NONE OTHER GODS

BY

ROBERT HUGH BENSON

AUTHOR OF "THE CONVENTIONALISTS, " "THE NECROMANCERS, " "A WINNOWING, "ETC. 

NONE OTHER GODS

DEDICATORY LETTER

MY DEAR JACK KIRKBY, To whom can I dedicate this book but to you who were, not only the bestfriend of the man I have written about, but one without whom the bookcould not have been written? It is to you that I owe practically all thematerials necessary for the work: it was to you that Frank left thegreater part of his diary, such as it was (and I hope I have observedyour instructions properly as regards the use I have made of it); it wasyou who took such trouble to identify the places he passed through; andit was you, above all, who gave me so keen an impression of Frankhimself, that it seems to me I must myself have somehow known himintimately, in spite of the fact that we never met. 

I think I should say that it is this sense of intimacy, thisextraordinary interior accessibility (so to speak) of Frank, that madehim (as you and I both think) about the most lovable person we have everknown. They were very extraordinary changes that passed over him, ofcourse--(and I suppose we cannot improve, even with all our modernpsychology, upon the old mystical names for such changes--Purgation, Illumination and Union)--but, as theologians themselves tell us, thatmysterious thing which Catholics call the Grace of God does notobliterate, but rather emphasizes and transfigures the naturalcharacteristics of every man upon whom it comes with power. It was thesame element in Frank, as it seems to me--the same root-principle, atleast--that made him do those preposterous things connected with breadand butter and a railway train, that drove him from Cambridge indefiance of all common-sense and sweet reasonableness; that held himstill to that deplorable and lamentable journey with his two travelingcompanions, and that ultimately led him to his death. I mean, it was thesame kind of unreasonable daring and purpose throughout, though itissued in very different kinds of actions, and was inspired by verydifferent motives. 

Well, it is not much good discussing Frank in public like this. Thepeople who are kind enough to read his life--or, rather, the six monthsof it with which this book deals--must form their own opinion of him. Probably a good many will think him a fool. I daresay he was; but Ithink I like that kind of folly. Other people may think him simplyobstinate and tiresome. Well, I like obstinacy of that sort, and I donot find him tiresome. Everyone must form their own views, and I have aperfect right to form mine, which I am glad to know coincide with yourown. After all, you knew him better than anyone else. 

I went to see Gertie Trustcott, as you suggested, but I didn't get anyhelp from her. I think she is the most suburban person I have ever met. She could tell me nothing whatever new about him; she could onlycorroborate what you yourself had told me, and what the diaries andother papers contained. I did not stay long with Miss Trustcott. 

And now, my dear friend, I must ask you to accept this book from me, andto make the best of it. Of course, I have had to conjecture a greatdeal, and to embroider even more; but it is no more than embroidery. Ihave not touched the fabric itself which you put into my hands; andanyone who cares to pull out the threads I have inserted can do so ifthey will, without any fear of the thing falling to pieces. 

I have to thank you for many pleasurable and even emotional hours. Theoffering which I present to you now is the only return I can make. 

 I am, Ever yours sincerely, ROBERT HUGH BENSON. 

P. S. --We've paneled a new room since you were last at Hare Street. Comeand see it soon and sleep in it. We want you badly. And I want to talka great deal more about Frank. 

P. P. S. --I hear that her ladyship has gone back to live with her father;she tried the Dower House in Westmoreland, but seems to have found itlonely. Is that true? It'll be rather difficult for Dick, won't it?

NONE OTHER GODS

PART I

CHAPTER I

(I)

"I think you're behaving like an absolute idiot, " said Jack Kirkbyindignantly. 

Frank grinned pleasantly, and added his left foot to his right one inthe broad window-seat. 

These two young men were sitting in one of the most pleasant places inall the world in which to sit on a summer evening--in a ground-floorroom looking out upon the Great Court of Trinity College, Cambridge. Itwas in that short space of time, between six and seven, during which theGreat Court is largely deserted. The athletes and the dawdlers have notyet returned from field and river; and Fellows and other persons, youngenough to know better, who think that a summer evening was created forthe reading of books, have not yet emerged from their retreats. Awhite-aproned cook or two moves across the cobbled spaces with traysupon their heads; a tradesman's boy comes out of the corner entrancefrom the hostel; a cat or two stretches himself on the grass; but, forthe rest, the court lies in broad sunshine; the shadows slope eastwards, and the fitful splash and trickle of the fountain asserts itself clearlyabove the gentle rumble of Trinity Street. 

Within, the room in which these two sat was much like other rooms of thesame standing; only, in this one case the walls were paneled withwhite-painted deal. Three doors led out of it--two into a tiny bedroomand a tinier dining-room respectively; the third on to the passageleading to the lecture-rooms. Frank found it very convenient, since hethus was enabled, at every hour of the morning when the lectures brokeup, to have the best possible excuse for conversing with his friendsthrough the window. 

The room was furnished really well. Above the mantelpiece, where restedan array of smoking-materials and a large silver cigarette-box, hung anancestral-looking portrait, in a dull gilded frame, of an aged man, witha ruff round his neck, purchased for one guinea; there was a sofa and aset of chairs upholstered in a good damask: a black piano by Broadwood;a large oval gate-leg table; a bureau; shelves filled with veryindiscriminate literature--law books, novels, Badminton, magazines andancient school editions of the classics; a mahogany glass-frontedbookcase packed with volumes of esthetic appearance--green-backed poetrybooks with white labels; old leather tomes, and all the rest of thespecimens usual to a man who has once thought himself literary. Thenthere were engravings, well framed, round the walls; a black iron-worklamp, fitted for electric light, hung from the ceiling; there were acouple of oak chests, curiously carved. On the stained floor lay threeor four mellow rugs, and the window-boxes outside blazed with geraniums. The débris of tea rested on the window-seat nearest the outer door. 

Frank Guiseley, too, lolling in the window-seat in a white silk shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and gray flannel trousers, and one white shoe, was very pleasant to look upon. His hair was as black and curly as aNeapolitan's; he had a smiling, humorous mouth, and black eyes--of anextraordinary twinkling alertness. His clean-shaven face, brown in itsproper complexion as well as with healthy sunburning (he had played veryvigorous lawn-tennis for the last two months), looked like a boy's, except for the very determined mouth and the short, straight nose. Hewas a little below middle height--well-knit and active; and though, properly speaking, he was not exactly handsome, he was quiteexceptionally delightful to look at. 

Jack Kirkby, sitting in an arm-chair a yard away, and in the same sortof costume--except that he wore both his shoes and a Third Trinityblazer--was a complete contrast in appearance. The other had somethingof a Southern Europe look; Jack was obviously English--wholesome redcheeks, fair hair and a small mustache resembling spun silk. He was, also, closely on six feet in height. 

He was anxious just now, and, therefore, looked rather cross, fingeringthe very minute hairs of his mustache whenever he could spare the timefrom smoking, and looking determinedly away from Frank upon the floor. For the last week he had talked over this affair, ever since the amazingannouncement; and had come to the conclusion that once more, in thispreposterous scheme, Frank really meant what he said. 

Frank had a terrible way of meaning what he said--he reflected withdismay. There was the affair of the bread and butter three years ago, before either of them had learned manners. This had consisted in thefastening up in separate brown-paper parcels innumerable pieces of breadand butter, addressing each with the name of the Reverend Junior Dean(who had annoyed Frank in some way), and the leaving of the parcelsabout in every corner of Cambridge, in hansom cabs, on seats, onshop-counters and on the pavements--with the result that for the nexttwo or three days the dean's staircase was crowded with messenger boysand unemployables, anxious to return apparently lost property. 

Then there had been the matter of the flagging of a fast Northern trainin the middle of the fens with a red pocket-handkerchief, to find out ifit were really true that the train would stop, followed by a rapidretreat on bicycles so soon as it had been ascertained that it was true;the Affair of the German Prince traveling incognito, into which theMayor himself had been drawn; and the Affair of the Nun who smoked ashort black pipe in the Great Court shortly before midnight, beforegathering up her skirts and vanishing on noiseless india-rubber-shodfeet round the kitchen quarters into the gloom of Neville's Court, asthe horrified porter descended from his signal-box. 

Now many minds could have conceived these things; a smaller number ofpeople would have announced their intention of doing them: but therewere very few persons who would actually carry them all out to the veryend: in fact, Jack reflected, Frank Guiseley was about the only man ofhis acquaintance who could possibly have done them. And he had donethem all on his own sole responsibility. 

He had remembered, too, during the past week, certain incidents of thesame nature at Eton. There was the master who had rashly inquired, withdeep sarcasm, on the fourth or fifth occasion in one week when Frank hadcome in a little late for five-o'clock school, whether "Guiseley wouldnot like to have tea before pursuing his studies. " Frank, with a radiantsmile of gratitude, and extraordinary rapidity, had answered that hewould like it very much indeed, and had vanished through the stillhalf-open door before another word could be uttered, returning with alook of childlike innocence at about five-and-twenty minutes to six. 

"Please, sir, " he had said, "I thought you said I might go?"

"And have you had tea?"

"Why, certainly, sir; at Webber's. "

Now all this kind of thing was a little disconcerting to remember now. Truly, the things in themselves had been admirably conceived andfaithfully executed, but they seemed to show that Frank was the kind ofperson who really carried through what other people only talkedabout--and especially if he announced beforehand that he intended to doit. 

It was a little dismaying, therefore, for his friend to reflect thatupon the arrival of the famous letter from Lord Talgarth--Frank'sfather--six days previously, in which all the well-worn phrases occurredas to "darkening doors" and "roof" and "disgrace to the family, " Frankhad announced that he proposed to take his father at his word, sell uphis property and set out like a prince in a fairy-tale to make hisfortune. 

 * * * * *

Jack had argued till he was sick of it, and to no avail. Frank had aparry for every thrust. Why wouldn't he wait a bit until the governorhad had time to cool down? Because the governor must learn, sooner orlater, that words really meant something, and that he--Frank--was notgoing to stand it for one instant. 

Why wouldn't he come and stay at Barham till further notice? They'd allbe delighted to have him: It was only ten miles off Merefield, andperhaps--Because Frank was not going to sponge upon his friends. Neitherwas he going to skulk about near home. Well, if he was so damnedobstinate, why didn't he go into the City--or even to the Bar? Because(1) he hadn't any money; and (2) he would infinitely sooner go on thetramp than sit on a stool. Well, why didn't he enlist, like agentleman? Frank dared say he would some time, but he wanted to stand byhimself a bit first and see the world. 

"Let's see the letter again, " said Jack at last. "Where is it?"

Frank reflected. 

"I think it's in that tobacco-jar just behind your head, " he said. "No, it isn't; it's in the pouch on the floor. I know I associated it somehowwith smoking. And, by the way, give me a cigarette. "

Jack tossed him his case, opened the pouch, took out the letter, andread it slowly through again. 

 "Merefield Court, "near Harrogate. "May 28th, _Thursday_. 

 "I am ashamed of you, sir. When you first told me of your intention, I warned you what would happen if you persisted, and I repeat it now. Since you have deliberately chosen, in spite of all that I have said, to go your own way, and to become a Papist, I will have no more to do with you. From this moment you cease to be my son. You shall not, while I live, darken my doors again, or sleep under my roof. I say nothing of what you have had from me in the past--your education and all the rest. And, since I do not wish to be unduly hard upon you, you can keep the remainder of your allowance up to July and the furniture of your rooms. But, after that, not one penny shall you have from me. You can go to your priests and get them to support you. 

 "I am only thankful that your poor mother has been spared this blow. 

 "T. "

Jack made a small murmurous sound as he finished. Frank chuckled aloud. 

"Pitches it in all right, doesn't he?" he observed dispassionately. 

"If it had been my governor--" began Jack slowly. 

"My dear man, it isn't your governor; it's mine. And I'm dashed ifthere's another man in the world who'd write such a letter as thatnowadays. It's--it's too early-Victorian. They'd hardly stand it at theAdelphi! I could have put it so much better myself. .. . Poor oldgovernor!"

"Have you answered it?"

"I . .. I forget. I know I meant to. .. . No, I haven't. I remember now. And I shan't till I'm just off. "

"Well, I shall, " remarked Jack. 

Frank turned a swift face upon him. 

"If you do, " he said, with sudden fierce gravity, "I'll never speak toyou again. I mean it. It's my affair, and I shall run it my own way. "

"But--"

"I mean it. Now! give me your word of honor--"

"I--"

"Your word of honor, this instant, or get out of my room!"

There was a pause. Then:

"All right, " said Jack. 

Then there fell a silence once more. 

(II)

The news began to be rumored about, soon after the auction that Frankheld of his effects a couple of days later. He carried out the sceneadmirably, entirely unassisted, even by Jack. 

First, there appeared suddenly all over Cambridge, the evening beforethe sale, just as the crowds of undergraduates and female relationsbegan to circulate about after tea and iced strawberries, a quantity ofsandwich-men, bearing the following announcement, back and front:

 TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

 THE HON. FRANK GUISELEY has pleasure in announcing that on JUNE 7TH (Saturday) at half-past ten a. M. Precisely in Rooms 1, Letter J, Great Court, Trinity College, he will positively offer for

 SALE BY AUCTION

 _The household effects, furniture, books, etc. , of the Hon. Frank Guiseley, including_--

A piano by Broadwood (slightly out of tune); a magnificent suite ofdrawing-room furniture, upholstered in damask, the sofa only slightlystained with tea; one oak table and another; a bed; a chest of drawers(imitation walnut, and not a very good imitation); a mahoganyglass-fronted bookcase, containing a set of suggestive-looking volumesbound in faint colors, with white labels; four oriental mats; a portraitof a gentleman (warranted a perfectly respectable ancestor); dining-roomsuite (odd chairs); numerous engravings of places of interest andnoblemen's seats; a

_Silver Cigarette-box and fifteen Cigarettes in it (Melachrino and MixedAmerican_); a cuckoo-clock (without cuckoo); five walking-sticks;numerous suits of clothes (one lot suitable for Charitable Purposes);some books--all VERY CURIOUS indeed--comprising the works of anEminent Cambridge Professor, and other scholastic luminaries, as well asmany other articles. 

 AT HALF-PAST TEN A. M. PRECISELY All friends, and strangers, cordially invited. NO RESERVE PRICE. 

It served its purpose admirably, for by soon after ten o'clock quite aconsiderable crowd had begun to assemble; and it was only after a veryserious conversation with the Dean that the sale was allowed to proceed. But it proceeded, with the distinct understanding that a college porterbe present; that no riotous behavior should be allowed; that the salewas a genuine one, and that Mr. Guiseley would call upon the Dean withfurther explanations before leaving Cambridge. 

The scene itself was most impressive. 

Frank, in a structure resembling an auctioneer's box, erected on thehearth-rug, presided, with extraordinary gravity, hammer in hand, robedin a bachelor's gown and hood. Beneath him the room seethed with thecompany, male and female, all in an excellent humor, and quite tolerableprices were obtained. No public explanations were given of the need forthe sale, and Jack, in the deepest dismay, looked in again thatafternoon, about lunch-time, to find the room completely stripped, andFrank, very cheerful, still in his hood and gown, smoking a cigarette inthe window-seat. 

"Come in, " he said. "And kindly ask me to lunch. The last porter's justgone. "

Jack looked at him. 

He seemed amazingly genial and natural, though just a little flushed, and such an air of drama as there was about him was obviouslydeliberate. 

"Very well; come to lunch, " said Jack. "Where are you going to dine andsleep?"

"I'm dining in hall, and I'm sleeping in a hammock. Go and look at mybedroom. "

Jack went across the bare floor and looked in. A hammock was slungacross from a couple of pegs, and there lay a small carpet-bag beneathit. A basin on an upturned box and a bath completed the furniture. 

"You mad ass!" said Jack. "And is that all you have left?"

"Certainly. I'm going to leave the clothes I've got on to you, and youcan fetch the hammock when I've gone. "

"When do you start?"

"Mr. Guiseley will have his last interview and obtain his _exeat_ fromthe Dean at half-past six this evening. He proposes to leave Cambridgein the early hours of to-morrow morning. "

"You don't mean that!"

"Certainly I do. "

"What are you going to wear?"

Frank extended two flanneled legs, ending in solid boots. 

"These--a flannel shirt, no tie, a cap, a gray jacket. "

Jack stood again in silence, looking at him. 

"How much money did your sale make?"

"That's immaterial. Besides, I forget. The important fact is that whenI've paid all my bills I shall have thirteen pounds eleven shillings andeightpence. "

"What?"

"Thirteen pounds eleven shillings and eightpence. "

Jack burst into a mirthless laugh. 

"Well, come along to lunch, " he said. 

 * * * * *

It seemed to Jack that he moved in a dreary kind of dream that afternoonas he went about with Frank from shop to shop, paying bills. Frank'strouser-pockets bulged and jingled a good deal as they started--he haddrawn all his remaining money in gold from the bank--and they bulgedand jingled considerably less as the two returned to tea in Jesus Lane. There, on the table, he spread out the coins. He had bought sometobacco, and two or three other things that afternoon, and the totalamounted now but to twelve pounds nineteen shillings and fourpence. 

"Call it thirteen pounds, " said Frank. "There's many a poor man--"

"Don't be a damned fool!" said Jack. 

"I'm being simply prudent, " said Frank. "A contented heart--"

Jack thrust a cup of tea and the buttered buns before him. 

 * * * * *

These two were as nearly brothers as possible, in everything but blood. Their homes lay within ten miles of one another. They had gone to aprivate school together, to Eton, and to Trinity. They had riddentogether in the holidays, shot, dawdled, bathed, skated, and all therest. They were considerably more brothers to one another than wereFrank and Archie, his actual elder brother, known to the world asViscount Merefield. Jack did not particularly approve of Archie; hethought him a pompous ass, and occasionally said so. 

For Frank he had quite an extraordinary affection, though he would nothave expressed it so, to himself, for all the world, and a very realadmiration of a quite indefinable kind. It was impossible to say why headmired him. Frank did nothing very well, but everything rather well; heplayed Rugby football just not well enough to represent his college; hehad been in the Lower Boats at Eton, and the Lent Boat of his first yearat Cambridge; then he had given up rowing and played lawn-tennis in thesummer and fives in the Lent Term just well enough to make a brisk andinteresting game. He was not at all learned; he had reached the FirstHundred at Eton, and had read Law at Cambridge--that convenient branchof study which for the most part fills the vacuum for intelligentpersons who have no particular bent and are heartily sick of classics;and he had taken a Third Class and his degree a day or two before. Hewas remarkably averaged, therefore; and yet, somehow or another, therewas that in him which compelled Jack's admiration. I suppose it was thatwhich is conveniently labeled "character. " Certainly, nearly everybodywho came into contact with him felt the same in some degree. 

His becoming a Catholic had been an amazing shock to Jack, who hadalways supposed that Frank, like himself, took the ordinary sensibleEnglish view of religion. To be a professed unbeliever was bad form--itwas like being a Little Englander or a Radical; to be pious was equallybad form--it resembled a violent devotion to the Union Jack. No;religion to Jack (and he had always hitherto supposed, to Frank) was adepartment of life in which one did not express any particular views:one did not say one's prayers; one attended chapel at the proper times;if one was musical, one occasionally went to King's on Sunday afternoon;in the country one went to church on Sunday morning as one went to thestables in the afternoon, and that was about all. 

Frank had been, too, so extremely secretive about the whole thing. Hehad marched into Jack's rooms in Jesus Lane one morning nearly afortnight ago. 

"Come to mass at the Catholic Church, " he said. 

"Why, the--" began Jack. 

"I've got to go. I'm a Catholic. "

"_What!_"

"I became one last week. "

Jack had stared at him, suddenly convinced that someone was mad. When hehad verified that it was really a fact; that Frank had placed himselfunder instruction three months before, and had made his confession--(hisconfession!)--on Friday, and had been conditionally baptized; when hehad certified himself of all these things, and had begun to findcoherent language once more, he had demanded why Frank had done this. 

"Because it's the true religion, " said Frank. "Are you coming to mass orare you not?"

Jack had gone then, and had come away more bewildered than ever as towhat it was all about. He had attempted to make a few inquiries, butFrank had waved his hands at him, and repeated that obviously theCatholic religion was the true one, and that he couldn't be bothered. And now here they were at tea in Jesus Lane for the last time. 

 * * * * *

Of course, there was a little suppressed excitement about Frank. Hedrank three cups of tea and took the last (and the under) piece ofbuttered bun without apologies, and he talked a good deal, rather fast. It seemed that he had really no particular plans as to what he was goingto do after he had walked out of Cambridge with his carpet-bag earlynext morning. He just meant, he said, to go along and see what happened. He had had a belt made, which pleased him exceedingly, into which hismoney could be put (it lay on the table between them during tea), and heproposed, naturally, to spend as little of that money as possible. .. . No; he would not take one penny piece from Jack; it would be simplyscandalous if he--a public-school boy and an University man--couldn'tkeep body and soul together by his own labor. There would be hay-makingpresently, he supposed, and fruit-picking, and small jobs on farms. Hewould just go along and see what happened. Besides there were alwayscasual wards, weren't there? if the worst came to the worst; and he'dmeet other men, he supposed, who'd put him in the way of things. Oh!he'd get on all right. 

Would he ever come to Barham? Well, if it came in the day's work hewould. Yes: certainly he'd be most obliged if his letters might be sentthere, and he could write for them when he wanted, or even call forthem, if, as he said, it came in the day's work. 

What was he going to do in the winter? He hadn't the slightest idea. Hesupposed, what other people did in the winter. Perhaps he'd have got aplace by then--gamekeeper, perhaps--he'd like to be a gamekeeper. 

At this Jack, mentally, threw up the sponge. 

"You really mean to go on at this rotten idea of yours?"

Frank opened his eyes wide. 

"Why, of course. Good Lord! did you think I was bluffing?"

"But . .. But it's perfectly mad. Why on earth don't you get a propersituation somewhere--land-agent or something?"

"My dear man, " said Frank, "if you will have it, it's because I want todo exactly what I'm going to do. No--I'm being perfectly serious. I'vethought for ages that we're all wrong somehow. We're all so beastlyartificial. I don't want to preach, but I want to test things formyself. My religion tells me--" He broke off. "No; this is fooling. I'mgoing to do it because I'm going to do it. And I'm really going to doit. I'm not going to be an amateur--like slumming. I'm going to find outthings for myself. "

"But on the roads--" expostulated Jack. 

"Exactly. That's the very point. Back to the land. "

Jack sat up. 

"Good Lord!" he said. "Why, I never thought of it. "

"What?"

"It's your old grandmother coming out. "

Frank stared. 

"Grandmother?"

"Yes--old Mrs. Kelly. "

Frank laughed suddenly and loudly. 

"By George!" he said, "I daresay it is. Old Grandmamma Kelly! She was agipsy--so she was. I believe you've hit it, Jack. Let's see: she was mygrandfather's second wife, wasn't she?"

Jack nodded. 

"And he picked her up off the roads on his own estate. Wasn't shetrespassing, or something?"

Jack nodded again. 

"Yes, " he said, "and he was a magistrate and ought to have committedher: And he married her instead. She was a girl, traveling with herparents. "

Frank sat smiling genially. 

"That's it, " he said. "Then I'm bound to make a success of it. "

And he took another cigarette. 

Then one more thought came to Jack: he had determined already to makeuse of it if necessary, and somehow this seemed to be the moment. 

"And Jenny Launton, " he said "I suppose you've thought of her?"

A curious look came into Frank's eyes--a look of great gravity andtenderness--and the humor died out. He said nothing for an instant. Thenhe drew out of his breast-pocket a letter in an envelope, and tossed itgently over to Jack. 

"I'm telling her in that, " he said. "I'm going to post it to-night, after I've seen the Dean. "

Jack glanced down at it. 

 "MISS LAUNTON, "The Rectory, "Merefield, Yorks. "

ran the inscription. He turned it over; it was fastened and sealed. 

"I've told her we must wait a bit, " said Frank, "and that I'll writeagain in a few weeks. "

Jack was silent. 

"And you think it's fair on her?" he asked deliberately. 

Frank's face broke up into humor. 

"That's for her to say, " he observed. "And, to tell the truth, I'm notat all afraid. "

"But a gamekeeper's wife! And you a Catholic!"

"Ah! you don't know Jenny, " smiled Frank. "Jenny and I quite understandone another, thank you very much. "

"But is it quite fair?"

"Good Lord!" shouted Frank, suddenly roused. "Fair! What the devil doesit matter? Don't you know that all's fair--under certain circumstances?I do bar that rotten conventionalism. We're all rotten--rotten, I tellyou; and I'm going to start fresh. So's Jenny. Kindly don't talk of whatyou don't understand. "

He stood up, stretching. Then he threw the end of his cigarette away. 

"I must go to the Dean, " he said. "It's close on the half-hour. "

(III)

The Reverend James Mackintosh was an excellent official of his college, and performed his duties with care and punctilium. He rose abouthalf-past seven o'clock every morning, drank a cup of tea and went tochapel. After chapel he breakfasted, on Tuesdays and Thursdays with twoundergraduates in their first year, selected in alphabetical order, seated at his table; on the other days of the week in solitude. At teno'clock he lectured, usually on one of St. Paul's Epistles, on whichsubjects he possessed note-books filled with every conceivable piece ofinformation that could be gathered together--grammatical, philological, topographical, industrial, social, biographical--with a few remarks onthe fauna, flora, imports, characteristics and geological features ofthose countries to which those epistles were written, and in which theywere composed. These notes, guaranteed to guide any student who reallymastered them to success, and even distinction, in his examinations, were the result of a lifetime of loving labor, and some day, no doubt, will be issued in the neat blue covers of the "Cambridge Bible forSchools. " From eleven to twelve he lectured on Church history of thefirst five centuries--after which period, it will be remembered by allhistorical students, Church history practically ceased. At one helunched; from two to four he walked rapidly (sometimes again in companywith a serious theological student), along the course known as theGrantchester Grind, or to Coton and back. At four he had tea; at five hesettled down to administer discipline to the college, by summoning andremonstrating with such undergraduates as had failed to comply with thevarious regulations; at half-past seven he dined in hall--a meek figure, clean shaven and spectacled, seated between an infidel philosopher and asocialist: he drank a single glass of wine afterwards in the CombinationRoom, smoked one cigarette, and retired again to his rooms to writeletters to parents (if necessary), and to run over his notes for nextday. 

And he did this, with the usual mild variations of a University life, every weekday, for two-thirds of the year. Of the other third, he spentpart in Switzerland, dressed in a neat gray Norfolk suit withknickerbockers, and the rest with clerical friends of the scholastictype. It was a very solemn thought to him how great were hisresponsibilities, and what a privilege it was to live in the whirl andstir of one of the intellectual centers of England!

 * * * * *

Frank Guiseley was to Mr. Mackintosh a very great puzzle. He hadcertainly been insubordinate in his first year (Mr. Mackintosh gravelysuspected him of the Bread-and-Butter affair, which had so annoyed hiscolleague), but he certainly had been very steady and even deferentialever since. (He always took off his hat, for example, to Mr. Mackintosh, with great politeness. ) Certainly he was not very regular at chapel, andhe did not dine in hall nearly so often as Mr. Mackintosh would havewished (for was it not part of the University idea that men of allgrades of society should meet as equals under the college roof?). But, then, he had never been summoned for any very grave or disgracefulbreach of the rules, and was never insolent or offensive to any of theFellows. Finally, he came of a very distinguished family; and Mr. Mackintosh had the keenest remembrance still of his own singleinterview, three years ago, with the Earl of Talgarth. 

Mr. Mackintosh wondered, then, exactly what he would have to say to Mr. Guiseley, and what Mr. Guiseley would have to say to him. He thought, if the young man were really going down for good, as he had understoodthis morning, it was only his plain duty to say a few tactful wordsabout responsibility and steadiness. That ridiculous auction would serveas his text. 

 * * * * *

Mr. Mackintosh paused an instant, as he always did, before saying "Comein!" to the knock on the door (I think he thought it helped to create alittle impression of importance). Then he said it; and Frank walked in. 

"Good evening, Mr. Guiseley. .. . Yes; please sit down. I understood fromyou this morning that you wished for your _exeat_. "

"Please, " said Frank. 

"Just so, " said Mr. Mackintosh, drawing the _exeat_ book--resembling thebutt of a check-book--towards him. "And you are going down to-morrow?"

"Yes, " said Frank. 

"Going home?" murmured the Dean, inscribing Frank's name in his neatlittle handwriting. 

"No, " said Frank. 

"Not?. .. To London, perhaps?"

"Well, not exactly, " said Frank; "at least, not just yet. "

Mr. Mackintosh blotted the book carefully, and extracted the _exeat_. He pushed it gently towards Frank. 

"About that auction!" he said, smiling indulgently; "I did want to havea word with you about that. It was very unusual; and I wondered. .. . ButI am happy to think that there was no disturbance. .. . But can you tellme exactly why you chose that form of . .. Of . .. "

"I wanted to make as much money as ever I could, " said Frank. 

"Indeed!. .. Yes. .. . And . .. And you were successful?"

"I cleared all my debts, anyhow, " said Frank serenely. "I thought thatvery important. "

Mr. Mackintosh smiled again. Certainly this young man was very wellbehaved and deferential. 

"Well, that's satisfactory. And you are going to read at the Bar now? Ifyou will let me say so, Mr. Guiseley, even at this late hour, I must saythat I think that a Third Class might have been bettered. But no doubtyour tutor has said all that?"

"Yes, I think so. "

"Well, then, a little more application and energy now may perhaps makeup for lost time. I suppose you will go to the Temple in October?"

Frank looked at him pensively a moment. 

"No, Mr. Mackintosh, " he said suddenly; "I'm going on the roads. I meanit, quite seriously. My father's disowned me. I'm starting out to-morrowto make my own living. "

There was dead silence for an instant. The Dean's face was stricken, asthough by horror. Yet Frank saw he had not in the least taken it in. 

"Yes; that's really so, " he said. "Please don't argue with me about it. I'm perfectly determined. "

"Your father . .. Lord Talgarth . .. The roads . .. Your own living . .. Thecollege authorities . .. Responsibility!"

Words of this sort burst from Mr. Mackintosh's mouth. 

"Yes . .. It's because I've become a Catholic! I expect you've heardthat, sir. "

Mr. Mackintosh threw himself back (if so fierce a word may be used of somild a manner)--threw himself back in his chair. 

"Mr. Guiseley, kindly tell me all about it. I had not heard oneword--not one word. "

 * * * * *

Frank made a great effort, and told the story, quite fairly and quitepolitely. He described his convictions as well as he could, the varioussteps he had taken, and the climax of the letter from his father. Thenhe braced himself, to hear what would be said; or, rather, he retiredwithin himself, and, so to speak, shut the door and pulled down theblinds. 

It was all said exactly as he knew it would be. Mr. Mackintosh touchedupon a loving father's impatience, the son's youth and impetuosity, theshock to an ancient family, the responsibilities of membership in thatfamily, the dangers of rash decisions, and, finally, the obvious errorsof the Church of Rome. He began several sentences with the phrase: "Nothinking man at the present day . .. "

In fact, Mr. Mackintosh was, so soon as he had recovered from the firstshock, extraordinarily sensible and reasonable. He said all the properthings, all the sensible and reasonable and common-sense things, and hesaid them, not offensively or contemptuously, but tactfully andpersuasively. And he put into it the whole of his personality, such asit was. He even quoted St. Paul. 

He perspired a little, gently, towards the end: so he took off hisglasses and wiped them, looking, still with a smile, through kind, short-sighted eyes, at this young man who sat so still. For Frank was soquiet that the Dean thought him already half persuaded. Then once morehe summed up, when his glasses were fixed again; he ran through hisarguments lightly and efficiently, and ended by a quiet littleassumption that Frank was going to be reasonable, to write to his fatheronce more, and to wait at least a week. He even called him "my dearboy!"

"Thanks very much, " said Frank. 

"Then you'll think it over quietly, my dear boy. Come and talk to meagain. I've given you your _exeat_, but you needn't use it. Come into-morrow evening after hall. "

Frank stood up. 

"Thanks, very much, Mr. Mackintosh. I'll . .. I'll certainly rememberwhat you've said. " He took up his _exeat_ as if mechanically. 

"Then you can leave that for the present, " smiled the Dean, pointing atit. "I can write you another, you know. "

Frank put it down quickly. 

"Oh, certainly!" he said. 

"Well, good-night, Mr. Guiseley. .. . I . .. I can't tell you how glad I amthat you confided in me. Young men are a little unwise and impetuoussometimes, you know. Good-night . .. Good-night. I shall expect youto-morrow. "

When Frank reached the court below he stood waiting a moment. Then alarge smile broke out on his face, and he hurried across to a passageopposite, found a friend's door open, and rushed in. The room was empty. He flew across to the window and crouched down, peeping over the sill atthe opening on the other side of the court leading to Mr. Mackintosh'sstaircase. 

He was rewarded almost instantly. Even as he settled himself on thewindow seat a black figure, with gown ballooning behind, hurried out andwhisked through the archway leading towards the street. He gave himtwenty seconds, and then ran out himself, and went in pursuit. Half-wayup the lane he sighted him once more, and, following cautiously ontiptoe, with a handkerchief up to his face, was in time to behold Mr. Mackintosh disappear into the little telegraph office on the left ofTrinity Street. 

"That settles it, then, " observed Frank, almost aloud. "Poor Jack--I'mafraid I shan't be able to breakfast with him after all!"

(IV)

It was a little after four o'clock on the following morning that apoliceman, pacing with slow, flat feet along the little lane that leadsfrom Trinity Hall to Trinity College, yawning as he went, and entirelyunconscious of the divine morning air, bright as wine and clear aswater, beheld a remarkable spectacle. 

There first appeared, suddenly tossed on to the spikes that top the gatethat guards the hostel, a species of pad that hung over on both sides ofthe formidable array of points. Upon this, more cautiously, was placedby invisible hands a very old saddle without any stirrups. 

The policeman stepped back a little, and flattenedhimself--comparatively speaking--against the outer wall of the hostelitself. There followed a silence. 

Suddenly, without any warning, a heavy body, discernible a moment lateras a small carpet-bag, filled to bursting, fell abruptly on to thepavement; and, again, a moment later, two capable-looking hands madetheir appearance, grasping with extreme care the central rod on whichthe spikes were supposed to revolve, on either side of the saddle. 

Still the policeman did not make any sign; he only sidled a step or twonearer and stood waiting. 

When he looked up again, a young gentleman, in flannel trousers, grayjacket, boots, and an old deerstalker, was seated astride of the saddle, with his back to the observer. There was a pause while the rider lookedto this side and that; and then, with a sudden movement, he had droppedclear of the wall, and come down on feet and hands to the pavement. 

"Good morning, officer!" said the young gentleman, rising and dustinghis hands, "it's all right. Like to see my _exeat_? Or perhaps half acrown--"

(V)

About six o'clock in the morning, Jack Kirkby awoke suddenly in hisbedroom in Jesus Lane. 

This was very unusual, and he wondered what it was all about. He thoughtof Frank almost instantly, with a jerk, and after looking at his watch, very properly turned over and tried to go to sleep again. But theattempt was useless; there were far too many things to think about; andhe framed so many speeches to be delivered with convincing force atbreakfast to his misguided friend, that by seven o'clock he made up hismind that he would get up, go and take Frank to bathe, and havebreakfast with him at half-past eight instead of nine. He would havelonger time, too, for his speeches. He got out of bed and pulled up hisblind, and the sight of the towers of Sidney Sussex College, gilded withsunshine, determined him finally. 

When you go to bathe before breakfast at Cambridge you naturally put onas few clothes as possible and do not--even if you do so at othertimes--say your prayers. So Jack put on a sweater, trousers, socks, canvas shoes, and a blazer, and went immediately down theoilcloth-covered stairs. As he undid the door he noticed a white thinglying beneath it, and took it up. It was a note addressed to himself inFrank's handwriting; and there, standing on the steps, he read itthrough; and his heart turned suddenly sick. 

 * * * * *

There is all the difference in the world between knowing that acatastrophe is going to happen, and knowing that it has happened. Jackknew--at least, with all his reasonable part--that Frank was going toleave Cambridge in the preposterous manner described, after breakfastwith himself; and it was partly because of this very knowledge that hehad got up earlier in order to have an extra hour with Frank before thefinal severance came. Yet there was something in him--the same thingthat had urged him to rehearse little speeches in bed just now--thattold him that until it had actually happened, it had not happened, and, just conceivably, might not happen after all. And he had had no idea howstrong this hopeful strain had been in him--nor, for that matter, howvery deeply and almost romantically he was attached to Frank--until hefelt his throat hammering and his head becoming stupid, as he read theterse little note in the fresh morning air of Jesus Lane. 

It ran as follows:

 "DEAR JACK, "It's no good, and I'm off early! That ass Mackintosh went and wired to my people directly I left him. I tracked him down. And there'll be the devil to pay unless I clear out. So I can't come to breakfast. Sorry. 

 "Yours, "F. G. 

 "P. S. --By the way, you might as well go round to the little man and try to keep him quiet. Tell him it'll make a scandal for Trinity College, Cambridge, if he makes a fuss. That'll stop him, perhaps. And you might try to rescue my saddle from the porter. He's probably got it by now. "

Three minutes later a figure in a sweater, gray trousers, canvas shoes, Third Trinity blazer and no cap, stood, very inarticulate withbreathlessness, at the door of the Senior Dean's rooms, demanding of ascandalized bed-maker to see the official in question. 

"'E's in his barth, sir!" expostulated the old woman. 

"Then he must come out of it!" panted Jack. 

"--That is, if 'e's out o' bed. "

"Then he can stop in it, if he isn't. .. . I tell you--"

Jack gave up arguing. He took the old lady firmly by the shoulders, andplaced her in the doorway of the audience-room; then he was up the innerstairs in three strides, through the sitting-room, and was tapping atthe door of the bedroom. A faint sound of splashing ceased. 

"Who's there? Don't--"

"It's me, sir--Kirkby! I'm sorry to disturb you, but--"

"Don't come in!" cried an agitated voice, with a renewed sound of water, as if someone had hastily scrambled out of the bath. 

Jack cautiously turned the handle and opened the door a crack. A cry ofdismay answered his move, followed by a tremendous commotion andswishing of linen. 

"I'm coming in, sir, " said Jack, struggling between agitation andlaughter. It was obvious from the sounds that the clergyman had got intobed again, wet, and as God made him. There was no answer, and Jackpushed the door wider and went in. 

It was as he had thought. His unwilling host had climbed back into bedas hastily as possible, and the bed-clothes, wildly disordered, weregathered round his person. A face, with wet hair, looking very odd andchildlike without his glasses, regarded him with the look of one whosees sacrilege done. A long flannel nightgown lay on the ground betweenthe steaming bath and the bed, and a quantity of water lay about on thefloor, in footprints and otherwise. 

"May I ask what is the meaning of this disgraceful--"

"I'm sorry, sir, " said Jack briefly, "but Frank Guiseley's bolted. I'vejust found this note. " It did not occur to him, as he handed the note toa bare arm, coyly protruded from the tangled bed-clothes, that this veryofficer of the college was referred to in it as "that ass" and "thelittle man. " . .. All his attention, not occupied with Frank, was fixedon the surprising new discovery that deans had bodies and used realbaths like other people. Somehow that had never occurred to him he hadnever imagined them except in smooth, black clothes and white linen. Hisdiscovery seemed to make Mr. Mackintosh more human, somehow. 

The Dean read the note through as modestly as possible, holding it veryclose to his nose, as his glasses were unattainable, with an arm ofwhich not more than the wrist appeared. He swallowed in his throat onceor twice, and seemed to taste something with his lips, as his mannerwas. 

"This is terrible!" said the Dean. "Had you any idea--"

"I knew he was going some time to-day, " said Jack, "and understood thatyou knew too. "

"But I had no idea--"

"You did telegraph, didn't you, sir?"

"I certainly telegraphed. Yes; to Lord Talgarth. It was my duty. But--"

"Well; he spotted it. That's all. And now he's gone. What's to be done?"

Mr. Mackintosh considered a moment or two. Jack made an impatientmovement. 

"I must telegraph again, " said the Dean, with the air of one who hasexhausted the resources of civilization. 

"But, good Lord! sir--"

"Yes. I must telegraph again. As soon as I'm dressed. Or perhaps youwould--"

"Office doesn't open till eight. That's no good. He'll be miles away bythen. "

"It's the only thing to be done, " said the Dean with sudden energy. "Iforbid you to take any other steps, Mr. Kirkby. I am responsible--"

"But--"

"We must not make a scandal. .. . What else did you propose?"

"Why--fifty things. Motor-cars; police--"

"Certainly not. We must make no scandal as he . .. As he very properlysays. " (The Dean swallowed in his throat again. Jack thought afterwardsthat it must have been the memory of certain other phrases in theletter. ) "So if you will be good enough to leave me instantly, Mr. Kirkby, I will finish my dressing and deal with the matter. "

 * * * * *

Jack wheeled and went out of the room. 

 * * * * *

It was a miserable breakfast to which he sat down half an hourlater--still in flannels, and without his bath. Frank's place was laid, in accordance with the instructions he had given his landlady lastnight, and he had not the heart to push the things aside. There weresoles for two, and four boiled eggs; there was coffee and marmalade andtoast and rolls and fruit; and the comfortable appearance of the tablesimply mocked him. 

He had had very confused ideas just now as to what was possible withregard to the pursuit of Frank; a general vision of twenty motor-cars, each with a keen-eyed chauffeur and an observant policeman, was allthat had presented itself to his imagination; but he had begun torealize by now that you cannot, after all, abduct a young man who hascommitted no crime, and carry him back unwillingly, even to Cambridge!Neither the Dean of Trinity nor a father possesses quite unlimited powerover the freedom of a pupil and a son. And, after all, Frank had onlytaken his father at his word!

These reflections, however, did not improve the situation. He felt quitecertain, in theory, that something more could be done than feebly tosend another telegram or two; the only difficulty was to identify thatsomething. He had vague ideas, himself, of hiring a motor-car by theday, and proceeding to scour the country round Cambridge. But even thisdid not stand scrutiny. If he had failed to persuade Frank to remain inCambridge, it was improbable that he could succeed in persuading him toreturn--even if he found him. About eight important roads run out ofCambridge, and he had not a glimmer of an idea as to which of these hehad taken. It was possible, even, that he had not taken any of them, andwas walking across country. That would be quite characteristic of Frank. 

 * * * * *

He finished breakfast dismally, and blew through an empty pipe, staringlackadaisically out of the window at the wall of Sidney Sussex for twoor three minutes before lighting up. Cambridge seemed an extraordinaryflat and stupid place now that Frank was no longer within it. Reallythere was nothing particular to do. It had become almost a regularengagement for him to step round to the Great Court about eleven, andsee what was to be done. Sometimes Frank wanted lawn-tennis--sometimes acanoe on the Backs--at any rate, they would either lunch or dinetogether. And if they didn't--well, at any rate, Frank was there!

He tried to picture to himself what Frank was doing; he had visions of asunlit road running across a fen, with a figure tramping up it; of alittle wayside inn, and Frank drinking beer in the shade. But it seemedan amazing waste of company that the figure should always be alone. Whyhadn't he proposed to go with him himself? He didn't know; except, thatit certainly would not have been accepted. And yet they could have hadquite a pleasant time for a couple of months; and, after a couple ofmonths, surely Frank would have had enough of it!

But, again--would he?. .. Frank seemed really in earnest about making hisliving permanently; and when Frank said that he was going do a thing, heusually did it! And Jack Kirkby did not see himself leaving his ownmother and sisters indefinitely until Frank had learned not to be afool. 

He lit his pipe at last; and then remembered the commission with regardto the saddle--whatever that might mean. He would stroll round presentlyand talk to the porter about it . .. Yes, he would go at once; and hewould just look in at Frank's rooms again. There was the hammock tofetch, too. 

But it was a dreary little visit. He went round as he was, his handsdeep in his pockets, trying to whistle between his teeth and smokesimultaneously; and he had to hold his pipe in his hand out of respectfor rules, as he conversed with the stately Mr. Hoppett in Trinitygateway. Mr. Hoppett knew nothing about any saddle--at least, not forpublic communication--but his air of deep and diplomatic suspiciousnessbelied his words. 

"It's all right, " said Jack pleasantly, "I had nothing to do with theelopement. The Dean knows all about it. "

"I know nothing about that, sir, " said Mr. Hoppett judicially. 

"Then you've not got the saddle?"

"I have not, sir. "

Frank's outer door was open as Jack came to the familiar staircase, andhis heart leaped in spite of himself, as he peered in and heardfootsteps in the bedroom beyond. But it was the bed-maker with a mop, and a disapproving countenance, who looked out presently. 

"He's gone, Mrs. Jillings, " said Jack. 

Mrs. Jillings sniffed. She had heard tales of the auction and thought ita very improper thing for so pleasant a young gentleman to do. 

"Yes, sir. "

"There isn't a saddle here, is there?"

"Saddle, sir? No, sir. What should there be a saddle here for?"

"Oh, well, " said Jack vaguely. "I've come to fetch away the hammock, anyhow. "

Certainly the rooms looked desolate. Even the carpets were gone, and theunstained boards in the middle seemed suggestive of peculiar dreariness. It was really very difficult to believe that these were the rooms wherehe and Frank had had such pleasant times--little friendlybridge-parties, and dinners, and absurd theatricals, in which Frank hadsustained, with extreme rapidity, with the aid of hardly any propertiesexcept a rouge-pot, a burnt cork and three or four wisps of hair ofvarious shades, the part of almost any eminent authority in theUniversity of Cambridge that you cared to name. There were longhistories, invented by Frank himself, of the darker sides of the livesof the more respectable members of the Senate--histories that grew, likelegends, term by term--in which the most desperate deeds were done. TheMaster of Trinity, for example, in these Sagas, would pass throughextraordinary love adventures, or discover the North Pole, or give alecture, with practical examples, of the art of flying; the Provost ofKing's would conspire with the President of Queen's College, to murderthe Vice-Chancellor and usurp his dignities. And these histories wouldbe enacted with astonishing realism, chiefly by Frank himself, with thehelp of a zealous friend or two who were content to obey. 

And these were all over now; and that was the very door through whichthe Vice-Chancellor was accustomed to escape from his assassins!

 * * * * *

Jack sighed again; passed through, picked up the parcel of clothes thatlay in the window-seat, unhitched the hammock in which Frank had sleptlast night (he noticed the ends of three cigarettes placed on the coverof a convenient biscuit-tin), and went off resembling a _retiarius_. Mrs. Jillings sniffed again as she looked after him up the court. Shedidn't understand those young gentlemen at all; and frequently said so. 

(VI)

At half-past six o'clock that morning--about the time that Jack awoke inCambridge--John Harris, laborer, emerged, very sleepy and frowsy--for hehad sat up late last night at the "Spotted Dog"--from the door of asmall cottage on the Ely road, in the middle of Grunty Fen. He lookedthis way and that, wondering whether it were as late as hiskitchen-clock informed him, and observing the sun, that hung nowlamentably high up in that enormous dome of summer sky that sat on thefenland like a dish-cover on a dish. And as he turned southwards hebecame aware of a young gentleman carrying a carpet-bag in one hand, anda gray jacket over his other arm, coming up to him, not twenty yardsaway. As he came nearer, Mr. Harris noticed that his face was badlybruised as by a blow. 

"Good morning, " said the young gentleman. "Hot work. "

John Harris made some observation. 

"I want some work to do, " said the young gentleman, disregarding theobservation. "I'm willing and capable. Do you know of any? I mean, workthat I shall be paid for. Or perhaps some breakfast would do as abeginning. "

John Harris regarded the young gentleman in silence. 

CHAPTER II

(I)

Merefield Court, as every tourist knows may be viewed from ten to fiveon Tuesdays and Thursdays, when the family are not in residence, and onTuesdays only, from two to four, when they are. It is unnecessary, therefore, to describe it very closely. 

It stands very nearly on the top of a hill, protected by woods from thenorth winds of Yorkshire; and its towers and pinnacles can be seen fromten miles away down the valley. It is built, architecturally considered, in the form of an irregular triangular court--quite unique--with the oldbarbican at the lower end; the chapel wing directly opposite; the ruinsof the old castle on the left, keep and all, and the new house that isactually lived in on the right. It is of every conceivable date (thehousekeeper will supply details) from the British mound on which thekeep stands, to the Georgian smoking-room built by the grandfather ofthe present earl; but the main body of the house, with which we areprincipally concerned--the long gray pile facing south down to thelake, and northwards into the court--is Jacobean down to the smallestdetail, and extremely good at that. It was on the end of this that thethirteenth earl the fifteenth baron and the fourteenth viscount (oneman, not three) thought it proper to build on a Palladian kind ofsmoking-room of red sandstone, brought at enormous cost from half acrossEngland. Fortunately, however, ivy has since covered the greater part ofits exterior. 

It was in this room--also used as a billiard-room--that Archie Guiseley(Viscount Merefield), and Dick Guiseley, his first cousin, first heardthe news of Frank's intentions. 

They were both dressed for dinner, and were knocking the balls about forten minutes, waiting for the gong, and they were talking in thatincoherent way characteristic of billiard-players. 

"The governor's not very well again, " observed Archie, "and the doctorwon't let him go up to town. That's why we're here. "

Dick missed a difficult cannon (he had only arrived from town himself bythe 6. 17), and began to chalk his cue very carefully. 

"There's nothing whatever to do, " continued Archie, "so I warn you. "

Dick opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, pursing it upprecisely as once more he addressed himself to the balls, and this timebrought off a really brilliant stroke. 

"And he's in a terrible way about Frank, " continued the other. "You'veheard all about that?"

Dick nodded. 

"And he swears he won't have him home again, and that he can go to thedevil. "

Dick arched his eyebrows interrogatively. 

"Of course, he doesn't mean it. .. . But the gout, you know, and allthat. .. . I think Frank had better keep out of the way, though, for abit. Oh! by the way, the Rector and Jenny are coming to dinner. "

"What does Jenny say to it all?" asked Dick gently. 

"Oh! Jenny laughs. "

These two young men--for Archie was only twenty-five, and Dick a year ortwo older--were quite remarkably like one another in manner and generalbearing. Each, though their faces were entirely different, wore thatsame particular form of mask that is fashionable just now. Each had alook in his eyes as if the blinds were down--rather insolent and yetrather pleasant. Each moved in the same kind of way, slow anddeliberate; each spoke quietly on rather a low note, and used as fewwords as possible. Each, just now, wore a short braided dinner-jacket ofprecisely the same cut. 

For the rest, they were quite unlike. Archie was clean-shaven, of amedium sort of complexion, with a big chin and rather loosely built;Dick wore a small, pointed brown beard, and was neat and alert. Neitherof them did anything particular in the world. Archie was more or lesstied to his father, except in the autumn--for Archie drew the line atHomburg, and went about for short visits, returning continually to lookafter the estate; Dick lived in a flat in town on six hundred a year, allowed him by his mother, and was supposed to be a sort of solicitor. They saw a good deal of one another, off and on, and got on togetherrather better than most brothers; certainly better than did Archie andFrank. It was thought a pity by a good many people that they were onlycousins. 

 * * * * *

Then, as they gossiped gently, the door suddenly opened and a girl camein. 

She was a very striking girl indeed, and her beauty was increased justnow by obvious excitement held well in check. She was tall and veryfair, and carried herself superbly, looking taller than she really was. Her eyes, particularly bright just now, were of a vivid blue, wide-openand well set in her face; her mouth was strong and sensible; and therewas a glorious air of breeziness and health about her altogether. Shewas in evening dress, and wore a light cloak over her white shoulders. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt, " she said--"Oh! good evening, Mr. Dick!--butthere's something wrong. Clarkson ran out to tell us that LordTalgarth--it's a telegram or something. Father sent me to tell you. "

Archie looked at her a second; then he was gone, swiftly, but nothurriedly. The girl turned to Dick. 

"I'm afraid it's something about Frank, " she said. "I heard Clarksonmention his name to father. Is there any more news?"

Dick laid down his cue across the table. 

"I only came an hour ago, " he said. "Archie was telling me just now. "

Jenny went across to the deep chair on the hearth, threw off her cloakand sat down. 

"Lord Talgarth's--well--if he was my father I should say he was in apassion. I heard his voice. " She smiled a little. 

Dick leaned against the table, looking at her. 

"Poor Frank!" he said. 

She smiled again, more freely. 

"Yes . .. Poor, dear Frank! He's always in hot water, isn't he?"

"I'm afraid it's serious this time, " observed Dick. "What did he want tobecome a Catholic for?"

"Oh, Frank's always unexpected!"

"Yes, I know; but this happens to be just the one very thing--"

She looked at him humorously. 

"Do you know, I'd no notion that Lord Talgarth was so deeply religiousuntil Frank became a Catholic. "

"Yes, I know, " said Dick. "But it is just his one obsession. Frank musthave known that. "

"And I've not the slightest doubt, " said Jenny, "that that was anadditional reason for his doing it. "

"Well, what'll happen?"

She jerked her head a little. 

"Oh! it'll pass off. You'll see. Frank'll find out, and then we shallall be happy ever afterwards. "

"But meantime?"

"Oh! Frank'll go and stay with friends a month or two. I daresay he'llcome to the Kirkbys', and I can go and see him. "

"Suppose he does something violent? He's quite capable of it. "

"Oh! I shall talk to him. It'll be all right. I'm very sensible indeed, you know. All my friends tell me that. "

Dick was silent. 

"Don't you think so?"

"Think what?"

"That I'm very sensible. "

Dick made a little movement with his head. 

"Oh! I suppose so. Yes, I daresay. .. . And suppose my uncle cuts him offwith a shilling? He's quite capable of it. He's a very heavy father, youknow. "

"He won't. I shall talk to him too. "

"Yes; but suppose he does?"

She threw him a swift glance. 

"Frank'll put the shilling on his watch-chain, after it's been shownwith all the other wedding-presents. What are you going to give me, Mr. Dick?"

"I shall design a piece of emblematic jewelry, " said Dick very gravely. "When's the wedding to be?"

"Well, we hadn't settled. Lord Talgarth wouldn't make up his mind. Isuppose next summer some time. "

"Miss Jenny--"

"Yes?"

"Tell me--quite seriously--what you'd do if there was a real row--apermanent one, I mean--between Frank and my uncle?"

"Dear Mr. Dick--don't talk so absurdly. I tell you there's not going tobe a row. I'm going to see to that myself. "

"But suppose there was?"

Jenny stood up abruptly. 

"I tell you I'm a very sensible person, and I'm not going to imagineabsurdities. What do you want me to say? Do you want me to strike anattitude and talk about love in a cottage?"

"Well, that would be one answer. "

"Very well, then. That'll do, won't it? You can take it as said. .. . I'mgoing to see what's happening. "

But as she went to the door there came footsteps and voices outside; andthe next moment the door opened suddenly, and Lord Talgarth, followed byhis son and the Rector, burst into the room. 

(II)

I am very sorry to have to say it, but the thirteenth Earl of Talgarthwas exactly like a man in a book--and not a very good book. Hischaracter was, so to speak, cut out of cardboard--stiff cardboard, andhighly colored, with gilt edges showing here and there. He also, as hasbeen said, resembled a nobleman on the stage of the Adelphi. He had ahandsome inflamed face, with an aquiline nose and white eyebrows thatmoved up and down, and all the other things; he was stout and tall, suffered from the gout, and carried with him in the house a black stickwith an india-rubber pad on the end. There were no shades about him atall. Construct a conventionally theatrical heavy father, of noblefamily, and you have Lord Talgarth to the life. There really are peoplelike this in the world--of whom, too, one can prophesy, with tolerablecertainty, how they will behave in any given situation. 

Certainly, Lord Talgarth was behaving in character now. He had receivedmeek Mr. Mackintosh's deferential telegram, occupying several sheets, informing him that his son had held an auction of all his belongings, and had proposed to take to the roads; asking, also, for instructions asto how to deal with him. And the hint of defiant obstinacy on the partof Frank--the fact, indeed, that he had taken his father at hisword--had thrown that father into a yet more violent fit of passion. Jenny had heard him spluttering and exclamatory with anger as she cameinto the hall (the telegram had but that instant been put into hishands), and even now the footmen, still a little pale, were exchangingwinks in the hall outside; while Clarkson, his valet, and the butlerstood in high and subdued conference a little way off. 

What Lord Talgarth would really have wished was that Frank should havewritten to him a submissive--even though a disobedient--letter, tellinghim that he could not forego his convictions, and preparing to assumethe _rôle_ of a Christian martyr. For he could have sneered at this, andafter suitable discipline forgiven its writer more or less. Of course, he had never intended for one instant that his threats should really becarried out; but the situation--to one of Lord Talgarth'stemperament--demanded that the threats should be made, and that Frankshould pretend to be crushed by them. That the boy should have behavedlike this brought a reality of passion into the affair--disconcertingand infuriating--as if an actor should find his enemy on the stage wasarmed with a real sword. There was but one possibility left--which LordTalgarth instinctively rather than consciously grasped at--namely, thatan increased fury on his part should once more bring realities backagain to a melodramatic level, and leave himself, as father, master bothof the situation and of his most disconcerting son. Frank had behavedlike this in minor matters once or twice before, and Lord Talgarth hadalways come off victor. After all, he commanded all the accessories. 

 * * * * *

When the speeches had been made--Frank cut off with a shilling, drivento the Colonies, brought back again, and finally starved to death at hisfather's gates--Lord Talgarth found himself in a chair, with Jennyseated opposite, and the rest of the company gone to dinner. He did notquite realize how it had all been brought about, nor by whosearrangement it was that a plate of soup and some fish were to comepresently, and Jenny and he to dine together. 

He pulled himself together a little, however, and began to use phrasesagain about his "graceless son, " and "the young villain, " and "not apenny of his. " (He was, of course, genuinely angry; that must beunderstood. )

Then Jenny began to talk. 

"I think, you know, " she said quietly, "that you aren't going the rightway to work. (It's very impertinent of me, isn't it?--but you did sayjust now you wanted to hear what I thought. )"

"Of course I do; of course I do. You're a sensible girl, my dear. I'vealways said that. But as for this young--"

"Well, let me say what I think. (Yes, put the soup down here, will you. Is that right, Lord Talgarth?). " She waited till the man was gone againand the old man had taken up his spoon. Then she took up her own. "Well, I think what you've done is exactly the thing to make Frank moreobstinate than ever. You see, I know him very well. Now, if you'd onlylaughed at him and patted his head, so to speak, from the beginning, andtold him you thought it an excellent thing for a boy of his character, who wants looking after--"

Lord Talgarth glared at her. He was still breathing rather heavily, andwas making something of a noise over his soup. 

"But how can I say that, when I think--"

"Oh! you can't say it now, of course; it's too late. No; that wouldnever do. You must keep it up--only you mustn't be really angry. Why nottry a little cold severity?"

She looked so charming and humorous that the old man began to melt alittle. He glanced up at her once or twice under his heavy eyebrows. 

"I wonder what you'll do, " he said with a kind of gruffness, "when youfind you've got to marry a pauper?"

"I shan't have to marry a pauper, " said Jenny. "That wouldn't doeither. "

"Oh! you're counting on that eight hundred a year still, are you?"

Jenny allowed a little coldness to appear on her face. Rude banter wasall very well, but it mustn't go too far. (Secretly she allowed toherself sometimes that this old man had elements of the cad in hischaracter. )

"That's entirely my own affair, " she said, "and Frank's. "

Lord Talgarth blazed up a little. 

"And the eight hundred a year is mine, " he said. 

Jenny laid down her spoon as the servant reappeared with the fish andthe menu-card. He came very opportunely. And while her host wasconsidering what he would eat next, she was pondering her next move. 

Jenny, as has been said, was an exceedingly sensible girl. She had grownup in the Rectory, down at the park gates; and since her mother's death, three years previously, had managed her father's house, including herfather, with great success. She had begun to extend her influence, forthe last year or two, even over the formidable lord of the manorhimself, and, as has been seen, was engaged to his son. Her judgment wasusually very sound and very sane, and the two men, with the Rector, hadbeen perfectly right just now in leaving the old man to her care for anhour or so. If anything could quiet him it would be this girl. She wasquite fearless, quite dignified, and quite able to hold her own. And herfather perceived that she rather enjoyed it. 

When the man had gone out again, she resumed:

"Well, let's leave it, " she said, "for a day or two. There's no hurry, and--"

"But I must answer this--this telegram, " he growled. "What am I to sayto the feller?"

"Tell him to follow his discretion, and that you have completeconfidence--"

"But--"

"Yes; I know you haven't, really. But it'll do no harm, and it'll makehim feel important. "

"And what if the boy does take to the roads?"

"Let him, " said Jenny coolly. "It won't kill him. "

He looked up at her again in silence. 

Jenny herself was very far from comfortable, though she was conscious ofreal pleasure, too, in the situation. She had seen this old man in apassion pretty often, but she had never seen him in a passion with anyreal excuse. No one ever thwarted him. He even decided where his doctorshould send him for his cure, and in what month, and for how long. Andshe was not, therefore, quite certain what would happen, for she knewFrank well enough to be quite sure that he meant what he said. However, she reflected, the main thing at present was to smooth things down allround as far as possible. Then she could judge. 

"Can't make out why you ever consented to marry such a chap at all!" hegrowled presently. 

"Oh, well--" said Jenny. 

(III)

It was a delicious evening, and the three men, after dinner, strolledout on to the broad terrace that ran, looking over the lake, straight upand down the long side of the house. They had not had the advantage, since the servants were in the room, of talking over the situation asthey wished, and there was no knowing when Lord Talgarth and Jenny mightemerge. So they sat down at a little stone table at the end furthestfrom the smoking-room, and Archie and Dick lit their cigarettes. 

There is not a great deal to say about the Rector. The most effectivefact about him was that he was the father of Jenny. It was a case, here, of "Averill following Averill": his father and grandfather, both secondsons, as was the Rector himself, had held the living before him, and hadperformed the duties of it in the traditional and perfectly respectableway. This one was a quiet middle-aged man, clean-shaven except for twosmall whiskers. He wore a white tie, and a small gold stud was visiblein the long slit of his white shirt-front. He was on very easy terms inthis house, in an unintimate manner, and dined here once a fortnight orso, without saying or hearing anything of particular interest. He hadbeen secretly delighted at his daughter's engagement, and had given hisconsent with gentle and reserved cordiality. He was a Tory, not exactlyby choice, but simply--for the same reason as he was Church ofEngland--because he was unable, in the fiber of him, to imagine anythingelse. Of course, Lord Talgarth was the principal personage in his world, simply because he was Lord Talgarth and owned practically the wholeparish and two-thirds of the next. He regarded his daughter with thegreatest respect, and left in her hands everything that he decentlycould. And, to do her justice, Jenny was a very benevolent, as well ascapable, despot. In short, the Rector plays no great part in this dramabeyond that of a discreet, and mostly silent, Greek chorus ofunimpeachable character. He disapproved deeply, of course, of Frank'schange of religion--but he disapproved with that same part of him thatappreciated Lord Talgarth. It seemed to him that Catholicism, in hisdaughter's future husband, was a defect of the same kind as would be awooden leg or an unpleasant habit of sniffing--a drawback, yet notinsuperable. He would be considerably relieved if it could be cured. 

 * * * * *

The three men sat there for some while without interruption from thesmoking-room, while the evening breeze died, the rosy sky paled, and thestars came out one by one, like diamonds in the clear blue. They said, of course, all the proper things, and Dick heard a little more than hehad previously known. 

Dick was always conscious of a faint, almost impersonal, resentmentagainst destiny when he stayed at Merefield. It was obvious to him thatthe position of heir there was one which would exactly have suited histastes and temperament. He was extremely pleased to belong to thefamily--and it was, indeed, a very exceptional family as regardshistory: it had been represented in nearly every catastrophe since theNorman Conquest, and always on the winning side, except once--but it wasdifficult to enjoy the distinction as it deserved, living, as he did, ina flat in London all by himself. When his name was mentioned to awell-informed stranger, it was always greeted by the question as towhether he was one of the Guiseleys of Merefield, and it seemed to himsingularly annoying that he could only answer "First cousin. " Archie, ofcourse, was a satisfactory heir; there was no question of that--he wascompletely of Dick's own school of manner--but it seemed a kind ofoutrage that Frank, with his violent convictions and his escapades, should be Archie's only brother. There was little of that repose abouthim that a Guiseley needed. 

It would be about half-past nine that the sound of an opening door, andvoices, from the further end of the terrace, told them that thesmoking-room conference was over, and they stood up as Jenny, veryupright and pale in the twilight, with her host at her side, came uptowards them. Dick noticed that the cigar his uncle carried was smokeddown almost to the butt, and augured well from that detail. The oldman's arm was in the girl's, and he supported himself on the other side, limping a little, on his black stick. 

He sat down with a grunt and laid his stick across the table. 

"Well, boys, we've settled it, " he said. "Jenny's to write thetelegram. "

"No one need be anxious any more, " announced Jenny imperturbably. "LordTalgarth's extremely angry still, as he has every right to be, andFrank's going to be allowed to go on the tramp if he wants to. "

The Rector waited, in deferential silence, for corroboration. 

"Jenny's a very sensible girl, " observed Lord Talgarth. "And what shesays is quite right. "

"Do you mean to say--" began Archie. 

The old man frowned round at him. 

"All that I've said holds good, " he said. 

"Frank's made his bed and he must lie on it. I warned him. And Jennysees that, too. "

Archie glanced at the girl, and Dick looked hard at her, straight intoher face. But there was absolutely no sign there of any perturbation. Certainly she looked white in the falling dusk, but her eyes were merryand steadfast, and her voice perfectly natural. 

"That's how we've settled it, " she said. "And if I'm satisfied, Iimagine everyone else ought to be. And I'm going to write Frank a goodlong letter all by myself. Come along, father, we must be going. LordTalgarth isn't well, and we mustn't keep him up. "

(IV)

When the last game of billiards had been played, and whisky had beendrunk, and Archie had taken up his candle, Dick stood still, with hisown in his hand. 

"Aren't you coming?" said Archie. 

Dick paused. 

"I think I'll smoke one more cigarette on the terrace, " he said. "It's aheavenly night, and I want to get the taste of the train out of mymouth. "

"All right, then. Lock up, will you, when you come in? I'm off. "

It was, indeed, a heavenly night. Behind him as he sat at the tablewhere they had had coffee the great house shimmered pale in the summertwilight, broken here by a line or two of yellow light behind shutteredwindows, here with the big oriel window of the hall, blazing with coats, fully illuminated. (He must remember, he thought, to put out the lightsthere as he went to bed. )

And about him was the great soft, sweet-smelling darkness, roofed in bythe far-off sky alight with stars; and beneath him in the valley hecould catch the glimmer of the big lake and the blotted masses of pineand cypress black against it. 

It was here, then, under these circumstances, that Dick confessed tohimself, frankly and openly for the first time, that he was in love withJenny Launton. 

He had known her for years, off and on, and had thought of her as apretty girl and a pleasant companion. He had skated with her, riddenwith her, danced with her, and had only understood, with a sense of mildshock, at the time of her engagement to Frank six months before, thatshe was of an age to become a wife to someone. 

That had been the beginning of a process which culminated to-night, ashe now understood perfectly. Its next step had been a vague wonder whyArchie hadn't fallen in love with her himself; and he had explained itby saying that Archie had too great a sense of his own importance topermit himself to marry a rector's daughter with only a couple ofhundred a year of her own. (And in this explanation I think he was quitecorrect. ) Then he had begun to think of her himself a gooddeal--dramatically, rather than realistically--wondering what it wouldfeel like to be engaged to her. If a younger son could marry her, surelya first cousin could--even of the Guiseleys. So it had gone on, littleby little. He had danced with her here at Christmas--just after theengagement--and had stayed on a week longer than he had intended. He hadcome up again at Easter, and again at Whitsuntide, though he alwaysprotested to his friends that there was nothing to do at Merefield inthe summer. And now here he was again, and the thing had happened. 

At first, as he sat here, he tried to analyze his attitude to Frank. 

He had never approved of Frank altogether; he didn't quite like thequeer kinds of things that Frank did; for Frank's reputation atMerefield was very much what it was at Cambridge. He did ridiculous andundignified things. As a small boy, he had fought at least three pitchedbattles in the village, and that was not a proper thing for a Guiseleyto do. He liked to go out with the keepers after poachers, and Dick, very properly, asked himself what keepers were for except to do thatkind of thing for you? There had been a bad row here, too, scarcelyeighteen months ago; it had been something to do with a horse that wasill-treated, and Frank had cut a very absurd and ridiculous figure, getting hot and angry, and finally thrashing a groom, or somebody, withhis own hands, and there had been uncomfortable talk about police-courtsand actions for assault. Finally, he had fallen in love with, proposedto, and become engaged to, Jenny Launton. That was an improper thing fora younger son to do, anyhow, at his age, and Dick now perceived that thefact that Jenny was Jenny aggravated the offense a hundredfold. And, last of all, he had become a Catholic--an act of enthusiasm which seemedto Dick really vulgar. 

Altogether, then, Frank was not a satisfactory person, and it would dohim no harm to have a little real discipline at last. .. . 

 * * * * *

It was the striking of midnight from the stable clock that woke Dick upfrom his deep reverie, and was the occasion of his perceiving that hehad come to no conclusion about anything, except that Frank was an ass, that Jenny was--well--Jenny, and that he, Dick, was an ill-used person. 

I do not like to set down here, even if I could, all the considerationsthat had passed through Dick's mind since a quarter-past eleven, simplybecause the very statement of them would give a false impression. Dickwas not a knave, and he did not deceive himself about himself more thanmost of us do. Yet he had considered a number of points that, strictlyspeaking, he ought not to have considered. He had wondered whether Frankwould die; he had wondered whether, if he did not, Lord Talgarth wouldreally be as good as his word; and, if so, what effect that would haveon Jenny. Finally, he had wondered, with a good deal of intellectualapplication, what exactly Jenny had meant when she had announced allthat about the telegram she was going to send in Lord Talgarth's name, and the letter she was going to send in her own. (He had asked Archiejust now in the smoking-room, and he, too, had confessed himself beaten. Only, he had been quite sure that jenny would get her way and obtainFrank's forgiveness. )

Also, in the course of his three-quarters of an hour he had considered, for perhaps the hundredth time since he had come to the age ofdiscretion, what exactly three lives between a man and a title stoodfor. Lord Talgarth was old and gouty; Archie was not married, and showedno signs of it; and Frank--well, Frank was always adventurous andalways in trouble. 

Well, I have set down the points, after all. But it must not be thoughtthat the gentleman with the pointed brown beard and thoughtful eyes, whoat five minutes past twelve went up the two steps into the smoking-room, locked the doors, as he had been directed, took up his candle and wentto bed, went with an uneasy conscience, or, in fact, was a villain inany way whatever. 

CHAPTER III

(I)

The first spot in Frank's pilgrimage which I have been able to visit andidentify in such a way that I am able to form to myself a picture of hisadventure more or less complete in all its parts, lies about ten milesnorth-west of Doncaster, in a little valley, where curiously enoughanother pilgrim named Richard lived for a little while nearly sixhundred years ago. 

Up to the time of Frank's coming there, in the season of hay-making, numberless little incidents of his experience stand out, vivid, indeed, but fragmentary, yet they do not form to my mind a coherent whole. Ithink I understand to some extent the process by which he becameaccustomed to ordinary physical hard living, into which the initiationbegan with his series of almost wholly sleepless nights and heavysleep-burdened days. Night was too strange--in barns, beneath hay-ricks, in little oppressive rooms, in stable-lofts--for him to sleep easily atfirst; and between his tramps, or in the dinner-hour, when he managed toget work, he would drop off in the hot sunshine down into depths ofthat kind of rest that is like the sea itself--glimmering gulfs, lit byglimpses of consciousness of the grass beneath his cheek, the bubble ofbird-song in the copses, stretching down into profound and utterdarkness. 

Of how the little happenings of every day wore themselves into acoherent whole, and modified, not indeed himself, but his manner of lifeand his experience and knowledge, I can make no real picture at all. Thefirst of these took place within ten miles of Cambridge on his firstmorning, and resulted in the bruised face which Mr. Harris noticed; itconcerned a piece of brutality to a dog in which Frank interfered. .. . (He was extraordinarily tender to animals. ) Then there was the learningas to how work was obtained, and, even more considerable, the doing ofthe work. The amateur, as Frank pointed out later, began too vigorouslyand became exhausted; the professional set out with the samedeliberation with which he ended. One must not run at one's spade, orhoe, or whatever it was; one must exercise a wearisome self-control . .. Survey the work to be done, turn slowly, spit on one's hands, and aftera pause begin, remembering that the same activity must show itself, ifthe work was to be renewed next day, up to the moment of leaving off. 

Then there was the need of becoming accustomed to an entirely differentkind of food, eaten in an entirely different way, and under entirelydifferent circumstances. There was experience to be gained as to washingclothes--I can almost see Frank now by a certain kind of stream, stripped to the waist, waiting while his shirt dried, smoking anill-rolled cigarette, yet alert for the gamekeeper. Above all, there wasan immense volume of learning--or, rather, a training of instinct--to begained respecting human nature: a knowledge of the kind of man who wouldgive work, the kind of man who meant what he said, and the kind of manwho did not; the kind of woman who would threaten the police if milk orbread were asked for--Frank learned to beg very quickly--the kind ofwoman who would add twopence and tell him to be off, and the kind ofwoman who, after a pause and a slow scrutiny, would deliberately refuseto supply a glass of water. Then there was the atmosphere of the littletowns to be learned--the intolerable weariness of pavements, and thepatient persistence of policemen who would not allow you to sit down. Hediscovered, also, during his wanderings, the universal fact thatpolicemen are usually good-hearted, but with absolutely no sense ofhumor whatever; he learned this through various attempts to feign thatthe policeman was in fancy-dress costume and had no real authority. Helearned, too, that all crimes pale before "resisting the police in theexecution of their duty"; then, he had to learn, to, the way in whichother tramps must be approached--the silences necessary, the sort ofquestions which were useless, the jokes that must be laughed at and thejokes that must be resented. 

All this is beyond me altogether; it was beyond even Frank's own powersof description. A boy, coming home for the holidays for the first time, cannot make clear to his mother, or even to himself, what it is that hasso utterly changed his point of view, and his relations towards familiarthings. 

 * * * * *

So with Frank. 

He could draw countless little vignettes of his experiences andemotions--the particular sensation elicited, for example, by seeingthrough iron gates happy people on a lawn at tea--the white china, thesilver, the dresses, the flannels, the lawn-tennis net--as he went past, with string tied below his knees to keep off the drag of the trousers, and a sore heel; the emotion of being passed by a boy and a girl onhorseback; the flood of indescribable associations roused by walking forhalf a day past the split-oak paling of a great park, with lodge-gateshere and there, the cooing of wood-pigeons, and the big house, amongits lawns and cedars and geranium-beds, seen now and then, far off inthe midst. But what he could not describe, or understand, was the inneralchemy by which this new relation to things modified his own soul, andgave him a point of view utterly new and bewildering. Curiously enough, however (as it seems to me), he never seriously considered thepossibility of abandoning this way of life, and capitulating to hisfather. A number of things, I suppose--inconceivable tomyself--contributed to his purpose; his gipsy blood, his extraordinarypassion for romance, the attraction of a thing simply because it wasdaring and unusual, and finally, a very exceptionally strong will that, for myself, I should call obstinacy. 

The silence--as regards his old world--was absolute and unbroken. Heknew perfectly well that by now letters and telegrams must be waitingfor him at Jack's home, including at least one from Jenny, and probablya dozen; but as to Jenny, he knew she would understand, and as to therest, he honestly did not care at all. He sent her a picture postcardonce or twice--from Ely, Peterborough, Sleaford and Newark--towns wherehe stayed for a Sunday (I have seen in Sleaford the little room where hetreated himself to a bed for two nights)--and was content. He made noparticular plans for the future; he supposed something would turn up;and he settled with himself, by the help of that same will which I havementioned before, that he would precipitate no conclusions till hereached Barham later on in the early autumn. 

His faith and morals during these weeks are a little difficult todescribe. As regards his morals, at least in one particular point, hehad formulated the doctrine that, when he was very hungry, game mightnot be touched, but that rabbits and birds were permissible if theycould be snared in the hedges of the high-road. He became an expert atthis kind of thing, and Jack has described to me, as taught by Frank, afew devices of which I was entirely ignorant. Frank tramped for a coupleof days with a gamekeeper out of work, and learned these things fromhim, as well as one or two simple methods of out-of-door cookery. Asregards his religion, I think I had better not say much just now; verycurious influences were at work upon him: I can only say that Frankhimself has described more than once, when he could be induced to talk, the extraordinary, and indeed indescribable, thrill with which he saw, now and again, in town or country, a priest in his vestments go to thealtar--for he heard mass when he could. .. . 

So much, then, is all that I can say of the small, detached experiencesthat he passed through, up to the point when he came out one evening atsunset from one of the fields of Hampole where he had made hay all day, when his job was finished, and where he met, for the first time, theMajor and Gertie Trustcott. 

(II)

They were standing with the sunset light behind them, as a glory--twodisreputable figures, such as one sees in countless thousands along allthe high-roads of England in the summer. The Major himself was a leanman, with a red mustache turning gray, deep-set, narrow, blood-shoteyes, a chin and very square jaw shaved about two days previously. Hehad an old cricketing cap on his head, trousers tied up with string, like Frank's, and one of those long, square-tailed, yellowish coats withbroad side-pockets such as a gamekeeper might have worn twenty yearsago. One of his boots was badly burst, and he, seemed to rest his weightby preference on the other foot. He was not prepossessing; but Franksaw, with his newly-gained experience, that he was different from othertramps. He glanced at the girl and saw that she too was not quite of theregular type, though less peculiar than her companion; and he noticedwith an odd touch at his heart that she had certain characteristics incommon with Jenny. She was not so tall, but she had the same coloredhair under a filthy white sun-bonnet and the same kind of blue eyes: buther oval face again was weak and rather miserable. They were both deeplysunburned. 

Frank had learned the discretion of the roads by now, and did no morethan jerk his head almost imperceptibly as he went past. (He proposed togo back to the farm to get his dwindled belongings, as the job was over, and to move on a few miles northward before sleeping. )

As he went, however, he knew that the man had turned and was lookingafter him: but he made no sign. He had no particular desire for company. He also knew by instinct, practically for certain, that these two wereneither husband and wife, nor father and daughter. The type was obvious. 

"I say, sir!"

Frank turned as bucolically as he could. 

"I say, sir--can you direct this lady and myself to a lodging?"

Frank had tried to cultivate a low and characterless kind of voice, asof a servant or a groom out of work. He knew he could never learn theproper accent. 

"Depends on what kind of lodging you want, sir. "

"What'd suit you 'ud suit us, " said the Major genially, dropping the"sir. "

"I'm going further, sir, " said Frank. "I've done my job here. "

The Major turned to the girl, and Frank caught the words, "What d'yousay, Gertie?" There was a murmur of talk; and then the man turned to himagain:

"If you've no objection, sir, we'll come with you. My good lady here isgood for a mile or two more, she says, and we'd like some company. "

Frank hesitated. He did not in the least wish for company himself. Heglanced at the girl again. 

"Very good, sir, " he said. "Then if you'll wait here I'll be back infive minutes--I've got to get my belongings. "

He nodded to the low farm buildings in the valley just below thevillage. 

"We will await you here, sir, " said the Major magnificently, strokinghis mustache. 

 * * * * *

As Frank came back up the little hill a few minutes later, he had madeup his mind as to what to say and do. It was his first experience of agentleman-tramp, and it was obvious that under the circumstances hecould not pretend to be anything else himself. But he was perfectlydetermined not to tell his name. None of his belongings had anythingmore than his initials upon them, and he decided to use the name he hadalready given more than once. Probably they would not go far together;but it was worth while to be on the safe side. 

He came straight up to the two as they sat side by side with their feetin the ditch. 

"I'm ready, sir, " he said. "Yes; you've spotted me all right. "

"University man and public school boy, " said the Major without moving. 

"Eton and Cambridge, " said Frank. 

The Major sprang up. 

"Harrow and the Army, " he said. "Shake hands. "

This was done. 

"Name?" said the Major. 

Frank grinned. 

"I haven't my card with me, " he said. "But Frank Gregory will do. "

"I understand, " said the Major. "And 'The Major' will do for me. It hasthe advantage of being true. And this lady?--well, we'll call her mywife. "

Frank bowed. He felt he was acting in some ridiculous dream; but hissense of humor saved him. The girl gave a little awkward bow inresponse, and dropped her eyes. Certainly she was very like Jenny, andvery unlike. 

"And a name?" asked Frank. "We may as well have one in case ofdifficulties. "

The Major considered. 

"What do you say to Trustcott?" he asked. "Will that do?"

"Perfectly, " said Frank. "Major and Mrs. Trustcott. .. . Well, shall we begoing?"

 * * * * *

Frank had no particular views as to lodgings, or even to roads, so longas the direction was more or less northward. He was aiming, generallyspeaking, at Selby and York; and it seemed that this would suit theMajor as well as anything else. There is, I believe, some kind ofroutine amongst the roadsters; and about that time of the year most ofthem are as far afield as at any time from their winter quarters. TheMajor and Mrs. Trustcott, he soon learned, were Southerners; but theywould not turn homewards for another three months yet, at least. Forhimself, he had no ideas beyond a general intention to reach Barham sometime in the autumn, before Jack went back to Cambridge for his fourthyear. 

"The country is not prepossessing about here, " observed the Majorpresently; "Hampole is an exception. "

Frank glanced back at the valley they were leaving. It had, indeed, anextraordinarily retired and rural air; it was a fertile little tract ofground, very limited and circumscribed, and the rail that ran through itwas the only sign of the century. But the bright air was a little dimmedwith smoke; and already from the point they had reached tall chimneysbegan to prick against the horizon. 

"You have been here before?" he said. 

"Why, yes; and about this time last year, wasn't it, Gertie? Iunderstand a hermit lived here once. "

"A hermit might almost live here to-day, " said Frank. 

"You are right, sir, " said the Major. 

 * * * * *

Frank began to wonder, as he walked, as to why this man was on theroads. Curiously enough, he believed his statement that he had been inthe army. The air of him seemed the right thing. A militia captain wouldhave swaggered more; a complete impostor would have given more details. Frank began to fish for information. 

"You have been long on the roads?" he said. 

The Major did not appear to hear him. 

"You have been long on the roads?" persisted Frank. 

The other glanced at him furtively and rather insolently. "The youngerman first, please. "

Frank smiled. 

"Oh, certainly!" he said. "Well, I have left Cambridge at the end ofJune only. "

"Ah! Anything disgraceful?"

"You won't believe me, I suppose, if I say 'No'?"

"Oh! I daresay I shall. "

"Well, then, 'No. '"

"Then may I ask--?"

"Oh, yes! I was kicked out by my father--I needn't go into details. Isold up my things and came out. That's all!"

"And you mean to stick to it?"

"Certainly--at least for a year or two. "

"That's all right. Well, then--Major--what did we say? Trustcott? Ah, yes, Trustcott. Well, then, I think we might add 'Eleventh Hussars';that's near enough. The final catastrophe was, I think, cards. Not thatI cheated, you understand. I will allow no man to say that of me. Butthat was what was said. A gentleman of spirit, you understand, could notremain in a regiment when such things could be said. Then we tumbleddownhill; and I've been at this for four years. And, you know, sir, itmight be worse!"

Frank nodded. 

Naturally he did not believe as necessarily true this terse littlestory, and he was absolutely certain that if cards were mixed up in itat all, obviously the Major had cheated. So he just took the story andput it away, so to speak. It was to form, he perceived, theunderstanding on which they consorted together. Then he began to wonderabout the girl. The Major soon supplied a further form. 

"And Mrs. Trustcott, here? Well, she joined me, let us say, rather morethan eighteen months ago. We had been acquainted before that, however. That was when I was consenting to serve as groom to some--er--someJewish bounder in town. Mrs. Trustcott's parents live in town. "

The girl, who had been trudging patiently a foot or two behind them, just glanced up at Frank and down again. He wondered exactly what herown attitude was to all this. But she made no comment. 

"And now we know one another, " finished the Major in a tone of genialfinality. "So where are you taking us--er--Mr. Gregory?"

(III)

They were fortunate that night. 

The part of Yorkshire where they were traveling consists chiefly of aninnumerable quantity of little cottages, gathered for the most partround collieries. One has the impression--at any rate, from amotor--that there is nothing but villages. But that is not a fact. Thereare stretches of road, quite solitary at certain hours; and in one ofthese they noticed presently a little house, not twenty yards from theroad, once obviously forming part of a row of colliers' cottages, ofwhich the rest were demolished. 

It was not far off from ruin itself, and was very plainly uninhabited. Across the front door were nailed deal props, originally, perhaps, forthe purpose of keeping it barred, and useful for holding it in itsplace. The Major and Gertie kept watch on the road while Frank pushedopen the crazy little gate and went round to the back. A minute later hecalled to them softly. 

He had wrenched open the back door, and within in the darkness theycould make out a little kitchen, stripped of everything--table, furniture, and even the range itself. The Major kicked somethingpresently in the gloom, swore softly, and announced he had found akettle. They decided that all this would do very well. 

 * * * * *

Tramps do not demand very much, and these were completely contented whenthey had made a small fire, damped down with a turf to prevent itsmoking, had boiled a little water, stewed some tea, and eaten what theyhad. Even this was not luxurious. The Major produced the heel of acheese and two crushed-looking bananas, and Frank a half-eaten tin ofsardines and a small, stale loaf. The Major announced presently that hewould make a savory; and, indeed, with cheese melted on to the bread, and sardines on the top, he did very well. Gertie moved silently about;and Frank, in the intervals of rather abrupt conversation with theMajor, found his eyes following her as she spread out their smallpossessions, vanished up the stairs and reappeared. Certainly she wasvery like Jenny, even in odd little details--the line of her eyebrows, the angle of her chin and so forth--perhaps more in these details thanin anything else. He began to wonder a little about her--to imagine herpast, to forecast her future. It seemed all rather sordid. Shedisappeared finally without a word: he heard her steps overhead, andthen silence. 

Then he had to attend to the Major a little more. 

"It was easy enough to tell you, " said that gentleman. 

"How?"

"Oh, well, if nothing else, your clothes. "

"Aren't they shabby enough?"

The Major eyed him with half-closed lids, by the light of the singlecandle-end, stuck in its own wax on the mantelshelf. 

"They're shabby enough, but they're the wrong sort. There's the cut, first--though that doesn't settle it. But these are gray flanneltrousers, for one thing, and then the coat's not stout enough. "

"They might have been given me, " said Frank, smiling. 

"They fit you too well for that. "

"I'll change them when I get a chance, " observed Frank. 

"It would be as well, " assented the Major. 

 * * * * *

Somehow or another the sense of sordidness, which presently began toaffect Frank so profoundly, descended on him for the first time thatnight. He had managed, by his very solitariness hitherto, to escape itso far. It had been possible to keep up a kind of pose so far; toimagine the adventure in the light of a very much prolonged and veryrealistic picnic. But with this other man the thing became impossible. It was tolerable to wash one's own socks; it was not so tolerable to seeanother man's socks hung up on the peeling mantelpiece a foot away fromhis own head, and to see two dirty ankles, not his own, emerging fromcrazy boots. 

The Major, too, presently, when he grew a trifle maudlin over his ownsorrows, began to call him "Frankie, " and "my boy, " and somehow itmattered, from a man with the Major's obvious record. Frank pulledhimself up only just in time to prevent a retort when it first happened, but it was not the slightest use to be resentful. The thing had to beborne. And it became easier when it occurred to him to regard the Majoras a study; it was even interesting to hear him give himself away, yetall with a pompous appearance of self-respect, and to recount his firstmeeting with Gertie, now asleep upstairs. 

The man was, in fact, exactly what Frank, in his prosperous days, wouldhave labeled "Bounder. " He had a number of meaningless littlemannerisms--a way of passing his hand over his mustache, a trick ofbringing a look of veiled insolence into his eyes; there were subjectshe could not keep away from--among them Harrow School, the Universities(which he called 'Varsity), the regiment he had belonged to, and acertain type of adventure connected with women and champagne. Andunderneath the whole crust of what the Major took to be breeding, therewas a piteous revelation of a feeble, vindictive, and rather nastycharacter. It became more and more evident that the cheatingincident--or, rather, the accusation, as he persisted in callingit--was merely the last straw in his fall, and that the whole thing hadbeen the result of a crumbly unprincipled kind of will underneath, rather than of any particular strain of vice. He appeared, even now, tothink that his traveling about with a woman who was not his wife was asort of remnant of fallen splendor--as a man might keep a couple ofsilver spoons out of the ruin of his house. 

"I recommend you to pick up with one, " remarked the Major. "There areplenty to be had, if you go about it the right way. "

"Thanks, " said Frank, "but it's not my line. "

(IV)

The morning, too, was a little trying. 

Frank had passed a tolerable night. The Major had retired upstairs aboutten o'clock, taking his socks with him, presumably to sleep in them, andFrank had heard him creaking about upstairs for a minute or two; therehad followed two clumps as the boots were thrown off; a board suddenlyspoke loudly; there was a little talking--obviously the Major hadawakened Gertie in order to make a remark or two--and then silence. 

Frank had not slept for half an hour; he was thinking, with somedepression, of the dreary affair into which he had been initiated, ofthe Major, and of Gertie, for whom he was beginning to be sorry. He didnot suppose that the man actually bullied her; probably he had done thissufficiently for the present--she was certainly very quiet andsubdued--or perhaps she really admired him, and thought it rathermagnificent to travel about with an ex-officer. Anyhow, it was ratherdeplorable. .. . 

 * * * * *

When he awoke next morning, the depression was on him still; and it wasnot lifted by the apparition of Gertie on which he opened his eyes fromhis corner, in an amazingly dirty petticoat, bare-armed, with her hairin a thick untidy pig-tail, trying to blow the fire into warmth again. 

Frank jumped up--he was in his trousers and shirt. 

"Let me do that, " he said. 

"I'll do it, " said Gertie passionlessly. 

 * * * * *

The Major came down ten minutes later, considerably the worse for hisnight's rest. Yesterday he had had a day's beard on him; to-day he hadtwo, and there was a silvery sort of growth in the stubble that made itlook wet. His eyes, too, were red and sunken, and he began almostinstantly to talk about a drink. Frank stood it for a few minutes, thenhe understood and capitulated. 

"I'll stand you one, " he said, "if you'll get me two packets ofCinderellas. "

"What's the good of that?" said the Major. "Pubs aren't open yet. It'sonly just gone five. "

"You'll have to wait, then, " said Frank shortly. 

Presently the Major did begin to bully Gertie. He asked her what thedevil was the good of her if she couldn't make a fire burn better thanthat. He elbowed her out of the way and set to work at it himself. Shesaid nothing at all. Yet there was not the faintest use in Frank'sinterfering, and, indeed, there was nothing to interfere in. 

Food, too, this morning, seemed disgusting; and again Frank learned thedifference between a kind of game played by oneself and a reality inwhich two others joined. There had been something almost pleasing aboutunrolling the food wrapped up at supper on the previous night, andeating it, with or without cooking, all alone; but there was somethingastonishingly unpleasant in observing sardines that were now commonproperty lying in greasy newspaper, a lump of bread from which theirhands tore pieces, and a tin bowl of warmish cocoa from which all mustdrink. This last detail was a contribution on the part of Major and Mrs. Trustcott, and it would have been ungracious to refuse. The Major, too, was sullen and resentful this morning, and growled at Gertie more thanonce. 

Even the weather seemed unpropitious as they set out together again soonafter six. Rain had fallen in the night, yet not all the rain that therewas overhead. There were still clouds hanging, mixed with the smoke fromthe chimneys; the hedges seemed dulled and black in spite of theirgreen; the cinder path they walked on was depressing, the rain-fed roadeven more so. They passed a dozen men on their way to the pits, who maderemarks on the three, and retaliation was out of the question. 

 * * * * *

It was very disconcerting to Frank to find the difference that his newcircumstances made; and yet he did not seriously consider changing them. It seemed to him, somehow or other, in that strange fashion in whichsuch feelings come, that the whole matter was pre-arranged, and that thecompany in which he found himself was as inevitably his--at least forthe present--as the family to a child born into it. And there was, ofcourse, too, a certain element of relief in feeling himself no longercompletely alone; and there was also, as Frank said later, a curioussense of attraction towards, and pity for, Gertie that held him there. 

At the first public-house that was open the Major stopped. 

"I'll get your Cinderellas now, if you like, " he said. 

This had not been Frank's idea, but he hardly hesitated. 

"All right, " he said. "Here's fourpence. "

The Major vanished through the swing-doors as a miner came out, and agush of sweet and sickly scent--beer, spirits, tobacco--poured upon thefresh air. And there was a vision of a sawdusted floor and spittoonswithin. 

Frank looked at Gertie, who had stopped like a patient donkey, and, likea prudent one, had let her bundle instantly down beside the Major's. 

"Like one, too?" he said. 

She shook her head. 

"Not for me. " . .. And no more. 

In a couple of minutes the Major was out again. 

"Only had one packet left, " he said, and with an air of extremepunctiliousness and magnanimity replaced one penny in Frank's hand. Hehad the air of one who is insistent on the little honesties of life. There was also a faintly spirituous atmosphere about him, and his eyeslooked a little less sunken. 

Then he handed over the cigarettes. 

"Shouldn't mind one myself, " he said genially. 

Frank gave him one before lighting his own. 

"You're a good sort, " said the Major, "and I wish I could give you oneof my old cigars I used to give my friends. "

"Ah! well, when your ship comes home, " observed Frank, throwing away hismatch. 

The Major nodded his head as with an air of fallen grandeur. 

"Well, " he said, "_vorwärts_. That means 'forward, ' my dear, " heexplained to Gertie. 

Gertie said nothing. They took up their bundles and went on. 

(V)

It was not till a week later that Gertie did that which was to effect somuch in Frank--she confided in him. 

The week had consisted of the kind of thing that might beexpected--small negligible adventures; work now and then--the Major andFrank working side by side--a digging job on one day, the carrying ofrather dingy smoke-stained hay on another, the scraping of garden-pathsthat ran round the small pink house of a retired tradesman, who observedthem magnificently though a plate-glass window all the while, with acigar in his teeth, and ultimately gave them ninepence between them. They slept here and there--once, on a rainy night, in real lodgings, once below a haystack. Frank said hardly a word to Gertie, and didlittle more than listen to the Major, who was already beginning torepeat himself; but he was aware that the girl was watching him. 

The crisis came about under circumstances that might be expected--on arather sentimental kind of Sunday evening, in a village whose name Iforget (perhaps it was Escrick) between Selby and York. Frank had made asmall excursion by himself in the morning and had managed to hear mass;they had dined well off cold bacon and beans, and had walked on in theafternoon some miles further; and they came to the village a littleafter six o'clock. The Major had a blister, which he had exhibited atleast four times to the company, and had refused to go further; and asthey came to the outskirts of the village, volunteered to go and lookfor shelter, if the two would wait for him at a stile that led acrossfields to the old church. 

The scene was rather like the setting of the last act in a melodrama ofa theater on the Surrey side of the Thames--the act in which the injuredheroine, with her child, sinks down fainting as the folk are going tochurch in the old village on a June evening among the trees--leading upto moonlight effects and reunion. There was no organ to play "off, " butthe bells were an excellent substitute, and it was these that presentlymelted the heart of Gertie. 

When the Major had disappeared, limping, the two climbed over the stileand sat down with their bundles under the hedge, but they presentlyfound that they had chosen something of a thoroughfare. Voices camealong presently, grew louder, and stopped as the speakers climbed thestile. The first pair was of a boy and girl, who instantly clasped againmutual waists, and went off up the path across the field to thechurchyard without noticing the two tramps; their heads were very neartogether. 

Then other couples came along, old and young, and twice a trio--one, twoyoung men in black, who skirmished on either side of a very sedate girlin white; one, two girls who shoved one another, and giggled, walking instep three yards behind another young man with his hat on one side, whogloried in being talked at and pretended to be rapt in abstraction. Thensome children came; then a family--papa walking severely apart in a silkhat, and mamma, stout and scarlet-faced, in the midst of the throng. Finally there came along a very old Darby and Joan, who with manyYorkshire ejaculations helped one another over the stile, and moved onwith bent heads, scolding one another affectionately. It was as thislast couple reached the spot where the path ran into the corn that thepeal of four bells broke out, and Gertie broke down. 

Frank had not been noticing her particularly. He was gloomy himself; thenovelty of the whole affair had gone; the Major was becomingintolerable, and Frank's religion was beginning to ebb from hisemotions. Mass this morning had not been a success from an emotionalpoint of view; he had had an uncomfortable seat on a pitch-pine bench ina tin church with an American organ; the very young priest had beentiresome and antipathetic. .. . Frank had done his best, but he was tiredand bored; the little church had been very hot, and it was no longer anyfun to be stared at superciliously by a stout tradesman as he came outinto the hot sunshine afterwards. 

Just now he had been watching the figures make their appearance from thestile, re-form groups and dwindle slowly down to the corn, and theirheads and shoulders bob along above it--all with a kind of resentment. These people had found their life; he was still looking for his. He waswatching, too, the strangely unreal appearance of the sunlit fields, thelong shadows, the golden smoky light, and the church tower, set amongcypresses half a mile away--yet without any conscious sentiment. He hadnot said a word to Gertie, nor she to him, and he was totally taken bysurprise when, after the first soft crash of bells for evening service, she had suddenly thrown herself round face forward among the grasses andburst out sobbing. 

"My dear girl!" said Frank, "whatever's the matter?" Then he stopped. 

 * * * * *

Fortunately, the procession of worshipers had run dry, and the two werequite alone. He sat upright, utterly ignorant of what to say. He thoughtperhaps she was in pain . .. Should he run for the Major or a doctor?. .. Then, as after a minute or two of violent sobbing she began a fewincoherent words, he understood. 

"Oh! I'm a wicked girl . .. A wicked girl . .. It's all so beautiful . .. The church bells . .. My mother!"

 * * * * *

He understood, then, what had precipitated this crisis and broken downthe girl's reserve. It was, in fact, exactly that same appeal whichholds a gallery breathless and tearful in the last act of a Surrey-sidemelodrama--the combination of Sunday quiet, a sunset, church bells, associations and human relationships; and Gertie's little suburban soulresponded to it as a bell to a bell-rope. It was this kind of thing thatstood to her for holiness and peace and purity, and it had gone cleanthrough her heart. And he understood, too, that it was his presencethat had allowed her to break down. The Major's atmosphere had held hertaut so far. Frank was conscious of a lump in his own throat as hestared out, helpless, first at the peaceful Sunday fields and then downat the shaking shoulders and the slender, ill-clad, writhed form ofGertie. .. . He did not know what to do . .. He hoped the Major would notbe back just yet. Then he understood he must say something. 

"Don't cry, " he said. "The Major--"

She sat up on the instant in sudden consternation, her pretty, weak, sunburned face disfigured with tears, but braced for the moment by fear. 

"No, no, " said Frank; "he isn't coming yet; but--"

Then she was down again, moaning and talking. "Oh!. .. Oh!. .. I'm awicked girl. .. . My mother!. .. And I never thought I should come tothis!"

"Well, why don't you chuck it?" said Frank practically. 

"I can't!. .. I can't! I . .. I love him!"

That had not occurred to this young man as a conceivable possibility, and he sat silenced. The church-bells pealed on; the sun sank a littlelower; Gertie sobbed more and more gently; and Frank's mind worked likea mill, revolving developments. Finally, she grew quiet, lay still, and, as the bells gave place to one of their number, sat up. She dabbed ather eyes with a handful of wet grass, passed her sleeve across them onceor twice, and began to talk. 

"I . .. I'm very silly, Frankie, " she said, "but I can't help it. I'mbetter now. Don't tell George. "

"Of course I shan't!" said Frank indignantly. 

"You're a gentleman too, " said Gertie. (Frank winced a little, interiorly, at the "too. ") "I can see that you're polite to a lady. AndI don't know however I came to tell you. But there it is, and no harm'sdone. "

"Why don't you leave him?" said Frank courageously. A little wave offeeling went over her face. 

"He's a gentleman, " she said. .. . "No, I can't leave him. But it doescome over you sometimes; doesn't it?" (Her face wavered again. ) "It wasthem bells, and the people and all. "

"Where's your home?"

She jerked her head in a vague direction. 

"Down Londonwards, " she said. "But that's all done with. I've made mybed, and--"

"Tell me plainly: does he bully you?"

"Not to say bully, " she said. "He struck me once, but never again. "

"Tell me if he does it again. "

A small, sly, admirative look came into her eyes. "We'll see, " she said. 

 * * * * *

Frank was conscious of a considerable sense of disappointment. The thinghad been almost touching just now, as the reserve first broke up, but itwas a very poor little soul, it seemed to him, that had at last made itsappearance. (He did not yet see that that made it all the moretouching. ) He did not quite see what to do next. He was Christian enoughto resent the whole affair; but he was aristocratic enough in hisfastidiousness to think at this moment that perhaps it did not mattermuch for people of this sort. Perhaps it was the highest ideal thatpersons resembling the Major and Gertie could conceive. But her nextremark helped to break up his complacency. 

"You're a Catholic, " she said. "People say that you Catholics don't mindthis kind of thing--me and the Major, I mean. "

There was a dreadful sort of sly suggestiveness about this remark thatstung him. He exploded: and his wounded pride gave him bitterness. 

"My good girl, " he said, "Catholics simply loathe it. And even, personally, I think it's beastly. "

"Well--I . .. "

"I think it's beastly, " said Frank didactically. "A good girl like you, well-brought-up, good parents, nice home, religious--instead of which"--he ended in a burst of ironical reminiscence--"you go traveling aboutwith a--" he checked himself--"a man who isn't your husband. Why don'tyou marry him?"

"I can't!" wailed Gertie, suddenly stricken again with remorse; "hiswife's alive. "

Frank jumped. Somehow that had never occurred to him. And yet howamazingly characteristic of the Major!

"Well--leave him, then!"

"I can't!" cried poor Gertie. "I can't!. .. I can't!"

CHAPTER IV

(I)

Frank awoke with a start and opened his eyes. 

But it was still dark and he could see nothing. So he turned over on theother side and tried to go to sleep. 

The three of them had come to this little town last night after two orthree days' regular employment; they had sufficient money between them;they had found a quite tolerable lodging; they had their programme, suchas it was, for the next day or so; and--by the standard to which he hadlearned to adjust himself--there was no sort of palpable cause for thehorror that presently fell on him. I can only conjecture that the originlay within, not without, his personality. 

The trouble began with the consciousness that on the one side he wasreally tired, and on the other that he could not sleep and, to clinchit, the knowledge that a twenty-mile walk lay before him. He began totell himself that sleep was merely a question of will--of willdeliberately relaxing attention. He rearranged his position a little;shifted his feet, fitted himself a little more closely into theoutlines of the bed, thrust one hand under the pillow and bade himselflet go. 

Then the procession of thoughts began as orderly as if by signal. 

He found himself presently, after enumerating all the minor physicalpoints of discomfort--the soreness of his feet, the knobbiness of thebed, the stuffiness of the room in which the three were sleeping, thesound of the Major's slow snoring--beginning to consider the wisdom ofthe whole affair. This was a point that he had not consciously yetconsidered, from the day on which he had left Cambridge. The impetus ofhis first impulse and the extreme strength of his purpose had, up to thepresent--helped along by novelty--kept him going. Of course, the momenthad to come sooner or later; but it seems a little hard that he wasobliged to face it in that peculiarly dreary clarity of mind that fallsupon the sleepless an hour or two before the dawn. 

For, as he looked at it all now, he saw it as an outsider would see it, no longer from the point of view of his own personality. He perceived ayoung man, of excellent abilities and prospects, sacrificing thesethings for an idea that fell to pieces the instant it was touched. Hetouched it now with a critical finger, and it did so fall to pieces;there was, obviously, nothing in it at all. It was an impulse of sillypride, of obstinacy, of the sort of romance that effects nothing. Therewas Merefield waiting for him--for he knew perfectly well that termscould be arranged; there was all that leisureliness and comfort anddistinction in which he had been brought up and which he knew well howto use; there was Jenny; there was his dog, his horse . .. There was, infact, everything for which Merefield stood. He saw it all now, visualized and clear in the dark; and he had exchanged allthis--well--for this room, and the Major's company, and back-breakingtoil. .. . And for no reason. 

So he regarded all this for a good long while; with his eyes closed, with the darkness round him, with every detail visible and insistent, seen as in the cold light of morning before colors reassert themselvesand reconcile all into a reasonable whole. .. . 

". .. I must really go to sleep!" said Frank to himself, and screwed uphis eyes tight. 

There came, of course, a reaction presently, and he turned to hisreligion. He groped for his rosary under his pillow, placed before him(according to the instructions given in the little books) the "Mysteryof the Annunciation to Mary, " and began the "Our Father. " . .. Half-waythrough it he began all over again to think about Cambridge, andMerefield and Jack Kirkby, and the auction in his own rooms, and hislast dinner-party and the design on the menu-cards, and what a fool hewas; and when he became conscious of the rosary again he found that heheld in his fingers the last bead but three in the fifth decade. He hadrepeated four and a half decades without even the faintest semblance ofattention. He finished them hopelessly, and then savagely thrust thestring of beads under his pillow again; turned over once more, rearranged his feet, wished the Major would learn how to sleep like agentleman; and began to think about his religion in itself. 

 * * * * *

After all, he began to say to himself, what proof was there--realscientific proof--that the thing was true at all? Certainly there was agreat deal of it that was, very convincing--there was the curious ringof assertion and confidence in it, there was its whole character, composed (like personality) of countless touches too small to bedefinable; there was the definite evidence adduced from history andphilosophy and all the rest. But underneath all that--was there, afterall, any human evidence in the world sufficient to establish theastounding dogmas that lay at the root? Was it conceivable that any suchevidence could be forthcoming?

He proceeded to consider the series of ancient dilemmas which, Isuppose, have presented themselves at some time or another to everyreasonable being--Free-will and Predestination; Love and Pain;Foreknowledge and Sin; and their companions. And it appeared to him, inthis cold, emotionless mood, when the personality shivers, naked, in thepresence of monstrous and unsympathetic forces, that his own religion, as much as every other, was entirely powerless before them. 

He advanced yet further: he began to reflect upon the innumerable littleconcrete devotions that he had recently learned--the repetition ofcertain words, the performance of certain actions--the rosary forinstance; and he began to ask himself how it was credible that theycould possibly make any difference to eternal issues. 

These things had not yet surrounded themselves with the atmosphere ofexperience and association, and they had lost the romance of novelty;they lay before him detached, so to say, and unconvincing. 

I do not mean to say that during this hour he consciously disbelieved;he honestly attempted to answer these questions; he threw himself backupon authority and attempted to reassure himself by reflecting thathuman brains a great deal more acute than his own found in the dilemmasno final obstacles to faith; he placed himself under the shelter of theChurch and tried to say blindly that he believed what she believed. But, in a sense, he was powerless: the blade of his adversary was quickerthan his own; his will was very nearly dormant; his heart was entirelylethargic, and his intellect was clear up to a certain point andextraordinarily swift. .. . 

Half an hour later he was in a pitiable state; and had begun even toquestion Jenny's loyalty. He had turned to the thought of her as a lastresort for soothing and reassurance, and now, in the chilly dawn, evenshe seemed unsubstantial. 

He began by remembering that Jenny would not live for ever; in fact, shemight die at any moment; or he might; and he ended by wondering, firstly, whether human love was worth anything at all, and, secondly, whether he possessed Jenny's. He understood now, with absolutecertitude, that there was nothing in him whatever which could possiblybe loved by anyone; the whole thing had been a mistake, not so much onhis part as on Jenny's. She had thought him to be something he was not. She was probably regretting already the engagement; she would certainlynot fulfill it. And could she possibly care for anyone who had been suchan indescribable fool as to give up Merefield, and his prospects and hispast and his abilities, and set out on this absurd and childishadventure? So once more he came round in a circle and his misery wascomplete. 

 * * * * *

He sat up in bed with a sudden movement as the train of thought clickedback into its own beginning, clasped his hands round his knees andstared round the room. 

The window showed a faint oblong of gray now, beyond where the Majorbreathed, and certain objects were dingily and coldly visible. Heperceived the broken-backed chair on which his clothes were heaped--withthe exception of his flannel shirt, which he still wore; he caught aglimmer of white where Gertie's blouse hung up for an airing. 

He half expected that things would appear more hopeful if he sat up inbed. Yet they did not. The sight of the room, such as it was, broughtthe concrete and material even more forcibly upon him--the gross thingsthat are called Facts. And it seemed to him that there were no factsbeyond them. These were the bones of the Universe--a stuffy bedroom, arasping flannel suit, a cold dawn, a snoring in the gloom, and threebodies, heavy with weariness. .. . There once had been other facts:Merefield and Cambridge and Eton had once existed; Jenny had once been aliving person who loved him; once there had been a thing calledReligion. But they existed no longer. He had touched reality at last. 

 * * * * *

Frank drew a long, dismal sigh; he lay down; he knew the worst now; andin five minutes he was asleep. 

(II)

Of course, the thing wore away by midday, and matters had readjustedthemselves. But the effect remained as a kind of bruise below thesurface. He was conscious that it had once been possible for him todoubt the value of everything; he was aware that there was a certainmood in which nothing seemed worth while. 

It was practically his first experience of the kind, and he did notunderstand it. But it did its work; and I date from that day a certainincreased sort of obstinacy that showed itself even more plainly in hischaracter. One thing or the other must be the effect of such a mood inwhich--even though only for an hour or two--all things other thanphysical take on themselves an appearance of illusiveness: either thestandard is lowered and these things are treated as slightly doubtful;or the will sets its teeth and determines to live by them, whether theyare doubtful or not. And the latter I take to be the most utter form offaith. 

 * * * * *

About midday the twine round Frank's bundle broke abruptly, and everyseveral article fell on to the road. He repressed a violent feeling ofirritation, and turned round to pick them up. The Major and Gertieinstinctively made for a gate in the hedge, rested down their bundlesand leaned against it. 

Frank gathered the articles--a shirt, a pair of softer shoes, a razorand brush, a tin of potted meat, a rosary, a small round crackedlooking-glass and a piece of lead piping--and packed them once morecarefully together on the bank. He tested his string, knotted it, drewit tight, and it broke again. The tin of potted meat--like some smallintelligent animal--ran hastily off the path and dived into a smalldrain. 

A short cry of mirth broke from the Major, and Gertie smiled. 

Frank said nothing at all. He lay down on the road, plunged his arm intothe drain and drew up the potted meat; it had some disagreeable-lookingmoist substance adhering to it, which he wiped off on to his sleeve, andthen regretted having done so. Again he packed his things; again he drewthe string tight, and again it snapped. 

"Lord! man, don't be so hard on it. "

Frank looked up with a kind of patient fury. His instinct was to kickevery single object that lay before him on the path as hard as possiblein every direction. 

"Have you any more string?" he said. 

"No. Stick the things in your pocket and come on. "

Frank made no answer. He went to the hedge and drew out a long suppletwig of hazel, stripped it of its leaves, and once more tried, with it, to tie up his parcel. But the angle was too acute, and just as the twigtightened satisfactorily it snapped, and this time the razor slid outsideways into a single minute puddle that lay on the path. 

The Major snorted in mirthful impatience. 

"But--"

"Kindly let me alone, " said Frank icily. "The thing's got to go likethis, or not at all. "

He drew out the razor from the puddle, opened it and dried the blade onhis sleeve. During the process Gertie moved suddenly, and he looked up. When he looked down again be perceived that he had slit a neat sliceinto the cloth of his jacket. 

He remained quite still for one moment. Then he sat down on the bank, and examined the twine once more. 

The Major began to make slightly offensive comments. Then Frank lookedup. 

"You can go to hell!" he said quite softly, "or anywhere else you like. But I'm going to do up the bundle in my way and not yours. "

 * * * * *

Now that is a sort of parable. It really happened, for it was reportedto a witness by Frank himself exactly as I have told it, and it seems tome a very good little symbol of his state of mind. It is quiteindefensible, of course--and especially his regrettable language thatclosed the interview; but it gives a pleasant little glimpse, I think, of Frank's character just now, in section. The things had to go in acertain way: he saw no adequate reason to change that way, andultimately, of course, the twine held. It must have been a greatsatisfaction to him. 

(III)

It seems that Frank must have been allowed just now to sample severaldifferent kinds of moods, for he had a very different kind of awakeninga day or two later. 

They had come to some piece of open country that I am unable toidentify, and for some reason or other determined to spend the night outof doors. There was a copse a hundred yards away from the road, and inthe copse a couple of small shelters built, probably, for wood-pigeonshooting. The Major and Gertie took possession of one, and Frank of theother, after they had supped in the dark under the beeches. 

 * * * * *

Frank slept deeply and well, half waking once, however, at that strangemoment of the night when the earth turns and sighs in her sleep, whenevery cow gets up and lies down again. He was conscious of a shrillcrowing, thin as a bugle, from some farm-yard out of sight; then heturned over and slept again. 

When he awoke it was daylight. He lay on his back looking at the networkof twigs overhead, the beech leaves beyond, and the sky visible only inglimpses--feeling extremely awake and extremely content. Certainly hewas a little stiff when he moved, but there was a kind of interiorcontentment that caused that not to matter. 

After a minute or two he sat up, felt about for his shoes and slippedthem on. Then he unwound the wrapping about his neck, and crept out ofthe shelter. 

It was that strange pause before the dawn when the light has broadenedso far as to extinguish the stars, and to bring out all the colors ofearth into a cold deliberate kind of tint. Everything was absolutelymotionless about him as he went under the trees and came out above thewide park-land of which the copse was a sort of barrier. The dew laysoaking and thick on the grass slopes, but there was not yet such lightas to bring out its sparkle; and everywhere, dotted on the green beforehim, sat hundreds of rabbits, the nearest not twenty yards away. 

The silence and the solemnity of the whole seemed to him extraordinary. There was not a leaf that stirred--each hung as if cut of steel; therewas not a bird which chirped nor a distant cock that crew; the rabbitseyed him unafraid in this hour of truce. 

It seemed to him like some vast stage on to which he had wanderedunexpectedly. The performance of the day before had been played to anend, the night scene-shifting was finished, and the players of the neweternal drama were not yet come. An hour hence they would be all about:the sounds would begin again; men would cross the field-paths, birdswould be busy; the wind would awake and the ceaseless whisper of leavesanswer its talking. But at present the stage was clear-swept, washed, clean and silent. 

It was the solemnity then that impressed him most--solemnity and an airof expectation. Yet it was not mere expectation. There was a suggestionof the fundamental and the normal, as if perhaps movement and soundwere, after all, no better than interruptions; as if this fixed poise ofnature were something complete in itself; as if these trees hung outtheir leaves to listen to something that they could actually hear, as ifthese motionless creatures of the woodland were looking upon somethingthat they could actually see; as if there were some great secretactually present and displayed in dead silence and invisibility beforethose only who possessed the senses necessary to perceive it. 

 * * * * *

It was odd to regard life from this standpoint--to look back upon thedays and their incidents that were past, forward upon the days andincidents to come. Again it was possible for Frank to look upon thesethings as an outsider and a deliberate critic--as he had done in thestuffy room of the lodging-house in the town. Yet now, though he wasagain an outsider, though he was again out of the whirl of actualliving, he seemed to be looking at things--staring out, as he was, almost unseeingly at the grass slopes before him--from exactly theopposite side. Then, they had seemed to him the only realities, thesetangible physical things, and all else illusion: now it was the physicalthings that were illusive, and something else that was real. Once againthe two elements of life lay detached--matter and spirit; but it was asobviously now spirit that was the reality as it had been matter a day ortwo before. It was obviously absurd to regard these outward things onwhich he looked as anything but a frame of something completelydifferent. They were too silent, too still, too little self-sufficientto be complete in themselves. Something solid lay embraced withinthem. .. . 

So, then, he stared and ruminated, scarcely perceiving that he thought, so intensely conscious was he of that of which he thought. It was notthat he understood anything of that on which he looked; he was but awarethat there was something to be understood. And the trees hung rigidabove him, and the clear blue sky still a hard stone beyond them, notyet flushed with dawn; and the grass lay before him, contracted, itseemed, with cold, and every blade soaked in wet; and the silence wasprofound. .. . 

Then a cock crew, a mile away, a thin, brazen cry; a rabbit sat up, thencrouched and bolted, and the spell faded like a mist. 

Frank turned and walked back under the trees, to see if the Major wasawake. 

CHAPTER V

(I)

We are arrived now at one of those few deplorable incidents in Frank'scareer, against which there is no defense. And the painful thing aboutit is that Frank never seemed to think that it required any defense. Heshows no penitence for it in his diary: and yet moralists are united intelling us that we must never do evil that good may come. It is only, paralleled by his rash action in leaving Cambridge in defiance of alladvice and good sense; so far, that is to say, as a legally permissibleact, however foolish, can be paralleled by one of actual crime. Moralists, probably, would tell us, in fact, that the first ledinevitably to the second. 

It fell out in this way. 

Once or twice in his travels with the Major he had been haunted by anuncomfortable suspicion that this or that contribution that the warriormade to their common table had not been come by honestly. When agentleman, known to possess no more than tenpence, and with apredilection to drink, leaves the shelter of a small copse; let us say, at seven o'clock, and reappears, rather breathless, forty minutes laterwith a newly-plucked fowl--or even with a fowl not plucked at all, andstill warm, or with half a dozen eggs; and, in addition, issues outagain later in the evening and returns with a strong smell of spiritsand a watery eye--it seems a little doubtful as to whether he has beenscrupulously honest. In cases of this kind Frank persevered in makingsome excuse for not joining in the festivity: he put it to himself asbeing a matter of pride; but it is hard to understand that it was simplythat in a young man who made no scruple of begging in cases ofnecessity. However, there it was, and even the Major, who began byprotesting, ended by acquiescing. 

 * * * * *

They were somewhere in the neighborhood of Market Weighton when thething happened--I cannot identify the exact spot. The situation was asfollows:

They had secured an excellent barn for their night's lodging--facing onthe road on the outskirts of a village. Behind them were, the farmbuildings, and the farmer's household gone to bed. The sun had set andit was dark. They had supped sparingly, of necessity, and had finishedevery morsel of food. (Frank had even found himself mechanicallygathering up crumbs on a wet finger. ) They had had a bad week of it;the corn was not yet ready for cutting, and there seemed no workanywhere for honest men. The Major's gloom had become terrible; he hadeven made remarks upon a choice between a workhouse and a razor. He hadgot up after supper and turned his waistcoat pockets inside out tosecure the last possible grains of tobacco, and had smoked about aquarter of a pipeful gathered in this way without uttering one word. Hehad then uttered a short string of them, had seized his cap anddisappeared. 

Frank, too, was even more heavy and depressed than usual. The lastshreds of romance were gone from his adventure long ago, and yet hisobstinacy held firm. But he found he could not talk much. He watchedGertie listlessly as she, listless too, began to spread out nondescriptgarments to make a bed in the corner. He hardly spoke to her, nor she tohim. 

He was beginning to feel sleepy, when he heard rather hurried steps, asof one trying to run on tiptoe, coming up the lane, and an instant laterin popped the Major. 

"Put out that damned light!" he whispered sharply. 

The candle end went out with the swiftness of thought. 

"What's up?" Frank roused himself to ask. There had been a strenuouslook about the face seen an instant before that interested him. 

There was dead silence. Gertie seemed frozen into motionlessness in hercorner, almost as if she had had experience of this kind of thingbefore. Frank listened with all his ears; it was useless to stare intothe dark: here in this barn the blackness was complete. 

At first there was no sound at all, except a very soft occasional scrapeof a boot-nail that betokened that the Major was seeking coversomewhere. Then, so suddenly that he started all over, Frank felt a handon his arm and smelt a tobacco-laden breath. (Alas! there had been nodrink to-night. )

"See here, Frankie, my boy. .. . I . .. I've got the thing on me. .. . Whatshall I do with it?. .. It's no good chucking it away: they'd find it. "

"Got what?" whispered Frank. 

"There was a kid coming along . .. She had a tin of something . .. I don'teven know what it is. .. . And . .. And she screamed out and someone ranout. But they couldn't spot me; it was too dark. "

"Hush!" whispered Frank sharply, and the hand tightened on his arm. Butit was only a rat somewhere in the roof. 

"Well?" he said. 

"Frankie . .. I suppose you wouldn't take it from me . .. And . .. And beoff somewhere. We could meet again later. .. . I . .. I'm afraid someonemay have spotted us coming through the village earlier. They'll . .. They'll search, I expect. "

"You can do your own dirty work, " whispered Frank earnestly through thedarkness. 

"Frankie, my boy . .. Don't be hard on a poor devil. .. . I . .. I can'tleave Gertie. "

"Well, hide it somewhere. "

"No good--they'd . .. Good God--!"

The voice was stricken into silence once more, as a light, hardly seenbefore it was gone again, shone through a crack in the side of the barn. Then there was unmistakable low talking somewhere. 

Frank felt the man, crouched at his side, suddenly stand up noiselessly, and in that instant his own mind was made up. 

"Give it here, you fool, " he said. "Here!"

He felt a smooth flat and circular thing thrust suddenly into his handswith a whisper that he could not catch, and simultaneously he heard arush of footsteps outside. He had just time to stuff the thing insidehis coat and roll over as if asleep when the door flew open, and threeor four men, with a policeman at their head, burst into the barn. 

(II)

It would be charitable, I think, to suppress the name of the smallmarket-town where the trial was held. The excellent magistrates whoconducted it certainly did their best under very difficultcircumstances; for what are you to do if a man accused of theftcordially pleads guilty? and yet, certainly it would distress them tohear of a very obvious miscarriage of justice executed at their hands. 

On Friday morning at ten o'clock the vehicles began to arrive--the motorof the country gentleman, the dog-cart of the neighboring rector, andthe brougham of the retired general. It was the General who presided. 

The court-room was not more dismal than court-rooms usually are. When Ivisited it on my little pilgrimage, undertaken a few months ago, it hadbeen repainted and the woodwork grained to represent oak. Even so, itwas not cheering. 

At the upper end, under one of the windows, were ranged five seats on adaďs, with a long baize-covered table before them. Then, on a lowerlevel, stood the clerk's and solicitors' table, fenced by a rail fromthe vulgar crowd who pressed in, hot and excited, to see the criminalsand hear justice done. There was a case arising from an ancient familyfeud, exploded at last into crime; one lady had thrown a clog at anotheras the last repartee in a little dialogue held at street doors; the cloghad been well aimed, and the victim appeared now with a very large whitebandage under her bonnet, to give her testimony. This swelled the crowdbeyond its usual proportions, as both ladies were well known in society. 

The General was a kindly-looking old man (Frank recognized his name assoon as he heard it that morning, though he had never met him before)and conversed cheerily with his brother magistrates as they took theirseats. The Rector was--well, like other rectors, and the Squire likeother squires. 

 * * * * *

It was a quarter to twelve before the ladies' claims were adjusted. Theywere both admonished in a paternal kind of way, and sent about theirbusiness, since there was disputed evidence as to whether or not thelady with the bandage had provoked the attack, not only by her language, but by throwing a banana-skin at the lady without the bandage. They werewell talked to, their husbands were bidden to keep them in order, andthey departed, both a little crestfallen, to discuss the whole matterover a pint of beer. 

There was a little shifting about in court; a policeman, lookingcuriously human without his helmet, pushed forward from the door andtook his place by the little barrier. The magistrates and the clerk andthe inspector all conferred a little together, and after an order ortwo, the door near the back of the court leading from the police-cellsopened, and Frank stepped forward into the dock, followed by anotherpoliceman who clicked the barrier behind the prisoner and stood, waiting, like Rhadamanthus. Through the hedge of the front row of thecrowd peered the faces of Gertie and the Major. 

We need not bother with the preliminaries--in fact, I forget how theyran--Frank gave his name of Frank Gregory, his age as twenty-two years, his occupation as casual laborer, and his domicile as no fixed abode. 

The charge was read to him. It was to the effect that he, on the nightof Tuesday, the twenty-third instant, had in the village (whose name Ichoose to forget, if I ever knew it), seized from Maggie Cooper, agednine years, a tin of preserved salmon, with intent to steal. Thequestion put to the prisoner was: Did he or did he not plead guilty?

"I plead guilty, sir, " said Frank, without a tremor. 

He had been two full days in the cells by now, and it had not improvedhis appearance. He was still deeply sunburned, but he was a little paleunder the eyes, and he was unshaven. He had also deliberately rumpledhis hair and pulled his clothes to make them look as untidy as possible. He answered in a low voice, so as to attract as little attention aspossible. He had given one quick look at the magistrates as he came in, to make sure he had never met them out shooting or at dinner-parties, and he had been deeply relieved to find them total strangers. 

"You plead guilty, eh?" said the General. 

Frank nodded. 

"Well, well! let's hear the whole story. Where is the complainant?"

A rather pale and awe-stricken child appeared somewhere in a little boxopposite Frank, with a virtuous mother in black silk behind her. Itappeared that this child was on her way to her aunt--her father was agrocer--with a tin of salmon that had been promised and forgotten (thatwas how she came to be out so late). As she reached the corner byBarker's Lane a man had jumped at her and seized the tin. (No; he hadnot used any other violence. ) She had screamed at the top of her voice, and Mrs. Jennings' door had opened. Then the man had run away. 

"Had she seen the man clearly?" No, she hadn't seen him at all; she hadjust seen that he was a man. ("Called himself one, " put in a voice. ) Thewitness here cast an indignant--almost vindictive--look at Frank. 

Then a few corroborations were issued. Mrs. Jennings, a widow lady, keeping house for her brother who was a foreman in Marks' yard, ratifiedthe statement about the door being opened. She was going to shut up forthe night when she heard the child scream. Her brother, a severe-lookingman, with a black beard, finished her story. He had heard his sistercall out, as he was taking off his boots at the foot of the stairs; hehad run out with his laces dangling, in time to see the man run past thepublic-house fifty yards up the street. No . .. He, too, had not seen theman clearly, but he had seen him before, in company with another; thetwo had come to his yard that afternoon to ask for work and beenrefused, as they wanted no more hands. 

"Well, what had happened then?"

He had hammered at two or three doors as he ran past, among them that ofthe police-constable, and himself had run on, in time to hear theprisoner's footsteps run up the lane leading to the barn. He had stoppedthen as he was out of breath, and as he thought they would have the mannow, since there was no exit from the lane except through Mr. Patten'sfarm-yard, and if he'd gone that way they'd have heard the dogs. 

Finally the police-constable corroborated the entire story, and addedthat he, in company with the foreman and two other men, had "proceeded"to the barn immediately, and there had found the prisoner, who waspretending to be asleep, with the tin of salmon (produced and laid onthe table) hidden inside his jacket. He had then taken him into custody. 

"Was there any one else in the barn?"

Yes--two persons, who gave the names of George and Gertie Trustcott. These were prepared to give evidence as to the prisoner's identity, andas to his leaving and returning to the barn on the evening in question, if the magistrate wished. .. . Yes; they were present in court. 

 * * * * *

The General began to turn a little testy as the constable finished. Heseemed a magistrate who liked to be paternal, and he appeared to growimpatient under the extraordinarily correct language of the policeman. 

He turned to Frank--seeming to forget all about the two witnesses notyet called--and spoke rather sharply:

"You don't deny all that? You plead guilty, eh?"

"Yes, sir, " said Frank, gazing at the very pink salmon emblazoned onthe tin. 

"Why did you do it?"

"I was hungry, sir. "

"Hungry, eh? An able-bodied lad like you? Can't you work, then?"

"When I can get it, sir, " said Frank

"Eh?. .. Eh? Well, that's true enough. You couldn't get it that day, anyhow. Mr. What's-his-name's told us that. "

"Yes, sir. "

Then the Rector leaned forward swiftly--to Frank's horror. 

"You speak like an educated man. "

"Do I, sir? I'm very pleased to hear it. "

There was a faint snigger in court. 

"Where were you educated?" persisted the Rector. 

"Am I bound to incriminate myself, sir?"

"Incriminate?" said the General suddenly interested. "Eh? you mean, after a good education. I see. No, of course you're not, my lad. "

"Thank you, sir. "

"And you plead guilty? And you'd like the case dealt with now?"

"If you please, sir. "

The clerk rose swiftly in his place and began to whisper to themagistrates behind his hand. Frank understood perfectly what washappening; he understood that it was doubtful whether or no his casecould be dealt with in this court. He exploded within himself a violentadjuration to the Supreme Authorities, and the next instant the Generalsat back. 

"Nonsense! nonsense! It isn't highway robbery at all within the meaningof the term. We'll deal with it now--eh, gentlemen?"

There was a little more whispering, and finally the General settledhimself and took up a quill pen. 

"Well, we'll deal with it now, my lad, as you wish. I'm sorry to see afellow like you in this position--particularly if you've had a goodeducation, as you seem to have had. Cowardly thing, you know, to attacka child like that, isn't it? even if you were hungry. You ought to bemore hardy than that, you know--a great fellow like you--than to mind abit of hunger. Boys like you ought to enlist; that'd make a man of youin no time. But no. .. . I know you; you won't. .. . You'd sooner loaf aboutand pick up what you can--sooner than serve His Majesty. Well, well, there's no compulsion--not yet; but you should think over it. Come andsee me, if you like, when you've done your time, and we'll see what canbe done. That'd be better than loafing about and picking up tins ofsalmon, eh?"

"Well, I've no more to say. But you just think over it. And we'll giveyou fourteen days. "

 * * * * *

Then as Frank went out he saw the three magistrates lean back inconversation. 

(III)

I find it very hard to explain, even to myself, the extraordinarydepression that fell upon Frank during his fourteen days. He couldhardly bear even to speak of it afterwards, and I find in his diary nomore than a line or two, and those as bald as possible. Apparently itwas no kind of satisfaction to him to know that the whole thing wasentirely his own doing, or that it was the thought of Gertie that hadmade him, in the first instance, take the tin from the Major. Yet it wasnot that there was any sense of guilt, or even of mistake. One wouldhave thought that from everybody's point of view, and particularlyGertie's, it would be an excellent thing for the Major to go to prisonfor a bit. It would certainly do him no harm, and it would be a realopportunity to separate the girl from his company. As for any wrong inhis pleading guilty, he defended it (I must say, with some adroitness)by saying that it was universally acknowledged that the plea of "NotGuilty" is merely formal, and in no way commits one to its intrinsictruth (and he is right there, at least according to Moral Theology aswell as common sense) and, therefore, that the alternative plea is alsomerely formal. 

And yet he was depressed by his fourteen days to the verge ofmelancholia. 

There are several contributory causes that may be alleged. 

First, there is the extreme ignominy of all the circumstances, beginningwith the paternal scolding in court, in the presence of grocers andpersons who threw clogs, continuing with the dreary journey by rail, inhandcuffs, and the little crowds that gathered to laugh or stare, andculminating with the details of the prison life. It is not pleasant fora cleanly man to be suspected of dirt, to be bathed and examined allover by a man suffering himself apparently from some species of eczema;it is not pleasant to be ordered about peremptorily by uniformed men, who, three months before, would have touched their hats to you, and tohave to do things instantly and promptly for the single reason that oneis told to do them. 

Secondly, there was the abrupt change of life--of diet, air andexercise. .. . 

Thirdly, there was the consideration, the more terrible because the morecompletely unverifiable, as to what difference all this would make, notonly to the regard of his friends for him, but to his own regard forhimself. Innocence of a fault does not entirely do away with thedistress and stigma of its punishment. He imagined himself tellingJenny; he tried to see her laughing, and somehow he could not. It waswholly uncharacteristic of all that he knew of her, and yet somehow, night after night, as the hours dragged by, he seemed to see her lookingat him a little contemptuously. 

"At any rate, " he almost heard her say, "if you didn't do it, you made afriend of a man who did. And you were in prison. "

Oh! there are countless excellent explanations of his really terribledepression; and yet somehow it does not seem to me at all in line withwhat I know of Frank, to think that they explain it in the least. Iprefer to believe, with a certain priest who will appear by and by, thatthe thing was just one stage of a process that had to be accomplished, and that if it had not come about in this way, it must have come aboutin another. As for his religion, all emotional grasp of that fled, itseemed finally, at the touch of real ignominy. He retained theintellectual reasons for which he had become a Catholic, but the thingseemed as apart from him as his knowledge of law--such as itwas--acquired at Cambridge, or his proficiency in lawn-tennis. Certainlyit was no kind of consolation to him to reflect on the sufferings ofChristian martyrs!

It was a Friday evening when he came out and went quickly round thecorner of the jail, in order to get away from any possibility of beingidentified with it. 

He had had a short interview with the Governor--a very conscientious andreligious man, who made a point of delivering what he called "a fewearnest words" to every prisoner before his release. But, naturallyenough, they were extraordinarily off the point. It was not helpful toFrank to have it urged upon him to set about an honest livelihood--itwas what he had tried to do every day since June--and not to go aboutrobbing innocent children of things like tins of salmon--it was the verylast thing he had ever dreamed of doing. 

 * * * * *

He had also had more than one interview with the chaplain of theEstablished Church, in consequence of his resolute refusal toacknowledge any religious body at all (he had determined to scotch thispossible clue to his identification); and those interviews had not beenmore helpful than any other. It is not of much use to be entreated toturn over a new leaf when you see no kind of reason for doing so; andlittle books left tactfully in your cell, directed to the same point, are equally useless. Frank read them drearily through. He did notactually kick them from side to side of his cell when he had finished;that would have been offensive to the excellent intentions of thereverend gentleman. .. . 

Altogether I do not quite like to picture Frank as he was when he cameout of jail, and hurried away. It is such a very startling contrast withthe gayety with which he had begun his pilgrimage. 

 * * * * *

He had had plenty of time to think over his plans during the lastfortnight, and he went, first, straight to the post-office. The Governorhad given him half-a-crown to start life with, and he proposed tosquander fourpence of it at once in two stamps, two sheets of paper andtwo envelopes. 

His first letter was to be to Jack; the second to Major Trustcott, whohad thoughtfully given him the address where he might be found aboutthat date. 

But there were to be one or two additional difficulties first. 

He arrived at the post-office, went up the steps and through the swingdoors. The place had been newly decorated, with a mahogany counter andlight brass lattice rails, behind which two young ladies of aninexpressibly aristocratic demeanor and appearance were engaged inconversation: their names, as he learned from a few sentences helistened to before daring to interrupt so high a colloquy, were MissMills and Miss Jamieson. 

After a decent and respectful pause Frank ventured on his request. 

"Two stamps, two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please . .. Miss. "(He did manage that!)

Miss Mills continued her conversation:

"So I said to her that that would never do, that Harold would be sure toget hold of it, and that then--"

Frank shuffled his feet a little. Miss Mills cast him a high glance. 

"--There'd be trouble, I said, Miss Jamieson. "

"You did quite right, dear. "

"Two stamps, two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please, miss. " Heclicked four pence together on the counter. Miss Mills rose slowly fromher place, went a yard or two, and took down a large book. Frank watchedher gratefully. Then she took a pen and began to make entries in it. 

"Two stamps, two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please. "

Frank's voice shook a little with anger. He had not learned his lessonyet. 

Miss Mills finished her entry; looked at Frank with extreme disdain, and finally drew out a sheet of stamps. 

"Pennies?" she inquired sharply. 

"Please. "

Two penny stamps were pushed across and two pennies taken up. 

"And now two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please, miss, " went onFrank, encouraged. He thought himself foolish to be angry. Miss Jamiesonuttered a short laugh and glanced at Miss Mills. Miss Mills pursed herlips together and took up her pen once more. 

"Will you be good enough to give me what I ask for, at once, please?"

The whole of Frank blazed in this small sentence: but Miss Mills wasequal to it. 

"You ought to know better, " she said, "than to come asking for suchthings here! Taking up a lot of time like that. "

"You don't keep them?"

Miss Mills uttered a small sound. Miss Jamieson tittered. 

"Shops are the proper places for writing-paper. This is a post-office. "

Words cannot picture the superb high breeding shown in this utterance. Frank should have understood that he had been guilty of grossimpertinence in asking such things of Miss Mills; it was treating heralmost as a shop-girl. But he was extremely angry by now. 

"Then why couldn't you have the civility to tell me so at once?"

Miss Jamieson laid aside a little sewing she was engaged on. 

"Look here, young man, you don't come bullying and threatening here. I'll have to call the policeman if you do. .. . I was at the railwaystation last Friday week, you know. "

Frank stood still for one furious instant. Then his heart sank and hewent out without a word. 

 * * * * *

The letters got written at last, late that evening, in the back room ofa small lodging-house where he had secured a bed. I have the one hewrote to Jack before me as I write, and I copy it as it stands. It waswithout address or date. 

 "DEAR JACK, "I want you to do, something for me. I want you to go to Merefield and see, first, Jenny, and then my father; and tell them quite plainly and simply that I've been in prison for a fortnight. I want Jenny to know first, so that she can think of what to say to my father. The thing I was sent to prison for was that I pleaded guilty to stealing a tin of salmon from a child called Mary Cooper. You can see the account of the case in the County Gazette for last Saturday week, the twenty-seventh. The thing I really did was to take the tin from somebody else I was traveling with. He asked me to. 

 "Next, I want you to send on any letters that may have come for me to the address I enclose on a separate piece of paper. Please destroy the address at once; but you can show this letter to Jenny and give her my love. You are not to come and see me. If you don't, I'll come and see you soon. 

 "Things are pretty bad just now, but I'm going to go through with it. 

 "Yours, "F. 

 "P. S. --By the way, please address me as Mr. F. Gregory when you write. "

 * * * * *

He was perfectly obstinate, you understand, still. 

 * * * * *

Frank's troubles as regards prison were by no means exhausted by hisdistressing conversation with the young ladies in the post office, andthe next one fell on him as he was leaving the little town early on theSaturday morning. 

He had just turned out of the main street and was going up a quiet sidelane that looked as if it would lead to the York Road, when he noticeda disagreeable little scene proceeding up a narrow _cul-de-sac_ acrosswhose mouth he was passing. 

A tall, loose-limbed young man, in his working-clothes, obviouslyslightly excited with drink, had hold of a miserable old man by thescruff of the neck with one hand, and was cuffing him with the other. 

Now I do not wish to represent Frank as a sort of knight-errant, but thefact is that if anyone with respectable and humane ideas goes on thetramp (I have this from the mouth of experienced persons) he has to makeup his mind fairly soon either to be a redresser of wrongs or to beconveniently short-sighted. Frank was not yet sufficiently experiencedto have learned the wisdom of the second alternative. 

He went straight up the _cul-de-sac_ and without any words at all hitthe young man as hard as possible under the ear nearest to him. 

There seems to have been a moment of amazed silence; the young mandropped the old one, who fled out into the lane, and struck back atFrank, who parried. Simultaneously a woman screamed somewhere; and facesbegan to appear at windows and doors. 

It is curious how the customs of the Middle Ages, as well as some oftheir oaths, seem to have descended to the ranks of the Britishworking-man. In the old days--as also in prize-fights to-day--it wasquite usual to assail your adversary with insults as well as with blows. This was done now. The young man, with a torrent of imprecations, demanded who Frank thought he was, asked where he was coming to, required of society in general an explanation of a stranger'sinterfering between a son and a qualified father. There was a murmur ofapplause and dissent, and Frank answered, with a few harmless expletivessuch as he had now learned to employ as a sort of verbal disguise, thathe did not care how many sons or fathers were in question, that he didnot propose to see a certain kind of bully abuse an old man, and that hewould be happy to take the old man's place. .. . 

Then the battle was set. 

Frank had learned to box in a certain small saloon in Market Street, Cambridge, and knew perfectly well how to take care of himself. Hereceived about half the force of one extremely hard blow just on hisleft cheek-bone before he got warmed to his work; but after that he didthe giving and the loose-limbed young man the receiving, Frank was evenscientific; he boxed in the American manner, crouching, with both armshalf extended (and this seems to have entirely bewildered his adversary)and he made no effort to reach the face. He just thumped away steadilybelow the spot where the ribs part, and where--a doctor informs me--anerve-center, known as the _solar plexus_, is situated. He revolved, too, with considerable agility, round his opponent, and gradually drewthe battle nearer and nearer to the side lane outside. He knew enough ofslum-chivalry by now to be aware that if a sympathizer, or sycophant, ofthe young man happened to be present, he himself would quite possibly(if the friend happened to possess sufficient courage) suddenly collapsefrom a disabling blow on the back of the neck. Also, he was not surewhether there was any wife in the question; and in this case it would bea poker, or a broken bottle, held dagger-wise, that he would have tomeet. And he wished therefore to have more room round him than the_cul-de-sac_ afforded. 

But there was no need for precaution. 

The young man had begun to look rather sickly under the eyes and tohiccup three or four times in distressed manner; when suddenly theclamor round the fight ceased. Frank was aware of a shrill old voicecalling out something behind him; and the next instant, simultaneouslywith the dropping of his adversary's hands, he himself was seized frombehind by the arms, and, writhing, discerned is blue sleeve and a glovedhand holding him. 

"Now, what's all this?" said a voice in his ear. 

There was a chorus of explanation, declaring that "'Alb" had been setupon without provocation. There was a particularly voluble woman withred arms and an exceedingly persuasive manner, who advanced from adoorway and described the incident from her own point of view. She hadbeen hanging out the children's things, she began, and so forth; andFrank was declared the aggressor and "'Alb" the innocent victim. 

Then the chorus broke out again, and "'Alb, " after another fit ofhiccupping, corroborated the witnesses in a broken and patheticallyindignant voice. 

Frank tore himself from one embracing arm and faced round, still held bythe other. 

"All right; I shan't run away. .. . Look here; that's a black lie. He washitting that old man. Where is he? Come on, uncle, and tell us all aboutit. "

The old man advanced, his toothless face contorted with inexplicableemotion, and corroborated the red-armed woman, and the chorus generally, with astonishing volubility and emphasis. 

"You old fool!" said Frank curtly. "What are you afraid of? Let's havethe truth, now. Wasn't he hitting you?"

"He, he, he!" giggled the old man, torn by the desire ofself-preservation on one side and, let us hope, by a wish for justice onthe other. "He warn't hittin' of me. He's my son, he is. .. . 'Alb is. .. . We were just having--"

"There! get out of this, " said the policeman, releasing Frank with ashove. "We don't want your sort here. Coming and making trouble. .. . Yes;my lad. You needn't look at me like that. I know you. "

"Who the deuce are you talking to?" snapped Frank. 

"I know who I'm talking to, well enough, " pronounced the policemanjudicially. "F. Gregory, ain't it? Now you be off out of this, or you'llbe in trouble again. "

There was something vaguely kindly about the man's manner, and Frankunderstood that he knew very tolerably where the truth lay, but wishedto prevent further disturbance. He gulped down his fury. It was no goodsaying anything; but the dense of the injustice of the universe was verybitter. He turned away--

A murmur of indignation broke out from the crowd, bidding the policemando his duty. 

And as Frank went up the lane, he heard that zealous officer addressingthe court with considerable vigor. But it was very little comfort tohim. He walked out of the town with his anger and resentment still hotin his heart at the indignity of the whole affair. 

(V)

By the Sunday afternoon Frank was well on his way to York. 

It was a heavy, hot day, sunny, but with brooding clouds on the lowhorizons; and he was dispirited and tired as he came at last into asmall, prim village street rather after two o'clock (its name, oncemore, I suppress). 

His possessions by now were greatly reduced. His money had gone, littleby little, all through his journey with the Major, and he had kept ofother things only one extra flannel shirt, a pair of thick socks and asmall saucepan he had bought one day. The half-crown that the Governorhad given him was gone, all but fourpence, and he wanted, if possible, to arrive at York, where he was to meet the Major, at least with thatsum in his possession. Twopence would pay for a bed and twopence morefor supper. 

Half-way up the street he stopped suddenly. Opposite him stood a smallbrick church, retired by a few yards of turf, crossed by a path, fromthe iron railings that abutted on the pavement: and a notice-boardproclaimed that in this, church of the Sacred Heart mass was said onSundays at eleven, on holidays of obligation at nine, and on weekdays ateight-thirty A. M. Confessions were heard on Saturday eveningsand on Thursday evenings before the first Friday, from eightto nine P. M. Catechism was at three P. M. On Sundays; androsary, sermon and benediction at seven P. M. A fat cat, lookingas if it were dead, lay relaxed on the grass beneath this board. 

The door was open and Frank considered an instant. But he thought thatcould wait for a few minutes as he glanced at the next house. This wasobviously the presbytery. 

Frank had never begged from a priest before, and he hesitated a littlenow. Then he went across the street into the shadow on the other side, leaned against the wall and looked. The street was perfectly empty andperfectly quiet, and the hot summer air and sunshine lay on all like acharm. There was another cat, he noticed, on a doorstep a few yardsaway, and he wondered how any living creature in this heat couldpossibly lie like that, face coiled round to the feet, and the tail laidneatly across the nose. A dreaming cock crooned heart-brokenly somewhereout of sight, and a little hot breeze scooped up a feather of dust inthe middle of the road and dropped again. 

Even the presbytery looked inviting on a day like this. He had walked agood twenty-five miles to-day, and the suggestion of a dark, cool roomwas delicious. It was a little pinched-looking house, of brick, like thechurch, squeezed between the church and a large grocery with aflamboyant inscription over its closed shutters. All the windows wereopen, hung inside with cheap lace curtains, and protected withdust-screens. He pictured the cold food probably laid out within, andhis imagination struck into being a tall glass jug of something likeclaret-cup, still half-full. Frank had not dined to-day. 

Then he limped boldly across the street, rapped with the cast-ironknocker, and waited. 

Nothing at all happened. 

 * * * * *

Presently the cat from the notice-board appeared round the corner, eyedFrank suspiciously, decided that he was not dangerous, came on, walkingdelicately, stepped up on to the further end of the brick stair, andbegan to arch itself about and rub its back against the warm angle ofthe doorpost. Frank rapped again, interrupting the cat for an instant, and then stooped down to scratch it under the ear. The cat crooneddelightedly. Steps sounded inside the house; the cat stopped writhing, and as the door opened, darted in noiselessly with tail erect past thewoman who held the door uninvitingly half open. 

She had a thin, lined face and quick black eyes. 

"What do you want?" she asked sharply, looking up and down Frank'sfigure with suspicion. Her eyes dwelt for a moment on the bruise on hischeek-bone. 

"I want to see the priest, please, " said Frank. 

"You can't see him. "

"I am very sorry, " said Frank, "but I must see him. "

"Coming here begging!" exclaimed the woman bitterly. "I'd be ashamed! Beoff with you!"

Frank's dignity asserted itself a little. 

"Don't speak to me in that tone, please. I am a Catholic, and I wish tosee the priest. "

The woman snorted; but before she could speak there came the sound of anopening door and a quick step on the linoleum of the little darkpassage. 

"What's all this?" said a voice, as the woman stepped back. 

He was a big, florid young man, with yellow hair, flushed as if withsleep; his eyes were bright and tired-looking, and his collar wasplainly unbuttoned at the back. Also, his cassock was unfastened at thethroat and he bore a large red handkerchief in his hand. Obviously thishad just been over his face. 

Now, I do not blame this priest in the slightest. He had sung a latemass--which never agreed with him--and in his extreme hunger he hadeaten two platefuls of hot beef, with Yorkshire pudding, and drunk aglass and a half of solid beer. And he had just fallen into a deep sleepbefore giving Catechism, when the footsteps and voices had awakened him. Further, every wastrel Catholic that came along this road paid him acall, and he had not yet met with one genuine case of want. When he hadfirst come here he had helped beggars freely and generously, and helived on a stipend of ninety pounds a year, out of which he paid hishousekeeper fifteen. 

"What do you want?" he said. 

"May I speak to you, father?" said Frank. 

"Certainly. Say what you've got to say. "

"Will you help me with sixpence, father?"

The priest was silent, eyeing Frank closely. 

"Are you a Catholic?"

"Yes, father. "

"I didn't see you at mass this morning. "

"I wasn't here this morning. I was walking on the roads. "

"Where did you hear mass?"

"I didn't hear it at all, father. I was on the roads. "

"What's your work?"

"I haven't any. "

"Why's that?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders a little. 

"I do it when I can get it, " he said. 

"You speak like an educated man. "

"I am pretty well educated. "

The priest laughed shortly. 

"What's that bruise on your cheek?"

"I was in a street fight, yesterday, father. "

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" he said. "Where did you come from last?"

Frank paused a moment. He was very hot and very tired. .. . Then he spoke. 

"I was in prison till Friday, " he said. "I was given fourteen days onthe charge of robbing a child, on the twenty-sixth. I pleaded guilty. Will you help me, father?"

If the priest had not been still half stupid with sleep and indigestion, and standing in the full blaze of this hot sun, he might have beenrather struck by this last sentence. But he did have thosedisadvantages, and he saw in it nothing but insolence. 

He laughed again, shortly and angrily. 

"I'm amazed at your cheek, " he said. "No, certainly not! And you'dbetter learn manners before you beg again. "

Then he banged the door. 

 * * * * *

About ten minutes later he woke up from a doze, very wide awake indeed, and looked round. There lay on the table by him a Dutch cheese, a largecrusty piece of bread and some very soft salt butter in a saucer. Therewas also a good glass of beer left--not claret-cup--in a glass jug, verymuch as Frank had pictured it. 

He got up and went out to the street door, shading his eyes against thesun. But the street lay hot and dusty in the afternoon light, empty fromend to end, except for a cat, nose in tail, coiled on the grocerydoor-step. 

Then he saw two children, in white frocks, appear round a corner, and heremembered that it was close on time for Catechism. 

CHAPTER VI

(I)

About the time that Frank was coming into the village where the priestlived, Jenny had just finished lunch with her father. She took a book, two cigarettes, a small silver matchbox and a Japanese fan, and went outinto the garden. She had no duties this afternoon; she had played theorgan admirably at the morning service, and would play it equallyadmirably at the evening service. The afternoon devotions in the littlehot Sunday school--she had decided, in company with her father a year ortwo ago--and the management of the children, were far better left in theprofessional hands of the schoolmistress. 

She went straight out of the drawing-room windows, set wide and shadedby awnings, and across the lawn to the seat below the ancient yews. There she disposed herself, with her feet up, lit a cigarette, buriedthe match and began to read. 

 * * * * *

She had not heard from Frank for nearly three weeks; his lastcommunication had been a picture postcard of Selby Abbey, with theinitial "F" neatly printed at the back. But she was not very greatlyupset. She had written her letter as she had promised, and had heardfrom Jack Kirkby, to whose care she sent it, that he had no idea ofFrank's whereabouts, and that he would send on the letter as soon as heknew more. She supposed that Frank would communicate with her again assoon as he thought proper. 

Other circumstances to be noted were that Dick had gone back to townsome while ago, but would return almost immediately now for thegrouse-shooting; that Archie and Lord Talgarth were both up at thehouse--indeed, she had caught sight of them in the red-curtainedchancel-pew this morning, and had exchanged five words with them bothafter the service--and that in all other respects other things were asthey had been a month ago. 

The Dean of Trinity had telegraphed in great dismay on the morningfollowing his first communication that Frank had gone, and that no onehad the slightest idea of his destination; he had asked whether heshould put detectives on the track, and had been bidden, in return, politely but quite firmly, to mind his own business and leave LordTalgarth's younger son to Lord Talgarth. 

It was a sleepy afternoon, even up here among the hills, and Jenny hadnot read many pages before she became aware of it. The Rectory gardenwas an almost perfect place for a small doze; the yews about her made agrateful shade, and the limes behind them even further cooled the air, and, when the breeze awoke, as one talking in his sleep, the sound abouther was as of gentle rain. The air was bright and dusty with insects;from the limes overhead, the geranium beds, and the orchard fifty yardsaway, came the steady murmur of bees and flies. 

Jenny woke up twenty minutes later with a sudden start, and saw someonestanding almost over her. She threw her feet down, still bewildered bythe sudden change and the glare on which she opened her eyes, andperceived that it was Jack Kirkby, looking very dusty and hot. 

"I am so sorry, " said Jack apologetically, "but I was told you were outhere. "

She did not know Jack very well, though she had known him a long time. She looked upon him as a pleasant sort of boy whom she occasionally metat lawn-tennis parties and flower shows, and things like that, and sheknew perfectly how to talk to young men. 

"How nice of you to came over, " she said. "Did you bicycle? Havesomething to drink?"

She made room for him on the seat and held out her second cigarette. 

"It's your last, " said Jack. 

"I've lots more in the house. "

She watched him as he lit it, and as the last shreds of sleep rolledaway, put the obvious question. 

"You've news of Frank?"

Jack threw away the match and drew two or three draughts of smoke beforeanswering. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"Where is he?"

"He gave an address at York, though he wasn't there when he wrote. Isent your letter on there yesterday. "

"Oh I did he give any account of himself?"

Jack looked at her. 

"Well, he did. I've come about that. It's not very pleasant. "

"Is he ill?" asked Jenny sharply. 

"Oh, no; not at all; at least, he didn't say so. "

"What's the matter, then?"

Jack fumbled in his breast-pocket and drew out a letter, which he held amoment before unfolding. 

"I think you'd better read what he says, Miss Launton. It isn'tpleasant, but it's all over now. I thought I'd better tell you thatfirst. "

She held out her hand without speaking. 

Jack gave it her, and addressed himself carefully to his cigarette. Hedidn't like this kind of thing at all, he wished Frank wouldn't give himunpleasant commissions. But, of course, it had to be done. He looked outat the lawn and the sleepy house, but was aware of nothing except thegirl beside him in her white dress and the letter in her hands. When shehad finished it, she turned back and read it again. Then she remainedperfectly still, with the letter held on her knee. 

"Poor, dear old boy!" she said suddenly and quietly. 

An enormous wave of relief rolled up and enveloped Jack. He had beenexceedingly uncomfortable this morning, ever since the letter had come. His first impulse had been to ride over instantly after breakfast; thenhe had postponed it till lunch; then he had eaten some cold beef abouthalf-past twelve and come straight away. He told himself he must giveher plenty of time to write by the late Sunday night post. 

He had not exactly distrusted Jenny; Frank's confidence was toooverwhelming and too infectious. But he had reflected that it was not awholly pleasant errand to have to inform a girl that her lover had beenin prison for a fortnight. But the tone in which she had just said thosefour words was so serene and so compassionate that he was completelyreassured. This really was a fine creature, he said to himself. 

"I'm extraordinarily glad you take it like that, " he said. 

Jenny looked at him out of her clear, direct eyes. 

"You didn't suppose I should abuse him, did you?. .. How exactly likeFrank! I suppose he did it to save some blackguard or other. "

"I expect that was it, " said Jack. 

"Poor, dear old boy!" she said again. 

There was a moment's silence. Then Jack began again:

"You see, I've got to go and tell Lord Talgarth. Miss Launton, I wishyou'd come with me. Then we can both write by to-night's post. "

Jenny said nothing for an instant. Then:

"I suppose that would be best, " she said. "Shall we go up pretty soon? Iexpect we shall find him in the garden. "

Jack winced a little. Jenny smiled at him openly. 

"Best to get it over, Mr. Jack. I know it's like going to the dentist. But it can't be as bad as you think. It never is. Besides, you'll havesomebody to hold your hand, so to speak. "

"I hope I shan't scream out loud, " observed Jack. "Yes, we'd bettergo--if you don't mind. "

He stood up and waited. Jenny rose at once. 

"I'll go and get a hat. Wait for me here, will you? I needn't tellfather till this evening. "

(II)

The park looked delicious as they walked slowly up the grass under theshade of the trees by the side of the drive. The great beeches and elmsrose in towering masses, in clump after clump, into the distance, andbeneath the nearest stood a great stag with half a dozen hinds abouthim, eyeing the walkers. The air was very still; only from over the hillcame the sound of a single church bell, where some infatuated clergymanhoped to gather the lambs of his flock together for instruction in theChristian religion. 

"That's a beauty, " said Jack, waving a languid hand towards the stag. "Did you ever hear of the row Frank and I got into when we were boys?"

Jenny smiled. She had been quite silent since leaving the Rectory. 

"I heard of a good many, " she said. "Which was this?"

Jack recounted a story of Red Indians and ambuscades and a bow andarrows, ending in the flight of a frantic stag over the palings andamong the garden beds; it was on a Sunday afternoon, too. 

"Frank was caned by the butler, I remember; by Lord Talgarth's expressorders. Certainly he richly deserved it. I was a guest, and got offclear. "

"How old were you?"

"We were both about eleven, I think. "

"Frank doesn't strike me as more than about twelve now, " observed Jenny. 

"There's something in that, " admitted Jack. .. . "Oh! Lord! how hot itis!" He fanned himself with his hat. 

 * * * * *

There was no sign of life as they passed into the court and up to thepillared portico; and at last, when the butler appeared, the irregularstate of his coat-collar showed plainly that he but that moment had puthis coat on. 

(This would be about the time that Frank left the village after hisinterview with the priest. )

Yes; it seemed that Lord Talgarth was probably in the garden; and, ifso, almost certainly in the little square among the yews along the upperterrace. His lordship usually went there on hot days. Would Miss Launtonand Mr. Kirkby kindly step this way?

No; he was not to trouble. They would find their own way. On the upperterrace?

"On the upper terrace, miss. "

 * * * * *

The upper terrace was the one part of the old Elizabethan garden leftentirely unaltered. On either side rose up a giant wall of yew, shapedlike a castle bastion, at least ten feet thick; and between the two rana broad gravel path up to the sun-dial, bordered on either side by hugeherbaceous beds, blazing with the color of late summer. In two or threeplaces grass paths crossed these, leading by a few yards of turf towindows cut in the hedge to give a view of the long, dazzling lakebelow, and there was one gravel path, parallel to these, that led to thelittle yew-framed square built out on the slope of the hill. 

Two very silent persons now came out from the house by the garden dooron the south side, turned along the path, went up a dozen broad steps, passed up the yew walk and finally turned again down the short gravelway and stood abashed. 

His lordship was indeed here!

A long wicker chair was set in one angle, facing them, in such aposition that the movement of the sun would not affect the delightfulshade in which the chair stood. A small table stood beside it, with the_Times_ newspaper tumbled on to it, a box of cigars, a spirit-bottle ofiridescent glass, a syphon, and a tall tumbler in which a little ice laycrumbled at the bottom. And in the wicker chair, with his mouth wideopen, slept Lord Talgarth. 

"Good gracious!" whispered Jenny. 

There was a silence, and then like far-off thunder a slow meditativesnore. It was not an object of beauty or dignity that they looked upon. 

"In one second I shall laugh, " asserted Jenny, still in a cautiouswhisper. 

"I think we'd better--" began Jack; and stopped petrified, to see onevindictive-looking eye opened and regarding him, it seemed, with anexpression of extraordinary malignity. Then the other eye opened, themouth abruptly closed and Lord Talgarth sat up. 

"God bless my soul!"

He rolled his eyes about a moment while intelligence came back. 

"You needn't be ashamed of it, " said Jenny. "Mr. Jack Kirkby caught meat it, too, half an hour ago. "

His lordship's senses had not even now quite returned. He still staredat them innocently like a child, cleared his throat once or twice, andfinally stood up. 

"Jack Kirkby, so it is! How do, Jack? And Jenny?

"That's who we are, " said Jenny. "Are you sure you're quite recovered?"

"Recovered! Eh--!" (He emitted a short laugh. ) "Sit down. There's chairssomewhere. "

Jack hooked out a couple that were leaning folded against the low wallof yew beneath the window and set them down. 

"Have a cigar, Jack?"

"No, thanks. "

They were on good terms--these two. Jack shot really well, and was smartand deferential. Lord Talgarth asked no more than this from a young man. 

"Well--what's the matter?"

Jack left it thoughtfully for Jenny to open the campaign. She did sovery adroitly. 

"Mr. Jack came over to see me, " she said, "and I thought I couldn'tentertain him better than by bringing him up to see you. You haven'tsuch a thing as a cigarette, Lord Talgarth?"

He felt about in his pockets, drew out a case and pushed it across thetable. 

"Thanks, " said Jenny; and then, without the faintest change of tone:"We've some news of Frank at last. "

"Frank, eh? Have you? And what's the young cub at, now?"

"He's in trouble, as usual, poor boy!" remarked Jenny, genially. "He'svery well, thank you, and sends you his love. "

Lord Talgarth cast her a pregnant glance. 

"Well, if he didn't, I'm sure he meant to, " went on Jenny; "but Iexpect he forgot. You see, he's been in prison. "

The old man jerked such a face at her, that even her nerve failed for aninstant. Jack saw her put her cigarette up to her mouth with a hand thatshook ever so slightly. And yet before the other could say one word sherecovered herself. 

"Please let me say it right out to the end first, " she said. "No; pleasedon't interrupt! Mr. Jack, give me the letter . .. Oh! I've got it. " (Shedrew it out and began to unfold it, talking all the while withastonishing smoothness and self-command. ) "And I'll read you all theimportant part. It's written to Mr. Kirkby. He got it this morning andvery kindly brought it straight over here at once. "

Jack was watching like a terrier. On the one side he saw emotions sofurious and so conflicting that they could find no expression, and onthe other a restraint and a personality so complete and so compellingthat they simply held the field and permitted no outburst. Her voice wascool and high and natural. Then he noticed her flick a glance athimself, sideways, and yet perfectly intelligible. He stood up. 

"Yes, do just take a stroll, Mr. Kirkby. .. . Come back in ten minutes. "

And as he passed out again through the thick archway on to the terracehe heard, in an incredibly matter-of-fact voice, the letter begin. 

 "DEAR JACK. .. . "

Then he began to wonder what, as a matter of interest, Lord Talgarth'sfirst utterance would be. But he felt he could trust Jenny to managehim. She was an astonishingly sane and sensible girl. 

(III)

He was at the further end of the terrace, close beneath the stable wall, when the stable clock struck the quarter for the second time. That wouldmake, he calculated, about seventeen minutes, and he turned reluctantlyto keep his appointment. But he was still thirty yards away from theopening when a white figure in a huge white hat came quickly out. Shebeckoned to him with her head, and he followed her down the steps. Shegave him one glance as if to reassure him as he caught her up, but saidnot a word, good or bad, till they had passed through the house again, and were well on their way down the drive. 

"Well?" said Jack. 

Jenny hesitated a moment. 

"I suppose anyone else would have called him violent, " she said. "Poorold dear! But it seems to me he behaved rather well on thewhole--considering all things. "

"What's he going to do?"

"If one took anything he said as containing any truth at all, it wouldmean that he was going to flog Frank with his own hands, kick him firstup the steps of the house then down again, and finally drown him in thelake with a stone round his neck. I think that was the sort ofprogramme. "

"But--"

"Oh! we needn't be frightened, " said Jenny. "But if you ask me what hewill do, I haven't the faintest idea. "

"Did you suggest anything?"

"He knows what my views are, " said jenny. 

"And those?"

"Well--make him a decent allowance and let him alone. "

"He won't do that!" said Jack. "That's far too sensible. "

"You think so?"

"That would solve the whole problem, of course, " went on Jack, "marriageand everything. I suppose it would have to be about eight hundred ayear. And Talgarth must have at least thirty thousand. "

"Oh! he's more than that, " said Jenny. "He gives Mr. Dick twelvehundred. "

There was a pause. Jack did not know what to think. He was only quitecertain that the thing would have been far worse if he had attempted tomanage it himself. 

"Well, what shall I say to Frank?" he asked. Jenny paused again. 

"It seems to me the best thing for you to do is not to write. I'll writemyself this evening, if you'll give me his address, and explain--"

"I can't do that, " said Jack. "I'm awfully sorry, but--"

"You can't give me his address?"

"No, I'm afraid I mustn't. You see, Frank's very particular in hisletter. .. . "

"Then how can I write to him? Mr. Kirkby, you're really rather--"

"By George! I've got it!" cried Jack. "If you don't mind my waiting atthe Rectory. Why shouldn't you write to him now, and let me take theletter away and post it? It'll go all the quicker, too, from Barham. "

He glanced at her, wondering whether she were displeased. Her answerreassured him. 

"That'll do perfectly, " she said, "if you're sure you don't mindwaiting. "

The Rectory garden seemed more than ever a harbor from storm as theyturned into it. The sun was a little lower now, and the whole lawn layin shadow. As they came to the door she stopped. 

"I think I'd better go and get it over, " she said. "I can tell fatherall about it after you've gone. Will you go now and wait there?" Shenodded towards the seat where they had sat together earlier. 

 * * * * *

But it was nearly an hour before she came out again, and a neat maid, inapron and cap, had come discreetly out with the tea-things, set themdown and retired. 

Jack had been thinking of a hundred things, which all centered roundone--Frank. He had had a real shock this morning. It had beenintolerable to think of Frank in prison, for even Jack could guesssomething of what that meant to him; and the tone of the letter had beenso utterly unlike what he had been accustomed to from his friend. Hewould have expected a bubbling torrent of remarks--wise andfoolish--full of personal descriptions and unkind little sketches. And, indeed, there had come this sober narration of facts and requests. .. . 

But in all this there was one deep relief--that it should be a girl likeJenny who was the heart of the situation. If she had been in the leastlittle bit disturbed, who could tell what it would mean to Frank? ForFrank, as he knew perfectly well, had a very deep heart indeed, and hadenshrined Jenny in the middle of it. Any wavering or hesitation on herpart would have meant misery to his friend. But now all was perfectlyright, he reflected; and really, after all, it did not matter very muchwhat Lord Talgarth said or did. Frank was a free agent; he was verycapable and very lovable; it couldn't possibly be long before somethingturned up, and then, with Jenny's own money the two could manage verywell. And Lord Talgarth could not live for ever; and Archie would do theright thing, even if his father didn't. 

 * * * * *

It was after half-past four before he looked up at a glint of white andsaw Jenny standing at the drawing-room window. She stood there aninstant with a letter in her hand; then she stepped over the low silland came towards him across the grass, serene and dignified andgraceful. Her head was bare again, and the great coils of her hairflashed suddenly as they caught a long horizontal ray from the west. 

"Here it is, " she said. "Will you direct it? I've told him everything. "

Jack nodded. 

"That's excellent!" he said. "It shall go to-night. "

He glanced up at her and saw her looking at him with just the faintestwistfulness. He understood perfectly, he said to himself: she was stilla little unhappy at not being allowed to send the letter herself. What agood girl she was!

"Have some tea before you go?" she said. 

"Thanks. I'd better not. They'll be wondering what's happened to me. "

As he shook hands he tried to put something of his sympathy into hislook. He knew exactly how she was feeling, and he thought her splendidlybrave. But she hardly met his eyes, and again he felt he knew why. 

As he opened the garden gate beyond the house he turned once more towave. But she was busy with the tea-things, and a black figure wasadvancing briskly upon her from the direction of the study end of thehouse. 

CHAPTER VII

(I)

Life had been a little difficult for the Major for the last fortnight orso. Not only was Frank's material and moral support lacking to him, butthe calls upon him, owing to Gertie's extreme unreasonableness, hadconsiderably increased. He had explained to her, over and over again, with a rising intensity each time, how unselfishly he had actedthroughout, how his sole thought had been for her in his recent courseof action. It would never have done, he explained pacifically, for ayoung man like Frank to have the responsibility of a young girl likeGertie on his hands, while he (the Major) was spending a fortnightelsewhere. And, in fact, even on the most economical grounds he hadacted for the best, since it had been himself who had been charged inthe matter of the tin of salmon, it would not have been a fortnight, butmore like two months, during which the little community would have beendeprived of his labor. He reminded her that Frank had had a clean recordup to that time with the police. .. . 

But explanation had been fruitless. Gertie had even threatened arevelation of the facts of the case at the nearest police-station, andthe Major had been forced to more manly tactics with her. He had notused a stick; his hands had served him very well, and in the course ofhis argument he had made a few insincere remarks on the mutual relationsof Frank and Gertie that the girl remembered. 

 * * * * *

He had obtained a frugal little lodging in one of the small streets ofYork, down by the river--indeed looking straight on to it; and, for awonder, five days' regular work at the unloading of a string of barges. The five days expired on the Saturday before Frank was expected, but hehad several shillings in hand on the Sunday morning when Frank's letterarrived, announcing that he hoped to be with them again on Sunday nightor Monday morning. Two letters, also, had arrived for his friend on theSunday morning--one in a feminine handwriting and re-directed, with anold postmark of June, as well as one of the day before--he had held itup to the light and crackled it between his fingers, of course, uponreceiving it--and the other an obvious bill--one postmark was Cambridgeand the other Barham. He decided to keep them both intact. Besides, Gertie had been present at their delivery. 

The Major spent, on the whole, an enjoyable Sunday. He lay in bed tilla little after twelve o'clock, with a second-hand copy of the SportingTimes, and a tin of tobacco beside him. They dined at about one o'clock, and he managed to get a little spirit to drink with his meal. He hadwalked out--not very far--with Gertie in the afternoon, and had managedby representing himself as having walked seven miles--he was determinednot to risk anything by foolishly cutting it too fine--to obtain alittle more. They had tea about six, and ate, each of them, a kipperedherring and some watercress. Then about seven o'clock Frank suddenlywalked in and sat down. 

"Give me something to eat and drink, " he said. 

He looked, indeed, extraordinarily strained and tired, and sat back onthe upturned box by the fireplace as if in exhaustion. He explainedpresently when Gertie had cooked another herring, and he had drunk aslop-basinful of tea, that he had walked fasting since breakfast, but hesaid nothing about the priest. The Major with an air of greatpreciseness measured out half a finger of whisky and insisted, with theair of a paternal doctor, upon his drinking it immediately. 

"And now a cigarette, for God's sake, " said Frank. "By the way, I've gotsome work for to-morrow. "

"That's first-rate, my boy, " said the Major. "I've been working myselfthis week. "

Frank produced his fourpence and laid it on the corner of the table. 

"That's for supper and bed to-night, " he said. 

"Nonsense, my boy; put it back in your pocket. "

"Kindly take that fourpence, " remarked Frank. "You can add somebreakfast to-morrow, if you like. "

 * * * * *

He related his adventures presently--always excepting the priest--anddescribed how he had met a man at the gate of a builder's yard thisevening as he came through York, who had promised him a day's job, andif things were satisfactory, more to follow. 

"He seemed a decent chap, " said Frank. 

 * * * * *

The Major and Gertie had not much to relate. They had left themarket-town immediately after Frank's little matter in the magistrates'court, and had done pretty well, arriving in York ten days ago. Theyhardly referred to Frank's detention, though he saw Gertie looking athim once or twice in a curiously shy kind of way, and understood whatwas in her mind. But for very decency's sake the Major had finally tosay something. 

"By the way, my boy, I won't forget what you did for me and for mylittle woman here. I'm not a man of many words, but--"

"Oh! that's all right, " said Frank sleepily. "You'll do as much for meone day. "

The Major assented with fervor and moist eyes. It was not till Frankstood up to go to bed that anyone remembered the letters. 

"By the way, there are two letters come for you, " said the Major, hunting in the drawer of the table. Frank's bearing changed. He whiskedround in an instant. 

"Where are they?"

They were put into his hand. He looked at them carefully, trying to makeout the postmark--turned them upside down and round, but he made nomotion to open them. 

"Where am I to sleep?" he said suddenly. "And can you spare a bit ofcandle?"

(And as he went upstairs, it must have been just about the time that theletter-box at Barham was cleared for the late Sunday post. )

(II)

Frank lay a long time awake in the dark that night, holding tight in hishand Jenny's letter, written to him in June. The bill he had not eventroubled to open. 

For the letter said exactly and perfectly just all those things whichhe most wished to hear, in the manner in which he wished to hear them. It laughed at him gently and kindly; it called him an extraordinarilysilly boy; it said that his leaving Cambridge, and, above all, hismanner of leaving it--Frank had added a postscript describing hisadventure with the saddle and the policeman--were precisely what thewriter would have expected of him; it made delightful and humorousreflections upon the need of Frank's turning over a new leaf--there wasquite a page of good advice; and finally it gave him a charmingdescription--just not over the line of due respect--of his father'smanner of receiving the news, with extracts from some of the choicestremarks made upon that notable occasion. It occupied fourclosely-written pages, and if there were, running underneath itall, just the faintest taint of strain and anxiety, loyallyconcealed--well--that made the letter no less pleasant. 

I have not said a great deal about what Jenny meant to Frank, justbecause he said so very little about her himself. She was, in fact, almost the only element in his variegated life upon which he had notbeen in the habit of pouring out torrential comments and reflections. His father and Archie were not at all spared in his conversation withhis most intimate friends; in fact, he had been known, more than once, in a very select circle at Cambridge, to have conducted imaginarydialogues between those two on himself as their subject, and he couldimitate with remarkable fidelity his Cousin Dick over a billiard-table. But he practically never mentioned Jenny; he had not even a photographof her on his mantelpiece. And it very soon became known among hisfriends, when the news of his engagement leaked out through Jack, thatit was not to be spoken of in his presence. He had preserved the samereticence, it may be remembered, about his religion. 

And so Frank at last fell asleep on a little iron bedstead, justremembering that it was quite possible he might have another letter fromher to-morrow, if Jack had performed his commission immediately. But hehardly expected to hear till Tuesday. 

 * * * * *

Gertie was up soon after five next morning to get breakfast for her men, since the Major had announced that he would go with Frank to see whetherpossibly there might not be a job for him too; and as soon as they hadgone, very properly went to sleep again on the bed in the sitting-room. 

Gertie had a strenuous time of it, in spite of the Major's frequentlyexpressed opinion that women had no idea what work was. For, first, there was the almost unending labor of providing food and cooking it aswell as possible; there was almost a standing engagement of mending andwashing clothes; there were numerous arguments to be conducted, on termsof comparative equality, if possible, with landladies or farmers'wives--Gertie always wore a brass wedding-ring and showed it sometimes alittle ostentatiously; and, finally, when the company was on the march, it was only fair that she should carry the heavier half of the luggage, in order to compensate for her life of luxury and ease at other times. Gertie, then, was usually dog-tired, and slept whenever she could get achance. 

It was nearly eight o'clock before she was awakened again by sharpknocking on her door; and on opening it, found the landlady' standingthere, examining a letter with great attention. (It had already beenheld up to the light against the kitchen window. )

"For one of your folks, isn't it, Mrs. --er--" Gertie took it. It waswritten on excellent paper, and directed in a man's handwriting to Mr. Gregory:

"Thank you, Mrs. --er--" said Gertie. 

Then she went back into her room, put the letter carefully away in thedrawer of the table and set about her household business. 

About eleven o'clock she stepped out for a little refreshment. She had, of course, a small private exchequer of her own, amounting usually toonly a few pence, of which the Major knew nothing. This did not strikeher as at all unfair; she only wondered gently sometimes at masculineinnocence in not recognizing that such an arrangement was perfectlycertain. She got into conversation with some elder ladies, who also hadstepped out for refreshment, and had occasion, at a certain point, tolay her wedding-ring on the bar-counter for exhibition. So it was notuntil a little after twelve that she remembered the time and fled. Shewas not expecting her men home to dinner; in fact, she had wrapped upprovisions for them in fragments of the Major's _Sporting Times_ beforethey had left; but it was safer to be at home. One never knew. 

As she came into the room, for an instant her heart leaped into hermouth, but it was only Frank. 

"Whatever's the matter?" she said. 

"Turned off, " said Frank shortly. He was sitting gloomily at the tablewith his hands in his pockets. 

"Turned off?"

He nodded. 

"What's up?"

"'Tecs, " said Frank. 

Gertie's mouth opened a little. 

"One of them saw me going in and wired for instructions. He had seen thecase in the police-news and thought I answered to the description. Thenhe came back at eleven and told the governor. "

"And--"

"Yes. "

There was a pause. 

"And George?"

"Oh! he's all right, " said Frank a little bitterly. "There's nothingagainst him. Got any dinner, Gertie? I can't pay for it . .. Oh, yes, Ican; here's half a day. " (He chucked ninepence upon the table; thesixpence rolled off again, but he made no movement to pick it up. )

Gertie looked at him a moment. 

"Well--" she began emphatically, then she stooped to pick up thesixpence. 

Frank sighed. 

"Oh! don't begin all that--there's a good girl. I've said it allmyself--quite adequately, I assure you. "

Gertie's mouth opened again. She laid the sixpence on the table. 

"I mean, there's nothing to be said, " explained Frank. "The pointis--what's to be done?"

Gertie had no suggestions. She began to scrape out the frying-pan inwhich the herrings had been cooked last night. 

"There's a letter for you, " she said suddenly. 

Frank sat up. 

"Where?"

"In the drawer there--by your hand. Frankie. .. . "

Frank tore at the handle and it came off. He uttered a shortexclamation. Then, with infinite craft he fitted the handle in again, wrapped in yet one more scrap of the _Sporting Times_, and drew out thedrawer. His face fell abruptly as he saw the handwriting. 

"That can wait, " he muttered, and chucked the letter face downwards onto the table. 

"Frankie, " said the girl again, still intent on her frying-pan. 

"Well?"

"It's all my fault, " she said in a low voice. 

"Your fault! How do you make that out?"

"If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have taken the tin from George, and. .. . "

"Oh, Lord!" said Frank, "if we once begin on that!. .. And if it hadn'tbeen for George, he wouldn't have taken the tin; and if it hadn't beenfor Maggie Cooper, there wouldn't have been the tin; and if it hadn'tbeen for Maggie's father's sister, she wouldn't have gone out with it. It's all Maggie's father's sister's fault, my dear! It's nothing to dowith you. "

The words were brisk enough, but the manner was very heavy. It was likerepeating a lesson learned in childhood. 

"That's all right, " began Gertie again, "but--"

"My dear girl, I shall be annoyed if you go back to all that. Why can'tyou let it alone? The point is, What's to happen? I can't go on spongingon you and the Major. "

Gertie flushed under her tan. 

"If you ever leave us, " she said, "I'll--"

"Well?"

"I'll . .. I'll never leave George. "

Frank was puzzled for a moment. It seemed a _non sequitur_. 

"Do you mean--"

"I've got me eyes, " said Gertie emphatically, "and I know what you'rethinking, though you don't say much. And I've been thinking, too. "

Frank felt a faint warmth rise in his own heart. "You mean you've beenthinking over what I said the other day?"

Gertie bent lower over her frying-pan and scraped harder than ever. 

"Do stop that confounded row one second!" shouted Frank. 

The noise stopped abruptly. Gertie glanced up and down again. Then shebegan again, more gently. 

"That's better, " said Frank. .. . "Well, I hope you have, " he went onpaternally. "You're a good girl, Gertie, and you know better. Go onthinking about it, and tell me when you've made up your mind. When'lldinner be ready?"

"Half an hour, " said Gertie. 

"Well, I'll go out for a bit and look round. "

He took up the letter carelessly and went out. 

(III)

As he passed the window Gertie glanced towards it with the corner of hereye. Then, frying-pan still in hand, she crept up to the angle andwatched him go down the quay. 

A very convenient barrel was set on the extreme edge of the embankmentabove the water, with another beside it, and Frank made for thisimmediately. She saw him sit on one of the barrels and put the letter, still unopened, on the top of the other. Then he fumbled in his pocketsa little, and presently a small blue cloud of smoke went upwards likeincense. Gertie watched him for an instant, but he did not move again. Then she went back to her frying-pan. 

Twenty minutes later dinner was almost ready. 

Gertie had spread upon the table, with great care, one of the Major'swhite pocket-handkerchiefs. He insisted upon those being, not onlyretained, but washed occasionally, and Gertie understood something ofhis reasons, since in the corner of each was embroidered a monogram, ofwhich the letters were not "G. T. " But she never could make out what theywere. 

Upon this tablecloth she had placed on one side a black-handled forkwith two prongs, and a knife of the same pattern (this was for Frank)and on the other a small pewter tea-spoon and a knife, of which the onlyhandle was a small iron spike from which the wood had fallen away. (Thiswas for herself. ) Then there was a tooth-glass for Frank, and ateacup--without a handle, but with a gold flower in the middle of it, tomake up--for herself. In the center of the pocket-handkerchief stood acrockery jug, with a mauve design of York Minster, with a thundercloudbehind it and a lady and gentleman with a child bowling a hoop in frontof it. This was the landlady's property, and was half full of beer. Besides all this, there were two plates, one of a cold blue color, witha portrait of the Prince Consort, whiskers and hat complete, in a smallmedallion in the center, and the other white, with a representation ofthe Falls of Lodore. There was no possibility of mistaking any of thesubjects treated upon these various pieces of table-ware, since thetitle of each was neatly printed, in various styles, just below thepicture. 

Gertie regarded this array with her head on one side. It was not oftenthat they dined in such luxury. She wished she had a flower to put inthe center. Then she stirred the contents of the frying-pan with an ironspoon, and went again to the window. 

The figure on the barrel had not moved; but even as she looked she sawhim put out his hand to the letter. She watched him. She saw him run afinger inside the envelope, and toss the envelope over the edge of thequay. Then she saw him unfold the paper inside and become absorbed. 

This would never do. Gertie's idea of a letter was that it occupied atleast several minutes to read through; so she went out quickly to thestreet door to call him in. 

She called him, and he did not turn his head, nor even answer. 

She called him again. 

(IV)

The letter that Frank read lies, too, with a few other papers, before meas I write. 

It runs as follows:

 "MY DEAR FRANK, "I know you won't like what I have to say, but it has to be said. Believe me, it costs me as much to write as you to read--perhaps more. 

 "It is this: Our engagement must be at an end. 

 "You have a perfect right to ask me for reasons, so I will give them at once, as I don't want to open the subject again. It would do no kind of good. My mind is absolutely made up. 

 "My main reason is this: When I became engaged to you I did not know you properly. I thought you were quite different from what you are. I thought that underneath all your nice wildness, and so on, there was a very solid person. And I hinted that, you will remember, in my first letter, which I suppose you have received just before this. And now I simply can't think that any longer. 

 "I don't in the least blame you for being what you are: that's not my business. But I must just say this--that a man who can do what you've done, not only for a week or two, as I thought at first, as a sort of game, but for nearly three months, and during that time could leave me with only three or four postcards and no news; above all, a man who could get into such disgrace and trouble, and actually go to prison, and yet not seem to mind much--well, it isn't what I had thought of you. 

 "You see, there are a whole lot of things together. It isn't just this or that, but the whole thing. 

 "First you became a Catholic, without telling me anything until just before. I didn't like that, naturally, but I didn't say anything. It isn't nice for a husband and wife to be of different religions. Then you ran away from Cambridge; then you got mixed up with this man you speak of in your letter to Jack; and you must have been rather fond of him, you know, to go to prison for him, as I suppose you did. And yet, after all that, I expect you've gone to meet him again in York. And then there's the undeniable fact of prison. 

 "You see, it's all these things together--one after another. I have defended you to your father again and again; I haven't allowed anybody to abuse you without standing up for you; but it really has gone too far. You know I did half warn you in that other letter. I know you couldn't have got it till just now, but that wasn't my fault; and the letter shows what I was thinking, even three months ago. 

 "Don't be too angry with me, Frank. I'm very fond of you still, and I shall always stand up for you when I can. And please don't answer this in any way. Jack Kirkby isn't answering just yet. I asked him not, though he doesn't know why. 

 "Your father is going to send the news that the engagement is broken off to the newspapers. 

 "Yours sincerely, "JENNY LAUNTON. "

PART II

CHAPTER I

(I)

Barham, as all Yorkshire knows, lies at the foot of a long valley, whereit emerges into the flatter district round Harrogate. It has a railwayall to itself, which goes no further, for Barham is shut in on the northby tall hills and moors, and lies on the way to nowhere. It is almostwholly an agricultural town, and has a curious humped bridge, right inthe middle of the town, where men stand about on market days and discussthe price of bullocks. It has two churches--one, disused, on aprecipitous spur above the town, surrounded by an amazingly irregularsort of churchyard, full, literally, to bursting (the Kirkbys lie there, generation after generation of them, beneath pompous tombs), and theother church a hideous rectangular building, with flat walls andshallow, sham Gothic windows. It was thought extremely beautiful when itwas built forty years ago. The town itself is an irregular and ratherpicturesque place, with a twisting steep High Street, looking as if anumber of houses had been shot at random into this nook among the hillsand left to find their own levels. 

The big house where the Kirkbys have lived since the middle of theseventeenth century is close to the town, as the squire's house ought tobe, and its park gates open right upon the northern end of the oldbridge. There's nothing of great interest in the house (I believe thereis an old doorway in the cellar, mentioned in guide-books), since it wasrebuilt about the same time as the new church first rose. It is just abig, comfortable, warm, cool, shady sort of house, with a large hall anda fine oak staircase, surrounded by lawns and shrubberies, that adjoinon the west the lower slopes, first of the park and then of the moorsthat stretch away over the horizon. 

There is a pleasant feudal air about the whole place--feudal, in a smalland neighborly kind of way. Jack's father died just a year before hisonly son came of age; and Jack himself, surrounded by sisters and anexcellent and beneficently-minded mother, has succeeded to all theimmemorial rights and powers, written and unwritten, of the Squire ofBarham. He entertained me delightfully for three or four days a fewmonths ago, when I was traveling about after Frank's footsteps, and Inoticed with pleasure as we drove through the town that there washardly a living creature in the town whom he did not salute; and who didnot salute him. 

He took me first to the bridge and pulled up in the middle of it, topoint out a small recess in it, over the central pier, intended, nodoubt, to give shelter to foot-passengers before the bridge was widened, in case a large vehicle came through. 

"There, " he said. "That's the place I first saw Frank when he came. "

We drove on up through the town, and at the foot of the almostprecipitous hill leading up to the ruined church we got out, leaving thedog-cart in charge of the groom. We climbed the hill slowly, for it wasa hot day, Jack uttering reminiscences at intervals (many of which arerecorded in these pages) and turned in at the churchyard gate. 

"And this was the place, " said Jack, "where I said good-by to him. "

(II)

It was on the twenty-fifth of September, a Monday, that Jack sat in thesmoking-room, in Norfolk jacket and gaiters, drinking tea as fast as hepossibly could. He had been out on the moors all day, and was as thirstyas the moors could make him, and he had been sensual enough to smoke acigarette deliberately before beginning tea, in order to bring histhirst to an acute point. 

Then, the instant he had finished he snatched for his case again, forthis was to be the best cigarette of the whole day, and discovered thathis sensuality had overreached itself for once, and that there were noneleft. He clutched at the silver box with a sinking heart, half-remembering that he had filled his case with the last of them thismorning. It was a fact, and he knew that there were no others in thehouse. 

This would never do, and he reflected that if he sent a man for somemore, he would not get them for at least twenty minutes. (Jack nevercould understand why an able-bodied footman always occupied twentyminutes in a journey that ought to take eight. ) So he put on his capagain, stepped out of the low window and set off down the drive. 

 * * * * *

It was getting a little dark as he passed out of the lodge-gates. Thesun, of course, had set at least an hour before behind the great hill tothe west, but the twilight proper was only just beginning. He was nearlyat the place now, and as he breasted the steep ascent of the bridge, peered over it, at least with his mind's eye, at the tobacconist'sshop--first on the left--where a store of "Mr. Jack's cigarettes" wasalways on hand. 

He noticed in the little recess I have just spoken of a man leaningwith his elbows on the parapet, and staring out up the long reach of thestream to the purple evening moors against the sky and the luminousglory itself; and as he came opposite him, wondered vaguely who it wasand whether he knew him. Then, as he got just opposite him, he stopped, uneasy at heart. 

 * * * * *

Naturally Frank was never very far away from Jack's thoughts justnow--ever since, indeed, he had heard the news in a very discreet letterfrom the Reverend James Launton a week or two ago. (I need not say hehad answered this letter, not to the father, but to the daughter, buthad received no reply. )

He had written a frantic letter to Frank himself then, but it had beenreturned, marked: "Unknown at this address. " And ever since he had eyedall tramps on the road with an earnestness that elicited occasionally asalute, and occasionally an impolite remark. 

The figure whose back he saw now certainly was not much like Frank; butthen--again--it was rather like him. It was dressed in a jacket andtrousers so stained with dust and wet as to have no color of their ownat all, and a cloth cap of the same appearance. A bundle tied up in ared handkerchief, and a heavy stick, rested propped against an angle ofthe recess. 

Jack cleared his throat rather loud and stood still, prepared to beadmiring the view, in case of necessity; the figure turned an eye overits shoulder, then faced completely round; and it was Frank Guiseley. 

Jack for the first instant said nothing at all, but stood transfixed, with his mouth a little open and his eyes staring. Frank's face wassunburned almost beyond recognition, his hair seemed cut shorter thanusual, and the light was behind him. 

Then Jack recovered. 

"My dear man, " he said, "why the--"

He seized him by the hands and held him, staring at him. 

"Yes; it's me all right, " said Frank. "I was just wondering--"

"Come along, instantly. .. . Damn! I've got to go to a tobacconist's; it'sonly just here. There isn't a cigarette in the house. Come with me?"

"I'll wait here, " said Frank. 

"Will you? I shan't be a second. "

It was, as a matter of fact, scarcely one minute before Jack was back;he had darted in, snatched a box from the shelf and vanished, crying outto "put it down to him. " He found Frank had faced round again and wasstaring at the water and sky and high moors. He snatched up his friend'sbundle and stick. 

"Come along, " he said, "we shall have an hour or two before dinner. "

Frank, in silence, took the bundle and stick from him again, firmly andirresistibly, and they did not speak again till they were out ofear-shot of the lodge. Then Jack began, taking Frank's arm--a custom forwhich he had often been rebuked. 

"My dear old man!" he said. "I . .. I can't say what I feel. I know thewhole thing, of course, and I've expressed my mind plainly to MissJenny. "

"Yes?"

"And to your father. Neither have answered, and naturally I haven't beenover again. .. . Dick's been there, by the way. "

Frank made no comment. 

"You look simply awful, old chap, " pursued Jack cheerily. "Where onearth have you been for the last month? I wrote to York and got theletter returned. "

"Oh! I've been up and down, " said Frank impassively. 

"With the people you were with before--the man, I mean?"

"No. I've left them for the present. But I shall probably join themagain later. "

"Join. .. !" began the other aghast. 

"Certainly! This thing's only just begun, " said Frank, with that sameodd impassivity. "We've seen the worst of it, I fancy. "

"But you don't mean you're going back! Why, it's ridiculous!"

Frank stopped. They were within sight of the house now and the lightsshone pleasantly out. 

"By the way, Jack, I quite forgot. You will kindly give me your promiseto make no sort of effort to detain me when I want to go again, or Ishan't come any further. "

"But, my dear chap--"

"Kindly promise at once, please. "

"Oh, well! I promise, but--"

"That's all right, " said Frank, and moved on. 

 * * * * *

"I say, " said Jack, as they came up to the hall door. "Will you talk nowor will you change, or what?"

"I should like a hot bath first. By the way, have you anyone staying inthe house?"

"Not a soul; and only two sisters at home. And my mother, of course. "

"What about clothes?"

"I'll see about that. Come on round to the smoking-room window. ThenI'll get in Jackson and explain to him. I suppose you don't mind yourname being known? He'll probably recognize you, anyhow. "

"Not in the least, so long as no one interferes. "

Jack rang the bell as soon as they came into the smoking-room, and Franksat down in a deep chair. Then the butler came. He cast one long look atthe astonishing figure in the chair. 

"Oh!--er--Jackson, this is Mr. Frank Guiseley. He's going to stay here. He'll want some clothes and things. I rather think there are some suitsof mine that might do. I wish you'd look them out. "

"I beg your pardon, sir?

"This is Mr. Frank Guiseley--of Merefield. .. . It is, really! But wedon't want more people talking than are necessary. You understand?Please don't say anything about it, except that he's come on awalking-tour. And please tell the housekeeper to get the Blue Roomready, and let somebody turn on the hot water in the bath-room untilfurther notice. That's all, Jackson . .. And the clothes. Youunderstand?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And get the _eau de lubin_ from my dressing-room and put it in thebath-room. Oh, yes; and the wooden bowl of soap. "

"These clothes of mine are not to be thrown away, please, Jackson, "said Frank gravely from the chair. "I shall want them again. "

"Yes, sir. "

"That's all, then, " said Jack. 

Mr. Jackson turned stiffly and left the room. 

"It's all right, " said Jack. "You remember old Jackson. He won't say aword. Lucky no one saw us as we came up. "

"It doesn't matter much, does it?" said Frank. 

There was a pause. 

"I say, Frank, when will you tell me--"

"I'll answer any questions after dinner to-night. I simply can't talknow. "

Dinner was a little difficult that night. 

Mrs. Kirkby had been subjected to a long lecture from her son during thehalf hour in which she ought to have been dressing, in order to have itfirmly implanted in her mind that Frank--whom she had known from aboy--was simply and solely in the middle of a walking-tour all byhimself. She understood the situation perfectly in a minute and ahalf--(she was a very shrewd woman who did not say much)--but Jack wasnot content. He hovered about her room, fingering photographs andsilver-handled brushes, explaining over and over again how important itwas that Frank should be made to feel at his case, and that Fanny andJill--(who were just old enough to come to dinner in white high-neckedfrocks that came down to their very slender ankles, and thick pig-tailsdown their backs)--must not be allowed to bother him. Mrs. Kirkby said, "Yes, I understand, " about a hundred and thirty times, and glanced atthe clock. She stood with one finger on the electric button for at leastfive minutes before venturing to ring for her maid, and it was only thatlady's discreet tap at one minute before eight that finally got Jack outof the room. He looked in on Frank in the middle of his dressing, foundto his relief that an oldish suit of dress-clothes fitted him quitedecently, and then went to put on his own. He came down to thedrawing-room seven minutes after the gong with his ears very red and hishair in a plume, to find Frank talking to his mother, and eyed by hissisters who were pretending to look at photographs, with all the ease inthe world. 

But dinner itself was difficult. It was the obvious thing to talk aboutFrank's "walking-tour"; and yet this was exactly what Jack dared not do. The state of the moors, and the deplorable ravages made among the younggrouse by the early rains, occupied them all to the end of fish; to thegrouse succeeded the bullocks: to the bullocks, the sheep, and, by anobvious connection--obvious to all who knew that gentleman--from thesheep to the new curate. 

But just before the chocolate _soufflée_ there came a pause, and Jill, the younger of the two sisters, hastened to fill the gap. 

"Did you have a nice walking-tour, Mr. Guiseley?"

Frank turned to her politely. 

"Yes, very nice, considering, " he said. 

"Have you been alone all the time?" pursued Jill, conscious of a socialsuccess. 

"Well, no, " said Frank. "I was traveling with a . .. Well, with a man whowas an officer in the army. He was a major. "

"And did you--"

"That's enough, Jill, " said her mother decidedly. "Don't bother Mr. Guiseley. He's tired with his walk. "

The two young men sat quiet for a minute or two after the ladies hadleft the room. Then Jack spoke. 

"Well?" he said. 

Frank looked up. There was an odd, patient kind of look in his eyes thattouched Jack a good deal. Frank had not been distinguished forsubmissiveness hitherto. 

"Oh! a bit later, if you don't mind, " he said. "We can talk in thesmoking-room. "

(IV)

"Well, I'll tell you the whole thing as far as I understand it, " beganFrank, as the door closed behind Jackson, who had brought whisky andcandles. "And then I'll answer any questions you want. "

He settled himself back in his chair, stretching out his legs andclasping his hands behind his head. Jack had a good view of him andcould take notice of his own impressions, though he found them hard toput into words afterwards. The words he finally chose were "subdued" and"patient" again, and there are hardly two words that would have beenless applicable to Frank three months before. At the same time hisvirility was more noticeable than ever; he had about him, Jack said, something of the air of a very good groom--a hard-featured and sharp, yet not at all unkindly look, very capable and, at the same time, verymuch restrained. There was no sentimental nonsense about him at all--hissorrow had not taken that form. 

"Well, I needn't talk much about Jenny's last letter and what happenedafter that. I was entirely unprepared, of course. I hadn't the faintestidea--Well, she was the one person about whom I had no doubts at all! Iactually left the letter unread for a few minutes (the envelope was inyour handwriting, you know)--because I had to think over what I had todo next. The police had got me turned away from a builder's yard--"

Jack emitted a small sound. He was staring at Frank with all his eyes. 

"Yes; that's their way, " said Frank. "Well, when I read it, I simplycouldn't think any more at all for a time. The girl we were travelingwith--she had picked up with the man I had got into trouble over, youknow--the girl was calling me to dinner, she told me afterwards. Ididn't hear a sound. She came and touched me at last, and I woke up. ButI couldn't say anything. They don't even now know what's the matter. Icame away that afternoon. I couldn't even wait for the Major--"

"Eh?"

"The Major. .. . Oh! that's what the chap calls himself. I don't thinkhe's lying, either. I simply couldn't stand him another minute justthen. But I sent them a postcard that night--I forget where from;and--There aren't any letters for me, are there?

"One or two bills. "

"Oh! well, I shall hear soon, I expect. I must join them again in a dayor two. They're somewhere in this direction, I know. "

"And what did you do?"

Frank considered. 

"I'm not quite sure. I know I walked a great deal. People were awfullygood to me. One woman stopped her motor--and I hadn't begged, either--"

"You! Begged!"

"Lord, yes; lots of times. .. . Well, she gave me a quid, and I didn'teven thank her. And that lasted me very well, and I did a little worktoo, here and there. "

"But, good Lord! what did you do?"

"I walked. I couldn't bear towns or people or anything. I got somewhereoutside of Ripon at last, and went out on to the moors. I found an oldshepherd's hut for about a week or ten days--"

"And you--"

"Lived there? Yes. I mended the hut thoroughly before I came away. Andthen I thought I'd come on here. "

"What were you doing on the bridge?"

"Waiting till dark. I was going to ask at the lodge then whether youwere at home. "

"And if I hadn't been?"

"Gone on somewhere else, I suppose. "

Jack tried to help himself to a whisky and soda, but the soda flew outall over his shirt-front like a fountain, and he was forced to make asmall remark. Then he made another. 

"What about prison?"

Frank smiled. 

"Oh! I've almost forgotten that. It was beastly at the time, though. "

"And . .. And the Major and the work! Lord! Frank, you do tell a storybadly. "

He smiled again much more completely. 

"I'm too busy inside, " he said. "Those things don't seem to matter much, somehow. "

"Inside? What the deuce do you mean?"

Frank made a tiny deprecating gesture. 

"Well, what it's all about, you know . .. Jack. "

"Yes. "

"It's a frightfully priggish thing to say, but I'm extraordinarilyinterested as to what's going to happen next--inside, I mean. At least, sometimes; and then at other times I don't care a hang. "

Jack looked bewildered, and said so tersely. Frank leaned forward alittle. 

"It's like this, you see. Something or other has taken me in hand: I'mblessed if I know what. All these things don't happen one on the top ofthe other just by a fluke. There's something going on, and I want toknow what it is. And I suppose something's going to happen soon. "

"For God's sake do say what you mean!"

"I can't more than that. I tell you I don't know. I only wish somebodycould tell me. "

"But what does it all amount to? What are you going to do next?"

"Oh! I know that all right. I'm going to join the Major and Gertieagain. "

"Frank!"

"Yes?. .. No, not a word, please. You promised you wouldn't. I'm going tojoin those two again and see what happens. "

"But why?"

"That's my job. I know that much. I've got to get that girl back to herpeople again. She's not his wife, you know. "

"But what the devil--"

"It seems to me to matter a good deal. Oh! she's a thoroughly stupidgirl, and he's a proper cad; but that doesn't matter. It's got to bedone; or, rather, I've got to try to do it. I daresay I shan't succeed, but that, again, doesn't matter. I've got to do my job, and then we'llsee. "

Jack threw up his hands. 

"You're cracked!" he said. 

"I daresay, " said Frank solemnly. 

There was a pause. It seemed to Jack that the whole thing must be adream. This simply wasn't Frank at all. The wild idea came to him thatthe man who sat before him with Frank's features was some kind ofchangeling. Mentally he shook himself. 

"And what about Jenny?" he said. 

Frank sat perfectly silent and still for an instant. Then he spokewithout heat. 

"I'm not quite sure, " he said. "Sometimes I'd like to . .. Well, to makeher a little speech about what she's done, and sometimes I'd like tocrawl to her and kiss her feet--but both those things are when I'mfeeling bad. On the whole, I think--though I'm not sure--that is not mybusiness any more; in fact, I'm pretty sure it's not. It's part of thewhole campaign and out of my hands. It's no good talking about that anymore. So please don't, Jack. "

"One question?"

"Well?"

"Have you written to her or sent her a message?"

"No. "

"And I want to say one other thing. I don't think it's against thebargain. "

"Well?"

"Will you take five hundred pounds and go out to the colonies?"

Frank looked up with an amused smile. 

"No, I won't--thanks very much. .. . Am I in such disgrace as all that, then?"

"You know I don't mean that, " said Jack quietly. 

"No, old chap. I oughtn't to have said that. I'm sorry. "

Jack waved a hand. 

"I thought perhaps you'd loathe England, and would like--And you don'tseem absolutely bursting with pride, you know. "

"Honestly, I don't think I am, " said Frank. "But England suits me verywell--and there are the other two, you know. But I'll tell you one thingyou could do for me. "

"Yes?"

"Pay those extra bills. I don't think they're much. "

"That's all right, " said Jack. "And you really mean to go on with itall?"

"Why, yes. "

(V)

The moors had been pretty well shot over already since the twelfth ofAugust, but the two had a very pleasant day, for all that, a couple ofdays later. They went but with a keeper and half a dozen beaters--Frankin an old homespun suit of Jack's, and his own powerful boots, and madea very tolerable bag. There was one dramatic moment, Jack told me, whenthey found that luncheon had been laid at a high point on the hills fromwhich the great gray mass of Merefield and the shimmer of the lake infront of the house were plainly visible only eight miles away. The flagwas flying, too, from the flagstaff on the old keep, showing, accordingto ancient custom, that Lord Talgarth was at home. Frank looked at it aminute or two with genial interest, and Jack wondered whether he hadnoticed, as he himself had, that even the Rectory roof could be madeout, just by the church tower at the foot of the hill. 

Neither said anything, but as the keeper came up to ask for orders asthey finished lunch, he tactfully observed that there was a wonderfulfine view of Merefield. 

"Yes, " said Frank, "you could almost make out people with a telescope. "

 * * * * *

The two were walking together alone as they dropped down, an hour beforesunset, on to the upper end of Barham. They were both glowing with thesplendid air and exercise, and were just in that state of weariness thatis almost unmixed physical pleasure to an imaginative thinker whocontemplates a hot bath, a quantity of tea, and a long evening in adeep chair. Frank still preserved his impassive kind of attitude towardsthings in general, but Jack noticed with gentle delight that he seemedmore off his guard, and that he even walked with something more of analert swing than he had on that first evening when they trudged up thedrive together. 

Their road led them past the gate of the old churchyard, and as theyapproached it, dropping their feet faster and faster down the steepslope, Jack noticed two figures sitting on the road-side, with theirfeet in the ditch--a man and a girl. He was going past them, justobserving that the man had rather an unpleasant face, with a raggedmustache, and that the girl was sunburned, fair-haired and ratherpretty, when he became aware that Frank had slipped behind him. The nextinstant he saw that Frank was speaking to them, and his heart dropped tozero. 

"All right, " he heard Frank say, "I was expecting you. This evening, then. .. . I say, Jack!"

Jack turned. 

"Jack, this is Major and Mrs. Trustcott, I told you of. This is myfriend, Mr. --er--Mr. Jack. "

Jack bowed vaguely, overwhelmed with disgust. 

"Very happy to make your acquaintance, sir, " said the Major, straightening himself in a military manner. "My good lady and I wereresting here. Very pleasant neighborhood. "

"I'm glad you like it, " said Jack. 

"Then, this evening, " said Frank again. "Can you wait an hour or two?"

"Certainly, my boy, " said the Major. "Time's no consideration with us, as you know. "

(Jack perceived that this was being said at him, to show the familiaritythis man enjoyed with his friend. )

"Would nine o'clock be too late?"

"Nine o'clock it shall be, " said the Major. 

"And here?"

"Here. "

"So long, then, " said Frank. "Oh, by the way--" He moved a little closerto this appalling pair, and Jack stood off, to hear the sound of asentence or two, and then the chink of money. 

"So long, then, " said Frank again. "Come along, Jack; we must makehaste. "

"Good-evening, sir, " cried the Major, but Jack made no answer. 

 * * * * *

"Frank, you don't mean to tell me that those are the people?"

"That's the Major and Gertie--yes. "

"And what was all that about this evening?"

"I must go, Jack. I'm sorry; but I told you it couldn't be more than afew days at the outside. "

Jack was silent, but it was a hard struggle. 

"By the way, how shall we arrange?" went on the other. "I can't takethese clothes, you know; and I can't very well be seen leaving the housein my own. "

"Do as you like, " snapped Jack. 

"Look here, old man, don't be stuffy. How would it do if I took a bagand changed up in that churchyard? It's locked up after dark, isn't it?"

"Yes. "

"You've got a key, I suppose?"

"Yes. "

"Well, then, that's it. And I'll leave the bag and the key in the hedgesomewhere. "

Jack was silent. 

Jack held himself loyally in hand that evening, but he could not talkmuch. He consented to explain to his mother that Frank had to be offafter dinner that night, and he also visited the housekeeper's room, andcaused a small bundle, not much larger than a leg of mutton, includingtwo small bottles which jingled together, to be wrapped up in brownpaper--in which he inserted also a five-pound note (he knew Frank wouldnot take more)--and the whole placed in the bag in which Frank's oldclothes were already concealed. For the rest of the evening he sat, mostly silent, in one chair, trying not to watch Frank in another;pretending to read, but endeavoring to picture to his imagination whathe himself would feel like if he were about to join the Major and Gertiein the churchyard at nine o'clock. .. . Frank sat quite quiet all theevening, reading old volumes of _Punch_. 

They dined at half-past seven, by request--Frank still in his homespunsuit. Fanny and Jill were rather difficult. It seemed to them both amost romantic thing that this black-eyed, sunburned young man, with whomthey had played garden-golf the day before, should really be continuinghis amazing walking-tour, in company with two friends, at nine o'clockthat very night. They wondered innocently why the two friends had notbeen asked to join them at dinner. It was exciting, too, and unusual, that this young man should dine in an old homespun suit. They asked aquantity of questions. Where was Mr. Guiseley going first? Frank didn'tquite know; Where would he sleep that night? Frank didn't quite know; hewould have to see. When was the walking-tour going to end? Frank didn'tquite know. Did he really like it? Oh, well, Frank thought it was a goodthing to go on a walking tour, even if you were rather uncomfortablesometimes. 

The leave-taking was unemotional. Jack had announced suddenly andloudly in the smoking-room before dinner that he was going to see thelast of Frank, as far as the churchyard; Frank had protested, but hadyielded. The rest had all said good-by to him in the hall, and at aquarter to nine the two young men went out into the darkness. 

(VI)

It was a clear autumn night--a "wonderful night of stars"--and the skiesblazed softly overhead down to the great blotted masses of the highmoors that stood round Barham. It was perfectly still, too--the wind haddropped, and the only sound as the two walked down the park was the lowtalking of the stream over the stones beyond the belt of trees fiftyyards away from the road. 

Jack was sick at heart; but even so, he tells me, he was conscious thatFrank's silence was of a peculiar sort. He felt somehow as if his friendwere setting out to some great sacrifice in which he was to suffer, andwas only partly conscious of it--or, at least, so buoyed by some kind ofexaltation or fanaticism as not to realize what he was doing. (Hereminded me of a certain kind of dream that most people have now andthen, of accompanying some friend to death: the friend goes forward, silent and exultant, and we cannot explain nor hold him back. 

"That was the sort of feeling, " said Jack lamely. )

 * * * * *

Jack had the grim satisfaction of carrying the bag in which, so tospeak, the knife and fillet were hidden. He changed his mood half adozen times even in that quarter of an hour's walk through the town. Nowthe thing seemed horrible, like a nightmare; now absurdly preposterous;now rather beautiful; now perfectly ordinary and commonplace. After all, Jack argued with himself, there are such people as tramps, and theysurvive. Why should not Frank? He had gipsy blood in him, too. What inthe world was he--Jack--frightened of?

"Do you remember our talking about your grandmother?" he said suddenly, as they neared the lodge. 

"Yes. Why?"

"Only I've just thought of something else. Wasn't one of your peopleexecuted under Elizabeth?"

"By gad, yes; so he was. I'd quite forgotten. It was being on the wrongside for once. "

"How--the wrong side?"

There was amusement in Frank's voice as he answered. 

"It was for religion, " he said. "He was a Papist. All the rest of themconformed promptly. They were a most accommodating lot. They changedeach time without making any difficulty. I remember my governor tellingus about it once. He thought them very sensible. And so they were, byGeorge! from one point of view. "

"Has your religion anything to do with all this?"

"Oh, I suppose so, " said Frank, with an indifferent air. 

 * * * * *

There were a good many doors open in the High Street as they went up it, and Jack saluted half a dozen people mechanically as they touched theirhats to him as he passed in the light from the houses. 

"What does it feel like being squire?" asked Frank. 

"Oh, I don't know, " said Jack. 

"Rather good fun, I should think, " said Frank. 

 * * * * *

They were nearing the steep part of the ascent presently, and the churchclock struck nine. 

"Bit late, " said Frank. 

"When will you come again?" asked the other suddenly. "I'm here anotherfortnight, you know, and then at Christmas again. Come for Christmas ifyou can. "

"Ah! I don't know where I shall be. Give my love to Cambridge, though. "

"Frank!"

"Yes?"

"Mayn't I say what I think?"

"No!"

 * * * * *

Ah! there was the roof of the old church standing out against the stars, and there could be no more talking. They might come upon the other twoat any moment now. They went five steps further, and there, in theshadow of the gate, burned a dull red spot of fire, that kindled up asthey looked, and showed for an instant the heavy eyes of the Major witha pipe in his mouth. 

 * * * * *

"Good-evening, sir, " came the military voice, and the girl rose to herfeet beside him. "You're just in time. "

"Good-evening, " said Jack dully. 

"We've had a pleasant evening of it up here, Mr. Kirkby, after we'dstepped down and had a bit of supper at the 'Crown. '"

"I suppose you heard my name there, " said Jack. 

"Quite right, sir. "

"Give us the key, " said Frank abruptly. 

He unlocked the door and pushed it back over the grass-grown gravel. 

"Wait for me here, will you?" he said to Jack. 

"I'm coming in. I'll show you where to change. "

 * * * * *

Twenty yards of an irregular twisted path, over which they stumbled twoor three times, led them down to the little ruined doorway at the westend of the old church. Jack's father had restored the place admirably, so far as restoration was possible, and there stood now, strong as ever, the old tower, roofed and floored throughout, abutting on the fourroofless walls, within which ran the double row of column bases. 

Jack struck a light, kindled a bicycle lamp he had brought with him, andled the way. 

"Come in here, " he said. 

Frank followed him into the room at the base of the tower and lookedround. 

"This looks all right, " he said. "It was a Catholic church once, Isuppose?

"Yes; the parson says this was the old sacristy. They've found thingshere, I think--cupboards in the wall, and so on. "

"This'll do excellently, " said Frank. "I shan't be five minutes. "

Jack went out again without a word. He felt it was a little too much toexpect him to see the change actually being made, and the garments ofsacrifice put on. (It struck him with an unpleasant shock, consideringthe form of his previous metaphor, that he should have taken Frank intothe old sacristy. )

He sat down on the low wall, built to hold the churchyard from slippingaltogether down the hill-side, and looked out over the little townbelow. 

The sky was more noticeable here; one was more conscious of the enormoussilent vault, crowded with the steady stars, cool and aloof; and, beneath, of the feverish little town with sparks of red light dottedhere and there, where men wrangled and planned and bargained, andcarried on the little affairs of their little life with such astonishingzest. Jack was far from philosophical as a rule, but it is a fact thatmeditations of this nature did engross him for a minute or two while hesat and waited for Frank, and heard the low voices talking in the laneoutside. It even occurred to him for an instant that it was justpossible that what Frank had said in the smoking-room before dinner wastrue, and that Something really did have him in hand, and really, didintend a definite plan and result to emerge from this deplorable andquixotic nonsense. (I suppose the contrast of stars and human lights mayhave helped to suggest this sort of thing to him. )

Then he gave himself up again to dismal considerations of a moreparticular kind. 

 * * * * *

He heard Frank come out, and turned to see him in the dim light, bag inhand, dressed again as he had been three days ago. On his head once morewas the indescribable cap; on his body the indescribable clothes. Hewore on his feet the boots in which he had tramped the moors that day. (How far away seemed that afternoon now, and the cheerful lunch in thesunshine on the hill-top!)

"Here I am, Jack. "

Then every promise went to the winds. Jack stood up and took a steptowards him. 

"Frank, I do implore you to give up this folly. I asked you not to do itat Cambridge, and I ask you again now. I don't care a damn what Ipromised. It's simple madness, and--"

Frank had wheeled without a word, and was half-way to the gate. Jackstumbled after him, calling under his breath; but the other had alreadypassed through the gate and joined the Major and Gertie before Jackcould reach him. 

"And so you think up here is the right direction?" Frank was saying. 

"I got some tips at the 'Crown, '" said the Major. "There are some farmsup there, where--"

"Frank, may I speak to you a minute?"

"No. .. . All right, Major; I'm ready at once if you are. "

He turned towards Jack. 

"By the way, " he said, "what's in this parcel?"

"Something to eat and drink, " murmured Jack. 

"Oh . .. I shan't want that, thanks very much. Here's the bag with theclothes in it. I'm awfully grateful, old man, for all your kindness. Awfully sorry to have bothered you. "

"By the way, Frankie, " put in the hateful voice at his side, "I'll takecharge of that parcel, if you don't want it. "

"Catch hold, then, " said Frank. "You're welcome to it, if you'll carryit. You all right, Gertie?"

The girl murmured something inaudible. As at their first meeting, shehad said nothing at all. The Major lifted a bundle out of the depths ofthe hedge, slung it on his stick, and stood waiting, his face againilluminated with the glow of his pipe. He had handed the new parcel toGertie without a word. 

"Well, good-by again, old man, " said Frank, holding out his hand. He, too, Jack saw, had his small bundle wrapped up in the red handkerchief, as on the bridge when they had first met. Jack took his hand and shookit. He could say nothing. 

Then the three turned and set their faces up the slope. He could seethem, all silent together, pass up, more and more dim in the darkness ofthe hedge, the two men walking together, the girl a yard behind them. Then they turned the corner and were gone. But Jack still stood whereFrank had left him, listening, until long after the sound of theirfootfalls had died away. 

(VII)

Jack had a horrid dream that night. 

He was wandering, he thought, gun in hand after grouse, alone on thehigh moors. It was one of those heavy days, so common in dreams, whenthe light is so dim that very little can be seen. He was aware ofcountless hill-tops round him, and valleys that ran down into profounddarkness, where only the lights of far-off houses could be discerned. His sport was of that kind peculiar to sleep-imaginings. Enormous birds, larger than ostriches, rose occasionally by ones or twos with incredibleswiftness, and soared like balloons against the heavy, glimmering sky. He fired at these and feathers sprang from them, but not a bird fell. Once he inflicted an indescribable wound . .. And the bird sped acrossthe sky, blotting out half of it, screaming. Then as the screaming diedhe became aware that there was a human note in it, and that Frank wascrying to him, somewhere across the confines of the wold, and the horrorthat had been deepening with each shot he fired rose to an intolerableclimax. Then began one of the regular nightmare chases: he set off torun; the screaming grew fainter each instant; he could not see his wayin the gloom; he clambered over bowlders; he sank in bogs, and draggedhis feet from them with infinite pains; his gun became an unbearableburden, yet he dared not throw it from him; he knew that he should needit presently. .. . The screaming had ceased now, yet he dared not stoprunning; Frank was in some urgent peril, and he knew it was not yet toolate, if he could but find him soon. He ran and ran; the ground wasknee-deep now in the feathers that had fallen from the wounded birds; itwas darker than ever, yet he toiled on hopelessly, following, as hethought, the direction from which the cries had come. Then as at last hetopped the rise of a hill, the screaming broke out again, shrill andfrightful, close at hand, and the next instant he saw beneath him in thevalley a hundred yards away that for which he had run so far. Running upthe slope below, at right angles to his own path came Frank, in thedress-clothes he had borrowed, with pumps upon his feet; his hands wereoutstretched, his face white as ashes, and he screamed as he ran. Behind him ran a pack of persons whose faces he could not see; they ranlike hounds, murmuring as they came in a terrible whining voice. ThenJack understood that he could save Frank; he brought his gun to theshoulder, aimed it at the brown of the pack and drew the trigger. A snapfollowed, and he discovered that he was unloaded; he groped in hiscartridge-belt and found it empty. .. . He tore at his pockets, and foundat last one cartridge; and as he dashed it into the open breach, his gunbroke in half. Simultaneously the quarry vanished over an edge of hill, and the pack followed, the leaders now not ten yards behind the flyingfigure in front. 

Jack stood there, helpless and maddened. Then he flung the broken piecesof his gun at the disappearing runners; sank down in the gloom, andbroke out into that heart-shattering nightmare sobbing which shows thatthe limit has been reached. 

He awoke, still sobbing--certain that Frank was in deadly peril, if notalready dead, and it was a few minutes before he dared to go to sleeponce more. 

CHAPTER II

(I)

The Rectory garden at Merefield was, obviously, this summer, the properplace to spend most of the day. Certainly the house was cool--it was oneof those long, low, creeper-covered places that somehow suggest WilliamIV. And crinolines (if it is a fact that those two institutionsflourished together, as I think), with large, darkish rooms and wide, low staircases and tranquil-looking windows through which roses peep;but the shadow of the limes and the yews was cooler still. A table stoodalmost permanently through those long, hot summer days in the placewhere Dick had sat with Jenny, and here the Rector and his daughterbreakfasted, lunched and dined, day after day, for a reallyextraordinarily long period. 

Jenny herself lived in the garden even more than her father; she gotthrough the household business as quickly as possible after breakfast, and came out to do any small businesses that she could during the restof the morning. She wrote a few letters, read a few books, sewed alittle, and, on the whole, presented a very domestic and amiablepicture. She visited poor people for an hour or so two or three days aweek, and occasionally, when Lord Talgarth was well enough, rode outwith him and her father after tea, through the woods, and sometimes withLord Talgarth alone. 

She suffered practically no pangs of conscience at all on the subject ofFrank. Her letter had been perfectly sincere, and she believed herselfto have been exceedingly sensible. (It is, perhaps, one may observe, oneof the most dangerous things in the world to think oneself sensible; itis even more dangerous than to be told so. ) For the worst of it all wasthat she was quite right. It was quite plain that she and Frank were notsuited to one another; that she had looked upon that particular qualityin him which burst out in the bread-and-butter incident, the leaving ofCambridge, the going to prison, and so forth, as accidental to hischaracter, whereas it was essential. It was also quite certain that itwas the apotheosis of common-sense for her to recognize that, to say so, and to break off the engagement. 

Of course, she had moments of what I should call "grace, " and she wouldcall insanity, when she wondered for a little while whether to besensible was the highest thing in life; but her general attitude tothese was as it would be towards temptation of any other kind. To besensible, she would say, was to be successful and effective; to beotherwise was to fail and to be ineffective. 

Very well, then. 

 * * * * *

At the beginning of September Dick Guiseley came to Merefield to shootgrouse. The grouse, as I think I have already remarked, were backwardthis year, and, after a kind of ceremonial opening, to give warning asit were, on the twelfth of August, they were left in peace. Business wasto begin on the third, and on the evening of the second Dick arrived. 

He opened upon the subject that chiefly occupied his thoughts just nowwith Archie that night when Lord Talgarth had gone to bed. They weresitting in the smoking-room, with the outer door well open to admit thewarm evening air. They had discussed the prospects of grouse next daywith all proper solemnity, and Archie had enumerated the people who wereto form their party. The Rector was coming to shoot, and Jenny was toride out and join them at lunch. 

Then Archie yawned largely, finished his drink, and took up his candle. 

"Oh! she's coming, is she?" said Dick meditatively. 

Archie struck a match. 

"How's Frank?" went on Dick. 

"Haven't heard from him. "

"Where is the poor devil?"

"Haven't an idea. "

Dick emitted a monosyllabic laugh. 

"And how's she behaving?"

"Jenny? Oh! just as usual. She's a sensible girl and knows her mind. "

Dick pondered this an instant. 

"I'm going to bed, " said Archie. "Got to have a straight eye to-morrow. "

"Oh! sit down a second. .. . I want to talk. "

Archie, as a compromise, propped himself against the back of a chair. 

"She doesn't regret it, then?" pursued Dick. 

"Not she, " said Archie. "It would never have done. "

"I know, " agreed Dick warmly. (It was a real pleasure to him that headand heart went together in this matter. ) "But sometimes, you know, womenregret that sort of thing. Wish they hadn't been quite so sensible, youknow. "

"Jenny doesn't, " said Archie. 

Dick took up his glass which he had filled with his thirdwhisky-and-soda, hardly five minutes before, and drank half of it. Hesucked his mustache, and in that instant confidentialism rose in hisheart. 

"Well, I'm going to have a shot myself, " he said. 

"What?"

"I'm going to have a shot. She can but say 'No. '"

Archie's extreme repose of manner vanished for a second. His jaw droppeda little. 

"But, good Lord! I hadn't the faintest--"

"I know you hadn't. But I've had it for a long time. .. . What d'youthink, Archie?"

"My good chap--"

"Yes, I know; leave all that out. We'll take that as read. What comesnext?"

Archie looked at him a moment. 

"How d'you mean? Do you mean, do I approve?"

"Well, I didn't mean that, " admitted Dick. "I meant, how'd I better setabout it?"

Archie's face froze ever so slightly. (It will be remembered that JackKirkby considered him pompous. )

"You must do it your own way, " he said. 

"Sorry, old man, " said Dick. "Didn't mean to be rude. "

Archie straightened himself from the chair-back. 

"It's all rather surprising, " he said. "It never entered my head. Imust think about it. Good-night. Put the lights out when you come. "

"Archie, old man, are you annoyed?"

"No, no; that's all right, " said Archie. 

And really and truly that was all that passed between these two thatnight on the subject of Jenny--so reposeful were they. 

(II)

There was a glorious breeze blowing over the hills as Jenny rode slowlyup about noon next day. The country is a curious mixture--miles of moor, as desolate and simple and beautiful as moors can be, and by glimpses, now and then in the valleys between, of entirely civilized villages, with even a town or two here and there, prick-up spires and roofs; and, even more ominous, in this direction and that, lie patches of smokeabout the great chimneys. 

Jenny was meditative as she rode up alone. It is very difficult to beotherwise when one has passed through one considerable crisis, andforesees a number of others that must be met, especially if one has notmade up one's mind as to the proper line of action. It is all very wellto be sensible, but a difficulty occasionally arises as to which of twoor three courses is the more in accordance with that character. To beimpulsive certainly leads to trouble sometimes, but also, sometimes itsaves it. 

Jenny looked charming in repose. She was in a delightful green habit;she wore a plumy kind of hat; she rode an almost perfect little marebelonging to Lord Talgarth, and her big blue, steady eyes roved slowlyround her as she went, seeing nothing. It was, in fact, the almostperfect little mare who first gave warning of the approach to thesportsmen, by starting violently all over at the sound of a shot, firedabout half a mile away. Jenny steadied her, pulled her up, and watchedbetween the cocked and twitching ears. 

Below her, converging slowly upwards, away from herself, moved a line ofdots, each precisely like its neighbor in color (Lord Talgarth was veryparticular, indeed, about the uniform of his beaters), and by each moveda red spot, which Jenny understood to be a flag. The point towards whichthey were directed culminated in a low, rounded hill, and beneath thecrown of this, in a half circle, were visible a series of low defenses, like fortifications, to command the face of the slope and the dips oneither side. This was always the last beat--in this moor--before lunch;and lunch itself, she knew, would be waiting on the other side of thehill. Occasionally as she watched, she saw a slight movement behindthis or that butt--no more--and the only evidence of human beings, beside the beaters, lay in the faint wreath of all but invisible smokethat followed the reports, coming now quicker and quicker, as the grousetook alarm. Once with a noise like a badly ignited rocket, there burstover the curve before her a flying brown thing, that, screaming withterrified exultation, whirred within twenty yards of her head andvanished into silence. (One cocked ear of the mare bent back to see ifthe rocket were returning or not. )

Jenny's meditations became more philosophical than ever as she looked. She found herself wondering how much free choice the grouse--if theywere capable themselves of philosophizing--would imagine themselves topossess in the face of this noisy but insidious death. She remindedherself that every shred of instinct and experience that each furiouslittle head contained bade the owner of it to fly as fast and straightas possible, in squawking company with as many friends as possible, awayfrom those horrible personages in green and silver with the agitatingred flags, and up that quiet slope which, at the worst, only emittedsudden noises. A reflective grouse would perhaps (and two out of threedid) consider that he could fly faster and be sooner hidden from thegreen men with red flags, if he slid crosswise down the valleys oneither side. But--Jenny observed--that was already calculated by thesehuman enemies, and butts (like angels' swords) commanded even theseapproaches too. 

It was obvious, then, that however great might be the illusion of freechoice, in reality there was none: they were betrayed hopelessly by thevery instincts intended to safeguard them; practical common-sense, inthis case, at least, led them straight into the jaws of death. A littleoriginality and impulsiveness would render them immortal so far as gunswere concerned. .. . 

Yes; but there was one who had been original, who had actually preferredto fly straight past a monster in green on a gray mare rather than toface the peaceful but deathly slopes; and he had escaped. But obviouslyhe was an exception. Originality in grouse--

At this point the mare breathed slowly and contemptuously and advanced adelicate, impatient foot, having quite satisfied herself that danger wasno longer imminent; and Jenny became aware she was thinking nonsense. 

 * * * * *

There were a number of unimportant but well-dressed persons at lunch, with most of whom Jenny was acquainted. These extended themselves on theground and said the right things one after another; and all began withlong drinks, and all ended with heavy meals. There were two other womenwhom she knew slightly, who had driven up half an hour before. Everything was quite perfect--down even to hot grilled grouse thatemerged from emblazoned silver boxes, and hot black coffee poured from"Thermos" flasks. Jenny asked intelligent questions and made herselfagreeable. 

At the close of lunch she found herself somehow sitting on a small rockbeside Dick. Lord Talgarth was twenty yards away, his gaitered legs verywide apart, surveying the country and talking to the keeper. Her fatherwas looking down the barrels of his rather ineffective gun, and Archie, with three or four other men and two women, a wife and a sister, wassmoking with his back against a rock. 

"Shall you be in to-morrow?" asked Dick casually. 

Jenny paused an instant. 

"I should think so!" she said. "I've got one or two things to do. "

"Perhaps I may look in? I want to talk to you about something if I may. "

"Shan't you be shooting again?"

"No; I'm not very fit and shall take a rest. "

Jenny was silent. 

"About what time?" pursued Dick. 

Jenny roused herself with a little start. She had been staring out overthe hills and wondering if that was the church above Barham that shecould almost see against the horizon. 

"Oh! any time up to lunch, " she said vaguely. 

Dick stood up slowly with a satisfied air and stretched himself. Helooked very complete and trim, thought Jenny, from his flat cap to hisbeautifully-spatted shooting-boots. (It was twelve hundred a year, atleast, wasn't it?)

"Well, I suppose we shall be moving directly, " he said. 

 * * * * *

A beater came up bringing the mare just before the start was made. 

"All right, you can leave her, " said Jenny. "I won't mount yet. Justhitch the bridle on to something. "

It was a pleasant and picturesque sight to see the beaters, like a fileof medieval huntsmen, dwindle down the hill in their green and silver inone direction, and, five minutes later, the sportsmen in another. Itlooked like some mysterious military maneuver on a small scale; andagain Jenny considered the illusion of free choice enjoyed by thegrouse, who, perhaps, two miles away, crouched in hollows among theheather. And yet, practically speaking, there was hardly any choice atall. .. . 

Lady Richard, the wife of one of the men, interrupted her in a drawl. 

"Looks jolly, doesn't it?" she said. 

Jenny assented cordially. 

(She hated this woman, somehow, without knowing why. She said to herselfit was the drawl and the insolent cold eyes and the astonishingcomplacency; and she only half acknowledged that it was the beautifullines of the dress and the figure and the assured social position. )

"We're driving, " went on the tall girl. "You rode, didn't you?

"Yes. "

"Lord Talgarth's mare, isn't it? I thought I recognized her. "

"Yes. I haven't got a horse of my own, you know, " said Jennydeliberately. 

"Oh!"

Jenny suddenly felt her hatred rise almost to passion. 

"I must be going, " she said. "I've got to visit an old woman who'sdying. A rector's daughter, you know--"

"Ah! yes. "

Then Jenny mounted from a rock (Lady Richard held the mare's head andsettled the habit), and rode slowly away downhill. 

(III)

Dick approached the Rectory next day a little before twelve o'clock withas much excitement in his heart as he ever permitted to himself. 

Dick is a good fellow--I haven't a word to say against him, exceptperhaps that he used to think that to be a Guiseley, and to havealtogether sixteen hundred a year and to live in a flat in St. James's, and to possess a pointed brown beard and melancholy brown eyes and areposeful manner, relieved him from all further effort. I have wrongedhim, however; he had made immense efforts to be proficient at billiards, and had really succeeded; and, since his ultimate change of fortune, hasembraced even further responsibilities in a conscientious manner. 

Of course, he had been in love before in a sort of way; but this wastruly different. He wished to marry Jenny very much indeed. .. . That shewas remarkably sensible, really beautiful and eminently presentable, ofcourse, paved the way; but, if I understand the matter rightly, thesewere not the only elements in the case. It was the genuine thing. He didnot quite know how he would face the future if she refused him; and hewas sufficiently humble to be in doubt. 

The neat maid told him at the door that Miss Launton had givendirections that he was to be shown into the garden if he came. .. . No;Miss Launton was in the morning-room, but she should be told at once. SoDick strolled across the lawn and sat down by the garden table. 

He looked at the solemn, dreaming house in the late summer sunshine; heobserved a robin issue out from a lime tree and inspect him sideways;and then another robin issue from another lime tree and drive the firstone away. Then he noticed a smear of dust on his own left boot, andflicked it off with a handkerchief. Then, as he put his handkerchiefaway again, he saw Jenny coming out from the drawing-room window. 

She looked really extraordinarily beautiful as she came slowly acrosstowards him and he stood to meet her. She was bare-headed, but her facewas shadowed by the great coils of hair. She was in a perfectly plainpink dress, perfectly cut, and she carried herself superbly. She lookedjust a trifle paler than yesterday, he thought, and there was a veryreserved, steady kind of question in her eyes. (I am sorry to be obligedto go on saying this sort of thing about Jenny every time she comes uponthe scene; but it is the sort of thing that everyone is obliged to go onthinking whenever she makes her appearance. )

"I've got a good deal to say, " said Dick, after they had sat a momentor two. "May I say it right out to the end?"

"Why, certainly, " said Jenny. 

Dick leaned back and crossed one knee over the other. His manner wasexactly right--at any rate, it was exactly what he wished it to be, andall through his little speech he preserved it. It was quite restrained, extremely civilized, and not at all artificial. It was his method ofpresenting a fact--the fact that he really was in love with thisgirl--and was in his best manner. There was a lightness of touch aboutthis method of his, but it was only on the surface. 

"I daresay it's rather bad form my coming and saying all this so soon, but I can't help that. I know you must have gone through an awful lot inthe last month or two--perhaps even longer--but I don't know about that. And I want to begin by apologizing if I am doing what I shouldn't. Thefact is that--well, that I daren't risk waiting. "

He did not look at Jenny (he was observing the robin that had gone andcome again since Jenny had appeared), but he was aware that at his firstsentence she had suddenly settled down into complete motionlessness. Hewondered whether that was a good omen or not. 

"Well, now, " he said, "let me give a little account of myself first. I'mjust thirty-one; I've got four hundred a year of my own, and LordTalgarth allows me twelve hundred a year more. Then I've got otherexpectations, as they say. My uncle gives me to understand that myallowance is secured to me in his will; and I'm the heir of my aunt, Lady Simon, whom you've probably met. I just mention that to show I'mnot a pauper--"

"Mr. Guiseley--" began Jenny. 

"Please wait. I've not done yet. Do you mind? . .. I'm a decent livingman. I'm not spotless, but I'll answer any questions you like to put--toyour father. I've not got any profession, though I'm supposed to be asolicitor; but I'm perfectly willing to work if . .. If it's wished, orto stand for Parliament, or anything like that--there hasn't, so far, seemed any real, particular reason why I should work. That's all. And Ithink you know the sort of person I am, all round. 

"And now we come to the point. " (Dick hesitated a fraction of a second. He was genuinely moved. ) "The point is that I'm in love with you, and Ihave been for some time past. I . .. I can't put it more plainly . .. (Onemoment, please, I've nearly done. ) . .. I can't think of anything else;and I haven't been able to for the last two or three months. I . .. I . .. I'm fearfully sorry for poor old Frank; I'm very fond of him, you know, but I couldn't help finding it an extraordinary relief when I heard thenews. And now I've come to ask you, perfectly straight, whether you'llconsent to be my wife. "

Dick looked at her for the first time since he had begun his littlespeech. 

She still sat absolutely quiet (she had not even moved at the two wordsshe had uttered), but she had gone paler still. Her mouth was in repose, without quiver or movement, and her beautiful eyes looked steadily on tothe lawn before her. She said nothing. 

"If you can't give me an answer quite at once, " began Dick againpresently, "I'm perfectly willing to--"

She turned and looked him courageously in the face. 

"I can't say 'Yes, '" she said. "That would be absurd. .. . You have beenquite straightforward with me, and I must be straightforward with you. That is what you wish, isn't it?"

Dick inclined his head. His heart was thumping furiously withexultation--in spite of her words. 

"Then what I say is this: You must wait a long time. If you had insistedon an answer now, I should have said 'No. ' I hate to keep you waiting, particularly when I do really think it will be 'No' in the long run; butas I'm not quite sure, and as you've been perfectly honest andcourteous, if you really wish it I won't say 'No' at once. Will thatdo?"

"Whatever you say, " said Dick. 

"You mustn't forget I was engaged to Frank till quite lately. Don't yousee how that obscures one's judgment? I simply can't judge now, and Iknow I can't. .. . You're willing to wait, then?--even though I tell younow that I think it will be 'No'?"

"Whatever you say, " said Dick again; "and may I say thank you for notsaying 'No' at once?"

A very slight look of pain came into the girl's eyes. 

"I would sooner you didn't, " she said. "I'm sorry you said that. .. . "

"I'm sorry, " said poor Dick. 

There was a pause. 

"One other thing, " said Jenny. "Would you mind not saying anything to myfather? I don't want him to be upset any more. Have you told anybodyelse you were--?"

"Yes, " said Dick bravely, "I told Archie. "

"I'm sorry you did that. Will you then just tell him exactly what Isaid--exactly, you know. That I thought it would be 'No'; but that Ionly didn't say so at once because you wished it. "

"Very well, " said Dick. 

It was a minute or so before either spoke again. Jenny had thatdelightful and soothing gift which prevents silence from being empty. Itis the same gift, in another form, as that which enables its possessorto put people at their ease. (It is, I suppose, one of the elements oftact. ) Dick had a sense that they were still talking gently andreasonably, though he could not quite understand all that Jenny wasmeaning. 

She interrupted it by a sudden sentence. 

"I wonder if it's fair, " she said. "You know I'm all but certain. I onlydon't say so because--"

"Let it be at that, " said Dick. "It's my risk, isn't it?"

(III)

When he had left her at last, she sat on perfectly still in the sameplace. The robin had given it up in despair: this human creature was notgoing to scratch garden-paths as she sometimes did, and disclose richworms and small fat maggots. But a cat had come out instead and was nowpacing with stiff forelegs, lowered head and trailing tail, across thesunny grass, endeavoring to give an impression that he was bent on somecompletely remote business of his own. 

He paused at the edge of the shadow and eyed the girl malignantly. 

"Wow!" said the cat. 

There was no response. 

"Wow!" said the cat. 

Jenny roused herself. 

"Wow!" said Jenny meditatively. 

"Wow!" said the cat, walking on. 

"Wow!" said Jenny. 

Again there was a long silence. 

"Wow!" said Jenny indignantly. 

The cat turned a slow head sideways as he began to cross the path, butsaid nothing. He waited for another entreaty, but Jenny paid no moreattention. As he entered the yews he turned once more. 

"Wow!" said the cat, almost below his breath. 

But Jenny made no answer. The cat cast one venomous look anddisappeared. 

 * * * * *

Then there came out a dog--a small brown and black animal, very sturdyon his legs, and earnest and independent in air and manner. He was theillegitimate offspring of a fox-terrier. He trotted briskly across fromthe direction of the orchard, diagonally past Jenny. As he crossed thetrail of the cat he paused, smelt, and followed it up for a yard or two, till he identified for certain that it proceeded from an acquaintance;then he turned to resume his journey. The movement attracted the girl'sattention. 

"Lama!" called Jenny imperiously. "Come here this instant!"

Lama put his head on one side, nodded and smiled at her indulgently, andtrotted on. 

 * * * * *

"Oh, dear me!" said Jenny, sighing out loud. 

CHAPTER III

(I)

There lived (and still lives, I believe) in the small Yorkshire villageof Tarfield a retired doctor, entirely alone except for his servants, ina large house. It is a very delightful house, only--when I stayed therenot long ago--it seemed to me that the doctor did not know how to useit. It stands in its own grounds of two or three acres, on theright-hand side of the road to a traveler going north, separated by arow of pollarded limes from the village street, and approached--or, rather, supposed to be approached--by a Charles II. Gate of iron-scrollwork. I say "supposed to be approached" because the gate is invariablykept locked, and access can only be gained to the house through the sidegate from the stable-yard. The grounds were abominably neglected when Isaw them; grass was growing on every path, and as fine a crop of weedssurged up amongst the old autumn flowers as ever I have seen. The house, too, was a sad sight. There here two big rooms, one on either side ofthe little entrance-hall--one a dining-room, the other a sort ofdrawing-room--and both were dreary and neglected-looking places. In theone the doctor occasionally ate, in the other he never sat except when arare visitor came to see him, and the little room supposed to be a studyat the foot of the stairs in the inner hall that led through the kitchenwas hardly any better. I was there, I say, last autumn, and thecondition of the place must have been very much the same as that inwhich it was when Frank came to Tarfield in October. 

For the fact was that the doctor--who was possessed of decent privatemeans--devoted the whole of his fortune, the whole of his attention, andthe whole of his life--such as it was--to the study of toxins upstairs. 

Toxins, I understand, have something to do with germs. Their studyinvolves, at any rate at present, a large stock of small animals, suchas mice and frogs and snakes and guinea-pigs and rabbits, who are givenvarious diseases and then studied with loving attention. I saw thedoctor's menagerie when I went to see him about Frank; they were chieflyhoused in a large room over the kitchen, communicating with the doctor'sown room by a little old powder-closet with two doors, and the smell wasindescribable. Ranks of cages and boxes rose almost to the ceiling, andin the middle of the room was a large business-like looking woodenkitchen-table with various appliances on it. I saw the doctor's roomalso--terribly shabby, but undoubtedly a place of activity. There werepiles of books and unbound magazines standing about in corners, withmore on the table, as well as a heap of note-books. An array of glasstubes and vary-colored bottles stood below the window, with amicroscope, and small wooden boxes on one side. And there was, besides, something which I think he called an "incubator"--a metal affair, standing on four slender legs; a number of glass tubes emerged fromthis, each carefully stoppered with cotton wool, and a thermometerthrust itself up in one corner. 

A really high degree of proficiency in any particular subject invariablyleads to atrophy in other directions. A man who eats and breathes anddreams Toxins, for instance, who lives so much in Toxins that hecorresponds almost daily with learned and unintelligible Germans; whoknows so much about Toxins that when he enters, with shabby trousers anda small hand-bag, into the room of a polished specialist in HarleyStreet, he sees as in a dream the specialist rise and bow beforehim--who, when he can be persuaded to contribute a short and highlytechnical article to a medical magazine, receives a check fortwenty-five guineas by return of post--a man of this kind is peculiarlyopen to the danger of thinking that anything which cannot be expressedin terms of Toxin is negligible nonsense. It is the characteristicdanger of every specialist in every branch of knowledge; eventheologians are not wholly immune. 

It was so in the case of Dr. Whitty (I forget all the initials thatshould follow his name). He had never been married, he never took anyexercise; occasionally, when a frog's temperature approached a crisis, he slept in his clothes, and forgot to change them in the morning. Andhe was the despair of the zealous vicar. He was perfectly convincedthat, since the force that underlay the production of Toxins couldaccomplish so much, it could surely accomplish everything. He couldreduce his roses, his own complexion, the grass on his garden-paths, thecondition of his snakes', and frogs' skins, and the texture of hiskitchen-table--if you gave him time--to terms of Toxin; therefore, argued Dr. Whitty, you could, if you had more time, reduce everythingelse to the same terms. There wasn't such a thing as a soul, ofcourse--it was a manifestation of a combination of Toxins (oranti-Toxins, I forget which); there was no God--the idea of God was theresult of another combination of Toxins, akin to a belief in the formerillusion. Roughly speaking, I think his general position was that asToxins are a secretion of microbes (I am certain of that phrase, anyhow), so thought and spiritual experiences and so forth are asecretion of the brain. I know it sounded all very brilliant andunanswerable and analogous to other things. He hardly ever took thetrouble to say all this; he was far too much interested in what healready knew, or was just on the point of finding out, to treat of theseextravagant and complicated ramifications of his subject. When he reallygot to know his mice and bats, as they deserved to be known, it might bepossible to turn his attention to other things. Meanwhile, it wasfoolish and uneconomical. So here he lived, with a man-of-all-work andhis man's wife, and daily went from strength to strength in theknowledge of Toxins. 

 * * * * *

It was to this household that there approached, in the month of October, a small and dismal procession of three. 

The doctor was first roused to a sense of what was happening as heshuffled swiftly through his little powder-closet one morning soon afterbreakfast, bearing in his hand the corpse of a mouse which had at last, and most disappointingly, succumbed to a severe attack of some hybrid ofleprosy. As he flew through to his microscope he became aware of analtercation in the stable-yard beneath. 

"I tell you he ain't a proper doctor, " he heard his man explaining; "heknows nothing about them things. "

"My good fellow, " began a high, superior voice out of sight; but Dr. Whitty swept on, and was presently deep in indescribable disgustingnessof the highest possible value to the human race, especially in the SouthSeas. Time meant nothing at all to him, when this kind of work was inhand; and it was after what might be an hour or two hours, or tenminutes, that he heard a tap on his door. 

He uttered a sound without moving his eye, and the door opened. 

"Very sorry, sir, " said his man, "but there's a party in the yard aswon't--"

The doctor held up his hand for silence, gazed a few moments longer, poked some dreadful little object two or three times, sighed and satback. 

"Eh?"

"There's a party in the yard, sir, wants a doctor. "

(This sort of thing had happened before. )

"Tell them to be off, " he said sharply. He was not an unkindly man, butthis sort of thing was impossible. "Tell them to go to Dr. Foster. "

"I 'ave, sir, " said the man. 

"Tell them again, " said the doctor. 

"I 'ave, sir. 'Arf a dozen times. "

The doctor sighed--he was paying practically no attention at all, ofcourse. The leprous mouse had been discouraging; that was all. 

"If you'd step down, sir, an instant--"

The doctor returned from soaring through a Toxined universe. 

"Nonsense, " he said sharply. "Tell them I'm not practicing. What do theywant?"

"Please, sir, it's a young man as 'as poisoned 'is foot, 'e says. 'Elooks very bad, and--"

"Eh? Poison?"

"Yes, sir. "

The doctor appeared to reflect a moment (that mouse, you know--); thenhe recovered. 

"I'll be down directly, " he said almost mechanically. "Take 'em all intothe study. "

(II)

Dr. Whitty could hardly explain to me, even when he tried, exactly whyhe had made an exception in this particular instance. Of course, Iunderstand perfectly myself why he did; but, for himself, all he couldsay was that he supposed the word Poison happened to meet his mood. Hehad honestly done with the mouse just now; he had no other very criticalcase, and he thought he might as well look at the poisoned young manfor an instant, before finally despatching him to Dr. Foster, six milesfurther on. 

When he came into the study ten minutes later he found the party rangedto meet him. A girl was sitting on a box in the corner by the window, and stood up to receive him; a young man was sitting back in a Windsorchair, with one boot off, jerking spasmodically; his eyes staredunmeaningly before him. A tallish, lean man of a particularlyunprepossessing appearance was leaning over him with an air of immensesolicitude. They were all three evidently of the tramp-class. 

What they saw--with the exception of Frank, I expect, who was too fargone to notice anything--was a benignant-looking old man, very shabby, in an alpaca jacket, with a rusty velvet cap on his head, and verybright short-sighted eyes behind round spectacles. This figure appearedin the doorway, stood looking at them a moment, as if bewildered as towhy he or they were there at all; and then, with a hasty shufflingmovement, darted across the floor and down on his knees. 

The following colloquy was held as soon as the last roll of defiledbandage had dropped to the floor, and Frank's foot was disclosed. 

"How long's this been going on?" asked the doctor sharply, holding thediscolored thing carefully in his two hands. 

"Well, sir, " said the Major reflectively, "he began to limp about--let'ssee--four days ago. We were coming through--"

The doctor, watching Frank's face curiously (the spasm was over for thepresent), cut the Major short by a question to the patient. 

"Now, my boy, how d'you feel now?"

Frank's lips moved; he seemed to be trying to lick them; but he saidnothing, and his eyes closed, and he grinned once or twice, as ifsardonically. 

"When did these spasms begin?" went on the doctor, abruptly turning tothe Major again. 

"Well, sir--if you mean that jerking--Frankie began to jerk about halfan hour ago when we were sitting down a bit; but he's seemed queer sincebreakfast. And he didn't seem to be able to eat properly. "

"How do you mean? D'you mean he couldn't open his mouth?"

"Well, sir, it was something like that. "

The doctor began to make comments in a rapid undertone, as if talking tohimself; he pressed his hand once or twice against Frank's stomach; hetook up the filthy bandage and examined it. Then he looked at the boot. 

"Where's the sock?" he asked sharply. 

Gertie produced it from a bundle. He looked at it closely, and began tomumble again. Then he rose to his feet. 

"What's the matter with him, doctor?" asked the Major, trying to lookperturbed. 

"We call it tetanus, " said the doctor. 

"Who are you, my man?" he said. "Any relation?"

The Major looked at him loftily. 

"No, sir. .. . I am his friend. "

"Ha! Then you must leave your friend in my charge. He shall be well in aweek at the latest. "

The Major was silent. 

"Well?" snapped the doctor. 

"I understood from your servant, sir--"

"You speak like an educated man. "

"I am an educated man. "

"Ha--well--no business of mine. What were you about to say?"

"I understood from your servant, sir, that this was not quite in yourline; and since--"

The specialist smiled grimly. He snatched up a book from a pile on thetable, thrust open the title-page and held it out. 

"Read that, sir. .. . As it happens, it's my hobby. Go and ask Dr. Foster, if you like. .. . No, sir; I must have your friend; it's a goodsound case. "

The Major read the title-page in a superior manner. It purported to beby a James Whitty, and the name was followed by a series of distinctionsand of the initials, which I have forgotten. F. R. S. Were the first. 

"My name, " said the doctor. 

The Major handed the book back with a bow. 

"I am proud to make your acquaintance, Dr. Whitty. I have heard of you. May I present Mrs. Trustcott?"

Gertie looked confused. The doctor made a stiff obeisance. Then his facebecame animated again. 

"We must move your friend upstairs, " he said. "If you will help, Mr. Trustcott, I will call my servant. "

(III)

It was about half-past nine that night that the doctor, having rung thebell in the spare bedroom, met his man at the threshold. 

"I'll sleep in this room to-night, " he said; "you can go to bed. Bringin a mattress, will you?"

The man looked at his master's face. (He looked queer-like, reportedThomas later to his wife. )

"Hope the young man's doing well, sir?"

A spasm went over the doctor's face. 

"Most extraordinary young man in the world, " he said. .. . Then he brokeoff. "Bring the mattress at once, Thomas. Then you can go to bed. "

He went back and closed the door. 

 * * * * *

Thomas had seldom seen his master so perturbed over a human beingbefore. He wondered what on earth was the matter. During the few minutesthat he was in the room he looked at the patient curiously, and henoticed that the doctor was continually looking at him too. Thomasdescribed to me Frank's appearance. He was very much flushed, he said, with very bright eyes, and he was talking incessantly. And it wasevidently this delirious talking that had upset the doctor. I tried toget out of Doctor Whitty what it was that Frank had actually said, butthe doctor shut up his face tight and would say nothing. Thomas was morecommunicative, though far from adequate. 

It was about religion, he said, that Frank was talking--aboutreligion. .. . And that was really about all that he could say of thatincident. 

Thomas awoke about one o'clock that night, and, still with theuneasiness that he had had earlier in the evening, climbed out of bedwithout disturbing his wife, put on his slippers and great-coat and madehis way down the attic stairs. The October moon was up, and, shiningthrough the staircase window, showed him the door of the spare bedroomwith a line of light beneath it. From beyond that door came the steadymurmur of a voice. .. . 

Now Thomas's nerves were strong: he was a little lean kind of man, verywiry and active, nearly fifty years old, and he had lived with hismaster, and the mice and the snakes, and disagreeable objects inbottles, for more than sixteen years. He had been a male nurse in anasylum before that. Yet there was something--he told me later--thatgripped him suddenly as he was half-way down the stairs and held him ina kind of agony which he could in no way describe. It was connected withthe room behind that lighted door. It was not that he feared for hismaster, nor for Frank. It was something else altogether. (What a pity itis that our system of education teaches neither self-analysis nor theart of narration!)

He stood there--he told me--he should think for the better part of tenminutes, unable to move either way, listening, always listening, to thevoice that rose and sank and lapsed now and then into silences thatwere worse than all, and telling himself vigorously that he was not atall frightened. 

It was a creak somewhere in the old house that disturbed him and snappedthe thin, rigid little thread that seemed to paralyze his soul; andstill in a sort of terror, though no longer in the same stiff agony, hemade his way down the three or four further steps of the flight, laidhold of the handle, turned it and peered in. 

Frank was lying quiet so far as he could see. A night-light burned bythe bottles and syringes on the table at the foot of the bed, and, although shaded from the young man's face, still diffused enough lightto shoes the servant the figure lying there, and his master, seatedbeyond the bed, very close to it, still in his day-clothes--still, even, in his velvet cap--his chin propped in his hand, staring down at hispatient, utterly absorbed and attentive. 

There was nothing particularly alarming in all that, and yet there wasthat in the room which once more seized the man at his heart and heldhim there, rigid again, terrified, and, above all, inexpressibly awed. (At least, that is how I should interpret his description. ) He said thatit wasn't like the spare bedroom at all, as he ordinarily knew it (and, indeed, it was a mean sort of room when I saw it, without a fireplace, though of tolerable size). It was like another room altogether, saidThomas. 

He tried to listen to what Frank was saying, and I imagine he heard itall quite intelligently; yet, once more, all he could say afterwards wasthat it was about religion . .. About religion. .. . 

So he stood, till he suddenly perceived that the doctor was looking athim with a frown and contorted features of eloquence. He understood thathe was to go. He closed the door noiselessly; and, after another pause, sped upstairs without a sound in his red cloth slippers. 

(IV)

When Frank awoke to normal consciousness again, he lay still, wonderingwhat it was all about. He saw a table at the foot of his bed and noticedon it a small leather case, two green bottles stoppered withindia-rubber, and a small covered bowl looking as if it containedbeef-tea. He extended his explorations still further, and discovered anHanoverian wardrobe against the left wall, a glare of light (which hepresently discerned to be a window), a dingy wall-paper, and finally adoor. As he reached this point the door opened and an old man with avelvet skull-cap, spectacles, and a kind, furrowed face, came in andstood over him. 

"Well?" said the old man. 

"I am a bit stiff, " said Frank. 

"Are you hungry?"

"I don't think so. "

"Well, you're doing very well, if that's any satisfaction to you, "observed the doctor, frowning on him doubtfully. 

Frank said nothing. 

The doctor sat down on a chair by the bed that Frank suddenly noticedfor the first time. 

"Well, " said the doctor, "I suppose you want to know the facts. Herethey are. My name is Whitty; I'm a doctor; you're in my house. This isWednesday afternoon; your friends brought you here yesterday morning. I've given them some work in the garden. You were ill yesterday, butyou're all right now. "

"What was the matter?"

"We won't bother about names, " said the doctor with a kind sharpness. "You had a blister; it broke and became a sore; then you wore one ofthose nasty cheap socks and it poisoned it. That's all. "

"That's in those bottles?" asked Frank languidly. (He felt amazinglyweak and stupid. )

"Well, it's an anti-toxin, " said the doctor. "That doesn't tell youmuch, does it?"

"No, " said Frank. .. . "By the way, who's going to pay you, doctor? Ican't. "

The doctor's face rumpled up into wrinkles. (Frank wished he wouldn'tsit with his back to the window. )

"Don't you bother about that, my boy. You're a case--that's what youare. "

Frank attempted a smile out of politeness. 

"Now, how about some more beef-tea, and then going to sleep again?"

Frank assented. 

 * * * * *

It was not until the Thursday morning that things began to run reallyclear again in Frank's mind. He felt for his rosary under his pillow andit wasn't there. Then he thumped on the floor with a short stick whichhad been placed by him, remembering that in some previous existence hehad been told to do this. 

A small, lean man appeared at the door, it seemed, with the quickness ofthought. 

"My rosary, please, " said Frank. "It's a string of beads. I expect it'sin my trouser-pocket. "

The man looked at him with extraordinary earnestness and vanished. 

Then the doctor appeared holding the rosary. 

"Is this what you want?" he asked. 

"That's it! Thanks very much. "

"You're a Catholic?" went on the other, giving it him. 

"Yes. "

The doctor sat down again. 

"I thought so, " he said. 

Frank wondered why. Then a thought crossed his mind. 

"Have I been talking?" he said. "I suppose I was delirious?"

The doctor made no answer for a moment; he was looking at him fixedly. Then he roused himself. 

"Well, yes, you have, " he said. 

Frank felt rather uncomfortable. 

"Hope I haven't said anything I shouldn't. "

The old man laughed shortly and grimly. 

"Oh, no, " he said. "Far from it. At least, your friends wouldn't thinkso. "

"What was it about?"

"We'll talk about that later, if you like, " said the doctor. "Now I wantyou to get up a bit after you've had some food. "

 * * * * *

It was with a very strange sensation that Frank found himself out in thegarden next day, in a sheltered corner, seated in a wicker chair inwhich, by the help of bamboo poles, he had been carried downstairs byThomas and the Major, with the doctor leading the way and givingdirections as to how to turn the corners. The chair was brought outthrough an irregularly-shaped little court at the back of the house andset down in the warm autumn noon, against an old wall, with a bigkitchen garden, terribly neglected, spread before him. The smoke ofburning went up in the middle distance, denoting the heap of weedspulled by the Major and Gertie during the last three days. He saw Gertiein the distance once or twice, in a clean sun-bonnet, going about herbusiness, but she made no sign. The smell of the burning weeds gave apleasant, wholesome and acrid taste to his mouth. 

"Now then, " said the doctor, "we can have our little talk. " And he satdown beside him on another chair. 

 * * * * *

Frank felt a little nervous, he scarcely knew why. It seemed to him thatit would be far better not to refer to the past at all. And it appearedto him a little unusual that a doctor should be so anxious about it. Twice or three times since yesterday this old man had begun to ask him aquestion and had checked himself. There was a very curious eagernessabout him now. 

"I'm awfully grateful and all that, " said Frank. "Is there anythingspecial you want to know? I suppose I've been talking about my people?"

The doctor waved a wrinkled hand. 

"No, no, " he said, "not a word. You talked about a girl a little, ofcourse--everybody does; but not much. No, it isn't that. "

Frank felt relieved. He wasn't anxious about anything else. 

"I'm glad of that. By the way, may I smoke?"

The doctor produced a leather case of cigarettes and held it out. 

"Take one of these, " he said. 

"Because, " continued Frank, "I'm afraid I mustn't talk about my people. The name I've got now is Gregory, you know. " He lit his cigarette, noticing how his fingers still shook, and dropped the match. 

"No, it's not about that, " said the doctor; "it's not about that. "

Frank glanced at him, astonished by his manner. 

"Well, then--?" he began. 

"I want to know first, " said the doctor slowly, "where you've got allyour ideas from. I've never heard such a jumble in my life. I know youwere delirious; but . .. But it hung together somehow; and it seemed muchmore real to you than anything else. "

"What did?" asked Frank uncomfortably. 

The doctor made no answer for a moment. He looked out across the untidygarden with its rich, faded finery of wild flowers and autumn leaves, and the yellowing foliage beyond the wall, and the moors behind--alltransfigured in October sunshine. The smoke of the burning weeds drewheavenly lines and folds of ethereal lace-work across the dull splendorsbeyond. 

"Well, " he said at last, "everything. You know I've heard hundreds andhundreds of folks . .. " he broke off again, ". .. And I know what peoplecall religion about here--and such a pack of nonsense . .. " (He turned onFrank again suddenly. ) "Where d'you get your ideas from?"

"Do you mean the Catholic religion?" said Frank. 

"Bah! don't call it that. I know what that is--" Frank interrupted him. 

"Well, that's my religion, " he said. "I haven't got any other. "

"But . .. But the way you hold it, " cried the other; "the grip . .. Thegrip it has of you. That's the point. D'you mean to tell me--"

"I mean that I don't care for anything else in the whole world, " saidFrank, stung with sudden enthusiasm. 

"But . .. But you're not mad! You're a very sensible, fellow. You don'tmean to tell me you really believe all that--all that about pain and soon? We doctors know perfectly what all that is. It's a reaction ofNature . .. A warning to look out . .. It's often simply the effects ofbuilding up; and we're beginning to think--ah! that won't interest you!Listen to me! I'm what they call a specialist--an investigator. I cantell you, without conceit, that I probably know all that is to be knownon a certain subject. Well, I can tell you as an authority--"

Frank lifted his head a little. He was keenly interested by the firewith which this other enthusiast spoke. 

"I daresay you can, " said Frank. "And I daresay it's all perfectly true;but what in the world has all that got to do with it--with the use madeof it--the meaning of it? Now I--"

"Hush! hush!" said the doctor. "We mustn't get excited. That's no good. "

He stopped and stared mournfully out again. 

"I wish you could really tell me, " he said more slowly. "But that's justwhat you can't. I know that. It's a personal thing. "

"But my dear doctor--" said Frank. 

"That's enough, " said the other. "I was an old fool to think itpossible--"

Frank interrupted again in his turn. (He was conscious of thatextraordinary mental clearness that comes sometimes to convalescents, and he suddenly perceived there was something behind all this which hadnot yet made its appearance. )

"You've some reason for asking all this, " he said. "I wish you'd tell meexactly what's in your mind. "

The old man turned and looked at him with a kind of doubtful fixedness. 

"Why do you say that, my boy?"

"People like you, " said Frank smiling, "don't get excited over peoplelike me, unless there's something. .. . I was at Cambridge, you know. Iknow the dons there, and--"

"Well, I'll tell you, " said the doctor, drawing a long breath. "I hadn'tmeant to. I know it's mere nonsense; but--" He stopped an instant andcalled aloud: "Thomas! Thomas!"

Thomas's lean head, like a bird's, popped out from a window in thekitchen court behind. 

"Come here a minute. "

Thomas came and stood before them with a piece of wash-leather in onehand and a plated table-spoon in the other. 

"I want you to tell this young gentleman, " said the doctordeliberately, "what you told me on Wednesday morning. "

Thomas looked doubtfully from one to the other. 

"It was my fancy, sir, " he said. 

"Never mind about that. Tell us both. "

"Well, sir, I didn't like it. Seemed to me when I looked in--"

("He looked in on us in the middle of the night, " explained the doctor. "Yes, go on, Thomas. ")

"Seemed to me there was something queer. "

"Yes?" said the doctor encouragingly. 

"Something queer, " repeated Thomas musingly. .. . "And now if you'llexcuse me, sir, I'll have to get back--"

The doctor waved his hands despairingly as Thomas scuttled back withoutanother word. 

"It's no good, " he said, "no good. And yet he told me quiteintelligibly--"

Frank was laughing quietly to himself. 

"But you haven't told me one word--"

"Don't laugh, " said the old man simply. "Look here, my boy, it's nolaughing matter. I tell you I can't think of anything else. It'sbothering me. "

"But--"

The doctor waved his hands. 

"Well, " he said, "I can say it no better. It was the whole thing. Theway you looked, the way you spoke. It was most unusual. But it affectedme--it affected me in the same way; and I thought that perhaps you couldexplain. "

(V)

It was not until the Monday afternoon that Frank persuaded the doctor tolet him go. Dr. Whitty said everything possible, in his emphatic way, asto the risk of traveling again too soon; and there was one scene, actually conducted in the menagerie--the only occasion on which thedoctor mentioned Frank's relations--during which he besought the youngman to be sensible, and to allow him to communicate with his family. Frank flatly refused, without giving reasons. 

The doctor seemed strangely shy of referring again to the conversationin the garden; and, for his part, Frank shut up like a box. They seemboth to have been extraordinarily puzzled at one another--as such peopleoccasionally are. They were as two persons, both intelligent andinterested, entirely divided by the absence of any common language, oreven of symbols. Words that each used meant different things to theother. (It strikes me sometimes that the curse of Babel was a deeperthing than appears on the surface. )

The Major and Gertie, all this while, were in clover. The doctor had noconception of what six hours' manual work could or could not do, and, inreturn for these hours, he made over to the two a small disusedgardener's cottage at the end of his grounds, some bedding, their meals, and a shilling the day. It was wonderful how solicitous the Major was asto Frank's not traveling again until it was certain he was capable ofit; but Frank had acquired a somewhat short and decisive way with hisfriend, and announced that Monday night must see them all cleared out. 

The leave-taking--so far as I have been able to gather--was rathersurprisingly emotional. The doctor took Frank apart into the study wherehe had first seen him, and had a short conversation, during which onesovereign finally passed from the doctor to the patient. 

I have often tried to represent to myself exactly what elements therewere in Frank that had such an effect upon this wise and positive oldman. He had been a very upsetting visitor in many ways. He haddistracted his benefactor from a very important mouse that had died ofleprosy; he had interfered sadly with working hours; he had turned thehouse, comparatively speaking, upside down. Worse than all, he had--Iwill not say modified the doctor's theories--that would be far toostrong a phrase; but he had, quite unconsciously, run full tilt againstthem; and finally, worst of all, he had done this right in the middle ofthe doctor's own private preserve. There was absolutely every elementnecessary to explain Frank's remarks during his delirium; he was areligiously-minded boy, poisoned by a toxin and treated by theanti-toxin. What in the world could be expected but that he should ravein the most fantastic way, and utter every mad conception and idea thathis subjective self contained. As for that absurd fancy of the doctorhimself, as well as of his servant that there was "something queer" inthe room--the more he thought of it, the less he valued it. Obviously itwas the result of a peculiar combination of psychological conditions, just as psychological conditions were themselves the result of anobscure combination of toxin--or anti-toxin--forces. 

Yet for all that, argue as one may, the fact remained that this dry andrather misanthropic scientist was affected in an astonishing manner byFrank's personality. (It will appear later on in Frank's history thatthe effect was more or less permanent. )

Still more remarkable to my mind was the very strong affection thatFrank conceived for the doctor. (There is no mystery coming: the doctorwill not ultimately turn out to be Frank's father in disguise; LordTalgarth still retains that distinction. ) But it is plainly revealed byFrank's diary that he was drawn to this elderly man by very much thesame kind of feelings as a son might have. And yet it is hardly possibleto conceive two characters with less in common. The doctor was adogmatic materialist--and remains so still--Frank was a Catholic. Thedoctor was scientific to his finger-tips--Frank romantic to the sameextremities; the doctor was old and a confirmed stay-at-home--Frank wasyoung, and an incorrigible gipsy. Yet so the matter was. I have certainideas of my own, but there is no use in stating them, beyond sayingperhaps that each recognized in the other--sub-consciously only, sinceeach professed himself utterly unable to sympathize in the smallestdegree with the views of the other--a certain fixity of devotion thatwas the driving-force in each life. Certainly, on the surface, there arenot two theories less unlike than the one which finds the solution ofall things in Toxin, and the other which finds it in God. But perhapsthere is a reconciliation somewhere. 

 * * * * *

The Major and Gertie were waiting in the stable-yard when the two othermen emerged. The Major had a large bag of apples--given him by Thomas atthe doctor's orders--which he was proceeding to add to Gertie's load atthe very moment when the two others came out. Frank took them, without aword, and slung them over his own back. 

The doctor stood blinking a moment in the strong sunshine. 

"Well, good-by, my boy, " he said. "Good luck! Remember that if ever youcome this way again--"

"Good-by, sir, " said Frank. 

He held out his disengaged hand. 

Then an astonishing thing happened. The doctor took the hand, thendropped it; threw his arms round the boy's neck, kissed him on bothcheeks, and hurried back through the garden gate, slamming it behindhim. And I imagine he ran upstairs at once to see how the mice were. 

 * * * * *

Well, that is the whole of the incident. The two haven't met since, thatI am aware. And I scarcely know why I have included it in this book. ButI was able to put it together from various witnesses, documentary andpersonal, and it seemed a pity to leave it out. 

CHAPTER IV

(I)

An enormous physical weariness settled down on Frank, as he trudgedsilently with the Major, towards evening, a week later. 

He had worked all the previous day in a farm-yard--carting manure, andthe like; and though he was perfectly well again, some of the spring hadebbed from his muscles during his week's rest. This day, too, the firstof November, had been exhausting. They had walked since daybreak, aftera wretched night in a barn, plodding almost in silence, mile after mile, against a wet south-west wind, over a discouraging kind of high-roadthat dipped and rose and dipped again, and never seemed to arriveanywhere. 

It is true that Frank was no longer intensely depressed; quite anotherprocess had been at work upon him for the last two or three months, aswill be seen presently; but his limbs seemed leaden, and the actualstiffness in his shoulders and loins made walking a little difficult. 

They were all tired together. They did not say much to one another. They had, in fact, said all that there was to be said months ago; andthey were reduced--as men always are reduced when a certain pitch isreached--to speak simply of the most elementary bodily things--food, tobacco and sleep. The Major droned on now and then--recalling luxuriesof past days--actual roofs over the head, actual hot meat to put in themouth, actual cigars--and Frank answered him. Gertie said nothing. 

 * * * * *

She made up for it, soon after dark had fallen, by quite suddenlycollapsing into a hedge, and announcing that she would die if she didn'trest. The Major made the usual remarks, and she made no answer. 

Frank interposed suddenly. 

"Shut up, " he said. "We can't stop here. I'll go on a bit and see whatcan be done. "

And, as he went off into the darkness, leaving his bundle, he heard thescolding voice begin again, but it was on a lower key and he knew itwould presently subside into a grumble, soothed by tobacco. 

 * * * * *

He had no idea as to the character of the road that lay before him. Theyhad passed through a few villages that afternoon, whose names meantnothing to him, and he scarcely knew why, even, they were going alongthis particular road. They were moving southwards towards London--somuch had been agreed--and they proposed to arrive there in another monthor so. But the country was unfamiliar to him, and the people seemedgrudging and uncouth. They had twice been refused the use of an outhousefor the night, that afternoon. 

It seemed an extraordinarily deserted road. There were no lights fromhouses, so far as he could make out, and the four miles that had beendeclared at their last stopping-place to separate them from the nextvillage appeared already more like five or six. Certainly the three ofthem had between two and three shillings, all told; there was no actualneed of a workhouse just yet, but naturally it was wished to spend aslittle as possible. 

Then on a sudden he caught a glimpse of a light burning somewhere, thatappeared and vanished again as he moved, and fifty yards more broughthim to a wide sweep, a pair of gate-posts with the gate fastened back, and a lodge on the left-hand side. So much he could make out dimlythrough the November darkness; and as he stood there hesitating, hethought he could see somewhere below him a few other lights burningthrough the masses of leafless trees through which the drive wentdownhill. 

He knew very well by experience that lodge-keepers were, takenaltogether, perhaps the most unsympathetic class in the community. (Theylive, you see, right on the high road, and see human nature at itshottest and crossest as well as its most dishonest. ) Servants at backdoors were, as a rule, infinitely more obliging; and, as obviously thiswas the entrance to some big country house, the right thing to do wouldbe to steal past the lodge on tiptoe and seek his fortune amongst thetrees. Yet he hesitated; the house might be half a mile away, for all heknew; and, certainly there was a hospitable look about the fastened-backgate. 

There came a gust of wind over the hills behind him, laden with wet. .. . He turned, went up to the lodge door and knocked. 

He could hear someone moving about inside, and just as he was beginningto wonder whether his double tap had been audible, the door opened anddisclosed a woman in an apron. 

"Can you very kindly direct me--" began Frank politely. 

The woman jerked her head sharply in the direction of the house. 

"Straight down the hill, " she said. "Them's the orders. "

"But--"

It was no good; the door was shut again in his face, and he stood alonein the dark. 

This was all very unusual. Lodge-keepers did not usually receive"orders" to send tramps, without credentials, on to the house which thelodge was supposed to guard. .. . That open gate, then, must have beenintentional. Plainly, however, he must take her at her word; and as hetramped down the drive, he began to form theories. It must be a fanaticof some kind who lived here, and he inclined to consider the owner asprobably an eccentric old lady with a fad, and a large number oflap-dogs. 

As he came nearer, through the trees, he became still more astonished, for as the branches thinned, he became aware of lights burning at suchenormous distances apart that the building seemed more like a villagethan a house. 

Straight before him shone a row of lighted squares, high up, as if hungin air, receding in perspective, till blocked out by a black mass whichseemed a roof of some kind; far on the left shone some kind ofilluminated gateway, and to his right another window or two glimmeredalmost beneath his feet. 

Another fifty yards down the winding drive disclosed a sight that madehim seriously wonder whether the whole experience were real, for nowonly a few steps further on, and still lower than the level at which hewas, stood, apparently, a porter's lodge, as of a great college. Therewas a Tudor archway, with rooms above it and rooms on either side; alamp hung from the roof illuminated the dry stone pavement within, andhuge barred gates at the further end, shut off all other view. It lookedlike the entrance to some vast feudal castle, and he thought again thatif an eccentric old lady lived here, she must be very eccentric indeed. He began to wonder whether a seneschal in a belt hung with keys wouldpresently make his appearance: he considered whether or not he couldwind a horn, if there were no other way of summoning the retainers. 

When at last he tapped at a small interior door, also studded and barredwith iron, and the door opened, the figure he did see was hardly less ofa shock to him than a seneschal would have been. 

For there stood, as if straight out of a Christmas number, the figure ofa monk, tall, lean, with gray hair, clean-shaven, with a pair of merryeyes and a brisk manner. He wore a broad leather band round his blackfrock, and carried his spare hand thrust deep into it. 

(II)

The monk sighed humorously. 

"Another of them, " he said. "Well, my man?"

"Please, father--"

The monk closed his eyes as in resignation. 

"You needn't try that on, " he said. "Besides, I'm not a father. I'm abrother. Can you remember that?"

Frank smiled back. 

"Very well, brother. I'm a Catholic myself. "

"Ah! yes, " sighed the monk briskly. "That's what they all say. Can yousay the 'Divine Praises'? Do you know what they are?. .. However, thatmakes no difference, as--"

"But I can, brother. 'Blessed be God. Blessed be His--"

"But you're not Irish?"

"I know I'm not. But--"

"Are you an educated man? However, that's not my affair. What can I dofor you, sir?"

The monk seemed to take a little more interest in him, and Frank tookcourage. 

"Yes, " he said, "I'm an educated man. My name's Frank Gregory. I've gottwo friends out on the road up there--a man and a woman. Their name'sTrustcott--and the woman--"

"No good; no good, " said the monk. "No women. "

"But, brother, she really can't go any further. I'm very sorry, but wesimply must have shelter. We've got two or three shillings, ifnecessary--"

"Oh, you have, have you?" said the monk keenly. "That's quite new. Andwhen did you touch food last? Yesterday morning? (Don't say 'S'elp me!'It's not necessary. )"

"We last touched food about twelve o'clock to-day. We had beans and coldbacon, " said Frank deliberately. "We're perfectly willing to pay forshelter and food, if we're obliged. But, of course, we don't want to. "

The monk eyed him very keenly indeed a minute or two without speaking. This seemed a new type. 

"Come in and sit down a minute, " he said. "I'll fetch the guest-master. "

It was a very plain little room in which Frank sat, and seemed designed, on purpose, to furnish no temptation to pilferers. There was a table, two chairs, a painted plaster statue of a gray-bearded man in blackstanding on a small bracket with a crook in his hand; a pious book, muchthumb-marked, lay face downwards on the table beside the oil lamp. Therewas another door through which the monk had disappeared, and that wasabsolutely all. There was no carpet and no curtains, but a bright littlecoal fire burned on the hearth, and two windows looked, one up the drivedown which Frank had come, and the other into some sort of courtyard onthe opposite side. 

About ten minutes passed away without anything at all happening. Frankheard more than one gust of rain-laden wind dash against the littlebarred window to the south, and he wondered how his friends were gettingon. The Major, at any rate, he knew, would manage to keep himselftolerably dry. Then he began to think about this place, and wassurprised that he was not surprised at running into it like this in thedark. He knew nothing at all about monasteries--he hardly knew thatthere were such things in England (one must remember that he had onlybeen a Catholic for about five months), and yet somehow, now that he hadcome here, it all seemed inevitable. (I cannot put it better than that:it is what he himself says in his diary. )

Then, as he meditated, the door opened, and there came in a thin, eager-looking elderly man, dressed like the brother who followed him, except that over his frock he wore a broad strip of black stuff, something like a long loose apron, hanging from his throat to his feet, and his head was enveloped in a black hood. 

Frank stood up and bowed with some difficulty. He was beginning to feelstiff. 

"Well, " said the priest sharply, with his bright gray eyes, puckered atthe corners, running over and taking in the whole of Frank's figure fromclose-cut hair to earthy boots. "Brother James tells me you wish to seeme. "

"It was Brother James who said so, father, " said Frank. 

"What is it you want?"

"I've got two friends on the road who want shelter--man and woman. We'llpay, if necessary, but--"

"Never mind about that, " interrupted the priest sharply. "Who are you?"

"The name I go by is Frank Gregory. "

"The name you go by, eh?. .. Where were you educated?"

"Eton and Cambridge. "

"How do you come to be on the roads?"

"That's a long story, father. "

"Did you do anything you shouldn't?"

"No. But I've been in prison since. "

"And your name's Frank Gregory. .. . F. G. , eh?"

Frank turned as if to leave. He understood that he was known. 

"Well--good-night, father--"

The priest turned with upraised hand. 

"Brother James, just step outside. "

Then he continued as the door closed. 

"You needn't go, Mr. --er--Gregory. Your name shall not be mentioned to aliving being without your leave. "

"You know about me?"

"Of course I do. .. . Now be sensible, my dear fellow; go and fetch yourfriends. We'll manage somehow. " (He raised his voice and rapped on thetable. ) "Brother James . .. Go up with Mr. Gregory to the porter's lodge. Make arrangements to put the woman up somewhere, either there or in agardener's cottage. Then bring the man down here. .. . His name?"

"Trustcott, " said Frank. 

"And when you come back, I shall be waiting for you here. "

(III)

Frank states in his diary that an extraordinary sense of familiaritydescended on him as, half an hour later, the door of a cell closedbehind Dom Hildebrand Maple, and he found himself in a room with abright fire burning, a suit of clothes waiting for him, a can of hotwater, a sponging tin and a small iron bed. 

I think I understand what he means. Somehow or other a well-orderedmonastery represents the Least Common Multiple of nearly all pleasanthouses. It has the largeness and amplitude of a castle, and theplainness of decent poverty. It has none of that theatricality which itis supposed to have, none of the dreaminess or the sentimentality withwhich Protestants endow it. He had passed just now through, first, anetwork of small stairways, archways, vestibules and passages, and thenalong two immense corridors with windows on one side and closed doors onthe other. Everywhere there was the same quiet warmth and decency andplainness--stained deal, uncarpeted boards, a few oil pictures in thelower corridor, an image or two at the turn and head of the stairs; itwas lighted clearly and unaffectedly by incandescent gas, and the onlyfigures he had seen were of two or three monks, with hooded heads (theyhad raised these hoods slightly in salutation as he passed), each goingabout his business briskly and silently. There was even a cheerful smellof cooking at the end of one of the corridors, and he had caught aglimpse of two or three aproned lay brothers, busy in the firelight andglow of a huge kitchen, over great copper pans. 

The sense of familiarity, then, is perfectly intelligible: a visitor toa monastery steps, indeed, into a busy and well-ordered life, but thereis enough room and air and silence for him to preserve his individualitytoo. 

 * * * * *

As soon as he was washed and dressed, he sat down in a chair before thefire; but almost immediately there came a tap on his door, and thesomewhat inflamed face of the Major looked in. 

"Frankie?" he whispered, and, reassured, came in and closed the doorbehind. (He looked very curiously small and unimportant, thought Frank. Perhaps it was the black suit that had been lent him. )

"By gad, Frankie . .. We're in clover, " he whispered, still apparentlyunder the impression that somehow he was in church. "There are someother chaps, you know, off the roads too, but they're down by the lodgesomewhere. " (He broke off and then continued. ) "I've got such a queerJohnnie in my room--ah! you've got one, too. "

He went up to examine a small plaster statue of a saint above theprie-dieu. 

"It's all right, isn't it?" said Frank sleepily. 

"And there's another Johnnie's name on the door. The Rev. S. Augustine, or something. "

He tip-toed back to the fire, lifted his tails, and stood warminghimself with a complacent but nervous smile. 

(Frank regarded him with wonder. )

"What do all the Johnnies do here?" asked the Major presently. "Have arare old time, I expect. I bet they've got cellars under here all right. Just like those chaps in comic pictures, ain't it?"

(Frank decided it was no use to try to explain. )

The Major babbled on a minute or two longer, requiring no answer, andevery now and then having his roving eye caught by some new marvel. Hefingered a sprig of yew that was twisted into a crucifix hung over thebed. ("Expect it's one of those old relics, " he said, "some lie orother. ") He humorously dressed up the statue of the saint in apocket-handkerchief, and said: "Let us pray, " in a loud whisper, withone eye on the door. And all the while there still lay on him apparentlythe impression that if he talked loud or made any perceptible sound hewould be turned out again. 

He was just beginning a few steps of a noiseless high-kicking dance whenthere was a tap at the door, and he collapsed into an attitude ofweak-kneed humility. Dom Hildebrand came in. 

"If you're ready, " he said, "we might go down to supper. "

 * * * * *

Frank relates in his diary that of all else in the monastery, apart fromthe church, the refectory and its manners impressed him most. (How easyit is to picture it when one has once seen the ceremonies!)

He sat at a center table, with the Major opposite (looking smaller thanever), before a cloth laid with knife, spoon and forks. All round thewalls on a low daďs, with their backs against them, sat a row of perhapsforty monks, of every age, kind and condition. The tables were barewood, laid simply with utensils and no cloths, with a napkin in eachplace. At the end opposite the door there sat at a table all alone abig, portly, kindly-faced man, of a startlingly fatherly appearance, clean-shaven, gray-haired, and with fine features. This was the Abbot. Above him hung a crucifix, with the single word "_Sitio_" beneath it ona small black label. 

The meal began, however, with the ceremony of singing grace. The rows ofmonks stood out, with one in the middle, facing the Abbot, each with hishood forward and his hands hidden in his scapular. It was sung to agrave tone, with sudden intonations, by the united voices inunison--blessing, response, collect, psalm and the rest. (Frank couldnot resist one glance at the Major, whose face of consternationresembled that of a bird in the company of sedate cats. )

Then each went to his place, and, noiselessly, the orderly meal beganand continued to the reading first of the gospel, and then of a history, from a pulpit built high in the wall. All were served by lay brothers, girded with aprons; almost every movement, though entirely natural, seemed ordered by routine and custom, and was distinguished by a serioussort of courtesy that made the taking of food appear, for once, as areally beautiful, august, and almost sacramental ceremony. The greathall, too, with its pointed roof, its tiled floor, its white-woodscrubbed tables, and its tall emblazoned windows, seemed exactly theproper background--a kind of secular sanctuary. The food was plain andplentiful: soup, meat, cheese and fruit; and each of the two guests hada small decanter of red wine, a tiny loaf of bread, and a napkin. Themonks drank beer or water. 

Then once more followed grace, with the same ceremonial. 

When this was ended, Frank turned to see where Father Hildebrand was, supposing that all would go to their rooms; but as he turned he saw theAbbot coming down alone. He moved on, this great man, with that samelarge, fatherly air, but as he passed the two guests, he inclinedslightly towards them, and Frank, with a glance to warn the Major, understanding that they were to follow, came out of his place and passeddown between the lines of the monks, still in silence. 

The Abbot went on, turned to the right, and as he moved along thecloister, loud sonorous chanting began behind. So they went, on and on, up the long lighted corridor, past door after door, as in some churchprocession. Yet all was obviously natural and familiar. 

They turned in at last beneath an archway to the left, went through avestibule, past a great stone of a crowned Woman with a Child in herarms, and as they entered the church, the Abbot dipped his finger into astoop and presented it to Frank. Frank touched the drop of water, madethe sign of the cross, and presented again his damp finger to the Major, who looked at him with a startled eye. 

The Abbot indicated the front row of the seats in the nave, and Frankwent into it, to watch the procession behind go past, flow up the steps, and disappear into the double rows of great stalls that lined the choir. 

There was still silence--and longer silence, till Frank understood. .. . 

(IV)

His eyes grew accustomed to the gloom little by little, and he began tobe able to make out the magnificence of the place he was in. Behind himstretched the immense nave, its roof and columns lost in darkness, itssides faintly illuminated by the glimmer of single oil-lamps, each in asmall screened-off chapel. But in front of him was the greater splendor. 

From side to side across the entrance to the choir ran the rood-screen, a vast erection of brown oak and black iron, surmounted by a high loft, from which glimmered down sheaves of silvered organ pipes, and, higheryet, in deep shadow, he could make out three gigantic figures, of whichthe center one was nailed to a cross. Beyond this began the stalls--darkand majestic, broken by carving--jutting heads of kings and priestsleaning forward as if to breathe in the magnetism of that immense livingsilence generated by forty men at their prayers. At the further endthere shone out faintly the glory of the High Altar, almost luminous, itseemed, in the light of the single red spark that hung before it. Frankcould discern presently the gilded figures that stood among thecandlesticks behind, the throne and crucifix, the mysterious veilingcurtains of the Tabernacle. .. . Finally, in the midst of the choir, stood a tall erection which he could not understand. 

 * * * * *

An extraordinary peace seemed to descend and envelop him as he looked--akind of crown and climax of various interior experiences that werefalling on him now--for the last few weeks. (It is useless trying to putit into words. I shall hope to do my best presently by quoting Frankhimself. ) There was a sense of home-coming; there was a sense ofastonishing sanity; there was a sense of an enormous objective peace, meeting and ratifying that interior peace which was beginning to be his. It appeared to him, somehow, as if for the first time he experiencedwithout him that which up to now he had chiefly found within. Certainlythere had been moments of this before--not merely emotional, youunderstand--when heart and head lay still from their striving, and thewill reposed in Another Will. But this was the climax: it summed up allthat he had learned in the last few months; it soothed the last scarsaway, it explained and answered--and, above all, correlated--hisexperiences. No doubt it was the physical, as well as the spiritual, atmosphere of this place, the quiet corridors, the warmth and theplainness and the solidity, even the august grace of the refectory--allthese helped and had part in the sensation. Yet, if it is possible foryou to believe it, these were no more than the vessels from which theheavenly fluid streamed; vessels, rather, that contained a little ofthat abundance that surged up here as in a fountain. .. . 

Frank started a little at a voice in his ear. 

"When's it going to begin?" whispered the Major in a hoarse, apprehensive voice. 

(V)

A figure detached itself presently from the dark mass of the stalls andcame down to where they were sitting. Frank perceived it was FatherHildebrand. 

"We're singing Mattins of the Dead, presently, " he said in a low voice. "It's All Souls' Eve. Will you stay, or shall I take you to your room?"

The Major stood up with alacrity. 

"I'll stay, if I may, " said Frank. 

"Very well. Then I'll take Mr. Trustcott upstairs. "

 * * * * *

Half an hour later the ceremony began. 

Here, I simply despair of description. I know something of what Frankwitnessed and perceived, for I have been present myself at this affairin a religious house; but I do not pretend to be able to write it down. 

First, however, there was the external, visible, audible service: thecatafalque, a bier-like erection, all black and yellow, guarded byyellow flames on yellow candles--the grave movements, the almostmonstrous figures, the rhythm of the ceremonies, and the wail of, themusic of forty voices singing as one--all that is understood. .. . 

But the inner side of these things--the reverse of which these thingsare but a coarse lining, the substance of which this is a shadow--thatis what passes words and transcends impressions. 

It seemed to Frank that one section, at any rate, of that enormous truthat which he had clutched almost blindly when he had first made hissubmission to the Church--one chamber in that House of Life--was nowflung open before him, and he saw in it men as trees walking. .. . He wastired and excited, of course; he was intensely imaginative; but thereare some experiences that a rise of temperature cannot explain and thatan imagination cannot originate. .. . 

For it seemed to him that here he was aware of an immeasurable need towhich those ministrations were addressed, and this whole was countlessin its units and clamant in its silence. It was as a man might see thewall of his room roll away, beyond which he had thought only the nightto lie, and discern a thronging mass of faces crying for help, pressingupon him, urging, yet all without sound or word. He attempts in hisdiary to use phrases for all this--he speaks of a pit in which is nowater, of shadows and forms that writhe and plead, of a light of glassmingled with fire; and yet of an inevitability, of a Justice which thereis no questioning and a Force that there is no resisting. And, on theother side, there was this help given by men of flesh and blood likehimself--using ceremonies and gestures and strange resonant words. .. . The whole was as some enormous orchestra--there was the wail on thisside, the answer on that--the throb of beating hearts--there wereclimaxes, catastrophes, soft passages, and yet the result was one vastand harmonious whole. 

It was the catafalque that seemed to him the veiled door to that otherworld that so manifested itself--seen as he saw it in the light of theyellow candles--it was as the awful portal of death itself; beneath thatheavy mantle lay not so much a Body of Humanity still in death, as aSoul of Humanity alive beyond death, quick and yet motionless with pain. And those figures that moved about it, with censor and aspersorium, wereas angels for tenderness and dignity and undoubted power. They were menlike himself, yet they were far more; and they, too, one day, likehimself, would pass beneath that pall and need the help of others thatshould follow them. .. . 

 * * * * *

Something of this is but a hint of what Frank experienced; it came andwent, no doubt, in gusts, yet all through he seems to have felt thatsense that here was a door into that great watching world beyond--thathere, in what is supposed by the world to be the narrow constraint ofreligion, was a liberty and an outlook into realities such as the openroad and nature can but seldom give. But for my part, I can no morefollow him further than I can write down the passion of the lover andthe ecstasy of the musician. If these things could be said in words, they would have been said long ago. But at least it was along this pathof perception that Frank went--a path that but continued the way alongwhich he had come with such sure swiftness ever since the moment he hadtaken his sorrows and changed them from bitter to sweet. Some sentencesthat he has written mean nothing to me at all. .. . 

Only this I see clearly, both from my talks with Father Hildebrand andfrom the diary which Frank amplified at his bidding--that Frank hadreached the end of a second stage in his journey, and that a third wasto begin. 

It is significant also, I think, in view of what is to follow, that thelast initiation of this stage should have taken place on such anoccasion as this. 

CHAPTER V

(I)

There are certain moods into which minds, very much tired or very muchconcentrated, occasionally fall, in which the most trifling things takeon them an appearance of great significance. A man in great anxiety, forexample, will regard as omens or warnings such things as the ringing ofa bell or the flight of a bird. I have heard this process deliberatelydefended by people who should know better. I have heard it said thatthose moods of intense concentration are, as a matter of fact states ofsoul in which the intuitive or mystical faculties work with greatfacility, and that at such times connections and correlations areperceived which at other times pass unnoticed. The events of the worldthen are, by such people, regarded as forming links in a chain ofpurpose--events even which are obviously to the practical man merely theeffects of chance and accident. It is utterly impossible, says thepractical man, that the ringing of a bell, or the grouping oftea-leaves, or the particular moment at which a picture falls from awall, can be anything but fortuitous: and it is the sign of a weak andsuperstitious mind to regard them as anything else. There can be nopurpose or sequence except in matters where we can perceive purpose orsequence. 

Of course the practical man must be right; we imply that he is right, since we call him practical, and I have to deplore, therefore, the factthat Frank on several occasions fell into a superstitious way of lookingat things. The proof is only too plain from his own diary--not that heinterprets the little events which he records, but that he takes suchextreme pains to write them down--events, too, that are, to allsensibly-minded people, almost glaringly unimportant and insignificant. 

 * * * * *

I have two such incidents to record between the the travelers' leavingthe Benedictine monastery and their arriving in London in December. TheMajor and Gertie have probably long since forgotten the one which theythemselves witnessed, and, indeed, there is no particular reason whythey should remember it. Of the other Frank seems to have said nothingto his friends. Both of them, however, are perfectly insignificant--theyconcern, respectively, only a few invisible singers and a couple ofquite ordinary human beings. They are described with a whollyunnecessary wealth of detail in Frank's diary, though without comment, and I write them down here for that reason, and that reason only. 

The first was as follows:

They were approaching a certain cathedral town, not a hundred miles fromLondon, and as the evening was clear and dry, though frosty, and moneywas low, they determined to pass the night in a convenient brick-yardabout half a mile out of the town. 

There was a handy shed where various implements were kept; the Major, bythe help of a little twisted wire, easily unfastened the door. Theysupped, cooking a little porridge over a small fire which they were ableto make without risk, and lay down to sleep after a pipe or two. 

Tramps go to sleep early when they mean business, and it could not havebeen more than about eleven o'clock at night when Frank awoke with thesense that he had slept long and deeply. He seems to have lain there, content and quiet enough, watching the last ember dying in the brazierwhere they had made their fire. .. . There was presently a stir from thefurther corner of the shed, a match was struck, and Frank, from hisimprovised pillow, beheld the Major's face suddenly illuminated by thelight with which he was kindling his pipe once more. He watched the facewith a sort of artistic interest for a few seconds--the droopingshadows, the apparently cavernous eyes, the deep-shaded bar of themustache across the face. In the wavering light cast from below itresembled the face of a vindictive beast. Then the Major whispered, between his puffs:

"Frankie?"

"Yes. "

"Oh! you're awake too, are you?"

"Yes. "

A minute later, though they had spoken only in whispers, Gertie drew along sighing breath from her corner of the shed and they could hear thatshe, too, sat up and cleared her throat. 

"Well, this is a pretty job, " said the Major jovially to the companygenerally. "What's the matter with us?"

Frank said nothing. He lay still, with a sense of extraordinary contentand comfort, and heard Gertie presently lie down again. The Major smokedsteadily. 

Then the singing began. 

 * * * * *

It was a perfectly still night, frost-bound and motionless. It was lateenough for the sounds of the town to have died away (cathedral towns goto bed early and rise late), and, indeed, almost the only sounds theyhad heard, even three or four hours before, had been the occasionaldeliberate chime of bells, like a meditative man suddenly uttering aword or two aloud. Now, however, everything was dead silent. Probablythe hour had struck immediately before they awoke, since Frank remarksthat it seemed a long time before four notes tolled out the quarter. 

The singing came first as a sensation rather than as a sound, so faraway was it. It was not at once that Frank formulated the sense ofpleasure that he experienced by telling himself that someone wassinging. 

At first it was a single voice that made itself heard--a tenor ofextraordinary clarity. The air was unknown to him, but it had thecharacter of antiquity; there was a certain pleasant melancholy aboutit; it contained little trills and grace-notes, such as--before harmonydeveloped in the modern sense--probably supplied the absence of chords. There was no wind on which the sound could rise or fall, and it grewfrom a thread out of the distance into clear singing not a quarter of amile away. .. . 

The Major presently grunted over his pipe some expression of surprise;but Frank could say nothing. He was almost holding his breath, so greatwas his pleasure. 

The air, almost regretfully, ran downhill like a brook approaching, aninevitable full close; and then, as the last note was reached, a chordof voices broke in with some kind of chorus. 

The voices were of a quartette of men, and rang together like strucknotes, not loud or harsh, but, on the contrary, with a restrainedsoftness that must, I suppose, have been the result of very carefultraining. It was the same air that they were repeating, but thegrace-notes were absent, and the four voices, in chord after chord, supplied their place by harmony. It was impossible to tell what was thesubject of the song or even whether it were sacred or secular, for itwas of that period--at least, so I conjecture--when the two worlds wereone, and when men courted their love and adored their God after the samefashion. Only there ran through all that air of sweet and austeremelancholy, as if earthly music could do no more than hint at what theheart wished to express. 

 * * * * *

Frank listened in a sort of ecstasy. The music was nearer now, comingfrom the direction from which the three travelers had themselves comethis afternoon. Presently, from the apparent diminuendo, it was plainthat the singers were past, and were going on towards the town. Therewas no sound of footsteps; the Major remarked on that, when he couldget Frank to attend a few minutes later, when all was over; but therewere field paths running in every direction, as well as broad stretchesof grass beside the road, so the singers may very well have been walkingon soft ground. (These points are dispassionately noted down in thediary. )

The chorus was growing fainter now; once more the last slopes of themelody were in sight--those downhill gradations of the air that told ofthe silence to come. Then once more, for an instant, there was silence, till again, perhaps nearly a quarter of a mile away, the single tenorvoice began _da capo_. And the last that Frank heard, at the momentbefore the quarter struck and, soft and mellow though it was, jarred theair and left the ear unable to focus itself again on the tiny woventhread of sound, was, once more the untiring quartette taking up themelody, far off in the silent darkness. 

It seems to me a curious little incident--this passing of four singersin the night; it might have seemed as if our travelers, by a kind ofchance, were allowed to overhear the affairs of a world other than theirown--and the more curious because Frank seems to have been so muchabsorbed by it. Of course, from a practical point of view, it is almostpainfully obvious what is the explanation. It must have been a quartettefrom the cathedral choir, returning from some festivity in the suburbs;and it must have happened that they followed the same route, thoughwalking on the grass, along which Frank himself had come that evening. 

(II)

The second incident is even more ordinary, and once again I must declarethat nothing would have induced me to incorporate it into this story hadit not appeared, described very minutely in the sort of log-book intowhich Frank's diary occasionally degenerates. 

They were within a very few miles of the outskirts of London, andDecember had succeeded November. They had had a day or two of work uponsome farm or other. (I have not been able to identify the place), andhad run into, and, indeed, exchanged remarks with two or three groups oftramps also London bound. 

They were given temporary lodgings in a loft over a stable, by thefarmer for whom they worked, and this stable was situated in a court atthe end of the village street, with gates that stood open all day, since the yard was overlooked by the windows of the farmer'sliving-house--and, besides, there was really nothing to steal. 

They had finished their work in the fields (I think it had to do withthe sheep and mangel-wurzels, or something of the kind); they hadreturned to their lodgings, received their pay, packed up theirbelongings, and had already reached the further end of the village ontheir way to London, when Frank discovered that he had left a pair ofsocks behind. This would never do: socks cost money, and their absencemeant sore feet and weariness; so he told the Major and Gertie to walkon slowly while he went back. He would catch them up, he said, beforethey had gone half a mile. He hid his bundle under a hedge--every poundof weight made a difference at the end of a day's work--and set off. 

It was just at that moment between day and night--between four and fiveo'clock--as he came back into the yard. He went straight through theopen gates, glancing about, to explain matters to the farmer ifnecessary, but, not seeing him, went up the rickety stairs, groped hisway across to the window, took down his socks from the nail an which hehad hung them last night, and came down again. 

As he came into the yard, he thought he heard something stirring withinthe open door of the stable on his right, and thinking it to be thefarmer, and that an explanation would be advisable, looked in. 

At first he saw nothing, though he could hear a horse moving about inthe loose-box in the corner. Then he saw a light shine beneath the crackof the second door, beside the loose-box, that led into the farm-yardproper; and the next instant the door opened, a man came in with alantern obviously just lighted, as the flame was not yet burned up, andstopped with a half-frightened look on seeing Frank. But he saidnothing. 

Frank himself was just on the point of giving an explanation when he, too, stopped dead and stared. It seemed to him that he had been herebefore, under exactly the same circumstances; he tried to remember whathappened next, but he could not. .. . 

For this was what he saw as the flame burned up more brightly. 

The man who held the lantern and looked at him in silence with ahalf-deprecating air was a middle-aged man, bearded and bare-headed. Hehad thrown over his shoulders a piece of sacking, that hung from himalmost like a robe. The light that he carried threw heavy waveringshadows about the stable, and Frank noticed the great head of acart-horse in the loose-box peering through the bars, as if to inquirewhat the company wanted. Then, still without speaking, Frank let hiseyes rove round, and they stopped suddenly at the sight of yet one moreliving being in the stable. Next to the loose-box was a stall, emptyexcept for one occupant; for there, sitting on a box with her back tothe manger and one arm flung along it to support her weight, was thefigure of a girl. Her head, wrapped in an old shawl, leaned back againsther arm, and a very white and weary face, absolutely motionless, lookedat him. She had great eyes, with shadows beneath, and her lips were halfopened. By her side lay a regular tramp's bundle. 

Frank looked at her steadily a moment, then he looked back at the man, who still had not moved or spoken. The draught from the door behind blewin and shook the flame of his lantern, and the horse sighed long andloud in the shadows behind. Once more Frank glanced at the girl; she hadlowered her arm from the manger and now sat looking at him, it seemed, with a curious intentness and expectancy. 

There was nothing to be said. Frank bowed a little, almostapologetically, and went out. 

Now that was absolutely all that happened. Frank says so expressly inhis diary. He did not speak to them, nor they to him; nor was anyexplanation given on either side. He went out across the yard insilence, seeing nothing of the farmer, but hearing a piano begin to playbeyond the brightly lighted windows, of which he could catch a glimpseover the low wall separating the yard from the garden. He walked quicklyup the village street and caught up his companions, as he had said, lessthan half a mile further on. He said nothing to them of hisexperience--indeed, what was there to say?--but he must have written itdown that same night when they reached their next lodging, and writtenit down, too, with that minuteness of detail which surprised me so muchwhen I first read it. 

 * * * * *

For the explanation of the whole thing is as foolishly obvious as wasthat of the singing that the three had heard in the suburbs ofPeterborough. Obviously a couple of tramps had turned into this stablefor shelter. Perhaps the girl was the man's daughter; perhaps his wife;perhaps neither. Plainly they had no right there--and that would explainthe embarrassed silence of the two: they knew they were trespassing, andfeared to be turned away. Perhaps already they had been turned away fromthe village inn. But the girl was obviously tired out, and the man haddetermined to risk it. 

That, then, was the whole affair--commonplace, and even a little sordid. And yet Frank thought that it was worth writing down!

CHAPTER VI

_An extract, taken by permission, from a few pages of Frank Guiseley'sdiary. These pages were written with the encouragement of Dom HildebrandMaple, O. S. B. , and were sent to him later at his own request. _

". .. He told me a great many things that surprised me. For instance, heseemed to know all about certain ideas that I had had, before I told himof them, and said that I was not responsible, and he picked out one ortwo other things that I had said, and told me that these were much moreserious. .. . 

"I went to confession to him on Friday morning, in the church. He didnot say a great deal then, but he asked if I would care to talk to himafterwards. I said I would, and went to him in the parlor after dinner. The first thing that happened was that he asked me to tell him asplainly as I could anything that had happened to me--in my soul, Imean--since I had left Cambridge. So I tried to describe it. 

"I said that at first things went pretty well in my soul, and that itwas only bodily things that troubled me--getting fearfully tired andstiff, being uncomfortable, the food, the sleeping, and so on. Then, assoon as this wore off I met the Major and Gertie. I was rather afraid ofsaying all that I felt about these; but he made me, and I told him howextraordinarily I seemed to hate them sometimes, how I felt almost sicknow and then when the Major talked to me and told me stories. .. . Thething that seemed to torment me most during this time was the contrastbetween Cambridge and Merefield and the people there, and the company ofthis pair; and the only relief was that I knew I _could_, as a matter offact, chuck them whenever I wanted and go home again. But this reliefwas taken away from me as soon as I understood that I had to keep withthem, and do my best somehow to separate them. Of course, I must getGertie back to her people some time, and till that's done it's no goodthinking about anything else. 

"After a while, however--I think it was just before I got into troublewith the police--I began to see that I was a conceited ass for hatingthe Major so much. It was absurd for me, I said, to put on airs, whenthe difference between him and me was just that he had been brought upin one way and I in another. I hated the things he did and said, notbecause they were wrong, but because they were what I called 'bad form. 'That was really the whole thing. Then I saw a lot more, and it made mefeel miserable. I used to think that it was rather good of me to be kindto animals and children, but I began to see that it was simply the way Iwas made: it wasn't any effort to me. I simply 'saw red' when I cameacross cruelty. And I saw that that was no good. 

"Then I began to see that I had done absolutely nothing of any goodwhatever--that nothing had _really_ cost me anything; and that thethings I was proud of were simply self-will--my leaving Cambridge, andall the rest. They were theatrical, or romantic, or egotistical; therewas no real sacrifice. I should have minded much more not doing them. Ibegan to feel extraordinarily small. 

"Then the whole series of things began that simply smashed me up. 

"First there was the prison business. That came about in this way:

"I had just begun to see that I was all wrong with the Major--that bygiving way to my feelings about him (I don't mean that I ever showed it, but that was only because I thought it more dignified not to!), I wasgetting all wrong with regard to both him and myself, and that I must dosomething that my whole soul hated if it was to be of any use. Thenthere came that minute in the barn, when I heard the police were afterus, and that there was really no hope of escape. The particular thingthat settled me was Gertie. I knew, somehow, that I couldn't let theMajor go to prison while she was about. And then I saw that this wasjust the very thing to do, and that I couldn't be proud of it ever, because the whole thing was so mean and second-rate. Well, I did it, andit did me a lot of good somehow. I felt really rolled in the dirt, andthat little thing in the post-office afterwards rubbed it in. I saw howchock-full I must be of conceit really to mind that, as I did, and toshow off, and talk like a gentleman. 

"Then there came the priest who refused to help me. That made me for atime perfectly furious, because I had always said to myself thatCatholics, and especially priests, would always understand. But before Igot to York I saw what an ass I had made of myself. Of course, thepriest was perfectly right (I saw that before I got ten yards away, though I wouldn't acknowledge it for another five miles). I was a dirtytramp, and I talked like a brazen fool. (I remember thinking my'openness' to him rather fine and manly!) Well, that made me smallerstill. 

"Then a sort of despair came on me when the police got me turned out ofmy work in York. I know it was only a little thing (though I stillthink it unfair), but it was like a pebble in your boot when you'realready going lame from something else. 

"And then came Jenny's letter. (I want to write about that rathercarefully. )

"I said just now that I was getting to feel smaller and smaller. That'sperfectly true, but there was still a little hard lump in the middlethat would not break. Things might have gone crumbling away at me forever, and I might have got smaller still, but they wouldn't have smashedme. 

"Now there were two things that I held on to all this time--my religionand Jenny. I gave them turns, so to speak, though Jenny was neverabsent. When everything religious tasted flat and dull and empty, Ithought about Jenny: when things were better--when I had those two orthree times I told Father Hildebrand about (. .. )--I still thought ofJenny, and imagined how splendid it would be when we were both Catholicstogether and married. But I never dreamed that Jenny would ever be angryor disappointed. I wouldn't talk about her to anybody ever, because Iwas so absolutely certain of her. I knew, I thought, that the wholeworld might crumble away, but that Jenny would always understand, downat the bottom, and that she and I would remain. .. . 

"Well, then came her letter. 

"Honestly, I don't quite know what I was doing inside for the next weekor so. Simply everything was altered. I never had any sort of doubt thatshe meant what she said, and it was as if there wasn't any sun or moonor sky. It was like being ill. Things happened round me: I ate and drankand walked, but the only thing I wanted was to get away, and get downsomewhere into myself and hide. Religion, of course, seemed no good atall. I don't understand quite what people mean by 'consolations' ofreligion. Religion doesn't seem to me a thing like Art or Music, inwhich you can take refuge. It either covers everything, or it isn'treligion. Religion never has seemed to me (I don't know if I'm wrong)one thing, like other things, so that you can change about and backagain. .. . It's either the background and foreground all in one, or it'sa kind of game. It's either true, or it's a pretense. 

"Well, all this, in a way, taught me it was absolutely true. Thingswouldn't have held together at all unless it was true. But it was nosort of satisfaction. It seemed to me for a while that it was horriblethat it was true; that it was frightful to think that God could be likethat--since this Jenny-business had really happened. But I didn't feelall this exactly consciously at the time. I seemed as if I was ill, andcould only lie still and watch and be in hell. One thing, however, Father Hildebrand thought very important (he asked me about itparticularly) was that I honestly did not feel any resentment whateveragainst either God or Jenny. It was frightful, but it was true, and Ijust had to lie still inside and look at it. He tells me that this showsthat the first part of the 'process, ' as he called it, was finished (hecalled it the 'Purgative Way'). And I must say that what happened nextseems to fit in rather well. 

"The new 'process' began quite suddenly when I awoke in the shepherd'shut one morning at Ripon. The instant I awoke I knew it. It was veryearly in the morning, just before sunrise, but there was a little woodbehind me, and the birds were beginning to chirp. 

"It's very hard to describe it in words, but the first thing to say isthat I was not exactly happy just then, but absolutely content. I thinkI should say that it was like this: I saw suddenly that what had beenwrong in me was that I had made myself the center of things, and God akind of circumference. When He did or allowed things, I said, 'Why doesHe?'--_from my point of view_. That is to say, I set up my ideas ofjustice and love and so forth, and then compared His with mine, not minewith His. And I suddenly saw--or, rather, I knew already when Iawoke--that this was simply stupid. Even now I cannot imagine why Ididn't see it before: I had heard people say it, of course--in sermonsand books--but I suppose it had meant nothing to me. (Father Hildebrandtells me that I had seen it intellectually, but had never embraced itwith my will. ) Because when one once really sees that, there's no longerany puzzle about anything. One can simply never say 'Why?' again. Thething's finished. 

"Now this 'process' (as Father H. Calls it) has gone on in a mostextraordinary manner ever since. That beginning near Ripon was likeopening a door into another country, and I've been walking ever sinceand seeing new things. All sorts of things that I had believed as aCatholic--things, I mean, which I assented to simply because the Churchsaid so, have, so to speak, come up and turned themselves inside out. Icouldn't write them down, because you can't write these things down, oreven put them intelligibly to yourself. You just _see that they are so_. For instance, one morning at mass--quite suddenly--I saw how thesubstance of the bread was changed, and how our Lord is united with thesoul at Communion--of course it's a mystery (that's what I mean bysaying that it can't be written down)--but I saw it, in a flash, and Ican see it still in a sort of way. Then another day when the Major wastalking about something or other (I think it was about the club he usedto belong to in Piccadilly), I understood about our Lady and how she isjust everything from one point of view. And so on. I had that kind ofthing at Doctor Whitty's a good deal, particularly when I was gettingbetter. I could talk to him all the time, too, or count the knobs on thewardrobe, or listen to the Major and Gertie in the garden--and yet go onall the time seeing things. I knew it wasn't any good talking to DoctorWhitty himself much, though I can't imagine why a man like that doesn'tsee it all for himself. .. . 

"It seems to me most extraordinary now that I ever could have had thoseother thoughts I told Father H. About--I mean about sins, and aboutwondering whether, after all, the Church was actually true. In a sort ofway, of course, they come back to me still, and I know perfectly well Imust be on my guard; but somehow it's different. 

"Well, all this is what Father H. Calls the 'Illuminative Way, ' and Ithink I understand what he means. It came to a sort of point on AllSouls' Eve at the monastery. I saw the whole thing then for a moment ortwo, and not only Purgatory. But I will write that down later. AndFather H. Tells me that I must begin to look forward to a new'process'--what he calls the 'Way of Union. ' I don't understand muchwhat he means by that; I don't see that more could happen to me. I amabsolutely and entirely happy; though I must say that there has seemed asort of lull for the last day or two--ever since All Souls' Day, infact. Perhaps something is going to happen. It's all right, anyhow. Itseems very odd to me that all this kind of thing is perfectly well knownto priests. I thought I was the first person who had ever felt quitelike this. 

"I must add one thing. Father H. Asked me whether I didn't feel I had avocation to the Religious Life; he told me that from everything he couldsee, I had, and that my coming to the monastery was simply providential. 

"Well, I don't agree, and I have told him so. I haven't the least ideawhat is going to happen next; but I know, absolutely for certain, that Ihave got to go on with the Major and Gertie to East London. Gertie willhave to be got away from the Major somehow, and until that is done Imustn't do anything else. 

"I have written all this down as plainly as I can, because I promisedFather H. I would. "

PART III

CHAPTER I

Mrs. Partington was standing at the door of her house towards sunset, waiting for the children to come back from school. 

Her house is situated in perhaps the least agreeable street--TurnerRoad--in perhaps the least agreeable district of East London--HackneyWick. It is a disagreeable district because it isn't anything inparticular. It has neither the tragic gayety of Whitechapel nor thecomparative refinement of Clapton. It is a large, triangular piece ofland, containing perhaps a square mile altogether, or rather more, approached from the south by the archway of the Great Eastern Railway, defined on one side by the line, and along its other two sides, partlyby the river Lea--a grimy, depressed-looking stream--and partly by theHackney Marshes--flat, dreary wastes of grass-grown land, useless asbuilding ground and of value only for Saturday afternoon recreations ofrabbit coursing and football. The dismalness of the place is beyonddescription at all times of the year. In winter it is bleak and chilly;in summer it is hot, fly-infested, and hideously and ironicallyreminiscent of real fields and real grass. The population is calculatedto change completely about every three years, and I'm sure I am notsurprised. It possesses two important blocks of buildings besides theschools--a large jam factory and the church and clergy-house of the EtonMission. 

Turner Road is perhaps the most hopeless of all the dozen and a half ofstreets. (It is marked black, by the way, in Mr. Booth's instructivemap. ) It is about a quarter of a mile long and perfectly straight. It isintersected at one point by another street, and is composed of tall darkhouses, with flat fronts, perhaps six or seven stories in height. It isgenerally fairly silent and empty, and is inhabited by the mostcharacteristic members of the Hackney Wick community--quiet, white-facedmen, lean women, draggled and sharp-tongued, and countlessover-intelligent children--all of the class that seldom remain longanywhere--all of the material out of which the real criminal isdeveloped. No booths or stalls ever stand here; only, on Saturdaynights, there is echoed here, as in a stone-lined pit, the cries and thewheel-noises from the busy thoroughfare a hundred yards away round thecorner. The road, as a whole, bears an aspect of desperate and fiercedignity; there is never here the glimpse of a garden or of flowers, asin Mortimer Road, a stone's throw away. There is nothing whatever exceptthe tall, flat houses, the pavements, the lampposts, the grimythoroughfare and the silence. The sensation of the visitor is thatanything might happen here, and that no one would be the wiser. There isan air of horrible discretion about these houses. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Partington was--indeed is (for I went to see her not two monthsago)--of a perfectly defined type. She must have been a handsome factorygirl--dark, slender, and perfectly able to take care of herself, withthin, muscular arms, generally visible up to the elbow, hard hands, aquantity of rather untidy hair--with the tongue of a venomous orator andany amount of very inferior sentiment, patriotic and domestic. She hasbecome a lean, middle-aged woman, very upright and very strong, withoutany sentiment at all, but with a great deal of very practical humanexperience to take its place. She has no illusions about either thisworld or the next; she has borne nine children, of which three survive;and her husband is almost uninterruptedly out of work. However, they areprosperous (for Turner Road), and have managed, so far, to keep theirhome together. 

The sunset was framed in a glow of smoky glory at the end of the streetdown which Mrs. Partington was staring, resembling a rather angrysearch-light turned on from the gates of heaven. The street was stillquiet; but already from the direction of the Board-school came thin andshrill cries as the swarm of children exploded in all directions. Mrs. Partington (she would have said) was waiting for her children--Jimmy, Maggie and 'Erb--and there were lying within upon the bare table threethick slices of bread and black jam; as a matter of fact, she waslooking out for her lodgers, who should have arrived by midday. 

Then she became aware that they were coming, even as she looked, advancing down the empty street _en échelon_. Two of them she knew wellenough--they had lodged with her before; but the third was to be astranger, and she was already interested in him--the Major had hinted atwonderful mysteries. .. . 

So she shaded her eyes against the cold glare and watched themcarefully, with that same firm, resolute face with which she alwayslooked out upon the world; and even as, presently, she exchanged thatquick, silent nod of recognition with the Major and Gertie, still shewatched the brown-faced, shabby young man who came last, carrying hisbundle and walking a little lame. 

"You're after your time, " she said abruptly. 

The Major began his explanations, but she cut them short and led the wayinto the house. 

(II)

I find it very difficult to record accurately the impression that Frankmade upon Mrs. Partington; but that the impression was deep and definitebecame perfectly clear to me from her conversation. He hardly spoke atall, she said, and before he got work at the jam factory he went out forlong, lonely walks across the marshes. He and the Major slept together, it seemed, in one room, and Gertie, temporarily with the children andMrs. Partington in another. (Mr. Partington, at this time, happened tobe away on one of his long absences. ) At meals Frank was always quietand well-behaved, yet not ostentatiously. Mrs. Partington found no faultwith him in that way. He would talk to the children a little before theywent to school, and would meet them sometimes on their way back fromschool; and all three of them conceived for him an immense andindescribable adoration. All this, however, would be too long to setdown in detail. 

It seems to have been a certain air of pathos which Mrs. Partingtonherself cast around him, which affected her the most, and I imagine herfeeling to have been largely motherly. There was, however, anotherelement very obviously visible, which, in anyone but Mrs. Partington, Ishould call reverence. .. . She told me that she could not imagine why hewas traveling with the Major and Gertie, so she at least understoodsomething of the gulf between them. 

So the first week crept by, bringing us up to the middle of December. 

 * * * * *

It was on the Friday night that Frank came back with the announcementthat he was to go to work at the jam factory on Monday. There was agreat pressure, of course, owing to the approach of Christmas, and Frankwas to be given joint charge of a van. The work would last, it seemed, at any rate, for a week or two. 

"You'll have to mind your language, " said the Major jocosely. (He wassitting in the room where the cooking was done and where, by the way, the entire party, with the exception of the two men, slept; and, at thismoment, had his feet on the low mantelshelf between the saucepan andJimmy's cap. )

"Eh?" said Frank. 

"No language allowed there, " said the Major. "They're damn particular. "

Frank put his cap down and took his seat on the bed. 

"Where's Gertie?" he asked. ("Yes, come on, Jimmie. ")

Jimmie crept up beside him, looking at him with big black, reverentialeyes. Then he leaned against him with a quick smile and closed his eyesecstatically. Frank put an arm round the boy to support him. 

"Oh! Gertie's gone to see a friend, " said the Major. "Did you want her?"

Frank said nothing, and Mrs. Partington looked from one to the otherswiftly. 

Mrs. Partington had gathered a little food for thought during the lastfew days. It had become perfectly evident to her that the girl was verymuch in love with this young man, and that while this young man eitherwas, or affected to be, ignorant of it, the Major was not. Gertie hadodd silences when Frank came into the room, or yet more oddvolubilities, and Mrs. Partington was not quite sure of the Major'sattitude. This officer and her husband had had dealings together in thepast of a nature which I could not quite determine (indeed, the figureof Mr. Partington is still a complete mystery to me, and rather aformidable mystery); and I gather that Mrs. Partington had learned fromher husband that the Major was not simply negligible. She knew him for ablackguard, but she seems to have been uncertain of what kind was thisblack-guardism--whether of the strong or the weak variety. She was justa little uncomfortable, therefore, as to the significance of Gertie; andhad already wondered more than once whether or no she should say amotherly word to the young man. 

 * * * * *

There came a sound of footsteps up the street as Mrs. Partington ironeda collar of Jimmie's on the dining-room table, and laid down the iron asa tap fell on the door. The Major took out his pipe and began to fill itas she went out to see who was knocking. 

"Oh! good evening, Mrs. Partington, " sounded in a clear, high-bred voicefrom the street door. "May I come in for a minute or two? I heard youhad lodgers, and I thought perhaps--"

"Well, sir, we're rather upside-down just now--and--"

"Oh! I won't disturb you more than a minute, " came the other voiceagain. There were footsteps in the passage, and the next instant, pastthe unwilling hostess, there came a young, fresh-colored clergyman, carrying a silk hat, into the lamplight of the kitchen. Frank stood upinstantly, and the Major went so far as to take down his feet. Then he, too, stood up. 

"Good evening!" said the clergyman. "May I just come in for a minute ortwo? I heard you had come, and as it's in my district--May I sit down, Mrs. Partington?"

Mrs. Partington with sternly knit lips, swept a brown teapot, astocking, a comb, a cup and a crumby plate off the single unoccupiedchair, and set it a little forward near the fire. Clergymen were, to hermind, one of those mysterious dispensations of the world for which therewas no adequate explanation at all--like policemen and men's gamblingsand horse-races. There they were, and there was no more to be said. Theywere mildly useful for entertaining the children and taking them toSouthend, and in cases of absolute despair they could be relied upon forsoup-tickets or even half-crowns; but the big mysterious church, withits gilded screen, its curious dark glass, and its white littleside-chapel, with the Morris hangings, the great clergy-house, theladies, the parish magazine and all the rest of it--these were simplyinexplicable. Above all inexplicable was the passion displayed fordistrict-visiting--that strange impulse that drove fourhighly-cultivated young men in black frock-coats and high hats andridiculous little collars during five afternoons in the week to knock atdoor after door all over the district and conduct well-manneredconversations with bored but polite mothers of families. It was one ofthe phenomena that had to be accepted. She supposed it stood forsomething beyond her perceptions. 

"I thought I must come in and make your acquaintance, " said theclergyman, nursing his hat and smiling at the company. (He, too, occasionally shared Mrs. Partington's wonder as to the object of allthis; but he, too, submitted to it as part of the system. ) "People comeand go so quickly, you know--"

"Very pleased to see a clergyman, " said the Major smoothly. "Noobjection to smoke, sir, I presume?" He indicated his pipe. 

"Not at all, " said the clergyman. "In fact, I smoke myself; and if Mrs. Partington will allow me--" He produced a small pink and gilded packetof Cinderellas. (I think he thought it brought him vaguely nearer thepeople to smoke Cinderellas. )

"Oh! no objection at all, sir, " put in Mrs. Partington, still a littlegrimly. (She was still secretly resenting being called upon at half-pastsix. You were usually considered immune from this kind of thing afterfive o'clock. )

"So I thought I must just look in and catch you one evening, " explainedthe clergyman once more, "and tell you that we're your friends here--theclergy, you know--and about the church and all that. "

He was an extremely conscientious young man--this Mr. Parham-Carter--anold Etonian, of course, and now in his first curacy. It was all prettybewildering to him, too, this great and splendid establishment, theglorious church by Bodley, with the Magnificat in Gothic lettering belowthe roof, the well-built and furnished clergy-house, the ladies' house, the zeal, the self-devotion, the parochial machinery, the Band ofHope, the men's and boys' clubs, and, above all, the furiousdistrict-visiting. Of course, it produced results, it kept up thestandards of decency and civilization and ideals; it was a weight in thebalances on the side of right and good living; the clubs kept men fromthe public-house to some extent, and made it possible for boys to growup with some chance on their side. Yet he wondered, in fits ofdespondency, whether there were not something wrong somewhere. .. . But heaccepted it: it was the approved method, and he himself was a learner, not a teacher. 

"Very kind of you, sir, " said the Major, replacing his feet on themantelshelf. "And at what time are the services on Sunday?"

The clergyman jumped. He was not accustomed to that sort of question. 

"I . .. " he began. 

"I'm a strong Churchman, sir, " said the Major. "And even if I were not, one must set an example, you know. I may be narrow-minded, but I'mparticular about all that sort of thing. I shall be with you on Sunday. "

He nodded reassuringly at Mr. Parham-Carter. 

"Well, we have morning prayer at ten-thirty next Sunday, and the HolyEucharist at eleven--and, of course, at eight. "

"No vestments, I hope?" said the Major sternly. 

Mr. Parham-Carter faltered a little. Vestments were not in use, but tohis regret. 

"Well, we don't use vestments, " he said, "but--"

The Major resumed his pipe with a satisfied air. 

"That's all right, " he said. "Now, I'm not bigoted--my friend here's aRoman Catholic, but--"

The clergyman looked up sharply, and for the first time becameconsciously conscious of the second man. Frank had sat back again on thebed, with Jimmie beside him, and was watching the little scene quietlyand silently, and the clergyman met his eyes full. Some vague shockthrilled through him; Frank's clean-shaven brown face seemed somehowfamiliar--or was it something else?

Mr. Parham-Carter considered the point for a little while in silence, only half attending to the Major, who was now announcing his views onthe Establishment and the Reformation settlement. Frank said nothing atall, and there grew on the clergyman a desire to hear his voice. Hemade an opportunity at last. 

"Yes, I see, " he said to the Major; "and you--I don't know your name?"

"Gregory, sir, " said Frank. And again a little shock thrilled Mr. Parham-Carter. The voice was the kind of thing he had expected from thatface. 

 * * * * *

It was about ten minutes later, that the clergyman thought it was timeto go. He had the Major's positive promise to attend at least theevening service on the following Sunday--a promise he did not somehowvery much appreciate--but he had made no progress with Frank. He shookhands all round very carefully, told Jimmie not to miss Sunday-school, and publicly commended Maggie for a recitation she had accomplished atthe Band of Hope on the previous evening; and then went out, accompaniedby Mrs. Partington, still silent, as far as the door. But as he actuallywent out, someone pushed by the woman and came out into the street. 

"May I speak to you a minute?" said the strange young man, dropping the"sir. " "I'll walk with you as far as the clergy-house if you'll let me. "

 * * * * *

When they were out of earshot of the house Frank began. 

"You're Parham-Carter, aren't you?" he said. "Of Hales'. "

The other nodded. (Things were beginning to resolve themselves in hismind. )

"Well, will you give me your word not to tell a soul I'm here, and I'lltell you who I am? You've forgotten me, I see. But I'm afraid you mayremember. D'you see?"

"All right. "

"I'm Guiseley, of Drew's. We were in the same division once--up toRawlins. Do you remember?"

"Good Lord! But--"

"Yes, I know. But don't let's go into that. I've not done anything Ishouldn't. That's not the reason I'm like this. It's just turned out so. And there's something else I want to talk to you about. When can I comeand see you privately? I'm going to begin work to-morrow at the jamfactory. "

The other man clutched at his whirling faculties. 

"To-night--at ten. Will that do?"

"All right. What am I to say--when I ring the bell, I mean?"

"Just ask for me. They'll show you straight up to my room. "

"All right, " said Frank, and was gone. 

(III)

Mr. Parham-Carter's room in the clergy-house was of the regulartype--very comfortable and pleasing to the eye, as it ought to be for ayoung man working under such circumstances; not really luxurious; piousand virile. The walls were a rosy distemper, very warm and sweet, andupon them, above the low oak book-cases, hung school and college groups, discreet sporting engravings, a glorious cathedral interior, and theSistine Madonna over the mantelpiece. An oar hung all along one ceiling, painted on the blade with the arms of an Oxford college. There was asmall _prie-dieu_, surmounted by a crucifix of Ober-Ammergauworkmanship: there was a mahogany writing-table with a revolving chairset before it; there were a couple of deep padded arm-chairs, apipe-rack, and a row of photographs--his mother in evening dress, acouple of sisters, with other well-bred-looking relations. Altogether, with the curtains drawn and the fire blazing, it was exactly the kind ofroom that such a wholesome young man ought to have in the East ofLondon. 

Frank was standing on the hearth-rug as Mr. Parham-Carter came in aminute or two after ten o'clock, bearing a small tray with a coveredjug, two cups and a plate of cake. 

"Good-evening again, " said the clergyman. "Have some cocoa? I generallybring mine up here. .. . Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. "

Frank said nothing. He sat down. He put his cap on the floor by hischair and leaned back. The other, with rather nervous movements, set asteaming cup by his side, and a small silver box of cigarettes, matchesand an ash-tray. Then he sat down himself, took a long pull at hiscocoa, and waited with a certain apprehensiveness. 

"Who else is here?" asked Frank abruptly. 

The other ran through the three names, with a short biography of each. Frank nodded, reassured at the end. 

"That's all right, " he said. "All before my time, I expect. They mightcome in, you know. "

"Oh, no!" said the clergyman. "I told them not, and--"

"Well, let's come to business, " said Frank. "It's about a girl. You sawthat man to-day? You saw his sort, did you? Well, he's a bad hat. Andhe's got a girl going about with him who isn't his wife. I want to gether home again to her people. "

"Yes?"

"Can you do anything? (Don't say you can if you can't, please. .. . ) Shecomes from Chiswick. I'll give you her address before I go. But I don'twant it muddled, you know. "

The clergyman swallowed in his throat. He had only been ordainedeighteen months, and the extreme abruptness and reality of the situationtook him a little aback. 

"I can try, " he said. "And I can put the ladies on to her. But, ofcourse, I can't undertake--"

"Of course. But do you think there's a reasonable chance? If not, I'dbetter have another try myself. "

"Have you tried, then?"

"Oh, yes, half a dozen times. A fortnight ago was the last, and I reallythought--"

"But I don't understand. Are these people your friends, or what?"

"I've been traveling with them off and on since June. They belong toyou, so far as they belong to anyone. I'm a Catholic, you know--"

"Really? But--"

"Convert. Last June. Don't let's argue, my dear chap. There isn't time. "

Mr. Parham-Carter drew a breath. 

There is no other phrase so adequate for describing his condition ofmind as the old one concerning head and heels. There had rushed on him, not out of the blue, but, what was even more surprising, out of the verydingy sky of Hackney Wick (and Turner Road, at that!), this astonishingyoung man, keen-eyed, brown-faced, muscular, who had turned out to be aschool-fellow of his own, and a school-fellow whose reputation, duringthe three hours since they had parted, he had swiftly remembered pointby point--Guiseley of Drew's--the boy who had thrown off his coat inearly school and displayed himself shirtless; who had stolen four out ofthe six birches on a certain winter morning, and had conversed affablywith the Head in school yard with the ends of the birches sticking outbelow the skirts of his overcoat; who had been discovered on the fourthof June, with an air of reverential innocence, dressing the bronzestatue of King Henry VI. In a surplice in honor of the day. And now herehe was, and from his dress and the situation of his lodging-house to bereckoned among the worst of the loafing class, and yet talking, with anair of complete confidence and equality of a disreputable youngwoman--his companion--who was to be rescued from a yet more disreputablecompanion and restored to her parents in Chiswick. 

And this was not all--for, as Mr. Parham-Carter informed mehimself--there was being impressed upon him during this interview a verycurious sensation, which he was hardly able, even after consideration, to put into words--a sensation concerning the personality and presenceof this young man which he could only describe as making him feel"beastly queer. "

 * * * * *

It seems to have been about this point that he first perceived itclearly--distinguished it, that is to say, from the whole atmosphere ofstartling and suggesting mystery that surrounded him. 

He looked at Frank in silence a moment or two. .. . 

There Guiseley sat--leaning back in the red leather chair, his cocoastill untouched. He was in a villainous suit that once, probably, hadbeen dark blue. The jacket was buttoned up to his chin, and a grimymuffler surrounded his neck. His trousers were a great deal too short, and disclosed above a yellow sock, on the leg nearest to him, about fourinches of dark-looking skin. His boots were heavy, patched, and entirelyuncleaned, and the upper toe-cap of one of them gaped from the leatherover the instep. His hands were deep in his pockets, as if even in thiswarm room, he felt the cold. 

There was nothing remarkable there. It was the kind of figure presentedby unsatisfactory candidates for the men's club. And yet there was abouthim this air, arresting and rather disconcerting. .. . 

It was a sort of electric serenity, if I understand Mr. Parham-Carteraright--a zone of perfectly still energy, like warmth or biting cold, asof a charged force: it was like a real person standing motionless inthe middle of a picture. (Mr. Parham-Carter did not, of course, use suchbeautiful similes as these; he employed the kind of language customaryto men who have received a public school and university education, halfslang and half childishness; but he waved his hands at me and distortedhis features, and conveyed, on the whole, the kind of impression I havejust attempted to set down. )

Frank, then, seemed as much out of place in this perfectly correct andsuitable little room as an Indian prince in Buckingham Palace; or, ifyou prefer it, an English nobleman (with spats) in Delhi. He was justentirely different from it all; he had nothing whatever to do with it;he was wholly out of place, not exactly as regarded his manner (for hewas quite at his ease), but with regard to his significance. He was as aforeign symbol in a familiar language. 

Its effect upon Mr. Parham-Carter was quite clear and strong. Heinstanced to me the fact that he said nothing to Frank about his soul:he honestly confessed that he scarcely even wished to press him to cometo Evensong on Sunday. Of course, he did not like Frank's being a RomanCatholic; and his whole intellectual being informed him that it wasbecause Frank had never really known the Church of England that he hadleft it. (Mr. Parham-Carter had himself learned the real nature of theChurch of England at the Pusey House at Oxford. ) But there are certainatmospheres in which the intellectual convictions are not veryimportant, and this was one of them. So here the two young men sat andstared at one another, or, rather, Mr. Parham-Carter stared at Frank, and Frank looked at nothing in particular. 

"You haven't drunk your cocoa, " said the clergyman suddenly. 

Frank turned abruptly, took up the cup and drank the contents straightoff at one draught. 

"And a cigarette?"

Frank took up a cigarette and put in his mouth. 

"By the way, " he said, taking it out again, "when'll you send yourladies round? The morning's best, when the rest of us are out of theway. "

"All right. "

"Well, I don't think there's anything else?"

"My dear chap, " said the other, "I wish you'd tell me what it's allabout--why you're in this sort of life, you know. I don't want to pry, but--"

Frank smiled suddenly and vividly. 

"Oh, there's nothing to say. That's not the point. It's by my own choicepractically. I assure you I haven't disgraced anybody. "

"But your people--"

"Oh! they're all right. There's nothing the matter with them. .. . Lookhere! I really must be going. "

He stood up, and something seemed to snap in the atmosphere as he didso. 

"Besides, I've got to be at work early--"

"I say, what did you do then?"

"Do then? What do you mean?"

"When you stood up--Did you say anything?. .. "

Frank looked at him bewildered. 

"I don't know what you're talking about. "

Mr. Parham-Carter did not quite know what he had meant himself. It was asensation come and gone, in an instant, as Frank had moved . .. Asensation which I suppose some people would call "psychical"--asensation as if a shock had vibrated for one moment through every partof his own being, and of the pleasant little warm room where he wassitting. He looked at the other, dazed for a second or two, but therewas nothing. Those two steady black eyes looked at him in a humorouskind of concern. .. . 

He stood up himself. 

"It was nothing, " he said. "I think I must be getting sleepy. "

He put out his hand. 

"Good-night, " he said. "Oh! I'll come and see you as far as the gate. "

Frank looked at him a second. 

"I say, " he said; "I suppose you've never thought of becoming aCatholic?"

"My dear chap--"

"No! Well, all right. .. . Oh! don't bother to come to the gate. "

"I'm coming. It may be locked. "

 * * * * *

Mr. Parham-Carter stood looking after Frank's figure even after it hadpassed along the dark shop fronts and was turning the corner towardsTurner Road. Then it went under the lamplight, and disappeared. 

It was a drizzling, cold night, and he himself was bareheaded; he feltthe moisture run down his forehead, but it didn't seem to be happeningto him. On his right rose up the big parish-hall where theentertainments were held, and beyond it, the east end of the greatchurch, dark now and tenantless; and he felt the wet woodwork of thegate grasped in his fingers. 

He did not quite know what was happening to him but everything seemeddifferent. A hundred thoughts had passed through his mind during thelast half hour. It had occurred to him that he ought to have askedGuiseley to come to the clergy-house and lodge there for a bit whilethings were talked over; that he ought, tactfully, to have offered tolend him money, to provide him with a new suit, to make suggestions asto proper employment instead of at the jam factory--all those proper, philanthropic and prudent suggestions that a really sensible clergymanwould have made. And yet, somehow, not only had he not made them, but itwas obvious and evident when he regarded them that they could notpossibly be made. Guiseley (of Drew's) did not require them, he was onanother line altogether. .. . And what was that line?

Mr. Parham-Carter leaned on the gate a full five minutes considering allthis. But he arrived at no conclusion. 

CHAPTER II

(I)

The Rector of Merefield was returning from a short pastoral visitationtowards the close of an afternoon at the beginning of November. Hismethod and aims were very characteristic of himself, since he was one ofthat numerous class of persons who, interiorly possessing their fullshare of proper pride, wear exteriorly an appearance of extreme andalmost timid humility. The aims of his visiting were, though he wasquite unaware of the fact, directed towards encouraging people to holdfast to their proper position in life (for this, after all, is onlyanother name for one's duty towards one's neighbor), and his method wasto engage in general conversation on local topics. There emerged, inthis way, information as to the patient's habits and actions; it wouldthus transpire, for example, whether the patient had been to church ornot, whether there were any quarrels, and, if so, who were thecombatants and for what cause. 

He had been fairly satisfied to-day; he had met with good excuses forthe absence of two children from day-school, and of a young man fromchoir-practice; he had read a little Scripture to an old man, and hadbeen edified by his comments upon it. It was not particularlysupernatural, but, after all, the natural has its place, too, in life, and he had undoubtedly fulfilled to-day some of the duties for whosesake he occupied the position of Rector of Merefield, in a completelyinoffensive manner. The things he hated most in the world weredisturbances of any kind, abruptness and the unexpected, and he had astrong reputation in the village for being a man of peace. 

It sounds a hard thing to say of so conscientious a man, but a properlypreserved social order was perhaps to his mind the nearest approach tothe establishment of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. Each person heldhis proper position, including himself, and he no more expected othersto be untrue to their station than he wished to be untrue to his own. There were, of course, two main divisions--those of gentle birth andthose not of gentle birth, and these were as distinct as the sexes. Butthere were endless gradations in each respectively, and he himselfregarded those with as much respect as those of the angelic hierarchy:the "Dominations" might, or might not be as "good" as the "Powers, " butthey were certainly different, by Divine decree. It would be a speciesof human blasphemy, therefore, for himself not to stand up in LordTalgarth's presence, or for a laborer not to touch his hat to MissJenny. This is sometimes called snobbishness, but it is nothing of thekind. It is merely a marked form of Toryism. 

It was a pleasant autumnal kind of afternoon, and he took off his hat ashe turned up past the park gates to feel the cool air, as he was alittle heated with his walk. He felt exceedingly content with allthings: there were no troubles in the parish, he enjoyed excellenthealth, and he had just done his duty. He disliked pastoral visitingvery deeply indeed; he was essentially a timid kind of man, but he madehis rules and kept them, for he was essentially a conscientious man. Hewas so conscientious that he was probably quite unaware that he dislikedthis particular duty. 

Just as he came opposite the gates--great iron-work affairs with rampingeagles and a Gothic lodge smothered in ivy--the man ran out and began towheel them back, after a hasty salute to his pastor; and the Rector, turning, saw a sight that increased his complacency. It was just Jennyriding with Lord Talgarth, as he knew she was doing that afternoon. 

They made a handsome, courtly kind of pair--a sort of "father anddaughter" after some romantic artist or other. Lord Talgarth's heavyfigure looked well-proportioned on horseback, and he sat his big blackmare very tolerably indeed. And Jenny looked delicious on the whitemare, herself in dark green. A groom followed twenty yards behind. 

Lord Talgarth's big face nodded genially to the Rector and he made akind of salute; he seemed in excellent dispositions; Jenny was a littleflushed with exercise, and smiled at her father with a quiet, friendlydignity. 

"Just taking her ladyship home, " said the old man. .. . "Yes; charmingday, isn't it?"

 * * * * *

The Rector followed them, pleased at heart. Usually Jenny rode homealone with the groom to take back her mare to the stables. It was thefirst time, so far as he could remember, that Lord Talgarth had takenthe trouble to escort her all the way home himself. It really was verypleasant indeed, and very creditable to Jenny's tact, that relationswere so cordial. .. . And they were dining there to-morrow, too. Thesocial order of Merefield seemed to be in an exceedingly soundcondition. 

(II)

Lord Talgarth, too, seemed to the lodge-keeper, as ten minutes later thegates rolled back again to welcome their lord, in an unusually genialtemper (and, indeed, there was always about this old man as great acapacity for geniality on one side as for temper on the other; it isusually so with explosive characters). He even checked his horse andasked after "the missus" in so many words; although two days before aviolent message had come down to complain of laxity in the gate-opening, owing to the missus' indisposition on an occasion when the officialhimself had been digging cabbages behind the Gothic lodge and the hootof the motor had not been heard. 

The missus, it seemed, was up and about again (indeed her husband caughta glimpse out of the tail of his eye of a pale face that glanced andwithdrew again apprehensively above the muslin curtain beyond hislordship). 

"That's all right, " remarked Lord Talgarth heartily, and rode on. 

The lodge-keeper exchanged a solemn wink with the groom half a minutelater, and stood to watch the heavy figure ahead plunging about ratherin the saddle as the big black mare set her feet upon the turf andviewed her stable afar off. 

It was a fact that Lord Talgarth was pleased with himself and all theworld to-day, for he kept it up even with the footman who slipped, andall but lost his balance, as he brought tea into the library. 

"Hold up!" remarked the nobleman. 

The footman smiled gently and weakly, after the manner of a dependent, and related the incident with caustic gusto to his fellows in thepantry. 

After tea Lord Talgarth lay back in his chair and appeared to meditate, as was observed by the man who fetched out the tea-things and poked thefire; and he was still meditating, though now there was the aromaticsmell of tobacco upon the air, when his own man came to tell him that itwas time to dress. 

It was indeed a perfect room for arm-chair meditations; there were tallbook-shelves, mahogany writing-tables, each with its shaded electriclamp; the carpet was as deep as a summer lawn; and in the wide hearthlogs consumed themselves in an almost deferential silence. There wasevery conceivable thing that could be wanted laid in its proper place. It was the kind of room in which it would seem that no scheme couldmiscarry and every wish must prevail; the objective physical worldgrouped itself so obediently to the human will that it was almostimpossible to imagine a state of things in which it did not so. Thegreat house was admirably ordered; there was no sound that there shouldnot be--no hitches, no gaps or cracks anywhere; it moved like awell-oiled machine; the gong, sounded in the great hall, issuedinvitations rather than commands. All was leisurely, perfectly adaptedand irreproachable. 

 * * * * *

It is always more difficult for people who live in such houses as theseto behave well under adverse fortune than for those who live in houseswhere the Irish stew can be smelled at eleven o'clock in the morning, and where the doors do not shut properly, and the kitchen range goeswrong. Possibly something of this fact helped to explain the owner'sextreme violence of temper on the occasion of his son's revolt. It wasintolerable for a man all of whose other surroundings moved likeclockwork, obedient to his whims, to be disobeyed flatly by one whoseobedience should be his first duty--to find disorder and rebellion inthe very mainspring of the whole machine. 

Possibly, too, the little scheme that was maturing in Lord Talgarth'smind between tea and dinner that evening helped to restore hisgeniality; for, as soon as the thought was conceived, it became obviousthat it could be carried through with success. 

He observed: "Aha! it's time, is it?" to his man in a hearty kind ofway, and hoisted himself out of his chair with unusual briskness. 

(III)

He spent a long evening again in the library alone. Archie was away; andafter dining alone with all the usual state, the old man commanded thatcoffee should be brought after him. The butler found him, five minuteslater, kneeling before a tall case of drawers, trying various keys offhis bunch, and when the man came to bring in whisky and clear away thecoffee things he was in his deep chair, a table on either side of himpiled with papers, and a drawer upon his knees. 

"You can put this lot back, " he remarked to the young footman, indicating a little pile of four drawers on the hearth-rug. He watchedthe man meditatively as he attempted to fit them into their places. 

"Not that way, you fool! Haven't you got eyes?. .. The top one at thetop!"

But he said it without bitterness--almost contemplatively. And, as thebutler glanced round a moment or two later to see that all was in order, he saw his master once more beginning to read papers. 

"Good-night, " said Lord Talgarth. 

"Good-night, my lord, " said the butler. 

There was a good deal of discussion that night in the men's wing as tothe meaning of all this, and it was conducted with complete frankness. Mr. Merton, the butler, had retired to his own house in the stable-yard, and Mr. Clarkson, the valet, was in his lordship's dressing-room; so themen talked freely. It was agreed that only two explanations werepossible for the unusual sweetness of temper: either Mr. Frank was to bereinstated, or his father was beginning to break up. Frank was extremelypopular with servants always; and it was generally hoped that the formerexplanation was the true one. Possibly, however, both were required. 

 * * * * *

Mr. Clarkson too was greatly _intrigué_ that night. He yawned about thedressing-room till an unusually late hour, for Lord Talgarth generallyretired to rest between ten and half-past. To-night, however, it wastwenty minutes to twelve before the man stood up suddenly from the sofaat the sound of a vibration in the passage outside. The old man came inbriskly, bearing a bundle of papers in one hand and a bed-candle in theother, with the same twinkle of good temper in his eyes that he hadcarried all the evening. 

"Give me the dispatch-box under the sofa, " he said; "the one in theleather case. "

This was done and the papers were laid in it, carefully, on the top. Mr. Clarkson noticed that they had a legal appearance, were long-shapedand inscribed in stiff lettering. Then the dispatch-box was reclosed andset on the writing-table which my lord used sometimes when he wasunwell. 

"Remind me to send for Mr. Manners to-morrow, " he said. (This was thesolicitor. )

 * * * * *

Getting ready for bed that evening was almost of a sensational nature, and Mr. Clarkson had to keep all his wits about him to respond withsufficient agility to the sallies of his master. Usually it was all avery somber ceremony, with a good deal of groaning and snarling inasides. But to-night it was as cheerful as possible. 

The mysteries of it all are too great for me to attempt to pierce them;but it is really incredible what a number of processes are necessarybefore an oldish man, who is something of a buck and something of aninvalid, and altogether self-centered, is able to lay him down to rest. There are strange doses to be prepared and drunk, strange manipulationsto be performed and very particular little ceremonies to be observed, each in its proper place. Each to-night was accompanied by some genialcomment: the senna-pod distillation, that had been soaking since sevenp. M. In hot water, was drunk almost with the air of a toast; themassaging of the ankles and toes (an exercise invented entirely by LordTalgarth himself) might have been almost in preparation for a dance. 

He stood up at last, an erect, stoutish figure, in quilted dressing-gownand pyjamas, before the fire, as his man put on his slippers for him, for the little procession into the next room. 

"I think I'm better to-night, Clarkson, " he said. 

"Your lordship seems very well indeed, my lord, " murmured that diplomaton the hearth-rug. 

"How old do you think I am, Clarkson?"

Clarkson knew perfectly well, but it was better to make a deprecatoryconfused noise. 

"Ah! well, we needn't reckon by years . .. I feel young enough, " observedthe stately figure before the fire. 

 * * * * *

Then the procession was formed: the double doors were set back, theelectric light switched on; Lord Talgarth passed through towards thegreat four-posted bed that stood out into the bedroom, and was in bed, with scarcely a groan, almost before the swift Mr. Clarkson could be athis side to help him in. He lay there, his ruddy face wonderfullyhandsome against the contrast of his gray hair and the white pillow, while Mr. Clarkson concluded the other and final ceremonies. A smalltable had to be wheeled to a certain position beside the bed, and thehandle of the electric cord laid upon it in a particular place, betweenthe book and the tray on which stood some other very special draught tobe drunk in case of thirst. 

"Call me a quarter of an hour earlier than usual, " observed the face onthe pillow. "I'll take a little stroll before breakfast. "

"Yes, my lord. "

"What did I tell you to remind me to do after breakfast?"

"Send for Mr. Manners, my lord. "

"That's right. Good-night, Clarkson. "

"Good-night, my lord. "

 * * * * *

There was the usual discreet glance round the room to see that all wasin order; then the door into the dressing-room closed imperceptiblybehind Mr. Clarkson's bent back. 

CHAPTER III

(I)

Winter at Merefield Rectory is almost as delightful as summer, althoughin an entirely different way. The fact is that the Rectory has managedthe perfect English compromise. In summer, with the windows and doorswide open, with the heavy radiant creepers, with the lawns lying aboutthe house, with the warm air flowing over the smooth, polished floorsand lifting the thin mats, with the endless whistle of bird song--thenthe place seems like a summer-house. And in winter, with the heavycarpets down, and the thick curtains, the very polished floors, so coolin summer, seem expressly designed to glimmer warmly with candle andfire-light; and the books seem to lean forward protectively and reassertthemselves, and the low beamed ceilings to shelter and safeguard theinterior comfort. The center of gravity is changed almost imperceptibly. In summer the place is a garden with a house in the middle; in winter ahouse surrounded by shrubberies. 

The study in one way and the morning-room in another are the respectivepivots of the house. The study is a little paneled room on theground-floor, looking out upon the last of the line of old yews and thebeginning of the lawn; the morning-room (once known as the school-room)is the only other paneled room in the house, on the first floor, lookingout upon the front. And round these two rooms the two sections of thehouse-life tranquilly revolve. Here in one the Rector controls theaffairs of the parish, writes his sermons, receives his men friends (notvery many), and reads his books. There in the other Jenny orders thedomestic life of the house, interviews the cook, and occupies herselfwith her own affairs. They are two rival, but perfectly friendly, camps. 

 * * * * *

Lately (I am speaking now of the beginning of November) there had notbeen quite so much communication between the two camps as usual, not somany informal negotiations. Jenny did not look in quite so often uponher father--for ten minutes after breakfast, for instance, or beforelunch--and when he looked in on her he seemed to find her generally withrather a preoccupied air, often sitting before the wide-archedfireplace, with her hands behind her head, looking at the red logs. 

He was an easy man, as has been seen, and did not greatly trouble hishead about it: he knew enough of the world to recognize that anextremely beautiful girl like Jenny, living on the terms she did withthe great house--and a house with men coming and going continually, tosay nothing of lawn-tennis parties and balls elsewhere--cannotaltogether escape complications. He was reasonable enough, too, tounderstand that a father is not always the best confidant, and he hadsupreme confidence in Jenny's common sense. 

I suppose he had his dreams; he would scarcely have been human if he hadnot, and he was quite human. The throwing over of Frank had brought himmixed emotions, but he had not been consulted either at the beginning orthe end of the engagement, and he acquiesced. Of Dick's affair he knewnothing at all. 

That, then, was the situation when the bomb exploded. It exploded inthis way. 

He was sitting in his study one morning--to be accurate, it was thefirst Saturday in November, two days after the events of the lastchapter--preparing to begin the composition of his sermon for the nextday. They had dined up at the great house the night before quite quietlywith Lord Talgarth and Archie, who had just come back. 

He had selected his text with great care from the Gospel for the day, when the door suddenly opened and Jenny came in. This was very unusualon Saturday morning; it was an understood thing that he must be at hissermon; but his faint sense of annoyance was completely dispelled by hisdaughter's face. She was quite pale--not exactly as if she had receiveda shock, but as if she had made up her mind to something; there was nosign of tremor in her face; on the contrary, she looked extremelydetermined, but her eyes searched his as she stopped. 

"I'm dreadfully sorry, father, but may I talk to you for a few minutes?"

She did not wait for his answer, but came straight in and sat down inhis easy-chair. He laid his pen down and turned a little at hiswriting-table to face her. 

"Certainly, dear. What is it? Nothing wrong?"

(He noticed she had a note in her hand. )

"No, nothing wrong. .. . " She hesitated. "But it's rather important. "

"Well?"

She glanced down at the note she carried. Then she looked up at himagain. 

"Father, I suppose you've thought of my marrying some day--in spite ofFrank?"

"Eh?"

"Would you mind if I married a man older than myself--I mean a good dealolder?"

He looked at her in silence. Two or three names passed before his mind, but he couldn't remember--

"Father, I'm in trouble. I really am. I didn't expect--"

Her voice faltered. He saw that she really found it difficult to speak. A little wave of tenderness rolled over his heart. It was unlike her tobe so much moved. He got up and came round to her. 

"What is it, dear? Tell me. "

She remained perfectly motionless for an instant. Then she held out thenote to him, and simultaneously stood up. As he took it, she wentswiftly past him and out of the door. He heard the swish of her dresspass up the stairs, and then the closing of a door. But he hardly heededit. He was reading the note she had given him. It was a short, perfectlyformal offer of marriage to her from Lord Talgarth. 

(II)

"Father, dear, " said Jenny, "I want you to let me have my say straightout, will you?"

He bowed his head. 

They were sitting, on the evening of the same day, over the tea-thingsin his study. He had not seen her alone for one moment since themorning. She had refused to open her door to him when he went up afterreading the note: she had pleaded a headache at lunch, and she had beeninvisible all the afternoon. Then, as he came in about tea-time, she haddescended upon him, rather pale, but perfectly herself, perfectlynatural, and even rather high-spirited. She had informed him that teawould be laid in his study, as she wanted a long talk. She had pouredout tea, talking all the time, refusing, it seemed, to meet his eyes. When she had finished, she had poured out his third cup, and then pushedher own low chair back so far that he could not see her face. 

Then she had opened the engagement. 

 * * * * *

To say that the poor man had been taken aback would be a very poor wayof describing his condition. The thing simply had never entered hishead. He had dreamed, in wild moments, of Archie; he had certainlycontemplated Dick; but Lord Talgarth himself, gouty and agedsixty-five!. .. And yet he had not been indignant. Indignation not onlydid not do with Jenny, but it was impossible. To be quite frank, the manwas afraid of his daughter; he was aware that she would do ultimatelyas she wished, and not as he wished; and his extreme discomfort at thethought of this old man marrying his daughter was, since he was human, partly counter-balanced by the thought of who the old man was. Lastly, it must be remembered that Jenny was really a very sensible girl, andthat her father was quite conscious of the fact. 

Jenny settled herself once more in her chair and began. 

 * * * * *

"Father, dear, I want to be quite sensible about this. And I've beenvery foolish and silly about it all day. I can't imagine why I behavedas I did. There's nothing to go and mope about, that Lord Talgarth hasbeen kind enough to do me this honor. Because it is an honor, you know, however you look at it, that anyone should ask one to be his wife. 

"Well, I want to say what I have to say first, and then I want you tosay exactly what you think. I've thought it all out, so I shan't be verylong. "

(He put down his cup noiselessly, as if in the presence of a sickperson. He was anxious not to lose a word, or even an inflection). 

"First of all, let's have all the things against it. He's an old man. Wemustn't forget that for one minute. And that's a very strong argumentindeed. Some people would think it final, but I think that'sfoolish. .. . 

"Secondly, it never entered my head for one instant. " (Jenny said thisquite deliberately, almost reverently. ) "Of course I see now that he'shinted at it very often, but I never understood it at the time. I'vealways thought of him as a sort of--well--a sort of uncle. And that'sanother strong argument against it. If it was a right thing to do, oughtn't it to have occurred to me too? I'm not quite sure about that. 

"Thirdly, it's unsuitable for several reasons. It'll make talk. Herehave I been engaged to Frank for ages and broken it off. Can't youimagine how people will interpret that now? I suppose I oughtn't to mindwhat people say, but I'm afraid I do. Then I'm the Rector's daughter . .. And I've been running in and out continually--dining with them, sittingwith him alone. Can't you imagine what people--Lady Richard, forinstance--will make of it?. .. I shall be an adventuress, and all therest of it. That's not worth much as an argument, but it is a . .. Aconsideration. One must look facts in the face and think of the future. 

"Fourthly, Lord Talgarth probably won't live very long. .. . " (Jennypaused, and then, with extraordinary impressiveness, continued). .. . "Andthat, of, course, is perhaps the strongest argument of all. If I couldbe of any real use to him--" She stopped again. 

The Rector shifted a little in his chair. 

It was impossible for him to conceal from himself any longer the factthat up to now he had really been expecting Jenny to accept the offer. But he was a little puzzled now at the admirable array of reasons shehad advanced against that. She had put into words just the sensible viewof which he himself had only had a confused apprehension; she hadanalyzed into all its component parts that general sense which one sideof him had pushed before him all day--that the thing was reallyabominable. And this side of him at this time was uppermost. He drew awhistling breath. 

"Well, my dear, " he began, and the relief was very apparent in hisvoice. But Jenny interrupted. 

"One minute, please, father! In fairness to--to everyone I must put theother side. .. . I suppose the main question is this, after all. Am I fondof him?--fond enough, that is, to marry him--because, of course, I'mfond of him; he's been so extraordinarily kind always. .. . I supposethat's really the only thing to be considered. If I were fond enough ofhim, I suppose all the arguments against count for nothing. Isn't thatso?. .. Yes; I want you to say what you think. "

He waited. Still he could make out nothing of her face, though heglanced across the tea-things once or twice. 

"My dear, I don't know what to say. I--"

"Father, dear, I just want that from you. Do you think that anyconsideration at all ought to stand in the way, if I were--I don't sayfor one single moment that I am--but if I were--well, really fond ofhim? I'm sorry to have to speak so very plainly, but it's no good beingsilly. "

He swallowed in his throat once or twice. 

"If you really were fond of him--I think . .. I think that, noconsideration of the sort you have mentioned ought to . .. To stand inyour way. "

"Thank you, father, " said Jenny softly. 

"When did you first think of it?"

Jenny paused. 

"I think I knew he was going to ask me two days ago--the day you met usout riding, you know. "

 * * * * *

There was a long silence. 

They had already discussed, when Frank's affair had been before them, all secondary details. 

The Rector's sister was to have taken Jenny's place. There was nothingof that sort to talk about now. They were both just face to face withprimary things, and they both knew it. 

The Rector's mind worked like a mill--a mill whose machinery is runningaimlessly. The wheels went round and round, but they effected nothing. He was completely ignorant as to what Jenny intended. He perceived--asin a series of little vignettes--a number of hypothetical events, onthis side and that, but they drew to no conclusion in his mind. He wasjust waiting on his daughter's will. 

 * * * * *

Jenny broke the silence with a slow remark in another kind of voice. 

"Father, dear, there's something else I must tell you. I didn't see anyneed to bother you with it before. It's this. Mr. Dick Guiseley proposedto me when he was here for the shooting. "

She paused, but her father said nothing. 

"I told him he must wait--that I didn't know for certain, but that I wasalmost certain. If he had pressed for an answer I should have said 'No. 'Oddly enough, I was thinking only yesterday that it wasn't fair to keephim waiting any longer. Because . .. Because it's 'No' . .. Anyhow, now. "

The Rector still could not speak. It was just one bewilderment. Butapparently Jenny did not want any comments. 

"That being so, " she went on serenely, "my conscience is clear, anyhow. And I mustn't let what I think Mr. Dick might say or think affectme--any more than the other things. Must I?"

". .. Jenny, what are you going to do? Tell me!"

"Father, dear, " came the high astonished voice, "I don't know. I don'tknow at all. I must think. Did you think I'd made up my mind? Why! Howcould I? Of course I should say 'No' if I had to answer now. "

"I--" began the Rector and stopped. He perceived that the situationcould easily be complicated. 

"I must just think about it quietly, " went on the girl. "And I mustwrite a note to say so. .. . Father . .. "

He glanced in her direction. 

"Father, about being fond of a man. .. . Need it be--well, as I was fondof Frank? I don't think Lord Talgarth could have expected that, couldhe? But if you--well--get on with a man very well, understand him--canstand up to him without annoying him . .. And . .. And care for him, really, I mean, in such a way that you like being with him very much, and look up to him very much in all kinds of ways--(I'm very sorry tohave to talk like this, but whom am I to talk to, father dear?) Well, ifI found I did care for Lord Talgarth like that--like a sort of daughter, or niece, and more than that too, would that--"

"I don't know, " said the Rector, abruptly standing up. "I don't know;you mustn't ask me. You must settle all that yourself. "

She looked up at him, startled, it seemed, by the change in his manner. 

"Father, dear--" she began, with just the faintest touch of patheticreproach in her voice. But he did not appear moved by it. 

"You must settle, " he said. "You have all the data. I haven't. I--"

He stepped towards the door. 

"Tell me as soon as you have decided, " he said, and went out. 

(III)

The little brown dog called Lama, who in an earlier chapter once trottedacross a lawn, and who had lately been promoted to sleeping upon Jenny'sbed, awoke suddenly that night and growled a low breathy remonstrance. He had been abruptly kicked from beneath the bedclothes. 

"Get off, you heavy little beast, " said a voice in the darkness. 

Lama settled himself again with a grunt, half of comfort, half ofcomplaint. 

"_Get off!_" came the voice again, and again his ribs were heaved at bya foot. 

He considered it a moment or two, and even shifted nearer the wall, still blind with sleep; but the foot pursued him, and he awoke finallyto the conviction that it would be more comfortable by the fire; therewas a white sheepskin there, he reflected. As he finally reached theground, a scratching was heard in the corner, and he was instantlyalert, and the next moment had fitted his nose, like a kind ofindia-rubber pad, deep into a small mouse-hole in the wainscoting, andwas breathing long noisy sighs down into the delicious andgamey-smelling darkness. 

"Oh! be quiet!" came a voice from the bed. 

Lama continued his investigations unmoved, and having decided, after onelong final blow, that there was to be no sport, returned to thesheepskin with that brisk independent air that was so characteristic ofhim. He was completely awake now, and stood eyeing the bed a moment, with the possibility in his mind that his mistress was asleep again, and that by a very gentle leap--But a match was struck abruptly, and helay down, looking, with that appearance of extreme wide-awakedness inhis black eyes that animals always wear at night, at his restlessmistress. 

He could not quite understand what was the matter. 

First she lit a candle, took a book from the small table by the bed andbegan to read resolutely. This continued till Lama's eyes began to blinkat the candle flame, and then he was suddenly aware that the light wasout and the book closed, and all fallen back again into the clear graytones which men call darkness. 

He put his head down on his paws, but his eyebrows rose now and again ashe glanced at the bed. 

Then the candle was lighted again after a certain space of time, butthis time there was no book opened. Instead, his mistress took her armsout of bed, and clasped them behind her head, staring up at theceiling. .. . 

This was tiresome, as the light was in his eyes, and his body was justinert enough with sleep to make movement something of an effort. .. . 

Little by little, however, his eyebrows came down, remained down, andhis eyes closed. .. . 

He awoke again at a sound. The candle was still burning, but hismistress had rolled over on to her side and seemed to be talking gentlyto herself. Then she was over again on this side, and a minute later wasout of bed, and walking to and fro noiselessly on the soft carpet. 

He watched her with interest, his eyes only following her. He had neveryet fully understood this mysterious change of aspect that took placeevery night--the white thin dress, the altered appearance of the head, and--most mysterious of all--the two white things that ought to be feet, but were no longer hard and black. He had licked one of them oncetentatively, and had found that the effect was that it had curled upsuddenly; there had been a sound as of pain overhead, and a swift slaphad descended upon him. 

He was observing these things now--to and fro, to and fro--and his eyesmoved with them. 

 * * * * *

After a certain space of time the movement stopped. She was standingstill near a carved desk--important because a mouse had once beendescribed sitting beneath it; and she stood so long that his eyes beganto blink once more. Then there was a rustle of paper being torn, and hewas alert again in a moment. Perhaps paper would be thrown for himpresently. .. . 

She came across to the hearth-rug, and he was up, watching her hands, while his own short tail flickered three or four times in invitation. But it was no good: the ball was crumpled up and thrown on to the redlogs. There was a "whup" from the fire and a flame shot up. He looked atthis carefully with his head on one side, and again lay down to watchit. His mistress was standing quite still, watching it with him. 

Then, as the flame died down, she turned abruptly, went straight back tothe bed, got into it, drew the clothes over her and blew the candle out. 

 * * * * *

After a few moments steady staring at the fire, he perceived that a partof the ball of paper had rolled out on to the stone hearth unburned. Helooked at it for some while, wondering whether it was worth getting upfor. Certainly the warmth was delicious and the sheepskin exquisitelysoft. 

There was no sound from the bed. A complete and absolute silence hadsucceeded to all the restlessness. 

Finally he concluded that it was impossible to lie there any longer andwatch such a crisp little roll of paper still untorn. He got up, steppeddelicately on to the wide hearth, and pulled the paper towards him witha little scratching sound. There was a sigh from the bed, and he paused. Then he lifted it, stepped back to his warm place, lay down, andplacing his paws firmly upon the paper, began to tear scraps out of itwith his white teeth. 

"Oh, _be quiet_!" came the weary voice from the bed. 

He paused, considered; then he tore two more pieces. But it did nottaste as it should; it was a little sticky, and too stiff. He stood uponce more, turned round four times and lay down with a small grunt. 

In the morning the maid who swept up the ashes swept up these fragmentstoo. She noticed a wet scrap of a picture postcard, with the word"Selby" printed in the corner. Then she threw that piece, too, into thedustpan. 

CHAPTER IV

(I)

Mrs. Partington and Gertie had many of those mysterious conversationsthat such women have, full of "he's" and "she's" and nods and becks andallusions and broken sentences, wholly unintelligible to the outsider, yet packed with interest to the talkers. The Major, Mr. Partington(still absent), and Frank were discussed continually and exhaustively;and, so far as the subjects themselves ranged, there was hardly anunimportant detail that did not come under notice, and hardly animportant fact that did. Gertie officially passed, of course, as Mrs. Trustcott always. 

A couple of mornings after Frank had begun his work at the jam factory, Mrs. Partington, who had stepped round the corner to talk with a friendfor an hour or so, returned to find Gertie raging. She raged in her ownway; she was as white as a sheet; she uttered ironical andunintelligible sentences, in which Frank's name appeared repeatedly, andit emerged presently that one of the Mission-ladies had been roundminding other folks' business, and that Gertie would thank that lady tokeep her airs and her advice to herself. 

Now Mrs. Partington knew that Gertie was not the Major's wife, andGertie knew that she knew it; and Mrs. Partington knew that Gertie knewthat she knew it. Yet, officially, all was perfectly correct; Gertiewore a wedding-ring, and there never was the hint that she had not aright to it. It was impossible, therefore, for Mrs. Partington toobserve out loud that she understood perfectly what the Mission-lady hadbeen talking about. She said very little; she pressed her thin lipstogether and let Gertie alone. The conversations that morning were ofthe nature of disconnected monologues from Gertie with long silencesbetween. 

It was an afternoon of silent storm. The Major was away in the West Endsomewhere on mysterious affairs; the children were at school, and thetwo women went about, each knowing what was in the mind of the other, yet each resolved to keep up appearances. 

At half-past five o'clock Frank abruptly came in for a cup of tea, andMrs. Partington gave it him in silence. (Gertie could be heard movingabout restlessly overhead. ) She made one or two ordinary remarks, watching Frank when he was not looking. But Frank said very little. Hesat up to the table; he drank two cups of tea out of the chipped enamelmug, and then he set to work on his kippered herring. At this point Mrs. Partington left the room, as if casually, and a minute later Gertie camedownstairs. 

 * * * * *

She came in with an indescribable air of virtue, rather white in theface, with her small chin carefully thrust out and her eyelids drooping. It was a pose she was accustomed to admire in high-minded andaristocratic barmaids. Frank nodded at her and uttered a syllable or twoof greeting. 

She said nothing; she went round to the window, carrying a white cottonblouse she had been washing upstairs, and hung it on the clothes-linethat ran inside the window. Then, still affecting to be busy with it, she fired her first shot, with her back to him. 

"I'll thank you to let my business alone. .. . "

(Frank put another piece of herring into his mouth. )

". .. And not to send round any more of your nasty cats, " added Gertieafter a pause. 

There was silence from Frank. 

"Well?" snapped Gertie. 

"How dare you talk like that!" said Frank, perfectly quietly. 

He spoke so low that Gertie mistook his attitude, and, leaning herhands on the table, she poured out the torrent that had been gatheringwithin her ever since the Mission-lady had left her at eleven o'clockthat morning. The lady had not been tactful; she was quite new to thework, and quite fresh from a women's college, and she had said a greatdeal more than she ought, with an earnest smile upon her face that shehad thought conciliatory and persuasive. Gertie dealt with herfaithfully now; she sketched her character as she believed it to be; shetraced her motives and her attitude to life with an extraordinary wealthof detail; she threw in descriptive passages of her personal appearance, and she stated, with extreme frankness, her opinion of such persons asshe had thought friendly, but now discovered to be hypocritical parsonsin disguise. Unhappily I have not the skill to transcribe her speech infull, and there are other reasons, too, why her actual words are bestunreported: they were extremely picturesque. 

Frank ate on quietly till he had finished his herring; then he drank hislast cup of tea, and turned a little in his chair towards the fire. Heglanced at the clock, perceiving that he had still ten minutes, just asGertie ended and stood back shaking and pale-eyed. 

"Is that all?" he asked. 

It seemed it was not all, and Gertie began again, this time on aslightly higher note, and with a little color in her face. Frank waited, quite simply and without ostentation. She finished. 

After a moment's pause Frank answered. 

"I don't know what you want, " he said. "I talked to you myself, and youwouldn't listen. So I thought perhaps another woman would do itbetter--"

"I did listen--"

"I beg your pardon, " said Frank instantly. "I was wrong. You did listen, and very patiently. I meant that you wouldn't do what I said. And so Ithought--"

Gertie burst out again, against cats and sneaking hypocrites, but therewas not quite the same venom in her manner. 

"Very good, " said Frank. "Then I won't make the mistake again. I am verysorry--not in the least for having interfered, you understand, but fornot having tried again myself. " (He took up his cap. ) "You'll soon givein, Gertie, you know. Don't you think so yourself?"

Gertie looked at him in silence. 

"You understand, naturally, why I can't talk to you while the Major'shere. But the next time I have a chance--"

The unlatched door was pushed open and the Major came in. 

(II)

There was an uncomfortable little pause for a moment. It is extremelydoubtful, even now, exactly how much the Major heard; but he must haveheard something, and to a man of his mind the situation that he foundmust have looked extremely suspicious. Gertie, flushed now, with emotionvery plainly visible in her bright eyes, was standing looking at Frank, who, it appeared, was a little disconcerted. It would have been almostmiraculous if the Major had not been convinced that he had interrupted alittle private love-making. 

It is rather hard to analyze the Major's attitude towards Gertie; butwhat is certain is that the idea of anyone else making love to her wassimply intolerable. Certainly he did not treat her with any greatchivalry; he made her carry the heavier bundles on the tramp; he behavedto her with considerable disrespect; he discussed her freely with hisfriends on convivial occasions. But she was his property--his and no oneelse's. He had had his suspicions before; he had come in quietly justnow on purpose, and he had found himself confronted by this verypeculiar little scene. 

He looked at them both in silence. Then his lips sneered like a dog's. 

"Pardon me, " he said, with extreme politeness. "I appear to beinterrupting a private conversation. "

No one said anything. Frank leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece. 

"It was private, then?" continued the Major with all the poisonouscourtesy at his command. 

"Yes; it was private, " said Frank shortly. 

The Major put his bowler hat carefully upon the table. 

"Gertie, my dear, " he said. "Will you be good enough to leave us for aninstant? I regret having to trouble you. "

Gertie breathed rather rapidly for a moment or two. She was notaltogether displeased. She understood perfectly, and it seemed to herrather pleasant that two men should get into this kind of situation overher. She was aware that trouble would come to herself later, probably inthe form of personal chastisement, but to the particular kind offeminine temperament that she possessed even a beating was not whollypainful, and the cheap kind of drama in which she found herself waswholly attractive. After an instant's pause, she cast towards Frank whatshe believed to be a "proud" glance and marched out. 

"If you've got much to say, " said Frank rapidly, as the door closed, "you'd better keep it for this evening. I've got to go in . .. In twominutes. "

"Two minutes will be ample, " said the Major softly. 

Frank waited. 

"When I find a friend, " went on the other, "engaged in an apparentlyexciting kind of conversation, which he informs me is private, with onewho is in the position of my wife--particularly when I catch a sentenceor two obviously not intended for my ears--I do not ask what was thesubject of the conversation, but I--"

"My dear man, " said Frank, "do put it more simply. "

The Major was caught, so to speak, full in the wind. His face twitchedwith anger. 

Then he flung an oath at Frank. 

"If I catch you at it again, " he said, "there'll be trouble. God damnyou!"

"That is as it may be, " said Frank. 

The Major had had just one drink too much, and he was in the kind ofexpansive mood that changes very rapidly. 

"Can you tell me you were not trying to take her from me?" he cried, almost with pathos in his voice. 

This was, of course, exactly what Frank had been trying to do. 

"You can't deny it!. .. Then I tell you this, Mr. Frankie"--the Majorsprang up--"one word more from you to her on that subject . .. And . .. And you'll know it. D'you understand me?"

He thrust his face forward almost into Frank's. 

It was an unpleasant face at most times, but it was really dangerousnow. His lips lay back, and the peculiar hot smell of spirit breathedinto Frank's nostrils. Frank turned and looked into his eyes. 

"I understand you perfectly, " he said. "There's no need to say any more. And now, if you'll forgive me, I must get back to my work. "

He took up his cap and went out. 

 * * * * *

The Major, as has been said, had had one glass too much, and he had, accordingly, put into words what, even in his most suspicious moments, he had intended to keep to himself. It might be said, too, that he hadput into words what he did not really think. But the Major was, likeeveryone else, for good or evil, a complex character, and found itperfectly possible both to believe and disbelieve the same ideasimultaneously. It depended in what stratum the center of gravityhappened to be temporarily suspended. One large part of the Major knewperfectly well, therefore, that any jealousy of Frank was simplyridiculous--the thing was simply alien; and another part, not so large, but ten times more concentrated, judged Frank by the standards by whichthe Major (_qua_ blackguard) conducted his life. For people who livedusually in that stratum, making love to Gertie, under suchcircumstances, would have been an eminently natural thing to do, and, just now, the Major chose to place Frank amongst them. 

The Major himself was completely unaware of these psychologicaldistinctions, and, as he sat, sunk in his chair, brooding, beforestepping out to attend to Gertie, he was entirely convinced that hissuspicions were justified. It seemed to him now that numberless littledetails out of the past fitted, with the smoothness of an adjustedpuzzle, into the framework of his thought. 

There was, first, the very remarkable fact that Frank, in spite ofopportunities to better himself, had remained in their company. AtBarham, at Doctor Whitty's, at the monastery, obvious chances hadoffered themselves and he had not taken them. Then there were the smallacts of courtesy, the bearing of Gertie's bundles two or three times. Finally, there was a certain change in Gertie's manner--a certain silentpeevishness towards himself, a curious air that fell on her now and thenas she spoke to Frank or looked at him. 

And so forth. It was an extraordinarily convincing case, clinched nowby the little scene that he had just interrupted. And the veryirregularity of his own relations with Gertie helped to poison thesituation with an astonishingly strong venom. 

Of course, there were other considerations, or, rather, there wasone--that Frank, obviously, was not the kind of man to be attracted bythe kind of woman that Gertie was--a consideration made up, however, ofinfinitely slighter indications. But this counted for nothing. It seemedunsubstantial and shadowy. There were solid, definable arguments on theone side; there was a vague general impression on the other. .. . 

So the Major sat and stared at the fire, with the candle-light fallingon his sunken cheeks and the bristle on his chin--a poor fallen kind offigure, yet still holding the shadow of a shadow of an ideal that mightyet make him dangerous. 

Presently he got up with a sudden movement and went in search of Gertie. 

(III)

There are no free libraries in Hackney Wick; the munificences of Mr. Carnegie have not yet penetrated to that district (and, indeed, thethought of a library of any kind in Hackney Wick is a littleincongruous). But there is one in Homerton, and during the dinner-houron the following day Frank went up the steps of it, pushed open theswing-doors, and found his way to some kind of a writing-room, where heobtained a sheet of paper, an envelope and a penny stamp, and sat downto write a letter. 

The picture that I have in my mind of Frank at this present time maypossibly be a little incorrect in one or two details, but I am quiteclear about its main outlines, and it is extremely vivid on the whole. Isee him going in, quietly and unostentatiously--quite at his ease, yet avery unusual figure in such surroundings. I hear an old gentleman sniffand move his chair a little as this person in an exceedingly shabby bluesuit with the collar turned up, with a muffler round his neck and large, bulging boots on his feet, comes and sits beside him. I perceive anearnest young lady, probably a typist in search of extra culture, lookat him long and vacantly from over her copy of Emerson, and can almostsee her mind gradually collecting conclusions about him. The attendant, too, as he asks for his paper, eyes him shrewdly and suspiciously, andwaits till the three halfpence are actually handed across under thebrass wire partition before giving him the penny stamp. Thesecircumstances may be incorrect, but I am absolutely clear as to Frank'sown attitude of mind. Honestly, he no longer minds in the very leasthow people behave to him; he has got through all that kind of thing longago; he is not at all to be commiserated; it appears to him only ofimportance to get the paper and to be able to write and post his letterwithout interruption. For Frank has got on to that plane--(I know noother word to use, though I dislike this one)--when these other thingssimply do not matter. We all touch that plane sometimes, generally undercircumstances of a strong mental excitement, whether of pleasure orpain, or even annoyance. A man with violent toothache, or who has justbecome engaged to be married, really does not care what people think ofhim. But Frank, for the present at least, has got here altogether, though for quite different reasons. The letter he wrote on this occasionis, at present, in my possession. It runs as follows. It is very shortand business-like:

 "DEAR JACK, "I want to tell you where I am--or, rather, where I can be got at in case of need. I am down in East London for the present, and one of the curates here knows where I'm living. (He was at Eton with me. ) His address is: The Rev. E. Parham-Carter, The Eton Mission, Hackney Wick, London, N. E. 

 "The reason I'm writing is this: You remember Major Trustcott and Gertie, don't you? Well, I haven't succeeded in getting Gertie back to her people yet, and the worst of it is that the Major knows that there's something up, and, of course, puts the worst possible construction upon it. Parham-Carter knows all about it, too--I've just left a note on him, with instructions. Now I don't quite know what'll happen, but in case anything does happen which prevents my going on at Gertie, I want you to come and do what you can. Parham-Carter will write to you if necessary. 

 "That's one thing; and the next is this: I'd rather like to have some news about my people, and for them to know (if they want to know--I leave that to you) that I'm getting on all right. I haven't heard a word about them since August. I know nothing particular can have happened, because I always look at the papers--but I should like to know what's going on generally. 

 "I think that's about all. I am getting on excellently myself, and hope you are. I am afraid there's no chance of my coming to you for Christmas. I suppose you'll be home again by now. 

 "Ever yours, "F. G. "

 "P. S. --Of course you'll keep all this private--as well as where I'm living. "

Now this letter seems to me rather interesting from a psychologicalpoint of view. It is extremely business-like, but perfectly unpractical. Frank states what he wants, but he wants an absurd impossibility. I likeJack Kirkby very much, but I cannot picture him as likely to besuccessful in helping to restore a strayed girl to her people. I supposeFrank's only excuse is that he did not know whom else to write to. 

It is rather interesting, too, to notice his desire to know what isgoing on at his home; it seems as if he must have had, some faintinkling that something important was about to happen, and this isinteresting in view of what now followed immediately. 

He directed his letter, stamped it, and posted it in the librarypost-box in the vestibule. Then, cap in hand, he pushed open theswing-doors and ran straight into Mr. Parham-Carter. 

"Hullo!" said that clergyman--and went a little white. 

"Hullo!" said Frank; and then: "What's the matter?"

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going back to the jam factory. "

"May I walk with you?"

"Certainly, if you don't mind my eating as I go along. "

The clergyman turned with him and went beside him in silence, as Frank, drawing out of his side-pocket a large hunch of bread and cheese, wrapped up in the advertisement sheet of the _Daily Mail_, began to fillhis mouth. 

"I want to know if you've had any news from home. "

Frank turned to him slightly. 

"No, " he said sharply, after a pause. 

Mr. Parham-Carter licked his lips. 

"Well--no, it isn't bad news; but I wondered whether--"

"What is it?"

"Your governor's married again. It happened yesterday. I thought perhapsyou didn't know. "

There was dead silence for an instant. 

"No, I didn't know, " said Frank. "Who's he married?"

"Somebody I never heard of. I wondered whether you knew her. "

"What's her name?"

"Wait a second, " said the other, plunging under his greatcoat to get athis waistcoat pocket. "I've got the paragraph here. I cut it out of the_Morning Post_. I only saw it half an hour ago. I was coming round toyou this evening. "

He produced a slip of printed paper. Frank stood still a moment, leaningagainst some area-railings--they were in the distinguished quarter ofVictoria Park Road--and read the paragraph through. The clergymanwatched him curiously. It seemed to him a very remarkable situation thathe should be standing here in Victoria Park Road, giving information toa son as to his father's marriage. He wondered, but only secondarily, what effect it would have upon Frank. 

Frank gave him the paper back without a tremor. 

"Thanks very much, " he said. "No; I didn't know. "

They continued to walk. 

"D'you know her at all?"

"Yes, I know her. She's the Rector's daughter, you know. "

"What! At Merefield? Then you must know her quite well. "

"Oh! yes, " said Frank, "I know her quite well. "

Again there was silence. Then the other burst out:

"Look here--I wish you'd let me do something. It seems to me perfectlyghastly--"

"My dear man, " said Frank. "Indeed you can't do anything. .. . You got mynote, didn't you?"

The clergyman nodded. 

"It's just in case I'm ill, or anything, you know. Jack's a great friendof mine. And it's just as well that some friend of mine should be ableto find out where I am. I've just written to him myself, as I said in mynote. But you mustn't give him my address unless in case of real need. "

"All right. But are you sure--"

"I'm perfectly sure. .. . Oh! by the way, that lady you sent round did nogood. I expect she told you?"

"Yes; she said she'd never come across such a difficult case. "

"Well, I shall have to try again myself. .. . I must turn off here. Goodluck!"

(IV)

Gertie was sitting alone in the kitchen about nine o'clock thatnight--alone, that is to say, except for the sleeping 'Erb, who, in acot at the foot of his mother's bed, was almost invisible under a pileof clothes, and completely negligible as a witness. Mrs. Partington, with the other two children, was paying a prolonged visit in MortimerRoad, and the Major, ignorant of this fact, was talking big in the barof the "Queen's Arms" opposite the Men's Club of the Eton Mission. 

Gertie was enjoying herself just now, on the whole. It is true that shehad received some chastisement yesterday from the Major; but she had thekind of nature that preferred almost any sensation to none. And, indeed, the situation was full of emotion. It was extraordinarily pleasant toher to occupy such a position between two men--and, above all, two"gentlemen. " Her attitude towards the Major was of the most simple andprimitive kind; he was her man, who bullied her, despised her, draggedher about the country, and she never for one instant forgot that he hadonce been an officer in the army. Even his blows (which, to tell thetruth, were not very frequent, and were always administered in ajudicial kind of way) bore with them a certain stamp of brilliance; shepossessed a very pathetic capacity for snobbishness. Frank, on the otherside, was no less exciting. She regarded him as a good young man, almostromantic, indeed, in his goodness--a kind of Sir Galahad; and he, whatever his motive (and she was sometimes terribly puzzled about hismotives), at any rate, stood in a sort of rivalry to the Major; and itwas she who was the cause of contention. She loved to feel herselfpulled this way and that by two such figures, to be quarreled over bysuch very strong and opposite types. It was a vague sensation to her, but very vivid and attractive; and although just now she believedherself to be thoroughly miserable, I have no doubt whatever that shewas enjoying it all immensely. She was very feminine indeed, and thelittle scene of last night had brought matters to an almost exquisitepoint. She was crying a little now, gently, to herself. 

 * * * * *

The door opened. Frank came in, put down his cap, and took his seat onthe bench by the fire. 

"All out?" he asked. 

Gertie nodded, and made a little broken sound. 

"Very good, " said Frank. "Then I'm going to talk to you. "

Gertie wiped away a few more tears, and settled herself down for alittle morbid pleasure. It was delightful to her to be found crying overthe fire. Frank, at any rate, would appreciate that. 

"Now, " said Frank, "you've got the choice once more, and I'm going toput it plainly. If you don't do what I want this time, I shall have tosee whether somebody else can't persuade you. "

She glanced up, a little startled. 

"Look here, " said Frank. "I'm not going to take any more trouble myselfover this affair. You were a good deal upset yesterday when the ladycame round, and you'll be more upset yet before the thing's over. Ishan't talk to you myself any more: you don't seem to care a hang what Isay; in fact, I'm thinking of moving my lodgings after Christmas. So nowyou've got your choice. "

He paused. 

"On the one side you've got the Major; well, you know him; you know theway he treats you. But that's not the reason why I want you to leavehim. I want you to leave him because I think that down at the bottomyou've got the makings of a good woman--"

"I haven't, " cried Gertie passionately. 

"Well, I think you have. You're very patient, and you're veryindustrious, and because you care for this man you'll do simply anythingin the world for him. Well, that's splendid. That shows you've got grit. But have you ever thought what it'll all be like in five years fromnow?"

"I shall be dead, " wailed Gertie. "I wish I was dead now. "

Frank paused. 

"And when you're dead--?" he said slowly. 

There was an instant's silence. Then Frank took up his discourse again. (So far he had done exactly what he had wanted. He had dropped two tinyideas on her heart once more--hope and fear. )

"Now I've something to tell you. Do you remember the last time I talkedto you? Well, I've been thinking what was the best thing to do, and afew days ago I saw my chance and took it. You've got a littleprayer-book down at the bottom of your bundle, haven't you? Well, I gotat that (you never let anyone see it, you know), and I looked throughit. I looked through all your things. Did you know your address waswritten in it? I wasn't sure it was your address, you know, until--"

Gertie sat up, white with passion. 

"You looked at my things?"

Frank looked her straight in the face. 

"Don't talk to me like that, " he said. "Wait till I've done. .. . Well, Iwrote to the address, and I got an answer; then I wrote again, and I gotanother answer and a letter for you. It came this morning, to thepost-office where I got it. "

Gertie looked at him, still white, with her lips parted. 

"Give me the letter, " she whispered. 

"As soon as I've done talking, " said Frank serenely. "You've got tolisten to me first. I knew what you'd say: you'd say that your peoplewouldn't have you back. And I knew perfectly well from the little thingsyou'd said about them that they would. But I wrote to make sure. .. . 

"Gertie, d'you know that they're breaking their hearts for you?. .. Thatthere's nothing, in the whole world they want so much as that youshould come back?. .. "

"Give me the letter!"

"You've got a good heart yourself, Gertie; I know that well enough. Think hard, before I give you the letter. Which is best--the Major andthis sort of life--and . .. And--well, you know about the soul and God, don't you?. .. Or to go home, and--"

Her face shook all over for one instant. 

"Give me the letter, " she wailed suddenly. 

Then Frank gave it her. 

(V)

"But I can't possibly go home like this, " whispered Gertie agitatedly inthe passage, after the Major's return half an hour later. 

"Good Lord!" whispered Frank, "what an extraordinary girl you are, tothink--"

"I don't care. I can't, and I won't. "

Frank cast an eye at the door, beyond which dozed the Major in the chairbefore the fire. 

"Well, what d'you want?"

"I want another dress, and . .. And lots of things. "

Frank stared at her resignedly. 

"How much will it all come to?"

"I don't know. Two pounds--two pounds ten. "

"Let's see: to-day's the twentieth. We must get you back beforeChristmas. If I let you have it to-morrow, will it do?--to-morrownight?"

She nodded. A sound came from beyond the door, and she fled. 

 * * * * *

I am not sure about the details of the manner in which Frank got the twopounds ten, but I know he got it, and without taking charity from asoul. I know that he managed somehow to draw his week's money two daysbefore pay-day, and for the rest, I suspect the pawnshop. What is quitecertain is that when his friends were able to take stock of hisbelongings a little later, the list of them was as follows:

One jacket, one shirt, one muffler, a pair of trousers, a pair of socks, a pair of boots, one cap, one tooth-brush, and a rosary. There wasabsolutely nothing else. Even his razor was gone. 

Things, therefore, were pretty bad with him on the morning of thetwenty-second of December. I imagine that he still possessed a fewpence, but out of this few pence he had to pay for his own and Gertie'sjourney to Chiswick, as well as keep himself alive for another week. Atleast, so he must have thought. 

It must have been somewhere in Kensington High Street that he first hada hint of a possibility of food to be obtained free, for, although Ifind it impossible to follow all his movements during these days, it isquite certain that he partook of the hospitality of the CarmeliteFathers on this morning. He mentions it, with pleasure, in his diary. 

It is a very curious and medieval sight--this feeding of the poor in thelittle deep passage that runs along the outside of the cloister of themonastery in Church Street. The passage is approached by a door at theback of the house, opening upon the lane behind, and at a certain houron each morning of the year is thronged from end to end with the mostastonishing and deplorable collection of human beings to be seen inLondon. They are of all ages and sizes, from seventeen to seventy, andthe one thing common to them all is extreme shabbiness and poverty. 

A door opens at a given moment; the crowd surges a little towards ablack-bearded man in a brown frock, with an apron over it, and fiveminutes later a deep silence, broken only by the sound of supping andswallowing, falls upon the crowd. There they stand, with the roar ofLondon sounding overhead, the hooting of cars, the noise of innumerablefeet, and the rain--at least, on this morning--falling dismally down thelong well-like space. And here stand between two and three hundred men, pinched, feeble, and yet wolfish, gulping down hot soup and bread, looking something like a herd of ragged prisoners pent in between thehigh walls. 

Here, then, Frank stood in the midst of them, gulping his soup. His vanand horses, strictly against orders, remained in Church Street, underthe care of a passer-by, whom Frank seems to have asked, quite openly, to do it for him for God's sake. 

It is a dreary little scene in which to picture him, and yet, to myself, it is rather pleasant, too. I like to think of him, now for the secondtime within a few weeks, and all within the first six months of hisCatholic life, depending upon his Church for the needs of the body aswell as for the needs of the soul. There was nothing whatever todistinguish him from the rest; he, too, had now something of that leanlook that is such a characteristic of that crowd, and his dress, too, was entirely suitable to his company. He spoke with none of his hosts;he took the basin in silence and gave it back in silence; then he wipedhis mouth on his sleeve, and went out comforted. 

CHAPTER V

(I)

Dick Guiseley sat over breakfast in his rooms off Oxford Street, entirely engrossed in a local Yorkshire paper two days old. 

His rooms were very characteristic of himself. They were five innumber--a dining-room, two bedrooms, and two sitting-rooms divided bycurtains, as well as a little entrance-hall that opened on to thelanding, close beside the lift that served all the flats. They werefurnished in a peculiarly restrained style--so restrained, in fact, thatit was almost impossible to remember what was in them. One was justconscious of a sense of extreme comfort and convenience. There wasnothing in particular that arrested the attention or caught the eye, except here and there a space or a patch of wall about which Dick hadnot yet made up his mind. He had been in them two years, indeed, but hehad not nearly finished furnishing. From time to time a new piece offurniture appeared, or a new picture--always exceedingly good of itskind, and even conspicuous. Yet, somehow or other, so excellent was histaste, as soon as the thing was in place its conspicuousness (so tospeak) vanished amidst the protective coloring, and it looked as if ithad been there for ever. The colors were chosen with the same superfineskill: singly they were brilliant, or at least remarkable (the ceilings, for instance, were of a rich buttercup yellow); collectively they weresubdued and unnoticeable. And I suppose this is exactly what rooms oughtto be. 

The breakfast-table at which he sat was a good instance of his taste. The silver-plate on it was really remarkable. There was a delightfulCaroline tankard in the middle, placed there for the sheer pleasure oflooking at it; there was a large silver cow with a lid in its back;there were four rat-tail spoons; the china was an extremely cheapVenetian crockery of brilliant designs and thick make. The coffee-potand milk-pot were early Georgian, with very peculiar marks; but thesevessels were at present hidden under the folded newspaper. There werefour chrysanthemums in four several vases of an exceptional kind ofglass. It sounds startling, I know, but the effect was not startling, though I cannot imagine why not. Here again one was just conscious offreshness and suitability and comfort. 

 * * * * *

But Dick was taking no pleasure in it all this morning. He was feelingalmost physically sick, and the little spirit-heated silver dish ofkidneys on his Queen Anne sideboard was undisturbed. He had cut off thetop of an egg which was now rapidly cooling, and a milky surfaceresembling thin ice was forming on the contents of his coffee-cup. Andmeanwhile he read. 

The column he was reading described the wedding of his uncle with MissJenny Launton, and journalese surpassed itself. There was a great dealabout the fine old English appearance of the bridegroom, who, itappeared, had been married in a black frock-coat and gray trousers, withwhite spats, and who had worn a chrysanthemum in his button-hole (Dickcast an almost venomous glance upon the lovely blossom just beside thepaper), and the beautiful youthful dignity of the bride, "so popularamong the humble denizens of the country-side. " The bride's father, itseemed, had officiated at the wedding in the "sturdy old church, " andhad been greatly affected--assisted by the Rev. Matthieson. The wedding, it seemed, had been unusually quiet, and had been celebrated by speciallicense: few of the family had been present, "owing, " said the discreetreporter, "to the express wish of the bridegroom. " (Dick reflectedsardonically upon his own convenient attack of influenza from which hewas now completely recovered. ) Then there was a great deal more aboutthe ancient home of the Guiseleys, and the aristocratic appearance ofViscount Merefield, the young and popular heir to the earldom, who, itappeared, had assisted at the wedding in another black frock-coat. General Mainwaring had acted as best man. Finally, there was a shortdescription of the presents of the bridegroom to the bride, whichincluded a set of amethysts, etc. .. . 

 * * * * *

Dick read it all through to the luxuriant end, down to the peals of thebells and the rejoicings in the evening. He ate several pieces of drytoast while he read, crumbling them quickly with his left hand, and whenhe had finished, drank his coffee straight off at one draught. Then hegot up, still with the paper, sat down in the easy-chair nearest to thefire and read the whole thing through once more. Then he pushed thepaper off his knee and leaned back. 

 * * * * *

It would need a complete psychological treatise to analyze properly allthe emotions he had recently gone through--emotions which had been, soto say, developed and "fixed" by the newspaper column he had just read. He was a man who was accustomed to pride himself secretly upon the speedwith which he faced each new turn of fortune, and the correctness of theattitude he assumed. Perhaps it would be fair to say that the ArtisticStoic was the ideal towards which he strove. But, somehow, thoseemotions would not sort themselves. There they all were--fury, indignation, contempt, wounded pride, resignation, pity--there were nomore to be added or subtracted; each had its place and its object, yetthey would not coalesce. Now fury against his uncle, now pity forhimself, now a poisonous kind of contempt of Jenny. Or, again, aprimitive kind of longing for Jenny, a disregard of his uncle, anabasement of himself. The emotions whirled and twisted, and he sat quitestill, with his eyes closed, watching them. 

But there was one more emotion which had made its appearance entirelyunexpectedly as soon as he had heard the news, that now, greatly to hissurprise, was beginning to take a considerable place amongst therest--and this was an extraordinarily warm sense of affection towardsFrank--of all people. It was composed partly of compassion, and partlyof an inexplicable sort of respect for which he could perceive noreason. It was curious, he thought later, why this one figure shouldhave pushed its way to the front just now, when his uncle and Jenny and, secondarily, that Rector ("so visibly affected by the ceremony") shouldhave occupied all the field. Frank had never meant very much to Dick; hehad stood for the undignified and the boyish in the midst of thoseother stately elements of which Merefield, and, indeed, all trulyadmirable life, was composed. 

Yet now this figure stood out before him with startling distinctness. 

First there was the fact that both Frank and himself had sufferedcruelly at the hands of the same woman, though Frank incomparably themore cruelly of the two. Dick had the honesty to confess that Jenny hadat least never actually broken faith with himself; but he had also theperspicuity to see that it came to very nearly the same thing. He knewwith the kind of certitude that neither needs nor appeals to evidencethat Jenny would certainly have accepted him if it had not been thatLord Talgarth had already dawned on her horizon, and that she put himoff for a while simply to see whether this elderly sun would rise yethigher in the heavens. It was the same consideration, no doubt, that hadcaused her to throw Frank over a month or two earlier. A Lord Talgarthin the bush was worth two cadets in the hand. That was where hersensibleness had come in, and certainly it had served her well. 

It was this community of injury, then, that primarily drew Dick'sattention to Frank; and, when once it lead been so drawn, it lingered onother points in his personality. Artistic Stoicism is a very satisfyingideal so long as things go tolerably well. It affords an excellentprotection against such misfortunes as those of not being appreciated orof losing money or just missing a big position--against all such ills asaffect bodily or mental conveniences. But when the heart is touched, Artistic Stoicism peels off like rusted armour. Dick had seriously beganto consider, during the last few days, whether the exact opposite ofArtistic Stoicism (let us call it Natural Impulsiveness) is not almostas good an equipment. He began to see something admirable in Frank'sattitude to life, and the more he regarded it the more admirable itseemed. 

Frank, therefore, had begun to wear to him the appearance of somethingreally moving and pathetic. He had had a communication or two from JackKirkby that had given him a glimpse of what Frank was going through, andhis own extremely artificial self was beginning to be affected by it. 

 * * * * *

He looked round his room now, once or twice, wondering whether it wasall worth while. He had put his whole soul into these rooms--there wasthat Jacobean press with the grotesque heads--ah! how long he hadagonized over that in the shop in the King's Road, Chelsea, wonderingwhether or not it would do just what he wanted, in that space betweenthe two doors. There was that small statue of a Tudor lady in a squarehead-dress that he had bought in Oxford: he had occupied at least a weekin deciding exactly from what point she was to smile on him; there wasthe new curtain dividing the two rooms: he had had half a dozenpatterns, gradually eliminated down to two, lying over his sofa-back forten days before he could make up his mind. (How lovely it looked, by theway, just now, with that patch of mellow London sunlight lying acrossthe folds!)

But was it all worth it?. .. He argued the point with himself, almostpassively, stroking his brown beard meditatively; but the fact that hecould argue it at all showed that the foundations of his philosophy wereshaken. 

Well, then . .. Frank . .. What about him? Where was he?

(II)

About eleven o'clock a key turned in his outer door and a verysmart-looking page-boy came through, after tapping, with a telegram on asalver. 

Dick was writing to Hamilton's, in Berners Street, about a question ofgray mats for the spare bedroom, and he took the telegram and tore openthe envelope with a preoccupied air. Then he uttered a smallexclamation. 

"Any answer, sir?"

"No. Yes. .. . Wait a second. "

He took a telegraph-form with almost indecent haste, addressed it toJohn Kirkby, Barham, Yorks, and wrote below:

 "_Certainly; will expect you dinner and sleep_. --RICHARD GUISELEY. "

Then, when the boy had gone, he read again the telegram he had received:

 "_Have received letter from Frank; can probably discover address if I come to town. Can you put me up to-night?_--JACK KIRKBY, Barham. "

He pondered it a minute or so. Then he finished his note to Hamilton's, but it was with a distracted manner. Then for several minutes he walkedup and down his rooms with his hands in his jacket-pockets, thinkingvery deeply. He was reflecting how remarkable it was that he should hearof Frank again just at this time, and was wondering what the next moveof Providence would be. 

The rest of Dick's day was very characteristic of him; and consideringmy other personages in this story and their occupations, I take adramatic sort of pleasure in writing it down. 

He went out to lunch with a distinguished lady of hisacquaintance--whose name I forbear to give; she was not less thanseventy years old, and the two sat talking scandal about all theirfriends till nearly four o'clock. The Talgarth affair, even, wasdiscussed in all its possible lights, and Dick was quite open about hisown part in the matter. He knew this old lady very well, and she knewhim very well. She was as shrewd as possible and extremely experienced, and had helped Dick enormously in various intricacies and troubles ofthe past; and he, on the other hand, as a well-informed bachelor, was ofalmost equal service to her. She was just the least bit in the worldlosing touch with things (at seventy you cannot do everything), and Dickhelped to keep her in touch. He lunched with her at least once a weekwhen they were both in town. 

At four he went to the Bath Club, ordered tea and toast and cigarettes, and sat out, with his hat over his eyes, on the balcony, watching theswimmers. There was a boy of sixteen who dived with surprising skill, and Dick took the greatest possible pleasure in observing him. There wasalso a stout man of his acquaintance whose ambition it had been formonths to cross the bath by means of the swinging rings, and thisperson, too, afforded him hardly less pleasure, as he always had to letgo at the fourth ring, if not the third, whence he plunged into thewater with a sound that, curiously enough, was more resonant thansibilant. 

At six, after looking through all the illustrated papers, he went out toget his coat, and was presently in the thick of a heated argument with amember of the committee on the subject of the new carpet in the fronthall. It was not fit, said Dick (searching for hyperboles), for even thedrawing-room of the "Cecil. "

This argument made him a little later than he had intended, and, as hecame up in the lift, the attendant informed him, in the passionlessmanner proper to such people, that the Mr. Kirkby who had been mentionedhad arrived and was waiting for him in his rooms. 

(III)

Shortly before midnight Dick attempted to sum up the situation. They hadtalked about Frank practically without ceasing, since Dick's man had setcoffee on the table at nine o'clock, and both had learned new facts. 

"Well, then, wire to go down to this man, Parham-Carter, " said Dick, "the first thing after breakfast to-morrow. Do you know anything aboutthe Eton Mission?"

"No. One used to have a collection for it each half, you know, in thehouses. "

"How do we go?"

"Oh! railway from Broad Street. I've looked it up. Victoria Park's thestation. "

Dick drew two or three draughts of smoke from his cigar-butt, and laidit down in a small silver tray at his elbow. (The tray was a gift fromthe old lady he had lunched with to-day. )

"All you've told me is extraordinarily interesting, " he said. "It reallywas to get away this girl that he's stopped so long?"

"I expect that's what he tells himself--that's the handle, so to speak. But it's chiefly a sort of obstinacy. He said he would go on the roads, and so he's gone. "

"I rather like that, you know, " said Dick. 

Jack snorted a little. 

"Oh, it's better than saying a thing and not doing it. But why say it?"

"Oh! one must do something, " said Dick. "At least, some people seem tothink so. And I rather envy them, you know. I'm afraid I don't. "

"Don't what?"

"Don't do anything. Unless you can call this sort of thing doingsomething. " He waved his hand vaguely round his perfectly arrangedroom. 

Jack said nothing. He was inclined to be a little strenuous himself insome ways, and he had always been conscious of a faint annoyance withDick's extreme leisureliness. 

"I see you agree, " went on Dick. "Well, we must see what can be done. "

He stood up smiling and began to expand and contract his fingersluxuriously before the fire behind his back. 

"If we can only get Frank away, " murmured Jack. "That's enough for thepresent. "

"And what do you propose to do with him then?"

"Oh, Lord! Anything. Go round the world if he likes. Come and stay at myplace. "

"And suppose he thinks that's a bit too near to . .. To Lady Talgarth. ". 

This switched Jack back again to a line he had already run on for anhour this evening. 

"Yes, that's the ghastly part of it all. He's sure not to have heard. And who the devil's to tell him? And how will he take it?"

"Do you know, " said Dick, "I'm really not frightened about that? Allyou've told me about him makes me think he'll behave very well. Funnything, isn't it, that you know him so much better than I do? I neverdreamed there was so much in him, somehow. "

"Oh, there's a lot in Frank. But one doesn't always know what it is. "

"Do you think his religion's made much difference?"

"I think it's done this for him, " said Jack slowly. "(I've been thinkinga lot about that). I think it's fixed things, so to speak . .. . " Hehesitated. He was not an expert in psychological analysis. Dick took himup quickly. He nodded three or four times. 

"Exactly, " he said. "That's it, no doubt. It's given him a center--a hubfor the wheel. "

"Eh?"

"It's . .. It's joined everything on to one point in him. He'll be moreobstinate and mad than ever before. He's got a center now. .. . I supposethat's what religion's for, " he added meditatively. 

This was Greek to Jack. He looked at Dick uncomprehendingly. 

Dick turned round and began to stare into the fire, still contractingand expanding his fingers. 

"It's a funny thing--this religion, " he said at last. "I never couldunderstand it. "

"And what about Archie?" asked Jack with sudden abruptness. (He had nocontinuity of mind. )

Dick brought his meditations to a close with equal abruptness, orperhaps he would not have been so caustic as regards his first cousin. 

"Oh, Archie's an ass!" he said. "We can leave him out. "

Jack changed the subject again. He was feeling the situation veryacutely indeed, and the result was that all its elements came tumblingout anyhow. 

"I've been beastly uncomfortable, " he said. 

"Yes?" said Dick. "Any particular way?"

Jack shifted one leg over the other. He had not approached one elementin the situation at all, as yet, with Dick, but it had been simmering inhim for weeks, and had been brought to a point by Frank's letterreceived this morning. And now the curious intimacy into which he hadbeen brought with Dick began to warm it out of him. 

"You'll think me an ass, too, I expect, " he said. "And I rather thinkit's true. But I can't help it. "

Dick smiled at him encouragingly. (Certainly, thought Jack, this man wasnicer than he had thought him. )

"Well, it's this--" he said suddenly. "But it's frightfully hard to putinto words. You know what I told you about Frank's coming to me atBarham?"

"Yes. "

"Well, there was something he said then that made me uncomfortable. Andit's made me more and more uncomfortable ever since . .. " (He pausedagain. ) "Well, it's this. He said that he felt there was something goingon that he couldn't understand--some sort of Plan, he said--in which hehad to take part--a sort of scheme to be worked out, you know. I supposehe meant God, " he explained feebly. 

Dick looked at him questioningly. 

"Oh! I can't put it into words, " said Jack desperately. "Nor did he, exactly. But that was the kind of idea. A sort of Fate. He said he wasquite certain of it. .. . And there were lots of little things that fittedin. He changed his clothes in the old vestry, you know--in the oldchurch. It seemed like a sort of sacrifice, you know. And then I had abeastly dream that night. And then there was something my mother said. .. . And now there's his letter: the one I showed you at dinner--aboutsomething that might happen to him. .. . Oh! I'm a first-class ass, aren'tI?"

There was a considerable silence. He glanced up in an ashamed sort ofway, at the other, and saw him standing quite upright and still, againwith his back to the fire, looking out across the room. From outsidecame the hum of the thoroughfare--the rolling of wheels, the jingle ofbells, the cries of human beings. He waited in a kind of shame forDick's next words. He had not put all these feelings into coherent formbefore, even to himself, and they sounded now even more fantastic thanhe had thought them. He waited, then, for the verdict of this quiet man, whom up to now he had deemed something of a fool, who cared aboutnothing but billiards and what was called Art. (Jack loathed Art. )

Then the verdict came in a surprising form. But he understood itperfectly. 

"Well, what about bed?" said Dick quietly. 

(IV)

It was on the morning of the twenty-fourth that Mr. Parham-Carter wassummoned by the neat maid-servant of the clergy-house to see twogentlemen. She presented two cards on a plated salver, inscribed withthe names of Richard Guiseley and John B. Kirkby. He got up veryquickly, and went downstairs two at a time. A minute later he broughtthem both upstairs and shut the door. 

"Sit down, " he said. "I'm most awfully glad you've come. I . .. I've beenfearfully upset by all this, and I haven't known what to do. "

"Now where is he?" demanded Jack Kirkby. 

The clergyman made a deprecatory face. 

"I've absolutely promised not to tell, " he said. "And you know--"

"But that's ridiculous. We've come on purpose to fetch him away. Itsimply mustn't go on. That's why I didn't write. I sent Frank's letteron to Mr. Guiseley here (he's a cousin of Frank's, by the way), and heasked me to come up to town. I got to town last night, and we've comedown here at once this morning. "

Mr. Parham-Carter glanced at the neat melancholy-faced, bearded man whosat opposite. 

"But you know I promised, " he said. 

"Yes, " burst in Jack; "but one doesn't keep promises one makes tomadmen. And--"

"But he's not mad in the least. He's--"

"Well?"

"I was going to say that it seems to me that he's more sane than anyoneelse, " said the young man dismally. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but--"

Dick Guiseley nodded with such emphasis that he stopped. 

"I know what you mean, " said Dick in his gentle drawl. "And I quiteunderstand. "

"But it's all sickening rot, " burst in Jack. "He must be mad. You don'tknow Frank as I do--neither of you. And now there's this lastbusiness--his father's marriage, I mean; and--"

He broke off and looked across at Dick. 

"Go on, " said Dick; "don't mind me. "

"Well, we don't know whether he's heard of it or not; but he must hearsooner or later, and then--"

"But he has heard of it, " interrupted the clergyman. "I showed him theparagraph myself. "

"He's heard of it! And he knows all about it!"

"Certainly. And I understood from him that he knew the girl: theRector's daughter, isn't it?"

"Knows the girl! Why, he was engaged to her himself. "

"_What_?"

"Yes; didn't he tell you?"

"He didn't give me the faintest hint--"

"How did he behave? What did he say?"

Mr. Parham-Carter stared a moment in silence. 

"What did he say?" snapped out Jack impatiently. 

"Say? He said nothing. He just told me he knew the girl, when I askedhim. "

"Good God!" remarked Jack. And there was silence. 

Dick broke it. 

"Well, it seems to me we're rather in a hole. "

"But it's preposterous, " burst out Jack again. "Here's poor old Frank, simply breaking his heart, and here are we perfectly ready to doanything we can--why, the chap must be in hell!"

"Look here, Mr. Parham-Carter, " said Dick softly. "What about your goinground to his house and seeing if he's in, and what he's likely to bedoing to-day. "

"He'll be at the factory till this evening. "

"The factory?"

"Yes; he's working at a jam factory just now. "

A sound of fury and disdain broke from Jack. 

"Well, " continued Dick, "(May I take a cigarette, by the way?), whyshouldn't you go round and make inquiries, and find out how the landlies? Then Kirkby and I might perhaps hang about a bit and run upagainst him--if you'd just give us a hint, you know. "

The other looked at him a moment. 

"Well, perhaps I might, " he said doubtfully. "But what--"

"Good Lord! But you'll be keeping your promise, won't you? After all, it's quite natural we should come down after his letter--and quite onthe cards that we should run up against him. .. . Please to go at once, and let us wait here. "

In a quarter of an hour Mr. Parham-Carter came back quickly into theroom and shut the door. 

"Yes; he's at the factory, " he said. "Or at any rate he's not at home. And they don't expect him back till late. "

"Well?"

"There's something up. The girl's gone, too. (No; she's not at thefactory. ) And I think there's going to be trouble. "

CHAPTER VI

(I)

The electric train slowed down and stopped at the Hammersmith terminus, and there was the usual rush for the doors. 

"Come on, Gertie, " said a young man, "here we are. "

The girl remained perfectly still with her face hidden. 

The crowd was enormous this Christmas Eve, and for the most part ladenwith parcels; the platforms surged with folk, and each bookstall, blazing with lights (for it was after seven o'clock), was a center of akind of whirlpool. There was sensational news in the evening papers, andeveryone was anxious to get at the full details of which the main factswere tantalizingly displayed on the posters. Everyone wanted to knowexactly who were the people concerned and how it had all happened. Itwas a delightful tragedy for the Christmas festivities. 

"Come on, " said the young man again. "They're nearly all out. "

"I can't, " moaned the girl. 

Frank took her by the arm resolutely. 

"Come!" he said. 

Then she came, and the two passed out together into the mob waiting tocome in. 

"We shall have to walk, " said Frank. "I'm sorry; but I've got to gethome somehow. "

She bowed her head and said nothing. 

Gertie presented a very unusual appearance this evening. Certainly shehad laid out the two-pound-ten to advantage. She was in a perfectlydecent dark dress with a red stripe in it; she had a large hat and somespecies of boa round her neck; she even carried a cheap umbrella with asham silver band and a small hand-bag with one pocket-handkerchiefinside it. And to her own mind, no doubt, she was a perfect picture ofthe ideal penitent--very respectable and even prosperous looking, andyet with a dignified reserve. She was not at all flaunting, she musthave thought; neither was she, externally, anything of a disgrace. Itwould be evident presently to her mother that she had returned out ofsimple goodness of heart and not at all because her recent escapade hadbeen a failure. She would still be able to talk of "the Major" withsomething of an air, and to make out that he treated her always like alady. (When I went to interview her a few months ago I found her verydignified, very self-conscious, excessively refined and faintlyreminiscent of fallen splendor; and her mother told me privately thatshe was beginning to be restless again and talked of going on to themusic-hall stage. )

But there is one thing that I find it very hard to forgive, and that is, that as the two went together under the flaming white lights towardsChiswick High Street, she turned to Frank a little nervously and askedhim if he would mind walking just behind her. (Please remember, however, in extenuation, that Gertie's new pose was that of the Superior YoungLady. )

"I don't quite like to be seen--" murmured this respectable person. 

"Oh, certainly!" said Frank, without an instant's hesitation. 

 * * * * *

They had met, half an hour before, by appointment, at the entrance tothe underground station at Victoria. Frank's van-journeyings would, hecalculated, bring him there about half-past six, and, strictly againstthe orders of his superiors, but very ingeniously, with the connivanceof his fellow-driver of the van, he had arranged for his place to betaken on the van for the rest of the evening by a man known to hisfellow-driver--but just now out of work--for the sum of one shilling, tobe paid within a week. He was quite determined not to leave Gertie aloneagain, when once the journey to Chiswick had actually begun, until hehad seen her landed in her own home. 

The place of meeting, too, had suited Gertie very well. She had leftTurner Road abruptly, without a word to anyone, the instant that theMajor's military-looking back had been seen by her to pass within theswing-doors of the "Queen's Arms" for his usual morning refreshment. Then she had occupied herself chiefly by collecting her various thingsat their respective shops, purchased by Frank's two-pound-ten, andputting them on. She had had a clear threepence to spare beyond the fewshillings she had determined to put by out of the total, and hadexpended it by a visit to the cinematograph show in Victoria Street. There had been a very touching series of pictures of the "Old Home inthe Country, " and the milking of the cows, with a general atmosphere ofroses and church-bells, and Gertie had dissolved into tears more thanonce, and had cried noiselessly into her new pocket-handkerchief drawnfrom her new hand-bag. But she had met Frank quite punctually, for, indeed, she had burned her boats now entirely and there was nothing elseleft for her to do. 

 * * * * *

At the entrance to Chiswick High Street another brilliant thought struckher. She paused for Frank to come up. 

"Frankie, " she said, "you won't say anything about the two-pound-ten, will you? I shouldn't like them to think--"

"Of course not, " said Frank gravely, and after a moment, noticing thatshe glanced at him again uneasily, understood, and fell obediently tothe rear once more. 

 * * * * *

About a quarter of a mile further on her steps began to go slower. Frankwatched her very carefully. He was not absolutely sure of her even now. Then she crossed over the street between two trams, and Frank dodgedafter her. Then she turned as if to walk back to Hammersmith. In aninstant Frank was at her side. 

"You're going the wrong way, " he said. 

She stopped irresolutely, and had to make way for two or three hurryingpeople, to pass. 

"Oh, Frankie! I can't!" she wailed softly. 

"Come!" said Frank, and took her by the arm once more. 

Five minutes later they stood together half-way down a certain long lanethat turns out of Chiswick High Street to the left, and there, for thefirst time, she seems to have been genuinely frightened. The street wasquite empty; the entire walking population was parading up and down thebrightly-lit thoroughfare a hundred yards behind them, or feverishlyengaged in various kinds of provision shops. The lamps were sparse inthis lane, and all was comparatively quiet. 

"Oh, Frankie!" she moaned again. "I can't! I can't!. .. I daren't!"

She leaned back against the sill of a window. 

Yet, even then, I believe she was rather enjoying herself. It was all soextremely like the sort of plays over which she had been accustomed toshed tears. The Prodigal's Return! And on Christmas Eve! It onlyrequired a little snow to be falling and a crying infant at herbreast. .. . 

I wonder what Frank made of it. He must have known Gertie thoroughlywell by now, and certainly there is not one sensible man in a thousandwhose gorge would not have risen at the situation. Yet I doubt whetherFrank paid it much attention. 

"Where's the house?" he said. 

He glanced up at the number of the door by which he stood. 

"It must be a dozen doors further on, " he said. 

"It's the last house in the row, " murmured Gertie, in a weak voice. "Isfather looking out? Go and see. "

"My dear girl, " said Frank, "do not be silly. Do remember your mother'sletter. "

Then she suddenly turned on him, and if ever she was genuine she was inthat moment. 

"Frankie, " she whispered, "why not take me away yourself? Oh! take meaway! take me away!"

He looked into her eyes for an instant, and in that instant he caughtagain that glimpse as of Jenny herself. 

"Take me away--I'll live with you just as you like!" She took him by hispoor old jacket-lapel. "You can easily make enough, and I don't ask--"

Then he detached her fingers and took her gently by the arm. 

"Come with me, " he said. "No; not another word. "

Together in silence they went the few steps that separated them from thehouse. There was a little garden in front, its borders set alternatelywith sea-shells and flints. At the gate she hesitated once more, but heunlatched the gate and pushed her gently through. 

"Oh! my gloves!" whispered Gertie, in a sharp tone of consternation. "Ileft them in the shop next the A. B. C. In Wilton Road. "

Frank nodded. Then, still urging her, he brought her up to the door andtapped upon it. 

There were footsteps inside. 

"God bless you, Gertie. Be a good girl. I'll wait in the road for tenminutes, so that you can call me if you want to. "

Then he was gone as the door opened. 

(II)

The next public appearance of Frank that I have been able to trace, wasin Westminster Cathedral. Now it costs an extra penny at least, I think, to break one's journey from Hammersmith to Broad Street, and I imaginethat Frank would not have done this after what he had said to Gertieabout the difficulty connected with taking an omnibus, except for somedefinite reason, so it is only possible to conclude that he broke hisjourney at Victoria in an attempt to get at those gloves. 

It seems almost incredible that Gertie should have spoken of her glovesat such a moment, but it really happened. She told me so herself. And, personally, on thinking over it, it seems to me tolerably in line(though perhaps the line is rather unusually prolonged) with all that Ihave been able to gather about her whole character. The fact is thatgloves, just then, were to her really important. She was about to appearon the stage of family life, and she had formed a perfectly consistentconception of her part. Gloves were an integral part of hercostume--they were the final proof of a sort of opulence and refinement;therefore, though she could not get them just then, it was perfectlynatural and proper of her to mention them. It must not be thought thatGertie was insincere: she was not; she was dramatic. And it is a factthat within five minutes of her arrival she was down on her knees by hermother, with her face hidden in her mother's lap, crying her heart out. By the time she remembered Frank and ran out into the street, he hadbeen gone more than twenty minutes. 

 * * * * *

One of the priests attached to Westminster Cathedral happened to have apause about half-past nine o'clock in his hearing of confessions. He hadbeen in his box without a break from six o'clock, and he was extremelytired and stiff about the knees. He had said the whole of his officeduring intervals, and he thought he would take a little walk up and downthe south aisle to stretch his legs. 

So he unlatched the little door of his confessional, leaving the lightburning in case someone else turned up; he slipped off his stole andcame outside. 

The whole aisle, it seemed, was empty, though there was still asprinkling of folks in the north aisle, right across the great space ofthe nave; and he went down the whole length, down to the west end tohave a general look up the Cathedral. 

He stood looking for three or four minutes. 

Overhead hung the huge span of brickwork, lost in darkness, incrediblyvast and mysterious, with here and there emerging into faint light aslice of a dome or the slope of some architrave-like dogmas fromimpenetrable mystery. Before him lay the immense nave, thronged now withclose-packed chairs in readiness for the midnight Mass, and they seemedto him as he looked with tired eyes, almost like the bent shoulders ofan enormous crowd bowed in dead silence of adoration. But there wasnothing yet to adore, except up there to the left, where a very paleglimmer shone on polished marble among the shadows before the chapel ofthe Blessed Sacrament. There was one other exception; for overhead, against the half-lighted apse, where a belated sacristan still movedabout, himself a shadow, busy with the last preparations of the HighAltar--there burgeoned out the ominous silhouette of the vast hangingcross, but so dark that the tortured Christ upon it was invisible. .. . Yet surely that was right on this night, for who, of all those who wereto adore presently the Child of joy, gave a thought to the Man ofSorrows? His Time was yet three months away. .. . 

 * * * * *

As the priest stood there, looking and imagining, with that strangeclarity of mind and intuition that a few hours in the confessional givesto even the dullest brain, he noticed the figure of a man detach itselffrom one of the lighted confessionals on the left and come down towardshim, walking quickly and lightly. To his surprise, this young man, instead of going out at the northwest door, wheeled and came towardshim. 

He noticed him particularly, and remembered his dress afterwards: it wasa very shabby dark blue suit, splashed with mud from the Christmasstreets, very bulgy about the knees; the coat was buttoned up tightlyround a muffler that had probably once been white, and his big bootsmade a considerable noise as he came. 

The priest had a sudden impulse as the young man crossed him. 

"A merry Christmas, " he said. 

The young man stopped a moment and smiled all over his face, and thepriest noticed the extraordinary serenity and pleasantness of theface--and that, though it was the face of a Poor Man, with sunken cheeksand lines at the corners of the mouth. 

"Thank you, Father, " he said. "The same to you. "

Then he went on, his boots as noisy as ever, and turned up the southaisle. And presently the sound of his boots ceased. 

 * * * * *

The priest still stood a moment or two, looking and thinking, and itstruck him with something of pleasure that the young man, thoughobviously of the most completely submerged tenth, had not even hesitatedor paused, still less said one word, with the hope of a little somethingfor Christmas' sake. Surely he had spoken, too, with the voice of aneducated man. 

He became suddenly interested--he scarcely knew why, and the impressionmade just by that single glimpse of a personality deepened everymoment. .. . What in the world was that young man doing here?. .. What washis business up in that empty south aisle? Who was he? What was it allabout?

He thought presently that he would go up and see; it was on his way backto the clergy-house, too. But when he reached the corner of the aisleand could see up it, there seemed to be no one there. 

He began to walk up, wondering more than ever, and then on a sudden hesaw a figure kneeling on the lower step of the chapel on the right, railed off and curtained now, where the Crib was ready to be disclosedtwo hours later. 

It all seemed very odd. He could not understand why anyone should wishto pray before an impenetrable curtain. As he came nearer he saw it washis friend all right. Those boots were unmistakable. The young man waskneeling on the step, quite upright and motionless, his cap held in hishands, facing towards the curtain behind which, no doubt, there stoodthe rock-roofed stable, with the Three Personages--an old man, a maidand a new-born Child. But their time, too, was not yet. It was two hoursaway. 

Priests do not usually stare in the face of people who are saying theirprayers--they are quite accustomed to that phenomenon; but this priest(he tells me) simply could not resist it. And as he passed on hisnoiseless shoes, noticing that the light from his own confessional shonefull upon the man, he turned and looked straight at his face. 

Now I do not understand what it was that he saw; he does not understandit himself; but it seems that there was something that impressed himmore than anything else that he had ever seen before or since in thewhole world. 

The young man's eyes were open and his lips were closed. Not one muscleof his face moved. So much for the physical facts. But it was a casewhere the physical facts are supremely unimportant. .. . At any rate, thepriest could only recall them with an effort. The point was that therewas something supra-physical there--(personally I should call itsupernatural)--that stabbed the watcher's heart clean through with oneover whelming pang. .. . (I think that's enough. )

 * * * * *

When the priest reached the Lady chapel he sat down, still trembling alittle, and threw all his attention into his ears, determined to hearthe first movement that the kneeling figure made behind him. So he satminute after minute. The Cathedral was full of echoes--murmurousrebounds of the noises of the streets, drawn out and mellowed into long, soft, rolling tones, against which, as against a foil, there stood outdetached, now and then, the sudden footsteps of someone leaving orentering a confessional, the short scream of a slipping chair--once thesudden noise of a confessional-door being opened and the click of thehandle which turned out the electric light. And it was full of shadows, too; a monstrous outline crossed and recrossed the apse behind the HighAltar, as the sacristan moved about; once a hand, as of a giant, remained poised for an instant somewhere on the wall beside the throne. It seemed to the priest, tired and clear-brained as he was, as if he satin some place of expectation--some great cavern where mysteries movedand passed in preparation for a climax. All was hushed and confused, yetalive; and the dark waves would break presently in the glory of themidnight Mass. 

He scarcely knew what held him there, nor what it was for which hewaited. He thought of the lighted common-room at the end of the longcorridor beyond the sacristy. He wondered who was there; perhaps one ortwo were playing billiards and smoking; they had had a hard day of itand would scarcely get to bed before three. And yet, here he sat, tiredand over-strained, yet waiting--waiting for a disreputable-looking youngman in a dirty suit and muffler and big boots, to give over prayingbefore a curtain in an empty aisle. 

A figure presently came softly round the corner behind him. It was thepriest whom he had heard leaving his confessional just now. 

"Haven't you done yet?" whispered the new-comer, pausing behind hischair. 

"Coming in a minute or two, " he said. 

The figure passed on; presently a door banged like muffled thundersomewhere beyond the sacristy, and simultaneously he heard a pair ofboots going down the aisle behind. 

He got up instantly, and with long, silent steps made his way down theaisle also. The figure wheeled the corner and disappeared; he himselfran on tip-toe and was in time to see him turning away from theholy-water basin by the door. But he came so quickly after him that thedoor was still vibrating as he put his hand upon it. He came out morecautiously through the little entrance, and stood on the steps in timeto see the young man moving off, not five yards away, in the directionof Victoria Street. But here something stopped him. 

Coming straight up the pavement outside the Art and Book Company depotwas a newsboy at the trot, yelling something as he came, with a posterflapping from one arm and a bundle of papers under the other. The priestcould not catch what he said, but he saw the young man suddenly stop andthen turn off sharply towards the boy, and he saw him, after fumbling inhis pocket, produce a halfpenny and a paper pass into his hands. 

There then he stood, motionless on the pavement, the sheet spread beforehim flapping a little in the gusty night wind. 

"Paper, sir!" yelled the boy, pausing in the road. "'Orrible--"

The priest nodded; but he was not thinking much about the paper, andproduced his halfpenny. The paper was put into his hand, but he paid noattention to it. He was still watching the motionless figure on thepavement. About three minutes passed. Then the young man suddenly anddexterously folded the paper, folded it again and slipped it into hispocket. Then he set off walking and a moment later had vanished roundthe corner into Victoria Street. 

 * * * * *

The priest thought no more of the paper as he went back through theCathedral, wondering again over what he had seen. .. . 

But the common-room was empty when he got to it, and presently he spreadthe paper before him on the table and leaned over it to see what theexcitement was about. There was no doubt as to what the news was--therewere headlines occupying nearly a third of a column; but it appeared tohim unimportant as general news: he had never heard of the peoplebefore. It seemed that a wealthy peer who lived in the North of England, who had only recently been married for the second time, had been killedin a motor smash together with his eldest son. The chauffeur had escapedwith a fractured thigh. The peer's name was Lord Talgarth. 

CHAPTER VII

(I)

On the morning of the twenty-fourth a curious little incidenthappened--I dug the facts out of the police news--in a smallpublic-house on the outskirts of South London. Obviously it is no morethan the sheerest coincidence. Four men were drinking a friendly glassof beer together on their way back to work from breakfast. Theirecclesiastical zeal seems to have been peculiarly strong, for theydistinctly stated that they were celebrating Christmas on that date, andI deduce from that statement that beer-drinking was comparativelyinfrequent with them. 

However, as they were about to part, there entered to them a fifth, travel-stained and tired, who sat down and demanded some stronger formof stimulant. The new-comer was known to these four, for his name wasgiven, and his domicile was mentioned as Hackney Wick. He was a smallman, very active and very silent and rather pale; and he seems to havehad something of a mysterious reputation even among his friends and tobe considered a dangerous man to cross. 

He made no mystery, however, as to where he had come from, nor whitherhe was going. He had come from Kent, he said, and humorously added thathe had been hop-picking, and was going to join his wife and the familycircle for the festival of Christmas. He remarked that his wife hadwritten to him to say she had lodgers. 

The four men naturally stayed a little to hear all this news and tocelebrate Christmas once more, but they presently were forced to tearthemselves away. It was as the first man was leaving (his foremanappears to have been of a tyrannical disposition) that the littleincident happened. 

"Why, " he said, "Bill" (three out of the five companions seemed to havebeen usually called "Bill"), "Bill, your boots are in a mess. "

The Bill in question made caustic remarks. He observed that it would beremarkable if they were not in such weather. But the other persistedthat this was not mud, and a general inspection was made. This resultedin the opinion of the majority being formed that Bill had trodden insome blood. Bill himself was one of the majority, though he attempted invain to think of any explanation. Two men, however, declared that intheir opinion it was only red earth. (A certain obscurity appears in theevidence at this point, owing to the common use of a certain expletivein the mouth of the British working-man. ) There was a hot discussion onthe subject, and the Bill whose boots were under argument seems to havebeen the only man to keep his head. He argued very sensibly that if thestains were those of blood, then he must have stepped in some--perhapsin the gutter of a slaughter-house; and if it was not blood, then itmust be something else he had trodden in. It was urged upon him that itwas best washed off, and he seems finally to have taken the advice, though without enthusiasm. 

Then the four men departed. 

The landlady's evidence was to the same effect. She states that thenew-comer, with whose name she had been previously unacquainted, thoughshe knew his face, had remained very tranquilly for an hour or so andhad breakfasted off bacon and eggs. He seemed to have plenty of money, she said. He had finally set off, limping a little, in a northwarddirection. 

Now this incident is a very small one. I only mention it because, inreading the evidence later, I found myself reminded of a parallelincident, recorded in a famous historical trial, in which somethingresembling blood was seen on the hand of the judge. His name was Ayloff, and his date the sixteenth century. 

(II)

Mrs. Partington had a surprise--not wholly agreeable--on that ChristmasEve. For at half-past three, just as the London evening was beginning toclose in, her husband walked into the kitchen. 

She had seen nothing of him for six weeks, and had managed to get onfairly well without him. I am not even now certain whether or no sheknows what her husband's occupation is during these absences of his--Ithink it quite possible that, honestly, she does not--and I have no ideamyself. It seemed, however, this time, that he had prospered. He was inquite a good temper, he was tolerably well dressed, and within tenminutes of his arrival he had produced a handful of shillings. Five ofthese he handed over to her at once for Christmas necessaries, and tenmore he entrusted to Maggie with explicit directions as to theirexpenditure. 

While he took off his boots, his wife gave him the news--first, as tothe arrival of the Major's little party, and next as to its unhappydispersion on that very day. 

"He will 'ave it as the young man's gone off with the young woman, " sheobserved. 

Mr. Partington made a commentatory sound. 

"An' 'e's 'arf mad, " she added. "'E means mischief if 'e can manage it. "

Mr. Partington observed, in his own particular kind of vocabulary, thatthe Major's intentions were absurd, since the young man would scarcelybe such a peculiarly qualified kind of fool as to return. And Mrs. Partington agreed with him. (In fact, this had been her one comfort allday. For it seemed to her, with her frank and natural ideas, that, onthe whole, Frank and Gertie had done the proper thing. She was pleased, too, to think that she had been right in her surmises as to Gertie'sattitude to Frank. For, of course, she never doubted for one singleinstant that the two had eloped together in the ordinary way, thoughprobably without any intentions of matrimony. )

Mr. Partington presently inquired as to where the Major was, and wasinformed that he was, of course, at the "Queen's Arms. " He had beenthere, in fact, continuously--except for sudden excursions home, todemand whether anything had been heard of the fugitives--since abouthalf-past eleven that morning. It was a situation that needed comfort. 

Mrs. Partington added a few comments on the whole situation, andpresently put on her bonnet and went out to supplement her Christmaspreparations with the extra five shillings, leaving her husband to dozein the Windsor chair, with his pipe depending from his mouth. He hadwalked up from Kent that morning, he said. 

 * * * * *

She returned in time to get tea ready, bringing with her various"relishes, " and found that the situation had developed slightly sinceher departure. The Major had made another of his infuriated returns, andhad expanded at length to his old friend Mr. Partington, recounting theextraordinary kindness he had always shown to Frank and the confidencehe had reposed in him. He had picked him up, it seemed, when the youngman had been practically starving, and had been father and comrade tohim ever since. And to be repaid in this way! He had succeeded also byhis eloquence, Mrs. Partington perceived, in winning her husband'ssympathies, and was now gone off again, ostensibly to scour theneighborhood once more, but, more probably, to attempt to drown hisgrieved and wounded feelings. 

Mrs. Partington set her thin lips and said nothing. She noticed also, asshe spread the table, a number of bottles set upon the floor, two ofthem with yellow labels--the result of Maggie's errand--and preparedherself to face a somewhat riotous evening. But Christmas, she reflectedfor her consolation, comes but once a year. 

It was about nine o'clock that the two men and the one woman sat down tosupper upstairs. The children had been put to bed in the kitchen asusual, after Jimmie had informed his mother that the clergyman had beenround no less than three times since four o'clock to inquire after thevanished lodger. He was a little tearful at being put to bed at such anunusually early hour, as Mr. Parham-Carter, it appeared, had promisedhim no less than sixpence if he would come round to the clergy-housewithin five minutes after the lodger's return, and it was obviouslyimpossible to traverse the streets in a single flannel shirt. 

His mother dismissed it all as nonsense. She told him that Frankie wasnot coming back at all--that he wasn't a good young man, and had runaway without paying mother her rent. This made the situation worse thanever, as Jimmie protested violently against this shattering of hisideal, and his mother had to assume a good deal of sternness to cover upher own tenderness of feeling. But she, too--though she considered theflight of the two perfectly usual--was conscious of a very slight senseof disappointment herself that it should have been this particular youngman who had done it. 

Then she went upstairs again to supper. 

(III)

The famous archway that gives entrance to the district of Hackney Wickseems, especially on a rainy night, directly designed by the GreatEastern Railway as a vantage ground for observant loafers with a desireto know every soul that enters or leaves Hackney Wick. It is, of course, possible to, enter Hackney Wick by other ways--it may be approached bythe marshes, and there is, I think, another way round about half a mileto the east, under the railway. But those ways have nothing whatever todo with people coming from London proper. You arrive at Victoria ParkStation; you turn immediately to the right and follow the pavement down, with the park on your left, until you come to the archway where the roadunites with that coming from Homerton. One is absolutely safe, therefore, assuming that one has not to deal with watchful criminals, instanding under the arch with the certitude that sooner or later, if youwait long enough, the man whom you expect to enter Hackney Wick willpass within ten yards of you. 

Mr. Parham-Carter, of course, knew this perfectly well, and had, finally, communicated the fact to the other two quite early in theafternoon. An elaborate system of watches, therefore, had been arranged, by which one of the three had been on guard continuously since threeo'clock. It was Jack who had had the privilege (if he had but known it)of observing Mr. Partington himself returning home to his family forChristmas, and it was Dick, who came on guard about five, who had seenthe Major--or, rather, what was to him merely a shabby and excitedman--leave and then return to the "Queen's Arms" during his hour'swatch. 

 * * * * *

After the amazing and shocking news, however, of the accident to LordTalgarth and Archie, the precautions had been doubled. It was theclergyman who had first bought an evening paper soon after five o'clock, and within five minutes the other two knew it also. 

It is of no good to try to describe the effect it had on their minds, beyond saying that it made all three of them absolutely resolute thatFrank should by no possible means escape them. The full dramaticsituation of it all they scarcely appreciated, though it soaked more andmore into them gradually as they waited--two of them in the Men's Clubjust round the corner, and the third, shivering and stamping, under thearch. (An unemployed man, known to the clergyman, had been set as anadditional sentry on the steps of the Men's Club, whose duty it wouldbe, the moment the signal was given from the arch that Frank wascoming, to call the other two instantly from inside. Further, theclergyman--as has been related--had been round three times since fouro'clock to Turner Road, and had taken Jimmie into his pay. )

The situation was really rather startling, even to the imperturbableDick. This pleasant young man, to whom he had begun to feel verystrangely tender during the last month or two, now tramping Londonstreets (or driving a van), in his miserable old clothes described tohim by the clergyman, or working at the jam factory, was actually no oneelse at this moment but the new Lord Talgarth--with all that thatimplied. Merefield was his, the big house in Berkeley Square was his;the moor in Scotland. .. . It was an entire reversal of the whole thing:it was as a change of trumps in whist: everything had altered itsvalue. .. . 

Well, he had plenty of time, both before he came off guard at seven andafter he had joined the clergyman in the Men's Club, to sort out thefacts and their consequences. 

 * * * * *

About half-past ten the three held a consultation under the archway, while trains rumbled overhead. They attracted very little attentionhere: the archway is dark and wide; they were muffled to the eyes; andthere usually is a fringe of people standing under shelter here on rainyevenings. They leaned back against the wall and talked. 

They had taken further steps since they had last met. Mr. Parham-Carterhad been round to the jam factory, and had returned with the news thatthe van had come back under the charge of only one of the drivers, andthat the other one, who was called Gregory (whom Mr. Parham-Carter wasinquiring after), would certainly be dismissed in consequence. He hadtaken the address of the driver, who was now off duty--somewhere inHomerton--with the intention of going to see him next morning if Frankhad not appeared. 

There were two points they were discussing now. First, should the policebe informed? Secondly, was it probable that Frank would have heard thenews, and, if so, was it conceivable that he had gone straight offsomewhere in consequence--to his lawyers, or even to Merefield itself?

Dick remembered the name of the firm quite well--at least, he thoughtso. Should he send a wire to inquire?

But then, in that case, Jack shrewdly pointed out, everything was as itshould be. And this reflection caused the three considerable comfort. 

For all that, there were one or two "ifs. " Was it likely that Frankshould have heard the news? He was notoriously hard up, and the nameTalgarth had not appeared, so far, on any of the posters. Yet he mighteasily have been given a paper, or picked one up . .. And then. .. . 

So the discussion went on, and there was not much to be got out of it. The final decision come to was this: That guard should be kept, asbefore, until twelve o'clock midnight; that at that hour the threeshould leave the archway and, in company, visit two places--Turner Roadand the police-station--and that the occupants of both these placesshould be informed of the facts. And that then all three should go tobed. 

(IV)

At ten minutes past eleven Dick moved away from the fire in the Men'sClub, where he had just been warming himself after his vigil, and beganto walk up and down. 

He had no idea why he was so uncomfortable, and he determined to set towork to reassure himself. (The clergyman, he noticed, was beginning todoze a little by the fire, for the club had just been officially closedand the rooms were empty. )

Of course, it was not pleasant to have to tell a young man that hisfather and brother were dead (Dick himself was conscious of aconsiderable shock), but surely the situation was, on the whole, enormously improved. This morning Frank was a pauper; to-night he waspractically a millionaire, as well as a peer of the realm. This morninghis friends had nothing by which they might appeal to him, except commonsense and affection, and Frank had very little of the one, and, it wouldseem, a very curious idea of the other. 

Of course, all that affair about Jenny was a bad business (Dick couldhardly even now trust himself to think of her too much, and not todiscuss her at all), but Frank would get over it. 

Then, still walking up and down, and honestly reassured by sheer reason, he began to think of what part Jenny would play in the future. .. . It wasa very odd situation, a very odd situation indeed. (The deliberate andself-restrained Dick used an even stronger expression. ) Here was a youngwoman who had jilted the son and married the father, obviously fromambitious motives, and now found herself almost immediately in theposition of a very much unestablished kind of dowager, with the jiltedson reigning in her husband's stead. And what on earth would happennext? Diamonds had been trumps; now it looked as if hearts were tosucceed them; and what a very remarkable pattern was that of thesehearts. 

But to come back to Frank--

And at that moment he heard a noise at the door, and, as the clergymanstarted up from his doze, Dick saw the towzled and becapped head of theunemployed man and his hand beckoning violently, and heard his hoarsevoice adjuring them to make haste. The gentleman under the arch, hesaid, was signaling. 

The scene was complete when the two arrived, with the unemployed manencouraging them from behind, half a minute later under the archway. 

Jack had faced Frank fairly and squarely on the further pavement, andwas holding him in talk. 

"My dear chap, " he was saying, "we've been waiting for you all day. Thank the Lord you've come!"

Frank looked a piteous sight, thought Dick, who now for the first timesaw the costume that Mr. Parham-Carter had described with suchminuteness. He was standing almost under the lamp, and there were heavydrooping shadows on his face; he looked five years older than when Dickhad last seen him--only at Easter. But his voice was confident andself-respecting enough. 

"My dear Jack, " he was saying, "you really mustn't interrupt. I've onlyjust--" Then he broke off as he recognized the others. 

"So you've given me away after all, " he said with a certain sternness tothe clergyman. 

"Indeed I haven't, " cried that artless young man. "They came quiteunexpectedly this morning. "

"And you've told them that they could catch me here, " said Frank "Well, it makes no difference. I'm going on--Hullo! Dick!"

"Look here!" said Dick. "It's really serious. You've heard about--" Hisvoice broke. 

"I've heard about it, " said Frank. "But that doesn't make any differencefor to-night. "

"But my dear man, " cried Jack, seizing him by the lapel of his coat, "it's simply ridiculous. We've come down here on purpose--you're killingyourself--"

"One moment, " said Frank. "Tell me exactly what you want. "

Dick pushed to the front. 

"Let him alone, you fellows. .. . This is what we want, Frank. We want youto come straight to the clergy-house for to-night. To-morrow you andI'll go and see the lawyers first thing in the morning, and go up toMerefield by the afternoon train. I'm sorry, but you've really got to gothrough with it. You're the head of the family now. They'll be allwaiting for you there, and they can't do anything without you. Thismustn't get into the papers. Fortunately, not a soul knows of it yet, though they would have if you'd been half an hour later. Now, comealong. "

"One moment, " said Frank. "I agree with nearly all that you've said. Iquite agree with you that"--he paused a moment--"that the head of thefamily should be at Merefield to-morrow night. But for to-night youthree must just go round to the clergy-house and wait. I've got tofinish my job clean out--and--"

"What job?" cried two voices simultaneously. 

Frank leaned against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. 

"I really don't propose to go into all that now. It'd take an hour. Buttwo of you know most of the story. In a dozen words it's this--I've gotthe girl away, and now I'm going to tell the man, and tell him a fewother things at the same time. That's the whole thing. Now clear off, please. (I'm awfully obliged, you know, and all that), but you reallymust let me finish it before I do anything else. "

There was a silence. 

It seemed tolerably reasonable, put like that--at least, it seemedconsistent with what appeared to the three to be the amazing unreason ofall Frank's proceedings. They hesitated, and were lost. 

"Will you swear not to clear out of Hackney Wick before we've seen youagain?" demanded Jack hoarsely. 

Frank bowed his head. 

"Yes, " he said. 

The clergyman and Dick were consulting in low voices. Jack looked atthem with a wild sort of appeal in his face. He was completelybewildered, and hoped for help. But none came. 

"Will you swear--" he began again. 

Frank put his hand suddenly on his friend's shoulder. 

"Look here, old man. I'm really rather done up. I think you might let mego without any more--"

"All right, we agree, " said Dick suddenly. "And--"

"Very good, " said Frank. "Then there's really no more--"

He turned as if to go. 

"Frank, Frank--" cried Jack. 

Frank turned and glanced at him, and then went on. 

"Good-night, " he cried. 

And so they let him go. 

They watched him, in silence, cross the road by the "Queen's Arms" andpass up the left-hand pavement. As he drew near each lamp his shadowlay behind him, shortened, vanished and reappeared before him. Afterthe third lamp they lost him, and they knew he would a moment later passinto Turner Road. 

So they let him go. 

(V)

Mr. Parham-Carter's room looked very warm and home-like after thecomfortlessness of the damp lamp-lit streets. It was as has already beenrelated: the Madonna, the prints, the low book-cases, the drawncurtains, the rosy walls, the dancing firelight and the electric lamp. 

It was even reassuring at first--safe and protected, and the three satdown content. A tray with some cold meat and cheese rested on the tableby the fire, and cocoa in a brown jug stood warming in the fender. Theyhad had irregular kinds of refreshments in the Men's Club at oddintervals, and were exceedingly hungry. .. . 

They began to talk presently, and it was astonishing how the sight andtouch of Frank had cheered them. More than one of the three hasconfessed to me since that a large part of the anxiety was caused by hissimple absence and by imaginative little pictures of street accidents. It would have been so extremely ironical if he had happened to havebeen run over on the day on which he became Lord Talgarth. 

They laid their little plans, too, for the next day. Dick had thought itall out. He, Jack and Frank were to call at the lawyers' office inLincoln's Inn Fields, and leave a message, as the office would be closedof course, immediately after the wanderer had been dressed properly inready-made clothes. Then they would catch the early afternoon train andget to Merefield that night. The funeral could not possibly take placefor several days: there would have to be an inquest. 

Then they read over the account of the smash in the _Star_newspaper--special edition. It seemed to have been nobody's fault. Thebrake had refused to act going down a steep hill; they had run into awall; the chauffeur had been thrown clean over it; the two passengershad been pinned under the car. Lord Talgarth was dead at once; Archiehad died five minutes after being taken out. 

So they all talked at once in low voices, but in the obvious excitementof relief. It was an extraordinary pleasure to them--now that theylooked at it in the sanity conferred by food and warmth--to reflect thatFrank was within a quarter of a mile of them--certainly in drearysurroundings; but it was for the last time. To-morrow would see himrestored to ordinary life, his delusions and vagaries plucked from himby irresistible circumstance, and the future in his hands. 

 * * * * *

Midnight still found them talking--alert and cheerful; but a littlesilence fell as they heard the chiming of bells. 

"Christmas Day, by George!" said the clergyman. "Merry Christmas!"

They shook hands, smiling shamefacedly, as is the custom of Englishmen. 

"And to think of old Frank--" mused Jack half aloud. "I told you, Guiseley, about his coming to me in the autumn?" (He had been thinking agreat deal about that visit lately, and about what Frank had told him ofhimself--the idea he had of Something going on behind the scenes inwhich he had passively to take his part; his remark on how pleasant itmust be to be a squire. Well, the play had come to an end, it seemed;now there followed the life of a squire indeed. It was curious to thinkthat Frank was, actually at this moment, Lord Talgarth!)

Dick nodded his head, smiling to himself in his beard. Somehow oranother the turn things had taken had submerged in him for the presentthe consciousness of the tragedy up at Merefield, and his own privategriefs, and the memory of Jenny. 

Jack told it all again briefly. He piled it on about the Major and hisextreme repulsiveness, and the draggled appearance of Gertie, andFrank's incredible obstinacy. 

"And to think that he's brought it off, and got the girl home to herpeople. .. . Well, thank the Lord that's over! We shan't have any more ofthat sort of thing. "

Dick got up presently and began to walk about, eyeing the pictures andthe books. 

"Want to turn in?" asked the cleric. 

"Well, I think, as we've an early start--"

The clergyman jumped up. 

"You've a beastly little room, I'm afraid. We're rather full up. Andyou, Mr. Kirkby!"

"I'll wait till you come back, " he said. 

 * * * * *

The two went out, after good-nights, and Jack was left staring at thefire. 

He felt very wide-awake, and listened contentedly to the dying noises ofthe streets. Somewhere in that hive outside was Frank--old Frank. Thatwas very good to think of. .. . 

During these last months Frank's personality had been very persistentlybefore him. It was not that he pretended to understand him in the veryleast; but he understood enough now to feel that there was somethingvery admirable in it all. It was mad and quixotic and absurd, but ithad a certain light of nobility. Of course, it would never do if peoplein general behaved like that; society simply could not go on if everyonewent about espousing the cause of unhappy and badly-behaved individuals, and put on old clothes and played the Ass. But, for all that, it was notunpleasant to reflect that his own friend had chosen to do these thingsin despite of convention. There was a touch of fineness in it. And itwas all over now, thank God. .. . What times they would have up in thenorth!

He heard a gate clash somewhere outside. The sound just detached itselffrom the murmur of the night. Then a late train ran grinding over theembanked railway behind the house, and drew up with the screaming ofbrakes at Victoria Park Station, and distracted him again. 

"Are you ready, Mr. Kirkby?" said the clergyman, coming in. 

Jack stood up, stretching himself. In the middle of the stretch hestopped. 

"What's that noise?" he asked. 

They stood listening. 

Then again came the sharp, prolonged tingle of an electric bell, followed by a battering at a door downstairs. 

Jack, looking in the other's face, saw him go ever so slightly palebeneath his eyes. 

"There's somebody at the door, " said Mr. Parham-Carter. "I'll just godown and see. "

And, as Jack stood there, motionless and breathless, he could hear nosound but the thick hammering of his own heart at the base of histhroat. 

CHAPTER VIII

(I)

At half-past eleven o'clock Mrs. Partington came upstairs to the roomwhere the two men were still drinking, to make one more suggestion thatit was time to go to bed. 

It was a dreary little room, this front bedroom on the first floor, where Frank and the Major had slept last night in one large double bed. The bed was pushed now close against the wall, the clothes still tumbledand unmade, with various articles lying upon it, as on a table. A chairwithout a back stood between it and the window. 

The table where the two men still sat was pulled close to the fire thathad been lighted partly in honor of Mr. Partington and partly in honorof Christmas, and was covered with a _débris_ of plates and glasses andtobacco and bottles. There was a jam-jar filled with holly obtained fromthe butcher's shop, in the middle of the table. There was very littlefurniture in the room; there was a yellow-painted chest of drawersopposite the door, and this, too, held a little regiment of bottles;there was a large oleograph of Queen Victoria hanging above the bed, and a text--for some inscrutable reason--was permitted to hang above thefireplace, proclaiming that "The Lord is merciful and long-suffering, "in Gothic letters, peeping modestly out of a wealth of paintedapple-blossoms, with a water-wheel in the middle distance and a stile. On the further side of the fireplace was a washhand-stand, with a tinpail below it, and the Major's bowler hat reposing in the basin. Therewas a piece of carpet underneath the table, and a woolly sort of mat, trodden through in two or three places, beside the bed. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Partington coughed as she came in, so tremendous was the reek oftobacco smoke, burning paraffin and spirits. 

"Bless the men!" she said, and choked once more. 

She was feeling comparatively light-hearted; it was a considerablerelief to her that Frank actually had not come back, though she neverhad for one instant expected him to do so. But she didn't want any moredisturbances or quarrels, and, as she looked at the Major, who turned inhis chair as she came in, she felt even more relieved. His appearancewas not reassuring. 

He had been drinking pretty steadily all day to drown his grief, and hadended up by a very business-like supper with his landlord. There werefour empty beer bottles and one empty whisky bottle distributed on thetable or floor, and another half-empty whisky bottle stood between thetwo men on the table. And as she looked at the Major (she was completelyexperienced in alcoholic symptoms), she understood exactly what stage hehad reached. .. . 

 * * * * *

Now the Major was by no means a drunkard--let that be understood. Hedrank whenever he could, but a tramp cannot drink to very grave excess. He is perpetually walking and he is perpetually poor. But this was aspecial occasion; it was Christmas; he was home in London; his landlordhad returned, and he had lost Gertie. 

He had reached, then, the dangerous stage, when the alcohol, afterhaving excited and warmed and confused the brain, recoils from it tosome extent, leaving it clear and resolute and entirely reckless, andentirely conscious of any idea that happens to be dominant (at least, that is the effect on some temperaments). The maudlin stage had passedlong ago, at the beginning of supper, when the Major had leaned his headon his plate and wept over the ingratitude of man and the peculiarpoignancy of "old Frankie's" individual exhibition of it. A noisy stagehad succeeded to this, and now there was deadly quiet. 

He was rather white in the face; his eyes were set, but very bright, andhe was smoking hard and fast. 

"Now then, " said Mrs. Partington cheerfully, "time for bed. "

Her husband winked at her gravely, which was his nearest approach tohilarity. He was a quiet man at all times. 

The Major said nothing. 

"There! there's 'Erb awake again, " said the mother, as a wail rose upthe staircase. "I'll be up again presently. " And she vanished once more. 

 * * * * *

Two of the children were awake after all. 

Jimmie lay, black-eyed and alert, beside his brother, and looked at hismother reflectively as she came in. He was still thinking about thesixpence that might conceivably have been his. 'Erb's lamentationstopped as she came in, and she went to the table first to turn down thesmoking lamp. 

She was quite a kindly mother, a great deal more tender than she seemed, and 'Erb knew it well enough. But he respected her sufficiently to stopcrying when she came in. 

"Now then, " she said with motherly sternness. "I can't 'ave--"

Then she stopped abruptly. She had heard steps on the pavement outsideas she came into the room, and now she heard the handle of the streetdoor turned and someone come into the passage. She stood wondering, andin that pause she missed her chance, for the steps came straight pastthe door and began to go upstairs. It might, of course, conceivably beone of the lodgers on the top-floor, and yet she knew it was not. Shewhisked to the door a moment later, but it was too late, and she wasonly just in time to see the figure she knew turn the corner of the fourstairs that led to the first-floor landing. 

"Is that Frankie?" asked Jimmie, suddenly sitting up in bed. "Oh!mother, let me--"

"You be quiet!" snapped the woman, and stood listening; with partedlips. 

(II)

From that point Mrs. Partington seems to have been able to follow veryclosely what must have taken place upstairs. 

It was a very quiet night, here in Turner Road: the roysterers were inthe better-lighted streets, and the sober folk were at home. And therewas not a footstep on the pavements outside to confuse the little dramaof sound that came down to her through the ill-fitting boards overhead. She could not explain afterwards why she did not interfere. I imaginethat she hoped against hope that she was misinterpreting what she heard, and also that a kind of terror seized her which she found it reallyimpossible to shake off. 

First, there was the opening and closing of the door; two or threefootsteps, and then dead silence. 

Then she heard talking begin, first one voice, then a crescendo, as iftwo or three clamored together; then one voice again. (It wasimpossible, so far, to distinguish which was which. )

This went on for a minute or two; occasionally there was a crescendo, and once or twice some voice rose almost into a shout. 

Then, without warning, there was a shuffling of feet, and a crash, as ofan overturned chair; and, instant upon the noise, 'Erb set up aprolonged wail. 

"You be quiet!" snapped the woman in a sharp whisper. 

The noises went on: now the stamp of a foot; now the scraping ofsomething overhead and a voice or two in sharp deep exclamation, andthen complete silence once more. 'Erb was sobbing now, as noiselessly ashe could, terrified at his mother's face, and Jimmie was up, standingon the floor in his flannel shirt, listening like his mother. Maggiestill slept deeply on the further side of the bed. 

The woman went on tip-toe a step nearer the door, opened it, and peepedout irresolutely. But the uncarpeted stairs stretched up into thedarkness, unlit except for the glimmer that came from the room at whosedoor she was standing. .. . 

There was a voice now, rising and falling steadily, and she heard itbroken in upon now and again by something that resembled a chuckle. Somehow or another this sickened her more than all else; it was like herhusband's voice. She recoiled into the room, and, as she did so, therecame the sound of blows and the stamping of feet, and she knew, in a waythat she could not explain, that there was no fight going on. It wassome kind of punishment, not a conflict. .. . 

She would have given the world to move, to run to the street door andscream for help; but her knees shook under her and her heart seemed tobe hammering itself to bits. Jimmie had hold of her now, clinging roundher, shaking with terror and murmuring something she could notunderstand. Her whole attention was upstairs. She was wondering how longit would go on. 

It must be past midnight now, she thought: the streets seethed still asdeath. But overhead there was still movement and the sound of blows, and then abruptly the end came. 

There was one more crescendo of noise--two voices raised in dispute, onealmost shrill, in anger or expostulation; then one more sudden and heavynoise as of a blow or a fall, and dead silence. 

(III)

The next thing that Mrs. Partington remembered afterwards was that shefound herself standing on the landing upstairs, listening, yet afraid tomove. 

All was very nearly silent within: there was just low talking, and thesound of something being moved. It was her husband's voice that sheheard. 

Beyond her the stairs ran up to the next story, and she became awarepresently that someone else was watching, too. An untidy head of a womanleaned over the banisters, and candle-light from somewhere beyond lit upher face. She was grinning. 

 * * * * *

Then the sharp whisper came down the stairs demanding what was up. 

Mrs. Partington jerked her thumb towards the closed door and noddedreassuringly. She was aware that she must be natural at all costs. Thewoman still hung over the banisters a minute longer and then was gone. 

Jimmie was with her too, now, still just in his shirt, perfectly quiet, with a face as white as paper. His big black eyes dwelt on his mother'sface. 

Then suddenly she could bear the suspense no more. She stole up to thedoor, still on tip-toe, still listening, and laid her fingers on thehandle. There were more gentle movements within now, the noise of waterand a basin (she heard the china clink distinctly), but no more words. 

She turned the handle resolutely and looked in. 

 * * * * *

The Major was leaning in the corner by the window, with his hands in hispockets, staring with a dull, white, defiant kind of face at the bed. The lamp on the mantelpiece lighted him up clearly. On his knees by thebedside was her husband, with his back to her, supporting a basin on thebed and some thing dark that hung over it. Then she saw Frank. It was hewho was lying on the bed almost upon his face; one boot dangled down onthis side, and it was his head that her husband was supporting. Shestared at it a moment in terror. .. . Then her eyes wandered to the floor, where, among the pieces of broken glass, a pool of dark liquid spreadslowly over the boards. Twigs and detached leaves of holly lay in themidst of it. And at that sight her instinct reasserted herself. 

She stepped forward and took her husband by the shoulder. He turned aface that twitched a little towards her. She pushed him aside, took thebasin from him, and the young man's head. .. . 

"Clear out of this, " she whispered sharply. "Quick, mind! You and theMajor!. .. Jimmie!" The boy was by her in an instant, shaking all over, but perfectly self-controlled. 

"Jimmie, put your things on and be off to the clergy-house. Ring 'em up, and ask for Mr. Carter. Bring him round with you. "

Frank's head slipped a little in her hands, and she half rose to steadyit. When she had finished and looked round again for her husband, theroom was empty. From below up the stairs came a sudden draught, and theflame leaped in the lamp-chimney. And then, once more unrestrained, roseup the wailing of 'Erb. 

(IV)

A little after dawn on that Christmas morning Mr. Parham-Carter satsolitary in the kitchen. The children had been packed off to aneighbor's house before, and he himself had been to and fro all nightand was tired out--to the priest's house at Homerton, to the doctor's, and to the parish nurse. All the proper things had been done. Frank hadbeen anointed by the priest, bandaged by the doctor, and settled in bythe nurse into the middle of the big double bed. He had not yetrecovered consciousness. They were upstairs now--Jack, Dick and thenurse; the priest and the doctor had promised to look in beforenine--there was nothing more that they could do for the present, theysaid--and Mrs. Partington was out at this moment to fetch something fromthe dispensary. 

He had heard her story during one of the intervals in the course of thenight, and it seemed to him that he had a tolerably accurate theory ofthe whole affair--if, that is to say, her interpretation of the noisesshe had heard was at all correct. 

The Major must have made an unexpected attack, probably by a kick thathad temporarily disabled Frank, and must then, with Mr. Partington'sjudicial though amused approval, have proceeded to inflict chastisementupon Frank as he lay on the floor. This must have gone on for aconsiderable time; Frank seemed to have been heavily kicked all over hisbody. And the thing must have ended with a sudden uncontrolled attack onthe part of the Major, not only with his boots, but with at least one ofthe heavy bottles. The young man's head was cut deeply, as if by glass, and it was probably three or four kicks on the head, before Mr. Partington could interfere, that had concluded the punishment. Thedoctor's evidence entirely corroborated this interpretation of events. It was, of course, impossible to know whether Frank had had the time orthe will to make any resistance. The police had been communicated with, but there was no news yet of the two men involved. 

 * * * * *

It was one of those bleak, uncomfortable dawns that have no beautyeither of warmth or serenity--at least it seemed so here in Turner Road. Above the torn and dingy strip of lace that shrouded the lower part ofthe window towered the black fronts of the high houses against thesteely western sky. It was extraordinarily quiet. Now and then afootstep echoed and died suddenly as some passer-by crossed the end ofthe street; but there was no murmur of voices yet, or groups at thedoors, as, no doubt, there would be when the news became known. 

The room, too, was cheerless; the fire was long ago gone out; thechildren's bed was still tumbled and disordered, and the paraffin lamphad smoked itself out half an hour ago. Overhead the clergyman couldhear now and again a very gentle footstep, and that was all. 

He was worn out with excitement and a kind of terror; and events tookfor him the same kind of clear, hard outline as did the physical objectsthemselves in this cold light of dawn. He had passed through a dozenmoods: furious anger at the senseless crime, at the hopeless, miserablewaste of a life, an overwhelming compassion and a wholly unreasonableself-reproach for not having foreseen danger more clearly the nightbefore. There were other thoughts that had come to him too--doubts as towhether the internal significance of all these things were in the leastanalogous to the external happenings; whether, perhaps, after all, thewhole affair were not on the inner side a complete and perfect event--infact, a startling success of a nature which he could not understand. Certainly, exteriorly, a more lamentable failure and waste could not beconceived; there had been sacrificed such an array of advantages--birth, money, education, gifts, position--and for such an exceedingly small anddoubtful good, that no additional data, it would appear, could possiblyexplain the situation. Yet was it possible that such data did existsomewhere, and that another golden and perfect deed had been done--thatthere was no waste, no failure, after all?

But at present these thoughts only came to him in glimpses; he wasexhausted now of emotion and speculation. He regarded the pitilessfacts with a sunken, unenergetic attention, and wondered when he wouldbe called again upstairs. 

There came a footstep outside; it hesitated, then the street door waspushed open and the step came in, up to the room door, and a small face, pinched with cold, its eyes all burning, looked at him. 

"Come in, Jimmie, " he whispered. 

 * * * * *

And so the two sat, huddled one against the other, and the man feltagain and again a shudder, though not of cold, shake the little body athis side. 

(V)

Ten minutes later a step came down the stairs, a little hurriedly, though on tip-toe; and Mrs. Partington, her own thin face lined withsleeplessness and emotion, and her lips set, nodded at him emphatically. He understood, and went quickly past her, followed closely by the child, and up the narrow stairs. .. . He heard the street-door close behind himas the woman left the house. 

It seemed to him as he came into the room as if he had stepped clean outof one world into another. And the sense of it was so sudden and abruptthat he stood for an instant on the threshold amazed at the transition. 

First, it was the absolute stillness and motionlessness of the room thatimpressed him, so far as any one element predominated. There werepersons in the room, but they were as statues. 

On the farther side of the bed, decent now and arranged and standing outacross the room, kneeled the two men, Jack Kirkby and Dick Guiseley, butthey neither lifted their eyes nor showed the faintest consciousness ofhis presence as he entered. Their faces were in shadow: behind them wasthe cold patch of the window, and a candle within half an inch ofextinction stood also behind them on a table in the corner, with one ortwo covered vessels and instruments. 

The nurse kneeled on this side, one arm beneath the pillow and the otheron the counterpane. 

And then there was Frank. 

 * * * * *

He lay perfectly still upon his back, his hands clasped before him (andeven these were bandaged). His head lay high on three or four pillows, and he wore what looked like a sort of cap, wholly hiding his hair andears. His profile alone showed clear-cut and distinct against the gloomin the corner behind. His face was entirely tranquil, as pale as ivory;his lips were closed. His eyes alone were alive. 

Presently those turned a little, and the man standing at the door, understanding the look, came forward and kneeled too by the bed. 

 * * * * *

Then, little by little, he began, in that living stillness, tounderstand rather better what it was that he was witnessing. .. . It wasnot that there was anything physical in the room, beyond the things ofwhich his senses told him; there was but the dingy furniture, the whitebed, august now with a strange dignity as of a white altar, and the fourpersons beside himself--five now, for Jimmie was beside him. But thatthe physical was not the plane in which these five persons were nowchiefly conscious was the most evident thing of all. .. . There was aboutthem, not a Presence, not an air, not a sweetness or a sound, and yet itis by such negatives only that the thing can be expressed. 

 * * * * *

And so they kneeled and waited. 

 * * * * *

"Why, Jack--"

It shook the waiting air like the sound of a bell, yet it was onlywhispered. The man nearest him on the other side shook with a singlespasmodic movement and laid his fingers gently on the bandaged hands. And then for a long while there was no further movement or sound. 

"Rosary!" said Frank suddenly, still in a whisper. .. . "Beads. .. . "

Jack moved swiftly on his knees, took from the table a string of beadsfrom where they had been laid the night before, and put them into thestill fingers. Then he laid his own hands over them again. 

 * * * * *

Again there was a long pause. 

Outside in the street a footstep came up from the direction of MortimerRoad, waxed loud and clear on the pavement, and died again down towardsthe street leading to the marshes. And, but for this, there was nofurther sound for a while. Then a cock crew, thin and shrill, somewherefar away; a dray rumbled past the end of the street and was silent. 

But the silence in the room was of a different quality; or, rather, theworld seemed silent because this room was so, and not the other way. Itwas here that the center lay, where a battered man was dying, and fromthis center radiated out the Great Peace. 

It was no waste then, after all!--this life of strange unreason endingin this very climax of uselessness, exactly when ordinary usefulness wasabout to begin. Could that be waste that ended so?

"Priest, " whispered the voice from the bed. 

Then Dick leaned forward. 

"He has been, " he said distinctly and slowly. "He was here at twoo'clock. He did--what he came for. And he's coming again directly. "

The eyes closed in sign of assent and opened again. 

He seemed to be looking, as in a kind of meditation, at nothing inparticular. It was as a man who waits at his ease for some pleasantlittle event that will unroll by and by. He was in no ecstasy, and, itseemed, in no pain and in no fierce expectation; he was simply at hisease and waiting. He was content, whatever those others might be. 

For a moment it crossed the young clergyman's mind that he ought to prayaloud, but the thing was dismissed instantly. It seemed to himimpertinent nonsense. That was not what was required. It was hisbusiness to watch, not to act. 

So, little by little, he ceased to think actively, he ceased to considerthis and that. At first he had wondered how long it would be before thedoctor and the priest arrived. (The woman had gone to fetch them. ) Hehad wished that they would make haste. .. . He had wondered what theothers felt, and how he would describe it all to his Vicar. Now, littleby little, all this ceased, and the peace grew within and without, tillthe balance of pressure was equalized and his attention floated at theperfect poise. 

Again there was no symbol or analogy that presented itself. It was noteven by negation that he thought. There was just one positive elementthat included all: time seemed to mean nothing, the ticks of the clockwith the painted face were scarcely consecutive; it was all one, anddistance was nothing, nor nearness--not even the nearness of the dyingface against the pillows. .. . 

 * * * * *

It was so, then, that something of that state to which Frank had passedcommunicated itself to at least one of those who saw him die. 

A little past the half hour Frank spoke again. 

"My love to Whitty, " he said. .. . "Diary. .. . Tell him. .. . "

 * * * * *

The end came a few minutes before nine o'clock, and it seems to havecome as naturally as life itself. There was no drama, no dying speech, not one word. 

Those who were there saw him move ever so slightly in bed, and his headlifted a little. Then his head sank once more and the Failure wascomplete. 

THE END