POTTERISM

 A TRAGI-FARCICAL TRACT

 BY ROSE MACAULAY

 Author of 'What Not, ' etc. 

 1920

TO THE UNSENTIMENTAL PRECISIANS IN THOUGHT, WHO HAVE, ON THIS CONFUSED, INACCURATE, AND EMOTIONAL PLANET, NO FIT HABITATION

'They contract a Habit of talking loosely and confusedly. '--J. CLARKE. 

'My dear friend, clear your mind of cant. .. . Don't _think_ foolishly. 'SAMUEL JOHNSON. 

'On the whole we areNot intelligent--No, no, no, not intelligent. '--W. S. GILBERT. 

'Truth may perhaps come to the price of a Pearle, that sheweth best byday; But it will not rise to the price of a Diamond or Carbuncle, thatsheweth best in varied lights. A mixture of a Lie doth ever addePleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of men'smindes Vaine Opinions, Blattering Hopes, False Valuations, Imaginationsas one would, and the like, but it would leave the Mindes of a Number ofMen poore shrunken Things, full of Melancholy and Indisposition andunpleasing to themselves?'--FRANCIS BACON. 

'What is it that smears the windows of the senses? Thought, convention, self-interest. .. . We see the narrow world our windows show us not initself, but in relation to our own needs, moods, and preferences . .. Forthe universe of the natural man is strictly egocentric. .. . Unless wehappen to be artists--and then but rarely--we never know the "thing seen"in its purity; never from birth to death, look at it with disinterestedeyes. .. . It is disinterestedness, the saint's and poet's love of thingsfor their own sakes . .. Which is the condition of all real knowledge. .. . When . .. The verb "to have" is ejected from the centre of yourconsciousness . .. Your attitude to life will cease to be commercial andbecome artistic. Then the guardian at the gate, scrutinising and sortingthe incoming impressions, will no longer ask, "What use is this to_me?_". .. You see things at last as the artist does, for their sake, notfor your own. '--EVELYN UNDERHILL. 

CONTENTS

PART I. --TOLD BY R. M. 

 I. POTTERS II. ANTI-POTTERS III. OPPORTUNITY IV. JANE AND CLARE

PART II. --TOLD BY GIDEON

 I. SPINNING II. DINING WITH THE HOBARTS III. SEEING JANE

PART III. --TOLD BY LELIA YORKE

 I. THE TERRIBLE TRAGEDY ON THE STAIRS II. AN AWFUL SUSPICION

PART IV. --TOLD BY KATHERINE VARICK

A BRANCH OF STUDY

PART V. --TOLD BY JUKE

GIVING ADVICE

PART VI. --TOLD BY R. M. 

 I. THE END OF A POTTER MELODRAMA II. ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED III. THE PRECISIAN AT WAR WITH THE WORLD IV. RUNNING AWAY V. A PLACARD FOR THE PRESS

PART I:

TOLD BY R. M. 

CHAPTER I

POTTERS

1

Johnny and Jane Potter, being twins, went through Oxford together. Johnnycame up from Rugby and Jane from Roedean. Johnny was at Balliol and Janeat Somerville. Both, having ambitions for literary careers, took theHonours School of English Language and Literature. They were ordinaryenough young people; clever without being brilliant, nice-looking withoutbeing handsome, active without being athletic, keen without beingearnest, popular without being leaders, open-handed without beinggenerous, as revolutionary, as selfish, and as intellectually snobbish aswas proper to their years, and inclined to be jealous one of the other, but linked together by common tastes and by a deep and bitter distastefor their father's newspapers, which were many, and for their mother'snovels, which were more. These were, indeed, not fit for perusal atSomerville and Balliol. The danger had been that Somerville and Balliol, till they knew you well, should not know you knew it. 

In their first year, the mother of Johnny and Jane ('Leila Yorke, ' with'Mrs. Potter' in brackets after it), had, after spending Eights Week atOxford, announced her intention of writing an Oxford novel. Oh God, Janehad cried within herself, not that; anything but that; and firmly sheand Johnny had told her mother that already there were _Keddy_, and_Sinister Street_, and _The Pearl_, and _The Girls of St. Ursula's_ (byAnnie S. Swan: 'After the races were over, the girls sculled theircollege barge briskly down the river, '), and that, in short, the thinghad been done for good and all, and that was that. 

Mrs. Potter still thought she would like to write an Oxford novel. Because, after all, though there might be many already, none of them werequite like the one she would write. She had tea with Jane in theSomerville garden on Sunday, and though Jane did not ask any of herfriends to meet her (for they might have got put in) she saw them allabout, and thought what a nice novel they would make. Jane knew she wasthinking this, and said, 'They're very commonplace people, ' in adiscouraging tone. 'Some of them, ' Jane added, deserting her ownsnobbishness, which was intellectual, for her mother's, which was social, 'are also common. '

'There must be very many, ' said Mrs. Potter, looking through herlorgnette at the garden of girls, 'who are neither. '

'Fewer, ' said Jane, stubbornly, 'than you would think. Most people areone or the other, I find. Many are both. '

'Try not to be cynical, my pet, ' said Leila Yorke, who was never this. 

2

That was in June, 1912. In June, 1914, Jane and Johnny went down. 

Their University careers had been creditable, if not particularlyconspicuous. Johnny had been a fluent speaker at the Union, Jane at thewomen's intercollegiate Debating Society, and also in the Somervilleparliament, where she had been the leader of the Labour Party. Johnny hadfor a time edited the _Isis_, Jane the _Fritillary_. Johnny had donerespectably in Schools, Jane rather better. For Jane had always been justa shade the cleverer; not enough to spoil competition, but enough to giveJohnny rather harder work to achieve the same results. They had probablyboth got firsts, but Jane's would be a safe thing, and Johnny would belikely to have a longish _viva_. 

Anyhow, here they were, just returned to Potter's Bar, Herts (where Mr. Percy Potter, liking the name of the village, had lately built a lordlymansion). Excellent friends they were, but as jealous as two little dogs, each for ever on the look-out to see that the other got no undueadvantage. Both saw every reason why they should make a success of life. But Jane knew that, though she might be one up on Johnny as regardsOxford, owing to slightly superior brain power, he was one up on her asregards Life, owing to that awful business sex. Women were handicapped;they had to fight much harder to achieve equal results. People didn'tgive them jobs in the same way. Young men possessed the earth; youngwomen had to wrest what they wanted out of it piecemeal. Johnny might enda cabinet minister, a notorious journalist, a Labour leader, anything. .. . Women's jobs were, as a rule, so dowdy and unimportant. Jane was bored todeath with this sex business; it wasn't fair. But Jane was determined tolive it down. She wouldn't be put off with second-rate jobs; she wouldn'tbe dowdy and unimportant, like her mother and the other fools; she wouldhave the best that was going. 

3

The family dined. At one end of the table was Mr. Potter; a small, bird-like person, of no presence; you had not thought he was so greata man as Potter of the Potter Press. For it was a great press; thoughnot so great as the Northcliffe Press, for it did not produce anythingso good as the _Times_ or so bad as the _Weekly Dispatch_; it was moreof a piece. 

Both commonplace and common was Mr. Percy Potter (according to somestandards), but clever, with immense patience, a saving sense of humour, and that imaginative vision without which no newspaper owner, financier, general, politician, poet, or criminal can be great. He was, in fact, greater than the twins would ever be, because he was not at odds with hismaterial: he found such stuff as his dreams were made of ready to hishand, in the great heart of the public--the last place where the twinswould have thought of looking. 

So did his wife. She was pink-faced and not ill-looking, with the coldblue eyes and rather set mouth possessed (inexplicably) by many writersof fiction. If I have conveyed the impression that Leila Yorke was inthe lowest division of this class, I have done her less than justice;quite a number of novelists were worse. This was not much satisfactionto her children. Jane said, 'If you do that sort of thing at all, youmight as well make a job of it, and sell a million copies. I'd ratherbe Mrs. Barclay or Ethel Dell or Charles Garvice or Gene StrattonPorter or Ruby Ayres than mother. Mother's merely commonplace; she'snot even a by-word--quite. I admire dad more. Dad anyhow gets there. His stuff sells. '

Mrs. Potter's novels, as a matter of fact, sold quite creditably. Theywere pleasant to many, readable by more, and quite unmarred by anyspark of cleverness, flash of wit, or morbid taint of philosophy. Gently and unsurprisingly she wrote of life and love as she believedthese two things to be, and found a home in the hearts of manyfellow-believers. She bored no one who read her, because she could berelied on to give them what they hoped to find--and of how few of us, alas, can this be said! And--she used to say it was because she was amother--her books were safe for the youngest _jeune fille_, and inthese days (even in those days it was so) of loose morality and frankrealism, how important this is. 

'I hope I am as modern as any one, ' Mrs. Potter would say, 'but I see nocall to be indecent. '

So many writers do see, or rather hear, this call, and obey itfaithfully, that many a parent was grateful to Leila Yorke. (It is onlyfair to record here that in the year 1918 she heard it herself, andbecame a psychoanalyst. But the time for this was not yet. )

On her right sat her eldest son, Frank, who was a curate in Pimlico. InFrank's face, which was sharp and thin, like his father's, were themarks of some conflict which his father's did not know. You somehow feltthat each of the other Potters had one aim, and that Frank had, or, anyhow, felt that he ought to have, another besides, however feebly heaimed at it. 

Next him sat his young wife, who had, again, only the one. She was prettyand jolly and brunette, and twisted Frank round her fingers. 

Beyond her sat Clare, the eldest daughter, and the daughter at home. Sheread her mother's novels, and her father's papers, and saw no harm ineither. She thought the twins perverse and conceited, which came frombeing clever at school and college. Clare had never been clever atanything but domestic jobs and needlework. She was a nice, pretty girl, and expected to marry. She snubbed Jane, and Jane, in her irritating andnonchalant way, was rude to her. 

On the other side of the table sat the twins, stocky and square-built, and looking very young, with broad jaws and foreheads and wide-set grayeyes. Jane was, to look at, something like an attractive little plumpwhite pig. It is not necessary, at the moment, to say more about herappearance than this, except that, when the time came to bob the hair, she bobbed it. 

Johnny was as sturdy but rather less chubby, and his chin stuck outfarther. They had the same kind of smile, and square white teeth, andwere greedy. When they had been little, they had watched each other'splates with hostile eyes, to see that neither got too large a helping. 

4

Those of us who are old enough will remember that in June and July 1914the conversation turned largely and tediously on militant suffragists, Irish rebels, and strikers. It was the beginning of the age of violentenforcements of decision by physical action which has lasted ever sinceand shows as yet no signs of passing. The Potter press, like so manyother presses, snubbed the militant suffragists, smiled half approvinglyon Carson's rebels, and frowned wholly disapprovingly on the strikers. Itwas a curious age, so near and yet so far, when the ordered frame ofthings was still unbroken, and violence a child's dream, and poetry andart were taken with immense seriousness. Those of us who can remember itshould do so, for it will not return. It has given place to the age ofmelodrama, when nothing is too strange to happen, and no one is eversurprised. That, too, may pass, but probably will not, for it isprimeval. The other was artificial, a mere product of civilisation, andcould not last. 

It was in the intervals of talking about the militants (a conversationmuch like other conversations on the same topic, which were tedious evenat the time, and now will certainly not bear recording) that Mrs. Franksaid to the twins, 'What are you two going to play at now?'

So extensive a question, opening such vistas. It would have taken, if notless time, anyhow less trouble, to have told Mrs. Frank what they were_not_ going to play at. 

The devil of mischief looked out of Johnny's gray eyes, as he nearlysaid, 'We are going to fight Leila Yorke fiction and the Potter press. '

Choking it back, he said, succinctly, 'Publishing, journalism, andwriting. At least, I am. '

'He means, ' Mr. Potter interpolated, in his small, nasal voice, 'thathe has obtained a small and subordinate job with a firm of publishers, and hopes also to contribute to an obscure weekly paper run by afriend of his. '

'Oh, ' said Mrs. Frank. 'Not one of _your_ papers, pater? Can't be, ifit's obscure, can it?'

'No, not one of my papers. A periodical called, I believe, the _WeeklyComment_, with which you may or may not be familiar. '

'Never heard of it, I'm afraid, ' Mrs. Frank confessed, truly. 'Why don'tyou go on to one of the family concerns, Johnny? You'd get on muchquicker there, with pater to shove you. '

'Probably, ' Johnny agreed. 

'My papers, ' said Mr. Potter dryly, 'are not quite up to Johnny'sintellectual level. Nor Jane's. Neither do they accord with theirpolitical sympathies. '

'Oh, I forgot you two were silly old Socialists. Never mind, that'll passwhen they grow up, won't it, Frank?'

Secretly, Mrs. Frank thought that the twins had the disease because thePotter family, however respectable now, wasn't really 'top-drawer. '

Funny old pater had, every one knew, begun his career as a reporter on aprovincial paper. If funny old pater had been just a shade less clever orenterprising, his family would have been educated at grammar schools andgone into business in their teens. Of course, Mrs. Potter had pulled thesocial level up a bit; but what, if you came to that, had Mrs. Potterbeen? Only the daughter of a country doctor; only the underpaid secretaryof a lady novelist, for all she was so conceited now. 

So naturally Socialism, that disease of the underbred, had taken hold ofthe less careful of the Potter young. 

'And are you going to write for this weekly what-d'you-call-it too, Jane?' Mrs. Frank inquired. 

'No. I've not got a job yet. I'm going to look round a little first. '

'Oh, that's sense. Have a good time at home for a bit. Well, it's timeyou had a holiday, isn't it? I wish old Frank could. He's working like anold horse. He may slave himself to death for those Pimlico pigs, for allany of them care. It's never "thank you"; it's always "more, more, more, "with them. That's your Socialism, Johnny. '

The twins got on very well with their sister-in-law, but thought her afool. When, as she was fond of doing, she mentioned Socialism, they, rightly believing her grasp of that economic system to be even lesscomplete than that of most people, always changed the subject. 

But on this occasion they did not have time to change it before Claresaid, 'Mother's writing a novel about Socialism. She shows it up likeanything. '

Mrs. Potter smiled. 

'I confess I am trying my hand at the burning subject. But as forshowing it up--well, I am being fair to both sides, I think. I don'tfeel I can quite condemn it wholesale, as Peggy does. I find it verydifficult to treat anything like that--I can't help seeing all round athing. I'm told it's a weakness, and that I should get on better if Isaw everything in black and white, as so many people do, but it's no usemy trying to alter, at my time of life. One has to write in one's ownway or not at all. '

'Anyhow, ' said Clare, 'it's going to be a ripping book, _SocialistCecily_; quite one of your best, mother. '

Clare had always been her mother's great stand-by in the matter ofliterature. She was also useful as a touchstone, as what her mother didnot call a foolometer. If a book went with Clare, it went with LeilaYorke's public beyond. Mr. Potter was a less satisfactory reader; heregarded his wife's books as goods for sale, and his comments were, 'Thatshould go all right. That's done it, ' which attitude, though commerciallyhelpful, was less really satisfying to the creator than Clare'suncritical absorption in the characters and the story. Clare was, infact, the public, while Mr. Potter was more the salesman. 

And the twins were neither, but more like the less agreeable type ofreviewer, when they deigned to read or comment on their mother's books atall, which was not always. Johnny's attitude towards his mother suggestedthat he might say politely, if she mentioned her books, 'Oh, do youwrite? Why?' Mrs. Potter was rather sadly aware that she made no appealto the twins. But then, as Clare reminded her, the twins, since they hadgone to Oxford, never admitted that they cared for any books that normalpeople cared for. They were like that; conceited and contrary. 

To change the subject (so many subjects are the better for being changed, as all those who know family life will agree) Jane said, 'Johnny and Iare going on a reading-party next month. '

'A little late in the day, isn't it?' commented Frank, the only one whoknew Oxford habits. 'Unless it's to look up all the howlers you've made. '

'Well, ' Jane admitted, 'it won't be so much reading really as observing. It's a party of investigation, as a matter of fact. '

'What do you investigate? Beetles, or social conditions?'

'People. Their tastes, habits, outlook, and mental diseases. What theywant, and why they want it, and what the cure is. We belong to a societyfor inquiring into such things. '

'You would, ' said Clare, who always rose when the twins meant her to. 

'Aren't they cautions, ' said Mrs. Frank, more good-humouredly. 

Mrs. Potter said, 'That's a very interesting idea. I think I must jointhis society. It would help me in my work. What is it called, children?'

'Oh, ' said Jane, and had the grace to look ashamed, 'it really hardlyexists yet. '

But as she said it she met the sharp and shrewd eyes of Mr. Potter, andknew that he knew she was referring to the Anti-Potter League. 

5

Mr. Potter would not, indeed, have been worthy of his reputation had henot been aware, from its inception, of the existence of this League. Journalists have to be aware of such things. He in no way resented theLeague; he brushed it aside as of no account. And, indeed, it was notaimed at him personally, nor at his wife personally, but at the greatmass of thought--or of incoherent, muddled emotion that passed forthought--which the Anti-Potters had agreed, for brevity's sake, to call'Potterism. ' Potterism had very certainly not been created by thePotters, and was indeed no better represented by the goods with whichthey supplied the market than by those of many others; but it was a handyname, and it had taken the public fancy that here you had two Potterslinked together, two souls nobly yoked, one supplying Potterism infictional, the other in newspaper, form. So the name caught, about theyear 1912. 

The twins both heard it used at Oxford, in their second year. Theyrecognised its meaning without being told. And both felt that it was upto them to take the opportunity of testifying, of severing any connectionthat might yet exist in any one's mind between them and the otherproducts of their parents. They did so, with the uncompromising decisionproper to their years, and with, perhaps, the touch of indecency, regardlessness of the proprieties, which was characteristic of them. Their friends soon discovered that they need not guard their tongues inspeaking of Potterism before the Potter twins. The way the twins put itwas, 'Our family is responsible for more than its share of the beastlything; the least we can do is to help to do it in, ' which soundedchivalrous. And another way they put it was, 'We're not going to have anyone connecting _us_ with it, ' which sounded sensible. 

So they joined the Anti-Potter League, not blind to the piquant humour oftheir being found therein. 

6

Mr. Potter said to the twins, in his thin little voice, 'Don't mindmother and me, children. Tell us all about the A. P. L. It may do us good. '

But the twins knew it would not do their mother good. It would need toomuch explanation; and then she would still not understand. She might evenbe very angry, as she was (though she pretended she was only amused) withsome reviewers. .. . If your mother is Leila Yorke, and has hard blue eyesand no sense of humour, but a most enormous sense of importance, youcannot, or you had better not, even begin to explain to her things likePotterism, or the Anti-Potter League, and still less how it is that youbelong to the latter. 

The twins, who had got firsts in Schools, knew this much. 

Johnny improvised hastily, with innocent gray eyes on his father's, 'It'sone of the rules that you mayn't talk about it outside. Anti-PropagandaLeague, it is, you see . .. For letting other people alone. .. . '

'Well, ' said Mr. Potter, who was not spiteful to his children, andpreferred his wife unruffled, 'we'll let you off this time. But you cantake my word for it, it's a silly business. Mother and I will last agreat deal longer than it does. Because we take our stand on humannature, and you won't destroy that with Leagues. '

Sometimes the twins were really almost afraid they wouldn't. 

'You're all very cryptic to-night, ' Frank said, and yawned. 

Then Mrs. Potter and the girls left the dining-room, and Frank and hisfather discussed the disestablishment of the Church in Wales, a measurewhich Frank thought would be a pity, but which was advocated by thePotter press. 

Johnny cracked nuts in silence. He thought the Church insincere, a put-upjob, but that dissenters were worse. They should all be abolished, withother shams. For a short time at Oxford he had given the Church a trial, even felt real admiration for it, under the influence of his friend Juke, and after hearing sermons from Father Waggett, Dr. Dearmer, and CanonAdderley. But he had soon given it up, seen it wouldn't do; theabove-mentioned priests were not representative; the Church as a wholecanted, was hypocritical and Potterish, and must go. 

CHAPTER II

ANTI-POTTERS

1

The quest of Potterism, its causes and its cure, took the party ofinvestigation first to the Cornish coast. Partly because of bathing andboating, and partly because Gideon, the organiser of the party, wanted tofind out if there was much Potterism in Cornwall, or if Celticism hadwithstood it. For Potterism, they had decided, was mainly an Anglo-Saxondisease. Worst of all in America, that great home of commerce, success, and the booming of the second-rate. Less discernible in the Latincountries, which they hoped later on to explore, and hardly existing inthe Slavs. In Russia, said Gideon, who loathed Russians, because he washalf a Jew, it practically did not exist. The Russians were without shameand without cant, saw things as they were, and proceeded to make them agood deal worse. That was barbarity, imbecility, and devilishness, but itwas not Potterism, said Gideon grimly. Gideon's grandparents had beenmassacred in an Odessa pogrom; his father had been taken at the age offive to England by an aunt, become naturalised, taken the name of Sidney, married an Englishwoman, and achieved success and wealth as a banker. Hisson Arthur was one of the most brilliant men of his year at Oxford, regarded Russians, Jews, and British with cynical dislike, and had, onturning twenty-one, reverted to his family name in its English form, finding it a Potterish act on his father's part to have become Sidney. Few of his friends remembered to call him by his new name, and hisparents ignored it, but to wear it gave him a grim satisfaction. 

Such was Arthur Gideon, a lean-faced, black-eyed man, biting his nailslike Fagin when he got excited. 

The other man, besides Johnny Potter, was the Honourable Laurence Juke, aRadical of moderately aristocratic lineage, a clever writer and actor, who had just taken deacon's orders. Juke had a look at once languid andamused, a well-shaped, smooth brown head, blunt features, theintrospective, wide-set eyes of the mystic, and the sweet, flexible voiceof the actor (his mother had, in fact, been a well-known actress of theeighties). 

The two women were Jane Potter and Katherine Varick. Katherine Varick hadfrosty blue eyes, a pale, square-jawed, slightly cynical face, a first inNatural Science, and a chemical research fellowship. 

In those happy days it was easy to stay in places, even by the sea, andthey stayed first at the fishing village of Mevagissey. Gideon was theonly one who never forgot that they were to make observations and write abook. He came of a more hard-working race than the others did. Often theothers merely fished, boated, bathed, and walked, and forgot the objectof their tour. But Gideon, though he too did these things, did them, soto speak, notebook in hand. He was out to find and analyse Potterism, somuch of it as lay hid in the rocky Cornish coves and the grave Cornishpeople. Katherine Varick was the only member of the party who knew thathe was also seeking and finding it in the hidden souls of hisfellow-seekers. 

2

They would meet in the evening with the various contributions to thesubject which they had gathered during the day. The Urban DistrictCouncil, said Johnny, wanted to pull down the village street and build anesplanade to attract visitors; all the villagers seemed pleased. That wasPotterism, the welcoming of ugliness and prosperity; the antithesis ofthe artist's spirit, which loved beauty for what it was, and did not wantto exploit it. 

Their landlady, said Juke, on Sunday, had looked coldly on him when hewent out with his fishing rod in the morning. This would not have beenPotterism, but merely a respectable bigotry, had the lady had genuineconscientious scruples as to this use of Sunday morning by the clergy, but Juke had ascertained tactfully that she had no conscientiousscruples about anything at all. So it was merely propriety and cant, inbrief, Potterism. Later, he had landed at a village down the coast andbeen to church. 

'That church, ' he said, 'is the most unpleasant piece of Potterism I haveseen for some time. Perpendicular, but restored fifty years ago, according to the taste of the period. Vile windows; painted deal pews;incredible braying of bad chants out of tune; a sermon from a pie-facedfellow about going to church. Why should they go to church? He didn'ttell them; he just said if they didn't, some being he called God would beangry with them. What did he mean by God? I'm hanged if he'd everthought it out. Some being, apparently, like a sublimated Potterite, whorejoices in bad singing, bad art, bad praying, and bad preaching, andsits aloft to deal out rewards to those who practise these andpunishments to those who don't. The Potter God will save you if youplease him; that means he'll save your body from danger and not let youstarve. Potterism has no notion of a God who doesn't care a twopenny damnwhether you starve or not, but does care whether you're following thetruth as you see it. In fact, Potterism has no room for Christianity; itprefers the God of the Old Testament. Of course, with their abominablecheek, the Potterites have taken Christianity and watered it down to suitthemselves, till they've produced a form of Potterism which they call byits name; but they wouldn't know the real thing if they saw it. .. . ThePharisees were Potterites. .. . '

The others listened to Juke on religious Potterism tolerantly. None ofthem (with the doubtful exception of Johnny, who had not entirely made uphis mind) believed in religion; they were quite prepared to agree thatmost of its current forms were soaked in Potterism, but they could not beexpected to care, as Juke did. 

Gideon said he had heard a dreadful band on the beach, and heard adreadful fellow proclaiming the Precious Blood. That was Potterism, because it was an appeal to sentiment over the head, or under the head, of reason. Neither the speaker nor any one else probably had the leastidea what he was talking about or what he meant. 

'He had the kind of face which is always turned away from facts, ' Gideonsaid. 'Facts are too difficult, too complicated for him. Hard, jollyfacts, with clear sharp edges that you can't slur and talk away. Potterism has no use for them. It appeals over their heads to prejudiceand sentiment. .. . It's the very opposite to the scientific temper. Nogood scientist could conceivably be a Potterite, because he's concernedwith truth, and the kind of truth, too, that it's difficult to arrive at. Potterism is all for short and easy cuts and showy results. Science hasto work its way step by step, and then hasn't much to show for it. Itisn't greedy. Potterism plays a game of grab all the time--snatches atsuccess in a hurry. .. . It's greedy, ' repeated Gideon, thinking it out, watching Jane's firm little sun-browned hand with its short squarefingers rooting in the sand for shells. 

Jane had visited the stationer, who kept a circulating library, and seenholiday visitors selecting books to read. They had nearly all chosen themost Potterish they could see, and asked for some more Potterish still, leaving Conrad and Hardy despised on the shelves. But these people werenot Cornish, but Saxon visitors. 

And Katherine had seen the local paper, but it had been much lessPotterish than most of the London papers, which confirmed them in theirtheory about Celts. 

Thus they talked and discussed and played, and wrote their book inpatches, and travelled from place to place, and thought that they foundthings out. And Gideon, because he was the cleverest, found out the most;and Katherine, because she was the next cleverest, saw all that Gideonfound out; and Juke, because he was religious, was for ever getting on toPotterism its cure, before they had analysed the disease; and the twinsenjoyed life in their usual serene way, and found it very entertaining tobe Potters inquiring into Potterism. The others were scrupulously fairin not attributing to them, because they happened to be Potters by birth, more Potterism than they actually possessed. A certain amount, said Juke, is part of the make-up of very nearly every human being; it has to befought down, like the notorious ape and tiger. But he thought that Gideonand Katherine Varick had less of it than any one else he knew; themediocre was repellent to them; cant and sentiment made them sick; theymade a fetish of hard truth, and so much despised most of theirneighbours that they would not experience the temptation to grab atpopularity. In fact, they would dislike it if it came. 

3

_Socialist Cecily_ came out while they were at Lyme Regis. Mrs. Pottersent the twins a copy. In their detached way, the twins read it, and gaveit to the others to look at. 

'Very typical stuff, ' Gideon summed it up, after a glance. 'It will nodoubt have an excellent sale. .. . It must be interesting for you to watchit being turned out. I wish you would ask me to stay with you some time. Yours must be an even more instructive household than mine. '

Gideon was a Russian Jew on his father's side, and a Harrovian. He had nodecency and no manners. He made Juke, who was an Englishman and anEtonian, and had more of both, uncomfortable sometimes. For, after all, the rudiments of family loyalty might as well be kept, among the generaldestruction which he, more sanguinely than Gideon, hoped for. 

But the twins did not bother. Jane said, in her equable way, 'You'll bebored to death; angry, too; but come if you like. .. . We've a sister, morePotterish than the parents. She'll hate you. '

Gideon said, 'I expect so, ' and they left his prospective visit at that, with Jane chuckling quietly at her private vision of Gideon and Clare injuxtaposition. 

4

But _Socialist Cecily_ did not have a good sale after all. It wasguillotined, with many of its betters, by the European war, which beganwhile the Anti-Potters were at Swanage, a place replete with Potterism. Potterism, however, as a subject for investigation, had by this timegiven place to international diplomacy, that still more intriguing study. The Anti-Potters abused every government concerned, and Gideon said, onAugust 1st, 'We shall be fools if we don't come in. '

Juke was still dubious. He was a good Radical, and good Radicals weredubious on this point until the invasion of Belgium. 

'To throw back the world a hundred years. .. . '

Gideon shrugged his shoulders. He belonged to no political party, and hadthe shrewd, far-seeing eyes of his father's race. 

'It's going to be thrown back anyhow. Germany will see to that. And if wekeep out of it, Germany will grab Europe. We've got to come in, if we canget a decent pretext. '

The decent pretext came in due course, and Gideon said, 'So that's that. '

He added to the Potters, 'For once I am in agreement with your father'spress. We should be lunatics to stand out of this damnable mess. '

Juke also was now, painful to him though it was to be so, in agreementwith the Potter press. To him the war had become a crusade, a fight fordecency against savagery. 

'It's that, ' said Gideon. 'But that's not all. This isn't a show anycountry can afford to stand out of. It's Germany against Europe, and ifEurope doesn't look sharp, Germany's going to win. _Germany. _ Nearly asbad as Russia. .. . One would have to emigrate to another hemisphere. .. . No, we've got to win this racket. .. . But, oh, Lord, what a mess!' He fellto biting his nails, savage and silent. 

Jane thought all the time, beneath her other thoughts about it, 'To havea war, just when life was beginning and going to be such fun. '

Beneath her public thoughts about the situation, she felt this deepprivate disgust gnawing always, as of one defrauded. 

CHAPTER III

OPPORTUNITY

1

They did not know then about people in general going to the war. Theythought it was just for the army and navy, not for ordinary people. Thatidea came a little later, after the Anti-Potter party had broken up andgone home. 

The young men began to enlist and get commissions. It was done; it wasthe correct idea. Johnny Potter, who belonged to an O. T. C. , got acommission early. 

Jane said within herself, 'Johnny can go and I can't. ' She knew she wasbadly, incredibly left. Johnny was in the movement, doing the thing thatmattered. Further, Johnny might ultimately be killed in doing it; herJohnny. Everything else shrank and was little. What were books? What wasanything? Jane wanted to fight in the war. The war was damnable, but itwas worse to be out of it. One was such an utter outsider. It wasn'tfair. She could fight as well as Johnny could. Jane went about white andsullen, with her world tumbling into bits about her. 

Mr. Potter said in the press, and Mrs. Potter in the home, 'The people ofEngland have a great opportunity before them. We must all try to rise toit'--as if the people of England were fishes and the opportunity a fly. 

Opportunity, thought Jane. Where is it? I see none. It was preciselyopportunity which the war had put an end to. 

'The women of England must now prove that they are worthy of their men, 'said the Potter press. 

'I dare say, ' thought Jane. Knitting socks and packing stores andlearning first aid. Who wanted to do things like that, when theirbrothers had a chance to go and fight in France? Men wouldn't stand it, if it was the other way round. Why should women always get the dull jobs?It was because they bore them cheerfully; because they didn't really, forthe most part, mind, Jane decided, watching the attitude of her motherand Clare. The twins, profoundly selfish, but loving adventure andplacidly untroubled by nerves or the prospect of physical danger, saw nohardship in active service. (This was before the first winter and thedevelopment of trench warfare, and people pictured to themselvesskirmishes in the open, exposed to missiles, but at least keeping warm). 

2

Every one one knew was going. Johnny said to Jane, 'War is beastly, butone's got to be in it. ' He took that line, as so many others did. 'Juke'sgoing, ' he said. 'As a combatant, I mean, not a padre. He thinks the warcould have been prevented with a little intelligence; so it could, I daresay; but as there wasn't a little intelligence and it wasn't prevented, he's going in. He says it will be useful experience for him--help him inhis profession; he doesn't believe in parsons standing outside things andonly doing soft jobs. I agree with him. Every one ought to go. '

'Every one can't, ' said Jane morosely. 

But to Johnny every one meant all young men, and he took no heed. 

Gideon went. It might, he said to Juke, be a capitalists' war or any oneelse's; the important thing was not whose war it was but who was goingto win it. 

He added, 'Great Britain is, on this occasion, on the right side. There's no manner of doubt about it. But even if she wasn't, it'simportant for all her inhabitants that she should be on the winningside. .. . Oh, she will be, no doubt, we've the advantage in numbers andwealth, if not in military organisation or talent. .. . If only thePotterites wouldn't jabber so. It's a unique opportunity for them, andthey're taking it. What makes me angriest is the reasons they vamp upwhy we're fighting. For the sake of democracy, they say. Democracy behanged. It's a rotten system, anyhow, and how this war is going to doanything for it I don't know. If I thought it was, I wouldn't join. Butthere's no fear. And other people say we're fighting "so that ourchildren won't have to. " Rot again. Every war makes other wars morelikely. Why can't people say simply that the reason why we're fightingis partly to uphold decent international principles, and mainly to winthe war--to be a conquering nation, not a conquered one, and to saveourselves from having an ill-conditioned people like the Germansstrutting all over us. It's a very laudable object, and needs nocamouflage. Sheer Potterism, all this cant and posturing. I'd rathersay, like the _Daily Mail_, that we're fighting to capture the Hun'strade; that's a lie, but at least it isn't cant. '

'Let them talk, ' said Juke lazily. 'Let them jabber and cant. What doesit matter? We're in this thing up to the neck, and every one's got torelieve themselves in their own way. As long as we get the job donesomehow, a little nonsense-talk more or less won't make much differenceto this mighty Empire, which has always indulged in plenty. It's the rashcoming out; good for the system. '

So, each individual in his own way, the nation entered into the worstperiod of time of which Europe has so far had experience, and on which Ido not propose to dwell in these pages except in its aspect of a sourceof profit to those who sought profit; its more cheerful aspect, in fact. 

3

Mrs. Potter put away the writing of fiction, as unsuitable in thesedark days. (It may be remembered that there was a period at thebeginning of the war when it was erroneously supposed that fictionwould not sell until peace returned). Mrs. Potter, like many otherwriters, took up Y. M. C. A. Canteen work, and went for a time to France. There she wrote _Out There_, an account of the work of herself and hercolleagues in Rouen, full of the inimitable wit and indomitable courageof soldiers, the untiring activities of canteen workers, and theaffectionate good-fellowship which existed between these two classes. The world was thus shown that Leila Yorke was no mere _flâneuse_ ofletters, but an Englishwoman who rose to her country's call and wasworthy of her men-folk. 

Clare became a V. A. D. , and went up to town every day to work at anofficers' hospital. It was a hospital maintained partly by Mr. Potter, and she got on very well there. She made many pleasant friends, and hopedto get out to France later. 

Frank tried for a chaplaincy. 

'It isn't a bit that he wants excitement, or change of air, or a freetrip to France, or to feel grand, like some of them do, ' explained Mrs. Frank. 'Only, what's the good of keeping a man like him slaving away in arotten parish like ours, when they want good men out there? I tell Frankall he's got to do to get round the C. G. Is to grow a moustache and learnup the correct answers to a few questions--like "What would you do if youhad to attend a dying soldier?" Answer--"Offer to write home for him. " Alot of parsons don't know that, and go telling the C. G. They'd give himcommunion, or hear his confession or something, and that knocks them outfirst round. Frank knows better. There are no flies on old Frank. All thesame, pater, you might do a little private wire-pulling for him, if itcomes in handy. '

But, unfortunately, owing to a recent though quite temporary coldnessbetween the Chaplain-General and the Potter press, Mr. Potter'swire-pulling was ineffectual. The Chaplain-General did not entertainFrank's offer favourably, and regretted that his appointment as chaplainto His Majesty's forces was at present impracticable. So Frank went on inPimlico, and was cynical and bitter about those clergymen who succeededin passing the C. G. 's tests. 

'Why don't you join up as a combatant?' Johnny asked him, seeing hisdiscontent. 'Some parsons do. '

'The bishops have forbidden it, ' said Frank. 

'Oh, well, I suppose so. Does it matter particularly?'

'My dear Johnny, there is discipline in the Church as well as in thearmy, you know. You might as well ask would it matter if you were todisobey _your_ superior officers. '

'Well, you see, I'd have something happen to me if I did. Parsons don't. You'd only be reprimanded, I suppose, and get into a berth all right whenyou came back--if you did come back. '

'That's got nothing to do with it. The Church would never hold togetherif her officers were to break the rules whenever they felt like it. Thatfriend of yours, Juke, hasn't a leg to stand on; he's merely in revolt. '

'Oh, old Juke always is, of course. Against every kind of authority, butparticularly against bishops. He's always got his knife into them, and Idare say he's glad of the chance of flouting them. High Church parsonsare, aren't they? I expect if you were a bit higher you'd flout them too. And if you were a bit lower, the C. G. 'd take you as a padre. You're justthe wrong height, old thing, that's what's the matter. '

Thus Johnny, now a stocky lieutenant on leave from France, diagnosedhis brother's case. Wrongly, because High Church parsons weren'tactually enlisting any more than any other kind; they did not, mostly, believe it to be their business; quite sincerely and honestly theythought it would be wrong for them, though right for laymen, toundertake combatant service. 

Anyhow, as to height, Frank knew himself to be of a height acceptable inbenefices, and that was something. Besides, it was his own height. 

'Sorry I can't change to oblige you, old man, ' he said. 'Or desert mypost and pretend to be a layman. I am a man under authority, like you. Iwish the powers that be would send me out there, but it's for them tojudge, and if they think I should be of less use as a padre than all theToms, Dicks, and Harrys they are sending, it's not for me to protest. They may be right. I may be absolutely useless as a chaplain. On theother hand, I may not. They apparently don't intend to give themselves achance of finding out. Very well. It's nothing to me, either way. '

'Oh, that's all right then, ' Johnny said. 

4

No one could say that the Potter press did not rise to the greatopportunity. The press seldom fails to do this. The Potter presssurpassed itself; it nearly surpassed its great rival presses. Withenergy and whole-heartedness it cheered, comforted, and stimulated thepeople. It never failed to say how well the Allies were getting on, howmuch ammunition they had, how many men, what indomitable tenacity andcheerful spirits enlivened the trenches. The correspondents it employedwrote home rejoicing; its leading articles were noble hymns of praise. Intimes of darkness and travail one cannot but be glad of such a press asthis. So glad were the Government of it that Mr. Potter became, at theend of 1916, Lord Pinkerton, and his press the Pinkerton press. Ofcourse, that was not the only reward he obtained for his services; hefigured every new year in the honours' list, and collected in successionmost of the letters of the alphabet after his name. With it all, heremained the same alert, bird-like, inconspicuous person, with the sameunswerving belief in his own methods and his own destinies, a beliefwhich never passed from self-confidence to self-importance. Unless youwere so determined a hater of Potterism as to be blindly prejudiced, youcould not help liking Lord Pinkerton. 

5

Jane, sulking because she could not fight, thought for a short time thatshe would nurse, and get abroad that way. Then it became obvious that toomany fools were scrambling to get sent abroad, and anyhow, that, if Clarewas nursing, it must be a mug's game, and that there must be a betterfield for her own energies elsewhere. With so many men going, there wouldbe empty places to fill. .. . That thought came, perhaps, as soon to Janeas to any one in the country. 

Her father's lady secretary went nursing, and Lord Pinkerton, well awareof his younger daughter's clearheaded competence, offered Jane the job, at a larger salary. 

'Your shorthand would soon come back if you took it up, ' he told her. Forhe had had all his children taught shorthand at a young age; in his viewit was one of the essentials of education; he had learned it himself atthe age of thirteen, and insulted his superior young gentlemen privatesecretaries by asking them if they knew it. Jane and Johnny, who had beenin early youth very proficient at it, had, since they were old enough toknow it was a sort of low commercial cunning, the accomplishment of theslave, hidden their knowledge away like a vice. When concealed fromobservation and pressed for time, they had furtively taken down lecturenotes in it at Oxford, but always with a consciousness of guilt. 

Jane had declined the secretaryship. She did not mean to be that sortof low secretary that takes down letters, she did not mean to work forthe Potter press, and she thought it would be needlessly dull to workfor her father. She said, 'No, thank you, dad. I'm thinking of theCivil Service. '

That was early in 1915, when women had only just begun to think of, orbe thought of, by the Civil Service. Jane did not think of it withenthusiasm; she wanted to be a journalist and to write; but it would dofor the time, and would probably be amusing. So, owing to the helpfulinfluence of Mr. Potter, and a good degree, Jane obtained a quite goodpost at the Admiralty, which she had to swear never to mention, and wentinto rooms in a square off Fleet Street with Katherine Varick, who had aresearch fellowship in chemistry and worked in a laboratory inFarringdon Street. 

The Admiralty was all right. It was interesting as such jobs go, andJane, who was clear-headed, did it well. She got to know a few men andwomen who, she considered, were worth knowing, though, in technicaldepartments such as the Admiralty, the men were apt to be superior to thewomen; the women Jane met there were mostly non-University lower-gradeclerks, and so forth, nice, cheery young things, but rather stupid, whothought it jolly for Jane to be connected with Leila Yorke and the Potterpress, and were scarcely worth undeceiving. And naval officers, thoughcharming, were apt to be a little elementary, Jane discovered, in theirgeneral outlook. 

However, the job was all right; not a bad plum to have picked out of thehash, on the whole. And the life was all right. The rooms were jolly(only the new geyser exploded too often), and Katherine Varick, thoughshe made stinks in the evenings, not bad to live with, and money not tooscarce, as money goes, and theatres and dinners frequent. Doing one'sbit, putting one's shoulder to the wheel, proving the mettle of the womenof England, certainly had its agreeable side. 

6

In intervals of office work and social life, Jane was writing odds andends, and planning the books she meant to write after the war. Shehadn't settled her line yet. Articles on social and industrial questionsfor the papers, she hoped, for one thing; she had plenty to say on thishead. Short stories. Poems. Then, perhaps, a novel. .. . About the natureof the novel Jane was undecided, except that it would be more unlike thenovels of Leila Yorke than any novels had ever been before. Perhaps asarcastic, rather cynical novel about human nature, of which Jane didnot think much. Perhaps a serious novel, dealing with social orpolitical conditions. Perhaps an impressionist novel, like DorothyRichardson's. Only they were getting common; they were too easy. Onecould hardly help writing like that, unless one tried not to, if one hadlately read any of them. 

Most contemporary novels Jane found very bad, not worth writing. Thosesolemn and childish novels about public schools, for instance, written byyoung men. Jane wondered what a novel about Roedean or Wycombe Abbeywould be like. The queer thing was that some young woman didn't writeone; it need be no duller than the young men's. Rather duller, perhaps, because schoolgirls were more childish than schoolboys, the problems oftheir upbringing less portentous. But there were many of the sameingredients--the exaltation of games, hero-worship, rows, the clever newliterary mistress who made all the stick-in-the-mud other mistressesangry. .. . Only were the other mistresses at girls' schoolsstick-in-the-mud? No, Jane thought not; quite a decent modern set, on thewhole, for people of their age. Better than schoolmasters, they must be. 

How dull it all was! Some woman ought to do it, but not Jane. 

Jane was inclined, in her present phase, to think the Russians and theFrench the only novelists. They had manner and method. But they were bothtoo limited in their field, too much concerned with sexual relations, that most tedious of topics (in literature, not life), the very thoughtof which made one yawn. Queer thing, how novelists couldn't leave italone. It was, surely, like eating and drinking, a natural element inlife, which few avoid; but the most exciting, jolly, interesting, entertaining things were apart from it. Not that Jane was not quitewilling to accept with approval, as part of the game of living, suchepisodes in this field as came her way; but she could not regard them asimportant. As to marriage, it was merely dowdy. Domesticity; babies;servants; the companionship of one man. The sort of thing Clare would goin for, no doubt. Not for Jane, before whom the world lay, an oysterasking to be opened. 

She saw herself a journalist; a reporter, perhaps: (only the storieswomen were sent out on were usually dull), a special correspondent, afree-lance contributor, a leader writer, eventually an editor. .. . Thenshe could initiate a policy, say what she thought, stand up against thePotter press. 

Or one might be a public speaker, and get into Parliament later on, whenwomen were admitted. One despised Parliament, but it might be fun. 

Not a permanent Civil Servant; one could not work for this ludicrousgovernment more than temporarily, to tide over the Great Interruption. 

7

So Jane looked with calm, weighing, critical eyes at life and itschances, and saw that they were not bad, for such as her. Unless, ofcourse, the Allies were beaten. .. . This contingency seemed oftenpossible, even probable. Jane's faith in the ultimate winning power ofnumbers and wealth was at times shaken, not by the blunders ofgovernments or the defection of valuable allies, but by the unwaveringoptimism of her parent's press. 

'But, ' said Katherine Varick, 'it's usually right, your papa's press. That's the queer thing about it. It sounds always wildly wrong, like anabsurd fairy story, and all the sane, intelligent people laugh at it, andthen it turns out to have been right. Look at the way it used to say thatGermany was planning war; it was mostly the stupid people who believedit, and the intelligent people who didn't; but all the time Germany was. '

'Partly because people like daddy kept saying so, and planning to getin first. '

'Not much. Germany was really planning: we were only talking. .. . Ibelieve in the Pinkerton press, and the other absurd presses. They havethe unthinking rightness of the fool. Of course they have. Because thehappenings of the world are caused by people--the mass of people--and thePinkerton press knows them and represents them. Intellectual people arealways thinking above the heads of the people who make movements, sothey're nearly always out. The Pinkerton press _is_ the people, so itgets there every time. Potterism will outlive all the reformers andidealists. If Potterism says we're going to have a war, we have it; if itsays we're going to win a war, we shall win it. "If you see it in _JohnBull_, it _is_ so. "'

It was not often that Katherine spoke of Potterism, but when she did itwas with conviction. 

8

Gideon was home, wounded. He had nearly died, but not quite. He had losthis right foot, and would have another when the time was ripe. He wasdischarged, and became, later on, assistant editor of a new weekly paperthat was started. 

He dined with Jane and Katherine at their flat, soon after he could getabout. He was leaner than ever, white and gaunt, and often ill-temperedfrom pain. Johnny was there too, a major on leave, stuck over withcoloured ribbons. Jane called him a pot-hunter. 

They laughed and talked and joked and dined. When Gideon and Johnny hadgone, and Katherine and Jane were left smoking last cigarettes andfinishing the chocolates, Jane said, lazily, and without chagrin, 'HowArthur does hate us all, in these days. '

Katherine said, 'True. He finds us profiteers. '

'So we are, ' said Jane. 'Not you, but most of us. I am. .. . You're one ofthe few people he respects. Some day, perhaps, you'll have to marry him, and cure him of biting his nails when he's cross. .. . He thinks Johnny's aprofiteer, too, because of the ribbons and things. Johnny is. It's in theblood. We're grabbers. Can't be helped. .. . Do you want the last walnutchocolate, old thing? If so, you're too late. '

CHAPTER IV

JANE AND CLARE

1

In the autumn of 1918, Jane, when she went home for week-ends, frequentlyfound one Oliver Hobart there. Oliver Hobart was the new editor of LordPinkerton's chief daily paper, and had been exempted from militaryservice as newspaper staff. He was a Canadian; he had been educated atMcGill University, admired Lord Pinkerton, his press, and the BritishEmpire, and despised (in this order) the Quebec French, the RomanCatholic Church, newspapers which did not succeed, Little Englanders, andLord Lansdowne. 

'A really beautiful face, ' said Lady Pinkerton, and so he had. Jane hadseen it, from time to time during the last year, when she had called tosee her father in the office of the _Daily Haste_. 

One hot Saturday afternoon in August, 1918, she found him having tea withher family, in the shadow of the biggest elm. Jane looked at them in herdetached way; Lord Pinkerton, neat and little, his white-spatted feetcrossed, his head cocked to one side, like an intelligent sparrow's; LadyPinkerton, tall and fair and powdered, in a lilac silk dress, her largewhite hands all over rings, amethysts swinging from her ears; Clare (whohad given up nursing owing to the strain, and was having a rest), slimand rather graceful, a little flushed from the heat, lying in a deckchair and swinging a buckled shoe, saying something ordinary andClare-ish; Hobart sitting by her, a pale, Gibson young man, with hissmooth fair hair brushed back, and lavender socks with purple clocks, anda clear, firm jaw. He was listening to Clare with a smile. You could nothelp liking him; his was the sort of beauty which, when found in eitherman or woman, makes so strong an appeal to the senses of the sex otherthan that of the possessor that reason is all but swamped. Besides, asLord Pinkerton said, Hobart was a dear, nice fellow. 

He was at Sherards for that week-end because Lord Pinkerton was justmaking him editor of the _Daily Haste_. Before that, he had been on thestaff, a departmental editor, and a leader-writer. ('Mr. Hobart will gofar, ' said Lady Pinkerton sometimes, when she read the leaders. 'Ihope, on the contrary, ' said Lord Pinkerton, 'that he will stay wherehe is. It is precisely the right spot. That was the trouble withCarruthers; he went too far. So he had to go altogether. ' He gave histhin little snigger). 

Anyhow, here was Hobart, this Saturday afternoon, having tea in thegarden. Jane saw him through the mellow golden sweetness of shadowand light. 

'Here is Jane, ' said Lady Pinkerton. 

Jane's dark hair fell in damp waves over her hot, square, white forehead;her blue cotton dress was crumpled and limp. How neat, how cool, was thisHobart! Could a man have a Gibson face like that, like a young man on thecover of an illustrated magazine, and not be a ninny? Did he take thePinkerton press seriously, or did he laugh? Both, probably, like mostjournalists. He wouldn't laugh to Lord Pinkerton, or to Lady Pinkerton, or to Clare. But he might laugh to Jane, when she showed him he might. Jane, eating jam sandwiches, looking like a chubby school child, with herround face and wide eyes and bobbed hair and cotton frock, watched thebeautiful young man with her solemn unwinking stare that disconcertedself-conscious people, while Lady Pinkerton talked to him about somerecent fiction. 

On Sunday, people came over to lunch, and they played tennis. Clare andHobart played together. 'Oh, well up, partner, ' Jane could hear him say, all the time. Or else it was 'Well tried. Too bad. ' Clare's happy eyesshone, brown and clear in her flushed face, like agates. Rather a prettything, Clare, if dull. 

The Franks were there, too. 

'Old Clare having a good time, ' said Mrs. Frank to Jane, during a setthey weren't playing in. Her merry dark eyes snapped. Instinctively, sheusually said something to disparage the good time of other girls. Thistime it was, 'That Hobart thinks he's doing himself a good turn withpater, making up to Clare like that. Oh, he's a cunning fellow. Isn't hehandsome, Jane? I hate these handsome fellows, they always know it sowell. Nothing in his face really, if you come to look, is there? I'drather have old Frank's, even if he does look like a half-starved bird. '

2

Jane was calmly rude to Hobart, showing him she despised his paper, andhim for editing it. She let him see it all, and he was imperturbably, courteously amused, and, in turn, showed that he despised her forbelonging to the 1917 Club. 

'_You_ don't, ' he said, turning to Clare. 

'Gracious, no. I don't belong to a club at all. I go with mother to theWriters' sometimes, though; that's not bad fun. Mother often speaksthere, you know, and I go and hear. Jolly good she is, too. She read aripping paper last week on the "Modern Heroine. "'

Jane's considering eyes weighed Hobart, whose courtesy was stillimpregnable. How far was he the complete Potterite, identified with hisabsurd press? Did he even appreciate Leila Yorke? She would have liked toknow. But, it seemed, she was not to know from him. 

3

The Armistice came. 

Then the thing was to get to Paris somehow. Jane had, unusually, notplayed her cards well. She had neglected the prospect of peace, which, after all, must come. When she had, in May, at last taken thought for themorrow, and applied at the Foreign Office for one of those secret jobswhich could not be mentioned because they prepared the doers to playtheir parts after the great unmentionable event, she was too late. TheForeign Office said they could not take over people from other governmentdepartments. 

So, when the unmentionable took place, Jane was badly left. The ForeignOffice Library Department people, many of them Jane's contemporaries atOxford and Cambridge, were hurried across the Channel into Life, forwhich they had been prepared by a course of lectures on the Dangers ofParis. There also went the confidential secretaries, the clerks andshorthand typists, in their hundreds; degreeless, brainless beings, butwise in their generation. 

'I wish I was a shorthand typist, ' Jane grumbled, brooding with Katherineover their fire. 

'Paris, ' Katherine turned over the delightful word consideringly, findingit wanting. 'The last place in the world I should choose to be in justnow. Fuss and foolishness. Greed and grabbing. The centre of the lunaciesand crimes of the next six months. Politicians assembled together. .. . It's infinitely common to go there. All the vulgarest people. .. . You'd bemore select at Southend or Blackpool. '

'History is being made there, ' said Jane, quoting from herfather's press. 

'Thank you; I'd rather go to Birmingham and make something clean anduseful, like glass. '

But Jane wanted to make history in Paris. She felt out of it, left, asshe had felt when other people went to the war and she stayed at home. 

On a yellow, foggy day just before Christmas, Lord Pinkerton, with whomJane was lunching at his club (Lord Pinkerton was quite good to lunchwith; you got a splendid feed for nothing), said, 'I shall be goingover to Paris next month, Babs. ' (That was what he called her). 'D'youwant to come?'

'Well, I should say so. Don't rub it in, dad. '

Lord Pinkerton looked at her, with his whimsical, affectionate paternity. 

'You can come if you like, Babs. I want another secretary. Must have one. If you'll do some of the shorthand typing and filing, you can comealong. How about it?'

Jane thought for exactly thirty seconds, weighing the shorthand typingagainst Paris and the Majestic and Life. Life had it, as usual. 

'Right-o, daddy. I'll come along. When do we go over?'

That afternoon Jane gave notice to her department, and in the middle ofJanuary Lord Pinkerton and his bodyguard of secretaries and assistantswent to Paris. 

4

That was Life. Trousseaux, concerts, jazzing, dinners, marble bathrooms, notorious persons as thick as thieves in corridors and on the stairs, dangers of Paris surging outside, disappointed journalists besiegingproud politicians in vain, the Council of Four sitting in perfect harmonybehind thick curtains, Signor Orlando refusing to play, but finding theywent on playing without him and coming back, Jugo-Slavs walking aboutunder the aegis of Mr. Wickham Steed, smiling sweetly and triumphantly atthe Italians, going to the theatre and coming out because the jokesseemed to them dubious, Sir George Riddell and Mr. G. H. Mair desperatelycontrolling the press, Lord Pinkerton flying to and fro, across theChannel and back again, while his bodyguard remained in Paris. There alsoflew to and fro Oliver Hobart, the editor of the _Daily Haste_. He woulddrop in on Jane, sitting in her father's outer office, card-indexing, opening and entering letters, and what not. 

'Good-morning, Miss Potter. Lord Pinkerton in the office this morning?'

'He's in the building somewhere. Talking to Sir George, I think. .. . Didyou fly this time?'

Whether he had flown or whether he had come by train and boat, he alwayslooked the same, calm, unruffled, tidy, the exquisite nut. 

'Pretty busy?' he would say, with his half-indulgent smile at theround-faced, lazy, drawling child who was so self-possessed, sometimes soimpudent, often so sarcastic, always so amusingly different from herslim, pretty and girlish elder sister. 

'Pretty well, ' Jane would reply. 'I don't overwork, though. '

'I don't believe you do, ' Hobart said, looking down at her amusedly. 

'Father does, though. That's why he's thin and I'm fat. What's the use?It makes no difference. '

'You're getting reconciled, then, ' said Hobart, 'to working for thePinkerton press?'

Jane secretly approved his discernment. But all she said was, with hercool lack of stress, 'It's not so bad. '

Usually when Hobart was in Paris he would dine with them. 

5

Lady Pinkerton and Clare came over for a week. They stayed in rooms, inthe Avenue de l'Opera. They visited shops, theatres, and friends, andLady Pinkerton began a novel about Paris life. Clare had been run downand low-spirited, and the doctor had suggested a change of scene. Hobartwas in Paris for the week-end; he dined with the Pinkertons and went tothe theatre with them. But on Monday he had to go back to London. 

On Monday morning Clare came to her father's office, and found Janetaking down letters from Lord Pinkerton's private secretary, a young manwho had been exempted from military service through the war on thegrounds that he was Lord Pinkerton's right hand. 

Clare sat and waited, and looked round the room for violets, while thisyoung gentleman dictated. His letters were better worded than LordPinkerton's, because he was better at the English language. LordPinkerton would fall into commercialisms; he would say 're' and 'same'and 'to hand, ' and even sometimes 'your favour of the 16th. ' Hissecretary knew that that was not the way in which a great newspaper chiefshould write. Himself he dictated quite a good letter, but annoyed Janeby putting in the punctuation, as if she was an imbecile. Thus he wassaying now, pacing up and down the room, plunged in thought:--

'Lord Pinkerton is not comma however comma averse to' (Jane wrote 'from')'entertaining your suggestions comma and will be glad if you can make itconvenient to call to-morrow bracket Tuesday close the bracket afternooncomma between three and five stop. '

He could not help it; one must make allowances for those who dictate. ButClare saw Jane's teeth release her clenched tongue to permit it to formsilently the word 'Ninny. '

The private secretary retired into his chief's inner sanctum. 

'Morning, old thing, ' said Jane to Clare, uncovering her typewriterwithout haste and yawning, because she had been up late last night. 

'Morning, ' Clare yawned too. She was warm and pretty, in a springcostume, with a big bunch of sweet violets at her waist. Shetouched these. 

'Aren't they top-hole. Mr. Hobart left them this morning before he went. Jolly decent of him to think of it, getting off in a hurry like hewas. .. . He's not a bad young thing, do you think. '

'Not so bad. ' Jane extracted carbons from a drawer and fitted them to herpaper. Then she stretched, like a cat. 

'Oh, I'm sleepy. .. . Don't feel like work to-day. For two pins I'd cut itand go out with you and mother. The sun's shining, isn't it?'

Clare stood by the window, and swung the blind-tassel. They had five daysof Paris before them, and Paris suddenly seemed empty. .. . 

'We're going to have a topping week, ' she said. 

Then Lord Pinkerton came in. 

'Hobart gone?' he asked Jane. 

'Yes. '

'Majendie in my room?'

'Yes. '

Lord Pinkerton patted Clare's shoulder as he passed her. 

'Send Miss Hope in to me when she comes, Babs, ' he said, and disappearedthrough the farther door. 

Jane began to type. It bored her, but she was fairly proficient at it. Her childhood's training stood her in good stead. 

'Mr. Hobart must have run his train pretty fine, if he came in here onthe way, ' said Clare, twirling the blind-tassel. 

'He wasn't going till twelve, ' said Jane, typing. 

'Oh, I see. I thought it was ten. .. . I suppose he found he couldn't getthat one, and had to see dad first. What a bore for him. .. . Well, I'm offto meet mother. See you this evening, I suppose. '

Clare went out into Paris and the March sunshine, whistling softly. 

That night she lay awake in her big bed, as she had lain last night. She lay tense and still, and stared at the great gas globe that lookedin through the open window from the street. Her brain formed phrasesand pictures. 

'That day on the river. .. . Those Sundays. .. . That lunch at theFlorence. .. . "What attractive shoes those are. ". .. My gray suedes, Ihad. .. . "I love these Sunday afternoons. ". .. "You're one of the fewgirls who are jolly to watch when they run. ". .. "Just you and me;wouldn't it be rather nice? I should like it, anyhow. ". .. He keptlooking. .. . Whenever I looked up he was looking. .. . His eyes awfullyblue, with black edges to them. .. . Peggy said he blacked them. .. . Peggywas jealous because he never looked at her. .. . I'm jealous now because. .. No, I'm not, why should I be? He doesn't like fat girls, he said. .. . He watches her. .. . He looks at her when there's a joke. .. . He bought meviolets, but he went to see her. .. . He keeps coming over to Paris. .. . Inever see him. .. . I don't get a chance. .. . He cared, he did care. .. . He's forgetting because I don't get a chance. .. . She's stealing him. .. . She was always a selfish little cad, grabbing, and not really caring. She can't care as I do, she's not made that way. .. . She cares fornothing but herself. .. . She gets everything, just by sitting still andnot bothering. .. . College makes girls awful. .. . Peggy says men don'tlike them, but they do. They seem not to care about men, but they carejust the same. They don't bother, but they get what they want. .. . Pig. .. . Oh, I can't bear it. Why should I?. .. I love him, I love him, Ilove him. .. . Oh, I must go to sleep. I shall go mad if I have anothernight like last night. '

Clare got out of bed, stumbled to the washstand, splashed her burninghead and face with cold water, then lay shivering. 

It may or may not be true that the power to love is to be found in thehuman being in inverse ratio to the power to think. Probably it is not;these generalisations seldom are. Anyhow, Clare, like many others, couldnot understand, but loved. 

6

Lady Pinkerton said to her lord next day, 'How much longer will the peacetake being made, Percy?'

'My dear, I can't tell you. Even I don't know everything. There are manylittle difficulties, which have to be smoothed down. Allies stand in acurious and not altogether easy relation to one another. '

'Italy, of course. .. . '

'And not only Italy, dearest. '

'Of course, China is being very tiresome. '

'Ah, if it were only China!'

Lady Pinkerton sighed. 

'Well, it is all very sad. I do hope, Percy, that after this war weEnglish will never again forget that we hate _all_ foreigners. '

'I hope not, my dear. I am afraid before the war I waslargely responsible for encouraging these fraternisations anddiscriminations. A mistake, no doubt. But one which did credit to ourhearts. One must always remember about a great people like ourselvesthat the heart leads. '

'Thank God for that, ' said Leila Yorke, illogically. Then Lady Pinkertonadded, 'But this peace takes too long. .. . I suppose a lasting andrighteous peace must . .. Shall you have to be running to and fro likethis till it's signed, dear?'

'To and fro, yes. I must keep an office going here. '

'Jane is enjoying it, ' said Lady Pinkerton. 'She sees a lot of OliverHobart, I suppose, doesn't she?'

'He's in and out, of course. He and the child get on better thanthey used to. '

'There is no doubt about that, ' said Lady Pinkerton. 'If you don't knowit, Percy, I had better tell you. Men never see these things. He isfalling in love with her. '

Lord Pinkerton fidgeted about the room. 

'Rilly. Rilly. Very amusing. You used to think it was Clare, dearest. '

He cocked his head at her accusingly, convicting her of being a womanof fancies. 

'Oh, you dear novelists!' he said, and shook a finger at her. 

'Nonsense, Percy. It is perfectly obvious. He used to be attracted byClare, and now he is attracted by Jane. Very strange: such differenttypes. But life _is_ strange, and particularly love. Oh, I don't say it'slove yet, but it's a strong attraction, and may easily lead to it. Thequestion is, are we to let it go on, or shall we head him back to Clare, who has begun to care, I am afraid, poor child?'

'Certainly head him back if you like and can, darling. I don't supposeBabs wants him, anyhow. '

'That is just it. If Jane did, I shouldn't interfere. Her happiness isas dear to me as Clare's, naturally. But Jane is not susceptible; shehas a colder temperament; and she is often quite rude to Oliver Hobart. Look how different their views about everything are. He and Clare agreemuch better. '

'Very well, mother. You're the doctor. I'll do my best not to throw themtogether when next Hobart comes over. But we must leave the children tosettle their affairs for themselves. If he really wants fat little Babswe can't stop him trying for her. '

'Life is difficult, ' Lady Pinkerton sighed. 'My poor little Clare islooking like a wilted flower. '

'Poor little girl. M'm yes. Poor little girl. Well, well, we'll see whatcan be done. .. . I'll see if I can take Janet home for a bit, perhaps--gether out of the way. She's very useful to me here, though. There are noflies on Jane. She's got the Potter wits all right. '

But Lady Pinkerton loved better Clare, who was like a flower, Clare, whomshe had created, Clare, who might have come--if any girl could havecome--out of a Leila Yorke novel. 

'I shall say a word to Jane, ' Lady Pinkerton decided. 'Just tosound her. '

But, after all, it was Jane who said the word. She said it that evening, in her cool, leisurely way. 

'Oliver Hobart asked me to marry him yesterday morning. I wrote to-day totell him I would. '

7

I append now the personal records of various people concerned in thisstory. It seems the best way. 

PART II:

TOLD BY GIDEON

CHAPTER I

SPINNING

1

Nothing that I or anybody else did in the spring and summer of 1919 wasof the slightest importance. It ought to have been a time for greatenterprises and beginnings; but it emphatically wasn't. It was a queer, inconclusive, lazy, muddled, reckless, unsatisfactory, rather ludicroustime. It seemed as if the world was suffering from vertigo. I have seenmen who have been badly hit spinning round and round madly, like dancingdervishes. That was, I think, what we were all doing for some time afterthe war--spinning round and round, silly and dazed, without purpose orpower. At least the only purpose in evidence was the fierce quest ofenjoyment, and the only power that of successfully shirking facts. Wewere like bankrupts, who cannot summon energy to begin life and workagain in earnest. And we were represented by the most comic parliamentthat ever sat in Westminster, upon which it would be too painful here toexpatiate. 

One didn't know what had happened, or what was happening, or what wasgoing to happen. We had won the war. But what was that going to mean?What were we going to get out of it? What did we want the new world tobe? What did we want this country to be? Every one shouted a differentanswer. The December elections seemed to give one answer. But I don'tthink it was a true one. The public didn't really want the England of_John Bull_ and Pemberton Billing; they showed that later. 

A good many people, of course, wanted and want revolution and theInternational. I don't, and never did. I hate red-flaggery, and all otherflaggery. The sentimentalism of Bob Smillie is as bad as thesentimentalism of the Pinkerton press; as untruthful, as greedy, asmuddle-headed. Smillie's lot are out to get, and the Potterites out tokeep. The under-dog is more excusable in its aims, but its methods aren'tany more attractive. Juke can swallow it all. But Jukie has let hisnaturally clear head get muddled by a mediaeval form of religion. Religion is like love; it plays the devil with clear thinking. Jukepretended not to hate even Smillie's interview with the coal dukes. Heapplauded when Smillie quoted texts at them. Though I know, of course, that that sort of thing is mainly a pose on Juke's part, because itamuses him. Besides, one of the dukes was a cousin of his, who bored him, so of course he was pleased. 

But those texts damned Smillie for ever in my eyes. He had those poorimbeciles at his mercy--and he gave his whole case away by quotingirrelevant remarks from ancient Hebrew writers. I wish I had had hischance for ten minutes; I would have taken it. But the Labour people arealways giving themselves away with both hands to the enemy. I supposefacts have hit them too hard, and so they shrink away from them--pad themwith sentiment, like uneducated women in villas. They all need--so do thewomen--a legal training, to make their minds hard and clear and sharp. So do journalists. Nearly the whole press is the same, dealing inemotions and stunts, unable to face facts squarely, in a calm spirit. 

It seemed to some of us that spring that there was a chance forunsentimental journalism in a new paper, that should be unhampered bytradition. That was why the _Weekly Fact_ (unofficially called theAnti-Potterite) was started. All the other papers had traditions; theirpast principles dictated their future policy. The _Fact_ (except that itwas up against Potterism) was untrammelled; it was to judge of each issueas it turned up, on its own merits, in the light of fact. That, ofcourse, was in itself the very essence of anti-Potterism, which wasincapable of judging or considering anything whatever, and whose onlylight was a feeble emotionalism The light of fact was to Potterites but aworse darkness. 

The _Fact_ wasn't to be labelled Liberal or Labour or Tory or Democraticor anti-Democratic or anything at all. All these things were to varywith the immediate occasions. I know it sounds like Lloyd George, butthere were at least two very important differences between the _Fact_and the Prime Minister. One was that the _Fact_ employed experts whoalways made a very thorough and scientific investigation of everysubject it dealt with before it took up a line; it cared for the truthand nothing but the truth. The other was that the _Fact_ took in nearlyevery case the less popular side, not, of course, because it was lesspopular (for to do that would have been one of the general principles ofwhich we tried to steer clear), but it so happened that we came to theconclusion nearly always that the majority were wrong. The fact is thatmajorities nearly always are. The heart of the people may be usually inthe right place (though, personally, I doubt this, for the heart of manis corrupt) but their head can, in most cases, be relied on to be in thewrong one. This is an important thing for statesmen to remember;forgetfulness of it has often led to disaster; ignorance of it hascreated Potterism as an official faith. 

Anyhow, the _Fact_ (again unlike the Prime Minister) could afford toignore the charges of flightiness and irresponsibility which, of course, were flung at it. It could afford to ignore them because of the good andsolid excellence of its contents, and the reputations of many of itscontributors. And that, of course, was due to the fact that it had plentyof money behind it. A great many people know who backs the _Fact_, but, all the same, I cannot, of course, give away this information to thepublic. I will only say that it started with such a good financialbacking that it was able to afford the best work, able even to afford thetruth. Most of the good weeklies, certainly, speak the truth as they seeit; they are, in fact, a very creditable section of our press; but theidea of the _Fact_ was to be absolutely unbiased on each issue thatturned up by anything it had ever thought before. Of course, you may saythat a man will be likely, when a case comes before his eyes, to come tothe same conclusion about it that he came to about a similar case notlong before. But, as a matter of fact, it is surprising how some slightdifference in the circumstances of a case may, if a man keeps an openmind, alter his whole judgment of it. The _Fact_ was a scientific, not asentimental paper. If our investigations led us into autocracy, we wereto follow them there; if to a soviet state, still we were to followthem. And we might support autocracy in one state and soviets in another, if it seemed suitable. Again this sounds like some of our more notoriouspoliticians--Carson, for instance; but the likeness is superficial. 

2

We began in March. Peacock and I were the editors. We didn't, and don't, always agree. Peacock, for instance, believes in democracy. Peacock alsoaccepts poetry; poetry about the war, by people like Johnny Potter. Everyone knows that school of poetry by heart now; of course it wasparticularly fashionable immediately after the war. Johnny Potter did itmuch like other men. Any one can do it. One takes some dirty, horribleincident or sight of the battle-front and describes it in loathsomedetail, and then, by way of contrast, describes some fat and incrediblybloodthirsty woman or middle-aged clubman at home, gloating over theglorious war. I always thought it a great bore, and sentimental at that. But it was the thing for a time, and people seemed to be impressed by it, and Peacock, who encouraged young men, often to their detriment, wouldtake it for the _Fact_, though that sort of cheap and popular appeal tosentiment was the last thing the _Fact_ was out for. 

Johnny Potter, like other people, was merely exploiting his experiences. Johnny would. He's a nice chap, and a cleverish chap, in the shrewd, unimaginative Potter way--Jane's way, too--only she's a shadecleverer--but chiefly he's determined to get there somehow. That'sPotter, again. And that's where Jane and Johnny amuse me. They're upagainst what we agreed to call Potterism--the Potterism, that is, ofsecond-rate sentimentalism and cheap short-cuts and mediocrity; theystand for brain and clear thinking against muddle and cant; but they'refighting it with Potterite weapons--self-interest, following things forwhat they bring them rather than for the things in themselves. John wouldnever write the particular kind of stuff he does for the love of writingit; he'll only do it because it's the stunt of the moment. That's whyhe'll never be more than cleverish and mediocre, never the real thing. Inhis calm, unexcited way, he worships success, and he'll get it, like oldPinkerton. Though of course he's met plenty of the bloodthirstynon-combatants he writes about, he takes most of what he says about themsecond-hand from other people. It's not first-hand observation. If itwas, he would have to include among his jingoes and Hun-haters somefighting men too. I know it's entirely against popular convention to sayso, but some of the most bloodthirsty fire-eaters I met during the warwere among the fighting men. Of course there were plenty of them at hometoo, and plenty of peaceable and civilised people at the front, but it'sthe most absurd perversion of facts to make out that all our combatantswere full of sweet reasonableness (any one who knows anything about thepsychological effects of fighting will know that this is improbable), andall our non-combatants bloody-minded savages. Though I don't say there'snothing in the theory one heard that the natural war rage ofnon-combatants, not having the physical outlet the fighters had fortheirs, became in some few of them a suppressed Freudian complex andmade them a little insane. I don't know. Anyhow to say this became thestunt among a certain section, so it was probably as inaccurate aspopular sayings usually are; as inaccurate as the picture drawn byanother section--the Potter press section--of an army going rejoicinginto the fight for right. 

What one specially resented was the way the men who had been killed, poordevils, were exploited by the makers of speeches and the writers ofarticles. First, they'd perhaps be called 'the fallen, ' instead of 'thekilled' (it's a queer thing how 'fallen, ' in the masculine means killedin the war, and the feminine given over to a particular kind of vice), and then the audience, or the readers, would be told that they died fordemocracy, or a cleaner world, when very likely many of them hated thefirst and never gave an hour's thought to the second. I could imaginetheir indignant presences in the Albert Hall at Gray's big League ofNations meeting in May, listening to Clynes's reasons why they died. Ican hear dear old Peter Clancy on why he died. 'Democracy? A cleanerworld? No. Why? I suppose I died because I inadvertently got in the wayof some flying missile; I know no other reason. And I suppose I was thereto get in its way because it's part of belonging to a nation to fight itsbattles when required--like paying its taxes or keeping its laws. Why gogroping for far-fetched reason? Who wants democracy, any old way? And theworld was good enough for me as it was, thank you. No, of course it isn'tclean, and never will be; but no war is going to make it cleaner. It'snot a way wars have. These talkers make me sick. '

If Clancy--the thousands of Clancys--could have been there, I think thatis the sort of thing they would have been saying. Anyhow, personally, Icertainly didn't lose my foot for democracy or for a cleaner world. Ilost it in helping to win the war--a quite necessary thing in thecircumstances. 

But every one seemed, during and after the war, to want to prove thatthe fighters thought in the particular way they thought themselves;they seemed to think it immeasurably strengthened their case. Heavenonly knows why, when the fighting men were just the men who hadn't timeor leisure to think at all. They were, as the Potterites put it sotruly, doing the job. The thinking, such as it was, was done by thepeople at home--the politicians, the clergy, the writers, the women, the men with 'A' certificates in Government offices; and precious poorthinking it was, too. 

3

We all settled down to life and work again, as best we could. JohnnyPotter went into a publisher's office, and also got odd jobs of reviewingand journalism, besides writing war verse and poetry of passion (of whichconfusing if attractive subject, he really knew little). Juke wasdemobilised early too, commenced clergyman again, got a job as curate ina central London parish, and lived in rooms in a slummy street. He and Isaw a good deal of each other. 

One day in March, Juke and I were lunching together at the 1917 Club, when Johnny came in and joined us. He looked rather queer, and amusedtoo. He didn't tell us anything till we were having coffee. Then Juke orI said, 'How's Jane getting on in Paris? Not bored yet?'

Johnny said, 'I should say not. She's been and gone and done it. She'sgot engaged to Hobart. I heard from the mater this morning. '

I don't think either of us spoke for a moment. Then Juke gave a longwhistle, and said, 'Good Lord!'

'Exactly, ' said Johnny, and grinned. 

'It's no laughing matter, ' said Juke blandly. 'Jane is imperilling herimmortal soul. She is yoking together with an unbeliever; she is formingan unholy alliance with mammon. We must stop it. '

'Stop Jane, ' said Johnny. 'You might as well try and stop a young tank. '

He meditated for a moment. 

'The funny thing is, ' he added, 'that we all thought it was Clare hewas after. '

'Now that, ' Juke said judicially, 'would have been all right. Your eldersister could have had Hobart and the _Daily Haste_ without betraying herprinciples. But _Jane_--Jane, the anti-Potterite . .. I say, why is shedoing it?'

Johnny drew a letter from his pocket and consulted it. 

'The mater doesn't say. . .. I suppose the usual reasons. Why do peopledo it? I don't; nor do you; nor does Gideon. So we can't explain. . .. Ididn't think Jane would do it either; it always seemed more in Clare'sline, somehow. Jane and I always thought Clare would marry, she's thesort. Feminine and all that, you know. Upon my word, I thought Jane wastoo much of a sportsman to go tying herself up with husbands and babiesand servants and things. What the devil will happen to all she meant to_do_--writing, public speaking, and all the rest of it? I suppose agirl can carry on to a certain extent, though, even if she is married, can't she?'

'Jane will, ' I said. 'Jane won't give up anything she wants to do for atrifle like marriage. ' I was sure of that. 

'I believe you're right, ' Johnny agreed. 'But it will be jolly awkwardbeing married to Hobart and writing in the anti-Potter press. '

'She'll write for the _Daily Haste_, ' Juke said. 'She'll make Hobart giveher a job on it. Having begun to go down the steep descent, she won'tstop till she gets to the bottom. Jane's thorough. '

But that was precisely what I didn't think Jane was. She is, on theother hand, given to making something good out of as many worlds as shecan simultaneously. Martyrs and Irishmen, fanatics and Juke, arethorough; not Jane. 

We couldn't stay gossiping over the engagement any longer, so we left itat that. The man lunching at the next table might have concluded thatJohnny's sister had got engaged to a scoundrel, instead of to thetalented, promising, and highly virtuous young editor of a popular dailypaper. Being another member of the 1917, I dare say he understood. 

But no one had tried to answer Juke's question, 'Why is she doing it?'Johnny had supposed 'for the usual reasons. ' That opens a probablyunanswerable question. What the devil _are_ the usual reasons?

4

I met Lady Pinkerton and her elder daughter in the muzzle department ofthe Army and Navy Stores the next week. That was one of the annoyingaspects of the muzzling order; one met in muzzle shops people with whomneither temperament nor circumstances would otherwise have thrown one. 

I have a particular dislike for Lady Pinkerton, and she for me. I hatethose cold, shallow eyes, and clothes drenched in scent, and basiliskpink faces whitened with powder which such women have or develop. When Ilook at her I think of all her frightful books, and the frightful serialshe has even now running in the _Pink Pictorial_, and I shudder(unobtrusively, I hope), and look, away. When she looks at me, she thinks'dirty Jew, ' and she shudders (unobtrusively, too), and looks over myhead. She did so now, no doubt, as she bowed. 

'Dreadfully tahsome, this muzzling order, ' she said, originally. 'We havetwo Pekingese, a King Charles, and a pug, and their poor little facesdon't fit any muzzle that's made. '

I answered with some inanity about my mother's Poltalloch, and we talkedfor a moment. She said she hoped I was quite all right again, and Isuppose I said I was, with my leg shooting like a gathered tooth (it waspretty bad all that spring). 

Suddenly I felt her wanting badly to tell me the news about Jane. Shewanted to tell me because she thought she would be scoring off me, knowing that what she would call my 'influence' over Jane had always beenused against all that Hobart stands for. I felt her longing to throw methe triumphant morsel of news--'Jane has deserted you and all yourtiresome, conceited, disturbing clique, and is going to marry thepromising young editor of her father's chief paper. ' But somethingrestrained her. I caught the advance and retreat of her intention, andconnected it with her daughter, who stood by her, silent, with an absurdPekingese in her arms. 

Anyhow, Lady Pinkerton held in her news, and I left them. I dislikeLady Pinkerton, as I have said; but on this occasion I disliked her alittle less than usual, for that maternal instinct which had robbed herof her triumph. 

5

I went to see Katherine Varick that evening. I often do when I have beenmeeting women like Lady Pinkerton, because there is a danger that thatkind of woman, so common and in a sense so typical, may get to bulk toolarge in one's view of women, and lead one into the sin ofgeneralisation. So many women are such very dreadful fools--men too, forthat matter, but more women--that one needs to keep in pretty frequenttouch with those who aren't, with the women whose brains, by nature andtraining, grip and hold. Of these, Katherine Varick has as fine and keena mind and as good a head as any I know. She isn't touched anywhere withPotterism; she has the scientific temperament. Katherine and I are greatfriends. From the first she did a good deal of work for the_Fact_--reviews of scientific books, mostly. I went to see her, to getthe taste of Lady Pinkerton out of my mouth. 

I found her doing something with test-tubes and bottles--some experimentwith carbohydrates, I think it was. I watched her till she was throughwith it, then we talked. That is the way one puts it, but as a matter offact Katherine seldom does much of the talking; one talks to her. Shelistens, and puts in from time to time some critical comment that oftenextraordinarily clears up any subject one is talking round. Shecontributes as much as any one I know to the conversation, but in suchcondensed tabloids that it doesn't take her long. Most things don't seemto her to be worth saying. She'll let, for instance, a chatterbox likeJuke say a hundred words to her one, and still she'll get most said, though Jukie's not a vapid talker either. 

'Jane, ' she told me, 'is coming back next week. The marriage is to be atthe end of April. '

'A rapidity worthy of the Hustling Press. Jukie will be sorry. He hopesyet to wrest her as a brand from the burning. '

Katherine smiled at Juke's characteristic sanguineness. 

'Jukie won't do that. If Jane means to do a thing she does it. Jane knowswhat she wants. '

'And she wants Hobart?' I pondered it, turning it over, still puzzled. 

'She wants Hobart, ' Katherine agreed. 'And all that Hobart will lether in to. '

'The _Daily Haste_? The society of the Pinkerton journalists?'

'And of a number of other people. Some of them fairly important people, you know. The editor of the _Daily Haste_ has to transact business with agood many notorious persons, no doubt. That would amuse Jane. She's allfor life. I dare say the wife of the editor of the _Haste_ has a prettygood front window for the show. Jane likes playing about with people, asyou like playing with ideas, and I with chemicals. .. . Besides, beautycounts with Jane. It does with every one. She's probably fallen in love. '

That was all we said about it. We talked for the rest of the eveningabout the _Fact_. 

6

But when I went to Jane's wedding, I understood about the 'number ofother people' that Hobart let Jane in to. They had been married thatafternoon by the Registrar, Jane having withstood the pressure of herparents, who preferred weddings to be in churches. Hobart didn't muchcare; he was, he said, a Presbyterian by upbringing, but sat loosely toit, and didn't care for fussy weddings. Jane frankly disbelieved in whatshe called 'all that sort of thing. ' So they went before the Registrar, and gave a party in the evening at the Carlton. 

We all went, even Juke, who had failed to snatch Jane from the burning. Idon't know that it was a much queerer party than other wedding parties, which are apt to be an ill-assorted mixture of the bridegroom's circleand the bride's. And, except for Jane's own personal friends, these twocircles largely overlapped in this case. The room was full ofjournalists, important and unimportant, business people, literary people, and a few politicians of the same colour as the Pinkerton press. Therewere a lot of dreadful women, who, I supposed, were Lady Pinkerton'sfriends (probably literary women; one of them was introduced to Juke as'the editress of _Forget-me-not_'), and a lot of vulgar men, many of whomlooked like profiteers. But, besides all these, there were undoubtedlyinteresting people and people of importance. And I realised that theeditor of the _Haste_, like the other editors of important papers, must, of necessity, as Katherine had said, have a lot to do with such people. 

And there, in the middle of a group of journalists, was Jane; Jane, in asquare-cut, high-waisted, dead white frock, with her firm, round, youngshoulders and arms, and her firm, round, young face, and her dark haircut across her broad white forehead, parted a little like a child's, atone side, and falling thick and straight round her neck like a mediaevalpage's. She wore a long string of big amber beads--Hobart's present--anda golden girdle round her high, sturdy waist. 

I saw Jane in a sense newly that evening, not having seen her for sometime. And I saw her again as I had often seen her in the past--a greedy, lazy, spoilt child, determined to take and keep the best out of life, and, if possible, pay nothing for it. A profiteer, as much as the fatlittle match manufacturer, her uncle, who was talking to Hobart, and inwhom I saw a resemblance to the twins. And I saw too Jane's queer, lazy, casual charm, that had caught and held Hobart and weaned him from thefeminine graces and obviousnesses of Clare. 

Hobart stood near Jane, quiet and agreeable and good-looking. Asecond-rate chap, running a third-rate paper. Jane had married him, forall her clear-headed intellectual scorn of the second-rate, because shewas second-rate herself, and didn't really care. 

And there was little Pinkerton chatting with Northcliffe, his rival andfriend, and Lady Pinkerton boring a high Foreign Office official verynearly to yawns, and Clare Potter, flushed and gallantly gay, flittingabout from person to person (Clare was always restless; she had none ofJane's phlegm and stolidity), and Johnny, putting in a fairly amusingtime with his own friends and acquaintances, and Frank Potter talkingto Juke about his new parish. Frank, discontented all the war becausehe couldn't get out to France without paying the price that Juke hadpaid, was satisfied with life for the moment, having just been given afashionable and rich London living, where many hundreds weekly satunder him and heard him preach. Juke wasn't the member of that crowd Ishould personally have selected to discuss fashionable and overpaidlivings with, had I just accepted one, but they were the only twoparsons in the room, so I suppose Potter thought it appropriate, Ioverheard pleased fragments such as 'Twenty thousand communicants . .. Only standing-room at Sunday evensong, ' which indicated that the newparish was a great success. 

'That poor chap, ' Jukie said to me afterwards. 'He's in a wretchedposition. He has to profess Christianity, and he doesn't want even to tryto live up to it. At least, whenever he has a flash of desire to, thatatheist wife of his puts it out. She's the worst sort of atheist--thesort that says her prayers regularly. Why are parsons allowed to marry?Or if they must, why can't their wives be chosen for them by a specialboard? And what, in Heaven's name, came over a Potter that he should takeOrders? The fight between Potterism and Christianity--it's the funniestspectacle--and the saddest. .. . '

But Juke on Christianity always leaves me cold. The nation to which I (onone side) belong can't be expected to look at Christianityimpartially--we have suffered too much at the hands of Christians. Jukeand the other hopeful and ardent members of his Church may be able toseparate Christianity from Christians, and not judge the one by theother; but I can't. The fact that Christendom is what it is has alwaysdisposed of Christianity as a working force, to my mind. Judaism isdetestable, but efficient; Christianity is well-meaning but a failure. As, of course, parsons like Juke would be and are the first to admit. They say it aims so high that it's bound to fail, which is probably true. But that makes it pretty useless as a working human religion. Anyhow, Iquite agree with Juke that it is comic to see poor little nonentitieslike Frank Potter caught in it, tangled up in it, and trying to get freeand carry on as though it wasn't there. 

Of course, nearly all the rest of that crowd at Jane's wedding wascarrying on as if Christianity weren't there without the least trouble orstruggle. They were quite right; it wasn't there. Nothing was there, formost of them, but self-interest and personal desire. We were, the lot ofus, out to make--to grab and keep and enjoy. Nothing else counted. Whatcould Christianity do, a frail, tilting, crusading St. George, up againstthe monster dragon Grab, who held us all in his coils? It's no use, Jukie; it never was and never will be any use. 

I suddenly grew very tired of that party. It seemed a monster meeting ofPotterites at play--mediocrity, second-rateness, humbug, muddle, cant, cheap stunts--the room was full of it all. 

I went across to Jane to say good-bye. I had scarcely spoken to her yet. I had never congratulated her on her engagement, but Jane wouldn't mindabout that or expect me to. 

All I could say now was, 'I'm afraid I've got to get back. I've somework waiting. '

She said, 'Is it any use my sending you anything for the _Fact_?

'From the enemy's camp?' I smiled at her. She smiled too. 

'I've not ratted, you know. I'm still an A. P. I shall come on the nexttour of investigation, whenever that is. '

'Shall you write for the _Haste_?' I asked her. 

'Sometimes, I expect. Oliver says he can get me some of the reviewing. And occasional non-controversial articles. But I don't want to be tied upwith it; I want to write for other papers too. .. . You take Johnny'spoetry, I observe. '

'Sometimes. That's Peacock's fault, not mine. . .. Send along anythingyou think may suit, by all means, and we'll consider it. You'll mostlikely get it back--if you remember to enclose a stamped envelope. . .. Good-night, and thank you for asking me to your party. Good-night, Hobart. '

I said good-bye to Lady Pinkerton, and went back to the _Fact_ office, for it was press night. 

So Jane got married. 

CHAPTER II

DINING WITH THE HOBARTS

1

That May was very hot. One sweltered in offices, streets, and undergroundtrains. You don't expect this kind of weather in early May, which isusually a time of bitter frosts and biting winds, punctuated bythunderstorms. It told on one's nerves. One got sick of work and people. I quarrelled all round; with Peacock about the paper, with my typistabout her punctuation, with my family about my sister's engagement. Rosalind (that was the good old English name they had given her) had beenbrought up, like myself, in the odour of public school and OxfordAnglicanism (she had been at Lady Margaret Hall). My father had grown upfrom his early youth most resolutely English, and had married thedaughter of a rich Manchester cotton manufacturer. Their two children, Sidneys from birth, were to ignore the unhappy Yiddish strain that wasbranded like a deep disgrace into their father's earliest experience. Itwas unlucky for my parents that both Rosalind and I reverted to type. Rosalind was very lovely, very clever, and unmistakably a Jewess. AtRoedean she pretended she wasn't; who wouldn't? She was still there whenI came of age and became Gideon, so she didn't join me in that. But whenshe left school and went up to Oxford, she began to develop and expandmentally, and took her own line, and by the time she was twenty she was, as I never was, a red-hot nationalist. We were neither of us everinclined to Judaism in religion; we shook off the misfit of Anglicanismat an early age (we both refused at fifteen to be confirmed), but didn'ttake to our national faith, which we both disliked extremely. Nor did welike most of our fellow Jews; I think as a race we are narrow, cowardly, avaricious, and mean-spirited, and Rosalind thinks we are oily. (She andI aren't oily, by the way; we are both the lean kind, perhaps because, after all, we are half English). I only reverted to our original namebecause I was sickened of the Sidney humbug. But we learnt Yiddish, andread Hebrew literature, and discussed repatriation, and maintained thatthe Jews were the brains of the world. It was a cross to our parents. Butfar more bitter to them than even my change of name was Rosalind'sengagement, this spring of 1919, to Boris Stefan. Boris had been livingand painting in London for some years; his home had been in Moscow; hehad barely escaped with his life from a pogrom in 1912, and had sincethen lived in England. He had served in the war, belonged to severalsecret societies of a harmless sort, painted pictures that had attracteda good deal of critical notice, and professed Bolshevik sympathies, of apurely academic nature (as so many of these sympathies are) on thegrounds that Bolshevism was a Jewish movement. He and I differed on thesubject of Bolshevism. I have never seen any signs either of constructiveability or sound principles in any Bolshevik leader; nothing butenterprise, driving-power, vindictiveness, Hebrew cunning, and a criminalruthlessness. They're not statesmen. And Bolshevism, as so farmanifested, isn't a statesmanlike system; it holds the reins too tight. Idon't condemn it for the cruelties committed in its name, becausewhenever Russians get excited there'll be fiendish cruelties; Russiansare like that--the most cruel devils in earth or hell. BolshevistRussians are no worse in that way than Czarist Russians. Except when I amlistening to their music I loathe the whole race; great stupid, brutal, immoral, sentimental savages. .. . When I think of them I feel a kind ofnausea, oddly touched with fear, that must be hereditary, I suppose. After all, my father, as a child of five, saw his mother outraged andmurdered by Russian police. Anyhow, Bolshevism, in Russian hands, hasbecome a kind of stupid, crazy, devil's game, as everything always has. 

But I don't want to discuss Bolshevism here. Boris Stefan hadn't reallyanything to do with it. He wasn't a politician. He was a dreamy, simple, untidy, rather childlike person, with a wonderful gift for painting. Rosalind and I had got to know him at the Club. They were both beautiful, and it hadn't taken them long to fall in love. One Russian-Jewish exilemarrying another--that was the bitterness of it to our very Gentilemother and our Sidneyfied father, who had spent fifty years living downhis origin. 

So I was called in to assist in averting the catastrophe. I wouldn't sayanything except that it seemed very suitable, and that annoyed my mother. I remember that she and I and Rosalind argued round and round it for anhour one hot evening in the drawing-room at Queen's Gate. Finally mymother said, 'Oh, very well. If Rosalind wants a lot of fat Yid babieswith hooked noses and oily hair, all lending money on usury instead ofgetting into debt like Christians, let her have them. I wash my hands ofthe lot of you. I don't know what I've done to deserve two Sheenies forchildren. '

That made Rosalind giggle, and eased the acrimony of the discussion. Mymother was a little fair woman, sharp-tongued and quick-tempered, butwith a sense of fun. 

My father had no sense of fun. I think it had been crushed out of him inhis cradle. He was a silent man (though he could, like all Jews, beeloquent), with a thin face and melancholy dark eyes. I am supposed tolook like him, I believe. He, too, spoke to me that evening aboutRosalind's engagement. I remember how he walked up and down thedining-room, with his hands behind him and his head bent forward, and hisquick, nervous, jerky movements. 

'I don't like it, Arthur. I feel as if we had all climbed up out of avery horrible pit into a place of safety and prosperity and honour, andas if the child was preparing to leap down into the pit again. Shedoesn't know what it's like to be a Jew. I do, and I've saved you bothfrom it, and you both seem bent on returning to the pit whence you weredigged. We're an outcast people, my dear; an outcast people. .. . '

His black eyes were haunted by memories of old fears; the fears hisancestors had had in them, listening behind frail locked doors for thehowl 'Down with the Jews!' The fears that had been branded by savagesinto his own infant consciousness half a century ago; the fears searedlater into the soul of a boy by boyish savages at an English school; thefears of the grown man, always hiding something, always pretending, always afraid. .. . 

I discovered then--and this is why I am recording this family incidenthere, why it connects with the rest of my life at this time--thatPotterism has, for one of its surest bases, fear. The other bases areignorance, vulgarity, mental laziness, sentimentality, and greed. Theignorance which does not know facts; the vulgarity which cannotappreciate values; the laziness which will not try to learn either ofthese things; the sentimentality which, knowing neither, is stirred bythe valueless and the untrue; the greed which grabs and exploits. Butfear is worst; the fear of public opinion, the fear of scandal, the fearof independent thought, of loss of position, of discomfort, ofconsequences, of truth. 

My poor parents were afraid of social damage to their child; afraid lestshe should be mixed up with something low, outcast, suspected. Not all myfather's intellectual brilliance, nor all my mother's native wit, couldsave them from this pathetic, vulgar, ignorant piece of snobbery. Pathetic, vulgar, and ignorant, because, if they had only known it, Rosalind stood to lose nothing she cared for by allying herself with aJewish painter of revolutionary theories. Not a single person whosefriendship she cared for but would be as much her friend as before. Shehad nothing to do with the _bourgeoisie_, bristling with prejudices andsocial snobberies, who made, for instance, my mother's world. And that iswhat one generation should always try to understand about another--howlittle (probably) each cares for the other's world. 

Of course, Rosalind married Boris Stefan. And, as I have said, thewhole incident is only mentioned to illustrate how Potterism lurks insecret places, and flaunts in open places, pervading the whole fabricof human society. 

2

Peace with Germany was signed, as every one knows, on June 28th. Nearlyevery one crabbed it, of course, the _Fact_ with the rest. I have nodoubt that it did, as Garvin put it, sow dragon's teeth over Europe. Itcertainly seemed a poor, unconstructive, expensive, brittle thing enough. But I am inclined to think that nearly all peace treaties are pretty bad. You have to have them, however, and you may as well make the best ofthem. Anyhow, bad peace as it looked, at least it _was_ peace, and thatwas something new and unusual. And I confess frankly that it has, so far, held together longer than I, for one, ever expected it would. (I amwriting this in January, 1920). 

The _Fact_ published a cheery series of articles, dealing with eachclause in turn, and explaining why it was bound to lead, immediately orultimately, to war with some one or other. I wrote some of them myself. But I was out on some points, though most haven't had time yet to provethemselves. 

'Now, ' said Jane, the day after the signature, 'I suppose we can get onwith the things that matter. '

She meant housing, demobilisation, proportional representation, healthquestions, and all the good objects which the Society for EqualCitizenship had at heart. She had been writing some articles in the_Daily Haste_ on these. They were well-informed and intelligent, but notexpert enough for the _Fact_. And that, as I began to see, was partlywhere Hobart came in. Jane wrote cleverly, clearly, and concisely--betterthan Johnny did. But, in these days of overcrowded competent journalism--well, it is not unwise to marry an editor of standing. It gives you abetter place in the queue. 

I dined at the Hobarts' on June 29th, for the first time since theirmarriage. We were a party of six. Katherine Varick was there, and adistinguished member of the American Legation and his wife. 

Jane handled her parties competently, as she did other things. A vivid, jolly child she looked, in love with life and the fun and importance ofher new position. The bachelor girl or man just married is an amusingstudy to me. Especially the girl, with her new responsibilities, her newand more significant relation to life and society. Later she is sadly aptto become dull, to have her individuality merged in the eternal type ofthe matron and the mother; her intellect is apt to lose its edge, hermind its grip. It is the sacrifice paid by the individual to the race. But at first she is often a delightful combination of keen-witted, jollygirl and responsible woman. 

We talked, I remember, partly about the Government, and how soonNorthcliffe would succeed in turning it out. The Pinkerton press wasgiving its support to the Government. The _Weekly Fact_ was not. But wedidn't want them out at once; we wanted to keep them on until some one ofconstructive ability, in any party, was ready to take the reins. Thetrouble about the Labour people was that so far there was no one ofconstructive ability; they were manifestly unready. They had no one goodenough. No party had. It was the old problem, never acuter, of 'Producethe Man. ' If Labour was to produce him, I suspected that it would take itat least a generation of hard political training and education. If Labourhad got in then, it would have been a mob of uneducated and uninformedsentimentalists, led and used by a few trained politicians who knew thetricks of the trade. It would be far better for them to wait till thepresent generation of honest mediocrities died out, and a new anddifferently educated generation were ready to take hold. University-trained Labour--that bugbear of Barnes'--if there is any hopefor the British Constitution, which probably there is not, I believe itlies there. It is a very small one, at the best. Anyhow, it certainly didnot, at this period, lie in the parliamentary Labour Party, that body ofincompetents in an incompetent House. 

It was in discussing this that I discovered that Hobart couldn't discuss. He could talk; he could assert, produce opinions and information, but hecouldn't meet or answer arguments. And he was cautious, afraid ofcommitting himself, afraid, I fancied, of exposing gulfs in his equipmentof information, for, like other journalists of his type, his habit was towrite about things of which he knew little. Old Pinkerton remarked once, at a dinner to American newspaper men, that his own idea of a goodjournalist was a man who could sit down at any moment and write a columnon any subject. The American newspaper men cheered this; it was theiridea of a good journalist too. It is an amusing game, and one encouragedby the Anti-Potterite League, to waylay leader-writers and tackle themabout their leaders, turn them inside out and show how empty they are. I've written that sort of leader myself, of course, but not for the_Fact_; we don't allow it. There, the man who writes is the man whoknows, and till some one knows no one writes. That is why some peoplecall us dry, heavy, lacking in ideas, and say we are like a Blue Book, ora paper read to the British Association. We are proud of thatreputation. The Pinkerton papers and the others can supply the ideas; weare out for facts. 

Anyhow, Hobart I knew for an ignorant person. All he had was a _flair_for the popular point of view. That was why Pinkerton who knew men, gothold of him. He was a true Potterite. Possibly I always saw him at hisleast eloquent and his most cautious, because he didn't like me and knewI didn't like him. Even then there had already been one or two ratheracrimonious disputes between my paper and his on points of fact. The_Daily Haste_ hated being pinned down to and quarrelled with about facts;facts didn't seem to the Pinkerton press things worth quarrelling over, like policy, principles, or prejudices. The story goes that when any onetold old Pinkerton he was wrong about something, he would point to hisvast circulation, using it as an argument that he couldn't be mistaken. If you still pressed and proved your point, he would again refer to hiscirculation, but using it this time as an indication of how little itmattered whether his facts were right or wrong. Some one once said to himcuriously, 'Don't you _care_ that you are misleading so many millions?'To which he replied, in his dry little voice, 'I don't lead, or mislead, the millions. They lead me. ' Little Pinkerton sometimes saw a long wayfarther into what he was doing than you'd guess from his shoddy press. Hehad queer flashes of genius. 

But Hobart hadn't. Hobart didn't see anything, except what he wasofficially paid to see. A shallow, solemn ass. 

I looked suddenly at Jane, and caught her watching her husband silently, with her considering, dispassionate look. He was talking to the AmericanLegation about the traffic strike (we were a round table, and the talkwas general). 

Then I knew that, whether Jane had ever been in love with Hobart or not, she was not so now. I knew further, or thought I knew, that she saw himprecisely as I did. 

Of course she didn't. His beauty came in--it always does, between men andwomen, confusing the issues--and her special relation to him, and ahundred other things. The relation between husband and wife is too closeand too complex for clear thinking. It seems always to lead either to toomuch regard or to an excess of irritation, and often to both. 

Jane looked away from Hobart, and met my eyes watching her. Herexpression didn't alter, nor, probably, did mine. But something passedbetween us; some unacknowledged mutual understanding held us together foran instant. It was unconscious on Jane's part and involuntary on mine. She hadn't meant to think over her husband with me; I hadn't meant topush in. Jane wasn't loyal, and I wasn't well-bred, but we neither of usmeant that. 

I hardly talked to Jane that evening. She was talking after dinner toKatherine and the American Legation. I had a three-cornered conversationwith Hobart and the Legation's wife, who was of an inquiring turn ofmind, like all of her race, and asked us exhausting questions. She got onto the Jewish question, and asked us for our views on the reasons foranti-Semitism in Europe. 

'I've been reading the _New Witness_, ' she said. 

I told her she couldn't do better, if she was investigatinganti-Semitism. 

'But are they fair?' she asked ingenuously. 

I replied that there were moments in which I had a horrible suspicionthat they were. 

'Then the Jews are really a huge conspiracy plotting to get the financesof Europe into their hands?' Her eyes, round and shocked, turned from meto Hobart. 

He lightly waved her to me. 

'You must ask Mr. Gideon. The children of Israel are his speciality. '

His dislike of me gleamed in his blue eyes and in his supercilious, coldsmile. The Legation's wife (no fool) must have seen it. 

I went on talking rubbish to her about the Jews and the finances ofEurope. I don't remember what particular rubbish it was, for I was hardlyaware of it at the time. What I was vividly and intensely and quitesuddenly aware of was that I was on fire with the same anger, dislike, and contempt that burned in Hobart towards me. I knew that evening that Ihated him, even though I was sitting in his house and smoking hiscigarettes. I wanted to be savagely rude to him. I think that once ortwice I came very near to being so. 

Katherine and I went home by the same bus. I grumbled to her aboutHobart all the way. I couldn't help it; the fellow seemed suddenly tohave become a nervous disease to me; I was mentally wriggling andquivering with him. 

Katherine laughed presently, in that queer, silent way of hers. 

'Why worry?' she said. '_You've_ not married him. '

'Well, what's marriage?' I returned. 'He's a public danger--he andhis kind. '

Katherine said truly, 'There are so many public dangers. There reallyisn't time to get agitated about them all. ' Her mind seemed still to berunning on marriage, for she added presently, 'I think he'll find thathe's bitten off rather more than he can chew, in Jane. '

'Jane can go to the devil in her own way, ' I said, for I was angry withJane too. 'She's married a second-rate fellow for what she thinks he'llbring her. I dare say she has her reward. .. . Katherine, I believe that'sthe very essence of Potterism--going for things for what they'll bringyou, what they lead to, instead of for the thing-in-itself. Artists carefor the thing-in-itself; Potterites regard things as railway trains, always going somewhere, getting somewhere. Artists, students, and thereligious--they have the single eye. It's the opposite to the commercialoutlook. Artists will look at a little fishing town or country village, and find it a thing of beauty and a joy for ever, and leave it toitself--unless they yield to the devil and paint it or write about it. Potterites will exploit it, commercialise it, bring the railway toit--and the thing is spoilt. Oh, the Potterites get there all right, confound them. They're the progressives of the world. They--they havetheir reward. '

(It's a queer thing how Jews can't help quoting the New Testament--evenJews without religion. )

'We seem to have decided, ' Katherine said, 'that Jane is a Potterite. '

'Morally she is. Not intellectually. You can be a Potterite in many ways. Jane accepts the second-rate, though she recognises it as such. .. . Theplain fact is, ' I was in a fit of savage truth-speaking, 'that Jane issecond-rate. '

'Well . .. '

The gesture of Katherine's square shoulders may have meant severalthings--'Aren't we all?' or 'Surely that's very obvious, ' or 'I can't bebothered to consider Jane any more, ' or merely 'After all, we've justdined there. '

Anyhow, Katherine got off the bus at this point. 

I was left repeating to myself, as if it had been a new discovery, whichit wasn't, 'Jane is second-rate. .. . '

CHAPTER III

SEEING JANE

1

Jane was taking the chair at a meeting of a section of the Society forEqual Citizenship. The speakers were all girls under thirty who wantedvotes. They spoke rather well. They weren't old enough to have becomesentimental, and they were mostly past the conventional cliches of theearlier twenties. In extreme youth one has to be second-hand; one doesn'tknow enough, one hasn't lived or learnt enough, to be first-hand; and onelacks self-confidence. But by five or six-and-twenty one should have leftthat behind. One should know what one thinks and what one means, and beable to state it in clear terms. That is what these girls--mostlyUniversity girls--did. 

Jane left the chair and spoke too. 

I hadn't known Jane spoke so well. She has a clever, coherent way ofmaking her points, and is concise in reply if questioned, quick atrepartee if heckled. 

Lady Pinkerton was sitting in the row in front of Juke and me. Mother anddaughter. It was very queer to me. That wordy, willowy fool, and thesturdy, hard-headed girl in the chair, with her crisp, gripping mind. Yetthere was something. .. . They both loved success. Perhaps that was it. Thevulgarian touch. I felt it the more clearly in them because of Juke atmy side. And yet Jukie too . .. Only he would always be awake to it--onhis guard, not capitulating. 

2

Jane came round with me after the meeting to the _Fact_ office, to gothrough some stuff she was writing for us about the meeting. She had tocome then, though it was late, because next day was press day. We hadn'tbeen there ten minutes when Hobart's name was sent in, with the messagethat he was just going home, and was Mrs. Hobart ready to come?

'Well, I'm not, ' said Jane to me. 'I shall be quite ten minutes more. I'll go and tell him. '

She went outside and called down, 'Go on, Oliver. I shall be sometime yet. '

'I'll wait, ' he called up, and Jane came back into the room. 

We went on for quite ten minutes. 

When we went down, Hobart was standing by the front door, waiting. 

'How did you track me?' Jane asked. 

'Your mother told me where you'd gone. She called at the _Haste_ on herway home. Good-night, Gideon. '

They went out together, and I returned to the office, irritated a littleby being hurried. It was just like Lady Pinkerton, I thought, to havegone round to Hobart inciting him to drag Jane from my office. There hadbeen coldness, if not annoyance, in Hobart's manner to me. 

Well, confound him, it wasn't to be expected that he should much carefor his wife to write for the _Fact_. But he might mind his own businessand leave Jane to mind hers, I thought. 

Peacock came in at this point, and we worked till midnight. 

Peacock opened a parcel of review books from Hubert Wilkins--all tripe, of course. He turned them over, impatiently. 

'What fools the fellows are to go on sending us their rubbish. Theymight have learnt by now that we never take any notice of them, ' hegrumbled. He picked out one with a brilliant wrapper--'_A CabinetMinister's Wife_, by Leila Yorke. .. . That woman needs a lesson, Gideon. She's a public nuisance. I've a good mind--a jolly goodmind--to review her, for once. What? Or do you think it would be_infra dig_? Well, what about an article, then--we'd get Neilson todo one--on the whole tribe of fiction-writing fools, taking LadyPinkerton for a peg to hang it on? . .. After all, we _are_ the organof the Anti-Potter League. We ought to hammer at Potterite fiction aswell as at Potterite journalism and politics. For two pins I'd getJohnny Potter to do it. He would, I believe. '

'I'm sure he would. But it would be a little too indecent. Neilson shalldo it. Besides, he'd do it better. Or do it yourself. '

'Will you?'

'I will not. My acquaintance with the subject is inadequate, and I've nointention of improving it. '

In the end Peacock did it himself. It was pretty good, and prettymurderous. It came out in next week's number. I met Clare Potter in thestreet the day after it came out, and she cut me dead. I expect shethought I had written it. I am sure she never read the _Fact_, but nodoubt the family 'attention had been drawn to' the article, as peoplealways express it when writing to a paper to remonstrate about somethingin it they haven't liked. I suppose they think it would be a score forthe paper if they admitted that they had come across it in the naturalcourse of things--anyhow, they want to imply that it is, of course, apaper decent people don't see--like _John Bull_, or the _People_. 

When I met Johnny Potter, he grinned, and said, 'Good for you, old bean. Or was it Peacock? My mother's persuaded it was you, and she'll neverforgive you. Poor old mater, she thought her new book rather on theintellectual side. Full of psycho-analysis, and all that. .. . I say, Iwish Peacock would send me Guthrie's new book to do. '

That was Johnny all over. He was always asking for what he wanted, instead of waiting for what we thought fit to send him. I was sure thatwhen he published a book, he'd write round to the editors telling themwho was to review it. 

I said, 'I think Neilson's going to do it, ' and determined that it shouldbe so. Johnny's brand of grabbing bored me. Jane did the same. A greedypair, never seeing why they shouldn't have all they wanted. 

3

It was at this time (July) that a long, drawn-out quarrel started betweenthe _Weekly Fact_ and the _Daily Haste_ about the miners' strike. ThePinkerton press did its level best to muddle the issues of that strike, by distorting some facts, passing over others, and inventing more. By thetime you'd read a leader in the _Haste_ on the subject, you'd have gotthe impression that the strikers were Bolshevists helped by German moneyand aiming at a social revolution, instead of discontented, needy andgreedy British workmen, grabbing at more money and less work, in thenormal, greedy, human way we all have. Bonar Law, departing for oncerather unhappily from his 'the Government have given me no information'attitude, announced that the miners were striking against conscriptionand the war with Russia. Some Labour papers said they were strikingagainst the Government's shifty methods and broken pledges. I am sureboth parties credited them with too much idealism and too little plainhorse-sense. They were striking to get the pay and hours they wanted outof the Government, and, of course, for nationalisation. They were notidealists, and not Bolshevists, but frank grabbers, like most of us. But, as every one will remember, 'Bolshevist' had become at this period avague term of abuse, like 'Hun' during the war. People who didn't likeCarson called him a Bolshevist; people who didn't like manual labourerscalled _them_ Bolshevists. What all these users of the mysterious andelastic epithet lacked was a clear understanding and definition ofBolshevism. 

The _Daily Haste_, of course (and, to do it justice, many otherpapers), used the word freely as meaning the desire for betterconditions and belief in the strike as a legitimate means of obtainingthem. I suppose it took a shorter time to say or write than this does;anyhow, it bore a large, vague, Potterish meaning that was irresistibleto people in general. 

The _Haste_ made such a fool of itself over the miners that we came toblows with them, and quarrelled all through July and August, mostly overtrivial and petty points. I may add that the _Fact_ was not supportingimmediate nationalisation; we were against it, for reasons that it wouldbe too tedious to explain here. (As a matter of fact, I know that all Irecord of this so recent history is too tedious; I do not seem to beable to avoid most of it; but even I draw the line somewhere). Thecontroversy between the _Fact_ and the _Haste_ seemed after a time toresolve itself largely into a personal quarrel between Hobart andmyself. He was annoyed that Jane occasionally wrote for us. I suppose itwas natural that he should be annoyed. And he didn't like her tofrequent the 1917 Club, to which a lot of us belonged. Jane oftenlunched there, so did I. She said that you got a better lunch there thanat the Women's University Club. Not much better, but still, better. Youalso met more people you wanted to meet, as well as more people youdidn't. We started a sort of informal lunch club, which met there andlunched together on Thursdays. It consisted of Jane, Katherine Varick, Juke, Peacock, Johnny Potter, and myself. Often other people joined usby invitation; my sister Rosalind and her husband, any girl JohnnyPotter was for the moment in love with, and friends of Peacock's, Juke's, or mine. Juke would sometimes bring a parson in; this was ratherwidening for us, I think, and I dare say for the parson too. To Juke itwas part of the enterprise of un-Potterising the Church, which was onhis mind a good deal. He said it needed un-Potterising as much as theState, or literature, or journalism, or even the drama, and thatPotterism in it was even more dangerous than in these. So, when hecould, he induced parsons to join the Anti-Potter League. 

We weren't all tied up, I may say, with the political party principlesvery commonly held by members of the 1917 Club. I certainly wasn't aSocialist, nor, wholly, I think, a Radical; neither at that time wasPeacock, though he became more so as time went on; nor, certainly, wasKatherine. Juke was, because he believed that in these principles was theonly hope for the world. And the twins were, because the same principleswere the only wear for the young intellectual, at that moment. Johnny, inall things the glass of fashion and the mould of form, wore them as hewore his monocle, quite unconscious of his own reasons for both. But itwas the idea of the Anti-Potter League to keep clear of parties andlabels. You _can_ belong to a recognised political party and be anAnti-Potterite, for Potterism is a frame of mind, not a set of opinions(Juke was, after Katherine, the best Anti-Potterite I have known, thoughpeople did their best to spoil him), but it is easier, and morecompatible with your objects, to be free to think what you like abouteverything. Once you are tied up with a party, you can only avoidsecond-handedness, taking over views ready-made, if you are verystrong-minded indeed. 

Thursday was a fairly free afternoon for me, and Jane and I somehowgot into a habit of going off somewhere together after lunch, orstaying on at the club and talking. Jane seemed to me to beincreasingly interesting; she was acquiring new subtleties, complexities, and comprehensions, and shedding crudities. She wrotebetter, too. We took her stuff sometimes for the _Fact_. At the sametime, she seemed to me to be morally deteriorating, as people whograb and take things they oughtn't to have always do deteriorate. Andshe was trying all the time to square Hobart with the rest of herlife, fitting him in, as it were, and he didn't fit in. I wasinterested to see what she was making of it all. 

4

One Thursday in early September, when Juke and Jane and I had lunchedalone together at the club, and Jane and I had gone off to some meetingafterwards, Juke dropped in on me in the evening after dinner. He satdown and lit a pipe, then got up and walked about the room, and I knew hehad something on his mind, but wasn't going to help him out. I felt hardand rather sore that evening. 

Soon he said, in his soft, indifferent voice, 'Of course you'll be angryat what I'm going to say. '

'I think it probable, ' I replied, 'from the look of you. But go on. '

'Well, ' he said quietly, 'I don't think these Thursday lunches will doany more. '

'For you?' I asked. 

'For any of us. Not with Jane Hobart there. ' He wouldn't look at me, butstood by the window looking out at Gray's Inn Road. 

'And why not with Jane? Because she's married to the enemy?'

'It makes it awkward, ' he murmured. 

'Makes it awkward, ' I repeated. 'How does it make it awkward? Whom doesit make awkward? It doesn't make Jane awkward. Nor me, nor any one else, as far as I know. Does it make you awkward? I didn't know anything coulddo that. But something obviously has, this evening. It's not Jane, though; it's being afraid to say what you mean. You'd better spit it out, Jukie. You're not enough of a Jesuit to handle these jobs competently, you know. I know perfectly well what you've got on your mind. You thinkJane and I are getting too intimate with each other. You think we'refalling, or fallen, or about to fall, in love. '

'Well, ' he wheeled round on me, relieved that I had said it, 'I do. And you can't deny it. .. . Any fool could see it by now. Why, the wayyou mooned about, depressed and sulky, this last month, when she'sbeen out of town, and woke up the moment she came back, was enough totell any one. '

'I dare say, ' I said indifferently. 'People's minds are usuallyoffensively open to that particular information. If you'll define beingin love, I'll tell you whether I'm in love with Jane. .. . I'm interestedin Jane; I find her attractive, if you like, extraordinarily attractive, though I don't admire her character, and she's not beautiful. I like tobe with her and to talk to her. On the other hand, I've not the leastintention of asking her to elope with me. Nor would she if I did. Well?'

'You're in love, ' Juke repeated. 'You mayn't know it, but you are. Andyou'll get deeper in every day, if you don't pull up. And then before youknow where you are, there'll be the most ghastly mess. '

'Don't trouble yourself, Jukie. There won't be a mess. Jane doesn't likemesses. And I'm not quite a fool. Don't imagine melodrama. .. . I claim theright to be intimate with Jane--well, if you like, to be a little in lovewith Jane--and yet to keep my head and not play the fool. Why should menand women lose their attraction for each other just because they marryand promise loyalty to some one person? They can keep that compact andyet not shut themselves away from other men and other women. They musthave friends. Life can't be an eternal duet. .. . And here you come, usingthat cant Potterish phrase, "in love, " as if love was the sea, orsomething definite that you must be in or out of and always know which. '

'The sea--yes, ' Juke took me up. 'It's like the sea; it advances andadvances, and you can't stand there and stop it, say "Thus far and nofarther" to it. All you can do is to turn your back upon it and walkaway in time. '

'Well, I'm not going to walk away. There's nothing to walk away from. I've no intention of behaving in a dishonourable way, and I claim theright to be friends with Jane. So that's that. '

I was angry with Juke. He was taking the prudish, conventional point ofview. I had never yet been the victim of passion; love between men andwomen had always rather bored me; it is such a hot, stupid, muddlingthing, ail emotion and no thought. Dull, I had always thought it; one ofthose impulses arranged by nature for her own purposes, but not in theleast interesting to the civilised thinking being. Juke had no right tospeak as if I were an amorous fool, liable to be bowled over against mybetter judgment. 

'I've told you what I think, ' said Juke bluntly. 'I can't do any more. It's your own show. ' He took out his watch. 'I've got a Men's Social, ' hesaid, and went. That is so like parsons. Their conversations nearlyalways have these sudden ends. But I suppose that is not their fault. 

5

And, after all, Juke was right. Juke was right. It was love, and I was init, and so was Jane. Five minutes after Juke left me that night I knewthat. I had been in love with Jane for years; perhaps since before thewar, only I had never known it. On that Anti-Potter investigation tour Ihad observed and analysed her, and smiled cynically to myself at thecommercial instinct of the Potter twins, the lack of the fineness thatdistinguished Katherine and Juke. I remembered that; but I remembered, too, how white and round Jane's chin had looked as it pressed against thethymy turf of the cliff where we lay above the sea. All through the war Ihad seen her at intervals, enjoying life, finding the war a sort of lark, and I had hated her because she didn't care for the death and torture ofmen, for the possible defeat of her country, or the already achievedeconomic, moral, and intellectual degradation of the whole of Europe. Shehad merely profiteered out of it all, and had a good time. I rememberednow my anger and my scorn; but I remembered too the squareness and thewhiteness of her forehead under her newly-cut hair, that leave when I hadfirst seen it bobbed. 

I had been moved by desire then without knowing it; I had let Hobart takeher, and still not known. The pang I had felt had been bitterness athaving lost Jane, not bitterness against Jane for having made asecond-rate marriage. 

But I knew now. Juke's words, in retrospect, were like fire to petrol; Iwas suddenly all ablaze. 

In that case Juke was right, and we mustn't go on meeting alone. Theremight be, as he said, the most ghastly mess. Because I knew now that Janewas in love with me too--a little. 

We couldn't go on. It was too second-rate. It was anti-social, stupid, uncivilised, all I most hated, to let emotion play the devil with one'sreasoned principles and theories. I wasn't going to. It would besentimental, sloppy--'the world well lost for love, ' as in a schoolgirl'sfavourite novel, a novel by Leila Yorke. 

Now there are some loves that the world, important though it is, may bewell lost for--the love of an idea, a principle, a cause, a discovery, apiece of knowledge or of beauty, perhaps a country; but very certainlythe love of lovers is not among these; it is too common and personal athing. I hate the whole tribe of sentimental men and women who, impelledby the unimaginative fool nature, exalt sexual love above its properplace in the scheme of things. I wasn't going to do it, or to let thething upset my life or Jane's. 

6

I kept away from Jane all that week. She rang me up at the office once;it may have been my fancy that her voice sounded strange, somehow lessassured than usual. It set me wondering about that last lunch andafternoon together which had roused Juke. Had it roused Jane, too? Whathad happened, exactly? How had I spoken and looked? I couldn't remember;only that I had been glad--very glad--to have Jane back in town again. 

I didn't go to the club next Thursday. As it happened, I waslunching with some one else. So, by Thursday evening, I hadn't seenJane for a week. 

Wanting company, I went to Katherine's flat after dinner. Katherine hadjust finished dinner, and with her was Jane. 

When I saw her, lying there smoking in the most comfortable arm-chair asusual, serene and lazy and pale, Juke's words blazed up between us like afire, and I couldn't look at her. 

I don't know what we talked about; I expect I was odd and absent. I knewKatherine was looking at me, with those frosty, piercing, light blue eyesof hers that saw through, and through, and beyond. .. . 

All the time I was saying to myself, 'This won't do. I must chuck it. Wemustn't meet. '

I think Jane talked about _Abraham Lincoln_, which she disliked, and LadyPinkerton's experiments in spiritualism, which were rather funny. But Icouldn't have been there for more than half an hour before Jane got up togo. She had to get home, she said. 

I went with her. I didn't mean to, but I did. And here, if any one wantsto know why I regard 'being in love' as a disastrous kink in the mentalmachinery, is the reason. It impels you to do things against all yourreasoned will and intentions. My madness drove me out with Jane, drove meto see her home by the Hampstead tube, to walk across the Vale of Healthwith her in the moonlight, to go in with her, and upstairs to thedrawing-room. 

All this time we had talked little, and of common, superficial things. But now, as I stood in the long, dimly-lit room and watched Jane take offher hat, drop it on a table, and stand for a moment with her back to me, turning over the evening post, I knew that I must somehow have it out, have things clear and straight between us. It seemed to me to be the onlyway of striking any sort of a path through the intricate difficulties ofour future relations. 

'Jane, ' I said, and she turned and looked at me with questioninggray eyes. 

At that I had no words for explanation or anything else: I could onlyrepeat, 'Jane. Jane. Jane, ' like a fool. 

She said, very low, 'Yes, Arthur, ' as if she were assenting to somestatement I had made, as perhaps she was. 

I somehow found that I had caught her hands in mine, and so we stoodtogether, but still I said nothing but 'Jane, ' because that was all that, for the moment, I knew. 

Hobart stood in the open doorway, looking at us, white and quiet. 

'Good-evening, ' he said. 

We fell apart, loosing each other's hands. 

'You're early back, Oliver, ' said Jane, composedly. 

'Earlier, obviously, ' he returned, 'than I was expected. '

My anger, my hatred, my contempt for him and my own shame blazed in metogether. I faced him, black and bitter, and he was not only to meJane's husband, the suspicious, narrow-minded ass to whom she was tied, but, much more, the Potterite, the user of cant phrases, the ignorantplayer to the gallery of the Pinkerton press, the fool who had solittle sense of his folly that he disputed on facts with the expertswho wrote for the _Weekly Fact_. In him, at that moment, I saw all thePotterism of this dreadful world embodied, and should have liked tohave struck it dead. 

'What exactly, ' I asked him, 'do you mean by that?'

He smiled. 

Jane yawned. 'I'm going to take my things off, ' she said, and went out ofthe room and up the next flight of stairs to her bedroom. It was hercontemptuous way of indicating that the situation was, in fact, nosituation at all, but merely a rather boring conversation. 

As, though I appreciated her attitude, I couldn't agree with her, Irepeated my question. 

Hobart added to his smile a shrug. 

PART III:

TOLD BY LEILA YORKE

CHAPTER I

THE TERRIBLE TRAGEDY ON THE STAIRS

1

Love and truth are the only things that count. I have often thought thatthey are like two rafts on the stormy sea of life, which otherwise wouldswamp and drown us struggling human beings. If we follow these two starspatiently, they will guide us at last into port. Love--the love of ourkind--the undying love of a mother for her children--the love, sogloriously exhibited lately, of a soldier for his country--the eternallove between a man and a woman, which counts the world well lost--theseare the clues through the wilderness. And Truth, the Truth which criesin the market-place with a loud voice and will not be hid, the Truthwhich sacrifices comfort, joy, even life itself, for the sake of a clearvision, the Truth which is far stranger than fiction--this is Love'svery twin. 

For Love's sake, then, and for Truth's, I am writing this account of avery sad and very dreadful period in the lives of those close and dear tome. I want to be very frank, and to hide nothing. I think, in my books, Iam almost too frank sometimes; I give offence, and hurt people's egotismand vanity by speaking out; but it is the way I have to write; I cannotsoften down facts to please. Just as I cannot restrain my sense of theridiculous, even though it may offend those who take themselvessolemnly; I am afraid I am naughty about such people, and often giveoffence; it is one of the penalties attached to the gift of humour. Percyoften tells me I should be more careful; but my dear Percy's wonderfulcaution, that has helped to make him what he is, is a thing that no merereckless woman can hope to emulate. 

2

I am diverging from the point. I must begin with that dreadful evening ofthe 4th of September last. Clare was dining with a friend in town, andstopping at Jane's house in Hampstead for the night. Percy and I werespending a quiet evening at our house at Potter's Bar. We were both busyafter dinner; he was in his study, and I was in my den, as I call it, writing another instalment of 'Rhoda's Gift' for the _Evening Hustle_, Ifind I write my best after dinner; my brain gets almost feverishlystimulated. My doctor tells me I ought not to work late, it is not fairon my nerves, but I think every writer has to live more or less on his orher nervous capital, it is the way of the reckless, squandering, thriftless tribe we are. 

Laying down my pen at 10. 45 after completing my chapter, the telephonebell suddenly rang. The maids had gone up to bed, so I went into the hallto take the call, or to put it through to Percy's study, for the latecalls are usually, of course, for him, from one of the offices. But itwas not for him. It was Jane's voice speaking. 

'Is that you, mother?' she said, quite quietly and steadily. 'There'sbeen an accident. Oliver fell downstairs. He fell backwards and broke hisneck. He died soon after the doctor came. '

The self-control, the quiet pluck of these modern girls! Her voice hardlyshook as she uttered the terrible words. 

I sat down, trembling all over, and the tears rushed to my eyes. Mydarling child, and her dear husband, cut off at the very outset of theirmutual happiness, and in this awful way! Those stairs--I always hatedthem; they are so steep and narrow, and wind so sharply round a corner. 

'Oh, my darling, ' I said. 'And the last train gone, so that I can't bewith you till the morning! Is Clare there?'

'Yes, ' said Jane. 'She's lying down. .. . She fainted. '

My poor darling Clare! So highly-strung, so delicate-fibred, far morelike me than Jane is! And I always had a suspicion that her feeling fordear Oliver went very deep--deeper, possibly, than any of us everguessed. For, there is no doubt about it, poor Oliver did woo Clare; ifhe wasn't in love with her he was very near it, before he went off at atangent after Jane, who was something new, and therefore attractive tohim, besides being thrown so much together in Paris when Jane was workingfor her father. The dear child has put up a brave fight ever since theengagement, and her self-control has been wonderful, but she has not beenher old self. If it had not been for the unfortunate European conditions, I should have sent her abroad for a thorough change. It was terrible forher to be on the spot when this awful accident happened. 

'My dear, dear child, ' I said, hardly able to speak, my voice shook sowith crying. 'I've no words. .. . Have you rung up Frank and Johnny? Ishould like Frank to be with you to-night; I know he would wish it. '

'No, ' said Jane. 'It's no use bothering them till to-morrow. They can'tdo anything. Is daddy at home?. .. You'll tell him, then. .. . Good-night. '

'Oh, my darling, you mustn't ring off yet, indeed you mustn't. Hold onwhile I tell daddy; he would hate not to speak to you at once about it. '

'No, he won't need to speak to me. He'll have to get on to the _Haste_ atonce, and arrange a lot of things. I can keep till the morning. Good-night, mother. '

She rang off. There is something terrible to me about telephoneconversations, when they deal with intimate or tragic subjects; they areso remote, cold, impersonal, like typed letters; is it because one can'twatch the soul in the eyes of the person one is talking to?

3

I went straight to Percy. He was sitting at his writing table goingthrough papers. At his side was the black coffee that he always sippedthrough the evenings, simmering over a spirit lamp. Percy will never goup to bed until the small hours; I suppose it is his newspaper training. If he isn't working, he will sit and read, or sometimes play patience, and always sip strong coffee, though his doctor has told him he shouldgive it up. But he is like me; he lives on his nervous energy, recklessof consequences. He spends himself, and is spent, in the service of hisgreat press. It was fortunate for him, though I suppose I ought not tosay it, that he married a woman who is also the slave of literature, though of a more imaginative branch of literature, and who can understandhim. But then that was inevitable; he could never have cared for amaterialistic woman, or a merely domestic woman. He demanded ideas in thewoman to whom he gave himself. 

I could hardly bear to tell him the dreadful news. I knew how overcome hewould be, because he was so fond of dear Oliver, who was one of his righthands, as well as a dear son-in-law. And he had always loved Jane with apeculiar pride and affection, devoted father as he was to all hischildren, for he said she had the best brain of the lot. And Oliver hadbeen doing so well on the _Daily Haste_. Percy had often said he was aneditor after his own heart; he had so much flair. When Percy said someone had flair, it was the highest praise he could give. He always told meI had flair, and that was why he was so eager to put my stories in hispapers. I remember his remark when that dreadful man, Arthur Gideon, saidin some review or other (I dislike his reviews, they are so conceited andcocksure, and show often such bad taste), 'Flair and genius areincompatible. ' Percy said simply, 'Flair _is_ genius. ' I thought itextraordinarily true. But whether I have flair or not, I don't know. Idon't think I ever bother about what the public want, or what will sell. I just write what comes natural to me; if people like it, so much thebetter; if they don't, they must bear it! But I will say that theyusually do! No, I don't think I have flair; I think I have, instead, amessage; or many messages. 

But I had to break it to Percy. I put my arms round him and told him, quite simply. He was quite broken up by it. But, of course, the firstthing he had to do was to get on to the _Haste_ and let them know. Hetold them he would be up in the morning to make arrangements. 

Then he sat and thought, and worked out plans in his head, in theconcentrated, abstracted way he has, telephoning sometimes, writing notessometimes, almost forgetting my presence. I love to be at the centre ofthe brain of the Pinkerton press at the moments when it is working at topspeed like this. Cup after cup of strong black coffee he drank, hardlynoticing it, till I remonstrated, and then he said absently, 'Very well, dear, very well, ' and drank more. When I tried to persuade him to come upto bed, he said, 'No, no; I have things to think out. I shall be late. Leave me, my dear. Go to bed yourself, you need rest. ' Then he turnedfrom the newspaper owner to the father, and sighed heavily, and said, 'Poor little Janie. Poor dear little Babs. Well, well, well. '

4

I left him and went upstairs, knowing I must get all the strength I couldbefore to-morrow. 

My poor little girl a widow! I could hardly realise it. And yet, alas, how many young widows we have among us in these days! Only they arewidowed for a noble cause, not by a horrid accident on the stairs. PoorOliver, of course, had exemption from military service; he never even hadto go before the tribunal for it, but had it direct from the War Office, like nearly all Percy's staff, who were recognised by the Government asdoing more important work at home than they could have done at the front. I have a horror of the men who _evaded_ service during the war, but menlike Oliver Hobart, who would have preferred to be fighting but stayed todo invaluable work for their country, one must respect. And it seemedvery bitter that Oliver, who hadn't fallen in the war, should have fallennow down his own stairs. Poor, poor Oliver! As I lay in bed, unable tosleep, I saw his beautiful face before me. He was quite the mostbeautiful man I have ever known. I have given his personal appearance tothe hero of one of my novels, _Sidney, a Man_. It was terrible to me tothink of that beauty lost from the world. Whatever view one may take ofanother world (and personally, far as I am from any orthodox view on thesubject, my spiritual investigations have convinced me that there is, there must be, a life to come; I have had the most wonderful experiences, that may not be denied) physical beauty, one must believe, is aphenomenon of this physical universe, and must perish with the body. Unless, as some thinkers have conceived, the immortal soul wraps itselfabout in some aural vapour that takes the form it wore on earth. This isa possibility, and I would gladly believe it. I must, I decided, try tobring my poor Jane into touch with psychic interests; it would comforther to have the wonderful chance of getting into communication withOliver. At present she scouts the whole thing, like all other forms ofsupernatural belief. Jane has always been a materialist. It is verystrange to me that my children have developed, intellectually andspiritually, along such different lines from myself. I have never beenorthodox; I am not even now an orthodox theosophist; I am not of thestuff which can fall into line and accept things from others; it seems asif I must always think for myself, delve painfully, with blood and tears, for Truth. But I have always been profoundly religious; the spiritualside of life has always meant a very great deal to me; I think I feelalmost too intensely the vibration of Spirit in the world of things. Iprobe, and wonder, and cannot let it alone, like most people, and becontent with surfaces. Of late years, and especially since I took uptheosophy, I have found great joy and comfort from my association withthe S. P. R. I am in touch with several very wonderful thought-readers, crystal-gazers, mediums, and planchette writers, who have often strangelyillumined the dark places of life for me. To those who mock and doubt, Imerely say, '_try_. ' Or else I cite, not '_Raymond_' nor Conan Doyle, butthat strange, interesting, scientific book by a Belfast professor, whomade experiments in weighing the tables before and after they levitated, and weighing the mediums, and finding them all lighter. I think that wasit; anyhow it is all, to any open mind, entirely convincing that_something_ had occurred out of the normal, which is what Percy and thetwins never will believe. When I say 'try' to Percy, he only answers, 'I should fail, my dear. I may, as I have been called, be a superman, but I am not a superwoman, and cannot call up spirits. ' And thechildren are hopeless about it, too. Frank says we are not intended to'lift the curtain' (that is what he calls it). He is such a thoroughclergyman, and never had my imagination; he calls my explorations'dabbling in the occult. ' His wife jeers, and asks me if I've beentalking to many spooks lately. But then her family are hard-headedbusiness people, quite different from me. Clare says the whole thingfrightens her to death. For her part she is content with what theChurch allows of spiritual exploration, which is not much. Clare, sincewhat I am afraid I must call her trouble, has been getting much HigherChurch; incense and ritual seem to comfort her. I know the phase; Iwent through it twenty years ago, when my baby Michael died and theworld seemed at an end. But I came out the other side; it couldn't lastfor me, I had to have much more. Clare may remain content with it; shehas not got my perhaps too intense instinct for groping always afterfurther light. And I am thankful that she should find comfort and helpanywhere. Only I rather hope she will never join the Roman Church; itsbanks are too narrow to hold the brimming river of the humanspirit--even my Clare's, which does not, perhaps, brim very high, dear, simple child that she is. 

As for the twins, they are merely cynical about all experiments with thesupernatural. I often feel that if my little Michael had lived. .. . But, in a way, I am thankful to have him on the other side, reaching his babyhands across to me in the way he so often does. 

That night I determined I would make a great effort to bring Jane intothe circle of light, as I love to call it. She would find such comfortthere, if only it could be. But I knew it would be difficult; Jane is sohard-headed, and, for all her cleverness in writing, has so littleimagination really. She said that _Raymond_ made her sick. And shewouldn't look at _Rupert Lives_! or _Across the Stream_, E. F. Benson'slatest novel about the other side. She quite frankly doesn't believethere is another side. I remember her saying to me once, in herschool-girl slang, when she was seventeen or so, 'Well, I'd like to thinkI went on, mother; I think it's simply rotten pipping out. I _like_ beingalive, and I'd like to have tons more of it--but there it is, I can'tbelieve anything so weird and it's no use trying. And if I don't pip outafter all, it'll be such a jolly old surprise and lark that I shall beglad I couldn't believe in it here. ' Johnny, I remember, said to her(those two were always ragging each other), 'Ah, you may be wishing youonly _could_ pip out, then. .. . ' But I told him that I wished he wouldn't, even in joke, allude to that bogey of the nurseries of my generation, aplace of punishment. That terrible old teaching! Thank God we areoutgrowing much of it. I must say that the descriptions They give, whenThey give any, of Their place of being, do not sound very cheerful--butit cannot at all resemble the old-fashioned place of torment, it soundsso much less clear-cut and definite than that, more like London in ayellow fog. 

5

I do not think I slept that night. I am bad at sleeping when I have had ashock. My idiotic nerves again. Crane, in his book, _Right and WrongThinking_, says one should drop discordant thoughts out of one's mind asone drops a pebble out of one's hand. But my interior calm is not yetsufficient for this exercise, and I confess I am all too easily shaken topieces by trouble, especially the troubles of those I love. 

I felt a wreck when I met Percy at an early breakfast next morning. He, too, looked jaded and strained, and ate hardly any breakfast, only alittle force and three cups of strong tea--an inadequate meal, as I toldhim, upon which to face so trying a day. For we had to have strength notonly for ourselves but for our children. Giving out: it is so much harderwork than taking in, and it is the work for us older people always. 

Percy passed me the _Haste_, pointing to a column on the front page. Thathad been part of his business last night, to see that the _Haste_ had agood column about it. The news editor had turned out a column about aBolshevik advance on the Dvina to make room for it, and it was side byside with the Rectory Oil Mystery, the German Invasion (dumped goods, ofcourse), the Glasgow Trades' Union Congress, the French Protest aboutSyria, Woman's Mysterious Disappearance, and a Tarring and FeatheringCourt Martial. The heading was 'Tragic Death of the Editor of the _DailyHaste_, ' and there followed not only a full report of the disaster, butan account of Oliver's career, with one of those newspaper photographswhich do the original so little justice. 

'Binney's been pretty sharp about it, ' said Percy approvingly. 'Ofcourse, he had all the biographical facts stored. '

6

We went up by the 9. 24, and went straight to Hampstead. 

Quietly and sadly we entered that house of death. The maid, allflustered and red-eyed with emotional unrest, told us that Jane wasupstairs, and Clare too. We went up the narrow stairs, now become sotragic in their associations. On which step, I wondered, had he fallen, and how far?

Jane came out of the drawing-room to meet us. She was pale, and looked asif she hadn't slept, but composed, as she always is. I took her in myarms and gave her a long kiss. Then her father kissed her, and smoothedher hair, and patted her head as he used to do when she was a child, andsaid, 'There, there, there, my poor little Babs. There, there, there. '

I led her into the drawing-room. I felt her calm was unnatural. 'Cry, mydarling, ' I said. 'Have your cry out, and you will feel better. '

'Shall I?' she said. 'I don't think so, mother. Crying doesn't make mefeel better, ever. It makes my head ache. '

I thought of Tennyson's young war widow and the nurse of ninety years, and only wished it could have been six months later, so that I could haveset Jane's child upon her knee. 

'When you feel you can, my darling, ' I said, wiping my eyes, 'you musttell me all about it. But not before you want to. '

'There isn't much to tell, ' she answered quietly, still without tears. 'He fell down the stairs backwards. That's all. '

'Did you . .. See him, darling?'

She hesitated a moment, then said 'Yes. I saw him. I was in here. He'djust come in from the office. .. . He lost his balance. '

'Would you feel up, my dear, ' said her father, 'to giving me an accountof it, that I could put in the papers?'

'You can put that in the papers, daddy. That's all there is to say aboutit, I'm afraid. .. . I've had seventeen reporters round this morningalready, and I told Emily to tell them that. That's probably another, 'she added, as the bell rang. 

But it was not. Emily came up a moment later and asked if Jane could seeMr. Gideon. 

It showed the over-wrought state of Jane's nerves that she started alittle. She never starts or shows surprise. Besides, what could be morenatural than that Mr. Gideon, who, disagreeable man though he is, is aclose friend of hers (far too close, I always thought, considering thatOliver was on almost openly bad terms with him) should call to inquire, on seeing the dreadful news? It would, all the same, I thought, have beenbetter taste on his part to have contented himself with leaving kindinquiries at the door. However, of course, one would never expect him todo the right-minded or well-bred thing on any occasion. 

'I'll go down, ' Jane said quietly. 'Will you wait there?' she added toher father and me. 'You might, ' she called from the stairs, 'go and seeClare. She's in her room. '

I crossed the passage to the spare bedroom, and as I did so I caught aglimpse of that man's tall, rather stooping figure in the hall, and heardJane say, rather low, 'Arthur!' and add quickly, 'Mother and dad areupstairs. Come in here. '

Then they disappeared into the dining-room, which was on the groundfloor, and shut the door after them. 

7

I went in to Clare. She was sitting in an armchair by the window. Whenshe turned her face to me, I recoiled in momentary shock. Her poor, pretty little face was pinched and feverishly flushed; her brown eyesstared at me as if she was seeing ghosts. Her hands were locked togetheron her knees, and she was huddled and shivering, though it was a warmmorning. I had known she would feel the shock terribly, but I had hardlybeen prepared for this. I was seriously afraid she was going to be ill. 

I knelt down beside her and drew her into my arms, where she lay passive, seeming hardly to realise me. 

'My poor little girl, ' I murmured. 'Cry, darling. Cry, and you willfeel better. '

Clare was always more obedient than Jane. She did cry. She broke suddenlyinto the most terrible passion of tears. I tried to hold her, but shepulled away from me and laid her head upon her arms and sobbed. 

I stayed beside her and comforted her as best I could, and finally wentto Jane's medicine cupboard and mixed her a dose of sal volatile. 

When she was a little quieter, I said, 'Tell me nothing more than youfeel inclined to, darling. But if it would make you happier to talk to meabout it, do. '

'I c-can't talk about it, ' she sobbed. 

'My poor pet!. .. Did it happen after you got here, or before?'

I felt her stiffen and grow tense, as at a dreadful memory. 

'After. .. . But I was in my room; I wasn't there. '

'You heard the fall, I suppose. .. . '

She shuddered, and nodded. 

'And you came out. .. . ' I helped her gently, 'as Jane did, andfound him. .. . '

She burst out crying afresh. I almost wished I had not suggested thisoutlet for her horror and grief. 

'Don't, mother, ' she sobbed. 'I can't talk about it--I can't. '

'My pet, of course you can't, and you shan't. It was thoughtless of me tothink that speech would be a relief. Lie down on your bed, dear, and havea good rest, and you will feel better presently. '

But she opposed that too. 

'I can't stay here. I want to go home _at once. At once_, mother. '

'My dearest child, you must wait for me. I can't let you go alone inthis state, and I can't, of course, go myself until Jane is ready tocome with me. '

'I'm going, ' she repeated. 'I can go alone. I'm going now, at once. '

And she began feverishly cramming her things into her suit-case. 

I was anxious about her, but I did not like to thwart her in her presentmood. Then I heard Frank's voice in the drawing-room, and I thought Iwould get him to accompany her, at least to the station. Frank and Clarehave always been fond of one another, and she has a special reliance onclergymen. 

I went into the drawing-room, and found Frank and Johnny both there, withJane and Percy. So that dreadful Jew must have gone. 

I told Frank that Clare was in a terrible state, and entrusted herto his care. Frank is a good unselfish brother, and he went to lookafter her. 

Johnny, silent and troubled, and looking as if death was out of his line, though, Heaven knows, he had seen enough of it during the last fiveyears, was fidgeting awkwardly about the room. His awkwardness was, nodoubt, partly due to the fact that he had never much cared for Oliver. This does make things awkward, in the presence of the Great Silencer. 

Percy had to leave us now, in order to go to the _Haste_ and see aboutthings there. He said he would be back in the afternoon. He would, ofcourse, take over the business of making the last sad arrangements, whichJane called, rather crudely, 'seeing about the funeral'; the twins wouldalways call spades 'spades. '

Presently I made the suggestion which I had for some time had in my mind. 

'May I, dear?' I asked very softly, half rising. 

Jane rose, too. 

'See Oliver, you mean? Oh, yes. He's in his room. '

I motioned her back. 'Not you, darling. Johnny will take me. '

Johnny didn't want to much, I think; it is the sort of strain on theemotions that he dislikes, but he came with me. 

8

What had been Oliver lay on the bed, stretched straight out, thebeautiful face as white and delicate as if modelled in wax. One saw nomarks of injury; except for that waxy pallor he might have been sleeping. 

In the presence of the Great White Silence I bowed my head and wept. Hewas so beautiful, and had been so alive. I said so to Johnny. 

'He was so alive, ' I said, 'so short a time ago. '

'Yes, ' Johnny muttered, staring down at the bed, his hands in hispockets. 'Yesterday, of course. Rotten bad luck, poor old chap. Rottenway to get pipped. '

For a minute longer I kept my vigil beside that inanimate form. 

'Peace, peace, he is not dead, ' I repeated to myself. 'He sleeps whom mencall dead. .. . The soul of Adonais, like a star, beckons from the abodewhere the eternal are. '

Death is wonderful to me; not a horrible thing, but holy and high. Herewas the lovely mortal shell, for which 'arrangements' had to be made; butthe spirit which had informed it was--where? In what place, under whatconditions, would Oliver Hobart now fulfil himself, now carry on the workso faithfully begun on earth? What word would he be able to send us fromthat Place of Being? Time would (I hoped) show. 

As we stood there in the shadow of the Great Mystery, I heard Franktalking to Clare, whose room was next door. 

'It is wrong to give way. .. . One must not grieve for the dead as if onewould recall them. We know--you and I know, don't we, Clare--that theyare happier where they are. And we know too, that it is God's will, andthat He decides everything for the best. We must not rebel againstit. .. . If you really want to catch the 12. 4 to Potter's Bar, we ought tostart now. '

Conventional phraseology! It would never have been adequate for me; I amafraid I have an incurable habit of rebelling against the orthodox dogmabeloved of clergymen, but Clare is more docile, less 'tameless and swiftand proud. '

I touched Johnny's arm. 'Let us come away, ' I murmured. 

Clare, her face beneath her veil swollen with crying, went off withFrank, who was going to see her into the train. I, of course, was goingto stop with Jane until the funeral, as she called it; I would not leaveher alone in the house. So I asked Frank if Peggy would go down toPotter's Bar and be with Clare, who was certainly not fit for solitude, poor child, until my return. Peggy is a dear, cheerful girl, if limited, and she and Clare have always been great friends. Frank said he was surePeggy would do this, and I went back to Jane, who was writing necessaryletters in the drawing-room. 

Johnny said to her, 'Well, if you're sure I can't be any use just now, old thing, I suppose I ought to go to the office, ' and Jane said, 'Yes, don't stay. There's nothing, ' and he went. 

I offered to help Jane with the letters, but she said she could easilymanage them, and I thought the occupation might be the best thing forher, so I left her to it and went down to speak to Emily, Jane's nicelittle maid. Emily is a good little thing, and she was obviouslyterribly, though not altogether unpleasantly, shocked and stirred (maidsare) by the tragedy. 

She told me much more about the terrible evening than Jane or Clare had. It was less effort, of course, for her to speak. Indeed, I think shereally enjoyed opening out to me. And I liked to hear. I always must geta clear picture of events: I suppose it is the story-writer's instinct. 

'I went up to bed, my lady, ' she said, 'feeling a bit lonely now cook'son her holiday, soon after Miss Clare came in. And I was just off tosleep when I heard Mrs. Hobart come in, with Mr. Gideon; they weretalking as they came up to the drawing-room, and that woke me up. '

'Mr. Gideon!' I exclaimed in surprise. 'Was he there?'

'Yes, my lady. He came in with Mrs. Hobart. I knew it was him, by hisvoice. And soon after the master came in, and they was all talkingtogether. And then I heard the mistress come upstairs to her bedroom. Andthen I dozed off, and I was woke by the fall. .. . Oh, dear, my lady, how Idid scream when I came down and saw. .. . There was the poor master layingon the bottom stair, stunned-like, as I thought, I'm sure I never knew hewas gone, and the mistress and Miss Clare bending over him, and themistress calling to me to telephone for the doctor. The poor mistress, she was so white, I thought she'd go off, but she kept up wonderful; andMiss Clare, she was worse, all scared and white, as if she'd seen aghost. I rang for Dr. Armes, and he came round at once, and I gothot-water bottles and put them in the bed, but the doctor wouldn't movehim for a bit, he examined him where he lay, and he found the back wasbroke. He told the mistress straight out. "His back's broke, " he said. "There's no hope, " he said. "It may be a few hours, or less, " he said. Then he sent for a mattress and we laid the master on it, down in thehall, and put hot-water bottles to his feet, and then the mistress saidI'd better go back to bed; but, oh, dear, I couldn't do that, so I justwaited in the kitchen and got a kettle boiling in case the mistress andMiss Clare would like a cup of tea, and I had a cup myself, my lady, forI was all of a didder, and nothing pulls you round like a drop of hottea. Then I took two cups out into the hall for the mistress and MissClare, and when I got there the doctor was saying, "It's all over, " and, dear me, so it was, so I took the tea back to keep it hot against theywere ready for it, for I couldn't speak to them of tea just at first, could I, my lady? Then the doctor called me, and there was Miss Clarelaying in a fit, and he was bringing her round. He told me to help her toher room, and so I did, and she seemed half stunned-like, and didn't saya word, but dropped on her bed like a stone. Then I had to help thedoctor and the mistress carry the poor master on the mattress up to hisroom, and lay him on his bed; and the doctor saw to Miss Clare a little, then he went away and said he'd send round a woman for the laying out. .. . Poor Miss Clare, I was sorry for her. Laid like a stone, she did, aswhite as milk. She's such a one to feel, isn't she, my lady? And to hearthe fall and run out and find him like that! The poor master! Themstairs, I always hated them. The back stairs are bad enough, when I haveto carry the hot water up and down, but they don't turn so sharp. Thepoor master, he must have stumbled backwards, the light not being good, and fallen clean over. And it isn't as if he was like some gentlemen, that might have had a drop at dinner; no one ever saw the master theworse, did they, my lady? I'm sure cook and me and every one alwaysthought him such a nice, good gentleman. I don't know what cook will saywhen she hears, I'm sure I don't. '

'It is indeed all very terrible and sad, Emily, ' I said to her. I lefther then, and went up to the drawing-room. 

Jane was sitting at the writing table, her pen in one hand, her foreheadresting on the other. 

'My dear, ' I said to her, 'Emily has been giving me some account of lastnight. She tells me that Mr. Gideon was here. '

'She's quite right, ' said Jane listlessly. 'I met him at Katherine's, andhe saw me home and came in for a little. '

I was silent for a moment. It seemed to me rather sad that Jane shouldhave this memory of her husband's last evening on this earth, for sheknew that Oliver had not liked her to see much of Mr. Gideon. Iunderstood why she had been loath to mention it to me. 

'And had he gone, ' I asked her softly, 'when . .. It . .. Happened?'

Jane frowned, in the way the twins always frown when people put thingsless bluntly and crudely than they think fit. For some reason they callthis, the regard for the ordinary niceties of life, by the foolish nameof 'Potterism. '

'When Oliver fell?' she corrected me, still in that quiet, listless, almost indifferent tone. 'Oh, yes. He wasn't here long. '

'Well, well, ' I said very gently, 'we must let bygones be bygones, andnot grieve over much. Grief, ' I added, wanting so much that the childshould rise to the opportunity and take her trial in a large spirit, 'issuch a big, strong, beautiful thing. If we let it, it will take us bythe hands and lead us gently along by the waters of comfort. We mustn'trebel or fight; we must look straight ahead with welcoming eyes. Forwhatever life brings us we can _use_. '

Jane still sat very still at the writing table, her head on her hand, herfingers pushing back her hair from her forehead. I thought she sighed alittle, a long sigh of acquiescence which touched me. 

This seemed to me to be the moment to speak to her of what was in mymind. 

'And, my dear, ' I said, 'there is another thing. We mustn't think thatOliver has gone down into silence. You must help him to speak to you, alittle later, when you are fit and when _he_ has found his way to theDoor. You mustn't shut him out, my child. '

'Mother, ' said Jane, 'you know I don't believe in any of that. '

'I only ask you to try, ' I said earnestly. 'Don't bolt and bar theDoor. .. . _I_ shall try, my dear, for you, if you will not, and he shallcommunicate with you through me. '

'I shan't believe it, ' said Jane, stating not a resolve but a fact, 'ifhe does. Of course, do what you like about all that, mother, I don'tcare. But, if you don't mind, I'd rather not hear about it. '

I decided to put off any further discussion of the question, particularlyas the child looked and must have been tired out. 

I went down to the kitchen to talk to Emily about Jane's lunch. I feltthat she ought to have a beaten egg, and perhaps a little fish. 

But I wished that she had told me frankly about that man Gideon's visitlast night. Jane was always so reserved. 

CHAPTER II

AN AWFUL SUSPICION

1

It was rather a strange, sad life into which we settled down after theinquest and funeral. Jane remained in her little Hampstead house; shesaid she preferred it, though, particularly in view of the dear littlenew life due in January or so, I wanted her to be at Potter's Bar withus. I went up to see her very often; I was not altogether satisfied abouther, though outwardly she went on much as of old, going to see herfriends, writing, and not even wearing black. But I am no stickler forthat heathen custom. 

It was, however, about Clare that I was chiefly troubled. The poor childdid not seem able to rally from her shock at all. She crept about lookingmiserable and strained, and seemed to take an interest in nothing. I senther away to her aunt at Bournemouth for a change; Bournemouth has notonly sea air but ritualistic churches of the kind she likes; but I do notthink it did her much good. Her affection for poor Oliver had, indeed, gone very deep, and she has a very faithful heart. 

Percy appointed the _Haste's_ assistant editor to the editorship; he hadnot Oliver's flair, Percy said, but he did very well on the lines laidout for him. There was a rumour in Fleet Street that the proprietors ofthe _Weekly Fact_ meant to start a daily, under the editorship of thatman Gideon, and that it would have for its special object a campaignagainst our press. But they would have to wait for some time, till thepaper situation was easier. The rumour gave Percy no alarm, for he didnot anticipate a long life for such a venture. A paper under suchmanagement would certainly never, he said, achieve more than a smallcirculation. 

Meanwhile, times were very troubled. The Labour people, led astray bythat bad man, Smillie, were becoming more and more extreme in theirdemands. Ireland was, as always, very disturbed. The CoalitionGovernment--not a good government, but, after all, better than any whichwould be likely to succeed it--was shaking from one bye-election blowafter another. The French were being disagreeable about Syria, theItalians about Fiume, and every one about the Russian invasion, orevacuation, or whatever it was, which even Percy's press joined incondemning. And coal was exorbitant, and food prices going up, and thereviews of _Audrey against the World_ most ignorant and unfair. I believethat that spiteful article of Mr. Gideon's about me did a good deal ofharm among ignorant and careless reviewers, who took their opinions fromothers, without troubling to read my books for themselves. So manyreviewers are like that--stupid and prejudiced people, who cannot thinkfor themselves, and often merely try to be funny about a book instead ofgiving it fair criticism. Of course, that _Fact_ article was merelycomic; I confess I laughed at it, though I believe it was meant to betaken very solemnly. But I was always like that. I know it is shocking ofme, but I have to laugh when people are pompous and absurd; my sense ofthe ridiculous is too strong for me. 

After Oliver's death, I did not recognise Mr. Gideon when I met him, notin the least on personal grounds, but because I definitely wished todiscourage his intimacy with my family. But we had one rather strangeinterview. 

2

I was going to see Jane one afternoon, soon after the tragedy, and as Iwas emerging from the tube station I met Mr. Gideon. We were face toface, so I had to bow, which I did very coldly, and I was surprised whenhe stopped and said, in that morose way of his, 'You're going to seeJane, aren't you, Lady Pinkerton?'

I inclined my head once more. The man stood at my side, staring at theground and fidgeting, and biting his finger-nail in that disagreeable wayhe has. Then he said, 'Lady Pinkerton, Jane's unhappy. '

The impertinence of the man! Who was he to tell me that of my owndaughter, a widow of a few weeks?

'Naturally, ' I replied very coolly. 'It would be strange indeed if shewere not. '

'Oh, well--' he made a queer, jerking movement. 

'You'll say it's not my business. But please don't . .. Er . .. Letpeople worry her--get on her nerves. It does rather, you know. And--andshe's not fit. '

'I'm afraid, ' I said, putting up my lorgnette, 'I do not altogetherunderstand you, Mr. Gideon. I am naturally acquainted with my daughter'sstate better than any one else can be. '

'It gets on her nerves, ' he muttered again. Then, after a moment ofsilent hesitation, he half shrugged his shoulders, mumbled, 'Oh, well, 'and jerked away. 

A strange person! Amazingly rude and ill-bred. To take upon himself towarn me to take care of my own child! And _what_ did he mean 'got on hernerves?' I really began to think he must be a little mad. But one thingwas apparent; his feeling towards Jane was, as I had long suspected, muchwarmer than was right in the circumstances. He had, I made no doubt, comefrom her just now. 

I found Jane silent and unresponsive. She was not writing when I came in, but sitting doing nothing. She said nothing to me about Mr. Gideon'scall, till I mentioned him myself. Then she seemed to stiffen a little; Isaw her hands clench over the arms of her chair. 

'His manner was very strange, ' I said. 'I couldn't help wondering if hehad been having anything. '

'If he was drunk, you mean, ' said Jane. 'I dare say. '

'Then he _does_!' I cried, a little surprised. 

Jane said not that she knew of. But every one did sometimes. Which wasjust the disagreeable, cynical way of talking that I regret in her andJohnny. As if she did not know numbers of straight, clean-living, decentmen and women who never had too much in their lives. But, anyhow, itconvinced me that Mr. Gideon _did_ drink too much, and that she knew it. 

'He had been here, I suppose, ' I said gently, because I didn't want toseem stern. 

'Yes, ' said Jane, and that was all. 

'My dear, ' I said, after a moment, laying my hand on hers, 'is this manworrying you . .. With attentions?'

Jane laughed, an odd, hard laugh that I didn't like. 

'Oh, no, ' she said. 'Oh, dear no, mother. '

She got up and began to walk about the room. 

'Never mind Arthur, ' she said. 'I wouldn't let him get on my mind if Iwere you, mother. .. . Let's talk about something else--baby, if you like. '

I perceived from this that Jane was really anxious to avoid discussion ofthis man, for she did not as a rule encourage me to talk to her about thelittle life which was coming, as we hoped, next spring. So I turned fromthe subject of Arthur Gideon. But it remained on my mind. 

3

You know how, sometimes, one wakes suddenly in the night with anextraordinary access of clearness of vision, so that a dozen small thingswhich have occurred during the day and passed without making muchapparent impression on one's mind stand out sharp and defined in a row, like a troop of soldiers with fixed bayonets all pointing in onedirection. You look where they are pointing--and behold, you see some newfact which you never saw before, and you cannot imagine how you came tohave missed it. 

It was in this way that I woke in the middle of the night after I had metArthur Gideon in Hampstead. All in a row the facts stood, pointing. 

Mr. Gideon had been in the house only a few minutes before Oliverwas killed. 

He and Oliver hated each other privately, and had been openlyquarrelling in the press for some time. He had an intimacy with Janewhich Oliver disliked. 

Oliver must have been displeased at his coming home that eveningwith Jane. 

Gideon drank. 

Gideon now had something on his mind which made him even more peculiarthan usual. 

Jane had been very strange and secretive about his visit there on thefatal evening. 

He and Oliver had probably quarrelled. 

Only Jane had seen Oliver fall. 

 * * * * *

Had she?

 * * * * *

HOW HAD THAT QUARREL ENDED?

This awful question shot into my mind like an arrow, and I sat straightup in bed with a start. 

How, indeed?

I shuddered, but unflinchingly faced an awful possibility. 

If it were indeed so, it was my duty to leave no stone unturned todiscover and expose the awful truth. Painful as it would be, I mustnot shrink. 

A second terrible question came to me. If my suspicion were correct, howmuch did Jane know or guess? Jane had been most strange and reserved. Iremembered how she had run down to meet the wretched man that firstmorning, when we were there; I remembered her voice, rather hurried, saying, 'Arthur! Mother and dad are upstairs. Come in here, ' and howshe took him into the dining-room alone. 

Did Jane know all? Or did she only suspect? I could scarcely believe thatshe would wish to shield her husband's murderer, if he were that. Yet. .. . Why had she told me that she had seen the accident herself? If, indeed, my terrible suspicion were justified, and if Jane was in the secret, itseemed to point to a graver condition of things than I had supposed. Nogirl would lie to shield her husband's murderer unless . .. Unless she wasmuch fonder of him than a married woman has any right to be. 

I resolved quickly, as I always do. First, I must save my child from thisawful man. 

Secondly, I must discover the truth as expeditiously as possible, shrinking from no means. 

Thirdly, if I discovered the worst, and it had to be exposed, I must seethat Jane's name was kept entirely out of it. The journalistic squabblesand mutual antipathy of the two men would be all that would be necessaryto account for their quarrel, together with Gideon's probably intoxicatedstate that evening. 

I heard Percy moving downstairs still, and I nearly went down to him tocommunicate my suspicions to him at once. But, on second thoughts, Irefrained. Percy was worried with a great many things just now. Besides, he might only laugh at me. I would wait until I had thought it over andhad rather more to go on. Then I would tell him, and he should make whatuse he liked of it in the papers. How interested he would be if the manwho was one of his bitterest journalistic foes, who fought so venomouslyeverything that he and his press stood for, and who was theeditor-designate of the possible new anti-Pinkerton daily, should beproved to be the murderer of his son-in-law. What a _scoop_! The vulgarjournalese slang slid into my mind strangely, as light words will ingrave moments. 

But I pulled myself together. I was going too far ahead. After all, Iwas still merely in the realms of fancy and suspicion. It is true that Ihave queer, almost uncanny intuitive powers, which have seldom failed me. But still, I had as yet little to go on. 

With an effort of will, I put the matter out of my mind and tried tosleep. Counsel would, I felt sure, come in the morning. 

4

It did. I woke with the words ringing in my head as if some one hadspoken them--'Why not consult Amy Ayres?'

Of course! That was the very thing. I would go that afternoon. 

Amy Ayres had been a friend of mine from girlhood. We had always been inthe closest sympathy, although our paths had diverged greatly since wewere young. We had written our first stories together for _Forget-me-not_and _Hearth and Home_, and together enjoyed the first sweets of success. But, while I had pursued the literary path, Amy had not. Her interestshad turned more and more to the occult. She had fallen in with andgreatly admired Mrs. Besant. When her husband (a Swedenborgian minister)left her at the call of his conscience to convert the inhabitants of Peruto Swedenborgianism, and finally lost his life, under peculiarly painfulcircumstances, in the vain attempt, Amy turned for relief tospiritualism, which was just then at its zenith of popularity. At firstshe practised it privately and unofficially, with a few chosen friends, for it was something very sacred to her. But gradually, as she came todiscover in herself wonderful powers of divination and spiritualreceptivity, and being very poor at the time, she took it up as acalling. She is the most wonderful palm-reader and crystal-gazer I havecome across. I have brought people to her of whom she has known nothingat all, and she has, after close study and brief, earnest prayer, read intheir hands their whole temperament, present circumstances, past history, and future destiny. I have often tried to persuade Percy to go to her, for I think it would convince him of that vast world of spiritualexperience which lies about him, and to which he is so blind. If I haveto pass on before Percy, he will be left bereaved indeed, unless I canconvince him of Truth first. 

5

I went to see Amy in her little Maid of Honour house in Kensington thatvery afternoon. 

I found her reading Madame Blavatski (that strange woman) in her littledrawing-room. 

Amy has not worn, perhaps, quite so well as I have. She has to make up alittle too thickly. I sometimes wish she would put less black round hereyes; it gives her a stagey look, which I think in her particularprofession it is most important not to have, as people are in any case soinclined to doubt the genuineness of those who deal in the occult. Besides, what an odd practice that painting the face black in patches is!As unlike real life as a clown's red nose, though I suppose lessunbecoming. I myself only use a little powder, which is so necessary inhot, or, indeed, cold weather. 

However, this is a digression. I kissed Amy, and said, 'My dear, I amhere on business to-day. I am in great perplexity, and I want you todiscover something from the crystal. Are you in the mood this afternoon?'For I have enough of the temperament myself to know that crystal-gazing, even more than literary composition, must wait on mood. Fortunately, Amysaid she was in a most favourable condition for vision, and I told her asbriefly as possible that I wished to learn about the circumstancesattendant on the death of Oliver Hobart. I wished her to visualise Oliveras he stood that evening at the top of those dreadful stairs, and towatch the manner of his fall. I told her no more, for I wanted her toapproach the subject without prejudice. 

Without more ado, we went into the room which Amy called her Temple ofVision, and Amy got to work. 

6

I was travelling by the 6. 28 back to Potter's Bar. I lay back in mycorner with closed eyes, recalling the events of that wonderful afternoonin the darkened, scented room. It had been a strange, almost overwhelmingexperience. I had been keyed up to a point of tension which was almostunendurable, while my friend gazed and murmured into the glass ball. These glimpses into the occult are really too much for my system; theywring my nerves. I could have screamed when Amy said, 'Wait--wait--thedarkness stirs. I see--I see--a fair man, with the face of a Greek god. '

'Is he alone?' I whispered. 

'He is not alone. He is talking to a tall dark man. '

'Yes--yes?' I bent forward eagerly, as she paused and seemed to broodover the clear depths where, as I knew, she saw shadows forming andreforming. 

'They talk, ' she murmured. 'They talk. '

(Knowing that she could not, unfortunately, hear what they said, Idid not ask. )

'They are excited. .. . They are quarrelling. .. . Oh, God!' She hid her eyesfor a moment, then looked again. 

'The dark man strikes the fair man. .. . He is taken by surprise; he stepsbackward and falls . .. Falls backwards . .. Down . .. Out of my vision. .. . The dark man is left standing alone. .. . He is fading . .. He is gone. .. . Ican see him no more. .. . Leila, I have come to an end; I am overdone; Imust rest. '

She had fallen back with closed eyes. 

A little later, when she had revived, we had had tea together, and I hadput a few questions to her. She had told me little more than what she hadrevealed as she gazed into the crystal. But it was enough. She knew thefair man for Oliver, for she had seen him at the wedding. She had notseen the dark man's face, nor had she ever met Arthur Gideon, but herdescription of him was enough for me. 

I had left the house morally certain that Arthur Gideon had murdered (oranyhow manslaughtered) Oliver Hobart. 

7

I told Percy that evening, after Clare had gone to bed. I had confidencein Percy: he would believe me. His journalistic instinct for the truthcould be counted on. He never waived things aside as improbable, for heknew, as I knew, how much stranger truth may be than fiction. He heardme out, nodding his head sharply from time to time to show that hefollowed me. 

When I had done, he said, 'You were right to tell me. We must look intoit. It will, if proved true, make a most remarkable story. Mostsensational and remarkable. ' He turned it over in that acute, quickbrain of his. 

'We must go carefully, ' he said. 'Remember we haven't much to go on yet. '

He didn't believe in the crystal-gazing, of course, so had less to go onthan I had. All he saw was the inherent possibility of the story(knowing, as he did, the hatred that had existed between the two men) andthe damning fact of Gideon's presence at the house that evening. 

'We must be careful, ' he repeated. 'Careful, for one thing, not tostart talk about the fellow's friendship with Jane. We must keep Janeout of it all. '

On that we were agreed. 

'I think we must ask Clare a few questions, ' said Percy. 

He did so next day, without mentioning our suspicion. But Clare couldstill scarcely bear to speak of that terrible evening, poor child, andreturned incoherent answers. She knew Mr. Gideon had been in thehouse, but didn't know what time he had gone, nor the exact time ofthe accident. 

I resolved to question Emily, Jane's little maid, more closely, and didso when I went there that afternoon. She was certainly morecircumstantial than she had been when she had told me the story before, in the first shock and confusion of the disaster. I gathered from herthat she had heard her master and Mr. Gideon talking immediately beforethe fall; she had been surprised when her mistress had said that Mr. Gideon had left the house before the fall. She thought, from the sounds, that he must have left the house immediately afterwards. 

'It is possible, ' I said, 'that Mrs. Hobart did not know precisely whenMr. Gideon left the house. It was all very confusing. '

'Oh, my lady, indeed it was, ' Emily agreed. 'I'm sure I hope I shallnever have such a night again. '

I said nothing to Jane of my suspicion. If I was right in thinking thatthe poor misguided child was shielding her husband's murderer, fromwhatever motives of pity or friendship, the less said to disturb her thebetter, till we were sure of our ground. 

But I talked to a few other people about it, on whose discretion I couldrely. I tried to find out, and so did Percy, what was this man's record. What transpired of it was not reassuring. His father was, as we knewbefore, a naturalised Russian Jew, presumably of the lowest class in hisown land, though well educated from childhood in this country. He was, asevery one knew, a big banker, and mixed up, no doubt, with all sorts ofshady finance. Some people said he was probably helping to finance theBolsheviks. His daughter had married a Russian Jewish artist. Jane knewthis artist and his wife well, at that silly club of hers. Arthur Gideon, on coming of age, had reverted to his patronymic name, enamoured, itseemed, of his origin. He had, of course, to fight in the war, loaththough he no doubt was. But directly it was over, or rather directly hewas discharged wounded, he took to shady journalism. 

Hardly a reassuring record! Add to it the ill-starred influence he hadalways attempted to exert over Johnny and Jane (he had, even in Oxforddays, brought out their worst side) his quarrels with Oliver in thepress, his unconcealed hatred of what he was pleased to call 'Potterism'(he was president of the foolish so-called 'Anti-Potter League'), hisdetermined intimacy with Jane against her husband's wishes, and Jane'sown implication that he at times drank too much--and you had a picture ofa man unlikely to inspire confidence in any impartial mind. 

Anyhow, most of the people to whom I broached the unpleasant subject (andI saw no reason why I should not speak freely of my suspicion) seemed tothink the man's guilt only too likely. 

Some of my friends said to me, 'Why not bring a charge against him andhave him arrested and the matter thoroughly investigated?' But Percy toldme we had not enough to go on for that yet. All he would do was to putthe investigation into the hands of a detective, and entrust him with thebusiness of collecting evidence. 

The only people we kept the matter from were our two daughters. Clarewould have been too dreadfully upset by this raking up of the tragedy, and Jane could not, in her present state, be disturbed either. 

8

About three weeks after my visit to Amy Ayres, I had rather a tryingmeeting with that young clergyman, Mr. Juke, another of the children'srather queer Oxford friends. He is the son of that bad old LordAylesbury, who married some dreadful chorus girl a year or two ago, andall his family are terribly fast. We met at a bazaar for starving clergyat the dear Bishop of London's, to which I had gone with Frank. I thinkthe clergy very wrong about many things, but I quite agree that we cannotlet them starve. Besides, Peggy had a stall for home-made jam. 

I was buying some Armenian doily, with Clare at my side, when a voicesaid, 'Can I speak to you for a moment, Lady Pinkerton?' and, turninground, Mr. Juke stood close to us. 

I was surprised, for I knew him very little, but I said, 'How do you do, Mr. Juke. By all means. We will go and sit over there, by the missionarybookstall. ' This was, as it sometimes is, the least frequented stall, soit was suitable for quiet conversation. 

We left Clare, and went to the bookstall. When we were seated in twochairs near it, Mr. Juke leant forward, his elbows on his knees, and saidin a low voice, 'I came here to-day hoping to meet you, Lady Pinkerton. Iwanted to speak to you. It's about my friend, Gideon. .. . '

'Yes, ' I helped him out, my interest rising. Had he anything tocommunicate to me on that subject?

The young man went on, staring at the ground between his knees, and itoccurred to me that his profile was very like Granville Barker's. 'I amtold, ' he said, in grave, quick, low tones, 'that you are saying thingsabout him rather indiscriminately. Bringing, in fact, charges againsthim--suspicions, rather. .. . I hardly think you can be aware of theseriousness of such irresponsible gossip, such--I can't call it anythingbut slander--when it is widely circulated. How it grows--spreads fromperson to person--the damage, the irreparable damage it may do. .. . '

He broke off incoherently, and was silent. I confess I was taken aback. But I stood to my guns. 

'And, ' I said, 'if the irresponsible gossip, as you call it, happens tobe true, Mr. Juke? What then?'

'Then, ' he said abruptly, and looked me in the face, '_then, _ LadyPinkerton, Gideon should be called on to answer to the charge in a courtof law, not libelled behind his back. '

'That, ' I said, 'will, I hope, Mr. Juke, happen at the proper time. Meanwhile, I must ask to be allowed to follow my own methods ofinvestigation in my own way. Perhaps you forget that the matter concernsthe tragic death of my very dear son-in-law. I cannot be expected to letthings rest where they are. '

'I suppose, ' he said, rising as I rose, 'that you can't. '

'And, ' I added, as a parting shot, 'it is always open to Mr. Gideon tobring a libel action against any one who falsely and publicly accuseshim--_if he likes_. '

'Yes, ' assented the young man. 

I left him standing there, and turned away to speak to Mrs. Creighton, who was passing. 

I considered that Mr. Juke had been quite in his rights to speak to me ashe had done, and I was not offended. But I must say I think I had thebest of the interview. And it left me with the strong impression that heknew as well as I did that 'his friend Gideon' would in no circumstancesventure to bring a libel action against any one in this matter. 

I believed that the young clergyman suspected his friend himself, and wastrying in vain to avert from him the Nemesis that his crime deserved. 

Clare said to me when I rejoined her. 'What did Mr. Juke want to speak toyou about, mother?'

'Nothing of any importance, dear, ' I told her. 

She looked at me in the rather strange, troubled, frowning way she hasnow sometimes. 

'Oh, do let's go home, mother, ' she said suddenly. 'I'm so tired. And Idon't believe they're really starving a bit, and I don't care if theyare. I do hate bazaars. '

Clare used once to be quite fond of them. But she seemed to hate so manythings now, poor child. 

I took her home, and that evening I told Percy about my interviewwith Mr. Juke. 

'A libel action, ' said Percy, 'would be excellent. The very thing. But ifhe's guilty, he won't bring one. '

'Anyhow, ' I said, 'I feel it is our duty not to let the affair drop. Weowe it to poor dear Oliver. Even now he may be looking down on us, unableto rest in perfect peace till he is avenged. '

'He may, he may, my dear, ' said Percy, nodding his head. 'Never know, doyou. Never know anything at all. .. . On the other hand, he may have losthis own balance, as they decided at the inquest, and tumbled downstairson to his head. Nasty stairs; very nasty stairs. Anyhow, if Gideon didn'tshove him, he's nothing to be afraid of in our talk, and if he did he'llhave to face the music. Troublesome fellow, anyhow. That paper of hisgets worse every week. It ought to be muzzled. '

I couldn't help wondering how it would affect the _Weekly Fact_ if itseditor were to be arrested on a charge of wilful murder. 

PART IV:

TOLD BY KATHERINE VARICK

A BRANCH OF STUDY

1

People are very odd, unreliable, and irregular in their actions andreactions. You can't count on them as you can on chemicals. I supposethat merely means that one doesn't know them so well. They are far harderto know; there is a queer element of muddle about them that baffles one. You never know when greediness--the main element in most of us--will stopworking, checked by something else, some finer, quite different motiveforce. And them checking that again, comes strong emotion, such as loveor hate, overthrowing everything and making chaos. Of course, you may saythese interacting forces are all elements that should be known andreckoned with beforehand, and it is quite true. That is just the trouble:one doesn't know enough. 

Though I don't study human nature with the absorption of Laurence Juke(after all, it's his trade), I find it interesting, like other curiousbranches of study. And the more complex and unreliable it is, so much themore interesting. I'm much more interested, for instance, in ArthurGideon, who is surprising and incalculable, than in Jane and JohnnyPotter, who are pushed along almost entirely by one motive--greed. I'meven less interested in Jane and Johnny than in the rest of their family, who are the usual British mixture of humbug, sentimentality, commercialism, and genuine feeling. They represent Potterism, andPotterism is a wonderful thing. The twins are far too clear-headed to bePotterites in that sense. You really can, on almost any occasion, say howthey will act. So they are rather dull, as a study, though amusing enoughas companions. 

But Arthur Gideon is full of twists and turns and surprises. He is one ofthose rare people who can really throw their whole selves into acause--lose themselves for it and not care. (Jukie says that's Christian:I dare say it is: it is certainly seldom enough found in the world, andthat seems to be an essential quality of all the so-called Christianvirtues, as far as one can see. )

Anyhow, Arthur's passion for truth, his passion for the first-rate, andhis distaste for untruth and for the second-rate, seemed to be thesupreme motive forces in him, all the years I have known him, untiljust lately. 

And then something else came in, apparently stronger than these forces. 

Of course, I knew a long time ago--certainly since he left the army--thathe was in love with Jane. I knew it long before he did. It was a queerfeeling, for it went on, apparently, side by side with impatience andscorn of her. And it grew and grew. Jane's marriage made it worse. Sheworked for him, and they met constantly. And at last it got so that weall saw it. 

And all the time he didn't like her, because she was second-rate andcommercial, and he was first-rate and an artist--an artist in the sensethat he loved things for what they were, not for what he could get out ofthem. Jane was always thinking, 'How can I use this? What can I get outof it?' She thought it about the war. So did Johnny. She has alwaysthought it, about everything. It isn't in her not to. And Arthur knewit, but didn't care; anyhow he loved her all the same. It was as if hisreason and judgment were bowled over by her charm and couldn't help him. 

2

The evening after Oliver Hobart's death, Arthur came in to see me, about nine o'clock. He looked extraordinarily ill and strained, and waseven more restless and jerky than usual. He looked as if he hadn'tslept at all. 

I was testing some calculations, and he sat on the sofa and smoked. WhenI had finished, he said, 'Katherine, what's your view of this business?'

Of course, I knew he meant Oliver Hobart's death, and how it would affectJane. One says exactly what one thinks, to Arthur. So I said, 'It's agood thing, ultimately, for Jane. They didn't suit. I'm clear it's a goodthing in the end. Aren't you?'

He made a sharp movement, and pushed back his hair from his forehead. 

'I? I'm clear of nothing. '

He added, after a moment, 'Is that the way _she_ looks at it, doyou suppose?'

'I do, ' I said. 

He half winced. 

'Then why--why the devil did she marry the poor chap?'

There was an odd sort of appeal in his voice; appeal against the crueltyof fate, perhaps, or the perverseness of Jane. 

I told him what I thought, as clearly as I could. 

'She got carried away by the excitement of her life in Paris, and he wasall mixed up with that. I think she felt she would, in a way, be carryingon the excitement and the life if she married him. And she was knockedover by his beauty. Then, when the haze and glamour had cleared away, andshe was left face to face with him as a life companion, she found shecouldn't do with him after all. He bored her and annoyed her more andmore. I don't know how long she could have gone on with it; she neversaid anything, to me about it. But, now this has happened, what mighthave become a great difficulty is solved. '

'Solved, ' he repeated, in a curious, dead voice, staring at the floor. 'Isuppose it is. '

He was silent for quite five minutes, sitting quite still, with his blackeyes absent and vacant, as if he were very tired. I knew he was trying tothink out some problem, and I supposed I knew what it was. But I couldn'taccount then for his extreme unhappiness. 

At last he said, 'Katherine. This is a mess. I can't tell you about it, but it is a mess. Jane and I are in a mess. .. . Oh, you've guessed, haven't you, about Jane and me? Juke guessed. '

'Yes. I guessed that before Jukie did. Before you did, as a matter offact. '

'You did?' But he wasn't much interested. 'Then you _see_ . .. '

'Not altogether, Arthur. I can't see it's a mess, exactly. A shock, ofcourse . .. '

He looked at me for a moment, as if he were adjusting his point ofview to mine. 

'Well, no. You wouldn't see it, of course. But there's more to this thanyou know--much more. Anyhow, please take my word for it that it _is_ amess. A ghastly mess. '

I took his word for it. As there didn't seem to be any comment to make, Imade none, but waited for him to go on. He went on. 

'And what I wanted to ask you, Katherine, was, can you look after Jane alittle? She'll need it; she needs it. She's got to get through itsomehow. .. . And that family of hers always buzzing round. .. . If we couldkeep Lady Pinkerton off her . .. '

'You want me to mix a poison for Lady P?' I suggested. 

Arthur must have been very far through, for he actually started. 

'Oh, Heaven forbid. .. . One sudden death in the family is enough at atime, ' he added feebly, trying to smile. 

'Well, ' I said, 'I'll do my best to see after Jane and to counteract thefamily. .. . I've not gone there or written, or anything yet, because Ididn't want to butt in. But I will. '

'I wish she'd come back here and live with you, ' he said. 

To soothe him, I said I would ask her. 

For nearly an hour longer he stayed, not talking much, but smoking hard, and from time to time jerking out a disconnected remark. I think hehardly knew what he was saying or doing that evening; he seemed dazed, and I noticed that his hands were shaking, as if he was feverish, ordrunk, or something. 

When at last he went, he held my hand and wrung it so that it hurt;this was unusual, too, because we never do shake hands, we meet muchtoo often. 

I thought it over and couldn't quite understand it all. It even occurredto me that it was a little Potterish of Arthur to make a conventionaltragic situation out of what he couldn't really mind very much, and tomake out that Jane was overwhelmed by what, I believed, didn't reallyoverwhelm her. But that didn't do. Arthur was never Potterish. Theremust, therefore, be more to this than I understood. 

Unless, of course, it was merely that Arthur was afraid of the effects ofthe shock and so on, on Jane's health, because she had a baby coming. Butsomehow that didn't really meet the situation. I remembered Arthur'svoice when he said, 'There's more to it than you know. .. . It _is_ a mess. A ghastly mess. '

And another rather queer thing I remembered was that, all through theevening, he hadn't once met my eyes. An odd thing in Arthur, for he has ahabit of looking at the people he is talking to very straight and hard, as if to hold their minds to his by his eyes. 

Well, I supposed that in about a year those two would marry, anyhow. Andthen they would talk, and talk, and talk. .. . And Arthur would look atJane not only because he was talking to her, but because he liked to lookat her. .. . They would be all right then, so why should I bother?

3

I went to see Jane, but found Lady Pinkerton in possession. I saw Janefor five minutes alone. She was much as I had expected, calm and rathersilent. I asked her to come round to the flat any evening she could. Shecame next week, and after that got into the way of dropping in prettyoften, both in the evenings, when I was at home, and during the day, whenI was at the laboratory. She said, 'You see, old thing, mother has got itinto her head that I need company. The only way I can get out of it is tosay I shall be here. .. . Mother's rather much just now. She's got theOther Side on the brain, and is trying to put me in touch with it. Shereads me books called _Letters from the Other Side_, and _Hands Acrossthe Grave_, and so on. And she talks . .. '

Jane pushed back her hair from her forehead and leant her head on herhand. 

'In what mother calls "my condition, "' she went on, 'I don't think Iought to be worried, do you? I wish baby would come at once, so that Ishouldn't be in a condition any more. .. . I'm really awfully fond of baby, but I shall get to hate it if I'm reminded of it much more. .. . What arotten system it is, K. Why haven't we evolved a better one, all thesecenturies?'

I couldn't imagine why, except for the general principle that as themental equipment of the human race improves, its physical qualitiesapparently deteriorate. 

'And where will that land us in the end?' Jane speculated. 'Shall we be arace of clever crocks, or shall we give up civilisation and education andbe robust imbeciles?'

'Either, ' I said, 'will be an improvement on the present régime, ofcrocky imbeciles. '

We would talk like that, of things in general, in the old way. Jane, indeed, would have moods in which she would talk continuously, and Iwould suddenly think, watching her, 'You're trying to hide fromsomething--to talk it down. '

4

And then one evening Arthur and she met at my flat. Jane had been havingsupper with me, and Arthur dropped in. 

Jane said, 'Hallo, Arthur, ' and Arthur said, 'Oh, hallo, ' and I sawplainly that the last person either had wanted to meet was the other. 

Arthur didn't stay at all. He said he had come to speak to me about areview he wanted me to do. It wasn't necessary that he should speak to meabout it at all; he had already sent me the book, and I hadn't yet readit, and it was on a subject he knew nothing at all about, and there wasnothing whatever to say. However, he succeeded in saying something, thenwent away. 

Jane had hardly spoken to him or looked at him. She was reading anevening paper. 

She put it down when he had gone. 

'Does Arthur come in often?' she asked me casually, lighting anothercigarette. 

'No. Sometimes. '

After a minute or two, Jane said, 'Look here, K, I'll tell you something. I'm not particularly keen on meeting Arthur for the present. Nor he me. '

'That's not exactly news, my dear. '

'No; it fairly stuck out just now, didn't it? Well, the fact is, we bothwant a little time to collect ourselves, to settle how we stand. .. . Sudden deaths are a bad jar, K. They break things up. .. . Arthur and Iwere more friends than Oliver liked, you know. He didn't like Arthur, anddidn't like my going about with him. .. . Oh, well, you know all that aswell as I do, of course. .. . And now he's dead. .. . It seems to spoilthings a bit. .. . I hate meeting Arthur now. '

And then an extraordinary thing happened. Jane, whom I had never seencry, broke down quite suddenly and cried. Of course it would have seemedquite natural in most people, but tears are as surprising in Jane as theywould be in me. They aren't part of her equipment. However, she was outof health just now, of course, and had had a bad shock, and wasemotionally overwrought; and, anyhow, she cried. 

I mixed her some sal volatile, which, I understand, is done in thesecrises. She drank it, and stopped crying soon. 

'Sorry to be such an ass, ' she said, more in her normal tone. 'It's thisbeastly baby, I suppose. .. . Well, look here, K, you see what I mean. Arthur and I don't want to meet just now. If he's likely to come in much, I must give up coming, that's all. '

'I'll tell him, ' I said, 'that you're often here. If he doesn't want tomeet you either, that ought to settle it. '

'Thanks, old thing, will you?'

Jane was the perfect egotist. If it ever occurred to her that possiblyArthur would like to see me sometimes, and I him, she would not think itmattered. She wanted to come to my flat, and she didn't want to meetArthur; therefore Arthur mustn't come. Life's little difficulties arevery simply arranged by the Potter twins. 

5

Then, for nine days, we none of us thought or talked much about anythingbut the railway strike. The strike was rather like the war. The same oldcries began again--carrying on, doing one's bit, seeing it through, fighting to a finish, enemy atrocities (only now they were calledsabotage), starving them out, gallant volunteers, the indomitableBritisher, cheeriest always in disaster (what a hideous slander!), innocent women and children. I never understood about these, at leastabout the women. Why is it worse that women should suffer than men? Asto innocence, they have no more of that than men. I'm not innocent, particularly, nor are the other women I know. But they are alwaysclassed with children, as sort of helpless imbeciles who must be keptfrom danger and discomfort. I got sick of it during the war. The peoplewho didn't like the blockade talked about starving women and children, as if it was somehow worse that women should starve than men. Otherpeople (quite other) talked of our brave soldiers who were fighting todefend the women and children of their country, or the dastardly airraids that killed women and children. Why not have said'non-combatants, ' which makes sense? There were plenty of malenon-combatants, unfit or over age or indispensable, and it was quite asbad that they should be killed--worse, I suppose, when they wereindispensable. Very few women or children are that. 

So now the appeal to strikers which was published in the advertisementcolumns of the papers at the expense of 'a few patriotic citizens'said, 'Don't bring further hardship and suffering upon the innocentwomen and children. .. . Save the women and children from the terror ofthe strike. ' Fools. 

In another column was the N. U. R. Advertisement, and that was worse. Therewas a picture of a railwayman looking like a consumptive in the laststages, and embracing one of his horrible children while his morehorrible wife and mother supported the feeble heads of others, and underit was written, 'Is this man an anarchist? He wants a wage to keep hisfamily, ' and it was awful to think that he and his family would perhapsget the wage and be kept after all. The question about whether he was ananarchist was obviously unanswerable without further data, as there wasnothing in the picture to show his political convictions; they might, from anything that appeared, have been liberal, tory, labour, socialist, anarchist, or coalition-unionist. And anyhow, supposing that he had beenan anarchist, he would still, presumably, have wanted a wage to keep hisfamily. Anarchists are people who disapprove of authority, not of wages. The member of the N. U. R. Who composed that picture must have had amuddled mind. But so many people have, and so many people use words in anodd sense, that you can't find in the dictionary. Bolshevist, forinstance. Lloyd George called the strikers Bolshevists, so did plenty ofother people. None of them seem to have any very clear conception of thepolitical convictions of the supporters of the Soviet government inRussia. To have that you would need to think and read a little, whereasto use the word as a vague term of abuse, you need only to feel, whichmany people find much easier. Some people use the word capitalist in thesame way, as a term of abuse, meaning really only 'rich person. ' If theystopped to think of the meaning of the word, they would remember that itmeans merely a person who uses what money he has productively, instead ofhoarding it in a stocking. 

But 'capitalist' and 'Bolshevist' were both flung about freely during thestrike, by the different sides. Emotional unrest, I suppose. People getexcited, and directly they get excited they get sentimental and confused. The daily press did, on both sides. I don't know which was worse. ThePinkerton press blossomed into silly chit-chat about noblemen working onunder ground trains. As a matter of fact, most of the volunteer workerswere clerks and tradesmen and working men, but these weren't sointeresting to talk about, I suppose. 

The _Fact_ became more than ever precise and pedantic and clear-headed, and what people call dull. It didn't take sides: it simply gave, in moredetail than any other paper, the issues, and the account of thenegotiations, and had expert articles on the different currents ofinfluence on both sides. It didn't distort or conceal the truth in eitherdirection. 

I met Lady Pinkerton one evening at Jane's. She would, of course, come upto town, though the amateur trains were too full without her. She said, 'Of course They hate us. They want a Class War. '

Jane said, 'Who are They, and who are Us?' and she said 'The workingclasses, of course. They've always hated us. They're Bolshevists atheart. They won't be satisfied till they've robbed us of all we have. They hate us. That is why they are striking. We must crush them thistime, or it will be the beginning of the end. '

I said, 'Oh. I thought they were striking because they wanted theprinciple of standardisation of rates of wages for men in the same gradeto be applied to other grades than drivers and firemen. '

Lady Pinkerton was bored. I imagine she understands about hate and loveand envy and greed and determination, and other emotions, but not muchabout rates of wages. So she likes to talk about one but not about theother. All, for instance, that she knows about Bolshevism is itssentimental side--how it is against the rich, and wants to nationalisewomen and murder the upper classes. She doesn't know about any of theaspects of the Bolshevist constitution beyond those which she can take inthrough her emotions. She would find the others dull, as she findstechnical wage questions. That's partly why she hates the _Fact_. If shehappened to be on the other side, she would talk the same tosh, only use'capitalist' for 'Bolshevist. '

She said, 'Anyhow, whatever the issue, the blood of the country is up. Wemust fight the thing through. It is splendid the way the upper classesare stepping into the breach on the railways. I honour them. I only hopethey won't all be murdered by these despicable brutes. '

That was the way she talked. Plenty of people did, on both sides. Especially, I am afraid, innocent women. I suppose they were too innocentto talk about facts. 

After all, the country didn't have to fight the thing through for verylong, and there were no murders, for the strike ended on October the 5th. 

6

That same week, Jukie came in to see me. Jukie doesn't often come, because his evenings are apt to be full. A parson's work seems to be likea woman's, never done. From 8 to 11 p. M. Seems to be one of the greattimes for doing it. Probably Jukie had to cut some of it the evening hecame round to Gough Square. 

I always like to see Jukie. He's entertaining, and knows about such queerthings, that none of the rest of us know, and believes such incrediblethings, that none of the rest of us believe. Besides, like Arthur, he'sall out on his job. He's still touchingly full of faith, even after allthat has and hasn't happened, in a new heaven and a new earth. Hebelieved at that time that the League of Nations was going to kill war, that the Labour Party were going to kill industrial inequity, that thecountry was going to kill the Coalition Government, that the ChristianChurch was going to kill selfishness, that some one was going to killHoratio Bottomley, and that we were all going to kill Potterism. Aperfect orgy of murders, as Arthur said, and all of them so improbable. 

Jukie is curate in a slummy parish near Covent Garden. He succeeds, apparently, in really being friends--equal and intimate friends--with alot of the men in his parish, which is queer for a person of his kind. Isuppose he learnt how while he was in the ranks. He deserved to; Arthurtold me that he had persistently refused promotion because he wanted togo on living with the men; and that's not a soft job, from all accounts, especially for a clean and over-fastidious person like Jukie. Of coursehe's very popular, because he's very attractive. And, of course, it'sspoilt him a little. I never knew a very popular and attractive personwho wasn't a little spoilt by it; and in Jukie's case it's a pity, because he's too good for that sort of thing, but it hasn't reallydamaged him much. 

He came in that evening saying, 'Katherine, I want to speak to you, ' andsat down looking rather worried and solemn. He plunged into it at once, as he always does. 

'Have you heard any talk lately about Gideon?' he asked me. 

'Nothing more interesting than usual, ' I said. 'But I seldom hear talk. Idon't mix enough. We don't gossip much in the lab, you know. I look toyou and my Fleet Street friends for spicy personal items. What's thelatest about Arthur?'

'Just this, ' he said. 'People are going about saying that he pushedHobart downstairs. '

I felt then as if I had known all along that of course people weresaying that. 

'Then why isn't he arrested?' I asked stupidly. 

'He probably will be, before long, ' said Jukie. 'There's no evidence yetto arrest him on. At present it's merely talk, started by that Pinkertonwoman, and sneaking about from person to person in the devilish way suchtalk does. .. . I was with Gideon yesterday, and saw two people cut himdead. .. . You see, it's all so horribly plausible; every one knows theyhated each other and had just quarrelled; and it seems he was there thatnight, just before it happened. He went home with Jane. '

I remembered that they had left my place together. But neither Arthurnor Jane had told me that he had gone home with her. 

'The inquest said it was accidental, ' I said, protesting againstsomething, I didn't quite know what. 

Jukie shrugged his shoulders. 

'That's not very likely to stop people talking. '

He added after a moment, 'But it's got to be stopped somehow. .. . I wentto an awful bazaar this afternoon, on purpose to meet that woman. I mether. I spoke to her. I told her to chuck it. She as good as told me shewasn't going to. I mentioned the libel law--she practically dared Gideonto use it against her. She means to go on. She's poisoning the air withher horrible whispers and slanders. Why can't some one choke her? Whatcan we do about it, that's the question? Ought one of us to tell Gideon?I'm inclined to think we ought. '

'Are you sure he doesn't know it already?'

'No, I'm not sure. Gideon knows most things. But the person concerned isusually the last to hear such talk. And, in case he has no suspicion, Ithink we should tell him. '

'And get him to issue, through the _Fact_, a semi-official declarationthat "the whole story is a tissue of lies. "'

Then I wished I hadn't used that particular phrase. It was an unfortunateone. It suggested a similarity between Lady Pinkerton's story and Mr. Bullitt's, between Arthur Gideon's denial and Lloyd George's. 

Jukie's eyes met mine swiftly, not dreamy and introspective as usual, butkeen and thoughtful. 

'Katherine, ' he said, 'we may as well have this out. It won't hurt Gideonhere. _Is_ it a lie? I believe so, but, frankly, I don't feel certain. Idon't know what to think. Do you?'

I considered it, looking at it all ways. The recent past, Arthur'sattitude and Jane's, were all lit up by this horrible flare of lightwhich was turned upon them. 

'No, ' I said at last. 'I don't know, either. .. . We can't assume forcertain that it is a lie. '

Jukie let out a long breath, and leant forward in his chair, resting hishead on his hands. 

'Poor old Gideon, ' he said. 'It might have happened, without anyintention on his part. If Hobart found him there with Jane . .. And ifthey quarrelled . .. Gideon's got a quick temper, and Hobart always madehim see red. .. . He might have hit him--pushed him down, without meaningto injure him--and then it would be done. And then--if he did it--he musthave left the house at once . .. Perhaps not knowing he'd killed him. Perhaps he didn't know till afterwards. And then Jane might have askedhim not to say anything . .. I don't know. I don't know. Perhaps it'snonsense; perhaps it _is_ a tissue of lies. I hope to God it is. .. . Ionly know one thing that makes me even suspect it may be true, and thatis that Gideon has been absolutely miserable, and gone about like a manhalf stunned, ever since it happened. _Why_?'

He shot the question at me, hoping I had some answer. But I had none. Ishook my head. 

'Well, ' said Jukie sadly, 'it isn't, I suppose, our business whether hedid or didn't do it. That's between him and--himself. But it _is_ ourbusiness, whether he's innocent or guilty, to put him on his guardagainst this talk. It's for you or me to do that, Katherine. Will you?'

'If you like. '

'I'd rather you did it, if you will . .. I think he's less likely tothink that you're trying to find things out. .. . You see, I warned himonce before, about another thing, and he might think I was linking it inmy mind with that. '

'With Jane, ' I said, and he nodded. 

'Yes. With Jane . .. I spoke to him about Jane a few days before ithappened. I thought it might be some use. But I think it only made thingsworse. .. . I'd rather leave this to you, unless you hate it too much. .. . Oh, it's all pretty sickening, isn't it? Gideon--_Gideon_ in this sort ofmess. Gideon, the best of the lot of us. .. . You see, even if it's allmoonshine about Hobart, as I'm quite prepared to believe it probably is, he's gone and given plausibility to the yarn by falling in love withHobart's wife. Nothing can get round that. Why couldn't he have chuckedit--gone away--anything--when he felt it coming on? A strong, fine, keenperson like that, to be bowled over by his sloppy emotions and draggedthrough the mud, like any beastly sensualist, or like one of my owncheery relations. .. . I'd rather he'd done Hobart in. There'd have beensome sense about that, if he had. After all, it would have been strikinga blow against Potterism. Only, if he did do it, it would be more likehim to face the music and own to it. What I can't fit into the picture isGideon sneaking away in the dark, afraid . .. Oh well, it's not mybusiness . .. Good-night, Katherine. You'll do it at once, won't you? Ringhim up to-morrow and get him to dine with you or something. If there'sany way of stopping that poisonous woman's tongue, we'll find it. .. . Meanwhile, I shall tell our parish workers that Leila Yorke's works areobscene, and that they're not to read them to mother's meetings as istheir habit. '

I sat up till midnight, wondering how on earth I was going to put itto Arthur. 

7

I didn't dine with Arthur. I thought it would last too long, and that hemight want me to go, and that I should certainly want to go, after I hadsaid what I had to say. So I rang him up at the office and asked if hecould lunch. Not at the club; it's too full of people we know, who keepinterrupting, and who would be tremendously edified at catching murmursabout libel and murder and Lady Pinkerton being poisoned. So I said theTemple Bar restaurant in Fleet Street, a disagreeable place, but so noisyand crowded that you can say what you like unheard--unheard very often bythe person you are addressing, and certainly by every one else. 

We sat downstairs, at a table at the back, and there I told him, in whathardly needed to be an undertone, of the rumours that were beingcirculated about him. I felt like a horrid woman in a village who repeatsspiteful gossip and says, 'I'm telling you because I think you ought toknow what's being said. ' As a matter of fact, this was the one and onlycase I have ever come across in which I have thought the person concernedought to know what was being said. As a rule, it seems the last thingthey ought to know. 

He listened, staring at the tablecloth and crumbling his bread. 

'Thank you, ' he said, 'for telling me. As a matter of fact, I knew. Or, anyhow, guessed. .. . But I'm not sure that anything can be doneto stop it. '

'Unless, ' I said, looking away from him, 'you could find grounds for alibel action. You might ask a lawyer. '

'No, ' he returned quickly. 'That's quite impossible. Out of thequestion. .. . There are no grounds. And I wouldn't if there were. I'm notgoing to have the thing made a show of in the courts. It's exactly whatthe Pinkertons would enjoy--a first-class Pinkerton scoop. No, I shalllet it alone. '

'Is there no way of stopping it, then?' I asked. 

'Only one, ' he murmured, absently, beneath his breath, then caughthimself up. 'I don't know. I think not. '

I didn't make any further suggestions. What was the good ofadvising him to remonstrate with the Pinkertons? If they werelying, it was the obvious course. If they weren't, it was animpossible one. I let it alone. 

Arthur was frowning as he ate cold beef. 

'There's one thing, ' he said. 'Does Jane know what is being said? Do yousuppose her parents have talked about it to her?'

I said I didn't know, and he went on frowning. Then he murdered a waspwith his knife--a horrible habit at meals, but one practised by manyreturned soldiers, who kill all too readily. I suppose after killing allthose Germans, and possibly Oliver Hobart, a wasp seems nothing. 

'Well, ' he said absently, when he was through with the wasp, 'I don'tknow. I don't know, ' and he seemed, somehow, helpless and desperate, asif he had come to the end of his tether. 

'I must think it over, ' he said. And then he suddenly began to talk aboutsomething else. 

8

Arthur's manner, troubled rather than indignant, had been against him. Hehad dismissed the idea of a libel action, and not proposed to confronthis libellers in a personal interview. Every circumstance seemed againsthim. I knew that, as I walked back to the laboratory after lunch. 

And yet--and yet. 

Well, perhaps, as Jukie would say, it wasn't my business. My business atthe moment was to carry on investigations into the action ofcarbohydrates. Arthur Gideon had nothing to do with this, nor I with hisprivate slayings, if any. 

I wrote to Jukie that evening and told him I had warned Arthur, whoapparently knew already what was being said, but didn't seem to becontemplating taking any steps about it. 

So that was that. 

Or so I thought at the time. But it wasn't. Because, when I had posted myletter to Jukie, and sat alone in my room, smoking and thinking, at lastwith leisure to open my mind to all the impressions and implications ofthe day (I haven't time for this in the laboratory), I began to fumblefor and find a new clue to Arthur's recent oddness. For twenty-four hoursI had believed that he had perhaps killed Oliver Hobart. Now, suddenly Ididn't. But I was clear that there was something about Oliver Hobart'sdeath which concerned him, touched him nearly, and after a moment itoccurred to me what it might be. 

'He suspects that Jane did it, ' I said, slowly and aloud. 'He's trying toshield her. '

With that, everything that had seemed odd about the business becamesuddenly clear--Arthur's troubled strangeness, Jane's dread of meetinghim, her determined avoidance of any reference to that night, her suddenfit of crying, Arthur's shrinking from the idea of giving the talkagainst him publicity by a libel action, his question, 'Does Jane know?'his remark, to himself, that there was only one way of stopping it. Thatone way, of course, would be to make Jane tell her parents the truth, sothat they would be silenced for ever. As it was, the talk might go on, and at last official investigations might be started, which would leadsomehow to the exposure of the whole affair. The exposure would probablytake the form of a public admission by Jane; I didn't think she wouldstand by and see Arthur accused without speaking out. 

So I formed my theory. It was the merest speculation, of course. But itwas obvious that there was something in the manner of Oliver Hobart'sdeath which badly troubled and disturbed both Arthur and Jane. That beingso, and taking into account their estrangement from one another, it wasdifficult not to be forced to the conclusion that one of them knew, oranyhow guessed, the other to have caused the accident. And, knowing themboth as I did, I believed that if Arthur had done it he would have ownedto it. Wouldn't one own to it, if one had knocked a man downstairs in aquarrel and killed him? To keep it dark would seem somehow cheap andtimid, not in Arthur's line. 

Unless Jane had asked him to; unless it was for her sake. 

It occurred to me that the thing to do was to go straight to Jane andtell her what was being said. If she didn't choose to do anything aboutit, that was her business, but I was determined she should know. 

9

An hour later I was in Jane's drawing-room. Jane was sitting at herwriting-table, and the room was dim except for the light from thereading-lamp that made a soft bright circle round her head and shoulders. She turned round when I came in and said, 'Hallo, K. What an unusualhour. You must have something very important to say, old thing. '

'I have rather, ' I said, and sat down by her. 'It's this, Jane. Do youknow that people are saying--spreading it about--that Arthur killedyour husband?'

It was very quiet in the room. For a moment I heard nothing but theticking of a small silver clock on the writing-table. Jane sat quitestill, and stared at me, not surprised, not angry, not shocked, but witha queer, dazed, blind look that reminded me of Arthur's own. 

Then I started, because some one in the farther shadows of the room drewa long, quivering breath and said 'Oh, ' on a soft, long-drawn note. Looking round, I saw Clare Potter. She had just got up from a chair, andwas standing clutching its back with one hand, looking pale and sick, asif she was going to faint. 

I hadn't, of course, known Clare was there, or I wouldn't have saidanything. But I was rather irritated; after all, it wasn't her business, and I thought it rather absurd the way she kept up her attitude of notbeing able to bear to hear Oliver Hobart's death mentioned. 

I got up to go. After all, I had nothing more to say. I didn't want tostop and pry, only to let Jane know. 

But as I turned to go, I remembered that I had one more thing to say. 

'It was Lady Pinkerton who started it and who is keeping it up, ' I toldJane. 'Can you--somehow--stop her?'

Jane still stared at me, stupidly. After a moment she half whispered, slowly, 'I--don't--know. '

I stood looking at her for a second, then I went, without any more words. 

All the way home I saw those two white faces staring at me, and heardJane's whisper 'I--don't--know. .. . '

I didn't know, either. 

I only knew, that evening, one thing--that I hated Jane, who had gotArthur into this mess, and 'didn't know' whether she could get him out ofit or not. 

And I may as well end what I have got to tell by saying something whichmay or may not have been apparent to other people, but which, anyhow, itwould be Potterish humbug on my part to try to hide. For the last fiveyears I had cared for Arthur Gideon more than for any one else in theworld. I saw no reason why I shouldn't, if I liked. It has never damagedany one but myself. It has damaged me in two ways--it has made itsometimes difficult to give my mind to my work, and it has made me, often, rather degradingly jealous of Jane. However, you would hardly (Ihope) notice it, and anyhow it can't be helped. 

PART V:

TOLD BY JUKE (IN HIS PRIVATE JOURNAL)

GIVING ADVICE

1

It is always rather amusing dining at Aylesbury House, with mystimulating family. Especially since Chloe, my present stepmother, entered it, three years ago. Chloe is great fun; much more entertainingthan most variety artists. I know plenty of these, because Wycombe, myeldest brother, introduces them to me. As a class they seem pleasant andgood-humoured, but a little crude, and lacking in the subtler forms ofwit or understanding. After an hour or so of their company I want toyawn. But Chloe keeps me going. She is vulgar, but racy. She is also verykind to me, and insists on coming down to help with theatricalentertainments in the parish. It is so decent of her that I can't say no, though she doesn't really fit in awfully well with the O. U. D. S. People, and the Marlowe Society people, and the others whom I get down fortheatricals. In fact, Elizabethan drama isn't really her touch. However, the parish prefers Chloe, I need hardly say. 

I dined there on Chloe's birthday, October 15th, when we always have afamily gathering. Family and other. But the family is heterogeneousenough to make quite a good party in itself. It was represented on thatparticular evening by my father and Chloe, my young sister Diana, mybrothers Wycombe and Tony, Tony's wife, myself, my uncle Monsignor Juke, my aunt the Marchesa Centurione and a daughter, and my Aunt Cynthia, whohad recently, on her own fiftieth birthday, come out of a convent inwhich she had spent twenty-five years and was preparing to see Life. Besides the family, there were two or three theatrical friends ofChloe's, and two friends of my father's--a youngish literary man calledBryan, and the cabinet minister to whom Tony was secretary, but whom Iwill not name, because he might not care for it to be generally knownthat he was an inmate of so fast a household. 

My Aunt Cynthia, having renounced her vows, and having only acomparatively short time in which to enjoy the world, the flesh and thedevil, is making the most of it. She has only been out of her convent ayear, but is already a spring of invaluable personal information aboutmen and manners. She knows everything that is being said of everybodyelse, and quite a lot that hasn't even got as far as that. Her Churchinterests (undiminished in keenness) provide a store of talesinaccessible to most of my family and their set (except my UncleFerdinand, of course, and his are mostly Roman not Anglican). AuntCynthia has a string of wonderful stories about Cowley Fathers bitingNestorian Bishops, and Athelstan Riley pinching Hensley Henson, and soforth. She is as good as Ronnie Knox at producing or inventing them. I'mnot bad myself, when I like, but Aunt Cynthia leaves me out of sight. 

This evening she was full of vim. She usually talks at the top of a veryhigh and strident voice (I don't know what they did with it at theconvent), and I suddenly heard her screaming to the cabinet minister, 'Haven't you heard _that_? Oh, everybody's quoting it in Fleet Street, aren't they, Mr. Bryan? But I suppose you never go to Fleet Street, Mr. Blank; it's so important, isn't it, for the government not to get mixedup with the press. Well, I'll tell it you. 

'There was a young journalist Yid, Of his foes of the press he got rid In ways brief and bright, For, at dead of the night, He threw them downstairs, so he did. 

It's about the late editor of the _Daily Haste_ and Mr. Gideon of the_Weekly Fact_. No, I don't know who's responsible for it, but I believeit's perfectly true. They're saying so everywhere now. I believe thatawful Pinkerton woman is going about saying she has conclusive evidence;it's been revealed from the Beyond, I believe; I expect by poor Mr. Hobart himself. No, I'm sure she didn't make the limerick; she's not apoet, only a novelist. Perhaps it came from the Beyond, throughplanchette. Anyhow, they say Mr. Gideon will be arrested on a murdercharge very shortly, and that there's no doubt he's guilty. '

I leant across the table. 

'_Who's_ saying so, Aunt Cynthia?' I asked her. 

Aunt Cynthia hates being asked that about her stories. Of course. Everyone does. I do myself. 

Aunt Cynthia looked at me with her childlike convent stare. 

'My dear Laurie, how can I remember who says anything, with every onesaying everything all the time? Who? Why, all sorts of people. .. . Aren'tthey, Chloe?'

Chloe, who was showing a spoon and glass trick to the Monsignor, said, 'Aren't who what?'

'Isn't every one saying that Arthur Gideon threw Oliver Hobart downstairsand killed him?'

'I expect so, dear. Never heard of either of the gentlemen myself. And did he?'

'Of course he did. He's a Jew, and he hated Hobart and his paper likepoison. The _Fact's_ so different, you know. Every one's clear he didit. Mind you, I don't blame him. The _Daily Haste_ is a vulgarProtestant rag. '

'The Jew's a dear friend of Laurie's, ' put in Wycombe. 'You'd better becareful, Aunt Cynthia. '

'Oh, Laurie dear, ' my aunt cried, 'how tactless of me. But, my dear boy, are you really friends with a Jew, and you a Christian priest?'

'I'm friends with Gideon. He's a Gentile by religion, by the way; anordinary agnostic. Aunt Cynthia, don't go on spreading that nonsense, ifyou don't mind. You might contradict it if you hear it again. '

'Very well, dear. I'll say you have good reason to know it isn't true. I'll say you've been told who did kill Mr. Hobart, only it was under theseal, so you can't say. Shall I?'

'By all means, if you like. '

Then Aunt Cynthia chased off after another exciting subject, and that wasall about Gideon. 

2

I came away early (about eleven, that is, which is very early for one ofChloe's evenings, which don't end till summer dawn) feeling more worriedthan ever about Gideon. If the gossip about him had penetrated from LadyPinkerton's circle to my aunt's, it must be pretty widespread. I wasangry with Aunt Cynthia, and a little with every one I had met thatevening. They were so cheerful, so content with things as they were, finding all the world such a screaming farce. .. . I sometimes get myfamily on my nerves, when I go there straight from Covent Garden and itsslum babies, and see them spending and squandering and beingirresponsible and dissolute and not caring twopence for the waytwo-thirds of the world live. There was Wycombe to-night, with a longstory to tell me about his debts and his amours (he's going to beco-respondent in a divorce case directly), and Chloe, as hard as nailsbeneath her pretty ways, and simply out for a good time, and AuntCynthia, with half the gossip of London spouting out of her like ageyser, and Diana, who might turn out fine beyond description ordegenerate into a mere selfish rake (it won't be my father's and Chloe'sfault if she doesn't do the latter), and my Uncle Ferdinand in purple andfine linen, a prince of the Church, and Tony already booked for apolitical career, with his chief's shady secrets in his keeping to showhim the way it's done. And they bandied about among them the name of aman who was worth the lot of them together, and repeated silly rhymeswhich might hang him. .. . It was a little more than I could stand. 

One is so queer about one's family. I'm inclined to think every one is. Often I fit in with mine perfectly, and love to see them, and find themimmensely refreshing after Covent Garden and parish shop. And thenanother time they'll be on my nerves and I feel glad I'm out of it all. And another time again I'm jealous of them, and wish I had Wycombe's orTony's chances of doing something in the world other than what I amdoing. That, of course, is sheer vulgar covetousness and grab. It comeson sometimes when I am tired, or bored, and the parish seems stale, andthe conferences and committees I attend unutterably profitless, and Iwant more clever people to talk to, and bigger and more educatedaudiences to preach to, and I want to have leisure to write more and tomake a name. .. . It is merely a vulgar disease--a form of Potterism. Onehas to face it and fight it out. 

But to-night I wasn't feeling that. I wasn't feeling anything very much, except that Gideon, and all that Gideon stood for, was worth immeasurablymore than anything the Aylesbury lot had ever stood for. 

And when I got back, I found a note from Katherine saying that shehad warned Gideon about the talk and that he wasn't proposing to takeany steps. 

3

Next morning I had to go to Church House for a meeting. I got the _DailyHaste_ (which I seldom see) to read in the underground. On the frontpage, side by side with murders, suicides, divorces, allied notes, andSinn Fein outrages, was a paragraph headed 'The Hobart Mystery. Suspicionof Foul Play. ' It was about how Hobart's sudden death had never beenadequately investigated, and how curious and suspicious circumstances hadof late been discovered in connection with it, and inquiries were beingpursued, and the _Haste_, which was naturally specially interested, hoped to give more news very soon. 

So old Pinkerton was making a journalistic scoop of it. Of course; onemight have known he would. 

At my meeting (Pulpit Exchange, it was about) I met Frank Potter. He is aqueer chap--commercial and grasping, like all his family, and dull too, and used to talk one sick about how little scope he had in his parish, and so on. Since he got to St. Agatha's he's cheered up a bit, and talksto me now instead of his big congregations and their fat purses. He's adull-minded creature--rather stupid and entirely conventional. He's allagainst pulpit exchange, of course; he thinks it would be out of orderand tradition. So it would. And he's a long way keener on order andtradition than he is on spiritual progress. A born Pharisee, he isreally, and yet with Christianity struggling in him here and there; andthat's why he's rather interesting, in spite of his dullness. 

After the meeting I went up to him and showed him the _Haste_. 

'Can't this be stopped?' I asked him. 

He blinked at it. 

'That's what Johnny is up in arms against too, ' he said. 'He swears bythis chap who is suspected, and won't hear a word against him. '

'Well, ' I said, 'the question is, can Johnny or any one else do anythingto stop it?. .. I've tried. I spoke to Lady Pinkerton the other day. Itwas no use. Can _you_ do anything?'

'I'm afraid not, ' he said, rather apathetically. 'You see, my peoplebelieve Gideon killed Hobart, and are determined to press the matter. Onecan't blame them, you know, if they really think that. My mother feelsperfectly sure of it, from various bits of evidence she's got hold of, and won't be happy till the thing is thoroughly sifted. Of course, ifGideon's innocent, it's best for him, too, to have the thing out, nowit's got so far. Don't you agree?'

'I don't. Why should a man have to waste his time appearing in a criminalcourt to answer to a charge of manslaughter or murder which he nevercommitted? Gideon happens to have other things to do than to make a ninedays' wonder for the press and public. '

I suppose that annoyed Potter rather. He said sharply, 'It's up to thechap to prove his innocence. Till he does, a great many people willbelieve him guilty, I'm afraid. '

'Including yourself, obviously. '

He shrugged his shoulders. 

'I've no prejudices either way, ' he returned, his emphasis on thepersonal pronoun indicating that I, in his opinion, had. 

But there he was wrong. I hadn't. I was quite prepared to believe thatGideon had knocked Hobart downstairs, or that he hadn't. You can't be aparson, or, indeed, anything else, for long, without learning that decentmen and women will do, at times, quite indecent things, and that thedevil is quite strong enough to make a mess of any human being's life. You hear of a man that he was in love with another man's wife and hatedher husband and at last killed him in a quarrel--and you think 'A badlot. ' But he may not be a bad lot at all; he may be a decent chap, fullof ideals and generosity and fine thinking. Sometimes I'm inclined toagree with the author of that gushing and hysterical book _In DarkestChristendom and a Way Out_, that the only unforgiveable sin isexploitation. Exploitation of human needs and human weaknesses and humantragedies, for one's own profit. .. . And, as we very nearly all do it, inone way or another, let us hope that even that isn't quite unforgiveable. Yes, we nearly all do it. The press exploits for its benefit humansilliness and ignorance and vulgarity and sensationalism, and, inexploiting it, feeds it. The war profiteers exploited the war. .. . We allexploit other people--use their affection, their dependence on us, theirneeds and their sins, for our own ends. 

And that is deliberate. To knock a fellow human being downstairs in aquarrel, so that he dies--that may be impulse and accident, and is not sovile. Even to say nothing afterwards--even that is not so vile. 

Still, I would rather, much rather, think that Gideon hadn't done it. 

It was odd that, as I was thinking these things, walking up Surrey Streetfrom the Temple Embankment, I overtook Gideon, who was slouching along inhis usual abstracted way. 

I touched his arm and spoke to him. He gave me his queer, half-ironical smile. 

'Hallo, Jukie. .. . Where are you bound?. .. By the way, did you by chancesee the _Haste_ this morning?'

'Not by chance. That doesn't happen with me and the _Haste_. But I sawit. '

'They obviously mean business, don't they. The sleuth-hound touch. Iexpect to be asked for my photograph soon, for the _Pink Pictorial_ andthe _Sunday Rag_. I must get a nice one taken. '

I suppose I looked as I felt, for he said in a different tone, 'Don'tworry, old man. There's nothing to be done. We must just let this thingtake its course. '

I couldn't say anything, because there was nothing to say that wouldn'tseem like asking him questions, or trying to make him admit or deny thething to me. I wanted to ask him if he couldn't produce an alibi and blowthe ridiculous story to the four winds. But--suppose he couldn't. .. ?

So I said nothing but, 'Well, let me know if ever I can be any use, ' andwe parted at the top of Surrey Street. 

4

We have evensong at five at St. Christopher's. No one conies much. Thepeople in the parish aren't the weekday church sort. Those among them whocome to church at all mostly confine their energies to evening service onSundays, though a few of them consent to turn up at choral mass ateleven. And, by means of guilds and persuasion, we've induced a good manyof the lads and girls to come to early mass sometimes. The vicar getsdiscouraged at times, but not so much as most vicars would, because hemore or less agrees with me in not thinking church-going a test ofChristianity. The vicar is one of the cleverest and most original parsonsin the Church, in my opinion. He has a keen, shrewd, practical insightinto the distinction between essentials and non-essentials. He is popularin the parish, but I don't think the people understand, as a rule, whathe is getting at. 

Anyhow, the only people who usually came to our week-day services were afew church workers and an elderly lady or two who happened to be passingand dropped in. The elderly ladies who lived in the parish were much toobusy for any such foolishness. 

But this evening--the evening of the day I had met Gideon--there was agirl in church. She was rather at the back, and I didn't see who it wastill I was going out. Then she stopped me at the door, and I saw that itwas Clare Potter. I knew Clare Potter very slightly, and had never foundher interesting. I had always believed her to be conventional andcommonplace, without the brains of the twins or even the mildspirituality of Frank. 

But I was startled by her face now; it was white and strained, andemotion wavered pitifully over it. 

'Please, ' she said, 'will you hear my confession?'

'I'm very sorry, ' I told her, 'but I can't. I'm still in deacon'sorders. '

She seemed disappointed. 

'Oh! Oh dear! I didn't know. .. . '

I was puzzled. Why had she pitched on me? Hadn't she, I wondered, aregular director, or was it her first confession she wanted to make? Ibegan something about the vicar being always glad . .. But she stopped me. 

'No, please. It must be you. There's a reason. .. . Well, if you can't hearmy confession, may I tell you something in private, and get your advice?'

'Of course, ' I said. 

'Now, at once, if you've time. .. . It's very urgent. '

I had time, and we went into the vestry. 

She sat down, and I waited for her to speak. She wasn't nervous, orembarrassed, as most people are in these interviews. Two things occurredto me about her; one was that she was, in a way, too far through, toomentally agitated, to be embarrassed; the other was that she was, quiteunconsciously, posing a little, behaving as the heroine of one of hermother's novels might have behaved. One knows the situation infiction--the desperate girl appealing out of her misery to the Christianpriest for help. So many women have this touch of melodrama, this senseof a situation. .. . I believed that she was, as she sat there, in thesetwo conditions simultaneously, exactly as I was simultaneously analysingher and wanting to be of what service I could. 

She leant forward across the vestry table, locking and unlockingher hands. 

'This is quite private, isn't it, ' she said. 'As private as if. .. ?'

'Quite, ' I told her. 

She drew a long, shivering breath, and leant her forehead on herclasped hands. 

'You know, ' she said, so low that I had to bend forward to catch it, 'what people are saying--what my people suspect about--about OliverHobart's death. '

'Yes, I know. '

'Well--it wasn't Mr. Gideon. '

'You know that?' I said quickly. And a great relief flooded me. I hadn'tknown, until that moment, because I had driven it under, how large a partof my brain believed that Gideon had perhaps done this thing. 

'Yes, ' she whispered. 'I know it . .. Because I know--I know--who did it. '

In that moment I felt that I knew too, and that Gideon knew, and that Iought to have guessed all along. 

I said nothing, but waited for the girl's next word, if she had a nextword to say. It wasn't for me to question her. 

And then, quite suddenly, she gave a little moan of misery and broke intopassionate tears. 

I waited for a moment, then I got up and poured her out a glass of water. It must have been pretty bad for her. It must have been pretty bad allthis time, I thought, knowing this thing about her sister. 

She drank the water, and became quieter. 

'Do you want to tell me any more?' I asked her, presently. 

'Oh, I do, I do. But it's so difficult . .. I don't know how to tellyou. .. . Oh, God . .. It was _I_ that killed him!'

'Yes?' I said, after a moment, gently, and without apparent surprise. Onelearns in parish work not to start, however much one may be startled. Imerely added a legitimate inquiry. 'Why was that?'

She gulped. 'I want to tell you everything. I _want_ to. '

I was sure she did. She had reached the familiar pouring-out stage. Itwas obviously going to be a relief to her to spread herself on thesubject. I am pretty well used to being told everything, and at times agood deal more, and have learnt to discount much of it. I looked awayfrom her and prepared to listen, and to give my mind to sifting, if Icould, the fact from the fancy in her story. This is a special art, andone which all parsons do well to learn. I have heard my vicar on thesubject of women's confessions. 

'Women--women. Some of them will invent any crime--give themselves awaywith both hands--merely to make themselves interesting. Poor things, theydon't realise how tedious sin is. One has to be on one's guard the wholetime, with that kind. '

I deduced that Clare Potter might possibly be that kind. So I listenedcarefully, at first neither believing nor disbelieving. 

'It's difficult to tell you, ' she began, in a pathetic, unsteady voice. 'It hurts, rather . .. '

'No, I think not, ' I corrected her. 'It's a relief, isn't it?'

She stared at me for a moment, then went on, 'Yes, I _want_ to tell. Butit hurts, all the same. '

I let her have it her own way; I couldn't press the point. She reallythought it did hurt. I perceived that she had, like so many people, aconfused mind. 

'Go on, ' I said. 

'I must begin a long way back. .. . You see, before Oliver fell in lovewith Jane, he . .. He cared a little for me. He really did, Mr. Juke. Andhe made me care for him. ' Her voice dropped to a whisper. 

This was truth. I felt no doubt as to that. 

'Then . .. Then Jane came, and took him away from me. He fell in love withher . .. I thought my heart would break. '

I didn't protest against the phrase, or ask her to explain it, becauseshe was unhappy. But I wish people wouldn't use it, because I don't know, and they don't know, what they mean by it. 'I thought I should be veryunhappy, ' is that the meaning? No, because they are already that. 'Ithought my heart--the physical organ--would be injuriously affected tothe point of rupture. ' No; I do not believe that is what they mean. Frankly, I do not know. There should be a dictionary of the phrases incommon use. 

However, it would have been pedantic and unkind to ask Miss Potter, whocould probably explain no phrases, to explain this. 

She went on, crying a little again. 

'I couldn't stop caring for him all at once. How could I? I supposeyou'll despise me, Mr. Juke, but I just couldn't help going on lovinghim. It's once and for ever with me. Oh, I expect you think it wasshameful of me!'

'Shameful? To love? No, why? It's human nature. You had bad luck, that's all. '

'Oh, I did. .. . Well, there it was, you see. He was married to Jane, and Icared for him so much that I could hardly bear to go to the house and seethem together. .. . Oh, it wasn't my fault; he _made_ me care, indeed hedid. I'd never have begun for myself, I'm not that sort of girl, I neverwas, I know some girls do it, but I never could have. I suppose I'm tooproud or something. '

She paused, but I made no comment. I never comment on the pride of whichI am so often informed by those who possess it. 

She resumed, 'Well, it went on and on, and I didn't seem to get tofeel any better about it. And I hated Jane. Oh, I know that waswicked, of course. '

As she knew it, I again made no comment. 

'And sometimes I think I hated _him_, when he thought of nothing but herand never at all of me. .. . Well, sometimes there was trouble betweenthem, because Jane would do things and go about with people he didn'tlike. And especially Mr. Gideon. We none of us like Mr. Gideon at home, you know; we think he's awful. He's so rude, and has such sillyopinions, and is so conceited and unkind. He's been awfully rude tofather's papers always. And that horrid article he had in his sillypaper about what he called 'Potterite Fiction, ' mostly about mother'sbooks--did you read it?'

'Yes. But Gideon didn't write it, you know. It was some one else. '

'Oh, well, it was in his paper, anyhow. And he _thought_ it. .. . And, anyhow, what are books, to hurt people's feelings about?'

(A laudable sentiment, and one which should be illuminated as a text onthe writing table of every reviewer. )

'Oh, of course I know he's a friend of yours, ' she added. 'That's reallywhy I came to you. .. . But we none of us like him at home. And Olivercouldn't stick him. And he begged Jane not to have anything more to dowith him, but she would. She wrote in his paper, and she was alwaysseeing him. And Oliver got more and more disgusted about it, and Icouldn't bear to see him unhappy. '

'No?' I questioned. 

She paused, checked by the interruption. Then, after a moment, shesaid, 'I suppose you mean I was glad really, because it came betweenthem. .. . Well, I don't know. .. . Perhaps I was, then. .. . Well, wouldn'tany one be?'

'Most people, ' I agreed. 'Yes?'

She went on a little less fluently, of which I was glad. Fluency andaccuracy are a bad pair. I would rather people stumbled and stammered outtheir stories than poured them. 

'And I think he thought--Oliver thought--he began to suspect--that Mr. Gideon was--you know--_in love_ with Jane. And I thought so too. Andhe thought Jane was careless about not discouraging him, and seeing somuch of him and all. But _I_ thought she was worse than that, andencouraged him, and didn't care. .. . Jane was always dreadfully selfish, you know. .. . '

'And . .. That evening?' I prompted her, as she paused. 

'Well, that evening, ' she shuddered a little, and went on quickly. 'I'dbeen dining with a friend, and I was to sleep at Jane's. I got there soonafter ten, and no one was in, so I went to my room to take my things off. Then I heard Jane come in, with Mr. Gideon. They went upstairs to thedrawing-room, and I heard them talking there. My door was a little open, and I heard what they said. And he said . .. '

'Perhaps, ' I suggested, 'you'd better not tell me what they said, sincethey thought they were alone. What do you think?'

'Oh, very well. There's no harm. I thought I'd better tell youeverything. But as you like. ' She was a little disappointed, but pickedherself up and continued. 

'Well, then I heard Oliver coming upstairs, and he stopped at thedrawing-room door for a moment before they saw him, I think, because hedidn't speak quite at once. Then he said, "Good evening, " and they said, "Hallo, " and they all began to be nasty--in their voices, you know. Hesaid he'd obviously come home before he was expected, and then Jane wentupstairs, pretending nothing was the matter--Jane never bothers aboutanything--and I heard Mr. Gideon come up to Oliver and ask him what hemeant by that. And they talked just outside my door, and they were verydisagreeable, but I suppose you don't want me to tell you what theysaid, so I won't. Anyhow it wasn't much, only Oliver gave Mr. Gideon tounderstand he wasn't to come there any more, and Mr. Gideon said hecertainly had no intention of doing so. Oh, yes, and he said, "Damn you"rather loud. And then he went downstairs and left the house. I heard thedoor shut after him, then I came out of my room, and there was Oliverstanding at the top of the stairs, looking as if he didn't see anything. He didn't seem to see me, even. I couldn't bear it, he was so white andangry and thinking of nothing but Jane, who wasn't worth thinking about, because she didn't care. .. . And then . .. I lost my head. I think I wasmad . .. I'd felt awfully queer for a long time. .. . I couldn't bear it anymore, his being unhappy about Jane and not even seeing me. I went up tohim and said, "Oliver, I'm glad you've got rid of that horrid man. "

'He stared at me and still didn't seem to see me. That somehow made mefurious. I said, "Jane's much too fond of him. .. . She's always with himnow. .. . They spent this evening together, you know, and came hometogether. "

'Then he seemed to wake up, and he looked at me with a look I hadn't everseen before, and it was as if the world was at an end, because I saw hehated me for saying that. And he said, "Kindly let my affairs and Jane'salone, " in a horrible, sharp, cold voice. I couldn't bear it. It seemedto kill something in me; my love for him, perhaps. I went first cold thenhot, and I was crazy with anger; I pushed him back out of the way to letme pass--I pushed him suddenly, and so hard that he lost his balance. .. . Oh, you know the rest. .. . He was standing at the top of those awfulstairs--why are people _allowed_ to make stairs like that?--and he reeledand fell backwards. .. . Oh, dear, oh, dear, and you know the rest. .. . '

She was sobbing bitterly now. 

'Yes, yes, ' I said, 'I know the rest, ' and I said no more for a time. 

I was puzzled. That she had truly repeated what had passed between herand Hobart I believed. But whether she had pushed him, or whether he hadlost his own balance, seemed to me still an open question. I had toconsider two things--how best to help this girl, and how to get Gideonout of the mess as quickly and as quietly as possible. For both thesethings I had to get at the truth--if I could. 

'Now, look here, ' I said presently, 'is this story you've told me whollytrue? Did it actually happen precisely like that? Please think for amoment and then tell me. '

But she didn't think, not even for a moment. 

'Oh, ' she sobbed, 'true! Why should I _say_ it if it wasn't?'

Why indeed? I began to enumerate some possible reasons--an inaccuratehabit of mind, a sensational imagination (both these misfortunes beinghereditary), an egotistic craving for attention, even unfavourableattention--it might be any of these things, or all. But I hadn't got farbefore she broke in, 'Oh, God. I've not had a moment's peace since . .. Iloved him, and I killed him. .. . I let them think it was an accident. .. . It was as if I was gagged, I _couldn't_ speak. And after a bit, when ithad all settled down, there didn't seem to be any reason why I should sayanything. .. . I never thought, truly I never thought, that they'd eversuspect some one else. .. . And then, a little while ago, I heard mothersaying something, to some one about Mr. Gideon, and last night KatherineVarick came and told Jane people were saying it everywhere. And thismorning there was that piece in the _Haste_. . .. Oh! what shall I _do?_'

'You don't really, ' I said, 'feel any doubt about that. Do you?'

She lifted her wet, puckered face and stared at me, and I saw that, forthe moment at least, she was not thinking of herself at all, but only ofher tragedy and her problem. 

'You mean, ' she whispered, 'that I must tell . .. '

'It's rather obvious, isn't it, ' I said gently, because I was horriblysorry for her. 'You must tell the truth, whatever it is. '

'And be tried for murder--or manslaughter? Appear in the docks?' shequavered, her frightened brown eyes large and round. 

'I don't think it would come to that. All you have to do is to tell yourparents. Your father is responsible for the stuff in the papers, and yourmother, I gather, for the spreading of the story personally. Yourconfession to them would stop that. They would withdraw, retract whatthey have said, and say publicly that they were mistaken, that theevidence they thought they had, had been proved false. Then it would begenerally assumed again that the thing was an accident, and the talkwould die down. No one need ever know but your parents and myself. I ambound, and they would choose, not to repeat it to any one. '

'Not to Jane?' she questioned. 

'Well, what does Jane think at present? Does she suspect?'

She shook her head. 'I don't know. Jane's been rather queer all day. .. . I've sometimes thought she suspected something. Only if she did, Ibelieve she'd have told me. Jane doesn't consider people's feelings, youknow; she'd say anything, however awful. .. . Only she's deep, too. Notlike me. I must have things out; she'll keep them dark, sometimes. .. . No, I don't know what Jane thinks, really I don't. '

I didn't know either. Another thing I didn't know was what Gideonthought. They might both suspect Clare, and this might have tied Gideon'shands; he might have shrunk from defending himself at the expense of afrightened, unhappy girl and Jane's sister. 

But this wasn't my business. 

'Well, ' I said, 'you may find you have to tell Jane. Perhaps, in a way, you owe it to Jane to tell her. But the essential thing is that youshould tell your parents. That's quite necessary, of course. And youshould do it at once--this evening, directly you get home. Every minutelost makes the thing worse. I think you should catch the next train backto Potter's Bar. You see, what you say may affect what is in to-morrowmorning's papers. This thing has to be stopped at once, before furtherdamage is done. '

She looked at me palely, her hands twisting convulsively in and out ofeach other. I saw her, for all her seven or eight-and-twenty years, as aweak, frightened child, ignorant, like a child, of the mischief she wasdoing to others, concerned, like a child, with her own troubles and fearsand the burden on her own conscience. I was inclined now to believe inthat push. 

'Oh, ' she whimpered, 'I _daren't_. .. . All this time I've saidnothing. .. . How can I, now? It's too awful . .. Too difficult . .. '

I looked at her in silence. 

'What's your proposal, then?' I asked her. I may have sounded hard andunkind, but I didn't feel so; I was immensely sorry for her. Only, Ibelieve a certain amount of hard practicality is the only wholesometreatment to apply to emotional and wordy people. One has to make themface facts, put everything in terms of action. If she had come to me foradvice, she should have it. If she had come to me merely to get relief byunburdening her tortured conscience, she should find the burden doubledunless she took the only possible way out. 

She looked this way and that, with scared, hunted eyes. 

'I thought perhaps . .. They might be made to think it was anaccident . .. '

'How?'

'Well, you see, I could tell them that he'd left the house--Mr. Gideon, Imean--before Oliver . .. Fell. That would be true. I could say I heard Mr. Gideon go, and heard Oliver fall afterwards. That's what I thought I'dsay. Then he'd be cleared, wouldn't he?'

'Why haven't you, ' I asked, 'said this already, directly you knew thatGideon was suspected?'

'I--I didn't like, ' she faltered. 'I wanted to ask some one's advice. Iwanted to know what you thought. '

'I've told you, ' I answered her, 'what I think. It's more than thinking. I know. You've got to tell them the exact truth whatever it is. There'sreally no question about it. You couldn't go to them with a half truestory . .. Could you?'

'I don't know, ' she sighed, pinching her fingers together nervously. 

'You do know. It would be impossible. You couldn't lie about a thing likethat. You've got to tell the truth. .. . Not all you've told me, if youdon't want to--but simply that you pushed him, in impatience, not meaningto hurt him, and that he fell. It's quite simple really, if you do it atonce. It won't be if you leave it until the thing has gone further andGideon is perhaps arrested. You'd have to tell the public the story then. Now it's easy. .. . No, I beg your pardon, it's not easy; I know that. It'svery hard. But there it is: it's got to be done, and done at once. '

She listened in silence, drooping and huddled together. I was remindedpitifully of some soft little animal, caught in a trap and paralysedwith fear. 

'Oh, ' she gasped, 'I must, I must, I know I must. But it's_difficult_ . .. '

I'm not going to repeat the things I said. They were the usual truisms, and one has to say them. I had accepted her story now: it seemed simpler. The complex part of the business was that at one moment I was simplypersuading a frightened and reluctant girl to do the straight and decentand difficult thing, and at the next I was wasting words on an egotist(we're all that, after all) who was subconsciously enjoying the situationand wanting to prolong it. One feels the difference always, and it isthat duplicity of aim in seekers after advice that occasionally makes onecruel and hard, because it seems the only profitable method. 

It must have been ten minutes before I wrung out of her a faltering butdefinite, 'I'll do it. '

Then I stood up. There was no more time to be wasted. 

'What train can you get?' I asked her. 

'I don't know. .. . The 7. 30, perhaps. ' She rose, too, her little wetcrumpled handkerchief still in her hand. I saw she had somethingelse to say. 

'I've been so miserable . .. '

'Well, of course. '

'It's been on my _mind_ so . .. '

What things people of this type give themselves the trouble of saying!

'Well, it will be off your mind now, ' I suggested. 

'Will it? But it will still be there--the awful thing I did. I ought toconfess it, oughtn't I, and get absolution? I do make my confession, youknow, but I've never told this, not properly. I know I ought to havedone, but I couldn't get it out ever--I put it so that the priestcouldn't understand. I suppose it was awfully mean and cowardly of me, and I ought to confess it properly. '

But I couldn't go into that question, not being entirely sure even now_what_ she ought to confess. I merely said, 'Well, why make confessionsat all if you don't make them properly?'

She only gave her little soft quivering sigh. It was too difficult aquestion for her to answer. And, after all, a foolish one to ask. Why dowe do all the hundreds of things that we don't do properly? Reasons aremany and motives mixed. 

I walked with her to the King's Cross bus and saw her into it. We shookhands as we parted, and hers was hot and clinging. I saw that she was alltense and strung up. 

'Good-bye, ' she whispered. 'And thank you ever so much for being so goodto me. I'll do what you told me to-night. If it kills me, I will. '

'That's good, ' I returned. 'But it won't kill you, you know. '

I smiled at her as she got on to the bus, and she smiled pitifully back. 

5

I walked back to my rooms. I felt rather tired, and had a queer feelingof having hammered away on something soft and yielding and yetunbreakable, like putty. I felt sick at having been so hard, and sick toothat she was so soft. Sick of words, and phrases, and facile emotions, and situations, and insincerities, and Potterisms--and yet with an oddtide of hope surging through the sickness, because of human nature, whichis so mixed that natural cowards will sometimes take a steep and hard waywhere they might take an easy one, and because we all, in the middle ofour egotism and vanity and self-seeking, are often sorry for what we havedone. Really sorry, beneath all the cheap penitence which leads nowhere. So sorry that we sometimes cannot bear it any more, and will break up ourown lives to make amends. .. . 

And if, at the same time, we watch our sorrow and our amends, and see itas drama and as interesting--well, after all, it is drama and it isinteresting, so why not? We can't all be clear and steelyunsentimentalists like Katherine Varick. 

One has to learn to bear sentimentalism. In parishes (which are theworld) one has to endure it, accept it. It is part of the generalmuddle and mess. 

6

I got a _Daily Haste_ next morning early, together with the _PinkPictorial_, the illustrated Pinkerton daily. I looked through themquickly. There was no reference to the Hobart Mystery. I was relieved. Clare Potter had kept her word, then--or anyhow had said enough to clearGideon (I wasn't going further than that about her; I had done my utmostto make her do the straight thing in the straight way, and must leave therest to her), and the Pinkertons were withdrawing. They would have, later, to withdraw more definitely than by mere abstaining from furtheraccusation (I intended to see to that, if no one else did), but this wasa beginning. It was, no doubt, all that Pinkerton had been able toarrange last night over the telephone. 

It would have interested me to have been present at that interviewbetween Clare and her parents. I should like to have seen Pinkertonprovided by his innocent little daughter with the sensation of his life, and Leila Yorke, the author of _Falsely Accused_ forced to realise herown abominable mischief-making; forced also to realise that her messagesfrom the other side had been as lacking in accuracy as, unfortunately, messages from this side, too, so often are. I hoped the affair Hobartwould be a lesson to both Pinkertons. But, like most of the lessons setbefore us in this life, I feared it would be a lesson unlearnt. 

Anyhow, Pinkerton was prompt and business like in his methods. Hisevening paper contained a paragraph to this effect:--

'DEATH OF MR HOBART

'NOW CONSIDERED ACCIDENTAL

'FOUL PLAY NOT SUSPECTED

'The investigation into the circumstances surrounding the sudden death ofMr. Oliver Hobart, the late editor of the _Daily Haste_, have resulted inconclusive evidence that the tragedy was due to Mr. Hobart's accidentalstumbling and falling. His fall, which was audible to the other inmatesof the house, took place after the departure of Mr. Arthur Gideon, withwhom he had been talking. A statement to this effect has been made byMiss Clare Potter, who was staying in the house at the time, and who wasat the time of the inquest too much prostrated by the shock to giveevidence. '

It was a retraction all right, and all that could be expected of thePinkerton Press. In its decision and emphasis I read scare. 

I didn't give much more thought just then to the business. I waspretty busy with meetings and committees, and with rehearsals of _ANew Way to pay Old Debts, _ which we were playing to the parish in aweek. I had stage-managed it at Oxford once, and had got some of thesame people together, and it was going pretty well but needed a gooddeal of attention. I had, too, to go away from town for a day or two, on some business connected with the Church Congress. Church Congresseskeep an incredible number of people busy about them beforehand;besides all the management of committees and programmes andside-shows, there is the management of all the people of divergentviews who won't meet each other, such as Mr. George Lansbury and Mr. Athelstan Riley. (Not that this delicate task fell to me; I was onlyconcerned with Life and Liberty. )

On the day after I came back I met Jane at the club, after lunch. Shecame over and sat down by me. 

'Hallo, ' she said. 'Have you been seeing the _Haste_?'

'I have. It's been more interesting lately than my own paper. '

'Yes. .. . So Arthur's acquitted without a stain on his character. Poormother's rather sick about it. She thought she'd had a Message, you know. That frightful Ayres woman had a vision in a glass ball of Arthurknocking Oliver downstairs. I expect you heard. Every one did. .. . Motherwent round to see her about it the other day, but she still sticks to it. Poor mother doesn't know what to make of it. Either the ball lied, or theAyres woman lied, or Clare is lying. She's forced to the conclusion thatit was the Ayres. So they've had words. I expect they'll make it upbefore long. But at present there's rather a slump in Other Sidebusiness. .. . And she wrote a letter of apology to Arthur. Father madeher, he was so afraid Arthur would bring a libel action. '

'Why didn't he?' I asked, wondering, first, how much of the trutheither Arthur or Jane had suspected all this time, and, secondly, howmuch they now knew. 

Jane looked at me with her guarded, considering glance. 

'Well, ' she said, 'I don't mind your knowing. You'd better not let on tohim that I told you, though; he mightn't like it. The fact is, Arthurthought I'd done it. He thought it was because my manner was so queer, asif I was trying to hush it up. I was. You see, I thought Arthur had doneit. It seemed so awfully likely. Because, I left them quarrelling. AndArthur's got an awfully bad temper. And _his_ manner was so queer. Wenever talked it out, till two days ago; we avoided talking to each otherat all, almost, after the first. But on that first morning, when he cameround to see me, we somehow succeeded in diddling one another, because wewere each so anxious to shield the other and hush it all up. .. . Claremight have saved us both quite a lot of worrying if she'd spoken out atonce and said it was . .. An accident. '

Jane's voice was so unemotional, her face and manner so calm, that sheis a very dark horse sometimes. I couldn't tell for certain whether shehad nearly instead of 'an accident' said 'her, ' or whether she hadspoken in good faith. I couldn't tell how much she knew, or had beentold, or guessed. 

I said, 'I suppose she didn't realise till lately that any one was likelyto be suspected, ' and Jane acquiesced. 

'Clare's funny, ' she said, after a moment. 

'People are, ' I generalised. 

'She has a muddled mind, ' said Jane. 

'People often have. '

'You never know, ' said Jane thoughtfully, 'how much to believe of whatshe says. '

'No? I dare say she doesn't quite know herself. '

'She does not, ' said Jane. 'Poor old Clare. '

We necessarily left it at that, since Jane didn't, of course, mean totell me what story Clare had told of that evening's happenings, and Icouldn't tell Jane the one Clare had told me. I didn't imagine I shouldever be wiser than I was now on the subject, and it certainly wasn't mybusiness any more. 

When I met Clare Potter by chance, a week or two later, on the steps ofthe National Gallery with another girl, she flushed, bowed, and passed mequickly. That was natural enough, after our last interview. 

Queer, that those two girls should be sisters. They were an interestingstudy to me. Clare, shallow, credulous, weak in the intelligence, conventional, emotional, sensitive, of the eternal type of orthodox andtimid woman, with profound powers of passion, and that touch ofmelodrama, that sense of a situation, which might lead her along strangepaths. .. . And Jane, level-headed, clear-brained, hard, calm, straight-thinking, cynical, an egotist to her finger-tips, knowing whatshe wanted and going for it, tough in the conscience, and ignorant oflove except in its crudest form of desire for the people and things whichministered to her personal happiness. .. . 

It struck me that the two represented two sides of Potterism--theintellectual and moral. Clare, the ignorant, muddle-headedsentimentalist; Jane, reacting against this, but on her part grabbing andexploiting. Their attitude towards truth (that bugbear of Potterism) wastypical; Clare couldn't see it; Jane saw it perfectly clearly, and wouldreject it without hesitation if it suited her book. Clare was like hermother, only with better, simpler stuff in her; Jane was rather like herfather in her shrewd native wit, only, while he was vulgar in his mind, she was only vulgar in her soul. 

Of one thing I was sure: they would both be, on the whole, satisfied withlife, Jane because she would get what she wanted, Clare because she wouldbe content with little. Clare would inevitably marry; as inevitably, shewould love her husband and her children, and come to regard her passionfor Oliver Hobart and its tragic sequel as a romantic episode ofgirlhood, a sort of sowing of wild oats before the real business of lifebegan. And Jane would, I presumed, ultimately marry Gideon, who was toogood for her, altogether too fine and too good. For Gideon was direct andkeen and passionate, and loved and hated cleanly, and thought finely andacutely. Gideon wasn't greedy; he took life and its pleasures andtriumphs and amusements in his stride, as part of the day's work; hedidn't seek them out for their own sakes. Gideon lived for causes andbeliefs and ideals. He was temperamentally Christian, though he didn'thappen to believe Christian dogma. He had his alloy, like other people, of ambition and selfishness, but so much less than, for instance, I have, that it is absurd that he should be the agnostic and I the professingChristian. 

7

The Christian Church. Sometimes one feels that it is a fantasy, theflaming ideal one has for it. One thinks of it as a fire, a sword, anarmy with banners marching against dragons; one doesn't see how suchpower can be withstood, be the dragons never so strong. And then onelooks round and sees it instead as a frail organisation of the lame, thehalt, and the blind, a tepid organisation of the satisfied, thebourgeois, the conventionally genteel, a helpless organisation of theignorant, the half-witted, the stupid; an organisation full to the brimof cant, humbug, timid orthodoxy, unreality, self-content, and all kindsof Potterism--and one doesn't see how it can overcome anything whatever. 

What is the truth? Where, between these two poles, does the actualchurch stand? Or does it, like most of us its members, swing to and frombetween them, touching now one, now the other? A Potterite church--yes;because we are most of us Potterites. An anti-Potterite church--yes, again; because at its heart is something sharp and clean and fine anddirect, like a sword, which will not let us be contented Potterites, butwhich is for ever goading us out of ourselves, pricking us out of ourtrivial satisfactions and our egotistic discontents. 

I suppose the fact is that the Church can only work on the material itfinds, and do a little here and a little there. It would be a sword inthe hands of such men as Gideon; on the other hand, it can't do muchwith the Clare Potters. The real thing frightens them if ever they seeit; the sham thing they mould to their own liking, till it is no morethan a comfortable shelter from the storms of life. It is the world'sPotters who have taken the Church and spoilt it, degraded it to thepoor dull thing it is. It is the Potterism in all of us which at everyturn checks and drags it down. Personally, I can forgive Potterismeverything but that. 

What is one to do about it?

PART VI:

TOLD BY R. M. 

CHAPTER I

THE END OF A POTTER MELODRAMA

1

While Clare talked to Juke in the vestry, Jane talked to her parents atPotter's Bar. She was trying to make them drop their campaign againstGideon. But she had no success. Lady Pinkerton said, 'The claims of Truthare inexorable. Truth is a hard god to follow, and often demands thesacrifice of one's personal feelings. ' Lord Pinkerton said, 'I think, nowthe thing has gone so far, it had better be thoroughly sifted. If Gideonis innocent, it is only due to him. If he is guilty, it is due to thepublic. You must remember that he edits a paper which has a certaincirculation; small, no doubt, but still, a circulation. He is notaltogether like a private and irresponsible person. '

Lady Pinkerton remarked that we are none of us that, we all owe a duty tosociety, and so forth. 

Then Clare came in, just as they had finished dinner. She would not haveany. Her face was red and swollen with crying. She said she had somethingto tell them at once, that would not keep a moment. Mr. Gideon mustn't besuspected any more of having killed Oliver, for she had done it herself, after Mr. Gideon had left the house. 

They did not believe her at first. She was hysterical, and they all knewClare. But she grew more circumstantial about it, till they began tobelieve it. After all, they reasoned, it explained her having been socompletely knocked over by the catastrophe. 

Jane asked her why she had done it. She said she had only meant to pushhim away from her, and he had fallen. 

Lady Pinkerton said, 'Push him away, my dear! Then was he . .. '

Was he too close, she meant. Clare cried and did not answer. LadyPinkerton concluded that Oliver had been trying to kiss Clare, and thatClare had repulsed him. Jane knew that Lady Pinkerton thought this, andso did Clare. Jane thought 'Clare means us to think that. That doesn'tmean it's true. Clare hasn't got what Arthur calls a grip on facts. '

Lord Pinkerton said, 'This is very painful, my dears; very painfulindeed. Jane, my dear . .. '

He meant that Jane was to go away, because it was even more painful forher than for the others. But Jane didn't go. It wasn't painful for Janereally. She felt hard and cold, and as if nothing mattered. She was angrywith Clare for crying instead of explaining what had happened. 

Lady Pinkerton said, passing her hand over her forehead in the tired wayshe had and shutting her eyes, 'My dear, you are over-wrought. You don'tknow what you are saying. You will be able to tell us more clearly inthe morning. '

But Clare said they must believe her now, and Lord Pinkerton musttelephone up to the _Haste_ and have the stuff about the HobartMystery stopped. 

'My poor child, ' said Lady Pinkerton, 'what has made you suddenly, solong after, tell us this terrible story?'

Clare sobbed that she hadn't been able to bear it on her mind any more, and also that she hadn't known till lately that Gideon was suspected. 

Lord and Lady Pinkerton looked at each other, wondering what to believe, then at Jane, wishing she was gone, so that they could ask Clare moreabout it. Jane said, 'Don't mind me. I don't mind hearing about it. ' Janemeant to stay. She thought that if she was gone they would persuade Clareshe had dreamed it all and that it had been really Gideon after all. 

Jane asked Clare why she had pushed Oliver, thinking that she ought toexplain, and not cry. But still Clare only cried, and at last said shecouldn't ever tell any one. Lady Pinkerton turned pink, and LordPinkerton walked up and down and said, 'Tut tut, ' and it was more obviousthan ever what Clare meant. 

She added, 'But I never meant, indeed I never meant, to hurt him. He justfell back, and . .. '

'Was killed, ' Jane finished for her. Jane thought Clare was like theirmother in trying to avoid plain words for disagreeable things. 

Clare cried and cried. 'Oh, ' she said, 'I've not had a happy momentsince, ' which was as nearly true as these excessive statements ever are. 

Lady Pinkerton tried to calm her, and said, 'My poor, dear child, youdon't know what you are saying. You must go to bed now, and tell us inthe morning, when you are more yourself. '

Clare didn't go to bed until Lord Pinkerton had promised to ring up the_Haste_. Then she went, with Lady Pinkerton, who was crying too now, because she was beginning to believe the story. 

2

Jane didn't know what she believed. She didn't believe what Clare hadimplied--that Oliver had tried to kiss her. Because Oliver hadn't beenlike that; it wasn't the sort of thing he did. Jane thought it caddish ofClare to have tried to make them think that of him. But she might, Janethought, have been angry with him about something else; she might havepushed him. .. . Or she might not; she might be imagining or inventing thewhole thing. You never knew, with Clare. 

If it was true, Jane thought, she had been a fool about Arthur. But, ifhe hadn't done it, why had he been so queer? Why had he avoided her, andbeen so odd and ashamed from the first morning on?

Perhaps, thought Jane, he had suspected Clare. 

She would see him to-morrow morning, and ask him. 

3

Jane saw Gideon next day. She rang him up, and he came over to Hampsteadafter tea. 

It was the first time Jane had seen him alone for more than a month. Helooked thin and ill. 

Jane loved him. She had loved him through everything. He might havekilled Oliver; it made no difference to her caring for him. 

But she hoped he hadn't. 

He came into the drawing-room. Jane remembered that other night, whenOliver--poor Oliver--had been vexed to find him there. Poor Oliver. PoorOliver. But Jane couldn't really care. Not really, only gently, and in away that didn't hurt. Not as if Gideon were dead and shut away fromeverything. Not as if she herself were. 

Jane didn't pretend. As Lady Pinkerton would say, the claims of Truthwere inexorable. 

Gideon came in quickly, looking grave and worried, as if he had somethingon his mind. 

Jane said, 'Arthur, please tell me. _Did_ you knock Oliver downthat night?'

He stood and stared at her, looking astonished and startled. 

Then he said, slowly, 'Oh, I see. You mean, am I going to admit that Idid, when I am accused. .. . If there's no other way out, I am. .. . It willbe all right, Jane, ' he said very gently. 'You needn't be afraid. '

Jane didn't understand him. 

'Then you did it, ' she said, and sat down. She felt sick, and herhead swam. 

Gideon stood over her, tall and stooping, biting the nail of hismiddle finger. 

'You see, ' Jane said, 'I'd begun to hope last night that you hadn't doneit after all. '

'What are you talking about?' he asked. 

Jane said, 'Clare told us that it happened--that he fell--after you hadleft the house. So I hoped she might be speaking the truth, and thatyou hadn't done it after all. But if you did, we must go on thinking ofways out. '

'If--I--did, ' Gideon said after her slowly. 'You know I didn't, Jane. Why are you talking like this? What's the use, when I know, and you know, and you know that I know, the truth about it? It can do no good. '

He was, for the first time, stern and angry with her. 

'The truth?' Jane said. 'I wish you'd tell it me, Arthur. '

The truth. If Gideon told her anything, it would be the truth, she knew. He wasn't like Clare, who couldn't. 

But he only looked at her oddly, and didn't speak. Jane looked back intohis eyes, trying to read his mind, and so for a moment he stared down ather and she stared up at him. 

Jane perceived that he had not done it. Had he, then, guessed all thistime that Clare had, and been trying to shield her?

Then, slowly, his face, which had been frowning and tense, changedand broke up. 

'Good God!' he said. 'Tell me the truth, Jane. It _was_ you, wasn't it?'

Then Jane understood. 

She said, 'You thought it was _me_. .. . And I thought it was you! Is it meyou've been so ashamed of all this time then, not yourself?'

'Yes, ' he said, still staring at her. 'Of course. .. . It _wasn't_ you, then. .. . And you thought it was me?. .. But how could you think that, Jane? I'd have told; I wouldn't have been such a silly fool as to sneakaway and say nothing. You might have known that. You must have had apretty poor opinion of me, to think I'd do that. .. . Good lord, how youmust have loathed me all this time!'

'No, I haven't. Have you loathed me, then?'

He said quickly, 'That's different, ' but he didn't explain why. 

After a moment he said, 'It was just an accident then, after all. '

'Yes . .. Clare was talking to him when he fell. .. . She's only just toldabout it, because you were being suspected. But I never know whether tobelieve Clare; she's such a gumph. I had to ask you. .. . What made yoususpect _me_, by the way?'

'Your manner, that first morning. You dragged me into the dining-room, doyou remember, and talked about how they all thought it was an accident, and no one would guess if we were careful, and I wasn't to say anything. What else was I to think? It was really your own fault. '

Jane said, 'Well, anyhow, we're quits. We've both spent six weeksthinking each other murderers. Now we'll stop. .. . I don't wonder youfought shy of me, Arthur. '

He looked at her curiously. 

'Didn't you fight shy of me, then? You can hardly have wanted to see muchof me in the circumstances. '

'I didn't, of course. It was awful. Besides, you were so queer anddisagreeable. I thought it was a guilty conscience, but really I supposeit was disgust. '

'Not disgust. No. Not that. ' He seemed to be balancing the word 'disgust'in his mind, considering it, then rejecting it. 'But, ' he said, 'it wouldhave been difficult to pretend nothing had happened, wouldn't it. .. . Ididn't blame you, you know, for the thing itself. I knew it must havebeen an accident--that you never meant . .. What happened. .. . Well, anyhow, that's all over. It's been pretty ghastly. Let's forget it. .. . What Potterish minds you and I must have, Jane, to have built up such asensational melodrama out of an ordinary accident. I think Lord Pinkertonwould find me useful on one of his papers; I'm wasted on the _Fact_. Youand I; the two least likely people in the world for such fancies, you'dthink--except Katherine. By the way, Katherine half thought I'd done it, you know. So did Jukie. '

'I'm inclined now to think that K thought I had, that evening she came tosee me. She was rather sick with me for letting you be accused. '

'A regular Potter melodrama, ' said Gideon. 'It might be in one of yourmother's novels or your father's papers. That just shows, Jane, howinfectious a thing Potterism is. It invades the least likely homes, andupsets the least likely lives. Horrible, catching disease. '

Gideon was walking up and down the room in his restless way, playing withthe things on the tables. He stopped suddenly, and looked at Jane. 

'Jane, ' he said, 'we won't, you and I, have any more secrets andconcealments between us. They're rotten things. Next time it occurs toyou that I've committed a crime, ask me if it is so. And I'll do the sameto you, at whatever risk of being offensive. We'll begin now by tellingeach other what we feel. .. . You know I love you, my dear. '

Oh, yes, Jane knew that. She said, 'I suppose I do, Arthur. '

He said, 'Then what about it? Do you . .. ' and she said, 'Rather, ofcourse I do. '

Then they kissed each other, and settled to get married next May or June. The baby was coming in January. 

'You'll have to put up with baby, you know, Arthur, ' Jane said. 

'Of course, poor little kid. I rather like them. It's rough luck on itnot having a father of its own. I'll try to be decent to it. '

That would be queer, thought Jane, Arthur being decent to Oliver's kid; aboy, perhaps, with Oliver's face and Oliver's mind. Poor little kid: butJane would love it, and Arthur would be decent to it, and itsgrandparents would spoil it; it would be their favourite, if any morecame. They wouldn't like the others, because they would be Gideon's. Theymight look like little Yids. Perhaps there wouldn't be any others. Janewasn't keen. They were all right when they were there--jolly littlecomics, all slippy in their baths, like eels--but they were anunspeakable nuisance while on the way. A rotten system. 

4

All next day Jane felt like stopping people in the streets and shoutingat them, 'Arthur didn't do it. Nor did I. It was only that silly ass, Clare, or else it was an accident. ' For even now Jane wasn't sure whichshe thought. 

But the only person to whom she really said it was Katherine. One toldKatherine things, because she was as deep and as quiet as the grave. Also, if Jane hadn't told her what Clare had said, she would have gone onthinking it was Jane, and Jane didn't like that. Jane did not care togive Katherine more reasons for making her feel cheap than necessary. Shewould always think Jane cheap, anyhow, because Jane only cared abouthaving a good time, and Katherine thought one should care chiefly aboutone's job. Jane supposed she was cheap, but didn't much care. She feltshe would rather be herself. She had a better time, and would have abetter time still before she had done; better than Johnny, with therubbishy books he was writing and making his firm bring out for him andfeeling so pleased with. Jane knew she could write better stuff thanJohnny could, any day. And her books would be in addition to Gideon, andbabies, and other amusing things. 

Jane told Katherine Clare's story. Katherine said, 'H'm. Perhaps. Iwonder. It's as likely as not all bumkum that she pushed him. She wasprobably talking to him when he fell, and got worked up about it later. The Potter press and Leila Yorke touch. However, you never know. Quite alight push might do it. Those stairs of yours are awful. I really adviseyou to be careful, Jane. '

'You thought I'd done it, didn't you, old thing?'

'For a bit, I did. For a bit I thought it was Arthur. So did Jukie. Younever know. Any one might push any one else. Even Clare may have. '

'You must have thought I was a pretty mean little beast, to let Arthur besuspected without owning up. '

'I did, ' Katherine admitted. 'Selfish . .. '

She was looking at Jane in her considering way. Her bright blue eyesseemed always to go straight through what she was looking at, likeX-rays. When she looked at Jane now, she seemed somehow to be seeing inher not only the present but the past. It was as if she remembered, andwas making Jane remember, all kinds of old things Jane had done. Thingsshe had done at Oxford; things she had done since; things Katherineneither blamed nor condemned, but just took into consideration whenthinking what sort of a person Jane was. You had the same feeling withKatherine that you had sometimes with Juke, of being analysed andunderstood all through. You couldn't diddle either of them into thinkingyou any nicer than you were. Jane didn't want to. It was more restfuljust to be taken for what one was. Oliver had been always idealising her. Gideon didn't do that; he knew her too well. Only he didn't bother muchabout what she was, not being either a priest or a scientific chemist, but a man in love. 

'By the way, ' said Katherine, 'are you and Arthur going to get married?'

Jane told her in May or June. 

Katherine, who was lighting a cigarette, looked at Jane without smiling. The flame of the match shone into her face, and it was white and coldand quiet. 

'She doesn't think I'm good enough for Arthur, ' Jane thought. And anyhow, K didn't, Jane knew, think much of marriage at all. Most women, if yousaid you were going to get married, assumed it was a good thing. Theycaught hold of you and kissed you. If you were a man, other men slappedyou on the back, or shook hands or something. They all thought, orpretended to think, it was a fine thing you were doing. They didn'treally think so always. Behind their eyes you could often see themthinking other things about it--wondering if you would like it, or whyyou chose that one, and if it was because you preferred him or her to anyone else or because you couldn't get any one else. Or they would bepitying you for stopping being a bachelor or spinster and having to growup and settle down and support a wife or manage servants and babies. Butall that was behind; they didn't show it; they would say, 'Good for you, old thing, ' and kiss you or shake your hand. 

Katherine did neither to Jane. She hadn't when it was Oliver Hobart, because she hadn't thought it a suitable marriage. She didn't, now it wasArthur Gideon, perhaps for the same reason. She didn't talk about it. Shetalked about something else. 

CHAPTER II

ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED

1

The fine weather ended. Early October had been warm, full of goldenlight, with clear, still evenings. Later the wind blustered, and it wascold. Sometimes Jane felt sick; that was the baby. But not often. Shewent about all right, and she was writing--journalism and a novel. Shethought she would perhaps send it in for a prize novel competition in thespring, only she felt no certainty of pleasing the three judges, all sovery dissimilar. Jane's work was a novel about a girl at school andcollege and thereafter. Perhaps it would be the first of a trilogy;perhaps it would not. The important thing was that it should be wellreviewed. How did one work that? You could never tell. Some things werewell reviewed, others weren't. Partly luck it was, thought Jane. Novelswere better treated usually than they deserved. Verse about as well as itdeserved, which, however, wasn't, as a rule, saying very much. Some kindsof book were unkindly used--anthologies of contemporary verse, forinstance. Someone would unselfishly go to the trouble of collecting someof the recent poetical output which he or she personally preferred andbinding it up in a pleasant portable volume, and you would think all thatreaders had to do was to read what they liked in it, if anything, andleave out the rest and be grateful. Instead, it would be slated byreviewers, and compared to the Royal Academy, and to a literary signpostpointing the wrong way, and other opprobrious things; as if an anthologycould point to anything but the taste of the compiler, which of coursecould not be expected to agree with any one else's; tastes never do. Thething was, thought Jane, to hit the public taste with the right thing atthe right moment. Another thing was to do better than Johnny. That shouldbe possible, because Jane _was_ better than Johnny; had always been. Onlythere was this baby, which made her feel ill before it came, and wouldneed care and attention afterwards. It wasn't fair. If Johnny married andhad a baby it wouldn't get in his way, only in its mamma's. It was ahandicap, like your frock (however short it was) when you were climbing. You had got round that by taking it off and climbing in knickerbockers, but you couldn't get round a baby. And Jane wanted the baby too. 

'I suppose I want everything, ' said Jane. 

Johnny wanted everything too. He got a lot. He got love. He waspolygamous by nature, and usually had more than one girl on hand. Thatautumn he had two. One was Nancy Sharpe, the violinist. They were alwaysabout together. People who didn't know either of them well, thought theywould get engaged. But neither of them wanted that. The other girl was adifferent kind: the lovely, painted, music-hall kind you don't meet. Noone thought Johnny would marry her, of course. They merely passed thetime for one another. 

Jane wondered if the equivalent man would pass the time for her. Shedidn't think so. She thought she would get bored with never talking aboutanything interesting. And it must, she thought, be pretty beastly havingto kiss people who used cheap scent and painted their lips. One would beafraid the red stuff would come off. In fact, it surely would. Didn't menmind--clean men, like Johnny? Men are so different, thought Jane. Johnnywas the same at Oxford. He would flirt with girls in tea-shops. Jane hadnever wanted to flirt with the waiters in restaurants. Men were perhapsless critical; or perhaps they wanted different qualities in those withwhom they flirted; or perhaps it was that their amatory instinct, whenpronounced at all, was much stronger than women's, and flowed out on toany object at hand when they were in the mood. Also, they certainly grewup earlier. At Oxford and Cambridge girls weren't, for the most part, grown-up enough to be thinking about that kind of thing at all. It cameon later, with most of them. But men of that age were, quite a lot ofthem, mature enough to flirt with the girls in Buol's. 

Jane discussed it with Gideon one evening. Gideon said, 'Men usuallyhave, as a rule, more sex feeling than women, that's all. Naturally. Theyneed more, to carry them through all the business of making marriageproposals and keeping up homes, and so on. Women often have very little. That's why they're often better at friendship than men are. A woman canbe a man's friend all their lives, but a man, in nine cases out of ten, will either get tired of it or want more. Women have a tremendous giftfor friendship. Their friendships with other women are usually much moredevoted and more faithful than a man's with other men. Most men, thoughof course not all, want sex in their lives at some time or other. Hundreds of women are quite happy without it. They're quite often nearlysexless. Very few men are that. '

Jane said, 'There are plenty of women like Clare, whom one can't think ofapart from sex. No friendship would ever satisfy her. If she isn't a wifeand mother she'll be starved. She'll marry, of course. '

'Yes, ' Gideon agreed. 'There are plenty of women like that. And when awoman is like that, she's much more dependent on love and marriage thanany man is, because she usually has fewer other things in her life. Butthere are women also like Katherine. '

'Oh, Katherine. K isn't even dependent on friendship. She only wants herwork. K isn't typical. '

'No; she isn't typical. She isn't a channel for the life force, like mostof us. She's too independent; she won't let herself be used in that way. '

'Am I a channel for the life force?' thought Jane. 'I suppose so. HenceOliver and baby. Is Arthur? I suppose so. Hence his wanting to marry me. '

2

Jane told her family that she was going to marry Gideon. Lady Pinkertonsaid, 'It's extraordinary to me that you can think of it, Jane, after allthat has happened. Surely, my child, the fact that it was the last thingOliver would wish should have some weight with you. Whatever plane he maybe on now, he must be disturbed by such news as this. Besides, dearchild, it is far too soon. You should wait at least a year before takingsuch a step. And Arthur Gideon! Not only a Jew, Jane, and not only a manof such very unfortunate political principles, but one who has neverattempted to conceal his spiteful hostility both to father's papers andmy books. But perhaps, as I believe you agree with him in despising bothof these, that may be an extra bond between you. Only you must _see_ thatit will make family life extremely awkward. '

Of course it would. But family lives nearly always are awkward, Janethought; it is one of the things about them. 

Lady Pinkerton added, having suddenly remembered it, 'Besides, my dear, he _drinks_; you told me so yourself. '

Jane said, if she had, she had lied, doubtless for some good reason nowforgotten by her. He didn't drink, not in the excessive sense of thatword obviously intended by Lady Pinkerton. Lady Pinkerton wasunconvinced; she still was sure he drank in that sense. 

She resumed, 'And Jewish babies! I wonder you can think of it, Jane. Theymay be a throw-back to a most degraded Russian-Jewish type. What brothersand sisters for the dear mite who is coming first! My dear, I do beg youto think this over long and seriously before committing yourself. You maylive to repent it bitterly. '

Clare said, '_Jane_! How _can_ you--after . .. '

After Oliver, she meant. She would never say his name; perhaps onedoesn't like to when one has killed a man. 

Jane thought, 'Why didn't I leave Oliver to Clare? She'd have suited himmuch better. I was stupid; I thought I wanted him. I did want him. Butnot in the way I want Arthur now. One wants so many things. '

Lord Pinkerton said, 'You're making a big mistake, Babs. That fellowwon't last. He's building on sand, as the Bible puts it--building onsand. I hear on good authority that the _Fact_ can't go on many monthslonger, unless it changes its tone and methods considerably; it's got nochance of fighting its way as it is now. People don't want that kind ofthing. They don't want anything the Gideon lot will give them. Gideon andhis sort haven't got the goods. They're building on the sand of their ownfancy, not on the rock of general human demand. I hear that that dailythey talked of starting can't come off yet, either. .. . The chap's a badinvestment, Babs. .. . And he despises me and my goods, you know. That'llbe awkward. '

'Not you, daddy. The papers, he does. He rather likes you, though hedoesn't approve of you. .. . He doesn't like mother, and she doesn't likehim. But people often don't get on with their mothers-in-law. '

'It's an awkward alliance, my dear, a very awkward alliance. What willpeople say? Besides, he's a Jew. '

Jewish babies; he was thinking of them too. 

Jane thought, bother the babies. Perhaps there wouldn't be any, and ifthere were, they'd only be a quarter Jew. Anyhow, it wasn't them shewanted; it was Arthur. 

Arthur opened doors and windows. You got to the edge of your own thought, and then stepped out beyond into his thought. And his thought drove sharpand hard into space. 

But more than this, Jane loved the way his hair grew, and the black linehis eyebrows made across his forehead, and the way he stood, tall andlean and slouching, and his keen thin face and his long thin hands, andthe way his mouth twisted up when he smiled, and his voice, and the wholeof him. She wondered if he loved her like that--if he turned hot and coldwhen he saw her in the distance. She believed that he did love her likethat. He had loved her, as she had loved him, all that time he hadthought she was lying to every one about Oliver's death. 

'It isn't what people do, ' said Jane, 'that makes one love them or stoploving them. '

'Is this, ' she thought, 'what Clare felt for Oliver? I didn't know it waslike this, or I wouldn't have taken him from her. Poor old Clare. ' Couldone love Oliver like that? Any one, Jane supposed, could be loved likethat, by the right person. And people like Clare loved more intenselythan people like her; they felt more, and had fewer other occupations. 

Jane hadn't known that she could feel so much about anything as she wasfeeling now about Gideon. It was interesting. She wondered how long itwould last, at this pitch. 

CHAPTER III

THE PRECISIAN AT WAR WITH THE WORLD

1

Jane's baby was born in January. As far as babies can be like grown humanbeings, it was like its grandfather--a little Potter. 

Lord Pinkerton was pleased. 

'He shall carry on the papers, ' he said, dandling it on his arm. 'Tootooloo, grandson!' He dug it softly in the ribs. He understood thisbaby. However many little Yids Jane might achieve in the future, therewould be this little Potter to carry on his own dreams. 

Clare came to see it. She was glad it wasn't like Oliver; Jane saw herbeing glad of that. She was beginning to fall in love with a youngnaval officer, but still she couldn't have seen Oliver in Jane's childwithout wincing. 

Gideon came to see it. He laughed. 

'Potter for ever, ' he said. 

He added. 'It's symbolic. Potters will be for ever, you know. They're sostrong. .. . '

The light from the foggy winter afternoon fell on his face as he sat bythe window. He looked tired and perplexed. Strength, perpetuity, seemedthings remote from him, belonging only to Potters. Anti-Potterism and the_Weekly Fact_ were frail things of a day, rooted in a dream. So Gideonfelt, on these days when the fog closed about him. .. . 

Jane looked at her son, the strange little animal, and thought not'Potter for ever, ' but 'me for ever, ' as was natural, and as parents willthink of their young, who will carry them down the ages in an ever moredistant but never lost immortality, an atom of dust borne on the hurryingstream. Jane, who believed in no other personal immortality, found it inthis little Potter in her arms. Holding him close, she loved him, in acurious, new, physical way. So this was motherhood, this queer, sensuous, cherishing love. It would have been a pity not to have known it; it was, after all, an emotion, more profound than most. 

2

When Jane was well enough, she gave a party for Charles, as if he hadbeen a new picture she had painted and wanted to show off. Her friendscame and looked at him, and thought how clever of her to have had him, all complete and alive and jolly like that, a real baby. He was betterthan the books and things they wrote, because he was more alive, andwould also last longer, with luck. Their books wouldn't have a run offour score years and ten or whatever it was; they'd be lucky if any onethought of them again in five years. 

But partly Jane gave the party to show people that Charles didn'tmonopolise her, that she was well and active again, and ready for workand life. If she wasn't careful, she might come to be regarded as themere mother, and dropped out. 

Johnny said, grinning amiably at her and Charles, 'Ah, you'rethinking that your masterpiece quite puts mine in the shade, aren'tyou, old thing. '

He had a novel just out. It was as good as most young men's first novels. 

'I'm not sure, ' said Jane, 'that Charles is my masterpiece. Wait till theother works appear, and I'll tell you. '

Johnny grinned more, supposing that she meant the little Yids. 

'My books, I mean, ' Jane added quickly. 

'Oh, your books. '

'They're going to be better than yours, my dear, ' said Jane. 'Wait andsee. .. . But I dare say they won't be as good as this. ' She appraisedCharles with her eyes. 

'But, oh, so much less trouble, ' she added, swinging him up and down. 

'I could have one as good as that, ' said Johnny thoughtfully, 'with notrouble at all. '

'You'd have to work for it and keep it. And its mother. You wouldn't likethat, you know. .. . Of course you ought to. It's your duty. Every youngman who survives. .. . Daddy says so. You'd better do it, John. You'regetting on, you know. '

Young men hate getting on. They hate it, really, more than young womendo. Youth is of such immense value, in almost any career, butparticularly to the young writer. 

But Johnny only said, with apparent nonchalance, 'Twenty-seven is notvery old. ' He added, however, 'Anyhow, you're five minutes older, andI've published a book, if you have produced that thing. '

Johnny was frankly greedy about his book. He hung on reviews; he askedfor it in bookshops, and expressed astonishment and contempt when theyhad not got it. And it was, after all, nothing to make a song about, Janethought. It wasn't positively discreditable to its writer, like mostnovels, but it was a very normal book, by a very normal cleverish youngman. Johnny wasn't sure that his publishers advertised it as much as wasdesirable. 

Gideon came up to Jane and Charles. He had just arrived. He had threeevening papers in his hand. His fellow passengers had left them in thetrain, and he had collected them. Jews often get their news that way. 

Johnny saw his friend Miss Nancy Sharpe disengaged and looking lovely, and went to speak to her. He was really in love with her a little, thoughhe didn't go as far as wanting to work for her and keep her. He was quiteright; that is to go too far, when so much happiness is attainable shortof it. Johnny wisely shunned desperate measures. So, to do her justice, did Miss Sharpe. 

'Johnny's very elated, ' said Jane to Gideon, looking after him. 'What do_you_ think of his book, Arthur?'

Gideon said, 'I don't think of it. I've had no reason to, particularly. I've not had to review it. .. . I'm afraid I'm hopeless about novels justnow, that's the fact. I'm sick of the form--slices of life served up coldin three hundred pages. Oh, it's very nice; it makes nice reading forpeople. But what's the use? Except, of course, to kill time for those whoprefer it dead. But as things in themselves, as art, they've been ruinedby excess. My critical sense is blunted just now. I can hardly feel thedifference, though I see it, between a good novel and a bad one. Icouldn't write one, good or bad, to save my life, I know that. And I'vegot to the stage when I wish other people wouldn't. I wish every onewould shut up, so that we could hear ourselves think--like in theArmistice Day pause, when all the noise stopped. '

Jane shook her head. 

'You may be sure we shan't do that. Not likely. We all want to hearourselves talk. And quite right too. We've got things to say. '

'Nothing of importance. Few things that wouldn't be better unsaid. Lifeisn't talking. '

'A journalist's is, ' Jane pointed out, and he nodded. 

'Quite true. Horribly true. It's chiefly myself I'm hitting at. But atleast we journalists don't take ourselves solemnly; we know our stuff isbabble to fill a moment. Novelists and poets don't always know that;they're apt to think it matters. And, of course, so far as any of themcan make and hold beauty, even a fragment of it here and there, it doesmatter. The trouble is that they mostly can't do anything of the sort. They don't mostly even know how to try. All but a few verse-makers areshallow, muddled, or sentimental, and most novelists are commercial aswell. They haven't the means; they aren't adequately equipped; they'venothing in them worth the saying. Why say it, then? A little clevernessisn't worth while. '

'You're morbid, Arthur. '

'Morbid? Diseased? I dare say. We most of us are. What's health, afterall? No one knows. '

'I've done eighty thousand words of my novel, anyhow. '

'I'm sorry. Nearly all novels are too long. All you've got to say wouldgo into forty thousand. '

'I don't write because I've got things to say. I haven't a message, likemother. I write because it amuses me. And because I like to be anovelist. It's done. And I like to be well spoken of--reasonably well, that is. It's all fun. Why not?'

'Oh, don't ask _me_ why not. I can't preach sermons all the evening. '

He smiled down on her out of his long sad black eyes, glad of her becauseshe saw straight and never canted, impatient of her because her idealswere commercial, loving her because she was gray-eyed and white-skinnedand desirable, seeing her much as Nancy Sharpe, who lived for music, sawJohnny Potter, only with ardour instead of nonchalance; such ardour, indeed, that his thoughts of her only intermittently achieved exactitude. 

Two girls came up to admire Charles. Jane said it was time she took himto bed, and they went up with her. 

Gideon turned away. He hated parties, and seldom went even to Jane's. Hestood drinking coffee and watching people. You met most of them at theclub and elsewhere continually; why meet them all again in adrawing-room? There was his sister Rosalind and her husband Boris Stefanwith their handsome faces and masses of black hair. Rosalind had a babytoo (at home); a delicate, pretty, fair-haired thing, like Rosalind'sManchester mother. And Charles was like Jane's Birmingham father. It wasManchester and Birmingham that persisted, not Palestine or Russia. 

And there was Juke, with his white, amused face and heavy-lidded eyesthat seemed always to see a long way, and Katherine Varick talking to anaval officer about periscopes (Jane kept in with some of the Admiralty), and Peacock, with whom Gideon had quarrelled two hours ago at the _Fact_office, and who was now in the middle of a group of writing young men, asusual. Gideon looked at him cynically. Peacock was letting himself be gotat by a clique. Gideon would rather have seen him talking to thepractical looking sailor about periscopes. Peacock would have to bewatched. He had shown signs lately of colouring the _Fact_ withprejudices. He was getting in with a push; he was dangerously in themovement. He was also leaning romancewards, and departing from the realmof pure truth. He had given credence to some strange travellers' tales ofForeign Office iniquities. As if that unfortunate and misguided body hadnot enough sins to its account without having melodramatic anduncharacteristic kidnappings and deeds of violence attributed to it. ButPeacock had got in with those unhappy journalists and others who had beenviewing Russia, and, barely escaping with their lives, had come back withnothing else, and least of all with that accurate habit of mind whichwould have qualified them as contributors to the _Weekly Fact_. It wasnot their fault (except for going to Russia), but Peacock should have hadnothing to do with them. 

Katherine Varick crossed the room to Gideon, with a faint smile. 

'Hallo. Enjoying life?'

'Precisely that. '

'I say, what are you doing with the _Fact_?'

Gideon looked at her sourly. 

'Oh, you've noticed it too. It's becoming quite pretty reading, isn't it. Less like a Blue Book. '

'Much less. I should say it was beginning to appeal to a wider circle. Is that the idea?'

'Don't ask me. Ask Peacock. Whatever the idea is, it's his, not mine. .. . But it's not a considered idea at all. It's merely a yielding to the(apparently) irresistible pressure of atmosphere. '

'I see. A truce with the Potter armies. '

'No. There's no such thing as a truce with them. It's the first steps ofa retreat. '

He said it sharply and suddenly, in the way of a man who is, at themoment, making a discovery. He turned and looked across the room atPeacock, who was talking and talking, in his clever, keen, pleasant way, not in the least like a Blue Book. 

'We're _not_ like Blue Books, ' Gideon muttered sadly. 'Hardly any one is. Unfortunate. Very unfortunate. What's one to do about it?'

'Lord Pinkerton would say, learn human nature as it is and build on it. Exploit its weaknesses, instead of tilting against them. Acceptsentimentality and prejudice, and use them. '

'I am aware that he would. .. . What do _you_ say, Katherine?'

'Nothing. What's the use? I'm one of the Blue Books--not a fair judge, therefore. '

'No. You'd make no terms, ever. '

'I've never been tempted. One may have to make terms, sometimes. '

'I think not, ' said Gideon. 'I think one never is obliged to make terms. '

'If the enemy is too strong?'

'Then one goes under. Gets out of it. That's not making terms. .. . Good-night; I'm going home. I hate parties, you know. So do you. Why doeither of us go to them?'

'They take one's thoughts off, ' said Katherine in her own mind. Her blueeyes contracted as she looked after him. 

'He's failing; he's being hurt. He'll go under. He should have been ascientist or a scholar or a chemist, like me; something in whichknowledge matters and people don't. People will break his heart. '

3

Gideon walked all the way back from Hampstead to his own rooms. It was asoft, damp night, full of little winds that blew into the city fromFebruary fields and muddy roads far off. There would be lambs in thefields. .. . Gideon suddenly wanted to get out of the town into that damp, dark country that circled it. There would be fewer people there; fewerminds crowded together, making a dense atmosphere that was impervious tothe piercing, however sharp, of truth. All this dense mass of stupid, muddled, huddled minds. .. . What was to be done with it? Greedy minds, ignorant minds, sentimental, truthless minds. .. . 

He saw, as he passed a newspaper stand, placards in big blackletters--'Bride's Suicide. ' 'Divorce of Baronet. ' Then, small andinconspicuous, hardly hoping for attention, 'Italy and the Adriatic. ' Forone person who would care about Italy and the Adriatic, there would, presumably, be a hundred who would care about the bride and the baronet. Presumably; else why the placards? Gideon honestly tried to bend hisimpersonal and political mind to understand it. He knew no such people, yet one had to believe they existed; people who really cared that a bridewith whom they had no acquaintance (why a bride? Did that make her moreinteresting?) had taken her life; and that a baronet (also a perfectstranger) had had his marriage dissolved in a court of law. What qualitydid it indicate, this curious and inexplicable interest in these topicsso tedious to himself and to most of his personal acquaintances? Was it alove of romance? But what romance was to be found in suicide or divorce?Romance Gideon knew; knew how it girdled the world, heard the beat of itssteps in far forests, the whisper of its wings on dark seas. .. . It isthere, not in divorces and suicides. Were people perhaps moved by desireto hear about the misfortunes of others? No, because they also welcomedwith eagerness the more cheerful domestic episodes reported. Was it, then, some fundamental, elemental interest in fundamental things, such aslove, hate, birth, death? That was possibly it. The relation of statesone with another are the product of civilisation, and need an at leastrudimentarily political brain to grasp them. The relations of humanbeings are natural, and only need the human heart for theirunderstanding. That part of man's mind which has been, for some obscurereason, inaccurately called the heart, was enormously anddisproportionately stronger than the rest of the mind, the thinking part. 

'Light Caught Bending, ' another placard remarked. That was more cheerful, though it was an idiotic way of putting a theory as to the curvature ofspace, but it was refreshing that, apparently, people were expected to beexcited by that too. And, Gideon knew it, they were. Einstein's theoryas to space and light would be discussed, with varying degrees ofintelligence, most of them low, in many a cottage, many a club, many atrain. There would be columns about it in the Sunday papers, with littleSunday remarks to the effect that the finiteness of space did not limitthe infinity of God. Scientists have naïf minds where God is concerned;they see him, if at all, in terms of space. 

Anyhow, there it was. People were interested not only in divorce, suicide, and murder, but in light and space, undulations and gravitation. That was rather jolly, for that was true romance. It gave one more hope. Even though people might like their science in cheap and absurd tabloidform, they did like it. The Potter press exulted in scientificdiscoveries made easy, but it was better than not exulting in them atall. For these were things as they were, and therefore the things thatmattered. This was the satisfying world of hard, difficult facts, withoutslush and without sentiment. This was the world where truth was soughtfor its own sake. 

'When I see truth, do I seek truthOnly that I may things denote, And, rich by striving, deck my youthAs with a vain, unusual coat?'

Nearly every one in the ordinary world did that, if indeed they everconcerned themselves with truth at all. And some scientists too, perhaps, but not most. Scientists and scholars and explorers--they were thepeople. They were the world's students, the learners, the discoverers. They didn't talk till they knew. .. . 

Rain had begun to drizzle. At the corner of Marylebone Road and BakerStreet there was a lit coffee-stall. A group clustered about it; apoliceman drinking oxo, his waterproof cape shining with wet; twotaxi-cab drivers having coffee and buns; a girl in an evening cloak, witha despatch case, eating biscuits. 

Gideon passed by without stopping. A hand touched him on the arm, and apainted face looked up into his, murmuring something. Gideon, who had aparticular dislike for paint on the human face, and, in general, forpersons who looked and behaved like this person, looked away from herand scowled. 

'I only wanted, ' she explained, 'a cup of coffee . .. ' and he gave hersixpence, though he didn't believe her. 

Horrible, these women were; ugly; dirty; loathsome; so that one wonderedwhy on earth any one liked them (some people obviously did like them, orthey wouldn't be there), and yet, detestable as they were, they were theoutcome of facts. Possibly in them, and in the world's other ugly facts, Potterism and all truth-shirking found whatever justification it had. Sentimentalism spread a rosy veil over the ugliness, draping it decently. Making it, thought Gideon, how much worse; but making it such asPotterites could face unwincing. 

The rain beat down. At its soft, chill touch Gideon's brain cooled andcooled, till he seemed to see everything in a cold, hard, crystalclarity. Life and death--how little they mattered. Life was paltry, anddeath its end. Yet when the world, the Potterish world, dealt with deathit became something other than a mere end; it became a sensation, aproblem, an episode in a melodrama. The question, when a man died, wasalways how and why. So, when Hobart had died, they were all dragged intoa net of suspicion and melodrama--they all became for a time absurdactors in an absurd serial in the Potter press. You could not escape fromsensationalism in a sensational world. There was no room for the pedant, with his greed for unadorned and unemotional precision. 

Gideon sighed sharply as he turned into Oxford Street, Oxford Street wasand is horrible. Everything a street should not be, even when it wasdown, and now it was up, which was far worse. If Gideon had not beenunnerved by the painted person at the corner of Baker Street he wouldnever have gone home this way, he would have gone along Marylebone andEuston Road. As it was, he got into a bus and rode unhappily to Gray'sInn Road, where he lived. 

He sat up till three in the morning working out statistics for anarticle. Statistics, figures, were delightful. They were a rest. They mattered. 

4

Two days later, at the _Fact_ office, Peacock, turning over galley slips, said, 'This thing of yours on Esthonian food conditions looks like agovernment schedule. Couldn't you make it more attractive?'

'To whom?' asked Gideon. 

'Well--the ordinary reader. '

'Oh, the ordinary reader. I meant it to be attractive to people who wantinformation. '

'Well, but a little jam with the powder. .. . For instance, you draw noinference from your facts. It's dull. Why not round the thing off into agood article?'

'I can't round things. I don't like them round, either. I've given thefacts, unearthed with considerable trouble and pains. No one else has. Isn't it enough?'

'Oh, it'll do. ' Peacock's eyes glanced over the other proofs on his desk. 'We've got some good stuff this number. '

'Nice round articles--yes. ' Gideon turned the slips over with his leanbrown fingers carelessly. He picked one up. 

'Hallo. I didn't know that chap was reviewing _Coal and Wages_. '

'Yes. He asked if he could. '

'Do you think he knows enough?'

'It's quite a good review. Read it. '

Gideon read it carefully, then laid it down and said, 'I don't agree withyou that it's a good review. He's made at least two mistakes. And thewhole thing's biased by his personal political theories. '

'Only enough to give it colour. '

'You don't want colour in a review of a book of that sort. You only wantintelligence and exact knowledge. '

'Oh, Clitherton's all right. His head's screwed on the right way. Heknows his subject. '

'Not well enough. He's a political theorist, not a good economist. That'shopeless. Why didn't you get Hinkson to do it?'

'Hinkson can't write for nuts. '

'Doesn't matter. Hinkson wouldn't have slipped up over his figuresor dates. '

'My dear old chap, writing does matter. You're going crazy on thatsubject. Of course it matters that a thing should be decently puttogether. '

'It matters much more that it should be well informed. It is, of course, quite possible to be both. '

'Oh, quite. That's the idea of the _Fact_, after all. '

'Peacock, I hate all these slipshod fellows you get now. I wish you'dchuck the lot. They're well enough for most journalism, but they don'tknow enough for us. '

Peacock said, 'Oh, we'll thrash it out another time, if you don't mind. I've got to get through some letters now, ' and rang for his secretary. 

Gideon went to his own room and searched old files for the verificationand correction of Clitherton's mistakes. He found them, and made a noteof them. Unfortunately they weakened Clitherton's argument a little. Clitherton would have to modify it. Clitherton, a sweeping and wholesaleperson, would not like that. 

Gideon was feeling annoyed with Clitherton, and annoyed with severalothers among that week's contributors, and especially annoyed withPeacock, who permitted and encouraged them. If they went on like this, the _Fact_ would soon be popular; it would find its way into the greatsoft silly heart of the public and there be damned. 

He was a pathetic figure, Arthur Gideon, the intolerant precisian, fighting savagely against the tide of loose thinking that he saw surgingin upon him, swamping the world and drowning facts. He did not seehimself as a pathetic figure, or as anything else. He did not see himselfat all, but worked away at his desk in the foggy room, checking theunconsidered or inaccurate or oversimplified statements of others, writing his own section of the Notes of the Week, with his careful, patient, fined brilliance, stopping to gnaw his pen or his thumb-nail orto draw diagrams, triangle within triangle, or circle intersectingcircle, on his blotting paper. 

CHAPTER IV

RUNNING AWAY

1

A week later Gideon resigned his assistant editorship of the _Fact_. Peacock was, on the whole, relieved. Gideon had been getting toodifficult of late. After some casting about among eager, outwardlyindifferent possible successors, Peacock offered the job to JohnnyPotter, who was swimming on the tide of his first novel, which had beenwhat is called 'well spoken of' by the press, but who, at the same time, had the popular touch, was quite a competent journalist, was looking outfor a job, and was young enough to do what he was told; that is to say, he was four or five years younger than Peacock. He had also a fervententhusiasm for democratic principles and for Peacock's prose style(Gideon had been temperate in his admiration of both), and Peacockthought they would get on very well. 

Jane was sulky, jealous, and contemptuous. 

'Johnny. Why Johnny? He's not so good as lots of other people who wouldhave liked the job. He's swanking so already that it makes me tired to bein the room with him, and now he'll be worse than ever. Oh, Arthur, it isrot, your chucking it. I've a jolly good mind not to marry you. I thoughtI was marrying the assistant editor of an important paper, not just alazy old Jew without a job. '

She ruffled up his black, untidy hair with her hand as she sat on thearm of his chair; but she was really annoyed with him, as she hadexplained a week ago when he had told her. 

2

He had walked in one evening and found her in Charles's bedroom, bathinghim. Clare was there too, helping. 

'Why do girls like washing babies?' Gideon speculated aloud. 'They nearlyall do, don't they?'

'Well, I should just _hope_ so, ' Clare said. She was kneeling by the tinbath with her sleeves rolled up, holding a warmed towel. Her face wasflushed from the fire, and her hair was loosened where Charles had caughthis toe in it. She looked pretty and maternal, and looked up at Gideonwith the kind of conventional, good-humoured scorn that girls and womenput on when men talk of babies. They do it (one believes) partly becausethey feel it is a subject they know about, and partly to pander to men'sdesire that they should do it. It is part of the pretty play between thesexes. Jane never did it; she wasn't feminine enough. And Gideon did notwant her to do it; he thought it silly. 

'Why do you hope so?' asked Gideon. 'And why do girls like it?'

The first question was to Clare, the second to Jane, because he knew thatClare would not be able to answer it. 

'The mites!' said Clare. 'Who _wouldn't_ like it?'

Gideon sighed a little, Clare tried him. She had an amorphous mind. ButJane threw up at him, as she enveloped Charles in the towel, 'I'll tryand think it out some time, Arthur. I haven't time now. .. . There's areason all right. .. . The powder, Clare. '

Gideon watched the absurd drying and powdering process with gravity andinterest, as if trying to discover its charm. 

'Even Katherine enjoys it, ' he said, still pondering. It was true. Katherine, who liked experimenting with chemicals, liked also washingbabies. Possibly Katherine knew why, in both cases. 

After Charles was in bed, his mother, his aunt, and his prospectivestepfather had dinner. Clare, who was uncomfortable with Gideon, notliking him as a brother-in-law or indeed as anything else (besides notbeing sure how much Jane had told him about 'that awful night'), chattered to Jane about things of which she thought Gideon knewnothing--dances, plays, friends, family and Potters Bar gossip. Gideonbecame very silent. He and Clare touched nowhere. Clare flaunted thefamily papers in his face and Jane's. Lord Pinkerton was starting a newone, a weekly, and it promised to sell better than any other weekly onthe market, but far better. 

'Dad says the orders have been simply stunning. It's going to be a bigthing. Simple, you know, and yet clever--like all dad's papers. Davidsays' (David was the naval officer to whom Clare was now betrothed)'there's _no one_ with such a sense of what people want as dad has. Farmore of it than Northcliffe, David says he has. Because, you know, Northcliffe sometimes annoys people--look at the line he took about ushelping the Russians to fight each other. And making out in leaders, David says, that the Government is always wrong just because he doesn'tlike it. And drawing attention to the mistakes it makes, which no onewould notice if they weren't rubbed in. David gets quite sick with himsometimes. He says the Pinkerton press never does that sort of thing, it's got too much tact, and lets well alone. '

'I'll, you mean, don't you, darling?' Jane interpolated. 

Clare, who did, but did not know it, only said, 'David's got a tremendousadmiration for it. He says it will _last_. '

'Oh, bother the paternal press, ' Jane said. 'Give it a rest, old thing. It may be new to David, but it's stale to us. It's Arthur's turn to talkabout his father's bank or something. '

But Arthur didn't talk. He only made bread pills, and the girls got on tothe newest dance. 

3

Clare went away after dinner. She never stayed long when Gideon wasthere. David didn't like Gideon, rightly thinking him a Sheeney. 

'Sheeneys are at the bottom of Bolshevism, you know, ' he told Clare. 'Atthe top too, for that matter. Dreadful fellows; quite dreadful. Why thedickens do you let Jane marry him?'

Clare shrugged her shoulders. 

'Jane does what she likes. Dad and mother have begged and prayed her notto. .. . Besides, of course, even if he was all right, it's too _soon_. .. . '

'Too soon? Ah, yes, of course. Poor Hobart, you mean. Quite. Much toosoon. .. . A dreadful business, that. I don't blame her for trying to putit behind her, out of sight. But with a _Sheeney_. Well, _chacun a songoût. '_ For David was tolerant, a live and let live man. 

When Clare was gone, Jane said, 'Wake up, old man. You can talk now. .. . You and Clare are stupid about each other, by the way. You'll have to getover it some time. You're ill-mannered and she's a silly fool; butill-mannered people and silly fools can rub along together, all right, ifthey try. '

'I don't mind Clare, ' said Gideon, rousing himself. 'I wasn't thinkingabout her, to say the truth. I was thinking about something else. .. . I'mchucking the _Fact_, Jane. '

'How d'you mean, chucking the _Fact_' Jane lit a cigarette. 

'What I say. I've resigned my job on it. I'm sick of it. '

'Oh, sick. .. . Every one's sick of work, naturally. It's what work isfor. .. . Well, what are you doing next? Have you been offered abetter job?'

'I've not been offered a job of any sort. And I shouldn't take it if Iwere--not at present. I'm sick of journalism. '

Jane took it calmly, lying back among the sofa cushions and smoking. 

'I was afraid you were working up to this. .. . Of course, if you chuck the_Fact_ you take away its last chance. It'll do a nose-dive now. '

'It's doing it anyhow. I can't stop it. But I'm jolly well not going tonose-dive with it. I'm clearing out. '

'You're giving up the fight, then. Caving in. Putting your hands up toPotterism. '

She was taunting him, in her cool, unmoved, leisurely tones. 

'I'm clearing out, ' he repeated, emphasising the phrase, and his blackeyes seemed to look into distances. 'Running away, if you like. Thisthing's too strong for me to fight. I can't do it. Clare's quite right. It's tremendous. It will last. And the Pinkerton press only representsone tiny part of it. If the Pinkerton press were all, it would befightable. But look at the _Fact_--a sworn enemy of everything thePinkerton press stands for, politically, but fighting it with its ownweapons--muddled thinking, sentimentality, prejudice, loose cant phrases. I tell you there'll hardly be a halfpenny to choose between the Pinkertonpress and the _Fact_, by the time Peacock's done with it. .. . It's notPeacock's fault--except that he's weak. It's not the Syndicate'sfault--except that they don't want to go on losing money for ever. It'sthe pressure of public demand and atmosphere. Atmosphere even more thandemand. Human minds are delicate machines. How can they go on workingtruly and precisely and scientifically, with all this poisonous gasfloating round them? Oh, well, I suppose there are a few minds stillwhich do; even some journalists and politicians keep their heads; butwhat's the use against the pressure? To go in for journalism or forpublic life is to put oneself deliberately into the thick of the messwithout being able to clean it up. '

'After all, ' said Jane, more moderately, 'it's all a joke. Everything is. The world is. '

'A rotten bad joke. '

'You think things matter. You take anti-Potterism seriously, as somepeople take Potterism. '

'Things are serious. Things do matter, ' said the Russian Jew. 

Jane looked at him kindly. She was a year younger than he was, but feltfive years older to-night. 

'Well, what's the remedy then?'

He said, wearily, 'Oh, education, I suppose. Education. There's nothingelse. _Learning_. ' He said the word with affection, lingering on it, striking his hand on the sofa-back to emphasise it. 

'Learning, learning, learning. There's nothing else. .. . We should dropall this talking and writing. All this confused, uneducated mass ofself-expression. Self-expression, with no self worth expressing. That'sjust what we shouldn't do with our selves--express them. We should trainthem, educate them, teach them to think, see that they _know_something--know it exactly, with no blurred edges, no fogs. Be sure ofour facts, and keep theories out of the system like poison. And when wesay anything we should say it concisely and baldly, without eloquence andfrills. Lord, how I loathe eloquence!'

'But you can't get away from it, darling. All right, don't mind me, Ilike it. .. . Well now, what are you going to _do_ about it? Teach in acontinuation school?'

'No, ' he said, seriously. 'No. Though one might do worse. But I've got toget right away for a time--right out of it all. I've got to find thingsout before I do anything else. '

'Well, there are plenty of, things to find out here. No need to go awayfor that. '

He shook his head. 

'Western Europe's so hopeless just now. So given over to muddle and lies. Besides, I can't trust myself, I shall talk if I stay. I'm not a strongsilent man. I should find myself writing articles, or standing forParliament, or something. '

'And very nice too. I've always said you ought to stand for Labour. '

'And I've sometimes agreed with you. But now I know I oughtn't. That'snot the way. I'm not going to join in that mess. I'm not good enough tomake it worth while. I should either get swamped by it, or I should getso angry that I should murder some one. No, I'm going right out of it allfor a bit. I want to find out a little, if I can, about how things are inother countries. Central Europe. Russia. I shall go to Russia. '

'Russia! You'll come back and write about it. People do. '

'I shall not. No, I think I can avoid that--it's too obvious a temptationto tumble into with one's eyes shut. '

'"He travelled in Russia and never wrote of it. " It would be a goodepitaph. .. . But Arthur darling, is it wise, is it necessary, is it safe?Won't the Reds get you, or the Whites? Which would be worse, I wonder?'

'What should they want with me?'

'They'll think you're going to write about them, of course. That's whythe Reds kidnapped Keeling, and the Whites W. T. Goode. They were quiteright, too--except that they didn't go far enough and make a job of them. Suppose they've learnt wisdom by now, and make a job of you?'

'Well then, I shall be made a job of. Also a placard for our sensationalpress, which would be worse. One must take a few risks. .. . It will beinteresting, you know, to be there. I shall visit my father's old homenear Odessa. Possibly some of his people may be left round there. I shallfind things out--what the conditions are, why things are happening asthey are, how the people live. I think I shall be better able after thatto find out what the state of things is here. One's too provincial, toomuch taken up with one's own corner. Political science is too universal athing to learn in that way. '

'And when you've found out? What next?'

'There's no next. It will take me all my life even to begin to find out. I don't know where I shall be--in London, no doubt, mostly. '

'Do you mean, Arthur, that you're going to chuck work for good? Writing, I mean, or public work?'

'I hope so. I mean to. Oh, if ever, later on, I feel I have anything Iwant to say, I'll say it. But that won't be for years. First I'm going tolearn. .. . You see, Jane, we can live all right. Thank goodness, I don'tdepend on what I earn. .. . You and I together--we'll learn a lot. '

'Oh, I'm going in for confused self-expression. I'm not taking any vowsof silence. I'm going to write. '

'As you like. Every one's got to decide for themselves. It amuses you, I suppose. '

'Of course, it does. Why not? I love it. Not only writing, but being inthe swim, making a kind of a name, doing what other people do. I'm notmother, who does but write because she must, and pipes but as thelinnets do. '

'No, thank goodness. You're as intellectually honest as any one I know, and as greedy for the wrong things. '

'I want a good time. Why not?'

'Why not? Only that, as long as we're all out for a good time, those ofus who can afford to will get it, and nothing more, and those of us whocan't will get nothing at all. You see, I think it's taking hold ofthings by the wrong end. As long as we go on not thinking, not findingout, but greedily wanting good things--well, we shall be as we are, that's all--Potterish. '

'You mean I'm Potterish, ' observed Jane, without rancour. 

'Oh Lord, we all are, ' said Gideon in disgust. 'Every profiteer, everysentimentalist, ever muddler. Every artist directly he thinks of his artas something marketable, something to bring him fame; every scientist orscholar (if there are any) who fakes a fact in the interest of histheory; every fool who talks through his hat without knowing; everysentimentalist who plays up to the sentimentalism in himself and otherpeople; every second-hand ignoramus who takes over a view or a prejudicewholesale, without investigating the facts it's based on for himself. Youfind it everywhere, the taint; you can't get away from it. Except bykeeping quiet and learning, and wanting truth more than anything else. '

'It sounds a dull life, Arthur. Rather like K's, in her old laboratory. '

'Yes, rather like K's. Not dull; no. Finding things out can't be dull. '

'Well, old thing, go and find things out. But come back in time for thewedding, and then we'll see what next. '

Jane was not seriously alarmed. She believed that this of Arthur's, was ashort attack; when they were married she would see that he got cured ofit. She wasn't going to let him drop out of things and disappear, herbrilliant Arthur, who had his world in his hand to play with. Journalism, politics, public life of some sort--it was these that he was so eminentlyfitted for and must go in for. 

'You mustn't waste yourself, Arthur, ' she said. 'It's all right to lielow for a bit, but when you come back you must do something worthwhile. .. . I'm sorry about the _Fact_; I think you might have stayed onand saved it. But it's your show. Go and explore Central Europe, then, and learn all about it. Then come back and write a book on politicalscience which will be repulsive to all but learned minds. But rememberwe're getting married in June; don't be late, will you. And write to mefrom Russia. Letters that will do for me to send to the newspapers, telling me not to spend my money on hats and theatres but ondistributing anti-Bolshevist and anti-Czarist tracts. I'll have theletters published in leaflets at threepence a hundred, and drop themabout in public places. '

'I'll write to you, no fear, ' said Gideon. 'And I'll be in time for thewedding. .. . Jane, we'll have a great time, you and I, learning thingstogether. We'll have adventures. We'll go exploring, shall we?'

'Rather. We'll lend Charles to mother and dad often, and go off. .. . I'dcome with you now for two pins. Only I can't. '

'No. Charles needs you at present. ' 'There's my book, too. And all sortsof things. ' 'Oh, your book--that's nothing. Books aren't worth losinganything for. Don't you ever get tied up with books and work, Jane. It'snot worth it. One's got to sit loose. Only one can't, to kids; they'retoo important. We'll have our good times before we get our kids--andafter they've grown old enough to be left to themselves a bit. '

Jane smiled enigmatically, only obscurely realising that she meant, 'Ourideas of a good time aren't the same, and never will be. '

Gideon too only obscurely knew it. Anyhow, for both, the contemplation ofthat difference could be deferred. Each could hope to break the other inwhen the time came. Gideon, as befitted his sex, realised the eternity ofthe difference less sharply than Jane did. It was just, he thought, aquestion of showing Jane, making her understand. .. . Jane did not thinkthat it was just a question of making Gideon understand. But he lovedher, and she was persuaded that he would yield to her in the end, and notspoil her jolly, delightful life, which was to advance, hand in hand withhis, to notoriety or glory or both. 

For a moment both heard, remotely, the faint clash of swords. Then theyshut a door upon the sound, and the man, shaken with sudden passion, drewthe woman into his arms. 

'I've been talking, talking all the evening, ' said Gideon presently. 'Ican't get away from it, can I. Preaching, theorising, holding forth. It'smore than time I went away somewhere where no one will listen to me. '

'There's plenty of talking in Russia. You'll come back worse than ever, my dear. .. . I don't care. As long as you do come back. You must come backto me, Arthur. '

She clung to him, in one of her rare moments of demonstrated passion. Shewas usually cool, and left demonstration to him. 

'I shall come back all right, ' he told her. 'No fear. I want to getmarried, you see. I want it, really, much more than I want to getinformation or anything else. Wanting a person--that's what we all wantmost, when we want it at all. Queer, isn't it? And hopelessly personaland selfish. But there it is. Ideals simply don't count in comparison. They'd go under every time, if there was a choice. '

Jane, with his arms round her and his face bent down to hers, knew it. She was not afraid, either for his career or her own. They would havetheir good time all right. 

CHAPTER V

A PLACARD FOR THE PRESS

1

March wore through, and April came, and warm winds healed winter's scars, and the 1920 budget shocked every one, and the industrial revolutionpredicted as usual didn't come off, and Mr. Wells's _History of theWorld_ completed its tenth part, and blossom by blossom the spring began. 

It was the second Easter after the war, and people were getting more usedto peace. They murdered one another rather less frequently, were ratherless emotional and divorced, and understood with more precision whichprofiteers it was worth while to prosecute and which not, and why thesecond class was so much larger than the first; and, in general, hadlearnt to manage rather better this unmanageable peace. 

The outlook, domestic and international, was still what those who thinkin terms of colour call black. The Irish question, the Russian question, the Italian-Adriatic question, and all the Asiatic questions, remainedwhat those who think in terms of angles call acute. Economic ruin, political bankruptcy, European chaos, international hostilities hadbecome accepted as the normal state of being by the inhabitants of thisrestless and unfortunate planet. 

2

Such was the state of things in the world at large. In literary London, publishers produced their spring lists. They contained the usual hardyannuals and bi-annuals among novelists, several new ventures, includingJohn Potter's _Giles in Bloomsbury_ (second impression); Jane Hobart's_Children of Peace_ (A Satire by a New Writer); and Leila Yorke's _ThePrice of Honour_. ('In her new novel, Leila Yorke reveals to the full theGlittering psychology combined with profound depths which have made thiswell-known writer famous. The tale will be read, from first page tolast, with breathless interest. The end is unexpected and out of thecommon, and leaves one wondering. ' So said the publisher; the reviewers, more briefly, 'Another Leila Yorke. ')

There were also many memoirs of great persons by themselves, manyhistories of the recent war, several thousand books of verse, a monographby K. D. Varick on Catalysers and Catalysis and the Generation ofHydrogen, and _New Wine_ by the Reverend Laurence Juke. 

The journalistic world also flourished. The _Weekly Fact_ had become, aspeople said, quite an interesting and readable paper, brighter than the_Nation_, more emotional than the _New Statesman_, gentler than the _NewWitness_, spicier than the _Spectator_, more chatty than the _Athenaeum_, so that one bought it on bookstalls and read it in trains. 

There was also the new Pinkerton fourpenny, the _Wednesday Chat_, brighter, more emotional, gentler, spicier, and chattier than themall, and vulgar as well, nearly as vulgar as _John Bull_, and quiteas sentimental, but less vicious, so that it sold in its millionsfrom the outset, and soon had a poem up on the walls of the tubestations, saying--

'No other weeklies sellAnything like so well. '

which was as near the truth as these statements usually are. LordPinkerton had, in fact, with his usual acumen, sensed the existence of agreat Fourpenny Weekly Public, and given it, as was his wont, more thanit desired or deserved. The sixpenny weekly public already had its needsmet; so had the penny, the twopenny, the threepenny, and the shillingpublic. Now the fourpenny public, a shy and modest section of thecommunity, largely clerical (in the lay sense of the word) looked up andwas fed. Those brains which could only with effort rise to the solidpolitical and economic information and cultured literary judgments metedout by the sixpennies, but which yet shrank from the crudities of ourcheapest journals, here found something they could read, mark, learn, andinwardly digest. 

The Potterite press (not only Lord Pinkerton's) advanced, like an armyterrible with banners, on all sections of the line. 

3

Juke's book on modern thought in the Church was a success. It wasbrilliantly written, and reviewed in lay as well as in church papers. Juke, to his own detriment, became popular. Canon Streeter and othersasked him to collaborate in joint books on the Church. Modernistliberal-catholic vicars asked him to preach. When he preached, peoplecame in hundreds to hear him, because he was an attractive, stimulating, and entertaining preacher. (I have never had this experience, but Iassume that it is morally unwholesome. ) He had to take missions, andretreats, and quiet days, and give lectures on the Church to cultivatedaudiences. Then he was offered the living of St. Anne's, Piccadilly, which is one of those incumbencies with what is known as scope, whichmeant that there were no poor in the parish, and the incumbent's gifts aspreacher, lecturer, writer, and social success could be used to the bestadvantage. He was given three weeks to decide. 

4

Gideon wrote long letters to Jane from the Russian towns and villages inwhich he sojourned. But none of them were suitable for propagandapurposes; they were critical but dispassionate. He had found some cousinsof his father's, fur merchants living in a small town on the edge of aforest. 'Clever, cringing, nerve-ridden people, ' he said. The oldergeneration remembered his grandparents, and his father as a bright-eyedinfant. They remembered that pogrom fifty years ago, and described it. 'They'll describe anything, ' wrote Gideon. 'The more horrible it is, themore they'll talk. That's Russian, not Jewish specially. Or is it justhuman?'. .. Gideon didn't repeat to Jane the details he heard of hisgrandparents' murder by Russian police--details which his father, inwhose memory they burned like a disease, had never told him. 

'Things as bad as that massacre are happening all the time in thispleasant country, ' he wrote. 'It doesn't matter what the politicalconvictions, if any, of a Russian are--he's a barbarian whether he's ona soviet or in the anti-Bolshevik armies. Not always, of course; thereare a few who have escaped the prevalent lust of cruelty--but only afew. Love of pain (as experienced by others) for its own sake--as oneloves good food, or beautiful women--it's a queer disease. It goesalong, often, with other strong sensual desires. The Russians, forinstance, are the worst gluttons and profligates of Europe. With itall, they have, often, an extraordinary generous good-heartedness; withone hand they will give away what they can't spare to some one in need, while with the other they torture an animal or a human being to death. The women seldomer do either; like women everywhere, they are lessgiven both to sensual desire and to generous open-handedness. .. . That'sa curious thing, how seldom you find physical cruelty in a woman of anynationality. Even the most spiteful and morally unkindest little girlwill shudder away while her brother tears the wings off a fly or thelegs off a frog, or impales a worm on a hook. Weak nerves, partly, andpartly the sort of high-strung fastidiousness women have. When you comeacross cruelty in a woman--physical cruelty, of course--you think ofher as a monster; just as when you come on a stingy man, you think ofhim (but probably inaccurately) as a Jew. Russians are very male, except in their inchoate, confused thinking. Their special brand ofhumour and of sentimentality are male; their exuberant strength andaliveness, their sensuality, and their savage cruelty. .. . If ever womencome to count in Russia as a force, not merely as mates for the men, queer things will happen. .. . Here in this town things are, for themoment, tidy and ordered, as if seven Germans with seven mops had sweptit for half a year. The local soviet is a gang of ruffians, but they dokeep things more or less ship-shape. And they make people work. Andthey torture dogs. .. . '

Later he wrote, 'You were right as to one thing; every one I meet, including my relations, is persuaded that I am either a newspapercorrespondent or writing a book, or, more probably, both. These taintscling so. I feel like a reformed drunkard, who has taken the pledge butstill carries about with him a red nose and shaky hands, so that he getsno credit for his new sobriety. What's the good of my telling people herethat I don't write, when I suppose I've the mark of the beast stamped allover me? And they play up; they talk for me to record it. .. . 

'I find all kinds of odd things here. Among others, an English doctor, inthe local lunatic asylum. Mad as a hatter, poor devil--now--whatever hewas when they shut him up. I dare say he'd been through enough even thento turn his brain. I can't find out who his friends in England are. .. . '

5

Gideon stopped writing, and took Jane's last letter out of his pocket. Itoccurred to him that he was in no sense answering it. Not that Janewould mind; that wasn't the sort of thing she did mind. But it struck himsuddenly how difficult it had grown to him to answer Jane's letters--or, indeed, any one else's. He could not flatter himself that he was alreadycontracting the inarticulate habit, because he could pour forth fluentlyenough about his own experiences; but to Jane's news of London he hadnothing to say. A new paper had been started; another paper had died;some one they knew had deserted from one literary côterie to another;some one else had turned from a dowdy into a nut; Jane had been seeing alot of bad plays; her novel--'my confused mass of self-expression, ' shecalled it to him--was coming out next week. All the familiar personal, literary, political, and social gossip, which he too had dealt in once;Jane was in the thick of it still, and he was turning stupid, like a manliving in the country; he could not answer her. Or, perhaps, would not;because the thing that absorbed him at present was how people lived andthought, and what could be made of them--not the conscious, intellectual, writing, discussing, semi-civilised people (semi-civilised--what anabsurd word! What is complete civilisation, that we should bisect it andsay we have half, or any other exact fraction? Partly civilised, Gideonamended it to), but the great unconscious masses, hardly civilised atall, who shape things, for good or evil, in the long run. 

Gideon folded up Jane's letter and put it away, and to his own addednothing but his love. 

6

Jane got that letter in Easter week. It was a fine warm day, and she, walking across Green Park, met Juke, who had been lunching with a bishopto meet an elderly princess who had read his book. 

'She said, "I'm afraid you're sadly satirical, Mr. Juke, '" he told Jane. 'She did really. And I'm to preach at Sandringham one Sunday. Yes, to theFamily. Tell Gideon that, will you. He'll be so disgusted. But what achance! Life at St. Anne's is going to be full of chances of slanging therich, that's one thing about it. '

'Oh, you're going to take it, then?'

'Probably. I've not written to accept yet, so don't pass it on. '

'I'm glad. It's much more amusing to accept things, even livings. It'llbe lovely: you'll be all among the clubs and theatres and the idle rich;much gayer than Covent Garden. '

'Oh, gayer, ' said Juke. 

They came out into Birdcage Walk, and there was a man selling the_Evening Hustle_, Lord Pinkerton's evening paper. 

'Bloody massacres, ' he was observing with a kind of absent-mindedhappiness. 'Bloody massacres in Russia, Ireland, Armenia, and thePunjab. .. . British journalist assassinated near Odessa. '

And there it was, too, in big black letters on the _Evening Hustle_placard:--

'DIVORCE OF A PEERESS. 

'MURDER OF BRITISH JOURNALIST IN RUSSIA-LATE WIRE FROM GATWICK. '

They bought the paper, to see who the British journalist was. His murderwas in a little paragraph on the front page. 

'Mr. Arthur Gideon, a well-known British journalist' . .. First beatennearly to death by White soldiery, because he was, entirely in vain, defending some poor Jewish family from their wrath . .. Then found byBolshevists and disposed of . .. Somehow . .. Because he was anEnglishman. .. . 

7

A placard for the press. A placard for the Potter press. Had he thoughtof that at the last, and died in the bitterness of that paradox? Murderedby both sides, being of neither, but merely a seeker after fact. Killedin the quest for truth and the war against verbiage and cant, and, in theend, a placard for the press which hated the one and lived by the other. _Had_ he thought of that as he broke under the last strain of pain? Or, merely, 'These damned brutes. White or Red, there's nothing to choose . .. Nothing to choose . .. '

Anyhow, it was over, that quest of his, and nothing remained but theplacard which coupled his defeat with the peeress's divorce. 

Arthur Gideon had gone under, but the Potter press, the flaunting bannerof the great sentimental public, remained. It would always remain, solong as the great sentimental public were what they were. 

8

Little remains to add. Little of Gideon, for they never learnt much moreof his death than was telegraphed in that first message. His father, going out to the scene of his death, may have heard more; if he did, henever revealed it to any one. Not only Arthur had perished, but theJewish family he was trying to defend; he had failed as well as died. Failed utterly, every way; gone under and finished, he and his pedantryand his exactitude, his preaching, his hard clarity, and his bewilderedbitterness against a world vulgar and soft-headed beyond hisunderstanding. 

Juke refused St. Anne's, with its chances, its congregations, and itsscope. Neither did he preach at Sandringham. Gideon's fate pilloriedon that placard had stabbed through him and cut him, sick and angry, from his moorings. He spoke no more and wrote no more to admiringaudiences who hung on his words and took his quick points as he madethem. To be one with other men, he learnt a manual trade, and madeshoes in Bermondsey, and preached in the streets to men who did not, as a rule, listen. 

Jane would, no doubt, fulfil herself in the course of time, make anadequate figure in the world she loved, and suck therefrom no smalladvantage. She had loved Arthur Gideon; but what Lady Pinkerton andClare would call her 'heart' was not of the kind which would, as thesetwo would doubtless put it in their strange phraseology, 'break. 'Somehow, after all, Jane would have her good time; if not in one way, then in another. 

Lord and Lady Pinkerton flourish exceedingly, and will be long in theland. Leila Yorke sells better than ever. Of the Pinkerton press I neednot speak, since it is so well qualified to speak for itself. Enough tosay that no fears are at present entertained for its demise. And littleCharles Hobart grows in stature, under his grandfather's watching andapproving eye. When the time comes, he will carry on worthily.