

"'Bout the same, sir. Don't seem to be much 'appenin' at present, " theman replied. 

He went on to the news agency and got the papers, and then, hastilyglancing at the headlines for the more obvious news, he tucked thepapers under his arm and went slowly back to the Manor by another roadthan the one by which he had come into the village. There was a fieldwith a hollow where one could lie in shelter and see the whole of thebay and the eastern cliffs in one direction, and the Axe Valley inanother, and here he sat for a while, smoking and reading and now andthen trying to follow the tortuous windings of the Axe as it came downthe marsh to the sea. 

"If Ninian were here, " he said to himself, "he'd start making plans tostraighten it out!. . . "

He glanced through the war bulletins, with their terrible iteration oftrenches taken and trenches lost. People read the war news carelesslynow, almost wearily, so accustomed had they become to the daily reportof positions evacuated and positions retrieved, forgetting almost thatat the taking or the losing of a trench, men lost their lives. 

"There isn't much in the paper this morning, " he said, and then heturned to a page of lesser news, and almost as he did so, his eye caughtsight of Gilbert's name. His grip on the paper was so tight that he toreit. He stared at the paragraph with startling eyes, reading andre-reading it, as if he were unable to comprehend the meaning of thething he read. . . . Then, as understanding came to him, he gaped aboutwith vacant eyes. 

"Oh, my God!" he cried, "Gilbert's been killed!"

9

He got up, half choking, and scrambled out of the field. A labourergreeted him, but he made no answer. He ran up the road, and as he ran, he cried to himself, "Gilbert's dead . . . It isn't true . . . It isn'ttrue!. . . "

He thrust open the gate and ran swiftly up to the door. 

"Mary!" he shouted. "Mary! Mary!!. . . "

She came running to him, followed by her mother. 

"What is it?" she cried, and her heart was full of fear. 

Mrs. Graham clutched at him. "It isn't . . . It isn't. . . . "

He sank down into a chair and buried his head in his hands. "Gilbert'sdead, " he said. "He's been killed!. . . "

Mary knelt beside him, and drew his head on to her shoulder. She did notspeak. There was nothing that could be said. She knew that Gilbert andHenry had cared for each other as men seldom care . . . And no one, noteven she, could bring comfort to the one who was left. So she just heldhim. . . . 

10

Mrs. Graham had left them alone. Her fear had been for Ninian, and whenshe heard Gilbert's name, her relief was such that she had hurried fromthe room lest Henry, stricken by the death of his friend, should see herface. 

"I know now, " he said when he was calmer, "what it was on the WhiteCliff. He wanted to tell me, Mary. He wanted to tell me . . . And Iwouldn't look round. Oh, my God, I wouldn't look round!"

THE NINTH CHAPTER

1

It was unbelievable that Gilbert was dead. In his mind, Henry could seehim, careless, extravagant, always good-tempered and sometimes strangelywise and understanding . . . And he could not believe that he would neversee him again, that all that youth and generosity and promise should beturned so untimely to corruption. Gilbert's friends would not even knowwhere his grave was . . . They would not have the poor consolation offinding a place that was his, marked out from all the other places. . . . He had been seen, running forward . . . And then he was seen no more. . . . 

"Perhaps, " Henry said to comfort himself, "he's been taken prisoner. Weshall hear later on that he's been taken prisoner!. . . "

He snatched at any hope. Men had been posted among the dead . . . Andthen, after a time of mourning, had come the news that they still lived. Perhaps Gilbert was lying somewhere . . . Wounded . . . And after a while, news of him would come. Other men might die, but it was incredible thatGilbert should be killed. . . . 

He became obsessed with the belief that Gilbert still lived. He wentabout expecting to see him suddenly turning a corner and shouting, "Hilloa, Quinny!" At any moment, a door might open, and Gilbert wouldwalk in and say, "Well, coves!" There was a printed copy of "The MagicCasement" in the house, and Henry would pick it up, and turn over thepages. . . . "But he can't be dead, " he would say to himself, as hefingered the book. "It's absurd!. . . " Even when hope died, there cametimes when the belief in Gilbert's survival thrust itself into hismind. When the _Lusitania_ was torpedoed, he said to himself, "Why, wesaw her just after the war began, Gilbert and I, and we cheered!. . . "

The brutality of the war smote him hard. In less than a year from theday when they had stood on the rocks at Tre'Arrdur Bay, lustily cheeringas the great Atlantic liner sailed up the sea to the Mersey, Gilbert wasdead and the proud ship was a wreck, sneakily destroyed. . . . 

Gilbert had left the beginning of a play behind him. He had regrettedthat he could not finish it before going out to the peninsula . . . Hadbelieved that in it he would create something finer and deeper than hehad yet done . . . And now it would never reach completion. The mind thatimagined it was no more than the rubbish of the fields when the harvestis gathered. . . . 

His own work became tasteless to him. He turned with disrelish from hismanuscript. "What's the good of it, " he said to himself, whenever helooked at it. He tried to put himself into communication with Gilbert'sspirit, remembering that night below the White Cliff, when, he nowbelieved, Gilbert had tried to tell him of his death. A month before, hewould have ridiculed any one who suggested to him that he should attemptto speak to the dead. "Spookery!" he would have said. But now, in hiseagerness to atone, as he said, for his failure to respond when Gilberthad tried to speak to him, he put faith in things that, before, wouldhave seemed contemptible to him. But with all his will to believe, hecould not call Gilbert to him. There was a blankness, a condemningsilence. . . . 

"I failed my friend, " he groaned to himself once, "When he felt for memost, I . . . I failed him!"

2

He had gone up to the Common with Mary, and had lain there, talking ofGilbert . . . Of what Gilbert had been doing this time a year ago . . . Ofsomething that Gilbert had said once . . . Of an escapade at Rumpell's . . . And then Mary and he had gone home across the fields. As they walked upthe lane to the house, they saw a telegraph messenger ahead of them. They quickened their pace. There was an anxious, strained look on Mary'sface, and as the messenger, hearing them behind him, turned and stopped, she made a clutching movement with her hands. "Oh, Quinny!" she said, turning to him with frightened eyes. The boy waited until Henry went upto him, regarding them both with curiosity. 

"Is it for us?" Henry asked, knowing that it was, and the boy nodded hishead. "I'll take it, " he went on. "It'll save you the trouble of goingup to the house!"

"Thank you, sir!" the messenger said, and then he handed the telegram toHenry. "Is there any answer, sir?" he asked. 

"I don't know, " Henry replied. "We'll . . . We'll bring it down to thepost-office, if there is!"

He knew that there would not be any answer. . . . 

The boy went off, looking back at them now and then, over his shoulder. 

"Shall I open it, Mary!" Henry said. 

"Do you think?. . . " She did not complete her sentence for she was afraidto utter the thought that was in her mind. 

"If it should be bad news, " Henry said, "we'd . . . We'd better prepareher for it!"

They stood there, holding the telegram still unopened, as if they couldnot make a decision. . . . 

"Open it, Quinny!" Mary said at last, and he opened the buff envelopeand took out the form. 

_The Secretary for War regretted!. . . _

He looked up from the telegram, and saw that Mary was standing in astrained attitude, waiting for him to speak. 

"Is it . . . Is it _that_?" she said, almost in a whisper. 

He bowed his head. "Yes, " he said. 

She did not speak. She stood quite still, looking at him as if she weretrying to find something, but did not know where to look for it. Hemoved nearer to her, and took hold of her hand and drew her close tohim, and she lay quietly in his arms. . . . There was a bird singing veryclearly over their heads, and suddenly, while they stood there, silentlyconsoling each other, two wood pigeons flew out of the highest tree, making a great beating of wings as they flew off across the fields. There was a robin in the hedge, turning its head this way and that, andregarding them with curiosity. . . . 

She stirred, and then withdrew herself from his arms. 

"We must go home, " she said, "and tell mother!"

3

Mrs. Graham was in the garden, and she came to the gate as she saw themapproaching, waving her hand and smiling at them. 

"Will you tell her, Quinny, " Mary said, and she slackened her paceslightly and dropped behind him. 

He turned to look for her. "Come with me, " he said. "I can't tell her. . . Alone!"

There was a chilly fear over both of them. They felt that this blowwould strike her down, that she would not survive it. Ninian was thebeginning and the end of her life. If Ninian were gone, everything wasgone. This house, the farm, the fields were without purpose if Ninianwere not there to own them. . . . They went slowly forward, and as theyapproached they saw her smile vanish, and a puzzled look come in itsplace. She had waved her hand and smiled at them, but they had not wavedback to her, they had not answered her smile . . . And then she saw thetelegram in Henry's hand. She made a quick movement, opening the gateand coming rapidly to them. 

"What is it?" she said, hoarsely. 

He could not think of anything to say. . . . 

"It's from the War Office, mother, " Mary said. 

He stood ready to put his arms about her and support her. . . . 

"Give it to me, " she said, holding out her hand for the telegram, and hepassed it to her. 

They stood silently before her while she read it. Then Mary went closeto her. "Mother!. . . " she said. 

Mrs. Graham did not make any answer to Mary. She still held the telegramin her hands, and gazed at it, reading it over and over. . . . 

"Mother, dear!" Mary reached up, and put her arms about her mother'sneck. 

"Yes, Mary, " she answered very calmly. 

But Mary could not say any more. She buried her head on her mother'sshoulder, and the tears that she had been holding back, would not beheld back any longer, and sobs burst from her that seemed as if theywould choke her. 

"My dear, " said Mrs. Graham, raising Mary's face to hers, "we must . . . We must be brave!"

She turned to Henry. "Take her in, " she said, "and . . . And comfort her!"

He went to them, and put his arm about Mary, and led her to the house. "Won't you come in, too?" he said, turning to Mrs. Graham. 

"No, Henry, " she answered. "Not yet. I want to be out here. I . . . I wantto be alone!"

She moved away, going slowly down the avenue of trees until she reachedthe orchard, and then she went into it, and was hidden by the appletrees. . . . 

He led Mary into the house. "We can't do anything, Mary, " he said. "We're . . . We're all caught in this thing . . . And we can't doanything. . . . "

She went to her room, and when he had seen the door close behind her, heturned to go back to the drawing-room. He would have to write to Roger. "First it was Gilbert . . . Then it was Ninian . . . Presently, it willbe!. . . "

He shuddered, and tried to shut the thought out of his mind. 

There was a servant in the hall. "Tell the others, " he said in a cold, toneless voice, "that Mr. Ninian . . . Has been killed in France!"

"Oh, sir!. . . " the girl cried, clasping her hands together. 

He did not wait to hear, and she hurried down the passage to thekitchens. 

"Two of us gone now, " he said to himself. 

He searched for writing materials, wandering round and round the roomuntil he forgot what it was he wanted. "I'm looking for something, " hesaid aloud, "I'm looking for something, but I don't know what it is!. . . "

Then he remembered. 

"I mustn't let myself go, " he said to himself. "I must keep a hold ofmyself. I've got to look after them . . . They'll want some one to . . . Tolean on!"

He began the letter to Roger. "_Dear Roger_, " he wrote, and then hedropped his pen. He sat with his elbows resting on the table, staring infront of him, but seeing nothing. "First there was Gilbert, " he wassaying to himself, "then there was Ninian . . . And presently there willbe . . . _me_!"

One could not believe it. One could not believe it. Why it was only alittle while ago that Ninian was here, in this very room, telling themhow clever the Engineers were. They were to win the war, theseEngineers, unless stupid people, like the "dug-out, " prevented them fromdoing so. There, in that corner there, over by the fire, that was wherehe had sat, and told them of the Engineers. He had lain back in hischair, carelessly throwing his leg over the arm of it. . . . And when Mrs. Graham had risen and left the room, unable to stay any longer, and hadcalled to him to come to her room and say "Good-night!" he had lookedanxiously after her, and then, after a little while of fidgetting andpoor effort to talk lightly, had gone to her. . . . 

How could one believe it! How could any one believe that this hideousnightmare was true!. . . That this horrible thing which devoured young menwas not a creature of a fevered mind. . . . Presently the blood would cooland the eyes would see clearly . . . And Ninian's great shouting voicewould roar through the house, and Gilbert would stroll in, and say"Hilloa, coves!. . . "

There was a sound of steps in the passage, and he sat up and listened. Then the door opened and Mrs. Graham came in. There was a bright look inher tearless eyes. Her lips were firmly closed, and he saw that herhands were clenched. He stood up as she entered, and looked at her asshe came towards him. She came close to him and laid her hand on his. 

"Poor Mary, " she said, softly, "we . . . We must comfort poor Mary!"

She looked about the room. "Where is she?" she asked, turning to himagain. 

"Upstairs, " he answered. 

She went towards the door. "I must go and comfort her, " she said. "Shewas . . . Very fond of . . . Of Ninian!"

He followed her to the door, afraid that she might break down, but shedid not break down. She gathered her skirts about her, and went up thestairs to Mary's room, and her steps were firm and proud. He could hearthe rustle of her skirt on the landing as she passed along it out of hissight, and then he heard her knocking on Mary's door. 

"Can I come in, Mary?" she asked in a clear voice. 

He could hear the door opening . . . And then he heard it being closedagain. 

He stood at the foot of the stairs, listening, but there was no need ofhim. He turned away, and as he did so, Widger came into the hall. Theold man stood for a moment or two without speaking. Then he made asuppliant movement with his trembling hands. 

"It b'ain't true!. . . " he mumbled thickly. 

"Yes, Widger, " Henry answered, "it is. "

The old man turned away. "I knowed 'un ever since 'e were a baby, " hesaid, and his lips were quivering. "Praper li'l chap 'e were, too!

"It b'ain't right, " he went on, looking helplessly about him. Then hisvoice took a firmer, more definite note, "Where's missus to?" he asked. 

"She's upstairs, Widger, " Henry answered. "I don't think I'd sayanything to her at present, if I were you!"

"Very well, sir!"

He moved away. The vitality seemed to have gone out of him, and suddenlyhe had become old . . . Senile . . . Shuffling. 

"They'm wisht times, sir!" he said, as he left the hall. 

4

Henry wrote to Roger, telling him of Ninian's death, and when he hadfinished the letter, he went out to post it. He could not sit still inthe house . . . He felt that he must move about until he was worn andexhausted. Mrs. Graham was still with Mary, but perhaps by the time hereturned, they would be able to come downstairs again. The pride withwhich Mrs. Graham had supported herself in her grief seemed to himalmost god-like. Once, in the South of Ireland, he had seen a peasantwoman bidding good-bye to her husband. As the train steamed out of thestation, she howled like a wounded animal, spinning round like ateetotum, and waving her hands and arms wildly. Her hair had tumbleddown her back, and her eyes seemed to be melting, so freely did she weep. . . And then when the train had disappeared round a bend of the track, she dried her eyes and went home. Her grief, that had seemed utterlyinconsolable, had been no more than a summer shower. . . . He had haddifficulty in preventing himself from laughing, and he could notrestrain a feeling of contempt for her. "They write plays about thatkind of silly howling at the Abbey Theatre, and call it 'the Celtictwilight. ' No dignity, no decency!. . . "

He had heard sentimental Englishmen prating about "the tragic soul" ofIreland because they had listened to hired women _keening_ over thedead. "But that isn't grief, " he had said to them. "They're paid to dothat!" The Irish liked to splash about in their emotions . . . Theywallowed in them. . . . 

But Mrs. Graham's grief was more than a summer shower. Henry knewinstinctively that Ninian's death had killed her. She might live formany years, but she would be a dead woman. She would show very little, nothing, to those who looked to see the signs of woe, but in her heartshe would hoard her desolation, keeping it to herself, obtruding hersorrow on no one . . . Waiting patiently and silently for her day ofrelease, when, as her faith told her, she and her son would cometogether again. . . . 

"It's unfair, " he told himself, "to compare the grief of an illiterateIrishwoman with the grief of an English lady!"

But then he had seen the grief of poor Englishwomen. Four of theBoveyhayne men had been drowned in a naval battle. He had gone to thememorial service in Boveyhayne Church, and had seen the friends of thosemen mingling their tears . . . But there had been none of this emotionalsavagery, this howling like women in kraals, this medicine-man grief. . . . 

5

They were both in the drawing-room when he returned. 

"I've written to Roger, " he said, to explain his absence. "Perhaps, " hewent on, "there are other letters you'd like me to write?"

"Yes, " she said, "it would be kind of you, Henry!. . . "

There was Ninian's uncle, the Dean of Exebury, and Mr. Hare, with whomhe had worked . . . They must be told at once . . . And there were otherrelatives, other friends. He spent the evening in doing the littleservices that must be done when there is death, and found relief for hismind in doing them. 

"I told the servants, " he said, looking up from a letter he was writing. "Old Widger wanted to see you!. . . "

"Poor Widger, " she said. "He and Ninian were so fond of each other!"

She got up and went to the door. "I must go and say something to him, "she said. "He'll feel it so much!"

She closed the door behind her, and he sat staring at it after she hadgone. The matchless pride of her, that she could forget herself socompletely and think of the subordinate sorrow of her servant when shemight have been absorbed by her own!

He turned to Mary who was sitting near him, and reached out and took herhand in his, but neither of them spoke. 

What was there to say? Ninian was dead . . . Old men had made a war, andthis young man had paid for it . . . And everywhere in Europe, there weremourners for the young, slain for the folly and incompetence of the oldand the worn and the impatient. 

He released Mary's hand, and resumed the writing of his letter. Beforehe had finished it, Mrs. Graham returned to the room. 

"Poor Widger, " she said, "he . . . He cried!"

She came to the table where Henry was writing, and placed her hand onhis shoulder, and looked concernedly at him. 

"Aren't you tired, Henry?" she said. 

"No, thanks!" he answered, glancing up at her and smiling. 

"You mustn't tire yourself!" she bent over him and kissed his foreheadlightly. "You've been a great help, Henry, " she said. 

6

But in her room, where none could see her, she shed her tears. . . . 

THE TENTH CHAPTER

1

He had returned to Ireland. In Dublin, he found a strange mixture ofemotions. Marsh and Galway and their friends were drilling with greaterdetermination than ever, and occasionally they were to be seen paradingthe streets. Some of them wore green uniforms, shaped after the patternof the khaki uniform of the British Army, but most of them wore theirordinary clothes, with perhaps a bandolier and a belt and a slouch hat. They carried rifles of an old make, and had long, clumsy bayonets slungby their sides. It seemed to Henry as he watched a company of themmarching through College Green that these men were not of the fightingbreed . . . That these pale clerks and young workmen and elderlyprofessors and hungry, emaciated labourers were unlikely to deal in theserious work of war . . . And when he met John Marsh in the evening, hesneered at him. Marsh kept his temper. He was more tolerant now than hehad been in the days when he had tutored Henry at Ballymartin. Headmitted that the Sinn Feiners were widely unpopular. There were manyreasons why they should be. Dublin was full of men and women mourningfor their sons who had died at Suvla Bay . . . And were in no mood forrebellion. 

"The war's popular in the Combe, " he said. "The women are better off nowthan they were in peace times. That's a handsome tribute tocivilisation, isn't it? The country people are the worst. They're rich. . . The war's bringing them extraordinary prosperity . . . And some of ourpeople are tactless. But we've got to go on. We've got to save Ireland'ssoul!. . . "

Henry made an impatient gesture. "Why do you talk that high-falutin'stuff, " he said. 

"It isn't high-falutin' stuff, Henry. I'm speaking what I believe to bethe truth. The English have tried a new way to kill the Irish spirit, and by God they look like succeeding. They couldn't kill it bypersecuting us, they couldn't kill it by ruining us, but they may killit by making us prosperous. I feel heart-broken when I talk to thefarmers. Money! That's all they think about. They rob their children oftheir milk and feed them on tea, so's they can make a few more pence. Oh, they're being anglicised, Henry! If we can only blow some of thegreed out of them, well have done something worth while!"

He was more convinced now than ever that the Irish were to be betrayedby the English after the war. 

"Look how they minimise our men's bravery at the front. Even the _IrishTimes_ is protesting!. . . "

It seemed to Henry to be ridiculous to believe that the Englishgovernment was deliberately depreciating the work of the Irish soldiers, and he said so. "They hardly mention the names of any regiments, " hepointed out. 

But John Marsh had an answer for him. He produced a despatch written bya British admiral in which was narrated the story of the landing atSuvla Bay and the beaches about Gallipoli. 

"He mentioned the name of every regiment that took part in the landing, except the two Irish regiments that did the hardest work and sufferedthe most deaths. I suppose that was an accident, Henry, a littleoversight!"

"You don't think he left them out on purpose, do you?"

"I do. So does every man in Ireland, Unionist or Nationalist. You see, we know this man in Ireland . . . He's a well-known Unionist . . . A bigot. . . And there isn't a person in Ireland who doesn't believe that hedeliberately left the names of Dublins and the Munsters out of hisdespatch. He forgot, when he was writing it, that he was a sailor, andremembered only that he was a politician . . . The kind that dances ondead men's graves!"

It was difficult to argue with Marsh or with any one who thought as hethought, in face of that despatch. The omission was inexplicable if onedid not accept the explanation offered by Marsh. The tradition of thesea is an honourable one, and sailors do not do things like that . . . Thescurvy acts of the cheaper politicians. . . . 

"You make a fence about your mind, John, " said Henry, "and you spend allyour efforts in strengthening it, so that you haven't time either tolook over it and see what's beyond it, or to cultivate what's inside it. You're just building up barriers, when you should be knocking themdown!"

It was useless to be angry with Marsh or to argue with him. Ineverything that was done, he saw the malevolent intent of a treacherouspeople. 

"Look at this, " he said one evening when the English papers had come in, and he pointed to a leading article in the _Morning Post_ in which thewriter stated that the bravery of the Irish soldiers showed that theIrish people had now no feeling or grievance against the English, andtherefore Home Rule was no longer necessary. "Already, they're plotting!They defile the dead . . . They use our dead men as . . . As politicalarguments!"

"But the _Morning Post_ has no influence in England, " Henry retortedangrily. "It's only read by footmen and sluts!. . . "

"Some of our people are dubious, " John went on. "They're inclined totake your point of view, and trust the English. I'll read this paper tothem. That'll pull them up. We'd have been content with Home Rulebefore, but we want absolute separation now. We don't want to beassociated with a race that makes bargains on bodies!. . . "

"You're doing a damned bad work, John!. . . "

"I'm helping to keep Ireland Irish, Henry!" He paused for a few moments, and then, laughing a little self-consciously, he proceeded. "Do you knowthat poem of Yeats's?"

 _It's with O'Leary in the grave. Romantic Ireland's dead and gone. _

Henry nodded his head. 

"Well, we're going to see whether we can't make Yeats re-write it. Good-night, Henry!"

2

He stayed in Dublin for a few weeks, gathering up old threads andworking on his novel; but the book made slow progress, and so, thinkingthat if he were in a quieter, less social place, he could work morequickly, he went home to Ballymartin, and here, soon after he arrived, he received a letter from Roger, announcing that he intended to enterthe artillery almost at once. "_I can get a commission_, " he wrote, "_and so I shall go in. You said something about wanting to join at thesame time as me, but perhaps as you are going to be married to Maryshortly, you'll want to wait until afterwards. If I were you I shouldapply for a commission in an Irish regiment. _"

He put the letter down abruptly. Ever since the death of Ninian, he hadfelt convinced that the four friends were to be killed in battle. Gilbert had been the first to join, and Gilbert was the first to bekilled. Then Ninian joined . . . And Ninian died. Roger, too, would bekilled, and so would he, when he joined. The death of Gilbert had seemedto him to be a casual thing, a tragic accident, but when Ninian had beenkilled, it had seemed to him that here was no fortuity, that Gilbert andNinian had died inevitably, that Roger and he, when they went out, wouldbe unable to escape this destiny . . . And everything that he had donesince Ninian's death had been done in that belief. He would finish abook, he would marry Mary, he would settle his estate as best he could. . . And then he would make the end that Gilbert and Ninian had made. . . . 

But now, as he put Roger's letter down, he had a swift, compellingdesire to dodge his destiny, to elude death, to alter the course ofthings. Why should he die? Why should he yield himself up, his youth, his work, his love, his hope of happiness and renown and honour . . . Tothis consuming thing! He could look to years of happiness with Mary, years of work on his books, years of enjoyment of things won and earned. . . And he was to give up all that promise and go to a bloody death inwar? Not every man who went was killed or even wounded . . . One knew that. . . But _he_ would be killed . . . He knew that, he told himself, as wellas he knew that he was then alive. Sensitive-natured men, such as he, were bound to be killed . . . They had not the phlegm of men with blunternatures . . . They would not be able to keep still when stillness meantsafety . . . Their nerves would go, and in that hideous hell of noise andbattering, of men killing or being killed, his mind might bedestroyed. . . . 

That seemed to him to be the worst thing of all. He might not be killed. . . He might be made mad. . . . 

"I can do other work, " he said to himself. "I can work for Ireland. Ican try to make things friendlier here!. . . "

He planned a group of Young Irishmen, as he named them, to do forIreland what Roger's Improved Tories had hoped to do for England. Theycould study the conditions of Irish elementary education; they could tryto make a survey of Irish wealth in the hope of discovering theincidence of its distribution; they could make an enquiry into work andwages, and try to stimulate the growth of Trades Unionism. He could helpto make opinion, to create a social consciousness, to establish atradition of honourable service to the community. . . . There were a hostof things he could do, valuable things, for Ireland, things that werenot now being done by any one. He knew people in Dublin, Crews andJordan and Saxon and men like them, who were of his mind and would workpatiently at dull things in the hope of getting an ordered community. Railways! One had to get the Irish railways reorganised and grouped. Ifone could solve the problem of traffic, so that the East and West andNorth and South of Ireland would be as accessible to each other as theEast and West and North and South of England, one would have made alarge movement towards a better state. . . . 

That was what he would do. He would help to construct things, not todestroy them. He was not afraid to go to the war . . . That was not thereason why he was resolving that he would refuse to be a soldier. It wasbecause he could do better, finer work by living for Ireland than bydying for England. People throughout Europe were already perturbed atthe waste of potential men in war . . . Wondering whether, after all, itwas a wise thing to let rare men, men of unique gifts go to war. Was itreally wise of England to let such a man as Gilbert Farlow, with therare gift of comedy, be lost in that haphazard manner? Ninian had hadthe potentialities of a great engineer. Would it not have been wiser tohave kept him to his railway-building than to have let him fall, as hefell, to the bullet of a sniper?. . . Already people were asking suchquestions as these. If he were to go out, and were to be killed, wouldthey not say, "This man had gifts that marked him out from other men. Weought not to have wasted him!" Well, why should he be wasted? He was notafraid. He insisted that he was not afraid. It needed high courage tostand up and say, "I am a man of special gift and I will not let thatgift be wasted in war!" That, in effect, was what he was preparing todo. People would speak behind his back . . . Speak even to his face . . . And call him a coward! Well, let them do so. . . . 

3

But in his heart, he knew that he was afraid to go. Almost he deceivedhimself into believing that he was behaving well in refusing to join theArmy so that he might devote himself more assiduously to Ireland and hiswork . . . But not completely did he persuade himself. The fear of deathwas in him and he could not allay it. The fear of mutilation, ofmadness, of blindness, of shattered nerves sent him shuddering from thethought of offering himself as a soldier . . . And mixed up with thisdevastating fear was a queer vanity that almost conquered the fear. 

"If I were to go in, I might do something . . . Something distinguished!"

There were times when he gave himself up to dreams of glory, saw himselfdecorated with high awards for bravery. He would imagine himselfperforming some impossible act of courage . . . Saving an Army Corps fromdestruction . . . Showing resource in a period of crisis, and so bringingsalvation where utter loss had seemed inevitable. But these times ofglory were few and brief: he saw himself most often, killedingloriously, inconspicuously, one of a crowd, blown, perhaps, to piecesor buried in bombarded earthworks; and through his dreams of glory andhis plans for work in Ireland, there stubbornly thrust itself thisaccusation: I'm a coward! I'm a coward! I'm a coward!

In England, men were charging the queer people who called themselvesConscientious Objectors with cowardice, but the charge seemed a baselessone to Henry. He did not believe that he could endure the odium andobloquy which some of the Conscientious Objectors had borne. There wascourage in the man who said, "I will fight for my country!" but thatcourage might be less than that of the man who said, "I will not fightfor my country!" Henry was not a Conscientious Objector, nor could heunderstand the state of mind of the man who was. He was a coward. Inside him, he knew that he was a coward. Inside him, he accused himselfof cowardice. Everything in his life showed that he was a coward, thathe shrank from physical combats, from tests of courage, that sometimeshe shrank from spiritual contests. . . . 

"I ought to tell Mary, " he said to himself. "I can't marry her withouttelling her that I'm . . . A funk!"

But he temporised even in this. "I'll wait a little while longer, " hesaid. "Perhaps later on!. . . "

Always he wanted to thrust the unpleasant thing a little further off; Itwas as if he had said to himself, "I won't deal with it just yet . . . Andperhaps it won't need to be dealt with!"

"I'll finish my book first, " he said, "and then I'll tell Mary. Perhapsthe war will be over!. . . "

4

Mary wrote to him twice every week. Rachel Carey and her baby werestaying at Boveyhayne Manor now, and Mary was glad of their company inthe house, for the child gave Mrs. Graham pleasure. She enquiredcontinually about his book. "_What a pity_, " she wrote once, "_that itwas not finished before Roger went into the Army. Then you could bothhave gone in together. _" And he had written, "_Yes, it is a pity thebook was not done before Roger joined up . . . But it'll soon be finished. I'm getting on excellently with it. When it's finished, I'll come overto Boveyhayne, and then we'll settle just when we shall getmarried!. . . _"

Then came a mood of abasement, and he wrote a long, incoherent letter toher, telling her that he had resolved that he would not go into theArmy. "_Because I'm a coward, Mary. I've thought the thing over frombeginning to end, thought about it until I became dizzy with thinking, and this is the end of it all: I'm a coward. I haven't the pluck to gointo the Army. That's the truth, Mary! I make excuses for myself . . . Ipretend that this is England's war, not Ireland's, and tell myself thatan Irishman who joins the British Army should be regarded in the waythat an American, who joined, would be regarded . . . That Irish soldiersin the British Army are Foreign Legionaries . . . And I twist my mindabout in an effort to make excuses like that, to convince, not you orany one else_, but me. _I think I could convince_ you _that I ought notto join, but I can't convince myself. I'm not joining, simply becauseI'm a damned coward, Mary. I'm not fit to be your husband, dear. Iwasn't fit to be the friend of Gilbert and Ninian. I'm a contemptiblething that runs to its burrow when it hears of danger. I'm glad myfather is dead. He hated the war, but he'd have hated to know that I wasnot in it. He took it for granted that I would go . . . Never dreamed thatI wouldn't go. If he'd thought that I wouldn't join, he would never havetalked to me about the war in the way he did. My father was a proud man, Mary, as proud as your mother, and I think he'd have died of shame ifhe'd thought I was funking this. I don't know what you'll think of me. Iknow what I think of myself. I simply can't face it, Mary . . . Thatbloodiness and groaning and stench and unending horror. That's the truthabout me. I'm a coward, and I'm not fit for you. I'd fail you, dear, ifyou needed me. I fail everybody. I fail everything. I'm rotten throughand through. . . . _"

5

But he did not send the letter to her. He had read it over beforeputting it in the envelope. "Hysterical, " he said to himself, calmer nowthat he had vented his feelings. "That's what it is!"

He was about to tear it up, but before he could, do so, his mind veeredagain. "I'll put it away, " he said. "I'll leave it until the morning, and read it again. Perhaps I'll think differently then. I ought to tellMary. I can't go on just not joining, and letting her graduallysuspect. I ought to go to her, and tell her straight out. When my book'sdone I'll go to her. . . . "

"What sort of a man am I?" he said again. "Analysing myself like this. . . Turning myself inside out . . . Poking and probing into my mind!. . . Fumbling over my life, that's what I'm doing! Why don't I stand up tothings? What's the meaning of me? What am I here for?"

If he could only strip himself to the marrow of his mind, if he couldonly see inside himself and know what was his purpose and discover thecontent of his being. . . . 

"I'm morbid, " he said. "I'm too introspective. I ought to look out ofmyself. But I can't. It isn't my fault that my eyes are turned inwards. I'm made like that. I can't alter my make. I can destroy myself, but Ican't alter my make. . . . 

"Perhaps, " he thought, "if I were to take more exercise, if I were to gofor long walks, I'd think less about these things. I'd get healthiernotions. If I were to enlist, go into the ranks, and endure all that themen endure, that might make my mind healthier. All that drill andmarching. . . . 

"But it's the spirit of me that's wrong, " he muttered aloud. "It's notmy body . . . It's _me_!"

"I must work. I must work hard, and forget all this torturing!. . . "

He wrote furiously at his book, and gradually it came to its end. "I'llgo down to Dublin again, " he said, when it was finished "and see if Ican't do something there that'll make me forget things!"

He stayed at Ballymartin until he had corrected the proofs of the newbook, and then some business on the estate kept him at home for nearlyanother month. It was not until well in the New Year that he was able toleave home, and almost at the last moment he decided not to go toDublin, but to travel from Belfast, by Liverpool, to Boveyhayne. Maryhad asked him to spend Christmas with them, but he had made an excuse:estate business and his book; because he could not yet bring himself totell her of his cowardice. He felt that when he did so, she would endtheir engagement, and he wished to keep her love as long as he could. Hewrote to her very frequently, more frequently than she wrote to him, telling her of Irish affairs. She had had difficulty in understanding somany things, but she was eager to know about them. He had filled aletter with bitter complaint of the corruption in Irish civic life, andshe had asked why he believed in Home Rule. "_If you can't trust thesepeople to manage a municipality, how can you trust them to manage anation?_" And he had written a lengthy epistle on the state of Ireland. 

"_You see, dear_, " he wrote, "_it isn't reasonable to expect us to undoin a generation work which it took your country several centuries to do. Your people have steadily destroyed and corrupted my people. I knowthey're trying to make amends, but they mustn't expect miracles. Youcan't wave a wand over Ireland, and say 'Let there be light!' andinstantly get light. You've got to remember that Ireland is populatedlargely by the dregs of Ireland . . . What was left after your countrymenhad persecuted and exiled and hanged the most vigorous and mostcourageous men we had . . . And it'll take a generation or two, moreperhaps, to get a decent level again. The most powerful man in Dublin atthis minute is a haberdasher who owns almost everything there is to own:newspapers, conveyances and heaven knows what; and he has the mind of. . . Well, an early nineteenth-century mill-owner! John Marsh spends adeal of time in vilifying the English as a mean-minded people, but myGod, he has only got to look round the corner in Dublin, to seemean-minded men by the hundred. He wrote to me the other day, crowingbecause his Volunteers had prevented the application of conscription toIreland, and that's a frame of mind I don't understand. He's anidealist, but all his ideals are being employed to enable mean-mindedand greedy men like the farmers to go on being more mean-minded andgreedier. The principal argument seems to be that the Irishman must stayat home and make money out of the war. That's a long way from the daysof the 'wild geese' and the order of chivalry, isn't it?_

"_I'm a Home Ruler because I want to see a sense of responsibilitycultivated in these people, and you can't have a sense of responsibilityuntil you've got something for which you are responsible. I don't doubtthat out of this heart-breaking population, a decent-minded populationwill come. After all, the first settlers in Australia weren't muchbetter than the people who control the Dublin Corporation, were they? IfJohn Marsh had been about the world more, had had to manage things, andif Mineely and Connolly and the Dublin Labour people had not beenembittered beyond all sanity of judgment by that haberdasher I mentionedearlier in this letter, they'd have been useful in the way that I wantCrews and Jordan and Saxon and all those patient people to be useful. _

"_I wish you could meet Crews and Jordan and Saxon. They're verydissimilar, but they've got something like the unifying motive of amonastery, and they're willing to serve and to plod and to be patient. Ifight with Saxon because he's a pacifist, but like all pacifists he's avery pugnacious person, and he can get frightfully angry, but it'spitiful to see him when he's been angry, because he's so sorryafterwards. I'm not a pacifist, but I haven't a tenth of his pluck. He'dendure anything, that man. Crews and Jordan are younger than he, andvery brainy. Crews looks as if he were one of the Don't-Care-a-DamnBrigade . . . Dublin's full of them . . . But he does care. He has acuriously subtle brain, and I do not know any one so imperturbable as heis. He never loses his temper . . . At least I've never seen him lose it. . . Except, so he says, with stockbrokers and haberdashers and that kindof rubbish. Jordan is one of the brainiest men in Ireland . . . That, Isuppose, is because he has got some English blood in him: acynical-looking man, but that's all his fun. And he works, my goodness, he works!_

"_It's with men like these that I want to work, because I believe thatthey will prepare the place for the foundation of a decent commonwealth. They aren't miracle-mongers, thank God, like John Marsh and Galway andMineely. They aren't up in the sky to-day and down in the mud to-morrow. They keep to the level. _

"_Then there's the Plunkett House lot. You remember, I told you aboutSir Horace Plunkett and the Co-operative Movement. Well, I want to getCrews and Jordan and Saxon to link themselves on to the Plunkett Housepeople and form the nucleus of a new Irish Group. There are a few of themen at Trinity College who will come into it, but I'm afraid all the menat the National University are under the influence of Marsh andMacDonagh and the sloppy romantics. _

"_You see, dear, don't you, that this job of making a commonwealth ofworth in Ireland is a long and difficult one. That's why we've got to bevery patient. Everything's against us. We have a contemptible press, acowardly crowd of corrupt politicians, a greedy people, an ignorant andbigoted priesthood (that includes the Protestant clergy) and a completelack of social consciousness and plan of life. But then, what's lifefor, if it isn't to cope with difficulties like that. . . . _"

6

There was snow, thick and long-lying, on the ground when he reachedBoveyhayne, and the _crunch-crunch_ of it under their feet, as Mary andhe walked home, gave him a feeling of pleasure, and the cold, bracingair exhilarated him so that he laughed at things which would otherwisebarely have made him smile. The antics of Rachel's daughter, as relatedto him by Mary, seemed extraordinarily entertaining, and when he drewMary's arm in his and pressed it tightly, he felt that there was nothingin heaven or on earth more to be desired than the love of a woman andthe love of a child. He had a sense of age, of a passed boundary, thatmade him feel much older than Mary. "Here I am, listening to her as shetalks gaily about a child's pranks, nodding my head and laughing, too. . . And in a little while I shall tell her everything . . . And then Ishall go . . . And we will not laugh again together. I'm holding her armclosely in mine, and presently I shall kiss her lips, and she will puther arms about me with the careless intimacy of lovers . . . And then Ishall tell her everything . . . And she will kiss me no more . . . And ourintimacy will shrivel up!. . . "

He wished to prolong his pleasure in this walk through the snow, and sohe took her back to the Manor by long roads and roundabout ways. Theydid not climb up the old path over the cliff because that was so muchshorter than the hair-pin road. . . . "I must tell her soon, " he said tohimself, "but before I tell her, I must feel the most of her love forme!"

He listened to her, not for what she was saying, but for the sound ofher voice, and made short answers to her so that he might interrupt theflow of her speech as little as possible. When he returned along thisroad, he would come alone and for the last time, and so, that his memoryof her might be full, he would be no more than her auditor and watcher. Just to have her by his side, her arm in his, and hear her . . . That wassufficient. 

They walked through the village and when they came to Boveyhayne lane, he said to her, "Isn't there a longer way, Mary!" and she laughed athim, bantering him because of his sudden desire for exercise; but sheyielded to him, and they took the longer road that led them past theRoman quarries to the fir tree, standing in isolation where the mainroads meet. 

"Mary, " he said, as they came in sight of the house, "I want to tellyou something . . . Something important!. . . "

"Yes, Quinny!"

"But not now, dear. To-night! Or to-morrow, perhaps!"

She pinched his cheek in a pretence at anger. "You were always veryvague, Quinny!" she said. 

"I know, " he answered. "It's a kind of . . . Cowardice, that, isn't it?I'm vague because I dislike . . . Am afraid . . . To be definite. I'm afrightful coward, Mary!. . . "

He might approach the subject by these devious ways, he told himself. Hehad not meant to talk to her about his failure in courage until she andhe could be alone in the evening . . . This walk together was to be thefinal lovers' stroll, unmarred by any bitterness . . . But even in hiseffort to postpone the time of telling, he had prepared to tell her . . . And perhaps it was better that she should know now. Here, indeed, inthis snowy silence, they were free from any intrusion. It might not bepossible to make his confession to her without interruption from Rachelor Mrs. Graham . . . And some feeling for the fitness of things made himdecide that this outdoor scene was a better place for his purpose thanthe lamplit interior of the Manor. Through the blown branches of thehedges he could see the thick sheets of snow spread over the fields. Theboughs of the fruit-trees in the orchard showed very black beneath theirwhite covering, as if they felt cold, and he looted away quickly to thehaystacks in the farmyard that seemed so warm in spite of the snow. Thedusk was drawing in, and the grey sky was darkening for the night. . . . 

"Mary, " he said, so abruptly that she looked up at him enquiringly. "Let's walk back a little way. . . . "

"But, Quinny, it's getting late. They'll wonder what's happened to us!"

"I want to tell you . . . Now, Mary!"

He compelled her to turn, as he spoke, and they walked slowly backtowards the fir tree. 

"What is it, Quinny?" she asked tenderly, as if she would comfort him. 

"I . . . I want to tell you something!"

"Yes?"

"I hardly know how to begin. It's very difficult, dear. . . . "

"What is it, Quinny?" she demanded, more anxiously. 

But still he would not tell her . . . He must have her love a littlelonger. 

"Mary, I love you so much, dear . . . Oh, I feel like a fool when I try totell you how much I love you!"

"I know you love me, Quinny!"

"And now . . . This very minute . . . I love you far more than I've everloved you. Every bit of me is in love with you, Mary. You're very sweetand dear!. . . "

She had a sense of impending disaster, but she did not express it in herwords. "And I love you, Quinny!" she said. "I can't love you more thanI've always loved you!. . . "

"Could you love me less than you've always loved me?" he asked, turningand standing before her so that his eyes were looking into hers. 

"I don't know, " she answered. "I've never tried!"

He did not say any more for a few moments, but stood with his hands onher shoulders, looking steadily into her eyes, while she looked steadilyinto his. Then he took his hands from her shoulders and drew her intothe shelter of his arms, and kissed her, letting his lips lie long onhers. 

"What do you want to tell me?" she said in a whisper. 

7

Then he told her. 

"I wrote to you when I was at Ballymartin, " he said, "but I did notpost the letter. I brought it with me. I meant to destroy it because Ithought it was too emotional, and then I thought that perhaps I hadbetter let you see it so that you might judge me, not just as I am now, talking to you quietly like this, but as I was when I wrote it!"

He took the letter from his pocket and gave it to her. 

"I had to tell you, Mary. I couldn't marry you without letting you knowwhat kind of man I am. I'm too frightened to go to the Front. At thebottom of all my excuses, that's the truth. "

She did not speak, but stood with his letter in her hands, turning itover. . . . 

"I've tried to persuade myself, " he went on, "that I'm of specialaccount, that I ought not to go to the war, but I know very well that ina time like this, no one is of special account. Gilbert said somethinglike that at Tre'Arrdur Bay when I told him that his life was of greatervalue than the life of . . . Of a clerk. I suppose, the finer a man is, the more willing he is to take his share in war, and if that's true, I'mnot really a fine man. I'm simply a coward, hoarding up my life in acupboard, like a miser hoarding up his money. I should have been thefirst to spend myself . . . Like Gilbert and Ninian. I'm the only one ofthe Improved Tories who hasn't gone! . . . Oh, I couldn't offer youmyself, dear. I'm too mean . . . I'm a failure in fineness. . . . I used tofeel contempt for Jimphy Jayne . . . But he didn't hesitate for a moment. It never entered his head not to go. The moment the war began, Gilbertenlisted, and I suppose Ninian must have left that railway the veryminute he heard the news. I was never quite . . . Never quite on theirlevel, Mary, and I don't suppose I ever shall be now!"

She moved slightly, as if she were tired of remaining in one position, and were shifting to an easier one, but still she did not speak, nor didshe raise her eyes to look at him. 

"I'm not fit to be your husband, " he said. "I'm not fit to be anywoman's husband, but much less yours. Even now, when I 'm standing heretalking to you in this safety, the thought of . . . Of being out theremakes me shiver with fear. It's the thought of . . . Of dying!. . . I thinkand think of all those young chaps, all the fellows I knew, robbed oftheir right to live and love, as I love you, and work and make their endin decency and peace . . . And I can't bear it. I want to save myself fromthe wreckage . . . To hide myself in safety until this . . . This horror isended!" He paused for a while, as if he were searching for words andthen he went on. "There was an officer in my carriage to-day . . . Goingon to Whimple . . . And he told me about poison gas . . . The men died infrightful agony, he said . . . And then he talked about machine guns. . . . 'They can perforate a man like a postage stamp, ' he said. . . . Isn't itvile, Mary?"

Her head was still bent, and as she did not make an answer to him, heturned to look away from her. He remembered how Sheila Morgan, in heranger at his cowardice, had struck him in the face and had furiouslybidden him to leave her. . . . Mary would not strike him, but she, too, would bid him to go from her. . . . 

He felt her hand on his arm. 

"Quinny!" she said very softly, and he turned to find her standingnearer to him and looking up at him with no less love than she hadlooked at him before he had made his confession to her. 

"I don't love you, Quinny, only for what's fine in you, " she said, andher speech was full of hesitation as if she could not adequately expressher meaning. "I love you . . . For _all_ of you. I just take the bad withthe good, and . . . And make the best of it, dear!"

"You still want me, Mary?. . . "

"My dear, " she said, half laughing and half crying, "I've always wantedyou!. . . Oh, what's the good, " she went on with an impetuous rush ofwords, "of loving a man only when he comes up to your expectations. Iwant to love you even when you don't come up to my expectations, Quinny, and I do love you, dear. It hasn't anything to do with whetheryou're brave or not brave, or good or bad, or great or common. I justlove you . . . Don't you see?. . . Because you're _you_!. . . "

He stared at her incredulously. He had been so certain that she wouldbid him leave her when she learned of his cowardice. 

"But!. . . "

"Come home, " she said. "You must be very tired, and cold!"

She put her arm in his, and drew him homewards, and he yielded to herlike a little child. 

As they turned the corner of the apple-orchard, they could see lightsshining from the windows of the Manor, making a warm splash on the snowthat lay in drifts about the garden. There was a great quietness thatwas broken now and then by the twittering of birds in the hedges as theynestled for the night, or the cries made by the screech-owls, hooting inthe copse. 

8

Mrs. Graham and Rachel had left them alone for a while, after dinner, and as he sat, with her at his feet, fondling her hair, she spoke of herfeeling for him again. 

"I've wondered sometimes, " she said, "about your not joining . . . Itseemed odd . . . But I thought that perhaps there was something that wouldexplain it. I'd like you to join, Quinny . . . I can't pretend that Iwouldn't . . . But I don't feel that I ought to ask you to do so. If Iwere a man I should join, I think, but I'm not a man, and I'm not likelyto have to suffer any of the things that a man has to suffer if he goes. . . And so I don't say anything. I don't know why I'd like you to go . . . I ought to be glad that you haven't gone because I love you and I don'twant to lose you . . . But all the same I'd like you to go. It isn't justbecause other men have gone, and I don't feel any desire for revengebecause Ninian's been killed . . . It's just because England's England, Isuppose. . . . " She laughed a little nervously. "I can hardly expect you tofeel about England as I do. You're Irish!. . "

"I've made that excuse for myself, Mary. Don't you make it for me. Iknow inside me that the war isn't England's war . . . It's the world'swar. John Marsh admits that much. He doesn't like English rule inIreland, but he doesn't pretend that German rule would be better . . . Notseriously, anyhow. No, dear, I haven't that excuse. I know that if welose this war, the world will be a worse place to live in than it is. Ihaven't any conscientious objection . . . I don't feel that we are in thewrong . . . I feel that we're in the right . . . That we never were so rightas we are. I'm simply anxious to save my skin. And even if I felt thatJohn Marsh were right in being anti-English, I don't feel that I haveany right to take up that attitude. England's done no wrong to myfamily. . . . You see, dear, I haven't any excuse that's worth while . . . Except the wish to preserve my life . . . And that's a poor excuse. When Ithink of being at the Front, I think of myself as dead . . . Lying outthere . . . Without any of the decencies . . . Until I'm offensive to themen who were my friends . . . Until they sicken at the stench of _me_!. . . "

"Don't, dear!" she murmured. 

"Perhaps I shall conquer this . . . This meanness. I want to conquer it. Iwant to behave as I believe. I believe that there are things one shouldbe glad to fight for and die for . . . And I want to feel glad to fightfor them and be ready to die for them. But now I feel most that I wantto be safe . . . To go on living and living and enjoying things. . . . "

"But can you enjoy things if they're not worth dying for, Quinny? IfEngland weren't worthy dying for, would it be worth living in! That'show I feel!"

"That's how I _think_, Mary, but it isn't how I _feel_. I feel that Iwant to be safe no matter what happens . . . If civilisation is to go tosmash and we're to be driven back to savagery, distrusting and beingdistrusted . . . I feel that I don't care . . . That I want to be safe, togo on living, even if I have to live in a cave and hide fromeverything. . . . Oh, my dear, don't you see what a poor thing I am!"

"Yes, " she said simply. 

"And yet you're willing to marry me?"

"Yes. I can't help loving you, any more than I can help loving mycountry. I can't explain it and I don't want to explain it. If I were aman and England were in the wrong, I'd fight for England just becauseshe's England. Everything makes me feel like that. When Ninian waskilled, something went on saying, 'You're English! You mustn't cry!You're English!' And when I look at the trees outside, I feel thatthey're English, too, and that they're telling me I'm English . . . Thatsomehow they're special trees, different from the trees in othercountries . . . That they've got something that I've got, and that I'vegot something they've got . . . Something that a French tree or a Germantree hasn't got. . . . Oh, I know it's silly, but I can't help it . . . Andwhen I used to walk about the lanes and fields after Ninian's death . . . I felt that the birds and the grass and the ferns and everything weresaying 'You're English!' and I wanted to say back to them, 'You'reEnglish, too!. . . ' I suppose people feel like that everywhere . . . Thosefriends of yours in Ireland must feel like that about Ireland . . . AndGermans, too!. . . "

He nodded his head. "It's a madness, this nationality, " he said, "butyou can't get a cure for it. Even I feel it!"

"Quinny!"

"Yes, Mary!"

There was a nervous note in her voice. She got up, so that she was onher knees, and fingered the lapels of his coat. 

"Quinny!" she said again, and he waited for her to proceed. "I . . . Iwant us to get married . . . Soon! You'll probably go into the Army . . . Nobody could go on feeling as you do, and not go in . . . And I'd like usto . . . To have had some time together . . . Before you go. I don't want tobe married to you just . . . Just a day or two before you go. I . . . I wantto have lived with you and to . . . To have taken care of your house . . . With you in it!. . . "

He folded her in his arms. 

"You will, Quinny?" she said. 

"Yes, " he answered. 

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

1

They were to be married as soon as Lent was over. Mrs. Graham, reluctantto lose Mary, had pleaded for delay, urging that Ballymartin was so farfrom Boveyhaven that she would seldom see her. "Two days' post, " sheprotested. 

"But you'll come and stay with us, mother, " Mary declared, "and we'llcome and stay with you!"

It would be quite easy for Henry to come to Devonshire, for he couldcarry his work about with him. Then Mrs. Graham had yielded to them, andit was settled that the marriage was to take place at the beginning ofMay. Neither Mary nor he had spoken again of the question of enlistment. She had said all that was in her mind about it, and what followed wasfor him to decide. 

He went back to Ballymartin. There were things to be done at home inpreparation for the coming of a bride. The house had not known amistress since his mother's death, and his father had been toopreoccupied with his agricultural experiments to bother greatly aboutthe interior of his house. So long as he could find things more or lesswhere he had left them, Mr. Quinn had been content. 

"You won't overhaul it too much, Quinny?" Mary said to him, "because I'dlike to do some of that!"

He had promised that he would do no more than was immediately necessary;and then he went. 

"I shall have to go to Dublin, " he had told her. "There'll be a lot ofstuff to settle with lawyers!" Her settlement, for example. "I'll gohome first, then on to Dublin, and then back here. I shall get toBoveyhayne just after Easter!"

2

Mr. Quinn had not greatly bothered about the interior of the house, butHannah had, and although there were things that needed to be done, therewas less than he had imagined. 

"I'm going to be married, Hannah!" he said to her soon after he hadarrived home. 

"Are you, now?" she exclaimed. 

"Yes. You remember Mr. Graham?. . . "

"Ay, poor sowl, I mind him . . . The nice-spoken, well-behaved lad hewas!. . . "

"Well, I'm going to marry his sister!"

"It'll be quaren nice to think o' this house havin' a mistress in itagain, an' wee weans, mebbe. I was here, a young girl, when your fatherbrought your mother home . . . I mind it well . . . She was a quiet woman, an' she stud in the hall there as nervous as a child 'til I went forritto her, an' said, 'Ye're right an' welcome, ma'am!', an' then sheplucked up her heart, an' she give me a wee bit of a smile, an' said'Thank ye, Hannah!' for your father told her who I was. An' she used tocome an' talk to me afore you were born . . . She was terrible frightened, poor woman. Ay, she was terrible frightened of havin' you! Your fathercouldn't make her out at all. It was a quare pity!"

He let her ramble on, for he wanted now to hear about his mother, ofwhom he knew so little. There was a portrait of her in the house, afair, slight, timid-looking woman who seemed to be shrinking out of theframe. It was odd to think that she was his mother, this frightenedwoman of whom he had no memory whatever, for whom he had no tenderfeeling. He had loved his father deeply, but he had no love for hismother. How could he feel love for her? He had never known her!. . . Butnow he wanted to know all that Hannah knew about her, for Hannah perhapshad known more about her than any one. Hannah had cared for her, pitiedher. . . . 

"Yes, Hannah!" he said, so that she might proceed. 

"She was sure she was goin' to die, an' I had the quare work to keep herquiet. An' she was terrible feard of dyin'!"

He listened to her with a strange feeling of pain. All that he hadendured at the thought of fighting had been endured by his mother at thethought of giving him birth. He felt that now, at last, he knew hismother and could sympathise with her and love her. 

"But sure what was the sense of bein' afeard of that, " Hannah Went on. "God wouldn't be hard on the like of her, the poor, innocent woman. Itoul' lies til her, God forgive me, an' let on to her that people madeout that it was worse nor it was to have a child . . . But she had adespert bad time of it, for she was a weak woman, with no body in her atall, an' a poor will to suffer things. She never was the better of you!"She smiled at him sadly. "Never! An' she took no interest in nothin'after that . . . She could hardly bear to look at you . . . An' you her ownwee son. She didn't live long after you come, an' mebbe it was as well, for God never made her to contend with anything. I was quaren fond ofher. Ye had to like her, she was that helpless. She couldn't thole anyone next or near her but myself . . . And so I got fond of her, for a bodyhas to like people that depends on them. Will your wife be a fair ladyor a dark lady, Master Henry?"

He realised that she wished him to describe Mary to her. 

"She's dark, " he said. "Not at all like her brother!"

"Ay, he was the big, fair man that was a credit to a woman to have!"

"I have her photograph upstairs, " Henry went on, "I'll go and get it. You'd like to see it, wouldn't you?"

"Deed an' I would, " she answered. 

He got the photograph and gave it to her, and she took it in her handsand looked at it very steadily. 

"She's a comely-lookin' girl, " she said, handing it to him again. "Shehas sweet eyes an' a proud way of holdin' her head. She shud be a goodwife to you. I'll be glad to see her here, for dear knows, it's lonesomesittin' in the house with no one to look after. I miss your da sore, Master Henry, an' it's seldom you're here now!"

"I'll be here much more in future, Hannah!"

"Well, thank God for that! I like well to see the quality in theirhouses, an' them not to be runnin' here an' runnin' there, an' notthinkin' of their own place an' their own people. An' I pray to Godyou'll have fine childher, an' I'll be well-spared to see them growin'up to be a credit to you!"

The old woman's patient service and love seemed very noble to him, andhe went to her and took her hand. "You're the only mother I've everknown, Hannah!" he said. "You've always been very good to me!"

"An' why wouldn't I be good to you?" she exclaimed, raising her fineblue eyes to his. "Aren't you the only child I ever had to rear? Dearbless you, son, what else would I be but good to you?"

And suddenly she put her arms about him and kissed him passionately, andas she kissed him, she cried:

"God only knows what I'm girnin' for!" she exclaimed, releasing him anddrying her eyes. 

3

He wandered about the house, touching a chair or fingering a curtain orlooking at a portrait, and wondered how Mary would like her new home. Itwas not an old house, nor had the Quinns lived in it from the time itwas built, and so Henry could not feel about it what Ninian must havefelt about Boveyhayne Manor, in which his ancestors had lived for fourcenturies. But it was his home, in which he had been born, in which hismother and father had died, and it seemed to him to be as full ofmemories and tradition as Mary's home. The war had broken the line ofGrahams, broken a tradition that had survived the dangers of fourhundred years. That seemed to Henry to be a pity. Perhaps, he thought, this worship of Family is a foolish thing. There was a danger in beingrooted to one place, in letting your blood become too closely mingled, and a tradition might very well become a substitute for life; but whenall that was said and admitted, there was a pride in one's breeding thatmade life seem like a sacrament, and the years but the rungs of a longladder. Once, in the days of the Bloomsbury house, they had talked oftradition, and some one had related the old story of the Americantourist who was shown the sacred light, and told that it had not beenout for hundreds of years. "Well, I guess it's out now!" the Americanreplied, blowing the light out. They had made a mock of the horrifiedpriest and had protested that his service to the flame was a waste oflife and energy and time. And when they had said all that they had tosay, Ninian, speaking more quietly than was his wont, had interjected, "But don't you think the American was rather a cad?"

They had argued fiercely then, some of them protesting that theAmerican's disregard of a worn convention was splendid, virile, youthful, god-like. Roger, Henry remembered, had sided with Ninian sofar as to admit that the American's behaviour had been tooinconsiderate. "He might have discussed the matter with the priest . . . Tried to persuade him to blow it out himself!" but that was as far as hewould go with Ninian. 

"I admit, " Ninian had retorted, "that it was a foolish tradition . . . Butdon't you think the American was rather a cad. It was better, wasn't it, to have that tradition than to have none at all?"

Now, standing here, in this house that had been his father's, and nowwas his, and would, in due time, be his son's, if ever he should have ason, it seemed to him that Ninian had been right in his contention. Andjust as Mary, moving through the Devonshire lanes, had felt thateverything proclaimed its Englishness and hers, making them and her partof each other, so he, looking out of the window across the fields, feltsomething inside him insisting, "You're Irish. You must be proud! You'reIrish! You must be proud!. . . "

He remembered very vividly how his father had led him to this verywindow once and, pointing towards the fields, had said, "That's land, Henry! _My_ land!. . . "

And because he had been proud of his land, had been part of it, as ithad been part of him, he had been willing to spend himself on it. Thereseemed to Henry to be in that, all that there was in patriotism. Irrationally, impulsively, unaccountably one loved one's country. Theair of it and the earth of it, the winds that blew over it and the seasthat encircled it, all these had been mingled to make men, so that whenthere was danger and threat to a man's country, some native thing in himstirred and compelled him to say, "This is my body! This is my blood!"and sent him out, irrationally, impulsively, unaccountably, to die inits defence. There was here no question of birth or possessions: theslum-man felt this stirring in his nature as strongly as the landlord. In that sudden, swift rising of young men when war was declared, eachman instinctively hurrying to the place of enlistment, there were menfrom slums and men from mansions, all of them, in an instant, madecorporate, given unity, brought to communion, partaking of a sacrament, becoming at that moment a sacrament themselves. . . . 

4

But if this stirring in one's nature made a man both a sacrament and apartaker of a sacrament, was there not yet something horrible in thisspilling of blood, this breaking of bodies? Was this sacrament only tobe consummated by the butcher? Was there no healing sacrament which, when a man partook of it, gave him life and more life! Was there not anhonourable rivalry among nations, each to be better than the other, toreplace this brawling about boundaries, this pettifogging withfrontiers? Was there to be no end to this killing and preparing forkilling? Would men, from now on, set themselves to the devisal ofmurderous and more murderous weapons of war until at last an indignant, disgusted God, sick of the smell of blood, threw the earth from Him, caring nothing what happened to it, so that it was out of Hisconsciousness?. . . 

While he looked out of the window, the dusk settled down, and he couldsee the mists rising from the fields. He drew the curtains, and went andsat down by the fire. There was a faint odour of burning turf in theroom, and as he watched the blue spirals of smoke curling up thechimney, he remembered how he had trudged across Dartmoor once, and, suddenly, unexpectedly had turned a corner of the road, and looked downon a village in a hollow, and for a moment or two had imagined he was inIreland because of the smell of burning turf that came from the cottagechimneys. 

"We and they are one, " he murmured to himself. "Our differences are buttwo aspects of the same thing. Our blood and their blood, our earth andtheir earth, mingled and made sacramental, shall be to the glory ofGod!"

The door opened, and Hannah came in, carrying a lighted lamp. 

"I just thought I'd bring it myself, " she said. "I'd be afeard of mylife to let Minnie handle it. Dear knows, but she'd set herself on fire, or mebbe the house, an' that'd be a nice thing, an' a new mistresscomin' to it. Will I put it down here by your elbow?"

"Anywhere, Hannah!" he answered. 

"I'll just rest it here then, where it'll not be too strong for youreyes. Yon ought to have the electric light put in the house. MajorCairnduff has it in his house, an' it's not half the size of thisone. . . . Will I get you something?"

"No, thank you, Hannah!"

"A taste of some thin' to ate, mebbe, or a sup to drink?"

"Nothing, thank you!"

She went over to the fire. "Dear bless us, " she said, "that's no sort ofa fire at all. What come over you, to let it get that low!"

"I didn't notice it, Hannah!"

"'Deed an' I don't suppose you did . . . Moidherin' your mind about onething an' another! There'll be a different story to tell when themistress comes home. Mark my words, there will! Dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!. . . "

5

"I'm going to Belfast to-night, Hannah, " he said when he had been athome a few weeks. "I want to catch an early train to Dublin to-morrow. "

"Yes, " she said. 

"When I come back, I shall bring my wife with me!"

"God bless us and save us, " she exclaimed, "it'll be quare to think ofyou with a wife, an' it on'y the other day since you were a child, an'me skelpin' you for provokin' me. Well, I'll have the house ready foryous both when you come!"

"Will you tell Matier to harness the horse. . . . "

"I'll tell him this minute. That man's near demented mad at the thoughtof you marryin'. 'Be the hokey O!' he says whenever I go a-near him, an'then he starts laughin' an' tellin' me it's the great news altogether. 'I wish, ' says he, 'the oul' lad was alive. He'd be makin' hell's blazesfor joy!' Och, he's cracked, that fella. I tell him many's the time it'sin the asylum he should be, but sure, you might as well talk to thepotstick as talk to him. He'll drive you to the station with a heartan' a han', and the capers of him when you both come back'll be likenothin' on God's earth!"

"So long as he doesn't capsize us both into the ditch!. . . "

"Him capsize you! I'd warm his lug for him if he dar'd to do such athing!. . . "

THE TWELFTH CHAPTER

1

He had been to the offices of Messrs. Kilworth and Kilworth in KildareStreet, and had seen Sir John Kilworth and settled as much of hisbusiness as could then be done. Now, wondering just what he should donext, he made his way to Stephen's Green and entered the Park, and whilehe was standing on the bridge over the lake, looking at the dark fish inthe water, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turning round, saw JohnMarsh. 

"I didn't know you were in Dublin, " John said, holding out his hand. 

"I haven't been here very long, " Henry answered, "and I'm going awayagain after Easter. I'm going to be married. "

"Married!"

"Yes . . . To Ninian Graham's sister. I've often talked of you to her. Youmust come and stay with us when we get back to Ballymartin. "

"Yes. Yes, I should like to! I hope you'll be happy, Henry!" He spoke ina nervous, agitated way that was not habitual with him, and Henry, looking more closely at him, saw that he was tired and ill-looking. 

"Aren't you well, John?" he asked. 

"Oh, yes. Yes, I'm quite well. I'm rather tired, that's all. I've beenworking very hard!"

"Still drilling?"

"Yes . . . Still drilling!"

"What are you doing at Easter, John?" Henry asked. 

Marsh looked at him quickly, almost in a startled fashion. "At Easter!"he repeated. "Oh . . . Nothing! Why?"

"You and I might go for a long walk through the mountains, " Henryanswered. "We could walk to Glendalough and back again. It would justfill up the Easter holidays. Let's start to-morrow morning. I'm stayingat the Club. You can meet me there!"

"No, I'm sorry, Henry, I can't go with you!. . . "

"Why not? You said you'd nothing particular to do!"

"I'm going to Mass in the morning. . . . "

"Well, that doesn't matter. We can start after you've been. Come along, John. You look washed-out, and the tramp'll do you good!. . . "

Marsh shook his head. "I can't go, Henry, " he said. "It isn't onlyto-morrow morning that I want to go to Mass . . . I want to go the dayafter . . . And I want to go with all . . . All my people on Easter Sunday!"

"You've grown very religious, John. Do you go to Mass every morning?"

"I've been every morning now for a month. You see, one doesn't know . . . Well, perhaps I am growing more religious. I won't keep you now. PerhapsI shall see you again!. . . "

"Why, of course, you'll see me again. Heaven and earth, man, anybody'dthink you were going to die, the way you talk!"

Marsh did not speak. He smiled when Henry spoke of dying, and thenlooked away. They were still standing on the bridge, and he leant on theparapet and looked down on the lake. 

"Queer things, fish!" he said. 

"Not nearly so queer as you are, " Henry answered. "Why won't you comewith me? You won't want to be cooped up in Dublin all Easter, do you?"

"Cooped up!"

"Yes. Two or three days of mountain air 'ud do you a world of good. You'd better come with me!"

"No, I can't, " he answered so abruptly that Henry did not press thematter again. "When are you going to be married, Henry?" he asked, speaking in his old, kindly tone again. 

"At the beginning of May . . . Less than a fortnight now!"

Marsh turned away from the water, and stood with his back to theparapet. "Why don't you spend Easter with your fiancée?" he said. 

"That isn't quite possible, John. I should only be in the way, if I werethere now!"

"Or at Ballymartin. It would be rather nice to spend Easter atBallymartin!"

"Well, I will, if you'll come with me. . . . "

"I can't do that. I don't think I should stay in Dublin at Easter if Iwere you. . . . "

"Why?"

"Oh, it'll be dull for you. People go away. There's not much to do. Ishould go to the North or over to England or somewhere if I were you!"

Henry felt resentful. "You seem damned anxious to get rid of me, John, "he said. "You won't come into the mountains with me, and you keep ontelling me to clear out of Dublin!"

Marsh turned to him quickly, and put his hand on his arm. 

"My dear Henry, " he said, very gently, "you know that I don't feel likethat. I thought you'd be . . . I thought you'd have a happier Easter outof Dublin, that was all. That place in Wales, where you went with poorFarlow. . . . "

"Tre'Arrdur Bay?"

"Yes. Why don't you go there? It really isn't much further thanGlendalough. "

"You can't walk to it, John, and you can walk to Glendalough!"

"Oh, well, if you won't go . . . You won't go, and there's an end of it. Good-bye!"

"Wait a bit. Come and dine with me to-night!"

"I can't, Henry!" Henry made an angry gesture. "Don't be hurt, " Marshwent on quickly. "I have things to attend to. You see, I didn't know youwere here. I'm on my way now to a . . . A committee meeting. I'll come andsee you to-morrow, if I can manage it. I'll lunch with you somewhere!"

"All right. I'll meet you here at one, and we'll lunch at theShelbourne. By the way, John, aren't there some races on Monday?"

"Yes . . . At Fairyhouse!"

"Well, couldn't we go to them? I've never seen a horse-race in mylife!. . . "

"I don't think I can manage that, Henry!. . . "

"Oh, damn you, you can't manage anything. Well, all right, I'll see youto-morrow!"

"Good-bye, then!. . . "

He went off, leaving Henry on the bridge staring after him, and as hewent towards the Grafton Street gate, there was something slightlyincongruous about his look. 

"I know what it is, " Henry said to himself. "His coat's too big for him. He always did wear things that didn't fit him!"

2

Marsh did not keep the appointment. Soon after one o'clock, a boy cameto Henry, and asked him if he were Mr. Quinn, and when Henry had assuredhim that he was, he said, "Mr. Marsh bid me to tell you, sir, that he'snot able to come. He says he's very sorry, but he can't help it!"

The lad repeated the message almost as if he had learned it by heart. "Oh, very well!" Henry said, offering money to him. 

"Ah, sure, that's all right, sir!" the lad said, and then he went away. 

"I suppose, " Henry said to himself angrily, "he's at his damned drillingagain!"

He lunched alone, and then took the tram to Kingstown, and walked fromthere to Bray along the coast. He felt dispirited and lonely. Jordan andSaxon were out of Dublin . . . Jordan was in Sligo, he had heard, andSaxon was staying with his uncle near the mountains. He knew that Crewslived in Bray, but he had forgotten the address. "Perhaps, " he thought, "I shall see him in the street. . . . "

"Lordy God!" he exclaimed, "I'd give the world for some one to talk to. John Marsh might have tried to meet me. Fooling about with his . . . Penny-farthing volunteers!"

"In a little while, " he said to himself, as he descended into Killineyand walked along the road by the railway station, "I shall be married toMary, and then!. . . "

He remembered what she had said to him at Boveyhayne, "I'd like you togo, Quinny . . . I can't pretend that I wouldn't. . . . "

He stood for a while, leaning against the wall and looking out over thecrumpled sea. "I don't know, " he said to himself, "I don't know!"

3

He climbed to the top of Bray Head, and while he stood there, his mindwas full of thoughts that beat backwards and forwards. In olden times, the histories said, Ireland had sent a stream of scholars over the wasteplaces of Europe to fertilise them and make them fruitful. "Now, " hethought bitterly, "we send 'bosses' to Tammany Hall. . . . "

He tried to envisage the means whereby Ireland would be brought to themeasure and the stature of a dignified and honourable nation . . . "notthis brawling, whining, cadging, snivelling, Oh-Jesus-have-mercy-on-usdisorder!" and he saw only a long, tedious, painful process ofself-regeneration. "We must rise on our own wings!"

"But first we must be free, free from the bondage of history, free fromthe bondage of romance, free from the bondage of politics, free from thebondage of religion, and free from the bondage of our bellies!"

"There are four Irishmen to be conquered and controlled: the Publican, the Priest, the Politician and the Poet. . . . "

"We cannot be friendly with England until we are equal with England . . . But England cannot make us equal with her . . . We can only do thatourselves!"

"England is our sister . . . Not our mother!. . . "

"Catholicism is Death . . . And Intolerance is Death. Wherever there isCatholicism there is Decay that will not be stopped until the peopleprotest. Wherever there is Intolerance there is a waste of life, aperversion of energy. When the Protestant ceases, and the Catholicbegins, to shout 'To Hell with the Pope, ' there will be glory and lifein Ireland. . . . "

He tried to plan a means of making a change of mind in Ireland. "We mustmake opinions and active brains!" and so he saw himself urging hisfriends to abandon parliaments to the middle-aged and the second-rate, while they bent their minds to the conquest of the schools. "Let the oldmen make their speeches, " he said aloud as if he were addressing aconference. "We'll mould the minds of the children!"

They must exult in service. "I believe in Work . . . In the Job Well Done. . . In giving oneself without ceasing . . . In the holy communion of menlabouring together for something which is greater than themselves . . . Inspending oneself with no reward but to know that one is spent well!. . . "

They would enlist the young men of generous mind. They would open theirminds to the knowledge of the wide world, and would pity the man who wascontent only to be an islander; and they would give the harvest of theirminds to their juniors, so that they, when they grew to manhood, mightfind greater ease in working for the common good. They would demand, notprivileges, but responsibilities. "If we cannot make decisions, evenwhen we decide wrongly, then we are not men!"

"We must kill the Publican, we must subdue the Priest, we must humiliatethe Politician, and chasten the Poet. . . . "

"In all our ways, O God, let us guide ourselves!. . . "

It seemed to him that God was not a Being who miraculously made theworld, but a Being who laboured at it, suffered and failed, and roseagain and achieved. . . . He could hear God, stumbling through theUniverse, full of the agony of desire, calling continually, "Let therebe Light! Let there be Light!. . . "

4

He looked about him. Behind him, lay the long broken line of the Wicklowmountains, with the Sugar Loaf thrusting its pointed head into theheavens. There in front of him, heaving and tumbling, was the sea: amiracle of healing and cleansing. It would be good, he thought, to spendone's life in the sound of the sea, taking no care for the lives ofother men, content that oneself was fed and comfortable. "But that wouldnot be enough. There must be Light and More Light!"

"God, " he said, "has many forms. In that place, he is a Quietness . . . Inthis place, a Discontent . . . In a third place, a Quest. "

"But here, God is a Demand. 'Let there be Light! Let there be moreLight!'"

5

He went home and wrote to Mary. "_My impulse is to tell you no more thanthis, that I love you. I wrote to you this morning, and I have nothingto add that is news. But I feel an overpowering desire to insist on mylove for you . . . To do nothing for ever but love you and love you. . . . You see the mood I'm in! I went out of Dublin to-day, sulking anddepressed because John Marsh had failed me and I was lonely, but now I'mextraordinarily happy. I feel that I have only to stretch out my handand touch you . . . And then I shall be depressed no more. This is not aletter. It has no beginning and it will have no end. It's an outpouring. To-night is very beautiful. I went up to my bedroom a few moments ago, and sat at the window looking over Stephen's Green. There was a bluemist hanging over the trees, and the sky was full of light and colour. Ido not believe there is any place in the world where one sees so much ofthe sky as in Dublin. It reaches up and up until you feel that if a birdwere to pierce the clouds with its beak, it would tear a hole in theheavens and let the universe in. And while I was sitting there, I feltvery near to you, dearest. In ten days we shall be married, and then youwill come with me and see these places, too. I shall become Irish overagain when I show you my home, and I shall watch Ireland taking hold ofyou and absorbing you and making you as Irish as I am. You'll go onthinking that you're English until some one speaks disparagingly ofIreland, and then you'll flare up, and you'll be Irish, not only innature, but in knowledge. Ireland does that to people, so you cannothope to escape. Good-night, my very dear!_"

6

On Sunday, he went into the mountains, and in the evening he returned toDublin. There was an extraordinary quietness in the streets, though theywere crowded with people . . . The quietness that comes when people aretired and happy. As he crossed O'Connell Bridge, he stood for a fewmoments to look up the Liffey. The sunset had transmuted the river tothe look of a sheet of crinkled gold, and the sunlight made the houseson the quays look warm and lovely, even though they were old and wornand discoloured. "In her heart, " he thought, "Dublin is still a proudlady, although her dress be draggled!"

He turned to look at a company of Volunteers who were marching towardsLiberty Hall. There were little girls in Gaelic dress at the head ofthem, accompanied by a pale, tired-looking woman, with tightened lips, who stumped heavily by the side of them; and following them, came youngmen and boys and a shuffling group of hungry labourers, misshapen byheavy toil and privation . . . And as the company passed by, girls stoodon the pavement and jeered at them. They pointed to the woman withtightened lips, and mocked at her uniform and her tossed hair. . . . 

"They're fools, " Henry thought, looking at them as they went wearily on, "but, by God, they're finer than the people who jeer at them. They . . . They are serving something . . . And these Don't-Care-a-Damners aren'tserving anything!. . . "

There was a man at his elbow who turned to him and said, "Them lads 'udrun like hell if you were to point a penny pop-gun at them! If a peelerwas to take their names, they'd be shiverin' with fright. They'd fallout of their trousers with the terror'd be on them!"

Henry did not answer. Indeed, it seemed incredible that there was anyfight in them . . . If he had been asked for his opinion, he might havesaid something similar to what this stranger had said to him . . . But hehated to hear the man's disparagement, and so he did not make any answerto him. 

"I'd rather have them on my side than have him, " he thought as he movedaway, "with the stink of porter on him!"

It sickened him to see the generosity and the youth walking in thecompany of the hopelessness of Ireland, training themselves in themeans of killing. "If they'd put all that energy and enthusiasm intosomething that will preserve life and make it deeper and finer, nothingcould prevail against them. If only John had more intellect and lessemotion . . . If Mineely and Connolly were less bitter!"

He walked along Grafton Street, turning phrases over in his mind, angryphrases, bitter things that he would say to John Marsh when he met him. 

"What have young lads and girls to do with Hate and Death?" he said tohimself, as if he were talking to Marsh. "You're perverting them fromtheir purpose! You're robbing God of His due . . . Of the hope that fillsHis Heart with each generation!"

"But it's no good talking to him . . . He's too fond of spilling over. Ifhe were like Yeats, content to love Ireland at a distance . . . To 'ariseand go now' no further than the Euston Road . . . He might achievesomething, and at all events, he'd be harmless!"

He turned out of Grafton Street into Stephen's Green. 

"To-morrow, " he said to himself, "I'll go to Fairyhouse!"

And then he went to his Club. He was tired and sleepy, and soon aftersupper, he went to bed. 

7

It was late when he awoke and so, feeling lazy after his day's climbing, he resolved that he would not go to the races. "I'll loaf about, " hesaid, "and to-night I'll go to a theatre. " There was a letter from Maryand one from Roger. "_Gerald Luke was killed in France last week, and sowas Clifford Dartrey. Goeffrey Grant has been wounded badly. TheImproved Tories have suffered heavily in the War. . . . _" Roger wrote. 

When he had breakfasted, he left the Club and walked towards SackvilleStreet. He would go to the Abbey Theatre, he thought, and book a seatfor the evening performance. 

There was an odd, bewildered look about the people who stood in groupsin Sackville Street. 

"What's up?" Henry said to a bystander. 

"Begod, " said the man, "I think there's a rebellion on. That's what thiswoman says anyway!"

"A what?"

"A rebellion or something of the sort. You can ask her yourself! Begod, it's a quare day to have it. The people'll not enjoy themselves atall. . . . "

Henry turned to the woman who was standing in the centre of the group, endlessly relating her experience. 

"I went to the Gener'l, " she said, "an' I said to the man behin' thecounter, 'Gimme two ha'penny postcards an' a penny stamp an' change fora shillin', if you please!' and I hadn't the words out of my mouth 'tila man in a green uniform . . . One of them Sinn Feiners . . . Come up to me, an' pointed a gun at me, an' toul' me to go home. 'Go home yourself!'says I, an' I give his oul' gun a push with my hand, 'an' who are you tobe orderin' a person about?' 'If you don't go on when I tell you, ' sayshe, 'I'll shoot you!' an' I declare to my God he looked as if he'd blowthe head off you. 'Well, wait till I get my change anyway, ' says I. 'Ye'll get no change here, ' says he. 'I will so, ' I said, and I turnedto the man behind the counter, but, sure, God bless you, he wasn'tthere. 'Well, this bates all, ' says I to the Sinn Feiner, 'an if thepeelers catches a houldt of you, you'll get into bother over the head ofthis!' I picked up my shillin', an' I went out. The place was full ofthem. They were orderin' everybody out, except a couple or threesoldiers that they made prisoners. An' if you were to go down there now, you'd see them, young fellas that I could bate with my one hand, cockedup behin' the windas with guns in their hands, an' telling people tomove on out of that. . . . "

Some one came into the group, and said "What's that?" and she turned tohim and began again. "I went in to the Gener'l, " she said, "an' I saidto the man behin' the counter, 'Gimme two ha'penny postcards. . . . '"

Henry made his way out of the group of listeners, and walked down thestreet towards the General Post Office. 

"It's absurd, " he said. "Ridiculous! A rebellion!"

But something was toward. On the roof of the Post Office there were twoflags, a green flag with a motto on it, and a tri-colour, orange, whiteand green. There was hardly any wind, and the flags hung limply fromtheir staffs, but as Henry approached the Post Office, the wind stirred, and the green flag fluttered enough for him to read what was printed onit. It bore the legend IRISH REPUBLIC. 

"It's a poor sort of performance, this!" he said as he came up to thebuilding. 

All the windows on the ground floor were broken, and many of those onthe upper floors, and in each window, on sacks laid on piled furniture, were one or two young volunteers, each with a rifle cocked. . . . 

8

There was a holiday mood on the people. They had come out to enjoythemselves, and here was an entertainment beyond their dreams ofpleasure. . . . It was a dangerous kind of joke to play . . . One of themoul' guns might go off, and who knows who might get killed dead . . . Andit was a serious thing to seize possession of the Post Office . . . If thepeelers was to come an' catch them at it an' bring them before themagistrates, they'd be damn near transported . . . But it was the greatjoke all the same. Whoever thought there would be the like of that tosee, and not a penny to pay for it. . . . The minute the peelers came up. . . Where in hell were the peelers?

It was then that they began to believe that there was more than a jokein this rebellion. There were no policemen to be seen anywhere. "That'sstrange now! There ought to be a peeler or two about!. . . "

Then some one, pale and startled, came by. "They've killed a policeman!"he said. "The unfortunate man! I was coming past the Castle, and I saw aSinn Feiner go up to him and blow his brains out. Not a word of warning!The poor man put up his hand to bid them go back . . . They were trying toget into the Castle . . . And the Sinn Feiner lifted his rifle and shothim dead!. . . "

"Begod, it's in earnest they are!. . . "

"But what can they do? They can't hold out against the British Army. . . . "

"They might do a lot, now! They're mad, the whole of them! What in helldo they want to start a rebellion for?. . . "

Henry moved away. He went from group to group, listening to one for awhile, and then moving on to another. There were many rumours alreadyflying through the crowd. The Germans had landed in the West, and weremarching to Dublin. A "mysterious stranger" had been captured on thecoast of Kerry a few days before. "It was Casement!" The German Navy hadmade a raid on England, and the British Fleet had been badly beaten. . . . 

A youth, holding a rifle with a fixed bayonet, stood on sentry-go in themiddle of the street. He was very pale and tired and nervous-looking, but looked as resolute as he looked tired. He did not speak to any one, nor did any one speak to him. He stood there, staring fixedly in frontof him, watching and watching. . . . 

There was a sound of rumbling carts, and the noise of people cheering, and presently a procession of wagons, loaded with cauliflower, andguarded by armed Volunteers, came out of a side street, and drove up tothe Post Office. 

"The Commissariat!" some one said. "Begod they'll be tired ofcauliflower before they're through with that lot!"

It was comical to see those loads of cauliflower being driven past. Ireland was to fight for freedom with her stomach full ofcauliflower. . . . 

There was a Proclamation of the Republic on a wall near by, and hehurried to read it. 

"What's the thing at the head of it?" a woman asked, gazing at theGaelic inscription on top of the Proclamation. 

"That's Irish, " the man beside her replied. 

"I know that. What does it mean?"

"Begod, I don't know. . . . "

Henry read the Proclamation through, and then re-read the finely-phrasedend of it!

 _We place the Irish Republic under the protection of the Most High God, Whose Blessing we invoke on our arms, and we pray that no one who serves that cause will dishonour it. In this supreme hour the Irish nation must by its valour and discipline, and by the readiness of its children to sacrifice themselves for the common good, prove itself worthy of the august destiny to which it is called. _

"That's John, " he said to himself, "or MacDonagh! And they began thething by killing an unarmed man! Their fine phrases won't cover thatmean deed!. . . "

9

He went back to his Club, and on the way, found that the rebels were inpossession of Stephen's Green. The gates were closed, and at each gatewere armed guards. He looked through the railings, and saw some boyslying on the turf, with their rifles beside them. They did not move norlook up, but lay very still and quiet, with a strange, preoccupiedexpression on their faces. A little further on, other lads were diggingup the earth. 

"What are you doing?" he said to one of them, and the lad straightenedhimself and wiped the sweat from his brow. 

"I don't know, sir!" he said, smiling nervously. "I'm supposed to bediggin' a trench, but I think I'm diggin' my grave!. . . "

A trench! When he looked at the poor scraping of earth and sod, he felta fierce anger against Marsh and his friends swelling in his heart "Theyhaven't the gumption to know that this is the worst place they couldhave chosen to entrench themselves, even if they knew how to maketrenches!" On all sides of the Green were high houses, from which itwould be easy to pick off every man that lay in the trenches. . . . 

There were carts and motor-cars drawn across the street to make abarricade, and most of the gates of the Green had garden-seats andplanks lying against them. There were even branches, torn from the treesand shrubs, thrust through the railings. . . . 

He went into his Club to lunch. "They're in the College of Surgeons, sir!" a servant said. "They say Madame's in the Green!. . . "

"Madame?" he said vaguely. 

"Yes. Madame Markiewicz. They killed a policeman. . . . "

"Do you mean the man at the Castle?"

"No, sir. I didn't hear of him. They killed this one on the other sideof the Green. There's cold lamb and cold chicken, sir!"

"I'll have lamb!. . . "

He hurried over his meal. He had little appetite for eating, and when hehad finished, he went to the smoking-room and wrote to Mary. "_Don't bealarmed if you see anything about an Irish Rebellion in thenewspapers_, " he wrote. "_It will probably be over by to-morrow. I'mquite all right. You're not to worry!. . . _" And when he had finished ithe went out and posted it. "Good Lord!" he said aloud, as the letterfell into the box, "I forgot that they've got hold of the General. Idon't suppose there'll be a collection!"

He returned to the Club, but he could not keep still. There was no one, except the servants and himself, in the house, and the emptiness of itmade him feel restless. Looking out of the window, he saw little girls, like those he had seen on Sunday night, running about the Green, busy onerrands. . . . 

"The Kids' Rebellion!" he said to himself. . . . 

He left the club, and walked round the Green again, and as he passed theCollege of Surgeons, two men appeared on the roof, and proceeded tounfold the Republican tri-colour. They were clumsy, and they fumbledwith it, entangling the cords . . . But at last they got it free, and thenthey hauled it to the top of the flagstaff. The people on the pavementbelow watched it as it fluttered in the light breeze, but none of themspoke or cheered. The rebels in the Green made no sound either. TheRepublican flag was hauled to its place in silence. 

"They don't seem very grateful for their deliverance, " Henry thought, glancing at the bystanders as he moved up the street. There was a crowdof people on the edge of the pavement, and he thrust himself into it, and glanced over the shoulder of a woman at the ground. There was a messof thick, congealing blood splashed on the road and the kerb. 

"That's where the peeler was killed!" the woman said to him. . . . 

He edged out of the crowd as quickly as he could, feeling sick withhorror, and again he felt a bitter anger against John Marsh. 

"He was going to Mass every morning, damn him, to make sure of his ownsoul, but he didn't give the policeman time to make any preparation. Allhis high motives and his idealism tumble down to that . . . That mess onthe pavement!. . . "

10

"But what's the Government doing?" he wondered. 

There were no police, no soldiers, no authority anywhere. It seemedunbelievable that a number of armed youths and men could seize a capitalcity without opposition of any kind. He wondered whether there was anytruth in the rumours that had been floating about the city all day. Could it possibly be that the Germans had effected a landing in Irelandand were marching on the city? Could it be true that the British Fleethad been destroyed by the German Fleet? Had the Government thrown up thesponge?. . . 

He met O'Dowd, an official whom he had seen several times at the Club. "Where's the Government?" he asked. . . . 

"Well, to tell you the truth, Quinn, I don't know. I believe there's anelection going on at Trinity College. It's a damned comic affair, this!"

"Comic!"

"Well, I mean to say, it's a bit rum, isn't it?"

11

He went back to the Club in the evening. There were no lights in thestreets, and as the dusk settled down, the crowds of holiday-makersbegan to move homewards. There were no trams running and few cars to beseen, and the tired crowd that had been standing or walking about allday, dragged itself home listlessly and heavily. There was a sense offoreboding over the people, and some of them glanced apprehensivelyabout them. The thing had been funny in the daylight, but it was gettingdark now . . . And who knew what might be lurking in the shadows? It wasstrange that there were no police to be seen anywhere, and strangerstill that the soldiers had not appeared. . . . 

There was a Sinn Feiner on guard at the gate near Henry's Club, andsitting at the open window, Henry could see him very distinctly: alittle, red-haired, angry man, who chewed his moustache and gaped abouthim with bloodshot eyes. There were other Sinn Feiners with him, but hewas the most distinctive. He could not stay still: he moved aboutcontinually, going into the Park and coming out again, challengingpassers-by, sloping his rifle and ordering it, and then sloping itagain. "The thing's getting on his nerves, " Henry thought, as he watchedhim; and while he watched, an elderly man came past the Shelbourne Hotelin the uniform of a naval officer. The Sinn Feiners saw him, and thered-haired man ordered his subordinates to arrest him. They ran acrossthe street and attempted to seize him, but he resisted, and raised hiswalking stick to defend himself. A rebel caught hold of the stick, andthe two men stood there, against a gateway, struggling to wrest thestick from each other. The up-and-down movement of their arms was likethe quick, jerky movement of figures in a film, and for a moment or two, Henry wanted to laugh . . . But the desire died when he saw the red-hairedman raising his rifle and aiming at the old man's heart. . . . 

"Oh, my God, he's going to shoot him!" he shouted out, jumping up fromhis seat and leaning out of the window. "Don't shoot him . . . Don't shoothim!" he cried. It seemed to him that he was yelling at the top of hisvoice, but that could not have been so, for no one turned to look . . . And yet he could hear the red-haired man distinctly. 

"I have ye covered, " he was saying, "an' I'll shoot ye if ye don't givein!. . . "

The old man held on to the stick for a moment or two, and then, straightening himself, he surrendered; and the rebels led him into thePark. Through the trees, Henry could see him being conducted before arebel officer who saluted him and began to interrogate him. Then theprocession moved off into the centre of the Park, and the little angry, red-haired man returned to the gate. 

"In the morning, " Henry exclaimed to himself, "in the morning, thatlittle swine will sing another song!"

12

A horse-drawn cab came down the street, and as it approached, the guardat the gate turned out, and challenged the driver. "Halt!" they shouted. 

"Ah, g'long with you!" the driver replied, whipping up his horse. 

"Halt!" they called again, and a third time "Halt!" but the driver didnot heed them, and then they fired at him. . . . There was a clatter ofhooves on the street, and the horse fell to the ground, striking sparksfrom the stones as it struggled to rise again. The driver did not pause:he jumped from his box with amazing celerity and disappeared so swiftlythat the rebels could not catch him. And while the horse lay strugglingon the street, a motor-car came by, and again the rebels sent out theirchallenge, and again the challenge was ignored. "Halt! Halt! Halt!. . . "The chauffeur drove on, and the rebels fired on the occupants of thecar. There was a swift application of brakes, and the car slithered upagainst the pavement . . . And as it slithered, a man stood up beside thedriver, holding his hand to his side, and yelled, "Oh, I'm dead! I'mdead!. . . "

The chauffeur hurried away. . . . 

The rebels gathered round the shrieking man. "Why didn't you stop whenwe challenged you!" they demanded. 

"Aw! Aw! Aw!" he answered. . . . 

"Like a stuck pig!" thought Henry. "Squealing like a stuck pig!"

His head was rolling, but he was able to walk. "He's not much hurt, "Henry murmured to himself, "but he's damned frightened. "

"Aw, what did ye do it for? Aw! Aw! Aw!. . . "

"Take him to the hospital!. . . "

They led him a little way towards the hospital of St. Vincent de Paul, and then, for some reason, changed their minds, and took him into thePark. It was difficult now to see what was happening. There was aderelict tram near the club, and beyond that, still pawing at theground, was the wounded horse. . . . 

"Why don't they shoot the poor beast!" Henry exclaimed. 

But it would not enter their minds to put the animal out of pain. Theywere Catholics, and Catholic peoples, the world over, are cruel tobeasts. Too intent on pitying their own souls, to have pity onanimals. . . . 

13

He closed the shutters and turned on the light. "I wonder where Johnis?" he thought as he did so. "_This_ is why he couldn't come toGlendalough with me. What the hell does he think he's going to gain byit?" He glanced about the room. "It's damned odd, " he said aloud, "but Idon't feel frightened. I should have thought I'd feel scared. . . . Ofcourse, as there was going to be a rebellion, I'm rather glad I'm hereto see it!"

He went to his bedroom and got a pack of patience cards. 

"There'll be no theatre to-night!" he said. "I think I'll play 'MissMilligan. ' . . . "

14

The silence of the house made him feel restless. 

"I'll go to bed, " he exclaimed. "I may as well get all the sleep I can. "

He went to his room, and stumbled towards the windows. 

"I'll close the shutters while I'm undressing;" he went on. "I don'twant to be 'potted' needlessly!"

He tried to see into the Park, but the great masses of trees thatundulated like a rough sea, prevented him from seeing anything. Therewere figures at the gate . . . On guard!

"I wonder if that little red-haired man's still there, " he thought. "Poor devils! Some of them must feel damned queer to-night!. . . "

He closed the shutters, and switched the light on, and then, when he hadundressed he darkened the room again. "I must have some air, " he said, opening the shutters. 

He climbed into bed. Now and then a rifle-shot was fired, and sometimesthere was a succession of shots. . . . 

"In the morning, " he said, as he turned on his side and closed his eyes, "they'll be cleared out of that!. . . "

THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER

1

He awoke suddenly, and sat up in bed. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "I'vebeen asleep!" It was still dark, but less dark than it was when he cameto bed. He could just see the time by holding his watch close to hiseyes. "Four, " he murmured. It was strange that he should have slept atall, for there had been spasmodic firing all night. He got out of bed, and went across his room to the window, and looked out, and as helooked, the wounded horse struggled to rise, pawing the ground feebly, and then fell over on its side. "It isn't dead!. . . " When he had lookedat it last, it had been lying very still, and he had thought it wasdead. 

He looked across the road to the Park gates, but could not see any onestanding there. "Perhaps they've gone!" There was a shapeless thinglying on the ground, outside the gates, but he could not make out whatit was. In the dim light, it looked like a great piece of paper . . . Thedebris of a windy day. 

There was no movement anywhere . . . The horse was still now . . . But nowand then a single shot rang out, and then came a volley. "You'd thinkthey were just trying to make a noise! I wonder what's been happeningall night, " he said, as he went back to bed. 

2

He fell asleep again, and when he awoke, wakened by a heavier sound ofshooting, it was almost six o'clock, and it was light. "That must be thesoldiers, " he thought, listening to the heavier rifle fire. He sat upin bed, and glanced about the room. "I _was_ an ass not to keep theshutters closed, " he said aloud. "A stray bullet might have come in here. . . I wonder whether the shutters would stop a bullet. After all, Biblesdo!. . . "

He could just see the Republican flag floating from the flagstaff on theroof of the College of Surgeons. "They're still there, then!" And whilehe sat looking at it, he heard the sound of some one, wearing heavyboots, coming down the streets, making loud clattering echoes in thesilence. "That's funny!" he said. "People are going about already. Perhaps it's over . . . Practically over!. . . "

He got out of bed, and as he did so, he heard the sharp rattle ofrifles, and when the echo of it had ceased, he could not hear the noiseof heavy treading any more. He stood still in the centre of the room, listening, and presently he heard a groan. He ran to the window andlooked out. In the roadway, beneath him, an old man was lying on hisback, groaning very faintly. 

"They've killed him!" Henry murmured, glancing across the road at thehotel, from which the sound of firing had come. "They didn't challengehim . . . They just shot him!"

Four times, the old man groaned, and then he died. He was lying in theattitude of a young child asleep. One leg was outstretched and the otherwas lightly raised. His right arm was lying straight out from his body, and the hand was turned up and hollowed. Very easy and natural was hisattitude, lying there in the morning light. He looked like a labourer. "Going to his work, " I suppose. "Thinking little of the rebellion. Juststumping along to his job . . . And then!. . . "

There was a bundle lying by his side, a red handkerchief that seemed tobe holding food . . . And flowing towards it, trickling, so slowly did itmove, from his body was a little red dribble. . . . 

Henry looked at him with a feeling of curiosity and pity. He had neverseen a man killed before. He had never seen any dead person, not evenMrs. Clutters, until his father died. He had purposely avoided seeingMrs. Clutters' body . . . Something in the thought of death repelled himand made him reluctant to look at a corpse, and so, when he had beenasked if he would like to see Mrs. Clutters, he had made some evasivereply. It had been different when his father died. He had looked on him, not as a dead man, but as his father, still, even in death, his father, able to love and be loved. When he thought of death, he thought, not ofMr. Quinn, but of Mrs. Clutters, and always it seemed to him that thedead were frightful. . . . But this old man, a few moments ago intent ongetting to his work in time, and now, cognisant, perhaps of all themysteries of this world, had nothing frightful about him. There wasbeauty in the way he was lying in the roadway . . . In that careless, graceful attitude . . . As if he were gratefully resting after muchlabour. . . . 

He looked across the roadway, and now it was plain that the shapelessthing that had looked in the dim light like paper blown to a corner bythe wind, was a dead man. He, too, was lying on his back, with his legsstretched straight out and slightly parted . . . And while Henry looked athim, it seemed to him that the man was familiar to him. The browndust-coat he was wearing!. . . And then he remembered. It was thered-haired, angry-looking, nervous man, who had chewed his moustache andgaped about him with bloodshot eyes. . . . 

He dressed, and went downstairs. The servants were up, and moving aboutthe house, and one of them came to him. 

"Will you have your breakfast now, sir!" she asked, and when he hadanswered that he would, she said, "There's no milk, sir. The milkmandidn't come this morning!"

"It doesn't matter, " he replied. "I'll have it without!"

He went to the front of the house, while his breakfast was beingprepared, and looked out of the window. In the bushes on the other sideof the road, he could see a youth, crawling on his stomach, and dragginga rifle after him. He raised himself on to his knees, and glanced up atthe hotel, where there were some soldiers who had been brought in duringthe night, and when he had raised himself, the soldiers in the upperwindows saw him, and fired on him. He got up and ran across the pathtowards the shelter of the trees, and as he ran, the bullets spatteredabout him. Then he staggered . . . And Henry could not see him again. 

3

An ambulance came and the bodies of the rebel and the labourer were putinto it and taken away. The horse had been hauled to the pavement, andit lay in a great congealed mess of blood that had poured from a gash inits throat. . . . 

4

Later in the morning, the people began to move about, and after a whilethe streets were full of sightseers. It was possible now to learnsomething of what happened on the previous day and during the night. There had been fierce fighting in places. Soldiers were hurrying fromthe Curragh, from the North of Ireland, from England. The thing wasserious . . . The rebels had seized various strategic points, and weredetermined to fight hardly. During the night, realising that Stephen'sGreen was a dangerous place to be in, they had left it for the shelterof the College of Surgeons. Some of them were still there, sniping fromsafe points. 

Henry went out and wandered about the streets. If there were soldiers inDublin, there were very few, and the rebels still had possession of thecity. He listened to the comments of the people who passed him, and ashe listened, he realised that there was resentment everywhere againstthe Sinn Feiners. Behind one of the gates of the Park, a Sinn Feinerwas lying face downwards in the hole he had made to be a trench, and thecrowd climbed up the railings to gape at him. A youth thrust his waythrough the people and peered at the dead man, and then he turned to thecrowd and said to them, "Let's get the poor chap out and bury him!" Agirl looked at him resentfully, and hurried to a towsled woman standingon the kerb, and told her what the youth had said, and instantly thewoman rushed at him and hit him about the head and back. "No, ye'll notget him out, " she yelled at him. "Let him lie there an' rot like thepoor soldiers!"

"They forgot, the Sinn Feiners, that these women's husbands and sons areat the Front!" Henry thought. 

What madness was it that possessed them to rise? A little group of menand boys had set itself against a Power in the interests of people whodid not desire their services. They could not hope to win the fight . . . They had not the gratitude or the good wishes of the people for whomthey were fighting. What were they going to do next? They had taken thePost Office and the College of Surgeons and other places because therewas no one to prevent them from taking them . . . But what were they goingto do next? They could not, even the wildest of them, believe that thisimmunity from attack would last forever. Was there one among them withan idea of the future of Ireland, of the complexities of government?. . . 

He wanted to get hold of a leader of them and ask him just what heproposed to do with Ireland?. . . 

5

The rumours this day were wilder than they were on Monday. A man assuredHenry that the Pope had arrived in Ireland on an aeroplane and that Dr. Walsh, the Catholic Archbishop of Dublin had committed suicide theminute he heard of the outbreak of the Rebellion. Then the rumourchanged, and it was said that the Pope had thrown himself from the roofof the Vatican. Lord Wimborne, the Viceroy, had been taken a prisoner, and was now interned in Liberty Hall. . . . The Orangemen, sick of England, were marching to the support of the Sinn Feiners, under the leadershipof Mr. Joseph Devlin! Ireland was entirely surrounded by Germansubmarines in order to prevent British transports from landingtroops. . . . 

6

There was looting in Sackville Street. Henry had made his way towardsthe General Post Office, for he had heard that John Marsh was there, andwhile he stood about, hoping that he might see him, the looting began. Half-starved people swarmed up from the slums, like locusts, and seizedall they could find. They destroyed things in sheer wantonness. . . . 

"Well, if a city is content to keep such slums as Dublin has, it mustput up with the consequences!" Henry thought. And while he watched, hesaw John Marsh going to a shop which was being looted. He hauled ahulking lad out of the broken window and flung him back into the crowd. 

"Damn you, " he shouted, "are you trying to disgrace your country?" Hepointed his rifle at the crowd. "I'll shoot the first one of you thattouches a thing!"

But it was impossible for them to control the looters, and while Johnguarded one shop, the crowd passed on to another. 

"John!" said Henry, going up to him and touching his arm. 

He started and turned round. His face was drawn and haggard and verypale. 

"Henry!" he said, smiling. "I wondered who it was. I wish you'd goneaway when I asked you to go. It wasn't because I wanted to get rid ofyou, Henry. I wanted you to be out of this . . . So that you could go andget married in peace!"

"You can't win, John. You know you can't win!. . . "

"I know we can't win a military success! . . . " He drew his hand acrosshis eyes. "My God, I'm tired, Henry!" he said. "I'm worn out. I haven'tslept since Saturday night. . . . "

"John!"

"Yes, Henry, what is it?"

"Come away with me. You know you can't win . . . You can't possibly win. Well go over to England together. . . . "

"I'm fighting England, Henry, not visiting it!"

"You can hide there for a while . . . Until you can get away to France orAmerica!"

"Go away and leave them now, Henry?"

"Yes. The longer you hold out, the worse it'll be for everybody. Thepeople are against you . . . I've heard things to-day that I neverexpected to hear in Dublin. . . . "

"I know they're against us. We thought there would be more on our side, but that's all the more reason why we should fight. The people aregetting too English in their ways, Henry . . . They think too much ofmoney. All those women in the Combe . . . Do you know why they're againstus? . . . Because they can't get their separation allowances! We won't wina military success . . . We all know that . . . McDonagh and Pearse andConnolly and Mineely and all of us . . . We know that . . . But well win aspiritual success!"

"A spiritual success?"

"Yes. Well remind the people that Ireland is not yet a nation and thatthere are Irishmen who are still willing to die for their country. They've become very English, but they're not altogether English, Henry. They've still some of the old Irish spirit in them, and we may quickenthat!"

"Nothing will ever convince you, I suppose, that the English aren't arobber race?. . . "

"Nothing. I daresay the mass of the people are decent enough, but Idon't know and I don't care. All that matters to me is that mycountrymen shall not become like them!. . . "

"You're ruining the work of thirty years, John. Blowing it up in achildish rage!. . . "

"You always thought I was a fool, Henry, but I don't think as you think. We won the Home Rule Act by fair and constitutional means . . . Andthey've done us out of it. The Ulster men had only to yell at them, andthey gave in. Do you think they'll keep their word after the War?"

"Yes. "

"Well, I don't. They'll use that damned Amending Act to cheat us asthey've cheated us before. No, Henry, this is a poor hope, but it is ahope. You see, when we're beaten and those of us who are left alive, surrender, the English will be sure to do the right thing . . . From ourpoint of view! That's one of the things we count on. They'll put us downwith great firmness. They'll make an example of us. They'll shoot us, Henry . . . And when they do that, we'll win. We're not popular now . . . Oh, I don't need you to tell me that . . . But we'll be popular then. TheEnglish will make us popular!"

"Isn't it a little mean, John, to hit them when they aren't looking?"

"Mean! They've hit us often enough, haven't they? They got us on theground when we were sick and kicked us. Why shouldn't we take advantageof them?"

"The Germans!. . . "

"Why shouldn't we go to the Germans, or to any one who is willing tohelp us? Wolfe Tone went to the French!. . . "

"You won't come away with me?"

"No. I came here to die, Henry, not to be safe!"

They stood for a few moments in silence, looking at each other, and thenJohn put out his hand to Henry who took it in his. 

"I must get back now, " John said. "Good-bye, Henry. I don't suppose Ishall ever see you again. If we lose, you and your friends can come andtry your way. I've always wanted to die for Ireland ever since I wasable to understand anything about my country, and I shall get my wishsoon. Good-bye, Henry!"

"Good-bye, John!"

"I hope you and your wife will be very happy!" He made a wry smile, ashe went on. "I'm afraid you won't be able to get to England just as soonas you wished. If you'd gone when I asked you to go!. . . "

"I must get back now, " he said again. 

"Yes, John!"

"I'm glad I saw you. I wondered last night where you were. . . . "

"And I wondered where you were. "

"I was here. I've been here since Monday morning!"

He moved a few steps away, and then turned back. 

"I've always liked you, Henry, " he said, taking Henry's hand in his, "even when you made me angry. I wish you were on our side. . . . "

"I see no sense in this sort of thing, John!"

"I know you don't. And perhaps there isn't any sense in it, but that maynot matter. It's something, isn't it, to find men still willing to diefor their ideals, even when they know they haven't a chance of success?The Post Office is full of young boys, who want nothing better than todie for Ireland. Well, that's something, isn't it, in these times whenmost of our people aren't willing to do anything but make money?Good-bye again!"

He went back to the Post Office, very erect and very proud and veryresolute. 

"By God, " said Henry to himself, "I wish I had the heart to feel what hefeels!"

7

He was sitting in the smoking-room of the Club, trying to write. He hadwritten to Mary earlier in the evening, assuring her of his welfare, andDriffield, a Treasury official, who had come into the Club for a fewmoments, had offered to try and get it put into the special mail "pouch"which was sent from the Castle every day to London. "You mustn't sayanything about the Rebellion, " he said. "Just say you're all right. Ican't promise that it'll go off, but I'll do my best!" The restless, excited feeling which had possessed him since the beginning of therebellion still held him, and he was unable to continue at anything forlong. All day he had wandered about the city, learning more of itsbackways than he had ever known before. He had penetrated more deeplyinto the slums than he had done when he had explored them with GilbertFarlow, and it seemed to him that there was nothing to be done with themor with the people in them. They were decaying together, and the soonerthey decayed, the better would it be for Ireland. All his counsels thatday were counsels of despair. What was the good of working and buildingwhen this was the material out of which a nation must be made? What wasthe good of trying to make sure foundations when impatient, undisciplined people like John Marsh came and threw one's work to theground? Was it not better that every Irishman of alert and vigorous mindshould leave Ireland to rot, and choose another country where men hadstability of mind and purpose?. . . 

"But one must go on trying. If the house be pulled down, we must buildit up again. One must go on trying. . . . "

He would get his friends together, and they would plan to save what theycould from the wreckage. "And then we'll begin again! Whatever happens, we must begin again!"

He was tired of playing Patience, tired of reading, and tired ofsitting still. Perhaps, he thought, he could write. It would be oddafterwards to think that he had written a story during a rebellion. There was a great German . . . Who was it? . . . Heine or Goethe?. . . Oh, whycouldn't he remember names!. . . Who had gone on writing steadily, thoughthere was battle all about him. . . . He settled himself to write, thoughhe had no plan in his mind, and as he wrote, he felt that the story, whatever it might grow to be, must be comic. "I feel like a clown makingjokes in the circus while his wife is dying, " he said to himself. . . . 

But his restlessness persisted, and after a while he put his manuscriptaside, and took up a book which he had found in the bookcase: WilliamJames's _Pragmatism_: and began to read it. He remembered a discussionof Pragmatism by the Improved Tories, when Gilbert had described apragmatist as an unfrocked Jesuit. . . . 

And while he was burrowing into the first chapter, thinking more ofJames's graceful style than of his matter, there was a great rattle, anincessant hammer-and-rasp noise in the street. 

"Good God!" he exclaimed, jumping up and dropping the book, "what'sthat?"

Then it ceased, and there was a horrible quietness for a few moments, followed by the crack-crack of rifles, and then again thera-ra-ra-rat-rat-rat-rattle-rattle. . . . 

"Machine guns!" he exclaimed. He knew instinctively that they weremachine guns. "It . . . It startles you, that noise!"

It went on, rattling, with little pauses now and then as if the gun weretaking breath, for an hour or more: a paralysing sound, as if some giantwere drawing a great stick swiftly along iron railings. 

"I think I'd better put the light out, " he said, going across the roomto where the switch was, and as he went there was a cracking sound inthe window, and a bullet flew across the room and lodged in thewall. . . . 

He switched the light off, and stood for a while in the dark. Then heopened the door and went out and stood on the landing. The servants weresitting huddled together on the staircase, nervous looking, indeed, butnot frightened. It seemed to him to be remarkable that these girlsshould have kept their nerve as finely as they had. He smiled at them, as he closed the door behind him. 

"They're making a lot of noise, aren't they?" he said. 

"Isn't it awful, sir?" one of them answered. 

He did not speak of the bullet which had come into the room. "It musthave been a stray, " he thought, "and there's no sense in upsettingthem!"

"The soldiers are firing across the Green, " he said aloud, "at theCollege of Surgeons. I think we're safe enough here, but I'd keep awayfrom the windows!. . . "

"Yes, sir, we are!"

He went to his room, and sat at the window. At this height it wasunlikely that any stray bullet would come near him. But he could not seeany one. He could hear the wild-fowl crying in the Park . . . Distinctly, in the pause of the firing, he could hear a duck's quack-quack. . . . 

8

He went to bed, and tried to sleep, but could not. The firing from themachine-guns was intermittent now, but it still went on, and there was acontinuous crackling of rifle-fire. Several times he got up and lookedout . . . He had a curious and persistent desire to see whatever was goingon . . . To be in it . . . Extraordinarily he was anxious not to missanything. _He was neither afraid nor aware of the fact that he was notafraid. _ He had simply the sensation that exciting things werehappening, that he wanted to see as much of them as possible, that hewas excited, that his blood was flowing rapidly through his veins, thatthere was something hitting the inside of his head, thumping it. Thenwhen he was tired of straining to see into the darkness, he went backto bed again, and closed his eyes and tried to sleep. And sometimes hesucceeded in sleeping for a while . . . But always the noise of themachine-guns woke him. . . . 

He went to the window when the dawn broke, and looked across the Greento the College of Surgeons. 

"It's still flying, " he muttered as he watched the tri-colour flowing inthe wind. 

9

And now the Rebellion began to bore him. He could not work, and thewalks he could take were circumscribed. He walked down to TrinityCollege and stood there, watching the soldiers on the roof of theCollege as they fired up Dame Street to where some Sinn Feiners were inoccupation of a newspaper office, or along Westmoreland Street towardsthe Post Office. Wherever he went, there was the sound of bullets beingfired . . . But after a while, the sound ceased to affect him. There weresnipers on many roofs . . . And people had been killed by stray bullets. . . But, although the sudden crack of a rifle overhead made him jump, the boredom grew and increased. He wanted to get on with his work. . . . 

The soldiers were pouring into Dublin now . . . More and more of them. 

"It'll be over soon, " he said to himself. 

It seemed to him then that the thing he would remember always was thedead horse which still lay on the pavement, becoming more and moreoffensive. Wherever he went, he met people who said to him, "Have youseen the dead horse?" Impossible to forget the corrupting beast, impossible to refrain from saying too, "Have you seen the dead horse?"Magnify that immensely, increase enormously the noise, and one had theWar! Noise and stench and dead men and boredom!. . . 

He wandered about the streets, seeing the same people, listening to thesame statements, making the same remarks, wondering vaguely about food. He had seen high officials carrying loaves under their arms, and littlejugs of milk. . . . 

"I wish to God it was over, " he exclaimed. "I'm sick of this . . . Idleness!"

He spoke to a soldier in Merrion Square. "Do you like Dublin?" he said. 

"Oh, fine!" he answered. "We've been treated champion. I 'aven't seenmuch of it yet, of course, " he went on. "I've been 'ere ever since Ilanded!" He pointed to the pavement. "But I know this bit damn well. Youknow, " he went on, "we thought we was in France when we arrived 'ere. Couldn't make it out when we saw all the signs in English. I says to achap, as we was walking along, ''I, ' I says, 'is this Boolone?' 'Naow, ''e says, 'it's Ireland. '"

"And what did you say?" said Henry. 

"I said 'Blimey!'" He moved to the kerb as the soldier further along thestreet called "Pass these men along" and when he had called the warningto the next soldier, he returned to Henry. "I say, " he said, "wot arethese Sinn Feiners? I mean to say 'oo are they? Are they Irish, too?"

Henry tried to explain who the Sinn Feiners were. 

"But wot they want to do? Wot's the point of all this . . . This'umbuggin' about? We don't want to fight Irish people . . . We want tofight Germans!. . . " He looked about for a moment, and then added, as ifto clinch his statement, "I mean to say, I _know_ an Irish chap . . . 'e'sa friend of mine . . . But I don't know no bloody Germans, an' wot's moreI wouldn't know them neither . . . Dirty lot, I calls 'em!"

"You know, " he went on, "this is about the 'ottest bit of work a chapcould 'ave to do. These snipers, you know, they get on your nerves. Imean to say, 'ere you are, standin' 'ere, you might say, in the dark an'suddenly a bullet damn near 'its you . . . Or mebbe it does 'it you . . . One of our chaps was killed in front of that 'ouse last night . . . Theybeen swillin' the blood away, see!. . . " Henry looked across the road towhere a man was vigorously brooming the wet pavement. The soldierproceeded: "Well, you don't know where it's comin' from. 'E's up on oneof these 'ere roofs, 'idin', an' you're down 'ere . . . Exposed. 'E kneelsbe'ind the parapet, an' 'as a shot at you, an' then 'e 'ops along theroof to another place, an' 'as another shot at you. . . . You don't 'alfbegin to feel a bit jiggery when that's 'appening'. . . . "

10

There was no malice in that soldier. He was puzzled, as puzzled as hewould have been if his brother had suddenly seized a rifle and lain inwait for him. He looked upon the Irish as his comrades, not his enemies. "I mean to say, we're all the same, I mean to say!. . . " He had been incamp at Watford. "We was in a picture-palace, me an' my pal . . . A wholelot of us was there . . . And then a message was put on the screen: 'Allthe Dashes report at once!' I never thought nothink of it you know. Ofcourse, I went all right. But I thought it was just one of thesebloomin' spoof entrainments. They done that to us before . . . Two orthree times . . . Just to see 'ow quick they could do it . . . An' I wasgettin' 'a bit fed-up with it. I'd said 'Good-bye' to a girl three times. . . An' it was gettin' a bit monotonous. 'At it again, ' I says to mypal, as we hooked back to the camp, but when we was in the train, an' itdidn't stop an' go back again, I says to 'im, ''Illoa, ' I says, 'we'reoff!' An' I 'adn't said 'Good-bye' to 'er this time. I thought tomyself, 'I won't make a bloomin' ass of myself this time!' An' there wewas . . . Off at last! 'This is a nice-old-'ow-d'ye-do!' I says. I didn'twant the girl to think I was 'oppin' it like that . . . Sayin' nothink oranythink. . . . When we got to Kingstown an' 'eard we was in Ireland . . . Well, I mean to say, it _surprised_ me, I tell you. . . . Wot I can't makeout is, wot's it all about? I mean to say, wot do these chaps want?"

"They want to be free!. . . "

"But ain't they free? I mean to say, ain't they as free as me?"

"They don't think so. "

"Well, wot can I do that they can't do?"

Henry did not know. "You ast me anythink, " the soldier went on, "they'rea lot freer'n wot we are. I mean to say, we got conscription in ourcountry, but they ain't got it 'ere. . . . "

There was another interruption, to enable a motor-cyclist to pass along. When he returned to Henry, he said, "You know, when we got 'ere, an' allthe people come out their 'ouses an' treated us like their long-lostbrother, we couldn't make it out at all, an' when we 'eard about theSinn Feiners, we didn't know wot to think. I mean to say, we didn't know'oo they was. One of our chaps thought they was black . . . You know . . . Niggers . . . But I told 'im not to be a bloody fool. 'They don't 'aveniggers in Ireland, ' I says, 'They're the same as us, ' I says. 'I meanto say . . . They're _white_!. . . '"

12

He wrote to Mary again, hoping that he would be able to get it into theCastle "pouch, " and then he went to seek for Driffield who had promisedto try and send his previous letter to England by the same means, andDriffield, very dubious, took the letter and said he would do what hecould. She would be full of alarm . . . He did not know whether she hadreceived his messages, and, of course, he had received none from her. Itwas Thursday now, and still the rebellion was not suppressed. The citywas full of dead and wounded men and women, and there was difficultyabout burial. He thought of people in the first grief for their dead, unwilling that the hour of interment should come . . . And then, when itcame, and there could not be interment, suddenly finding their griefturned to consternation, and what had been the object of mourning love, become abhorrent, so that there was an unquenchable desire, a cravingthat it might be taken away. . . . 

It was dangerous to be out of doors after seven o'clock, and so, sinceno one came to the Club, and it was impossible to read or write, hespent most of the evening in brooding. . . . If the rebellion were notspeedily suppressed, it might be impossible for him to get to Boveyhaynein time for his marriage . . . But the rebellion could not last very longnow, and at worst his marriage would only be postponed a little while. His mind moved from thought to thought, from Mary to Gilbert and Ninian, then to John Marsh and his father and to the boy in Stephen's Green whohad been told to dig a trench, but thought that he was digging his grave. . . And then, inconsequently, he saw in his imagination the ridiculousfigure of a looter whom he had seen in Sackville Street, swaggering upand down, clothed in evening dress, and carrying a lady's sunshade. Hehad a panama hat on his head, and was wearing very thick-soled brownboots . . . And loosely tied about his waist were a pair of corsets. . . . 

He laughed at the remembrance, and as he laughed, he looked towards thewindow, and saw a great red glare in the sky. From the centre of thecity, flames were reaching up, vast and red and terrible. . . . 

"Good God!" he exclaimed, "the place is on fire!"

13

The fire continued during the whole of the next day. It was impossibleto get near the burning buildings, and so, though people knew of thefire, they did not know of its extent. The south side of the city, separated from the north, where the fire was, by the river, knewnothing of what was happening across the Liffey. It seemed now, thishorror following on the horror of the fighting, that Dublin must bedestroyed, that nothing could save it from the flames. . . . Then, by whatefforts no one can ever realise, the fire was controlled, and thereddened sky became dark, and frightened citizens went to their beds tosuch sleep as they could obtain. 

14

The next day, the Rebellion collapsed. Henry had walked out of Dublin, for it was easier now to move about, and coming back in the afternoon, suddenly felt that the Rebellion was over. A man came cycling past at agreat pace, and as he went by, he shouted to Henry, "They'vesurrendered!" and then was gone. There was a cooler feel in the air. Itseemed to him that a great tension had been relaxed . . . That, after aday of intolerable heat, there had come an evening of cool winds. As heapproached the city, he could see groups of people standing about in theroad, and he went to one of them, and asked if the news were true. 

"Some of them's surrendered, " he was told, "but there's a lot of snipersstill about!"

They could hear desultory firing as they spoke. 

"Ah, they'll give in quick enough now, " a man said. "Sure, they can'thold out any longer!"

He hurried back to the city, and when he reached the Club, he saw thatthe tri-colour was no longer flying over the College of Surgeons. 

THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER

1

On Sunday morning, he met Lander, who had a military pass, and togetherthey went to Sackville Street. . . . There were some who had said that thiswas the proudest street in the world. It had little pride now. Wherethere had been shops and hotels, there were now heaps of rubble andcalcined bricks. The street was covered with grey ash that was stillhot, and one had to walk warily lest one's feet should be burnt. ThePost Office still stood, but the roof was gone and the inside of it wasempty: a hulk, a disembowelled carcase. . . . 

"MacDonagh and Pearse and Connolly have been taken, " said Lander. "Theysay Connolly's badly wounded. . . . "

"Have you heard anything of . . . Of John Marsh?"

"Yes. He's dead. They say he was killed soon after the fighting began. . . In the street!. . . "

Henry did not speak. He glanced about him at the ruin and wreck of acity which, though it had many times filled him with anger, yet filledhim also with love; and for a while he could not see clearly. . . . Somewhere in this street, John Marsh had been killed. He had died, as hehad desired, for Ireland, and a man can do no more than give his lifefor his country . . . But what was the good of his dying? It was notenough that a man should die . . . He must also die well and to purpose. Oh, indeed, John had believed that such a death as this would be a gooddeath, to much purpose, but it is not the dead who can judge of that . . . It is the living to whom now and forever is the task of judging what thedead have done. 

"It's a pity, " said Lander, "that the slums weren't destroyed, too!. . . "

"Perhaps, " Henry answered, "we can build a finer city after this!"

"Perhaps, " said Lander dubiously, for Lander knew the ways of men andhad small faith in them. 

2

They walked along the quays until they reached the Four Courts, andwhile they were standing there, a sickly woman, with a fretful, whiningvoice, plucked at Henry's arm. 

"Is it over, mister?" she said, and when he nodded his head, she turnedaway, exclaiming fervently, "Oh, thanks be to the Holy Mother of God!"

"The Holy Mother of God had damned little to do with it, " Henry said toLander. "It was machine guns. . . . "

3

Lander had obtained a permit for him, so that he could go to England, and in a little while, he would leave the Club and go to Westland Row tocatch the train to Kingstown. There was a strange quietness in hisheart. He had lived through a terror and had not been afraid. He hadseen men immolating themselves gladly because they had believed that byso doing they would make their country a finer one to live in. 

"It was the wrong way, " he said to himself, "but in the end, nothingmatters but that a man shall offer his life for his belief!"

Gilbert Farlow and Ninian Graham had not sought, as he had sought, toescape from destiny or to elude death. It was fore-ordained that old menwould make wars and that young men would pay the price of them . . . Andit is of no use to try to save oneself. John Marsh, too, had had to payfor the incompetence and folly of old men who had wrangled and madebitterness . . . And now, in his turn, he must pay the price, too. Onemust die . . . In that there is no choice . . . But one may die finely orone may die meanly . . . And in that there is choice. Gilbert and Ninianand John, each in his way, had died finely. It might have been that hewould have died meanly in Dublin, casually killed, for no purpose, forno cause. . . . Well, he had not been killed meanly. There was still timefor him to live on the level of his friends. If youth has had committedto it the task of redeeming the world from the follies of the Old, Youthmust not shrink from the labour, even though it may feel that the Oldshould redeem themselves. . . . 

He would go to Boveyhayne and marry Mary, and then he would take her tohis home . . . He must do that . . . And when he had given his house to her, he would enlist as a soldier. "Life isn't worth while, if one is afraidto lose it . . . A year or two more, what do they matter if a job beshirked?" "It isn't the time one lives that matters, " he went on, "it'swhat one does in the time!"

4

As the mail-boat steamed out of the harbour, he climbed to the top deckand stood there gazing back at the shore. Exquisitely beautiful, Irelandlooked in the evening glow. Up the river, in an opal mist, he could seeDublin, still sore from her latest wounds, and here close at hand, hesaw the waves of mountains reaching far inland, each mountain shining inthe light with a great mingling of colours. Beautiful, but more thanbeautiful! Other lands had beauty, too, more beauty, perhaps, thanIreland, but if he were leaving them as he was now leaving Ireland, heshould not feel the grief that he now felt. This was his land . . . Hisown country . . . And the elements which had been mingled to make it, hadbeen mingled also to make him, and he and it were one. It was strangethat he should carry so heavy a heart to Boveyhayne, when he should havegone there gladly . . . But it was not of Mary or his marriage that he wasthen thinking. It was of the farewell he was making to this old citywhich had known much grief and many troubles. When he returned toIreland he would go straight to Ballymartin, by Belfast, from England. He would not see Dublin again. Firmly fixed in his mind, was thatbelief. He would serve . . . And he would die. Foolish, he told himself, to think like that, but, even while he was rebuking himself, the thoughtthrust itself into his mind again. . . . 

5

The boat was almost out of sight of land. He had stood at the end of thedeck, gazing back at Ireland until only the clouded head of a mountaincould be seen, and then that too had been hidden. He turned and lookedforward, and as he did so, he saw in the distance, low in the sea, thehulls of three ships of war. The mail-boat slowed down, as theyapproached, to let them pass. Naked and lithe, they looked, as theythrust their bodies through the sea, sending the water up from theirbows in shining arches. He could see the men standing about the decks, looking steadily ahead . . . And then the war-ships passed on to theirwork, and the mail-boat gathered up speed and plunged on towards Wales. Over there, he thought, somewhere in that haze, is England, and beyondEngland, France and Flanders and the fields of blood and pain. . . . 

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 _Cloth, 12mo. , $1. 00_

The plays are "Mixed Marriage, " "The Magnanimous Lover, " "The Critics, "and "The Orangeman, " first produced in 1911, 1912, 1913 and 1914, respectively, the first three at the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, and "TheOrangeman" at the Palace Theatre, Maidstone. 

"Establishes the author in the front rank of the realistic dramatists ofthe Irish Theatre. . . . As a veracious study of life and character amongIrish working classes . . . It is superior to anything written by Synge, Yeats, or Shaw. . . . The piece, in its realism, earnest purpose, anddramatic force, is worthy of John Galsworthy, and has the additionalmerit of being almost entirely free from anything like special pleading. Never prolix or oratorical, the compact and homely dialogue is full ofshrewd observation and sage comments, pertinent to the contributorycauses of a conel private and public tragedy. . . . The play is as able asit is significant, one well worthy of the boards of a NationalTheatre. "--_The Nation_ (Commenting on "Mixed Marriage, " the first ofthese plays. )

Alice and a Family

 _Cloth, 12 mo. , $1. 25_

"Alice is a sharp witted, sensible child of the London streets. . . . Shelooks after a family that has lost its director, the mother, while thefather has been thrown out of the work he knows by an accident. . . . It isa lower level of life than Dickens explored, that of the London laboringman; it is handled as sympathetically and as vividly as Dickens mighthave and with no trace of the false sentimentality that afflicted him attimes. . . . Alice is a child to be loved and admired and not to beforgotten soon. It is a capital story and a fine piece of work . . . Asenjoyable a blend of fun and hard sense as we have met in a longwhile. "--_New York Sun. _

"Just wholesome human nature working in one of the short and simpleannals of the poor. The best of Dickens without his too profusepathos. "--_Reedy's Mirror. _

"A juvenile Mrs. Wiggs, not of the cabbage patch, but of the Londonpavements . . . A wholesome bit of lite illumined with an optimism thateven poverty cannot dim. "--_Duluth News-Tribune. _

"St John G. Ervine has firmly established his claim to a place in theranks of those younger writers to whom we look for the worth-whilenovels of the future. "--_New York Times. _

"A delightfully entertaining story, full of humor and common sensephilosophy. . . . St John G. Ervine has already won a place as one of theforemost of the present day novelists. "--_Independent. _

"One of the most brilliant novels I have read in recentyears. "--_William Lyon Phelps. _

MRS. MARTIN'S MAN

 By ST. JOHN G. ERVINE

 _Cloth, 12mo, $1. 35_

The central figure in this truthful picture of Irish home life is Mrs. Martin--an exceedingly interesting character---a, steadfast, self-reliant woman who through the exercise of common sense averts adomestic tragedy and brings harmony into a troubled household. No lessan unusual creation, however, is James--"Mrs. Martin's Man. " Intolerant, overbearing but yet possessed of a certain romantic attractiveness, heis one of the most commanding characterizations of recent fiction. 

Mr. Ervine's style is agreeable; it is simple and full of the tang andflavor of Irish speech, though there is little of the conventionaldialect usually connected with Irish stories. The theme is marked by anabsence of cant and conventionalism and by a love and wisdom for mankindthat are most pleasing. 

Though this is Mr. Ervine's first novel, his plays depicting Irishcharacters have been produced with considerable success at the AbbeyTheatre in Dublin. In "Mrs. Martin's Man" as in his dramas, he gives afaithful portraiture of the simple folk of Erin. 

"A story of remarkable power and workmanship. "--_N. Y. Sun. _

"An intimate picture of Irish life. Brings with it the force of anoverwhelming truth. It is not merely plausible, it is convincing fromits first word to its last"--_Boston Transcript. _

"An almost perfect literary performance, and a most interesting andunhackneyed story. "--_N. Y. Globe. _

"Far out of the usual groove of fiction. . . . One of the finest, mostsincere stories which have come this way for many a year. "--_BrooklynEagle. _

"I have seldom read so spontaneously appealing a story of Irish life. Itbreathes the frank open nature, the naive humor of Ulster in every line. One could not imagine a more pathetic, yet withal noble figure thanMartha Martin. "--_London Globe. _

Eight O'clock and Other Studies

 _Cloth, 12mo. , $1. 00_

Mr. Ervine presents in this book a remarkable collection of intimatehuman studies. These short sketches, seventeen in number, are rare bitsof realism, truthful pictures of the life of the common people. 

"If evidence were needed, these short stories are sufficient to provethat the best in fiction may sometimes be put into the briefestform. "--_Boston Transcript. _

"The author is an artist in life and an economist in expression. "--_NewYork Globe. _

"This little book of 'Studies' presents a very considerable variety bothof treatment and of theme. . . . Contains in miniature the substance ofmany large and imposing books; it is at once artistic, thoughtful, andsignificant. "--_New York Times. _

"Practically all the sketches are written in a humorous vein, but theopening one, 'Eight O'Clock, ' is a little tragedy in dialogue that isvery touching. The book should afford a great deal of amusement for thediscriminating reader who knows good work when he perceivesit. "--_Springfield Republican. _

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