TONGUES OF CONSCIENCE

by

ROBERT HICHENS

_Short Story Index Reprint Series_

Books for Libraries PressFreeport, New York

First Published 1900Reprinted 1971

Printed in the United States of AmericabyNew World Book Manufacturing Co. , Inc. Hallandale, Florida 33009

CONTENTS

 PAGE SEA CHANGE-- Part I. THE RAINBOW 1 Part II. THE GRAVE 51

 "WILLIAM FOSTER" 109

 THE CRY OF THE CHILD-- Part I. THE DEAD CHILD 183 Part II. THE LIVING CHILD 223

 HOW LOVE CAME TO PROFESSOR GUILDEA 267

 THE LADY AND THE BEGGAR 341

SEA CHANGE. 

PART I. 

THE RAINBOW. 

 "Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change, Into something rich and strange. "

 SHAKESPEARE. 

SEA CHANGE. 

PART I. 

THE RAINBOW. 

In London nightfall is a delirium of bustle, in the country the comingof a dream. The town scatters a dust of city men over its long andlighted streets, powders its crying thoroughfares with gaily dressedcreatures who are hidden, like bats, during the hours of day, opens athousand defiant yellow eyes that have been sealed in sleep, throws offits wrapper and shows its elaborate toilet. The country grows demure andbrown, most modest in the shadows. Labourers go home along the damp andsilent lanes with heavy weariness. The parish clergyman flits like ablackbird through the twinkling village. Dogs bark from solitary farms. A beautiful and soft depression fills all the air like incense or likeevening bells. But whether night reveals or hides the activities of menit changes them most curiously. The difference between man in day, manin night, is acute. 

The arrival of darkness always meant something to the Rev. PeterUniacke, whose cure of souls now held him far from the swarming alleysand the docks in which his early work had been done. He seldom failed togive this visitor, so strange and soft-footed, some slight greeting. Sometimes his welcome was a sigh, sometimes a prayer, sometimes aclenching of the hands, a smile, a pause in his onward walk. Lookingbackward along his past he could see his tall figure in many differentplaces, aware of the first footfalls of the night, now alone andthinking of night's allegory of man's end, now in company, when the talkinsensibly changed its character, flowing into deeper, more mysteriousor confidential channels. Peter Uniacke had listened to informalconfessions, too, as the night fell, confessions of sin that at firstsurprised him, that at last could no longer surprise him. And he hadconfessed himself, before the altar of the twilight, and had wonderedwhy it is that sometimes Nature seems to have the power of absolution, even as God has it. 

Now, at the age of thirty-two, he heard the footsteps of night on awindy evening of November. They drew near to the wall of the churchyardin which stood the sturdy and rugged building where now he ministered, on a little isle set lonely in a harsh and dangerous northern sea. Helistened to them, leaning his arms along this wall, by which the greyand sleepless waves sang loudly. In the churchyard, growing graduallydim and ethereal, were laid many bodies from which the white vampires ofthe main had sucked out the souls. Here mouldered fisher lads, who hadwhistled over the nets, and dreamed rough dreams of winning island girlsand breeding hardy children. Here reposed old limbs of salty mariners, who had for so long defied the ocean that when they knew themselvestaken at the last, they turned their rugged faces down to their enemywith a stony and an ironic wonder. And here, too, among these cast-upbodies of the drowned, lay many women who had loved the prey of the sea, and kissed the cheeks turned acrid by its winds and waters. Some of themhad died from heart-sickness, cursing the sea. Some had faded, witheringlike the pale sand roses beside the sea. Some had lived to old age byempty hearths, in the sound of the sea. 

Inscriptions faded upon the stones that lay above them. Texts of comfortin which the fine, salt films crept, faint verses of sweet hymns defiledby the perching sea-birds, old rhymes like homely ejaculations of verysimple hearts, sank into the gathering darkness on every hand. Thegraves seemed murmuring to the night: "Look on me, I hold a lover;" "AndI--I keep fast a maiden;" "And within my arms crumbles a little childcaught by the sea;" "And I fold a mother, whose son is in the hideouswater foliage of the depths of the sea;" "And I embrace an old captainwhom the sea loved even in his hollow age. " The last inscription thatstood clear to Peter Uniacke's eyes in the dying light ran thus:

 "Here lies the body of Jack Pringle, cast up by the sea on December 4th, 1896. He was boy on the schooner 'Flying Fish. ' His age seventeen. 'Lead kindly Light. '"

Uniacke watched this history go into the maw of the darkness, and whenit was gone he found himself environed by the cool sea noises whichseemed to grow louder in the night, wondering whether the "Kindly Light"was indeed leading on Jack Pringle, no longer boy on the schooner"Flying Fish, " but--what? The soul of a fisher lad, who had kissed hisgirl, and drunk his glass, and told many a brave and unfitting tale, andsworn many a lusty oath, following some torch along the radiant ways ofHeaven! Was that it? Uniacke had, possibly, preached now and then thatso indeed it was. Or, perhaps, was the light-hearted and careless livinglad caught fast, like sunk wreckage, in the under sea of Hell, wherepain is like a living fire in the moving dimness? "His age seventeen. "Could that be true and God merciful? With such thoughts, Uniacke greetedthe falling of night. In the broad daylight, full of the songs and ofthe moving figures of his brawny fisher folk, he had felt lesspoetically uncertain. He had said like men at sea, "All's well!" More, he had been able to feel it. But now he leaned on the churchyard walland it was cold to his arms. And the song of the sea was cold in hisears. And the night lay cold upon his heart. And his mind--in the grim, and apparently unmeaning way of minds set to sad music in a sadatmosphere--crept round and round about the gravestone of this boy;bereft of boyhood so early, of manhood ere he won to it, and carried soswiftly into mystery beyond the learning of all philosophy. Ignorance, in jersey and dripping sea-boots, set face to face with all knowledge, and that called a tragedy!

Yet now to Peter Uniacke it was tragedy, and his own situation, left inthe safety of ignorance preaching to the ignorant, tragedy too, becauseof the night, and the winds and the sea noises, and the bareness of thisIsle. 

Beyond the church a light shone out, and a bearded shadow towered anddwindled upon a white blind. Uniacke, a bachelor, and now almost ofnecessity a recluse, entertained for the present a visitor. Rememberingthe substance of the shadow he opened the churchyard gate, threaded hisway among the gravestones, and was quickly at the Vicarage door. As hepassed within, a yellow glow of lamplight and of firelight streamed intothe narrow passage from a chamber on the left hand, and he heard hispiano, surprised to learn that it could be taught to deliverpassionately long winding melodies from _Tristan and Isolde_. Uniackelaid down his hat and stick and entered his sitting-room, stillcompanioned by the shadowy thought-form of the boy of the schooner"Flying Fish, " who seemed to tramp at his side noiselessly, in longsea-boots that streamed with the salt water. 

The man at the piano turned round, showing a handsome and melancholyface, and eyes that looked as if they were tired, having seen too manymen and deeds and cities. 

"I make myself at home, you see, " he said, "as I hope you will some dayin my studio, when you visit me at Kensington. "

Uniacke smiled, and laid his hand on a bell which tinkled shrewishly. 

"It is a great treat for me to hear music and a voice not my own in thisroom, " he answered. "Are you ready for tea?"

"Thank you, I painted till it was dark. I was able to paint. "

"I'm glad of that. "

"When it was too dim to see, and too cold to feel the brush between myfingers, I came back in the twilight to my new roof tree. I am thankfulto be out of the inn, yet I've stayed in worse places in Italy andGreece. But they were gilded by the climate. "

He sat down by the fire and stretched his limbs. Uniacke looked at himrather curiously. To the lonely clergyman it was a novel experience toplay host to a man of distinction, to a stranger who had filled theworld with his fame years ago. Three days before, in one of his islandwalks, Uniacke had come upon a handsome bearded man in a lane full ofmud, between bleak walls of stone. The man stopped him courteously, asked if he were not the clergyman of the Isle, and, receiving anaffirmative reply, began to make some enquiries as to lodgingaccommodation. 

"My name is Sir Graham Hamilton, " he said presently. 

Uniacke started with surprise and looked at the stranger curiously. Hehad read much of the great sea painter, of his lonely wanderings, of hismelancholy, of his extraordinary house in Kensington, and, justrecently, of his wretched condition of health, which, it was said, haddriven him suddenly from London, the papers knew not whither. 

"I thought you were ill, " he blurted out. 

"I am not very well, " the painter said simply, "and the inn here isexceedingly uncomfortable. But I want to stay. This is the very home ofthe sea. Here I find not merely the body of the sea but also its soul. "

"There are no good lodgings, I am afraid, " said the clergyman. "Nobodyever wants to lodge here, it seems. "

"I do. Well, then, I must keep on at the inn. "

"Come to stay with me, will you?" Uniacke suddenly said. "I have a spareroom. It is scarcely ever occupied. My friends find this island a farcry, except in the height of summer. I shall be glad of your companyand glad to make you as comfortable as I can. "

"You are very kind, " said the painter, hesitating. "But I scarcely--"

"Come as my guest, " said the clergyman, reddening slightly. 

"Thank you, I will. And some day you must come to me in London. "

Now the painter was installed at the Vicarage, and blessed, each hour, his happy escape from the inn, whose walls seemed expanded by theforcible and athletic smell of stale fish. 

Uniacke's servant girl brought in the tea. The two men had it by thefire. Presently Hamilton said:

"Nightfall is very interesting and curious here. "

"I find it so almost everywhere, " Uniacke said. 

"Yes. It can never be dull. But here, in winter at least, it isextraordinarily--" he paused for the exactly right word, in a calm waythat was peculiar to him and that seemed to emphasise his fineself-possession--"pathetic, and suggestive of calamity. "

"I have noticed that, indeed, " Uniacke answered, "and never, I think, more than to-night. "

Hamilton looked across at him in the firelight. 

"Where did you see it fall?" he asked. 

"I was by the wall of the churchyard. "

"It was you, then, whom I saw from the window. It seemed to be a mournerlooking at the graves. "

"I was looking at them. But nobody I care for deeply is buried there. The night, however, in such an island as this, makes every grave seemlike the grave of a person one has known. It is the sea, I daresay. "

"So close on every hand. Why, this house of yours might be a ship afloata hundred miles from land, judging by the sounds of the waves. "

He sighed heavily. 

"I hope the air will do you good, " Uniacke remarked, with a suddenrelapse into conversational lameness. 

"Thank you. But sea air is no novelty to me. Half of my life, at least, has been spent in it. I have devoted all the best of my life, my powers, my very soul to the service of the sea. And now, when I am growing old, I sometimes think that I shall hate it before I go. "

"Hate it!"

"Yes. "

"Well--but it has brought you fame. "

"H'm. And wealth and a thousand acquaintances. Yes, that's quite true. Sometimes, nevertheless, we learn in the end to hate those who havebrought us most. Perhaps, because they have educated us in theunderstanding of disappointment. You love the sea?"

"Yes. "

"You wouldn't be here otherwise. "

"I did not come here exactly because of that, " Uniacke said slowly. 

"No, " said the painter. 

"Rather to forget something. "

"I doubt if this is a place which could teach one to forget. I find itquite otherwise. "

The two men looked at each other, the elderly painter on his height offame, the young clergyman in his depth of obscurity, and each felt thatthere was a likeness between them. 

"I came here to forget a woman, " Uniacke said at last, moved by astrange impulse to speak out. 

"Yes, I see. It is the old idea of sorrowful men, a hermitage. I haveoften wondered in London, in Rome, in Athens, whether a hermitage is ofany avail. Men went out into the desert in old days. Legend has it thatholiness alone guided them there. All their disciples believed that. Reading about them I have often doubted it. "

He smiled rather coldly and cynically. 

"You don't know what a hermitage can mean. You have only been here threedays. Besides, you come in search of--"

"Search!" Hamilton interrupted, with an unusual quickness. 

"Of work and health. "

"Oh, yes. Do you care, since we are on intimate topics, to tell me anymore about yourself and--and--"

"That woman?"

"Yes. "

"I loved her. She disappeared out of my life. I don't know at all whereshe is, with whom, how she lives, anything at all about her. I don'tsuppose I ever shall. She may be dead. "

"You don't think you would know it if she were?"

"How could I? Who would tell me?"

"Not something within you? Not yourself?"

Uniacke was surprised by this remark. It did not fit in precisely withhis conception of his guest's mind, so far as he had formed one. 

"Such an idea never occurred to me, " he said. "Do you believe that suchan absolute certainty could be put into a man's mind then, without areason, a scrap of evidence, a hint to eye, or ear?"

"I don't know. I--I want to know. "

"That someone's dead?"

"That someone is not dead. How loud the sea is getting!"

"It always sounds much like that at night in winter. "

"Does the winter not seem very long to you up here quite alone?"

"Oh, yes. "

"And monotonous?"

"Often. But we have times of keen excitement, of violent, even ofexhausting activity. I have had to rush from the pulpit up to myshoulders in the sea. "

"A wreck?"

"Yes, there have been many. There was the schooner 'Flying Fish. ' Shebroke up when I was holding service one December morning. Only theskipper was saved alive. And he--"

"What of him?"

"He went what the people here call 'silly' from the shock--not directly. It came on him gradually. He would not leave the island. He would nevertrust the sea again. "

"So he's here still?"

"Yes. "

Just then the two plaintive bells of the church began to ring on thewind. 

"There he is!" Uniacke said. 

"Where?"

"He's our bell-ringer. It's the only thing he takes any pleasure in, ringing the bells for church and at nightfall. I let him do it, poorfellow. He's got a queer idea into his brain that his drowned mates willhear the bells some night and make the land, guided by the sound. Whenthe darkness falls he always rings for a full hour. "

"How strange! How terrible!"

They sat by the fire listening to the pathetic chime of the two bells, whose voices were almost hidden in the loud sea voices that envelopedthe little island with their cries. Presently the painter shifted in hisarmchair. 

"There is something--I--there is something very eerie to me in the soundof those two bells now I know why they are ringing, and who is ringingthem, " he said, with a slight irritation. "Don't you find they affectyour nerves at all?"

"No. I like to hear them. They tell me that one poor creature is happy. The Skipper--all we Island folk call him so--believes he will bring hismates safe to shore some day. And each time he sets those bells going hethinks the happy hour is perhaps close at hand. "

"Poor fellow! And he is summoning the drowned to come up out of theirworld. "

They sat silent again for three or four minutes. Then Sir Graham said:

"Uniacke, you have finished your tea?"

"Yes, Sir Graham. "

"Has your day's work tired you very much?"

"No. "

"Then I wish you would do me a favour. I want to see your skipper. Can Iget into the church?"

"Yes. He always leaves the door wide open while he rings the bells--sothat his mates can come in from the sea to him. "

"Poor fellow! Poor fellow!"

He got up. 

"I shall go across to the church now, " he said. 

"I'll take you there. Wrap yourself up. It's cold to-night. "

"It is very cold. "

The painter pulled a great cloak over his shoulders and a cap down overhis glittering and melancholy eyes, that had watched for many years allthe subtle changes of the colour and the movement of the sea. Uniackeopened the Vicarage door and they stood in the wind. The night was notdark, but one of those wan and light grey nights that seemed paintedwith the very hues of wind and of cloud. It was like a fluid round aboutthem, and surely flowed hither and thither, now swaying quietly, nowspreading away, shredded out as water that is split by hard substances. It was full of noise as is a whirlpool, in which melancholy criesresound forever. Above this noise the notes of the two bells alternatedlike the voices of stars in a stormy sky. 

"Even living men at sea to-night would not hear those bells, " said thepainter. "And the drowned--how can they hear?"

"Who knows?" said the clergyman. "Perhaps they are allowed to hear themand to offer up prayers for their faithful comrade. I think faithfulnessis heaven in a human heart. "

They moved across the churchyard, and all the graves of the drownedflickered round their feet in the gusty greyness. They passed JackPringle's grave, where the "Kindly Light" lay in the stone. When theygained the church Sir Graham saw that the door was set wide open to thenight. He stood still. 

"And so those dead mariners are to pass in here, " he said, "under thisporch. Uniacke, cannot you imagine the scene if they came? Those deadmen, with their white, sea-washed faces, their dripping bodies, theirwild eyes that had looked on the depths of the sea, their hanging handsround which the fishes had nibbled with their oval lips! The processionof the drowned to their faithful captain. If I stood here long enoughalone my imagination would hear them, would hear their ghostly boatgrate its keel upon the Island beach, and the tramp of their soddensea-boots. How many were there?"

"I never heard. Only one body was cast up, and that is buried by thechurchyard wall. Shall we go in?"

"Yes. "

They entered through the black doorway. The church was very dim andsmelt musty and venerable, rather as the cover of an old and worn Biblesmells. And now that they were within it, the bells sounded different, less magical, more full of human music; their office--the summoning ofmen to pray, the benediction of the marriage tie, the speeding of thedeparted on the eternal road--became apparent and evoked accustomedthoughts. 

"Where is the belfry?" said Sir Graham in a whisper. 

"This way. We have to pass the vestry and go up a stone staircase. "

Uniacke moved forward along the uncarpeted pavement, on which his feet, in their big nailed boots, rang harshly. The painter followed himthrough a low and narrow door which gave on to a tiny stairway, eachstep of which was dented and crumbled at the uneven edge. They ascendedin the dark, not without frequent stumbling, and heard always the bellswhich seemed sinking down to them from the sky. Presently a turn broughtthem to a pale ray of light which lay like a thread upon the stone. Atthe same moment the bells ceased to sound. Both Uniacke and Sir Grahampaused simultaneously, the vision of the light and the cessation of thechimes holding them still for an instant almost without their knowledge. There was a silence that was nearly complete, for the tower walls werethick, and kept the sea voices and the blowing winds at bay. And whilethey waited, involuntarily holding their breath, a hoarse and unevenvoice cried out, anxiously and hopefully from above:

"Are ye comin', mates? Are ye comin'? Heave along, boys! D'ye hear me!I'm your skipper. Heave along!"

Uniacke half turned to the painter, whose face was very white. 

"What are ye waitin' for?" continued the voice. "I heard ye comin'. Iheard ye at the door. Come up, I say, and welcome to ye! Welcome to yeall, mates. Ye've been a damned long time comin'. "

"He thinks--he thinks--" whispered Uniacke to his companion. 

"I know. It's cruel. What shall we--"

"Ye've made the land just in time, mates, " continued the voice. "Forthere's a great gale comin' up to-night. The 'Flying Fish' couldn't livein her under bare poles, I reckon. I'm glad ye've got ashore. Where areye, I say? Where are ye?"

The sound of the voice approached the two men on the stairs. The threadof light broadened and danced on the stone. High up there appeared thegreat figure of a man in a seaman's jersey with a peaked cap on hishead. In his broad rough hands he held a candle, which he shaded withhis fingers while he peered anxiously and expectantly down the dark andnarrow funnel of the stairway. 

"Hulloh!" he cried. "Hulloh, there!"

The hail rang down in the night. Sir Graham was trembling. 

"I see ye, " cried the Skipper. "It's Jack, eh? Isn't it little Jack, boys? Young monkey! Up to his damned larks that I've reckoned up thesemany nights while I've stood ringin' here! I'll strike the life out ofye, Jack, I will. Wait till I come down, lads, wait till I come down!"

And he sprang forward, his huge limbs shaking with glad excitement. Hisfeet missed a stair in his hurry of approach, and throwing abroad hishands to the stone walls of the belfry in an effort to save himself, helet fall the candlestick. It dropped on the stones with a dull clatteras the darkness closed in. The Skipper, who had recovered his footing, swore a round oath. Sir Graham and Uniacke heard his heavy treaddescending until his breath was warm on their faces. 

"Where are ye, lads?" he cried out. "Where are ye? Can't ye throw a wordof welcome to a mate?"

He laid his hands heavily on Uniacke's shoulders in the dark, and felthim over with an uncertain touch. 

"Is it Jack?" he said. "Why, what 'a ye got on, lad? Is it Jack, I say?"

"Skipper, " Uniacke said, in a low voice, "it's not Jack. " As he spoke hestruck a match. The tiny light flared up unevenly right in the Skipper'seyes. They were sea-blue and blazing with eagerness and with the pitifulglare of madness. Over the clergyman's shoulder the pale painter withhis keen eyes swept the bearded face of the Skipper with a rapid andgreedy glance. By the time the match dwindled and the blackness closedin again the face was a possession of his memory. He saw it even thoughit was actually invisible; the rugged features dignified by madness, theclear, blue eyes full of a saddening fire, and--ere the match faded--ofa horror of disappointment, the curling brown beard that flowed down onthe blue jersey. But he had no time to dwell on it now, for a drearynoise rose up in that confined space. It was the great seaman whimperingpitifully in the dark. 

"It isn't Jack, " he blubbered, and they could hear his huge limbsshaking. "Ye haven't come back, mates, ye haven't come back. And thegreat gale comin' up, the great gale comin'. "

As the words died away, a gust of wind caught the belfry and tore at itsrough-hewn and weather-worn stones. 

"Let us go down, " said Sir Graham, turning to feel his way into thechurch. 

"Come, Skipper, " said Uniacke, "come with us. "

He laid hold of the seaman's mighty arm and led him down the stairs. Hesaid nothing. On a sudden all the life and hope had died out of him. When they gained the grey churchyard and could see his face again in thepale and stormy light, it looked shrunken, peaked and childish, and thecurious elevation of madness was replaced by the uncertainty andweakness of idiocy. He shifted on his feet and would not meet thepitiful glances of the two men. Uniacke touched him on the shoulder. 

"Come to the Vicarage, Skipper, " he said kindly. "Come in and warmyourself by the fire and have some food. It's so cold to-night. "

But the seaman suddenly broke away and stumbled off among thegravestones, whimpering foolishly like a dog that cannot fight griefwith thought. 

"The sea--ah, the hatefulness of the sea!" said the painter, "will itever have to answer for its crimes before God?"

Uniacke and his guest sat at supper that night, and all the windows ofthe Vicarage rattled in the storm. The great guns of the wind roared inthe sky. The great guns of the surf roared on the island beaches. Andthe two men were very silent at first. Sir Graham ate little. He had noappetite, for he seemed to hear continually in the noises of theelements the shrill whimpering of a dog. Surely it came from the gravesoutside, from those stone breasts of the dead. 

"I can't eat to-night, " he said presently. "Do you think that man islingering about the church still?"

They got up from the table and went over to the fire. The painter lit apipe. 

"I hope not, " Uniacke said, "but it is useless attempting to govern him. He is harmless, but he must be left alone. He cannot endure beingwatched or followed. "

"I wish we hadn't gone to the church. I can't get over our cruelty. "

"It was inadvertent. "

"Cruelty so often is, Uniacke. But we ought to look forward and foreseeconsequences. I feel that most especially to-night. Remorse is the wageof inadvertence. "

As he spoke, he looked gloomily into the fire. The young clergyman feltoddly certain that the great man had more to say, and did not interrupthis pause, but filled it in for himself by priestly considerations onthe useless illumination worldly success seems generally to afford tothe searchers after happiness. His reverie was broken by the painter'svoice saying:

"I myself, Uniacke, am curiously persecuted by remorse. It is that, orpartly that, which has affected my health so gravely, and led me awayfrom my home, my usual habits of life, at this season of the year. "

"Yes?" the clergyman said, with sympathy, without curiosity. 

"And yet, I suppose it would seem a little matter to most people. Theodd thing is that it assumes such paramount importance in my life; forI'm not what is called specially conscientious, except as regards myart, of course, and the ordinary honourable dealings one decent mannaturally has with his fellows. "

"Your conscience, in fact, limits its operations a good deal, I know. "

"Precisely. But if it will not bore you, I will tell you something ofall this. "

"Thank you, Sir Graham. "

"How the wind shakes those curtains!"

"Nothing will keep it out of these island houses. You aren't cold?"

"Not in body, not a bit. Well, Uniacke, do you ever go to see pictures?"

"Whenever I can. That's not often now. But when my work lay in cities Ihad chances which are denied me at present. "

"Did you ever see a picture of mine called 'A sea urchin'?"

"Yes, indeed--that boy looking at the waves rolling in!--who couldforget him? The soul of the sea was in his eyes. He was a human being, and yet he seemed made of all sea things. "

"He had never set eyes upon the sea. "

"What?" cried Uniacke, in sheer astonishment, "the boy who sat for thatpicture? Impossible! When I saw it I felt that you had by some happychance lit on the one human being who contained the very soul of anelement. No merman could so belong of right to the sea as that boy. "

"Who was a London model, and had never heard the roar of waves or seenthe surf break in the wind. "

"Genius!" the clergyman exclaimed. 

"Uniacke, " continued the painter, "I got £1, 000 for that picture. And Icall the money now blood-money to myself. "

"Blood-money! But why?"

"I had made studies of the sea for that picture. I had indicated thewind by the shapes of the flying foam journeying inland to sink on thefields. I wanted my figure, I could not find him. Yet I was in a seavillage among sea folk. The children's legs there were browned with thesalt water. They had clear blue eyes, sea eyes; that curious light hairwhich one associates with the sea and with spun glass sometimes. Butthey wouldn't do for my purpose. They were unimaginative. As a fact, Uniacke, they knew the sea too well. That was it. They were familiarwith it, as the little London clerk is familiar with Fleet Street orChancery Lane. The twin brother of a prophet thinks prophecy boringtable-talk--not revelation. These children chucked the sea under thechin. That didn't do for me, and for what I wanted. "

"I understand. "

"After a great deal of search and worry I came to this conclusion: thatmy purpose required of me this--the discovery of an exceptionallyimaginative child, who was unfamiliar with the sea, but into whose heartand brain I could pour its narrated wonders, whose soul I could fill tothe brim with its awe, its majesty, its murmuring sweetness, its wildromance and its inexhaustible cruelty. I must make this child see andknow, but through the medium of words alone, of mental vision. If I tookit to the sea the imagination would be stricken down--well, by suchbanalities as paddling and catching shrimps. "

Uniacke smiled. 

"But on the contrary, in London, far from the sea, I could give to thechild only those impressions of the sea that would wake in it the sortof sea-soul I desired to print. I should have it in my power. And achild's soul cannot be governed by a mere painter, when a conflictarises between him and sand-castles and crabs and prawns and the variousmagicians of the kind that obsess the child so easily and so entirely. "

"Yes, children are conquered by trifles. "

"And that, too, is part of their beauty. Under this strong impression, Ipacked up my traps and came back to London with the studies for mypicture. I placed them on an easel in my studio and began my search forthe child. At first I sought this child among my cultivated friends;married artists, musicians, highly-strung people, whose lives werepassed in an atmosphere vibrating with quick impressions. But I wentunrewarded. The children of such people are apt to be peevishlyreceptive, but their moods are often cloudy, and I wished for a pellucidnature. After a time I went lower down, and I began to look about thestreets for my wonder-child. "

"What a curious quest!" said Uniacke, leaning forward till the firelightdanced on his thin face and was reflected in his thoughtful hazel eyes. 

"Yes, it was, " rejoined the painter, who was gradually sinking into hisown narrative, dropping down in the soft realm of old thoughts revived. "It was curious, and to me, highly romantic. I sometimes thought it waslike seeking for a hidden sea far inland, watching for the white face ofa little wave in the hard and iron city thoroughfares. Sometimes Istopped near Victoria Station, put my foot upon a block, and had a boothalf ruined while I watched the bootblack. Sometimes I bought a varietyof evening papers from a ragged gnome who might be a wonder-child, andmade mistakes over the payment to prolong the interview. I leanedagainst gaunt houses and saw the dancing waifs yield their poor lives tougly, hag-ridden music. I endured the wailing hymns of voiceless womenon winter days in order that I might observe the wretched ragamuffinssqualling round their knees the praise of a Creator who had denied themeverything. Ah! forgive me!"

"For some purpose that we shall all know at last, " said Uniacke gently. 

"Possibly. In all these prospectings I was unlucky. By chance at lengthI found the wonder-child when I was not seeking him. "

"How was that?"

"One day the weather, which had been cold, changed and became warm, springlike, and alive with showers. When it was not raining, you feltthe rain was watching you from hidden places. You smelt it in the air. The atmosphere was very sweet and depressing, and London was full offaint undercurrents of romance, and of soft and rapidly changing effectsof light. I went out in the afternoon and spent an hour in the NationalGallery. When I came out my mind was so full of painted canvas that Inever looked at the unpainted sky, or at the vaporous Square throughwhich streamed the World, opening and shutting umbrellas. I believe Iwas thinking over some new work of my own, arranged for the future. Nowthe rain ceased, I went down the steps and walked across the road intothe stone garden of the lions. Round their feet played pigmy children. Iheard their cries mingling with the splash of the fountains, but I tookno notice of them. Sitting down on a bench, I went on planning apicture--the legendary masterpiece, no doubt. I was certainly very deepin thought and lost to my surroundings, for when a hand suddenly graspedmy knee I was startled. I looked up. In front of me stood a very dirtyand atrociously-dressed boy, whose head was decorated with a tall, muddypaper cap, funnel-shaped and bending feebly in the breeze. This boy wasclutching my knee tightly with one filthy hand, while with the other hepointed to the sky on which his eyes were intently fixed. 

"'Look at that there rainbow!' he said. 'Look at that there rainbow!'

"I glanced up and saw that the clouds had partially broken and thatLondon lay under a huge and perfect coloured arch. 

"'I never did!' continued the boy. 

"He stared at me for an instant with the solemn expression of one whoreveals to the ignorant a miracle. Then he took his hand from my knee, hurried to an adjoining seat, woke up a sleeping and partiallyintoxicated tramp, requested him to observe closely the superbproceedings of Nature, took no heed of his flooding oaths, and passed onin the waving paper cap from seat to seat, rousing from their dreams, and sorrows, and newspapers, the astounded habitués of the Square, thatthey might share his awe and happiness. Before he had finished teachinga heavy policeman the lessons of the sky, I knew that I had found mywonder-child. "

"You followed him?"

"I captured him in the midst of a group of emaciated little girls in theshadow of Lord Nelson. All the childish crowd was looking upward, andevery eye was completely round over each widely-opened mouth, whilepaper-cap repeated his formula. Poor children, looking at the sky! Ah, Uniacke, what do you think of that for a sermon?"

The young clergyman cleared his throat. The red curtains by the narrowwindow blew outward towards the fire, and sank in again, alternatelyforcible and weak. The painter looked towards the window and a sadnessdeepened in his eyes. 

"Where is my wonder-child now?" he said. 

"You have lost sight of him?"

"Yes--though the blood-money lies at my bank and the paper-cap is in mystudio. "

"Is he not in London?"

"No, no; I learnt his history, the history of a gamin of fifteen orthereabouts. It was much the same as a history of a London pavement, with this exception, that the gamin had a mother to whom he presented mewithout undue formality. The impression made upon me by that lady atfirst was unfavourable, since she was slatternly, drank, and wasapparently given to cuffing and kicking the boy--her only child. Iconsidered her an abandoned and unfeeling female. She dwelt in DruryLane and sold something that most of us have never heard of. "

"I can see her. "

"I wish to heaven I could not, " the painter said, with a sudden outburstof fire. 

He was silent a moment and then continued: "I had no difficulty inpersuading her to let me paint the boy. I don't think she rightlyunderstood what I meant, except that for some foolish reason I wasprepared to give her money, apparently in return for nothing, that Imeant to have little Jack decently dressed--"

"Jack--was that his name?"

"Yes, and that he was to spend certain hours--snatched from TrafalgarSquare--in my house in Kensington. "

"I see. "

"The boy turned up in the jersey and cap and boots I had bought him. Andthen his education began. On first entering my studio he was numb withsurprise, a moving and speechless stare--more overcome than byrainbows. "

"Poor little chap!"

"I let him stray about examining everything. He did so completelyoblivious of my presence, and of the fact that all the things in theplace were mine. By his demeanour one might have supposed him engaged inan examination of works of God never before brought to his notice. WhileI smoked and pretended to read, he crept about like a little animal, penetrating into corners where statues stood, smelling--so itseemed--the angles of painted walls, touching the petals of flowers, smoothing rugs the wrong--but soon the right--way. I can hear his newboots creaking still. He was a very muscular little chap, but small. When he was able to speak I questioned him. He had never seen the sea. He had never been out of London for a day or slept away from Drury Lanefor a night. The flask was empty; now to pour the wine into it. I toldhim to sit down by the open hearth. He obeyed, staring hard at me beforehe sat, hard at the chair when he was sitting. I interested him muchless than old brocade and lighted wax candles, which inspired him with asolemnity that widened his eyes and narrowed his features. He looked ona new, and never-before-imagined, life. And he was grave to excess, though, later, I found plenty of the London child's impish nature inhim. "

"That impish quality hides in nearly all street-bred children, " saidUniacke. "I have seen larkiness dawn in them for an instant at somerecollection, even when they were dying. "

"I daresay. I can believe it. But Jack was solemn at first, his browthunderous with thought, as he examined his chair and the rug under hisnew boots. Then in the firelight I began my task. I wrought to bringabout in this Trafalgar Square soul a sea change. For a time I did notattempt to paint. I merely let the boy come to me day by day, getaccustomed to the studio, and listen to my talk--which was often of thesea. I very soon found that my intention had led me to the right mindfor my purpose; for the starved gaze that had been fixed on the rainbowcould turn itself, with equal wonder, similar rapture, on other things. And the mind also could be brought to see what was not visible to theeye. My studio--you must see it some day--is full of recollections ofsea days and nights. Jack explored them. I eliminated from the studioimportant objects of art which might lead him to think of towns, ofvillages inland, of wonderful foreign interiors. I fixed all his natureupon this marvellous element which had never murmured round his lifebefore. I played to him music in which the sea could be heard. Idescribed to him the onward gallop of the white horses, racing overimpenetrable depths. I painted for him in words the varying colours ofwaves in different seas, the black purple of tropical waters, thebottle-green turmoil of a Cornish sea on a choppy day, the brown channelwaves near shore, the jewelled smoothness of the Mediterranean in earlymorning sunshine, its silver in moonrise, melting into white and black. I told him of the crowd of voices that cry in the sea, expressing allthe emotions which are uttered on land by the voices of men; of thechildish voices that may be heard on August evenings in fiords, of thesolemn sobbing that fills an autumn night on the Northumbrian coast, ofthe passionate roaring in mid Atlantic, of the peculiar and frigidwhisper of waters struggling to break from the tightening embrace of icein extreme northern latitudes, of the level moan of the lagoons. Iexplained to him how this element is so much alive that it is never fora moment absolutely still, even when it seems so to the eyes, as itsleeps within the charmed embrace of a coral reef, extended, like anarm, by some Pacific island far away. I drew for him the thoughts of thesea, its intentions, its desires, its regrets, its griefs, its savageand its quiet joys. I narrated the lives in it, of fishes, of monsters;its wonders of half human lives, too, the mermaids who lie on the rocksat night to see the twinkling lights on land, the mermen who swim roundthem, wondering what those lights may mean. I made him walk with me onthe land under the sea, where go the divers through the wrecks, andascend the rocky mountains and penetrate the weedy valleys, and glideacross the slippery, oozy plains. In fine, Uniacke, I drowned littleJack--I drowned him in the sea, I drowned him in the sea. "

The painter spoke the last words in a voice of profound, even of morbid, melancholy, as if he were indeed confessing a secret crime, driven bysome wayward and irresistible impulse. Uniacke looked at him in growingsurprise. 

"And why not?" Uniacke asked. 

But the painter did not reply. He continued:

"I made him see the rainbows of the sea and he looked no more at therainbows of the sky. For at length I had his imagination fast in my netas a salmon that fishermen entice within the stakes. His town mindseemed to fade under my fostering, and, Uniacke, 'nothing of him thatdid fade but did suffer a sea change into something rich and strange. '"

The painter got up from his chair and walked over to the blowing windthat crept in at the window fastenings. The red curtains flew outtowards him. He pushed them back with his hands. 

"Into something rich and strange, " he repeated, as if to himself. "Andstrange. "

"Ah, but that was said, surely, of one who was actually drowned in thesea, " said the clergyman. "It might be suitably placed on many of thememorial slabs in the church yonder, " he continued, waving his handtowards the casement that looked on the churchyard. "But yoursea-urchin--"

"Oh, I speak only of the fading of the town nature into the sea nature, "rejoined the painter quickly, "only of that. The soil of the childishmind was enriched; his eyes shone as if touched with a glow from thesun, swaying in the blue sea. The Trafalgar Square gamin disappeared, and at last my sea-urchin stood before me. As the little Raleigh mayhave looked he looked at me, and I saw in the face then rather thewonder of the sea itself than the crude dancing desire of the littleadventurer who would sail it. And it was the wonder of the sea embodiedin a child that I desired to paint, not the wakening of a human spiritof gay seamanship and love of peril. That's for a Christmas number--butthat came at last. "

He stopped abruptly and faced the clergyman. 

"Why does the second best succeed so often and so closely the best, Iwonder, " he said. "It is very often so in the art life of a man, even ofa great man. And it is so sometimes--perhaps you know this better thanI--in the soul life of a nature. Must we always sink again after we havesoared? Must we do that? Is it an immutable law?"

"Perhaps for a time. Surely, surely, not forever, " said Uniacke. 

His guest's conversation and personality began to stir him more and morepowerfully. It seemed so new and vital an experience to be helped tothink, to have suggestion poured into him now, after his many lonelyisland evenings. 

"Ah, well, who can say?" said the painter. "I had the best for atime--long enough for my immediate purpose; for now I painted, and Ifelt that I was enabled by little Jack to do fine work. It seems he toldhis drinking mother in Drury Lane, in his lingo, of the wonders of thesea. This I learnt later. And, in his occasional, and now somewhatfleeting visits to Trafalgar Square, he explained to the emaciatedlittle girls, in the shadow of Nelson, the fact that there was to befound, and seen, somewhere, water of a very different kind from thatsplashing and churning in the dingy basins guarded by the lions. Meanwhile I painted little Jack, all the time keeping alive in hisnature the sea change, which was, in the end, to bring into my pocket£1, 000 in hard cash. "

Sir Graham said this with an indescribable cold irony and bitterness. 

"I can hear that money jingling in the wind, upon my soul, Uniacke, " headded, frowning heavily. 

The young clergyman was touched by a passing thought of the painter'snotorious ill-health. 

"Before the picture was finished--quite completed--the impish childbegan to waken in the wonder-child, and I had to comply with the demandsof this new-born youngster. Our conversation--little Jack's andmine--drifted from the sea itself to the men and ships that travel it, to the deeds of men that are done upon it; raidings of Moorish pirates, expeditions to the Spanish Main in old days, to the whaling grounds innew, and so forth. When we got to this sort of thing my work was nearlydone and could not be spoiled. So I let myself go, and talked severalboys' books in those afternoons. I was satisfied, damnablysatisfied--your pardon, Uniacke--with my work, and I was heedless of allelse. That is the cursed, selfish instinct of the artist; that is theinadvertence of which we spoke formerly. You remember?"

Uniacke nodded. 

"My picture was before me and a child's budding soul, and I thought ofnothing at all but my picture. That's sin, if you like. Little Jack, inhis jersey and squeaky boots, with his pale face and great eyes, was myprey on canvas and my £1, 000. I hugged myself and told him wild storiesof bold men on the sea. Uniacke, do you believe in a personal devil?"

"I do, " replied the young clergyman, simply. 

"Well, if there is one, depend upon it he sometimes requires anintroduction before he can make a soul's acquaintance. I effected theintroduction between him and my wonder-child when I sat in the twilightand told Jack those tales of the sea. The devil came to the boy in mystudio, and I opened the door and bowed him in. And once he knew theboy, he stayed with him, Uniacke, and whispered in his ear--'Desert yourduty. Life calls you. The sea calls you. Go to it. Desert your duty!'Even a dirty little London boy can have a duty and be aware of it, Isuppose. Eh?"

"Yes. I think that. But--"

"Wait a moment. I've nearly finished my tale, though I'm living thesequel to it at this moment. One day I completed my picture; the lasttouch was given. I stood back, I looked at my canvas. I felt I had donewell; my sea urchin was actually what I had imagined. I had succeeded inthat curious effort--to accomplish which many of us give our lives--inthe effort to project perfectly my thought, to give the exactly rightform to my imagination. I exulted. Yes, I had one grand overwhelmingmoment of exultation. Then I turned from my completed picture. 'Jack, 'I cried out, 'little Jack, I've made you famous. D'you know what thatmeans?'

"I took the little chap by the shoulders and placed him before thepicture. 'See yourself, ' I added. The boy stared at the sea urchin, atthose painted eyes full of the sea wonder, at those parted lips, thatmouth whispering to the sea. His nose twisted slightly. 

"'That ain't me, ' he said. 'That ain't me. '

"I looked down at him, and knew that he spoke the truth; for already thewonder-child was fading, even had faded. And a little adventurer, a trueboy, stood before me, a boy to pull ropes, lend a hand at an oar, whistle in the rigging, gaze with keen dancing eyes through a cold dawnto catch the first sight of a distant land. I looked, understood, didn'tcare; although the poetry of wonder had faded into the prose of meredesire. 

"'It isn't you, Jack?' I answered. 'Well, perhaps not. But it is whatyou were, what you may be again some day. '

"He shook his head. 

"'No, it ain't me. Go on tellin' about them pirits. '

"And, full of gladness, a glory I had never known before, I went on tillit was dark. I said good-by to little Jack on the doorstep. When he hadgone, I stood for a moment listening to the sound of his footsteps dyingaway down the road. I did not know that I should never hear them again. For, although I did not want Jack any more as a model, I was resolvednot to lose sight of him. To him I owed much. I would pay my debt bymaking the child's future very different from his past. I had vaguethoughts of educating him carefully for some reasonable life. I believe, Uniacke, yes, on my soul, I believe that I had bland visions of thesea-urchin being happy and prosperous on a high stool in an office, athome with ledgers, a contented little clerk, whose horizon was boundedby an A B C shop, and whose summer pastime was fly-killing. My big workfinished, a sort of eager idiocy seized me. I was as a man drugged. Myfaculties must have been besotted, I was in a dream. Three daysafterwards I woke from it and learnt that there may be grandeur, yes, grandeur, dramatic in its force, tragic in its height and depth, in atipsy old woman of Drury Lane. "

"Jack's mother?"

The painter nodded. All the time he had been talking the wind hadsteadily increased, and the uproar of the embracing sea had been growinglouder. The windows rattled like musketry, the red curtains shook as ifin fear. Now there came a knock at the door. 

"Come in, " said the clergyman. 

The maid appeared. 

"Do you want anything more to-night, sir?"

"No, thank you, Kate. Good-night. "

"Good-night, sir. "

The door shut. 

"Is it late?" said the painter. 

"Nearly eleven. That is all. "

"Are you tired, Uniacke? perhaps you are accustomed to go to bed early?"

"Not very. Besides to-night the gale would keep me awake; and I want tohear the end of your story. "

"Then--Drury Lane invaded me one evening, smelling of gin, with blackbonnet cocked over one eye, an impossible umbrella, broken boots, straying hair, a mouth full of objurgation, and oaths, and cryingbetween times, 'Where's Jack? Where's my boy? What 'a yer done with myboy, --yer!' I received Drury Lane with astonishment but, I hope, withcourtesy, and explained that my picture was finished, that Jack had leftme to go home, that I meant to take care of his future. 

"My remarks were received with oaths, and the repeated demand to knowwhere Jack was. 'Isn't he at home?' I asked. 'No, nor he ain't been'ome. ' After a while I gathered that Jack had disappeared in darknessfrom my house on the night when I put the last touch to my picture, andhad not been seen by his mother since. She now began to soften and tocry, and I observed that maternity was in her as well as cheap gin. Iendeavoured to comfort her and promised that little Jack should befound. 

"'If he ain't found, ' she sobbed, 'I'm done for, I am; 'e's my hall. '

"There was something horribly genuine in the sound of this cry. I beganto see beyond the gin in which this poor woman was soaked; I began tosee her half-drowned soul that yet had life, had breath. 

"'We'll find him, ' I said. 

"'Never, never, ' she wailed, rocking her thin body to and fro, 'I know'e's gone to sea, 'e 'as. Jack's run away fur a sailor. '

"At these words I turned cold, for I felt as if they were true. I saw ina flash the result of my experiment. I had shown the boy the way thatled to the great sea. Perhaps that night, even as he left my door, hehad seen in fancy the white waves playing before him in the distance, the ships go sailing by. He had heard siren voices calling his youth andhe had heeded them. His old mother kept on cursing me at intervals. Instinct, rather than actual knowledge, led her to attribute thisdisappearance to my initiative. I did not attempt to reason her out ofthe belief, for alas! I began to hold it myself, Uniacke. "

"You thought Jack had run away to sea, prompted by all that you had toldhim of the sea?"

"Yes. And I think it still. "

"Think--then you don't--"

"I don't know it, you'd say? Do I not? Uniacke, a little while ago, whenyou told me of that--that woman for whom you cared much, you remember mysaying to you, was there not something within you that would tell youif she were dead?"

"Yes, I remember. "

"That something which makes a man know a thing without what is generallycalled knowledge of it. Well, that something within me makes me knowthat little Jack did run away to sea. I searched for him, I strove, asfar as one can do such a thing, to sift all the innumerable grains ofLondon through my fingers to find that one little grain I wanted. Ispared no pains in my search. Conceive, even, that I escorted Drury Lanein the black bonnet to the Docks, to ships lying in the Thames, to athousand places! It was all in vain; the wonder-child was swallowed up. I had indeed drowned little Jack in the sea. I have never set eyes onhim since he left me on the evening of the day when I completed mypicture. Shall I ever set eyes on him again? Shall I, Uniacke? Shall I?"

Sir Graham put this strange question with a sort of morose fierceness, getting up from his chair as he spoke. The young clergyman could thinkof no reply. 

"Why not?" he said at last. "He may be well, happy, active in a lifethat he loves, that he glories in. "

"No, Uniacke, no, for he's far away from his duty. That hideous oldwoman, in her degradation, in her cruelty, in her drunkenness, lovedthat boy, loves him still, with an intensity, a passion, a hunger, afeverish anxiety that are noble, that are great. Her hatred of me provesit. I honour her for her hatred. I respect her for it! She shows thebeauty of her soul in her curses. She almost teaches me that there isindeed immortality--at least for women--by her sleepless horror of me. Her hatred, I say, is glorious, because her love shines through it. Ifeed her. She doesn't know it. She'd starve rather than eat my bread. She would kill me, I believe, if she didn't fancy in her vague mind, obscured by drink, that the man who had sent her boy from her mightbring him back to her. For weeks she came every day--walking all the wayfrom Drury Lane, mind you--to ask if the boy had returned. Then sheendured the nightmare of my company, as I told you, while we searched inlikely places for the vanished sea urchin. Jack did nothing for thesupport of his mother. It was she who kept him. She beat him. She cursedhim. She fed him. She loved him; like an animal, perhaps, like a mother, certainly. That says all, Uniacke. It was I who sent that boy away. Imust give him back to that old woman. Till I do so I can never findpeace. This thing preys upon my life, eats into my heart. It's thelittle worm gnawing, always gnawing at me. The doctors tell me I ammorbid because I am in bad health, that my bad health makes the maladyin my mind. On the contrary, it is my mind that makes the malady in mybody. Ah! you are wondering! You are wondering, too, whether it's notthe other way! I see you are!"

"I cannot deny it, " Uniacke said gently. 

"You are wrong. You are wrong, I assure you. And surely you, aclergyman, ought to be the very man to understand me, to know how whatseems a slight thing, a small selfishness, well, the inadvertence wespoke of lately, may punish the soul, may have a long and evil train ofconsequences. I was careless of that child, careful only of my ambition. I ground the child in the mortar of my ambition; is it not natural thatI should suffer now? Does not your religion tell you that it is right?Answer me that?"

Uniacke hesitated. A conviction had been growing up in him all theevening that his guest was suffering severely under some nervousaffliction; one of those obscure diseases which change the whole colourof life to the sufferer, which distort all actions however simple andordinary, which render diminutive trials monstrous, and small evilsimmense and ineffably tragic. It seemed to Uniacke to be his duty tocombat Sir Graham's increasing melancholy, which actually bordered upondespair. At the same time, the young clergyman could not hide from hismind--a mind flooded with conscience--that the painter was slightly toblame for the action which had been followed by so strange a result. 

"I see you hesitate, Uniacke, " said Sir Graham. "Ah, you agree withme!"

"No; I think you may have been careless. But you magnify a slight errorinto a grievous sin; and I do indeed believe that it must be yourpresent bad state of health which acts as the magnifying glass. That ismy honest opinion. "

"No, no, " said the painter, almost with anger, "my illness is all fromthe mind. If I could find that boy, if I could give him back to hismother, I should recover my peace, I should recover my health--I shouldno longer be haunted, driven as I am now. But, Uniacke, do you know whatit is that I fear most of all, what it is that dogs me, night and day;though I strive to put it from me, to tell myself that it is a chimera?"

"What?"

"The belief that little Jack is dead; that he has been drowned at sea, perhaps lately, perhaps long ago. "

"Why should you think that? You do not even know for certain that he ranaway to sea. "

"I am sure of it. If he is dead! If he is dead!"

The painter, as if in an access of grief, turned abruptly from the fire, walked over to the window, pulled one of the blowing curtains aside andapproached his face to the glass. 

"In spite of the storm it is still so light that I can see thosegraves, " he said in a low voice. 

"Don't look at them, Sir Graham. Let us talk of other things. "

"And--and--yes, Uniacke, that poor, mad Skipper is still out there, lingering among them. He is by the churchyard wall, where you werestanding this evening in the twilight: one would say he was watching. "

The clergyman had also risen from his seat. He moved a step or twoacross the little room, then stood still, looking at Sir Graham, who washalf concealed by the fluttering curtains. 

"He is just where I stood?" Uniacke asked. 

"Yes. "

"Then he is watching. "

"By a grave?"

"Yes. Only one of his crew ever gained the land. He gained it--a corpse. He is buried by that wall. I was reading the inscription upon histombstone, and wondering--"

"Wondering? Yes?"

"Where he is, how he is now, far away from the voice of the sea whichtook his life, the wind which roared his requiem. "

"Poor man! You were here when he was washed up on the beach?"

"Yes. I buried him. The Skipper--sane then, though in terriblegrief--was able to identify him, to follow the drowned body as chiefmourner, to choose the inscription for the stone. "

"What was it?" asked Sir Graham, without curiosity, idly, almostabsently. 

"'Lead, kindly light. ' He would have that put. I think he had heard theboy sing it, or whistle the tune of it, at sea one day. "

"The boy? It was a boy then?"

"Yes. "

The clergyman spoke with a certain hesitation, a sudden diffidence. Helooked at the painter, and an abrupt awkwardness, almost ashamefacedness, crept into his manner, even showed itself in hisattitude. The painter did not seem to be aware of it. He was stillengrossed in his own sorrow, his own morbid reflections. He looked outagain in the night. 

"Poor faithful watch-dog, " he murmured. 

Then he turned away from the window. 

"The Skipper does not wait for that boy, " he said. "He knows at leastthat he can never come to him from the sea. "

"Strangely--no. Indeed, he always looks for the boy first. "

"First, do you say? Was it so to-night?"

Again Uniacke hesitated. He was on the verge of telling a lie, butconscience intervened. 

"Yes, " he said. 

"Didn't he speak of little Jack?" said Sir Graham slowly, and with asudden nervous spasm of the face. 

"Yes, Sir Graham. "

"That's curious. "

"Why?"

"The same name--my wonder-child's name. "

"And the name of a thousand children. "

"Of course, of course. And--and, Uniacke, the other name, the other nameupon that tomb?"

"What other name?"

"Why--why the surname. What is that?"

The painter was standing close to the clergyman and staring straightinto his eyes. For a moment Uniacke made no reply. Then he answeredslowly:

"There is no other name. "

"Why not?"

"Why--the--the Skipper would only have Jack put, that was all. Jack--hewas the boy on the schooner 'Flying Fish'--'Lead, kindly light. '"

"Ah!"

The exclamation came in a sigh, that might have been a murmur of reliefor of disappointment. Then there was a silence. The painter went overagain to the fire. Uniacke stood still where he was and looked on theground. He had told a deliberate lie. It seemed to grow as he thought ofit. And why had he told it? A sudden impulse, a sudden fear, had led himinto sin. A strange fancy had whispered to him, "What if that boy buriedby the wall yonder should be the wonder-child, the ragamuffin who lookedat the rainbow, the sea urchin, the spectre haunting your guest?" Howunlikely that was! And yet ships go far, and the human fate is oftenmysteriously sad. It might be that the wonder-child was born to bewrecked, to be cast up, streaming with sea-water on the strand of thislonely isle. It might be that the eyes which worshipped the rainbow weresightless beneath that stone yonder; that the hands which pointed to itwere folded in the eternal sleep. And, if so, was not the liejustified? If so, could Peter Uniacke regret it? He saw this man who hadcome into his lonely life treading along the verge of a world that madehim tremble in horror. Dared he lead him across the verge into thedarkness? And yet his lie troubled him, and he saw a stain spreadingslowly out upon the whiteness of his ardent soul. The painter turnedfrom the fire. His face was haggard and weary. 

"I will go to bed, " he said. "I must try to get some sleep even in thestorm. "

He held out his thin hand. Uniacke took it. 

"Good-night, " he said. 

"Good-night. I am sorry I have troubled you with my foolish history. "

"It interested me deeply. By the way--what did you say yourwonder-child's name was, his full name?"

"Jack--Jack Pringle. What is it?"

"Nothing. That gust of wind startled me. Good-night. "

The painter looked at Uniacke narrowly, then left the room. 

The clergyman went over to the fire, leaned his arms on the mantelpiece, and rested his head on them. 

Presently he lifted his head, went softly to the door, opened it andlistened. He heard the tread of his guest above stairs, moving to andfro about the spare room. He waited. After a while there was silence inthe house. Only the wind and the sea roared outside. Then Uniacke wentinto the kitchen, pulled out a drawer in a dresser that stood by thewindow, and took from it a chisel and a hammer. He carried them into thepassage, furtively put on his coat and hat, and, with all the precautionof a thief, unlocked the front door and stole out into the storm. 

PART II. 

THE GRAVE. 

PART II. 

THE GRAVE. 

In the morning the storm was still fierce. Clouds streamed across a skythat bent lower and lower towards the aspiring sea blanched with foam. There was little light, and the Rectory parlour looked grim and wintrywhen Sir Graham and Uniacke met there at breakfast time. The clergymanwas pale and seemed strangely discomforted and at first unable to benatural. He greeted his guest with a forcible, and yet flickering, noteof cheerfulness, abrupt and unsympathetic, as he sat down behind thesteaming coffee-pot. The painter scarcely responded. He was stillattentive to the storm. He ate very little. 

"You slept?" asked Uniacke presently. 

"Only for a short time towards dawn. I sat at my window most of thenight. "

"At your window?" Uniacke said uneasily. 

"Yes. Somebody--a man--I suppose it must have been the Skipper--came outfrom the shadow of this house soon after I went to my bedroom, and stoleto that grave by the churchyard wall. "

"Really, " said Uniacke. "Did he stay there?"

"For some time, bending down. It seemed to me as if he were at somework, some task--or perhaps he was only praying in his mad way, poorfellow!"

"Praying--yes, yes, very likely. A little more coffee?"

"No, thank you. The odd thing was that after a while he ceased andreturned to this house. One might have thought it was his home. "

"You could not see if it was the Skipper?"

"No, the figure was too vague in the faint stormy light. But it musthave been he. Who else would be out at such a time in such a night?"

"He never heeds the weather, " said Uniacke. 

His pale face had suddenly flushed scarlet, and he felt a pricking as ofneedles in his body. It seemed to him that he was transparent like athing of glass, and that his guest must be able to see not merely thetrouble of his soul, but the fact that was its cause. And the painterdid now begin to observe his host's unusual agitation. 

"And you--your night?" he asked. 

"I did not sleep at all, " said Uniacke quickly, telling the truth with achildish sense of relief, "I was excited. "

"Excited!" said Sir Graham. 

"The unwonted exercise of conversation. You forget that I am generally alonely man, " said the clergyman, once more drawn into the sin ofsubterfuge, and scorching in it almost like a soul in hell. 

He got up from the breakfast-table, feeling strangely unhappy andweighed down with guilt. Yet, as he looked at the painter's worn faceand hollow eyes, his heart murmured, perhaps deceitfully, "You arejustified. "

"I must go out. I must go into the village, " he said. 

"In this weather?"

"We islanders think nothing of it. We pursue our business though theheavens crack and the sea touches the clouds. "

He went out hurriedly and with the air of a man painfully abashed. Oncebeyond the churchyard, in the plough-land of the island road, hecontinued his tormented reverie of the night. Never before had he doneevil that good might come. He had never supposed that good could comeout of evil, but had deemed the supposition a monstrous and a deadlyfallacy, to be combated, to be struck down to the dust. Even now he waschiefly conscious of a mental weakness in himself which had caused himto act as he had acted. He saw himself as one of those puny creatureswhose so-called kind hearts lead them into follies, into crimes. Likemany young men of virtuous life and ascetic habit, Uniacke was disposedto worship that which was uncompromising in human nature, the slighthardness which sometimes lurks, like a kernel, in the saint. But he wasemotional. He was full of pity. He desired to bandage the wounded world, to hush its cries of pain, to rock it to rest, even though he believedthat suffering was its desert. And to the individual, more especially, he was very tender. Like a foolish woman, perhaps, he told himselfto-day as he walked on heavily in the wild wind, debating his deed ofthe night and its consequences. 

He had erased the name of Pringle from the stone that covered littleJack, the wonder-child. And he felt like a criminal. Yet he dreaded thesequel of a discovery by the painter, that his fears were well founded, that his sea urchin had indeed been claimed by the hunger of the sea. Uniacke had worked in cities and had seen much of sad men. He had learntto read them truly for the most part, and to foresee clearly in manyinstances the end of their journeys. And his ministrations had taughthim to comprehend the tragedies that arise from the terrible intimacywhich exists between the body and its occupant the soul. He could nottell, as a doctor might have been able to tell, whether the morbidcondition into which Sir Graham had come was primarily due to ill-healthof the mind acting upon the body or the reverse. But he felt nearly surethat if the painter's fears were proved suddenly to him to be wellfounded, he might not improbably fall into a condition of permanentmelancholia, or even of active despair. Despite his apparenthopelessness, he was at present sustained by ignorance of the fate oflittle Jack. He did not actually know him dead. The knowledge wouldknock a prop from under him. He would fall into some dreadful abyss. Theyoung clergyman's deceit alone held him back. But it might be discoveredat any moment. One of the islanders might chance to observe thedefacement of the tomb. A gossiping woman might mention to Sir Grahamthe name that had vanished. Yet these chances were remote. A drownedstranger boy is naught to such folk as these, bred up in familiaritywith violent death. Long ago they had ceased to talk of the schooner"Flying Fish, " despite the presence of the mad Skipper, despite thesound of church bells in the night. Fresh joys, or tragedies, absorbedthem. For even the island world has its record. Time plants hisfootsteps upon the loneliest land. And the dwellers note his onwardtour. 

Uniacke reckoned the chances for and against the discovery of hisfurtive act of mercy and its revelation to his guest. The latteroutnumbered the former. Yet Uniacke walked nervously as one on the vergeof disaster. In the Island cottages that morning he bore himselfuneasily in the presence of his simple-minded parishioners. Sittingbeside an invalid, whose transparent mind was dimly, but with ardentfaith, set on Heaven, he felt hideously unfitted to point the way tothat place into which no liar shall ever come. He was troubled, andprayed at random for the dying--thinking of the dead. At the same timehe felt himself the chief of sinners and knew that there was a devil inhim capable of repeating his nocturnal act. Never before had he gatheredso vital a knowledge of the complexity of man. He saw the threads of himall ravelled up. When he finished his prayers at the bedside, theinvalid watched him with the critical amazement of illness. 

He went out trembling and conscience-stricken. When he reached thechurchyard on his way homewards, he saw Sir Graham moving among thegraves. He had apparently just come out from the Rectory and was makinghis way to the low stone wall, over which shreds of foam were beingblown by the wind. Uniacke hastened his steps, and hailed Sir Graham ina loud and harsh voice. He paused, and shading his eyes with his archedhands, gazed towards the road. 

Uniacke hurried through the narrow gate and joined his guest, who lookedlike a man startled out of some heavy reverie. 

"Oh, it is you, " he said. "Well, I--"

"You were going to watch the sea, I know. It is worth watching to-day. Come with me. I'll take you to the point--to the nigger. "

"The nigger?"

"The fishermen call the great black rock at the north end of the Islandby that name. The sea must be breaking magnificently. "

Uniacke took Sir Graham's arm and led him away, compelling him almost asif he were a child. They left the churchyard behind them, and were soonin solitary country alone with the roar of wind and sea. Branchingpresently from the road they came into a narrow, scarcely perceptible, track, winding downward over short grass drenched with moisture. Thedull sheep scattered slowly from them on either side of the way. Presently the grass ceased at the edge of an immense blunt rock, like adisfigured head, that contemplated fixedly the white turmoil of the sea. 

"A place for shipwreck, " said Sir Graham. "A place of death. "

Uniacke nodded. The painter swept an arm towards the sea. 

"What a graveyard! One would say the time had come for it to give up itsdead and it was passionately fighting against the immutable decree. IsJack somewhere out there?"

He turned and fixed his eyes upon Uniacke's face. Uniacke's eyes fell. 

"Is he?" repeated Sir Graham. 

"How can I tell?" exclaimed Uniacke, almost with a sudden anger. "Let usgo back. "

Towards evening the storm suddenly abated. A pale yellow light brokealong the horizon, almost as the primroses break out along the horizonof winter. The thin black spars of a hurrying vessel pointed to theillumination and vanished, leaving the memory of a tortured gesturefrom some sea-thing. And as the yellow deepened to gold, the Skipper setthe church bells ringing. Sir Graham opened the parlour window wide andlistened, leaning out towards the graves. Uniacke was behind him in theroom. Vapour streamed up from the buffeted earth, which seemed pantingfor a repose it had no strength to gain. Ding dong! Ding dong! The wildand far-away light grew to flame and faded to darkness. In the darknessthe bells seemed clearer, for light deafens the imagination. Uniackefelt a strange irritability coming upon him. He moved uneasily in hischair, watching the motionless, stretched figure of his guest. Presentlyhe said:

"Sir Graham!"

There was no reply. 

"Sir Graham!"

He got up, crossed the little room and touched the shoulder of thedreamer. Sir Graham started sharply and turned a frowning face. 

"What is it?"

"The atmosphere is very cold and damp after the storm. "

"You wish me to shut the window? I beg your pardon. "

He drew in and shut it, then moved to the door. 

"You are going out?" said Uniacke uneasily. 

"Yes. "

"I--I would not speak to the Skipper, if I were you. He is happier whenhe is let quite alone. "

"I want to see him. I want him to sit for me. "

"To sit!" Uniacke repeated, with an accent almost of horror. 

"Yes, " said Sir Graham doggedly. "I have a great picture in my mind. "

"But--"

"The Skipper's meeting with his drowned comrades, in that belfry tower. He will stand with the ropes dropping from his hands, triumph in hiseyes. They will be seen coming up out of the darkness, grey men anddripping from the sea, with dead eyes and hanging lips. And first amongthem will be my wonder-child, on whom will fall a ray of light from awild moon, half seen through the narrow slit of the deep-set window. "

"No, no!"

"What do you say?"

"Your wonder-child must not be there. Why should he? He is alive. "

"You think so?"

Uniacke made no reply. 

"I say, do you think so?"

"How can I know? It is impossible. But--yes, I think so. "

The clergyman turned away. A sickness of the conscience overtook himlike physical pain. Sir Graham was by the door with his hand upon it. 

"And yet, " he said, "you do not believe in intuitions. Nothing tellsyou whether that woman you loved is dead or living. You said that. "

"Nothing. "

"Then what should tell you whether Jack is dead or living?"

He turned and went out. Presently Uniacke saw his dark figure pass, likea shadow, across the square of the window. The night grew more quiet byslow degrees. The hush after the storm increased. And to the youngclergyman's unquiet nerves it seemed like a crescendo in music insteadof like a diminuendo, as sometimes seems the falling to sleep of a manto a man who cannot sleep. The noise of the storm had been softer thanthe sound of this increasing silence in which the church bells presentlydied away. Uniacke was consumed by an apprehension that was almost likethe keen tooth of jealousy. For he knew that the Skipper had ceased fromhis patient task and Sir Graham did not return. He imagined a colloquy. But the Skipper's madness would preserve the secret which he no longerknew, and, therefore, could not reveal. He made the bells call JackPringle. He would never point to the defaced grave and say, "JackPringle lies beneath this stone. " And yet sanity might, perhaps, return, a rush of knowledge of the past and recognition of its tragedy. 

Uniacke took his hat and went to the door. He stood out on the step. Sea-birds were crying. The sound of the sea withdrew moment by moment, as if it were stealing furtively away. Behind, in the rectory passage, the servant clattered as she brought in the supper. 

"Sir Graham!" Uniacke called suddenly. "Sir Graham!"

"Yes. "

The voice came from somewhere in the shadow of the church. 

"Will you not come in? Supper is ready. "

In a moment the painter came out of the gloom. 

"That churchyard draws me, " he said, mounting the step. 

"You saw the Skipper?"

"Yes, leaving. "

"Did he speak to you?"

"Not a word. "

The clergyman breathed a sigh of relief. 

In the evening Uniacke turned his pipe two or three times in his fingersand said, looking down:

"That picture of yours--"

"Yes. What of it?"

"You will paint it in London, I suppose?"

"How can I do that? The imagination of it came to me here, is sustainedand quickened by these surroundings. "

"You mean to paint it here?" the clergyman faltered. 

Sir Graham was evidently struck by his host's air of painfuldiscomfiture. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said hastily. "Of course I do not mean toinflict myself upon your kind hospitality while I am working. I shallreturn to the inn. "

Uniacke flushed red at being so misunderstood. 

"I cannot let you do that. No, no! Honestly, my question was onlyprompted by--by--a thought--"

"Yes?"

"Do not think me impertinent. But, really, a regard for you has grown upin me since you have allowed me to know you--a great regard indeed. "

"Thank you, thank you, Uniacke, " said the painter, obviously moved. 

"And it has struck me that in your present condition of health, andseeing that your mind is pursued by these--these melancholy sea thoughtsand imaginings, it might be safer, better for you to be in a place lessdesolate, less preyed upon by the sea. That is all. Believe me, that isall. "

He spoke the last words with the peculiar insistence and almostdeclamatory fervour of the liar. But he was now embarked upon deceit andmust crowd all sail. And with the utterance of his lie he took an abruptresolution. 

"Let us go away together somewhere, " he exclaimed, with a brighteningface. "I need a holiday. I will get a brother clergyman to come overfrom the mainland and take my services. You asked me some day to returnyour visit. I accept your invitation here and now. Let me come with youto London. "

Sir Graham shook his head. 

"You put me in the position of an inhospitable man, " he said. "In thefuture you must come to me. I look forward to that. I depend upon it. But I cannot go to London at present. My house, my studio are becomeloathsome to me. The very street in which I live echoes with childishfootsteps. I cannot be there. "

"Sir Graham, you must learn to look upon your past act in a differentlight. If you do not, your power of usefulness in the world will becrushed. "

The clergyman spoke with an intense earnestness. His sense of his ownincreasing unworthiness, the fighting sense of the necessity laid uponhim to be unworthy for this sick man's sake, tormented him, set hisheart in a sea of trouble. He strove to escape out of it by mentalexertion. His eyes shone with unnatural fervour as he went on:

"When you first told me your story, I thought this thing weighed uponyou unnecessarily. Now I see more and more clearly that your unnaturalmisery over a very natural act springs from ill-health. It is your bodywhich you confuse with your conscience. Your remorse is a diseaseremovable by medicine, by a particular kind of air or scene, by waterseven it may be, or by hard exercise, or by a voyage. "

"A voyage!" cried Sir Graham bitterly. 

"Well, well--by such means, I would say, as come to a doctor's mind. Youlabour under the yoke of the body. "

"Do you think that whenever your conscience says, 'You have done wrong'?Tell me!"

Uniacke, who had got up in his excitement, recoiled at these words whichstruck him hard. 

"I--I!" he almost stammered. "What have I got to do with it?"

"I ask you to judge yourself, to put yourself in my place. That is all. Do you tell me that all workings of conscience are due to obscure bodilycauses?"

"How could I? No, but yours--"

"Are not. They hurt my body. They do not come from my body's hurt. Andthey increase upon me in this place, yes, they increase upon me. "

"I knew it, " cried Uniacke. 

"Why is that?" said Sir Graham, with a melancholy accent. "I feel, Ibegin to feel that there must be some powerful reason--yes, in thisisland. "

"There cannot be. Leave it! Leave it!"

"I am held here. "

"By what?"

"Something intangible, invisible--"

"Nothing, then. "

"All-powerful. I cannot go. If I would go, I cannot. Perhaps--perhapsJack is coming here. "

The painter's eyes were blazing. Uniacke felt himself turn cold. 

"Jack coming here!" he said harshly. "Nonsense, Sir Graham. Nobody evercomes here. "

"Dead bodies come on the breast of the sea. "

The painter looked towards the window, putting himself into an attitudeof horrible expectation. 

"Is it not so?" he asked, in a voice that quivered slightly as if withan agitation he was trying to suppress. 

Uniacke made no reply. He was seized with a horror he had not knownbefore. He recognised that the island influence mysteriously held hisguest. After an interval he said abruptly:

"What is your doctor's name, did you say?"

"Did I ever say whom I had consulted?" said Sir Graham, almost with aninvalid's ready suspicion, and peering at the clergyman under his thickeyebrows. 

"Surely. But I forget things so easily, " said Uniacke calmly. 

"Braybrooke is the man--Cavendish Square. An interesting fellow. You mayhave heard of his book on the use of colour as a sort of physic incertain forms of illness. "

"I have. What sort of man is he?"

"Very small, very grey, very indecisive in manner. "

"Indecisive?"

"In manner. In reality a man of infinite conviction. "

"May I ask if you told him your story?"

"The story of my body--naturally. One goes to a doctor to do that. "

"And did that narrative satisfy him?"

"Not at all. Not a bit. "

"Well--and so?"

"I did not tell him my mental story. I explained to him that I sufferedgreatly from melancholy. That was all. I called it unreasoningmelancholy. Why not? I knew he could do no more than put my body alittle straight. He did his best. "

"I see, " said Uniacke, slowly. 

That night, after Sir Graham had gone to bed, Uniacke came to aresolution. He decided to write to Doctor Braybrooke, betray, for hisguest's sake, his guest's confidence, and ask the great man's advice inthe matter, revealing to him the strange fact that fate had led thepainter of the sea urchin to the very edge of the grave in which heslept so quietly. No longer did Uniacke hesitate, or pause to askhimself why he permitted the sorrow of a stranger thus to control, toupset, his life. And, indeed, is the man who tells us his sorrow astranger to us? Uniacke's creed taught him to be unselfish, taught himto concern himself in the afflictions of others. Already he had sinned, he had lied for this stricken man. He, a clergyman, had gone out in thenight and had defaced a grave. All this lay heavy on his heart. Hisconscience smote him. And yet, when he saw before him in the night thevision of this tortured man, he knew that he would repeat his sin ifnecessary. 

The next day was Sunday. He sat down and tried to think of the twosermons he had to preach. The sea lay very still on the Sabbath morning, still under a smooth and pathetic grey sky. The atmosphere seemed thatof a winter fairyland. All the sea-birds were in hiding. Small waveslicked the land like furtive tongues seeking some dainty food with slydesire. Across the short sea-grass the island children wound from schoolto church, and the island lads gathered in knots to say nothing. Thewhistling of a naughty fisherman attending to his nets unsabbaticallypierced the still and magically cruel air with a painful sharpness. People walked in silence without knowing why they did not care to speak. And even the girls, discreet in ribbons and shining boots, thought lessof kisses than they generally did on Sunday. The older people, sober bytemperament, became sombre under the influence of sad, breathless sky, and breathless waters. The coldness that lay in the bosom of nature soonfound its way to the responsive bosom of humanity. It chilled Uniacke inthe pulpit, Sir Graham in the pew below. The one preached without heart. The other listened without emotion. All this was in the morning. But atevening nature stirred in her repose and turned, with the abruptness ofa born coquette, to pageantry. A light wind got up. The waves werecurved and threw up thin showers of ivory spray playfully along therocks. The sense of fairyland, wrapped in ethereal silences, quiveredand broke like disturbed water. And the grey womb of the sky swelled inthe west to give up a sunset that became tragic in its crescendo ofglory. Bursting forth in flame--a narrow line of fire along the sea--itpushed its way slowly up the sky. Against the tattered clouds a hiddenhost thrust forth their spears of gold. And a wild-rose colour descendedupon the gentle sea and floated to the island, bathing the rocks, thegrim and weather-beaten houses, the stones of the churchyard, with aradiance so delicate, and yet so elfish, that enchantment walked theretill the night came down, and in the darkness the islanders moved ontheir way to church. The pageant was over. But it had stirred twoimaginations. It blazed yet in two hearts. The shock of its coming, after long hours of storm, had stirred Uniacke and his guest strangely. And the former, leaving in the rectory parlour the sermon he hadcomposed, preached extempore on the text, "In the evening there shall belight. "

He began radiantly and with fervour. But some spirit of contradictionentered his soul as he spoke, impelling him to a more sombre mood thatwas yet never cold, but rather impassioned full of imaginative despair. He was driven on to discourse of the men who will not see light, of themen who draw thick blinds to shut out light. And then he was led, by theegoism that so subtly guides even the best among men, to speak of thosefools who, by fostering darkness, think to compel sunshine, as a man maymix dangerous chemicals in a laboratory, seeking to advance some causeof science and die in the poisonous fumes of his own devilish brew. Cangood, impulsive and radiant, come out of deliberate evil? Must not aman care first for his own soul if he would heal the soul of even oneother? Uniacke spoke with a strange and powerful despair on thissubject. He ended in a profound sadness and with the words of onescourged by doubts. 

There was a pause, the shuffle of moving feet. Then the voice of theclerk announced the closing hymn. It was "Lead, Kindly Light, " chosen bythe harmonium player and submitted to Uniacke, who, however, had failedto notice that it was included in the list of hymns for the day. Theclerk's voice struck on him like a blow. He stared down from the pulpitand met the upward gaze of his guest. Then he laid his cold hands on thewooden ledge of the pulpit and turned away his eyes. For he felt as ifSir Graham must understand the secret that lay in them. The islanderssang the hymn lustily, bending their heads over their books beneath thedull oil lamps that filled the church with a dingy yellow twilight. Alone, at the back of the building, the mad Skipper stood up by thebelfry door and stared straight before him as if he watched. AndUniacke's trouble increased, seeming to walk in the familiar music whichhad been whistled by Jack Pringle as he swarmed to the mast-head, orturned into his bunk at night far out at sea. Sir Graham had spoken ofintuitions. Surely, the clergyman thought, to-night he will feel thetruth and my lie. To-night he will understand that it is useless towait, that the wonder-child can never come to this island, for he cameon the breast of the sea long ago. And if he does know, now, at thismoment, while the islanders are singing, "And with the morn those angel faces smile--"

how will he regard me, who have lied to him and who have preached tohim, coward and hypocrite? For still the egoism was in Uniacke's heart. There is no greater egoist than the good man who has sinned against hisnature. He sits down eternally to contemplate his own soul. When thehymn was over Uniacke mechanically gave the blessing and knelt down. Buthe did not pray. His mind stood quite still all the time he was on hisknees. He got up wearily, and as he made his way into the little vestry, he fancied that he heard behind him a sound as of some one tramping insea-boots upon the rough church pavement. He looked round and saw thebland face of the clerk, who wore perpetually a little smile, like thatof a successful public entertainer. That evening he wrote to DoctorBraybrooke. 

On the morrow Sir Graham began the first sketch for his picture, "_TheProcession of the Drowned to their faithful Captain_. "

Three mornings later, when Uniacke came to the breakfast-table, SirGraham, who was down before him, handed to him a letter, the envelope ofwhich was half torn open. 

"It was put among mine, " he said in apology, "and as the handwritingwas perfectly familiar to me, I began to open it. "

"Familiar?" said Uniacke, taking the letter. 

"Yes. It bears an exact resemblance to Doctor Braybrooke's writing. "

"Oh!" said Uniacke, laying the letter aside rather hastily. 

They sat down on either side of the table. 

"You don't read your letter, " Sir Graham said, after two or threeminutes had passed. 

"After breakfast. I don't suppose it is anything important, " said theclergyman hastily. 

Sir Graham said nothing more, but drank his coffee and soon afterwardswent off to his work. Then Uniacke opened the letter. 

 "CAVENDISH SQUARE, _London, Dec. --_

 "DEAR SIR:

 "I read your letter about my former patient, Sir Graham Hamilton, with great interest. When he consulted me I was fully aware that he was concealing from me some mental trouble, which reacted upon his bodily condition and tended to retard his complete recovery of health. However, a doctor cannot force the confidence of a patient even in that patient's own interest, and I was, therefore, compelled to work in the dark, and to work without satisfaction to myself and lasting benefit to Sir Graham. You now let in a strange light upon the case, and I have little doubt what course would be the best to pursue in regard to the future. Sir Graham's nervous system has broken down so completely that, as often happens in nervous cases, his very nature seems to have changed. The energy, the remarkable self-confidence, the hopefulness and power of looking forward, and of working for the future, which have placed him where he is--these have vanished. He is possessed by a fixed idea, and imagines that it is this fixed idea which has preyed upon him and broken him down. But my knowledge of nerve-complaints teaches me that the fixed idea follows on the weakening of the nervous system, and seldom or never precedes it. I find it is an effect and not a cause. But it is a fact that the fixed idea which possesses a man under such circumstances is often connected, and closely, with the actual cause of his illness. Sir Graham Hamilton is suffering from long and habitual overwork in connection with the sea; overwork of the imagination, of the perceptive faculty, and in the mere mechanical labour of putting on canvas what he imagines and what he perceives. In consequence of this overstrain and subsequent breakdown, he has become possessed by a fixed sea-idea, and traces all his wretchedness to this episode of the boy and the picture. You will say I did not succeed in curing him because I did not discover what this fixed idea was. How can that be, if the idea comes from the illness and not the illness from the idea. In reply I must inform you that a tragic idea, once it is fixed in the mind of a man, can, and often does, become in itself at last a more remote, but effective, cause of the prolonged continuance of the ill-health already started by some other agent. It keeps the wound, which it has not made, open. It is most important, therefore, that it should, if possible, be banished, in the case of Sir Graham as in other cases. Your amiable deception has quite possibly averted a tragedy. _Continue in it, I counsel you. _ The knowledge that his fears are well founded, that the boy--for whose fate he morbidly considers himself entirely responsible--has in very truth been lost at sea, and lies buried in the ground beneath his feet, might, in his present condition of invalidism, be attended by most evil results. Some day it is quite possible that he may be able to learn all the facts with equanimity. But this can only be later when long rest and change have accomplished their beneficent work. It cannot certainly be now. Endeavour, therefore, to dissuade him from any sort of creative labour. Endeavour to persuade him to leave the island. Above all things, do not let him know the truth. It is a sad thing that a strong man of genius should be brought so low that he has to be treated with precautions almost suitable to a child. But to a doctor there are many more children in the world than a statistician might be able to number. I wish I could take a holiday and come to your assistance. Unfortunately, my duties tie me closely to town at the present. And, in any case, my presence might merely irritate and alarm our friend. 

 "Believe me, Faithfully yours, JOHN BRAYBROOKE. "

Uniacke read this letter, and laid it down with a strange mingledfeeling of relief and apprehension. The relief was a salve that touchedhis wounded conscience gently. If he had sinned, at least thisphysician's letter told him that by his sin he had accomplishedsomething beneficent. And for the moment self-condemnation ceased toscourge him. The apprehension that quickly beset him rose from theknowledge that Sir Graham was in danger so long as he was in the Island. But how could he be persuaded to leave it? That was the problem. 

Uniacke's reverie over the letter was interrupted by the appearance ofthe painter. As he came into the room, the clergyman rather awkwardlythrust the doctor's letter into his pocket and turned to his guest. 

"In already, Sir Graham?" he said, with a strained attempt at ease ofmanner. "Ah! work tires you. Indeed you should take a long holiday. "

He spoke, thinking of the doctor's words. 

"I have not started work, " the painter said. "I've--I've been looking atthat grave by the church wall--the boy's grave. "

"Oh!" said Uniacke, with sudden coldness. 

"Do you know, Uniacke, it seems--it seems to me that the gravestone hasbeen defaced. "

"Defaced! Why, what could make such an idea come to you?" exclaimed theclergyman. "Defaced! But--"

"There is a gap in the inscription after the word 'Jack, '" the paintersaid slowly, fixing a piercing and morose glance on his companion. "Andit seems to me that some blunt instrument has been at work there. "

"Oh, there was always a gap there, " said Uniacke hastily, touching theletter that lay in his pocket, and feeling, strangely, as if the contactfortified that staggering pilgrim on the path of lies--his conscience. "There was always a gap. It was a whim of the Skipper's--a mad whim. "

"But I understood he was sane when his shipmate was buried? You saidso. "

"Sane? Yes, in comparison with what he is now. But one could not arguewith him. He was distraught with grief. "

Sir Graham looked at Uniacke with the heavy suspicion of a sick man, buthe said nothing more on the subject. He turned as if to go out. Uniackestopped him. 

"You are going to paint?"

"Yes. "

Again Uniacke thought of the doctor's advice. 

"Sir Graham, " he said, speaking with obvious hesitation, "I--I would notwork. "

"Why?"

"You are not fit to bear any fatigue at present. Creation willinevitably retard your recovery. "

"I am not ill in body, and work is the only panacea for a burdened mind. If it cannot bring me happiness, at least--"

"Happiness!" Uniacke interrupted. "And what may not bring that! Why, SirGraham, even death--should that be regarded as a curse? May not deathbring the greatest happiness of all?"

The painter's forehead contracted, but the clergyman continued withgathering eagerness and fervour:

"Often when I pray beside a little dead child, or--or a young lad, andhear the mother weeping, I feel more keenly than at any other time thefact that blessings descend upon the earth. The child is taken ininnocence. The lad is bereft of the power to sin. And their souls aresurely at peace. "

"At peace, " said the painter heavily. "Yes, that is something. But themother--the mother weeps, you say. "

"Human love, the most beautiful thing in the world must still beearth-bound, must still be selfish. "

"But--"

"Sir Graham, I'll confess to you even this, that on Sunday evening, when, after the service, we sang that hymn, 'Lead, Kindly Light, ' Ithought would it not be a very beautiful thing if the body moulderingbeneath that stone in the churchyard yonder were indeed the body of--ofyour wonder-child. "

"Uniacke!"

"Yes, yes. Don't you remember how he looked up from his sordid misery tothe rainbow?"

"How can I ever forget it?"

"Does that teach you nothing?"

There was a silence. Then the painter said:

"Death may be beautiful, but only after life has been beautiful. For itis beautiful to live as Jack would have lived. "

"Is living--somewhere, " interposed Uniacke quickly. 

"Perhaps. I can't tell. But I hear the mother weeping. I hear the motherweeping. "

That night Uniacke lay long awake. He heard the sea faintly. Was it notweeping too? It seemed to him in that dark hour as if one power alonewas common to all people and to all things--the power to mourn. 

Next day, despite Uniacke's renewed protests, Sir Graham began to paintsteadily. The clergyman dared not object too strongly. He had no right. And brain-sick men are bad to deal with. He could only watch over SirGraham craftily and be with him as much as possible, always hoping thatthe painting frenzy would desert him, and that he would find out forhimself that his health was too poor to endure any strain of labour. 

The moon was now past its second quarter, and the weather continued coldand clear. Sir Graham and Uniacke went out several times by night to thebelfry of the church, and the painter observed the light effects throughthe narrow window. In the daytime he made various studies from memory ofthese effects. And presently Uniacke began to grow more reconciled tothis labour of which--prompted by the doctor's letter--he had at firstbeen so much afraid. For it really seemed that toil could be a tonic tothis man as to many other men. Sir Graham spoke less of little Jack. Hewas devoured by the fever of creation. In the evenings he mused on hispicture, puffing at his pipe. He no longer continually displayed hismorbid sorrow, or sought to discuss at length the powers of despair. Uniacke was beginning to feel happier about him, even to doubt thedoctor's wisdom in denouncing work as a danger, when something happenedwhich filled him with a vague apprehension. 

The mad Skipper, whom nothing attracted, wandering vacantly, accordingto his sad custom, about the graveyard and in the church, one dayascended to the belfry, in which Sir Graham sat at work on a study forthe background of his picture. Uniacke was with his friend at the time, and heard the Skipper's heavy and stumbling footsteps ascending thenarrow stone stairs. 

"Who's that coming?" the painter asked. 

"The Skipper, " Uniacke answered, almost under his breath. 

In another minute the huge seaman appeared, clad as usual in jersey andpeaked cap, his large blue eyes full of an animal expression of vacantplaintiveness and staring lack of thought. He showed no astonishment atfinding intruders established in his domain, and for a moment Uniackethought he would quietly turn about and make his way down again. For, after a short pause, he half swung round, still keeping his eyes vaguelyfixed on the artist, who continued to paint as if quite alone. Butapparently some chord of curiosity had been struck in this poor andbenumbed mind. For the big man wavered, then stole rather furtivelyforward, and fixed his sea-blue eyes on the canvas, upon which appearedthe rough wall of the belfry, the narrow window, with a section of wildsky in which a weary moon gleamed faintly, and the dark arch of thestairway up which the drowned mariners would come to their faithfulcaptain. The Skipper stared at all this inexpressively, turned to moveaway, paused, waited. Sir Graham went on painting; and the Skipperstayed. He made no sound. Uniacke could scarcely hear him breathing. Heseemed wrapped in dull and wide-eyed contemplation. Only when at lastSir Graham paused, did he move away slowly down the stairs with hisloose-limbed, shuffling gait, which expressed so plainly the illness ofhis mind. 

In the rectory parlour, a few minutes later, Uniacke and Sir Grahamdiscussed this apparently trifling incident. A feeling of unreasonablealarm besieged Uniacke's soul, but he strove to fight against and toexpel it. 

"How quietly he stood, " said the painter. "He seemed strangelyinterested. "

"Yes, strangely. And yet his eyes were quite vague and dull. I noticedthat. "

"For all that, Uniacke, his mind may be waking from its sleep. "

"Waking from its sleep!" said Uniacke, with a sudden sharpness. "No--impossible!"

"One would almost think you desired that it should not, " rejoined SirGraham, with obvious surprise. 

Uniacke saw that he had been foolishly unguarded. 

"Oh, no, " he said, more quietly, "I only fear that the poor fellow cannever recover. "

"Why not? From what feeling, from what root of intelligence does hisinterest in my work spring? May it not be that he vaguely feels as if mypicture were connected with his sorrow?"

Uniacke shook his head. 

"I am not sure that it is impossible, " continued Sir Graham. "To-morrowI begin to make studies for the figures. If he comes to me again, Ishall sketch him in. "

Uniacke's uneasiness increased. Something within him revolted from theassociation of his guest and the Skipper. The hidden link between themwas a tragedy, a tragedy that had wrecked the reason of the one, thepeace of the other. They did not know of this link, yet there seemedhorror in such a companionship as theirs, and the clergyman was seizedwith fear. 

"You are going to draw your figures from models?" he said, slowly, speaking to cover his anxiety, and speaking idly enough. 

The painter's reply struck away his uncertainty, and set him face toface with a most definite dread. 

"I shall have models, " said Sir Graham, "for all the figures except forlittle Jack. I can draw him from memory. I can reproduce his face. Itnever leaves me. "

"What!" said Uniacke. "You will paint an exactly truthful portrait ofhim then?"

"I shall; only idealised by death, dignified, weird, washed by the sadsea. "

"The Skipper watched you while you were painting. He saw all you weredoing. "

"Yes. And I think he'll come again. "

"But then--he'll--he'll see--"

The clergyman stopped short. 

"See--see what?" Sir Graham asked. 

"Himself, " Uniacke replied, evasively. "When you paint him with theropes dropping from his hands. May it not agitate, upset him, to seehimself as he stands ringing those bells each night? Ah! there theyare!"

It was twilight now, cold, and yellow, and grim; twilight of winter. Andthe pathetic, cheerless appeal of the two bells stole out over thedarkening sea. 

"Perhaps it may agitate him, " Sir Graham said. "What then? To strike asharp blow on the gates of his mind might be to do him a good service. Ashock expelled his reason. Might not a shock recall it?"

"I can't tell, " Uniacke said. "Such an experiment might be dangerous, itseems to me, very dangerous. "

"Dangerous?"

Uniacke turned away rather abruptly. He could not tell the painter whatwas in his mind, his fear that the mad Skipper might recognise thepainted face of the dead boy, for whom he waited, for whom, even at thatmoment, the bells were ringing. And if the Skipper did recognise thisface that he knew so well--what then? What would be the sequel? Uniackethought of the doctor's letter. He felt as if a net were closing roundhim, as if there could be no escape from some tragic finale. And he felttoo, painfully, as if a tragic finale were all that he--he, clergyman, liar, trickster, --deserved. His conscience, in presence of a shadow, woke again, and found a voice, and told him that evil could not prevailfor good, that a lie could not twist the course of things from paths ofsorrow to paths of joy. Did not each lie call aloud to danger, saying, "Approach! approach!" Did not each subterfuge stretch out arms beckoningon some nameless end? He seemed to hear soft footsteps. He was horriblyafraid and wished that, in the beginning of his acquaintance with SirGraham, he had dared consequence and spoken truth. Now he felt like aman feebly fighting that conqueror, the Inevitable, and he went in fear. Yet he struggled still. 

"Sir Graham, " he said, on the following day, "forgive me, but I feel itmy duty to urge you not to let that poor fellow watch you at work. It isnot safe. I do not think it is safe. I have a strong feeling that--thatthe shock of seeing--"

"Himself?"

"Exactly!--might be dangerous. "

"To him?"

"Or to you. That is my feeling. Possibly to you. He is not sane, andthough he seems harmless enough--"

"I'm fully prepared to take the risk, " said Sir Graham abruptly, andwith a return of his old suspicious expression. "I'm not afraid of theman. "

He got up and went out. The mere thought of danger, in his condition, warmed and excited him. He had resolved before actually starting uponhis picture to make some _plein air_ studies of the islanders. Thereforehe now made his way into the village, engaged a fisher-lad to stand tohim, returned to the rectory for his easel and set it up just beyond thechurchyard wall. He posed the shamefaced and giggling boy and set towork. Uniacke was writing in the small bow-window, or pretending towrite. Often he looked out, watching the painter, waiting, with a keenanxiety, to know whether the interest shown in his work by the Skipperwas only the passing whim of insanity, or whether it was something morepermanent, more threatening perhaps. 

The painter worked. The sailor posed, distending his rough cheeks withself-conscious laughter. Uniacke watched. It seemed that the Skipper wasnot coming. Uniacke felt a sense of relief. He got up from hiswriting-table at last, intending to go into the village. As he did so, the tall form of the Skipper came into view in the distance. Dark, bulky, as yet far off, it shambled forward slowly, hesitatingly, overthe short grass towards the painter. While Uniacke observed it, hethought it looked definitely animal. It approached, making détours, likea dog, furtive and intent, that desires to draw near to some objectwithout seeming to do so. Slowly it came, tacking this way and that, pausing frequently as if uncertain or alarmed. And Uniacke, standing inthe shadow of the red curtain, watched its movements, fascinated. He didnot know why, but he had a sensation that Fate, loose-limbed, big-boned, furtive, was shambling over the grass towards his guest. Sir Graham wenton quietly painting. The Skipper made a last détour, got behind thepainter, stole up and peered over his shoulder. Once there, he seemedspellbound. For he stood perfectly still and never took his large blueeyes from the canvas. Uniacke went into the little passage, got his hatand hastened out, impelled yet without purpose. As he crossed thechurchyard he saw Sir Graham put something into the sailor's hand. Thesailor touched his cap awkwardly and rolled off. Uniacke hurriedforward. 

"You've finished your work?" he said, coming up. 

Sir Graham turned and made him a hasty sign to be silent. 

"Don't alarm him, " he whispered, with a slight gesture towards theSkipper, who stood as if in a vacant reverie, looking at the paintedsailor boy. 

"But--" Uniacke began. 

"Hush!" the painter murmured, almost angrily. "Leave us alone together. "

The clergyman moved away with a sinking heart. Indefinable dread seizedhim. The association between these two men was fraught with unknownperil. He felt that, and so strongly, that he was almost tempted to defyconvention and violently interfere to put an end to it. But herestrained himself and returned to the rectory, watching the twomotionless figures beyond the churchyard wall from the parlour window asfrom an ambush, with an intensity of expectation that gave him thebodily sensation of a man clothed in mail. 

In the late afternoon Sir Graham showed him an admirable study of theSkipper, standing with upraised arms as if ringing the church bells, hisblue eyes fixed as if he scanned a distant horizon, or searched theendless plains of the sea for his lost companions. 

"Forgive my abruptness this morning, " the painter said. "I was afraidyour presence would scare the Skipper. "

Uniacke murmured a word in admiration of the painting. 

"And to-morrow, " he added. 

"To-morrow I shall start on the picture, " Sir Graham replied. 

After supper he drew aside the blind and looked forth. 

"The moon is rising, " he said. "I shall go out for a little while. Iwant to observe light effects, and to think over what I am going to do. My mind is full of it, Uniacke; I think it should be a great picture. "

His eyes were shining with excitement. He went out. He was away a longtime. The clock in the rectory parlour struck eleven, half-past eleven, he did not return. Beginning to feel anxious, Uniacke went to the windowand looked out. The night was quiet and clear, bathed in the radiance ofthe moon, which defined objects sharply. The dark figure of the painterwas approaching the house from the church. Uniacke, who did not wish tobe thought curious, drew hastily back from the window and dropped theblind. In a moment Sir Graham entered. He was extremely pale and lookedscared. He shut the door very hastily, almost as if he wished to preventsome one from entering after him. Then he came up to the fire without aword. 

"You are late, " Uniacke said, unpleasantly affected, but trying to speakindifferently. 

"Late, am I? Why--what time is it?"

"Nearly midnight. "

"Indeed. I forgot the hour. I was engrossed. I--" He looked up hastilyand looked down again. "A most strange, most unaccountable, thing hashappened. "

"What?" said Uniacke. "Surely the Skipper hasn't--"

"No, no. It's nothing to do with him. I haven't seen him. No, no--butthe most unaccountable--how long have I been out there?"

"You went out at nine. It's a quarter to twelve now. "

"Two hours and three-quarters! I should have said ten minutes. Butthen--how long was I with it?"

"With it?" repeated Uniacke, turning cold. 

"Yes, yes--how long? It seemed no time--and yet an eternity, too. "

He got up and went to and fro uneasily about the room. 

"Horrible!" he muttered, as if to himself. "Horrible!"

He stopped suddenly in front of Uniacke. 

"Do you believe, " he said, "that when we think very steadily andintensely of a thing we may, perhaps, project--give life, as it were, for the moment to our thought?"

"Why do you ask me?" said Uniacke. "It has never happened to me to dosuch a thing. "

"Why do I ask? Well, I'll--"

He hesitated, keeping his eyes fixed on Uniacke's face. 

"Yes, I'll tell you what took place. I went out thinking of my picture, of its composition, of the light effect, of the faces of the drownedmen, especially of the face of little Jack. I seemed to see him cominginto that belfry tower--yes, to greet the Skipper, all dripping from thesea. But--but--no, Uniacke, I'll swear that, in my mind, I saw his faceas it used to be. That was natural, wasn't it? I imagined it white, withwide, staring eyes, the skin wet and roughened with the salt water. Butthat was all. So it couldn't have been my thought projected, because Ihad never imagined. --"

He was evidently engrossed by his own reflections. His eyes had aninward expression. His voice died in a murmur, almost like the murmur ofone who babbles in sleep. 

"Never had imagined what?" said Uniacke, sharply. 

"Oh, forgive me. I cannot understand it. As I paced in the churchyard, thinking of my picture, and watching the moon and the shadows cast bythe church and by the stones of the tombs, I came to that grave by thewall. "

"The grave of the boy I told you about?" said Uniacke with an elaborateindifference. 

"Yes, the boy. "

"Well?"

"I suppose I stood there for a few minutes, or it may have been longer. I can't tell at all. I don't think I was even aware that I was no longerwalking. I was entirely wrapped up in my meditations, I believe. I sawmy picture before me, the Skipper, the dripping sailors--Jack first. Isaw them quite distinctly with my mental vision. And then, by degrees, somehow those figures in the picture all faded into darkness, softly, gradually, till only one was left--Jack. He was still there in thepicture. The moonlight through the narrow belfry window fell on him. Itseemed to make the salt drops sparkle, almost like jewels, in his hair, on his clothes. I looked at him, --mentally, still. And, while I looked, the moonlight, I thought, grew stronger. The belfry seemed to fade away. The figure of Jack stood out in the light. It grew larger--larger. Itreached the size of life. And then, as I stared upon it, the facealtered before my eyes. It became older, less childish, more firm andmanly--but oh, Uniacke! a thousand times more horrible. "

"How? How?"

"Why, it became puffy, bloated, dropsical. The eyes were glazed andbloodshot. On the lips there was foam. The fingers of the hands weretwisted and distorted. The teeth grinned hideously. The romance of deathdropped away. The filthy reality of death stood before me, upon thegrave of that boy. "

"You imagined it, " muttered Uniacke. 

He spoke without conviction. 

"I did not. I saw it. For now I knew that I was no longer thinking of mypicture. I looked around me and saw the small clouds and the night, themoon in the pale sky, the black church, this house, the graves likecreatures lying side by side asleep. I saw them all. I heard the dullwash of the sea. And then I looked again at that grave, and on it stoodJack, the dead thing I sent to death, bloated and silent, staring uponme. Silent--and yet I seemed to feel that it said, 'This is what I am. Paint me like this. Look at what the sea has done to me! Look--look atwhat the sea has done!'--Uniacke! Uniacke!"

He sank down into a chair and stared before him with terrible eyes. Ashudder ran over the clergyman, but he said, in a voice that he tried tomake calm and consolatory, "Of course it was your fancy, Sir Graham. You had conjured up thefigures in your picture. There was nothing unnatural in your seeingone--the one you had known in life--more distinctly than the others. "

"I had not known it like that. I had never imagined anything sodistorted, so horrible, tragic and yet almost grotesque, a thing forthe foolish to--to laugh at, ugh! Besides, it stood there. It wasactually there on that grave, as if it had risen out of that grave, Uniacke. "

"Your fancy. "

Uniacke spoke with no conviction, and his lips were pale. 

"I say it is not. The thing--Jack, come to that!--was there. Had youbeen with me, you must have seen it as I did. "

Uniacke shook his head. 

"Believe me, Sir Graham, " he exclaimed, "you ought to go from here. Theeverlasting sound of the sea--the presence of the Skipper--your idea forthis terrible picture--"

"Terrible! Yes, I see it must be terrible. My conception--how wrong itwas! I meant to make death romantic, almost beautiful. And it is likethat. To-morrow--to-morrow--ah, Jack! I can paint you now!"

He sprang up and hurried from the room. Uniacke heard him pacing up anddown above stairs till far into the night. 

The clergyman was deeply and sincerely religious, but he was in nowise asuperstitious man. Association with Sir Graham, however, and thecircumstances attendant upon that association, had gradually unnervedhim. He was now a prey to fear, almost to horror. Was it possible, hethought, as he sat listening to that eternal footfall overhead, thatProvidence permitted a spirit to rise from the very grave to proclaimhis lie, and to show the truth in a most hideous form? He could almostbelieve so. It seemed that the dead boy resented the defacement of histomb, resented the deliberate untruth which concealed from the painterhis dreary destiny, and came up out of the other world to proclaim theclergyman's deception. It seemed as if God himself fought with amiraculous means the battle of truth and tore aside the veil in whichUniacke had sought to shroud the actuality of death. Uniacke could notbring himself to speak to the painter, to acknowledge the trickeryresorted to for a sick man's sake. But this vision of the nightparalysed his power to make any further effort in deception. He feltbenumbed and impotent. A Power invisible to him fought against him. Hecould only lay down his weapons, --despicable, unworthy, as theywere, --and let things take their course, while he looked on as one in asad dream, apprehensive of the ending of that dream. 

Sir Graham began his picture on the morrow. His first excitement in theconception of it, which had been almost joyous, was now become feverishand terrible. He was seized by the dreary passion of the gifted man whomeans to use his gifts to add new and vital horrors to the horrors oflife. He no longer felt the pathos, the almost exquisite romance, of hissubject. He felt only its tragic, its disgusting terror. While hepainted feverishly the mad Skipper hovered about him, with eyes stillvacant but a manner of increasing unrest. It seemed as if somethingwhispered to him that this work of a stranger had some connection withhis life, some deep, though as yet undiscovered, meaning for him. Thefirst figure in the picture was the Skipper himself. When it was paintedthe likeness was striking. But the poor mad seaman stared upon it withan ignorant vagueness. It was evident that he looked without seeing, that he observed without comprehending. 

"Surely he will not know Jack, " Uniacke thought, "since he does not knowhis own face. "

And he felt a faint sense of relief. But this passed away, for theunrest of the Skipper seemed continually to grow more marked andseething. Uniacke noticed it with gathering anxiety. Sir Graham did notobserve it. He thought of nothing but his work. 

"I shall paint Jack last of all, " he said grimly, to Uniacke. "I mean tomake a crescendo of horror, and in Jack's figure the loathsomeness ofdeath shall reach a climax. Yes, I will paint him last of all. Perhapshe will come again and pose for me upon that grave. " And he laughed ashe sat before his easel. 

"What painter ever before had such a model?" he said to Uniacke. 

And that night after supper, he got up from the table saying:

"I must go and see if Jack will give me a sitting to-night. "

Uniacke rose also. 

"Let me come with you, " he said. 

Sir Graham stopped with his hand on the door. There was a smile on hislips, but his eyes were full of foreboding. 

"Do you want to see Jack, then?" he asked, with a dreadful feigning ofjocularity. "But you are not a painter. You require no model, living ordead. " He burst again into a laugh. 

"Let me come with you, " the clergyman repeated doggedly. 

Sir Graham made no objection, and they went out together. 

The moon was now growing towards the full, but it was yet low in thesky, and the night was but faintly lit, as a room is lit by a heavilyshaded lamp. Sir Graham's manner lost its almost piteous bluster as hestood on the doorstep and felt the cold wind that blew from the wintrysea. He set his lips, and his face twitched with nervous agitation as hestole a furtive glance at the clergyman, whose soft hat was pulled downlow over his eyes as if to conceal their expression. 

The two men walked forward slowly into the churchyard. Uniacke's heartwas beating with violence and his mind was full of acute anticipation. Yet he would scarcely acknowledge even to himself the possibility ofsuch an appearance as that affirmed by Sir Graham. They drew near to thegrave of little Jack, round which the chill winds of night blew gentlyand the dull voices of the waves sang hushed and murmurous nocturnes. Uniacke was taken by an almost insurmountable inclination to pause, evento turn back. Their progress to this grave seemed attended by somehidden and ghastly danger. He laid his hand upon the painter's arm, asif to withhold him from further advance. 

"What is it?" Sir Graham asked, speaking almost in a whisper. 

"Nothing, " said Uniacke, dropping his hand. 

Sir Graham's eyes were full of sombre questioning as they met his. Moving slowly on, the two men stood at length by Jack's grave. The moonrose languidly, and shed a curious and ethereal twilight upon the stoneat its head. The blurred place from which Uniacke had struck the namewas plainly visible. Instinctively the clergyman's eyes sought the spotand stared upon it. 

"Does it not bear all the appearance of having been defaced?" said SirGraham in his ear. 

Uniacke shook his head. 

"The Skipper would have it so, " he murmured, full of a heavy sense ofuseless contest against the determination of something hidden that allshould be known to his companion, perhaps even that very night. 

They waited, as mourners wait beside a tomb. As the moon rose, thechurchyard grew more distinct. The surrounding graves came into view, the crude bulk of the rectory, the outline of the church tower, and thelong wall of the churchyard. On the white faces of the two men the lightfell pitilessly, revealing the strained and anxious expression ofUniacke, the staring watchfulness of the painter. The minutes ran by. Uniacke shivered slightly in the wind. By degrees he began to lose theexpectation of seeing any apparition. Presently he even sneered silentlyat himself for his folly in having ever entertained it. Nevertheless hewas strongly affected by the nearness of the wonder-child's grave, fromwhich seemed to emanate an influence definite and searching, and--so hefelt--increasingly hostile, either to himself or to the artist. It cameup like a thing that threatened. It crept near like a thing that woulddestroy. Uniacke wondered whether Sir Graham was conscious of it. Butthe painter said nothing, and the clergyman dared not ask him. Atlength, however, his fanciful sense of this dead power, speaking as itwere from the ground under his feet, became so intolerable to him thathe was resolved to go; and he was about to tell Sir Graham of hisintention when the painter suddenly caught his arm in a tight grip. 

"There it is, " he whispered. 

He was staring before him over the grave. Uniacke followed his eyes. Hesaw the short grass stirring faintly in the night wind. He thought itlooked like hair bristling, and his hair moved on his head. He saw thechurchyard in a maze of moon-rays. And with the moonlight had come manyshadows. But not one of them was deceptive. Not one took the form of anyspectre. Nevertheless Uniacke recoiled from this little grave at hisfeet, for it seemed to him as if the power that had been sleeping therestirred, forsook its recumbent position, rose up warily, intent oncoming forth to confront him. 

"You see it?" whispered Sir Graham, still keeping hold of his arm. 

"No, no I see nothing; there is nothing. It's your fancy, yourimagination that plays tricks on you. "

"No, it's Jack. Oh, Uniacke, see--see how he poses! He knows that Ishall paint him to-morrow. How horrible he is! Do the drowned alwayslook like that?"

"Come away, Sir Graham. This is a hideous hallucination. Come away. "

"How he is altered. All his features are coarsened, bloated. Mywonder-child! He is tragic now, and he is disgusting. How loathsomely hetwists his fingers! Must I paint him like that--with that grinning, ghastly mouth--little Jack? Ah! ah! He poses--he poses always. He wouldhave me paint him now, --here in the moonlight--here--here--standing onthis grave!"

"Sir Graham, come with me!" exclaimed Uniacke. 

And this time he forcibly drew his companion with him from the grave. The painter seemed inclined to resist for a moment. He turned his headand looked long and eagerly behind him. Then suddenly he acquiesced. 

"It has gone, " he said. "You have driven it away. "

Uniacke hurried forward to the Rectory. That night he implored thepainter for the last time to leave the island. 

"Can't you feel, " he said, almost passionately, "the danger you arerunning here, the terrible danger to yourself? The sea preys upon yourmind. You ought not to be near it. Every murmur of the waves issuggestive to your ears. The voices of those bells recall to your mindthe drowning of men. The sigh of that poor maniac depresses youperpetually. Leave the sea. Try to forget it. I tell you, Sir Graham, that your mind is becoming actually diseased from incessant brooding. Itbegins even to trick your eyes in this abominable way. "

"You swear you saw nothing?"

"I do. There was nothing. You have thought of that boy until youactually see him before you. "

"As he is?"

"As he is not, as he will never be. "

The painter got up from his chair, came over to Uniacke, and lookedpiercingly into his eyes. 

"Then you declare--on your honour as a priest, " he said slowly, "thatyou do not know that my wonder-child is the boy who is buried beneaththat stone?"

"I buried that boy, and I declare on my honour as a priest that I donot know it, " Uniacke answered, desperately but unflinchingly. 

It was his last throw for this man's salvation. 

"I believe you, " the painter said. 

He returned to the fireplace, and leaned his face on his arm against themantelpiece. 

"I believe you, " he repeated presently. "I have been mistaken. "

"Mistaken--how?"

"Sometimes I have thought that you have lied to me. "

Uniacke's heart grew heavier at the words. 

In the morning Sir Graham said to him, with a curious calmness:

"I think perhaps you are right, Uniacke. I have been considering yourwords, your advice. "

"And you will take it?" Uniacke said, with a sudden enormous sense ofgratefulness. 

"I think I shall. "

"Think--Sir Graham!"

"I'll decide to-night. I must have the day to consider. But--yes, youare right. That--that horrible appearance. I suppose it must be evokedby the trickery of my own brain. "

"Undoubtedly. "

"There can be no other reason for it?"

"None--none. "

"Then--then, yes, I had better go from here. But you will come with me?"

"To London?"

"Anywhere--it does not matter. "

He looked round him wistfully. 

"If I am to leave the island, " he said sorrowfully, "it does not matterwhere I go. "

"To London then, " Uniacke said, almost joyously. "I will make myarrangements. "

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow. Yes. Excuse me for the present. I must run over to themainland to settle about the Sunday services. I shall be back in a fewhours. "

He went out, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from brain andheart. So good could come out of evil. Had he not done right to lie? Hebegan to believe that he had. As he crossed to the mainland he wrappedhimself in warm and comfortable sophistries. The wickedness ofsubterfuge vanished now that subterfuge was found to be successful inattaining a desired end. For that which is successful seldom appearswholly evil. To-day Uniacke glowed in the fires of his sinfulness. 

He transacted his business on the mainland and set out on his returnhome, driving through the shallow sea in a high cart. The day, which hadopened in sunshine, was now become grey, very still and depressing. Anintense and brooding silence reigned, broken by the splashing of thehorse's hoofs in the scarcely ruffled water, and by the occasionalpeevish cackle of a gull hovering, on purposeless wings, between thewaters and the mists. The low island lay in the dull distance ahead, wanand deprecatory of aspect, like a thing desiring to be left alone inthe morose embrace of solitude. Uniacke, gazing towards it out of themidst of the sea, longed ardently for the morrow when Sir Graham wouldbe caught away from this pale land of terror. He no longer blamedhimself for what he had done. Conscience was asleep. He exulted, and hada strange feeling that God smiled on him with approval of his sin. 

As he reached the island, the grey pall slightly lifted and light brokethrough the mist. He came up out of the sea, and, whipping the wet andweary horse, drove along the narrow lanes towards the Rectory. But whenhe came within hail of the churchyard all his abnormal exultation wassuddenly quenched, and the oppressive sense of threatening danger whichhad for so long a time persecuted him, returned with painful force. Hesaw ahead of him Sir Graham seated before his easel painting. Behind theartist, bending down, his eyes fixed intently on the canvas, his hugehands gripping one another across his chest, stood the mad Skipper. Asthe wheels of the cart ground the rough road by the churchyard wall, SirGraham looked up and smiled. 

"I'm doing a last day's work, " he called. 

Uniacke stopped the cart and jumped out. The Skipper never moved. Hiseyes never left the canvas. He seemed utterly absorbed. 

"You are not working on the picture?" said Uniacke hastily. 

"No. "

"Thank God. "

"Why d'you say that?"

"I--the subject was so horrible. "

"This is only a study. I shall leave the picture as I am leaving theIsland. Perhaps some day--" He paused. Then he said: "I call this 'SeaChange. ' Go indoors. In about half an hour I will come and fetch you tosee it. Where will you be?"

"In my little room at the back of the house. I have some letters towrite. "

"I'll come there. Don't disturb me, till then. I think the picture willbe strange--and I hope beautiful. "

And again he smiled. Reassured, Uniacke made his way into the Rectory. He sat down at his writing-table, took up his pen and wrote a few wordsof a letter. But his mind wandered. The pen dropped on the table and hefell into thought. It was strangely still weather, and there was astrange stillness in his heart and conscience, a calm that was sweet tohim. He felt the relief of coming to an end after a journey that had notbeen without dangers. For, during his intercourse with Sir Graham, hehad often walked upon the edge of tragedy. Now he no longer looked downfrom that precipice. He leaned his arm on the table, among the litter ofpapers connected with parish affairs, and rested his head in his hand. Almost unconsciously, at that moment he began to rejoice at his ownboldness in deviating from the strict path of uncompromising rectitude. For he thought of it as boldness, and of his former unyielding adherenceto the principles he believed to be right, as timidity. After all, hesaid to himself, it is easy to be too rigid, too strict. In all humandealings we must consider not only ourselves, but also the individualswith whom we have to do. Have we the right to injure them by ourdetermination to take care of the welfare of our own souls? It seemed tohim just then as if virtue was often merely selfishness and implied alack of sympathy with others. He might have refused to lie and destroyedhis friend. Would not that have been selfishness? Would not that havebeen sheer cowardice? He told himself that it would. 

Calm flowed upon him. He was lost in the day-dream of the complacent manwhose load of care has fallen away into the abyss from which he hasfortunately escaped. The silence of the Island was intense to-day. Hisconscience slept with the winds. And the sea slept too with all itssorrow. He sat there like a carven figure with his face in his hand. And, by degrees, he ceased to feel, to think actively. Conscious, notasleep, with open eyes he remained in a placid attitude, lulled in thearms of a quiet happiness. 

He was distracted at length by some sound at a distance. It brokethrough his day-dream. At first he could not tell what it was, butpresently he became aware that a hoarse voice was ejaculating some wordoutside, probably in the churchyard. He took his hand from his face, satup straight by the writing-table and began to listen, at first with someslight irritation. For he had been happy in his day-dream. The voiceoutside repeated the word. Uniacke thought of the street-cries of Londonto which he was going, and that this cry was like one of them. He heardit again. Now it was nearer. Short and sharp, it sounded both angryand--something else--what? Dolorous, he fancied, keen with a horror ofwonder and of despair. He remembered where he was, and that he had neverbefore heard such a cry on the Island. But he still sat by the table. Hewas listening intently, trying to hear what was the word the voice keptperpetually calling. 

"Jack! Jack!"

Uniacke sprang up, pushing back his chair violently. It caught in a rugthat lay on the bare wooden floor and fell with a crash to the ground. 

"Jack! Jack!"

The word came to his ears now in a sort of strident howl that was hardlyhuman. He began to tremble. But still he did not recognise the voice. 

"Jack!"

It was cried under the window of the parlour, fiercely, frantically. Uniacke knew the voice for the mad Skipper's. He delayed no longer, buthastened to the front room and stared out across the churchyard. 

The Skipper, with his huge hands uplifted, his fingers working as ifthey strove to strangle something invisible in the air, was stumblingamong the graves. His face was red and convulsed with excitement. 

"Jack!" he shouted hoarsely, "Jack!"

And he went on desperately towards the sea, pursuing--nothing. 

Uniacke looked away from him towards the place where Sir Graham had beenpainting. The easel stood there with the canvas resting upon the woodenpins. On the ground before it was huddled a dark thing. 

Uniacke went out from his house. Although he did not know it he walkedvery slowly as if he dragged a weight. His feet trod upon the graves. Ashe walked he could hear the hoarse shout of the skipper dying away inthe distance towards the sea. 

"Jack!"

The voice faded as he gained the churchyard wall. 

The dark thing huddled at the foot of the easel was the painter's deadbody. On his discoloured throat there were the marks of fingers. Mechanically Uniacke turned his eyes from those purple and red marks tothe picture the dead man had been painting. He saw the figure of a boyin a seaman's jersey and long sea-boots dripping with water. The face ofthe boy was pale and swollen. The mouth hung down hideously. The hairwas matted with moisture. Only the eyes were beautiful, for they lookedupward with a rapt and childlike expression. 

"He sees the rainbow!" murmured the clergyman. 

And he fell forward against the churchyard wall with his face buried inhis arms. The voice of the grey sea was very loud in his ears. Darknessseemed to close in on him. He had done evil to do good, and the evil hehad done had been in vain. His heart beat hard, and seemed to be in histhroat choking him. And in the darkness he saw a vision of a dirtychild, dressed in rags and a tall paper cap, and pointing upwards. 

And he heard a voice, that sounded far off and unearthly, say:

"Look at that there rainbow! Look at that there rainbow!"

He wondered, as a man wonders in a dream, whether the dead painter heardthe voice too, but more clearly--and elsewhere. 

"WILLIAM FOSTER. "

"WILLIAM FOSTER. "

One sad cold day in London, city of sad cold days, a man in a Club hadnothing on earth to do. He had glanced through the morning papers andfound them full of adjectives and empty of news. He had smoked severalcigarettes. He had exchanged a word or two of gossip with two or threeacquaintances. And he had stared moodily out of a bow window, and hadbeen rewarded by a vision of wet paving stones, wet beggars and wetsparrows. He felt depressed and inclined to wonder why he existed. Turning from the window to the long room at his back he saw an elderlyColonel yawning, with a sherry and bitters in one hand and a toothpickin the other. He decided not to remain in the Club. So he took his hatand went out into the street. It was raining in the street and he had noumbrella. He hailed a hansom and got in. 

"Where to, sir?" asked the cabby through the trap door. 

"What?" said the man. 

"Where to, sir?"

"Oh! go to--to----"

He tried to think of some place where he might contrive to pass an houror two agreeably. 

"Sir?" said the cabby. 

"Go to Madame Tussaud's, " said the man. 

It was the only place he could think of at the moment. He had lived inLondon for years but he had never been there. He had never had thesmallest desire to go there. Wax and glass eyes did not attract him. Dresses that hung from corpses, which had never been alive, did notappeal to him. Nor did he care for buns. He had never been to Tussaud's. He was only going there now because literally, at the moment, he knewnot where to go. He leaned back in the cab and looked at the wetpedestrians, and at the puddles. 

When the cab stopped he got out and entered a large building. He paidmoney at a turnstile and drifted aimlessly into a waxen world. Some fatmen in strange costumes, with bulging eyes like black velvet, andvarying expressions of heavy lethargy, played Hungarian music onviolins. It was evident that they did not thrill themselves. Theiraspect was at the same time fierce and dull, they looked like volcanoesthat had been drenched with water. The man passed on, the music grewsofter and the waxen world pressed more closely round. Kings, cricketers, actresses, and statesmen beset him in vistas. He trod a mazeof death that had not lived. There were very few school treats about, for the fashionable school treat season had not yet fully set in. Sothe man had the wax almost entirely to himself. He spread his wings toit like a bird to the air. By degrees, as he wandered--pursued by thedistant music from the drenched volcanoes--a feeling of suffocationovertook him. All these men and women about him stared and smiled, butall were breathless. They wore their gaudy clothes with an air, nodoubt. The Kings struck regal attitudes. The cricketers had a set mannerof bringing off dreamy, difficult catches. The actresses were properlymade up to charm, and the statesmen must surely have brought plenty ofempires to ruin, if insipidity has power to cause such wreckage. Butthey were all decisively breathless. They seemed caught by some ghastlyphysical spell. And this spell was laid also upon the man who wanderedamong them. The breath of life withdrew from him to a long, longdistance--he fancied. He felt as one who, taken by a trance, is bereftof power though not of knowledge. The staring silence was as the silenceof a tomb, whose walls were full of eyes, intent and fatigued. Hestarted when a person in uniform, hitherto apparently waxen, said in acockney voice, "See the Chamber of Horrors, sir?" But he recovered in time toacquiesce. 

He descended towards a subterranean vault: as if to a lower circle ofthis inferno full of breathless demons. Here there were no rusticstrangers, no clergymen with their choirs, no elderly ladies in commandof "Bands of Hope. " The silence was great, and the murderers stoodtogether in companies, looking this way and that as if in search ofvictims. Some sat on chairs or stools. Some crouched in the dock. Someprepared for a mock expiation in their best clothes. One was at work inhis house, digging in quicklime a hole the length of a human body. Hiswaxen visage gleamed pale in the dim light, and he appeared to pause inhis digging and to listen for sounds above his head. For he was in thecellar of his house. 

The man stood still and looked at him. He had a mean face. All thefeatures were squeezed and venomous, and expressive of criminal desiresand of extreme cruelty. And so it was with most of his comrades. Theyvaried in height, in age, in social status and in colouring. But uponall their faces was the same frigid expression, a sort of thinhatefulness touched with sarcasm. The man wandered on among them and sawit everywhere, on the lips of a youth in rags, in the eyes of an oldwoman in a bonnet, lurking in the wrinkles of a labourer, at rest uponthe narrow brow of a doctor, alive in the puffed-out wax of anattorney's bloated features. Yes, it was easy to recognise the Devil'shall-mark on them all, he thought. And he wondered a little how it cameabout that they had been able, in so many cases, to gain the confidenceof their unhappy victims. Here, for instance, were the man and womanwho had lured servant girls into the depths of a forest and theremurdered them for the sake of their boxes. Even the silliest girl, onewould have supposed, must have fled in terror from the ape-like cunningof those wicked faces. Here was the housekeeper who had made away withher aged mistress. Surely any one with the smallest power of observationwould have refused to sit in the evening, to sleep at night, in companywith so horrible a countenance. Here was the man who killed his paramourwith a knife. How came he to have a paramour? The desire to kill lurkedin his bony cheeks, his small, intent eyes, his narrow slit of a mouth, but no desire to love. God seemed to have set his warning to humanityupon each of these creatures of the Devil. Yet they had deceived mankindto mankind's undoing. They had won confidence, respect, even love. 

The man was confused by this knowledge, as he moved among them in thedimness and the silence, brushing the sleeve of one, the skirt ofanother, looking into the curiously expressive eyes of all. Butpresently his wondering recognition of the world's fatuous and franticgullibility ceased. For at the end of an alley of murderers he stoodbefore a woman. She was young, pretty and distinguished in appearance. Her features were small and delicate. Her brow was noble. Her paintedmouth was tender and saintly; and, though her eyes were sightless, truth and nobility surely gazed out of them. For a moment the man wasseized by a conviction that a mistake had been made by the proprietorsof the establishment, and that some being, famous for charitable deeds, or intellect, or heroic accomplishment had been put in penance amongthese tragic effigies. He glanced at her number, consulted hiscatalogue, and found that this woman was named Catherine Sirrett, andthat she had been convicted of the murder of her husband by poison somefew years before. Then he looked at her again and, before this criminal, he felt that she might, nay, must, have deceived any man, the most acuteand enlightened observer. No one could have looked into that face andseen blackness in the heart of that woman. Everyone must have trustedher. Many must have loved her. Her appearance inspired more thanconfidence--reverence; there was something angelic in its purity. Therewas something religious in its quiet gravity. His heart grew heavy as helooked at her, heavy with a horror far more great than any that hadovercome him as he examined the bestial company around. And when he cameaway, and long afterwards, Catherine Sirrett's face remained in hismemory as the most horrible face in all that silent, watchful crowd ofbeings who had wrought violence upon the earth. For it was dressed indeceit. The other faces were naked. So he thought. He did not knowCatherine Sirrett's story, though he remembered that a woman of her namehad been hanged in England some years before, when he was in India, andthat she had gained many sympathisers by her bearing and roused somenewspaper discussion by her fate. 

This is her story, the inner story which the world never knew. 

 * * * * *

Catherine Sirrett's mother was an intensely, even a morbidly, religiouswoman. Her father was an atheist and an æsthete. Yet her parents werefond of each other at first and made common cause in spoiling their onlychild. Sometimes the mother would whisper in the little girl's ear thatshe must pray for poor father who was blind to the true light and deafto the beautiful voice. Sometimes the father would tell her that if shewould worship she must worship genius, the poet, the painter, themusician; that if she would pray she must pray to Nature, the sea, thesunset and the spring-time. But as a rule these two loving antagoniststhought it was enough for their baby, their treasure, to developquietly, steadily, in an atmosphere of adoration, in which arose no mistof theories, no war of words. Till she was ten years old Catherine wasuntroubled. At that age a parental contest began to rage--at firstfurtively, --about her. With the years her mother's morbidity waxed, herfather's restraint waned. The one became more intensely and franticallydevout, the other more frankly pagan. And now, as the child grew, andher mind and heart stood up to meet life and girlhood, each of herparents began to feel towards her the desire of sole possession. She hadbeen brought up a Christian. The father had permitted that. So long asshe was an ignorant infant he had felt no anxiety to attach her to histheories. But when he saw the intelligence growing in her eyes, the dawnof her soul deepening, there stirred within him a strong desire that sheshould face existence as he faced it, free from trammels ofsuperstition. The mother, with the quick intuition of woman, soonunderstood his unexpressed feeling and thrilled with religious fear. Although--or indeed because--she loved her husband so much she wastortured by his lack of faith. And now she was alarmed at the thought ofthe effect his influence might have upon Catherine. She was roused to anintense activity of the soul. She said nothing to her husband of herfear and horror. He said nothing to her of his secret determination thathis only child should grow up in his own faithless faith. But a silentand determined battle began to rage between them for the possession ofCatherine's soul. And, at last, this battle turned the former love ofthe parents into a sort of uneasy hatred. The child did not fullycomprehend what was going on around her, but she dimly felt it. And itinfluenced her whole nature. 

Her mother, who was given over to religious forms, who was ritualisticand sentimental as well as really devout and fervent, at first gainedthe ascendancy over Catherine. Holy but narrow-minded, she compressedthe girl's naturally expansive temperament, and taught her something ofthe hideous and brooding melancholy of the bigot and the fanatic. Thenthe father, quick-sighted, and roused to an almost angry activity by hisappreciation of Catherine's danger, threw himself into the combat, andendeavoured to imbue the girl with his own comprehension of life'smeaning, exaggerating all his theories in the endeavour to make themseem sufficiently vital and impressive. Catherine lived in the centre ofthis battle, which became continually more fierce, until she waseighteen. Then she fell in love with Mark Sirrett, married him, and lefther parents alone with their mutual hostility, now complicated by a sortof paralysis of surprise and sense of mutual failure. They had forgottenthat their child's future might hold a lover, a husband. Now they foundthemselves in the rather absurd position of enemies who have quarrelledover a shadow which suddenly vanishes away. They had lost their love foreach other, they had lost Catherine. But her soul, though it was givento Mark Sirrett, had not lost their impress. Both the Puritanism of hermother and the paganism of her father were destined to play their partsin the guidance of her strange and terrible destiny. 

Mark Sirrett, when he married Catherine, was twenty-five, dark, handsome, warm-hearted and rich. It seemed that he had an exceptionallysweet and attractive nature. He had been an affectionate son, a kindbrother in his home, a generous comrade at school and college. Everybodyhad a good word for him; his family, his tutors, his friends, hisservants. Like most young and ardent men he had had some follies. Atleast they were never mean or ungenerous. He entered upon married lifewith an unusually good record. Those who knew him casually, even manywho knew him well, considered that he was easily read, that he wastransparently frank, that, though highly intelligent, he was notparticularly subtle, and that no still waters ran deep in Mark Sirrett. All these people were utterly wrong. Mark had a very curious side to hisnature, which remained almost unsuspected until after his marriage withCatherine, but which eventually was to make a name very well known tothe world. He was, although apparently so open, in reality full ofreserve. He was full of ambition. And he had an exceptionally peculiar, and exceptionally riotous, imagination. And this imagination he wasquite determined to express in an art--the art of literature. But hisreserve kept him inactive until he had left Oxford, when he went to livein London, where eventually he met Catherine. 

His reserve, and his artistic hesitation to work until he felt able todo good work, held Mark's imagination in check as a dam holds water incheck. He sometimes wrote, but nobody knew that he wrote except onefriend, Frederic Berrand. And Berrand could be a silent man. Even toCatherine, when he fell in love with her and wooed her, Mark did notreveal his desire for fame, or his intention to win it. The girl lovedher lover for what he was, but not for all he was. Of the still waterthat ran deep she as yet knew nothing. She thought her husband, who wasrich, who appeared gay, who had lived so far, as it seemed, idly enough, would continue to live with her, as he had apparently lived without her, brightly, honestly, a little thoughtlessly, a little vainly. 

She had no sort of suspicion that she had married that very curiousphenomenon--a born artist. Had her mother suspected it she would havebeen shocked. Had her father dreamed it he would have been delighted. And Catherine herself? well, she was still a child at this time. 

She and Mark went to Spain for their honeymoon, and lived in a tinywhite villa at Granada. It stood on the edge of the hill whose crown isthe exquisite and dream-like Alhambra. Its long and narrow garden ranalong the hillside, a slope of roses and of orange flowers, of thick, hot grass and of tangled green shrubs. The garden wall was white anduneven, and almost hidden by wild, pink flowers. Beneath was spread theplain in which lies the City, bounded by the mountains over which, eachevening, the sun sets. And every day the drowsy air hummed in answer tothe huge and drowsy voice of the wonderful Cathedral bell, which struckthe hours and filled this lovely world with almost terrible vibrationsof romance. In the thick woods that steal to the feet of the etherealPalace the murmur of the streams was ever heard, and the white snows ofthe Sierra Nevada stared over the yellow and russet plain, and weretouched with a blue blush as the night came on. 

Catherine, although she loved her parents and had never fully realisedthe enmity grown up between them, felt a strange happiness, that wasmore than the happiness of new-born passion, in her emancipation. Shewas by nature exquisitely sensitive, and she had often been vaguelytroubled by the contest between her parents. Their fighting instinctshad sometimes set her face to face with a sort of shadowed valley, inwhose blackness she faintly heard the far-off clash of weapons. Now shewas caught away from this subtle tumult, and as she looked into herhusband's vivacious dark eyes she felt that a little weight which hadlain long on her heart was lifted from it. She had thought herself happybefore, now she knew herself utterly happy. Life seemed to have no darkbackground. Even love itself was not spoiled by a too great wonder ofseriousness. They loved in sunshine and were gay--like grasshoppers inthe grass that the sun has filled with a still rapture of warmth. Nottill two days before their departure for England was this chirping, grasshopper mood disturbed or dispelled. 

At one end of the long and narrow garden there was a little crudepavilion, open to the air on three sides. The domed roof was supportedon painted wooden pillars up which red and white roses audaciouslyclimbed. Rugs covered the floor. A wooden railing ran along the frontfacing the steep hillside. The furniture was simple and homely, a fewlow basket chairs and an oval table. In this pavilion the newly marriedpair took tea nearly every afternoon after their expeditions in theneighbourhood, or their strolls through the sunny Moorish Courts. Aftertea they sat on and watched the sunset, and fancied they could see thebirds that flew away above the City towards the distant mountains dropdown to their nests in Seville ere the darkness came. This last eveningbut one was intensely hot; the town at their feet seemed drowning in adust of gold. Cries, softened and made utterly musical, rose up to themfrom this golden world, beyond which the sky reddened as the sun sanklower. Sometimes they heard the jingling bells of mules and horses inthe hidden streets; they saw the pigeons circling above the house-tops, and doll-like figures moving whimsically in gardens that seemed as smallas pocket-handkerchiefs. Thin laughter of playing children stole tothem. And then the huge and veiled voice of the Cathedral bell tolledthe hour, like Time become articulate. 

A voice may have an immense influence over a sensitive nature. This bellof the Cathedral of Granada has one of the most marvellous voices in theworld, deep with a depth of old and vanished ages, heavy with the burdenof all the long-dead years, and this evening it seemed suddenly tostrike away a veil from Catherine's husband. She was leaning her arms onthe painted railing and searching the toy city with her happy eyes. Mark, standing behind her, was solicitously winding a shawl round her toprotect her from the chill that falls from the Sierra Nevada with thedropping downward of the sun. As the bell tolled, Catherine felt thatMark's hands slipped from her shoulders. She glanced round and up athim. He was standing rigid. His eyes were widely opened. His lips wereparted. All the gaiety that usually danced in his face had disappeared. He looked like an entranced man. 

"Mark!" Catherine exclaimed. "Mark! why, how strange you look!"

"Do I?" he said, staring out over the wide plain below. 

The voice of the bell died reluctantly on the air, but some huge andvague echo of its heavy romance seemed to sway, like a wave, across thelittle houses to the sunset and faint towards Seville. 

"Yes, you look sad and stern. I have never seen your face likethis--till now. "

He made no answer. 

"Are you sad because we are going so soon?" she asked. "But then whyshould we go? We are perfectly happy here. There is nothing to call usaway. "

"Kitty, does not that bell give you the lie?" he answered. 

"The bell of the Cathedral?" she asked, wondering. 

"Yes. Just now when I listened to it, I seemed to hear it whispering ofthe mysterious things of life, of the hidden currents in the greatriver, of the sorrows, of the terrors, of the crimes. "

"Mark!" said Catherine in amazement. 

"Nothing to call us away from our idle happiness here!" he continued. "Do you say--nothing?"

"Why--no. For we are free; we have no ties. You have no profession, Mark. You have no art even to call you back to England. Dear father--howhe worships the arts!"

"And you, Kitty--you?"

Mark spoke with a curious pressure of excitement. 

"He has taught me to love them too. "

"How much, Kitty? As he loves them, more than anything else on earth?"

She had never heard him speak at all like this. She answered:

"Ah no. For my mother----"

She paused. 

"My mother has made me understand that there is something greater thanany art, more important, more beautiful. "

"What can that be?"

"Oh, Mark--religion!"

He leaned over the railing at her side, and the white and red roses thatembraced the pillar shook against his thick dark hair in the infantbreeze of evening. 

"But there are many religions, " he said. "A man's art may be hisreligion. "

A troubled look came into her eyes and made them like her mother's. 

"Oh no, Mark. "

"Yes, Kitty, " he said, with growing earnestness, putting aside hisreserve for the first time with her. "Indeed it may. "

"You mean when he uses it to do good?"

He shook his head. The roses shivered. 

"The true artist never thinks of that. To have a definite moral purposeis destructive. "

The City at their feet was sinking into shadow now, and the air grewcold, filled with the snowy breath of the Sierra. 

"When we go back to England I will teach you the right way to follow anart, to worship it; the way that will be mine. "

"Yours, Mark? But I don't understand. "

"No, " he said. "You don't understand all of me yet, Kitty. Do you wantto?"

"Yes, " she said. 

There was a sound of fear in her voice. Mark sat down beside her and puthis arm round her. 

"Kitty, " he began. "I'm only on the threshold of my life, of my reallife, my life with you and with my work. "

"You are going to work?" she exclaimed. 

"Yes. That bell just now seemed to strike the hour of commencement--totell me it was time for me to begin. I should like, some day--far in thefuture, Kitty, --to hear it strike that other hour, the hour when I mustfinish, when the little bit of work that I can do in the world is done. I shan't be afraid of that hour any more than I'm afraid of this one. Perhaps, when you and I are old we shall come here again, and listen tothat bell once more, the same, when we are changed. "

He pointed towards the Cathedral which was still touched by the sun. Catherine leaned against his shoulder. She said nothing, and did notmove. 

"Everything in life has its appointed recorder, " he continued. "They area big band, the band of the recorders who strive accurately to writedown life as it is. Well, Kitty, I am going to be one of that band. "

"You are going to be a writer, Mark?"

"Yes. "

"Then, you will record the beauty, the joy, the purity, the goodness oflife?"

His usually bright face had become sombre and thoughtful. It lookedstrangely dark and saturnine in the twilight. 

"I shall record what I see most clearly. "

"And what is that?"

"Not the things on the surface, but the things beneath the surface, oflife. "

And then he told Catherine more fully of his ambition and gave her aglimpse of the hidden side of his duplex nature. 

She gazed up at him in the gathering twilight and it seemed to her thatshe was looking at a stranger. The climbing roses still shook againstMark in the wind. While he talked his voice grew almost fierce, and hisdark eyes shone like the eyes of a fanatic. When he ceased to speak, Catherine's lips were pursed together, like her mother's when shelistened to the pagan rhapsodies of Mr. Ardagh. 

Two days later the Sirretts left Granada for England. 

 * * * * *

On their return they paid a short visit to Catherine's parents, who wereliving in Eaton Square. Mr. And Mrs. Ardagh received them with a sort ofdulled and narcotic affection. In truth, for different reasons, thePuritan and the pagan cherished a certain resentment against the manwho had stepped in and robbed them of their cause of warfare. Nevertheless they desired his company in their house. For each wasanxious to study him and to discover what influence he was likely tohave upon Catherine. During her daughter's absence Mrs. Ardagh had foundthe emptiness of her childless life insupportable, and she had, therefore, engaged a young girl, called Jenny Levita, to come to herevery day as companion. Jenny was intelligent and very poor, bookish andearnest, even ardent in nature. Mrs. Ardagh gained a certain amount ofinterest and pleasure from forming the pliant mind of her protégée, whowas with her always from eleven till six in the evening, who read aloudto her, accompanied her on her charitable missions, and took--so far asa stranger might, --the place of Catherine in her life. Catherine metJenny upon the doorstep of her parents' house on the evening of herarrival, and hastened to ask her mother who the slim girl, with the tallfigure, narrow shoulders, fluffy brown hair, and large oriental eyeswas. 

"My paid daughter, " said Mrs. Ardagh, almost bitterly. "But she can'tfill the place of my lost Catherine. "

Nevertheless, Catherine discovered that her mother was truly attached toJenny. 

"I took her partly because she is easily led, " she said, "easilyinfluenced and so very pretty and poor. I want to save her for God, andwhen I met her there was one who wished to lead her to the devil. Shewon't see him now. She won't hear his name. "

Then she dropped the subject. 

Catherine was alternately questioned by her father and by her mother asto the influence of Mark. But something within her prevented her fromtelling them of the conversation in the Pavilion, when the cries of thetoy city died down into the night. Mrs. Ardagh, now sinking in theconfusion of a rather dreary middle age, complicated by a naturalmelancholy, and by incessant confession to a ritualistic clergymanseductive in receptivity, was relieved to think that Mark was harmless. 

Art for Art's sake--the motto of her husband--had apparently littlemeaning for Mark. As Mrs. Ardagh thought it the devil's motto she wasglad of this and said so to Catherine. Mr. Ardagh, on the other hand, was vexed to find Mark apparently so frivolous; and he also expressedhis feelings to Catherine, who became slightly confused. 

"I should like to see your husband doing something, " he said. "You havemuch of me in you, Kit, despite your poor dear mother's extravagantattempts to limit your reading to Frances Ridley Havergal. Why didn'tyou marry an artist, eh? A painter or an author, somebody who can giveus more beauty than we have already, or more truth? You're too good forFrances Ridley Havergal. Leave her to your mother and that girl, Jenny, who is like wax in your mother's hands and the hands of the Rev. FatherGrimshaw. Piff!"

Catherine said nothing, but she sought an opportunity of seeingsomething of Jenny. She found it, just before the day on which she andMark were to leave London for their country house. Jenny had come asusual one morning, to read aloud to Mrs. Ardagh. They were just thendeep in the "Memoirs" of a certain pious divine, whose chief claim uponthe attention and gratitude of posterity seemed to be that, during avery long career, he had "confessed" more Anglican notabilities than anyof his rivals, and had used up, in his church, an amount of incense thatwould have put a Roman Catholic priest to shame. On the morning inquestion the reading was interrupted. Mrs. Ardagh was called away toconsult with a lay-worker in the slums upon some scheme for reclaimingthe submerged masses, and Catherine, running in to her mother's boudoirafter a walk with Mark, found the tall, narrow-shouldered girl with theoriental eyes sitting alone with the apostolic memoirs lying open uponher knees. Catherine was not sorry. She took off her fur coat and satdown. 

"What are you and my mother reading, Miss Levita?" she asked. 

Jenny told her. 

"Is it interesting?"

"I suppose it ought to be, " Jenny answered, thoughtlessly. 

Then a flush ran over her thin cheeks, on which there were a great manylittle freckles. 

"I mean that it is very interesting, " she added. "Your mother will tellyou so, Mrs. Sirrett. "

"Perhaps. But I was asking your opinion. "

It struck Catherine that Jenny had her opinion and was scarcely ascompliant as Mr. Ardagh evidently supposed her to be. At Catherine'slast remark Jenny glanced up. The two girls looked into each other'seyes, and, in Jenny's, Catherine thought she saw a flickering defiance. 

"I was asking your opinion, " she repeated. 

"Well, Mrs. Sirrett, " Jenny said, more hardily, "I don't know why it is. I admire and love goodness, yes, as your mother--who's a saint, Ithink--does. But I'll tell you frankly that I think it's often very dullto read about. Don't you think so?"

She blushed again, and let the heavy white lids droop over her eyes, which had glittered almost like the eyes of a fever patient while shewas speaking. 

"Only when dull people write about it, surely, " said Catherine. 

"I don't know, " Jenny said, twisting her black stuff dress with nervousfingers. "I often think that in the books of the cleverest authors thereare dull moments, and that those dull moments are nearly always whenthe good, the really excellent, characters are being written about. "

"And in real life, Miss Levita?" asked Catherine. "Do you find the goodpeople duller, less interesting, than the bad ones in real life?"

"I haven't known many very bad ones, Mrs. Sirrett. "

"Well--but those you have known!"

Jenny hesitated. She was obviously embarrassed. She even shifted, likean awkward child, in her chair. But there was something of obstinatehonesty in her that would have its way. 

"If you must know, --I mean, if you care to know, please, " she said atlength, "the most interesting person I ever met was--yes, I suppose hewas a wicked man. "

Her curious, sharp-featured, yet attractive, face was hot all over asshe finished. Catherine divined at once that she was speaking of theperson who, according to Mrs. Ardagh, had wished "to lead her to thedevil. " At this moment, while the two girls were silent, Mrs. Ardaghreturned to the room. As Catherine left it she heard the soft and highvoice of Jenny taking up once more the parable of the highly-honoureddivine. 

Catherine was not altogether sorry when she and her husband left EatonSquare for the house in Surrey which Mark had rented for the summermonths. 

In this house the young couple were to face for the first time thereality of married life. Hitherto they had only faced its romance. 

The house was beautiful in an old-fashioned way. Its rooms were low andrather dark. A wood stood round it. The garden was a wild clearing, fringed with enormous clumps of rhododendron. Wood doves cooed in thetrees like invisible lovers unable to cease from gushing. Under thetrees ferns grew in masses. Squirrels swarmed, and in the hugerhododendron flowers the bees lost themselves in an ecstasy of sippingsensuality. It was a fine summer, and this house was made to be a summerhouse. In winter it must have been but a dreary hermitage. 

The servants greeted them respectfully. The horses neighed in thestables. The dogs barked, and leaped up in welcome, then, when they werenoticed and patted, depressed their backs in joyous humility, and, lifting their flexible lips, grinned amorously, glancing sideways fromthe hands that they desired. It was an eminently unvulgar, and ought tohave been a very sweet, home-coming. 

But was it sweet to Catherine?

She asked herself that question, and the fact that she did so provedthat it was not wholly sweet. Already the future oppressed her. In thishouse, which seemed full of the smell of the country, of the very odourof peace, she felt that the stranger, the second Mark--scarcely known toher as yet--was to be born, was to gain strength and grow. She fearedhim. She watched for him. But, for the first few days, he did not showhimself. The grasshoppers chirped and revelled in the grass. Mark andCatherine sat in the wood, wandered on the hills, rode in the valleys, cooed a little even, like the doves hidden in the green shadows of theglades, and making ceaseless music. The lovers--for they were stilllovers at this time--made a gay dreamland for themselves. But dreamscannot and ought not to last. If they did they would become painfullyenervating. One day, in the wood, Mark resumed the conversation of thePavilion. 

"Because I am rich I must not be idle, Kitty, " he said. 

And into his dark eyes there crept that look of the stranger man. 

"Thank God that I am rich, " he added. 

"Why, Mark dear?"

"Because I can dare to do what sort of work I choose, " he answered. "Thepot boils without my labour. So I am independent of the public, whom Iwill win in my own way. If I have to wait it will not matter. "

And then, speaking with growing enthusiasm, he gave Kitty a sketch of abook he had projected. The doves cooed all through the plot, which was asad and terrible one, very uncommon and very unlike Mark. Catherinelistened to it with, alternately, the mind of her father and the mind ofher mother. It was the old antagonism of the Puritan and the pagan. Butnow it raged in one person instead of in two, as the girl sat under thesoft darkness of the trees, listening to the eager voice of her boyhusband, who was beginning at last to cast the skin of his reserve. Thevoice went on and on, interrupted only by the doves. But sometimesCatherine felt as if she leaned upon the painted railing of thePavilion, and heard the distant cries of the golden City. At last Marksaid, "Kitty, that is what I mean to do. "

"It is terrible, " she said. 

And she pursed her lips like her mother. 

"Yes, " Mark answered, with enthusiasm. "It is terrible. It is ghastly. "

Catherine looked at him with an intense and growing surprise. She waswondering how the conception of such horrors could take place in a manso gay as Mark. 

At last she said, "Mark, you feel your own power, do you not?"

"Kitty, " he replied quietly, almost modestly, yet with a firm gravitythat was strong, "I do feel that I have something to say and that Ishall be able to say it in my book. I have waited a long while. Now Ibelieve that I am ready, that it is time for me to begin. "

"Then, Mark, if you feel that you have this power, don't you feel adesire to conquer the greatest difficulties in your art, to show thatyou can succeed where others have failed?"

He looked at her curiously, realising that she had something to say tohim, and that she was trying to prepare the way before it. 

"Come, Kitty, " he said. "Say what you wish to say. You have the right. What is it?"

Catherine told him of her conversation with Jenny. 

"That little thin girl, " he said. "So she thinks wickedness moreinteresting, more many-sided than virtue, more dramatic in itspossibilities. Well, she and I are agreed. But what was it you wanted?"

"Mark, I want you to prove to her--to everyone--that it is not so. "

"How?"

"By writing a different kind of book--a noble book. You can do it. Whereothers have failed, you can succeed. "

He laughed at her, gaily. 

"Perhaps, some day, I'll try, " he said. "But I can only write at presentwhat I have conceived. Till this book is done, I can think of nothingelse. I see you are interested, Kitty. I must tell you all I amintending to do. "

He continued, until it was quite evening, expatiating on the force withwhich he intended to realise in literature the terrors that trooped inhis imagination. And by the time he had finished and darkness stoodunder the trees, Catherine was carried away by the pagan spirit. Shethought no more of the possible harm the projected book might work insensitive natures. She thought only of its power, which she acclaimed. 

Mark kissed her with a solemnity of passion he had never shown before, and they went back to the house. 

It was an immense relief to Mark to open his book of revelation and toallow Catherine to read these pages in it. But he could not becontinuously unreserved to any human being. And that evening he subsidedinto his former light-hearted gaiety, and shrouded the stranger man inan impenetrable veil. Catherine sat with him in wonderment, while themoon came up behind the trees and shone over the clearing before thehouse. She did not yet understand the inflexible secrecies of genius. Anightingale sang. Its voice was so sweet that Catherine felt as if thewhole world were full of tenderness and of sympathy. She said so toMark, just as she was turning from him to go to bed. 

"Ah, Kitty, " he said, "there are other things in the world besidestenderness and sympathy, thank Heaven. There are terrors, there arecrimes, there are strange and fearful things both within us and outsideof us. "

"How sad that is, Mark!" said Catherine. 

He smiled at her gaily--cruelly, she thought a moment afterwards whenshe was alone in her bedroom. 

"Sad?" he said. "I don't think so, for I love drama. Life is dramatic. If it were not it would be intolerable. "

And still the nightingale sang. But he did not hear it. Catherine heardit till she fell asleep. 

Now Mark began to write with assiduity. Catherine busied herself withher household duties, with the garden and with charities in theneighbouring Parish. Her mother's rather hysterical beliefs lost theirhysteria in her, at this period, and were softened and rendered largehearted. Catherine's sympathy with the world was indeed a living thing, not simply a fine idea. While Mark was shut up every morning with hiswriting she visited the poor, sat by the sick, and played with thevillage children. The Parish--this came out forcibly at her trial, --grewto love her. She was the prettiest Lady Bountiful. The impress made uponher by her mother was visible in all this. For Mrs. Ardagh, rigid, melancholy as she was sometimes, was genuinely charitable, genuinelydutiful. If she adored the forms of religion she loved also itsessence, --the doing of good. In these many mornings Catherine was likeher mother--improved. But in the evenings she no longer resembled Mrs. Ardagh, but rather, in a degree, echoed her father, and responded to hisvehement, if furtive, teachings. For in the evenings Mark read to herwhat he had written during the day and discussed it with her in all itsbearings. He recognised the clear quickness of Catherine's intellect. Yet she very soon noticed that he was exceedingly inflexible withregard to his work. He liked to discuss, he did not like to alter, it. 

One night, when he had finished the last completed chapter, he laid downthe manuscript and said, "Well, Kitty?"

Catherine was lying on a couch near the open French window. She did notspeak until Mark repeated, "Well?"

Then she said, "I think that far the finest chapter of your book----"

Mark smiled triumphantly. 

"But it seems to me terribly immoral, " she finished. 

"Oh, that's all right, dear. So long as it is properly worked out, inevitable. "

"It teaches----"

"Nothing, Kitty--nothing. It merely describes what is. "

"But surely it may do harm. "

"Not if it is truly artistic. And you think----"

"It that? Yes, I do. But, Mark, art is not all. "

"Your father would say so. "

"My father--yes. "

"And he is right. I neither inculcate nor do I condemn. I only produce, or try to produce, a work of art. You admire the chapter? You think ittruly dramatic?"

"Indeed I do--that's just why I am afraid of it. "

"Little timorous bird. "

He came over to the sofa and kissed her tenderly. She shivered. Shethought his lips had never been dry and cold like that before. 

The book was finished by the end of the summer. It was published inNovember and created a considerable sensation. Mark issued it under thename of "William Foster. " Only Catherine and his friend Frederic Berrandknew who William Foster really was. The newspapers praised theworkmanship of the book almost universally. But many of them severelycondemned it as dangerous, morbidly imaginative, horrible in subject, and likely to do great mischief because of its undoubted power andcharm. It was forbidden at some libraries. 

Mark was delighted with its reception. Now, that he had brought forthhis child, he seemed more light-hearted, gay and boyish than ever. Histoo vivid imagination had been toiling. It rested now. Catherine and hecame up to town for the winter. They meant to spend only their summersin Surrey. They took a house in Chester Street, and often dined with theArdaghs in Eaton Square. At one of these dinners Jenny Levita waspresent. Mark, remembering what Catherine had told him about her inSurrey, looked at her with some interest, and talked to her a little inhis most light-hearted way. She replied briefly and without muchapparent animation, seeming indeed rather absent-minded and distraite. Presently Mr. Ardagh said, "This new man, William Foster, is that very rare thing in England--apitiless artist. He has the audacity of genius and the fineimpersonality. "

Catherine started and flushed violently. As she did so she saw Jenny'slong dark eyes fixed earnestly upon her. Mark smiled slightly. Mrs. Ardagh looked pained. 

"His book is doing frightful harm, I am sure, " she said. 

"Nonsense, my dear, " said her husband. "Nothing so absolutely right, soabsolutely artistic, can do harm. "

An obstinate expression came into Mrs. Ardagh's face, but she saidnothing. Catherine looked down at her plate. She felt as if smallneedles were pricking her all over. 

"Have you read the book?" said Mr. Ardagh to his wife. 

"Yes, " she replied. "It was recommended to me, I began it not knowingwhat sort of book it was. "

"And did you finish it?" asked her husband, with rather a satiricalsmile. 

"Yes. I confess I could not leave off reading it. That is why it is sodangerous. It is both powerful and evil. "

Then the subject dropped. Mark was still smiling quietly, butCatherine's face was grave. When she and her mother and Jenny went upinto the drawing-room, leaving the men to their cigarettes, Catherinerecurred to the subject of "William Foster's" book. 

"Do you really think that a novel can do serious harm, mother?" shebegan. "After all, it is only a work of the imagination. Surely peopleread it and forget it, as they would not forget an actual fact. "

Mrs. Ardagh sighed wearily. She was a pale woman with feverish eyes. Theexpression in them grew almost fierce as she answered, "It is the black imagination of this William Foster that will come likea suffocating cloud upon the imaginations of others, especially of----"She suddenly broke off. Catherine, wondering why, glanced up at hermother and saw that she was looking towards the far end of the bigdrawing-room. Jenny was sitting there, under a shaded lamp. She had somework in her hands but her hands were still. Her head was turned away, but her attitude, the curve of her soft, long, white throat, theabsolute immobility of her thin body betrayed the fact that she waslistening attentively. 

"I would not let that child read William Foster's book for the world, "Mrs. Ardagh whispered to Catherine. 

Then she changed the subject, and spoke of some charity that she wasinterested in at the East End of London. Jenny's hands instantly beganto move about her embroidery. 

That night Catherine spoke to Mark of what her mother had said. 

He only laughed. 

"I cannot write for any one person, Kitty, " he said, "or if I do it mustbe----"

"For whom?" she asked quickly. 

"Myself, " he replied. 

Catherine slept very badly that night. She was thinking of WilliamFoster and of Mark. They seemed to her two different men. And she hadmarried--which?

Mark did no work in London. He knew too many people, he said, andbesides, he wanted to rest. Catherine and he went out a great deal intosociety. At Christmas they ran over to Paris and spent three weeksthere. During this holiday William Foster, it almost seemed, had ceasedto exist. Mark Sirrett was light-hearted, gay, and the kindest, mostthoughtful husband in the world. When they came back to London, Catherine went at once to see her mother. Mr. Ardagh had gone to theRiviera and Catherine found Mrs. Ardagh quite alone in the big house inEaton Square. 

"Why, where is Jenny Levita?" she asked. 

Mrs. Ardagh made no reply for a moment. Her face, which was ratherstraw-colour than white, worked grotesquely as if under the influenceof some strong emotion that she was trying to suppress. At length shesaid, in a chill, husky voice, "Jenny has left me. "

"Left you--why?"

"She was taken away from me. She was taken back to the sin from which Ihoped I had rescued her. "

"Oh, mother! By whom?"

Mrs. Ardagh put her handkerchief to her eyes. 

"William Foster, " she answered. 

Catherine felt cold and numb. 

"William Foster--I don't understand, " she said slowly. 

Mrs. Ardagh rolled and unrolled her handkerchief with trembling fingers. 

"She got hold of that book--that black, wicked book, " she said, andthere was a sort of fury in her voice. "It upset her faith. It tarnishedher moral sense. It reminded her of the--the man from whose influence Ihad drawn her. All her imagination was set in a flame by that hatefulchapter. "

"Which one?" Catherine asked. 

Mrs. Ardagh mentioned the chapter which Catherine had most hated, mostadmired, and most feared. 

"I fought with William Foster for Jenny's soul, " she said, passionately. "But I am not clever. I have no power. I am getting old and tired. Shecried. She said she loved me, but that goodness was not for her, thatshe must go, that life was calling her, that she must live--live!William Foster had shown her death and she thought it life. I alwaysknew that in Jenny good and evil were fighting, that her fate wastrembling in the balance. That book turned the scale. "

She sobbed heavily, then with a catch of her breath, she added, "William Foster is a very wicked man. "

Catherine flushed all over her face. But she said nothing. That nightshe told Mark of Jenny's fate. She expected him to be grieved. But hewas not. 

"An author who respects his art cannot consider every hysterical girlwhile he is writing, " he said. "And, besides, it is only your mother'sidea that she was influenced by my book. Long ago she showed you thebent of her mind. "

"But, Mark, don't you remember how that chapter struck me when you firstread it to me?"

"I remember that you thought it the finest chapter in the book, and youwere right, Kitty. You've got artistic discernment, like your father. Berrand and you would get on together. Directly he comes back I'llintroduce you to each other. "

Catherine said no more. From that time she devoted herself more thanever to her mother, who now, under the influence of sorrow, allowed hernature to come to its full flower. Abandoning the pleasures of society, which had long wearied her, she gave herself up to services, charitiesand good works in the poor parts of London. She carried Catherine withher on many of her expeditions, and there can be no doubt that herfervour and curious exaltation had a marked effect upon the girl. Catherine had always been highly susceptible to influence, but she hadbeen during most of her life attacked perpetually by two absolutelyopposite influences. Now one of these, her father's, was removed fromher. She came more than ever before under her mother's domination. ForMark, when he was not "William Foster, " was simply a high-spirited andhappy youth, full of energy and of apparently normal desires andintentions. He had that sort of genius which can be long asleep in thedark, while its possessor dances, like a mote, in sunshine. 

In the spring the Sirretts made ready to leave London. As the day drewnear for their departure Mark's manner changed, and he displayedsymptoms of restlessness and of impatience. Catherine noticed them andasked their reason. 

"I am longing to return to 'William Foster, ' Kitty, " he said. 

She felt a sharp pain at her heart, but she only smiled and replied, "I almost thought you had forgotten him. "

"On the contrary, I have been preparing to meet him again all thesemonths. "

His dark eyes shone as he spoke. And once again that stranger stoodbefore Catherine. She turned and went upstairs, saying that she must seeto her packing. But when she was alone in her bedroom she shed sometears. That afternoon she went to Eaton Square to bid her mothergood-bye. Mrs. Ardagh was looking unhappy. 

"Your father returns from Italy on Wednesday, " she said. "You'll justmiss him. "

"I am so sorry, mother, " Catherine said. 

Mrs. Ardagh looked at her in silence for a moment. Then she said in alow voice, "I am not. "

"Mother--but why?"

"I think you are better away from him. My heart tells me so. Oh, Kitty, I thank God every day of my life that Mark is--is such a good fellow, without those terrible ideas and theories of your poor father. Youcannot think what I suffer. "

It was the first time she had ever spoken so plainly on the subject, andeven now she quickly changed to another topic. Mark had never introducedpoor Mrs. Ardagh to "William Foster. " And Catherine would not addanother burden to those she already had to bear. 

Surrey was looking very lovely in the spring weather. The trees werejust beginning to let out the tips of their green secrets. The groundwas dashed with blue and with yellow, where bloomed those flowers thatare the sweetest of the year because they come the first, and whisperwonderful promises in the ears of all who love them. There had been somerain and the grass of lawns and hillsides was exquisite in the startlingfreshness of its vivid colour. Nature seemed uneasy with delight, like achild on a birthday morning. The tender beauty of everything around herreassured Catherine, who had come from town in a mood of strangeapprehension. As she looked at the expectant woods awaiting their lovelycostume in fragile nudity, at the violets that seemed to sing in odours, at that pale and shallow sky which is a herald of the deeper skies tocome, it seemed to her impossible that Mark, who could be so blithe, soradiant, could turn to dark imaginings in such an atmosphere ofexquisite enterprise. She was filled with hope and with a species ofreligious optimism. Some days passed, Catherine and Mark spent them in arenewal of friendship with their domain. They were like two children andwere gayer than the spring. Then one evening Mark said, "And now, Kitty, I am going to start work again. Berrand has writtenthat he will be in England next week and will come on here at once. Buthe won't disturb me. And my scheme is ready. "

Catherine felt the breath fluttering in her throat as she murmured, "Your scheme is ready?"

"Yes. It's a great one. Berrand thinks so. I have written something ofit to him. I am going to trace the downfall of a nature from nobility toutter degradation. "

His eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, as he repeated in thrilling tones, "Utter degradation. "

Catherine thought of the spring night, in which such holy preparationsfor joy were silently being carried on, of all the youthful things justcoming into life. An inspiration came to her. She caught her husband'shand and drew him to the window. 

"Pull up the blind, Mark, " she said. 

He obeyed, smiling at her as if in wonder at this freak. 

"Now open the window. "

"Yes, dear. There! What next?"

In front of the window there was a riband of pavement protected by anoverhanging section of roof. Catherine stepped out on this pavement. Mark followed her. They stood together facing the spring night. Therewas no moon, but the sky was clear and starlit. Nature seemed breathingquietly, like a thing alive but asleep. The surrounding woods were adusky wall. The clearing was a vague sea of dew. And the air was full ofthat wonderful scent that all things seem to have in spring. It is likethe perfume of life, of life that God has consecrated, of life thatmight have been in Eden. It is odorous with hope. It stings andembraces. It stirs the imagination to magic. It stirs the heart totears. For it is ineffably beautiful and expectant. 

"How delicious!" Mark said. 

Catherine's hand tightened on his arm. 

"The trees are talking, " he said. "That damp scent comes from theirroots, and the flowers and grasses round them. "

He drew in his breath with a gasp of pleasure. 

"Yes?" Catherine said. 

He bent down and touched the lawn with his hand. 

"What a dew! Look, Kitty, there goes a rabbit!"

A hunched shadow suddenly flattened and vanished. 

"Little beggar! He's gone into the wood. What a jolly time he and hisrelations must have. "

"Yes, Mark. Isn't the night happy, and the spring?"

He drew in his breath again. 

"Yes. "

"Mark!"

"Well, dear?"

"Mark--don't write this book. "

Mark started slightly with surprise. 

"Kitty! what are you saying?"

"Write a happy book. "

"My dear babe--how uninteresting!"

"Write a good book, a book to make people better and happier. "

"A book with a purpose! No, Kitty. "

"Well then, a spring book. This night isn't a night with a purpose, because it's lovely. "

He laughed quite gaily. 

"Humorist! Why did you bring me out into it?"

"To influence you against that book. "

He was silent. 

"Are you angry, Mark?"

"No, dear. "

"Will you do what I ask?"

"No, Kitty. "

He spoke very quietly and gently, then changed the subject, talked ofthe coming summer, the garden, prospective pleasures. But he talked nomore of his work. Next day he shut himself up in his study, andthenceforward his life became a repetition of his life during theprevious summer. A fortnight later Frederic Berrand arrived. 

Catherine had long felt an eager desire to see this one intimate friendof Mark's. She expected him to be no ordinary man, and she was notmistaken. Berrand was much older than Mark. He looked about forty. Hewas thin, sallow, eager in manner, with shining eyes--almosttoad-like--a yellowish-white complexion, and coal-black hair. Hisvivacity was un-English, yet at the back of his nature there lay surelya stagnant reservoir of melancholy. He was a pessimist, full of ardour. He revelled, intellectually, in the sorrows and in the evils thatafflict the world. 

It was easy to see that he had a great influence over Mark. And it waseasy to see also that the dismal genius of "William Foster" appealed toall the peculiarities of his nature with intense force. He was at onceon friendly terms with Catherine, to whom he spoke openly of hisadmiration of her husband. 

"Mrs. Sirrett, " he said one evening, when Mark was working--he had takento working at night now as well as in the morning--"your husband will dogreat things. He will found a school. The young men will be captivatedby his sombre genius, and we shall have less of the thoughtless rubbishthat the journalist loves and calls sane, healthy, and all the rest ofit. "

"But surely sanity and health----"

"My dear Mrs. Sirrett, we want originality and imagination. "

"Yes, indeed. But can't they be sane and healthy?"

"Was Gautier healthy when he wrote of the Priest and of the Vampire?This book Mark is writing will be awful in its intensity. It will makethe world turn cold. It is terrible. People will shudder at it. "

He walked about the room enthusiastically. 

"And its terror is the true terror--mental. How the papers will hate it, and how every one will read it!"

"May it--may it not do a great deal of harm?" said Catherine, slowly. 

"What if it does? Nothing can prevent it from being a great book. "

And he broke out into a dissertation on art that would have delightedMr. Ardagh. 

Catherine listened to him in silence, but when he had finished she said, "But you are one-sided, Mr. Berrand. "

"I!" he cried. "How so?"

"You see only the horrible in life, even in love. You care only for thehorrible in art. "

"The truth is more often horrible than not, " he answered. "We dress itin pink paper as we dress a burning lamp. We fear its light will hurtour weak eyes. Almost all the pretty theories of future states, happyhunting grounds, and so forth, almost all the fallacies of life to whichwe are inclined to cling, are only pink paper shades which we make tosave ourselves from blinking at the light. "

"You call it light?" she said. 

And she felt a profound pity for him. There was no need of that. Berrandwas one of those strange men who are happy in the contemplation ofmisery. 

While Berrand was staying with the Sirretts, Mrs. Ardagh came to them ona visit. She was now in very poor health, and her mind was greatly set, in consequence, on that other world of which the healthy scarcely think, unless they wake at night or lose a near relation unexpectedly. Mr. Berrand immediately horrified her. Of course he did not speak of"William Foster. " "William Foster's" existence in the house was asecret. But he freely aired his sentiments on all other subjects, andeach sentiment went like a sword through Mrs. Ardagh's soul. 

"How can Mark make a friend of such a man, " she said to Catherine. "Likeyour father, he has no religious belief. He worships art instead of God. He loves, he positively loves, the evil of the world. Such men are acurse. They go to people hell. "

Her feverish eyes glowed with fanaticism. 

"Oh, mother!" said Catherine, thinking of "William Foster. "

"They do not care to do good, they do not fear to do harm, " continuedMrs. Ardagh. "Why are they not cut off?"

She made her daughter kneel down with her and pray against such men. 

Then they went down to dinner, and dined with "William Foster. "

Catherine felt like one in a fever. She knew that her mother had anexaggerated mind. Nevertheless, she was deeply moved by it, recognisingthat it exaggerated truth, not a lie. 

At dinner Mrs. Ardagh, by some ill-chance, was led to mention "WilliamFoster's" book. Mark raised gay eyebrows at Berrand and Catherine grewhot. For Mrs. Ardagh denounced the author as she had denounced him inLondon, but with more excitement. 

"I trust, " she said, "that he will never live to write another. "

Catherine felt as if a knife were thrust into her breast, and even Markstarted slightly and looked almost uneasy, as if he fancied that theforce of Mrs. Ardagh's desire might accomplish its fulfilment. OnlyBerrand was undismayed. There was a devil of mischief in him. His eyesof a toad gleamed as he said, turning to Mrs. Ardagh, "I happen to know that 'William Foster' is writing another book at thisvery time. "

Catherine bent her eyes on her plate. She was tingling with nervousexcitement. 

"Do you know him, then?" said Mrs. Ardagh, in her fervid, and yetdreary, voice. 

"Slightly. "

"Then tell him of the dreadful harm he has done. "

"What harm?"

Mrs. Ardagh spoke of Jenny Levita. It seemed that she had now falleninto an evil way of life. 

"But why should you attribute the folly of a weak girl to WilliamFoster's influence?" said Berrand. 

"Her soul was trembling in the balance, " said Mrs. Ardagh, striking herthin hand excitedly on the table. "That book turned the scale. She wentdown. Tell him of her, Mr. Berrand, tell him of the ruin of that poorchild. It may influence him. "

"I'm afraid not, " said Berrand, with a glance at Mark. "William Fosteris an artist. "

"It is terrible that he should be permitted to work such evil, " saidMrs. Ardagh. 

During that summer a vague and hollow darkness seemed to brood round thelife of Catherine. It stood behind the glory of the golden days. Shefelt night even at noontide, and a damp mist floated mysteriously to herout of the very heart of the sun. Yet she had some happy, or at leastsome feverishly excited, moments, for Berrand was generally staying withthem, and Catherine--abnormally sensitive as she always was to herundoing, --came under his curious influence and caught some of hisenthusiasm for the talent of "William Foster. "

Once again Mark began to speak to her of his work, to read parts of italoud to both his companions. And there were evenings when Catherine, carried away by the intellectual joy of the two men, exulted with themin the horrible fascination of the book and in the intensity of itsdramatic force. But, when these moments were over, and she was gone, shebrooded darkly over her mother's words. For she knew that the book wasevil. Like a snake it carried poison with it, and, presently, it wasgoing to carry that poison out from this house in the woods, out intothe world. Ah! the poor world, on which a thousand things preyed, inwhich a thousand snakes set their poisoned fangs!

And then she wept. Mark and Berrand were eagerly talking of the snake, praising its lustrous skin, marvelling at its jewelled eyes, foretellingits lithe progress through Society. She heard the murmur of their voicesuntil far into the night. And sometimes she thought that distant murmursounded like the hum of evil, or like the furtive whisper ofconspirators. 

Berrand did not leave them until the new book was nearly finished. As hepressed Catherine's hand in farewell he said, "You will have a sensational autumn, Mrs. Sirrett. "

"Sensational. Why?" she asked. 

"London will ring with William Foster's name. My word how theJournalists will curse! They protect the morality of the nation youknow--on paper. "

He was gone. As the carriage drove away Catherine saw his beautiful, andyet rather dreadful, eyes gleaming with mischievous excitement. Suddenlyshe felt heavy-hearted. Those last words of his cleared away any mist ofdoubt that lingered about her own terror. She recognised fully for thefirst time the essential difference between Mark and Berrand. Mark wasreally possessed by the spirit of the artist, was driven by somethingstrange and dominating within him to do what he did. Berrand waspossessed by a spirit of mischievous devilry, by the poor and degradingdesire to shock and startle the world at whatever cost. For the momentCatherine mentally saw Mark in a light of nobility; Berrand in adarkness of degradation. 

Yet--this thought followed in a moment, --Berrand was harmless to theworld, while Mark--

"Kitty, come in here, " called her husband's voice from the study. "Iwant to consult you about this last chapter. "

In the Autumn "William Foster's" new book was issued by an "advanced"publisher, who loved to hear his wares called dangerous, and who walkedon air when the reviewers said that such men as he were a curse toSociety--as they occasionally did when there was nothing special towrite about. 

In the autumn also Mrs. Ardagh's illness grew worse and it appeared thatshe could not live much longer. Catherine was terribly grieved, and wasfor a time so much engaged with her mother that she scarcely heeded whatwas going on in the world around. Incessantly immured in the sick-roomshe did not trace the progress of the snake through Society until--asBerrand had foretold--the cries of the Journalists rose to Heaven likecries from a burning city. "William Foster" was held up to execration souniversal that his book could hardly be printed in sufficient quantitiesto satisfy the demands of a public frantically eager to be harmed. Inher sick-room Mrs. Ardagh, now not far from death, yet still religiouslyinterested in the well-being of the world she was leaving, heard theechoes of the journalistic cries. Some friend, perhaps, conveyed them. For Catherine was silent on the matter, keeping a silence of fear and ofshame. And these echoes stayed with the dying woman, as stay the voicesin the hills. 

One night, when Catherine came into her mother's room, Mrs. Ardagh wascrying feebly. On the sheet of the bed lay a letter which she hadcrumpled in her pale hands and then tried, vainly, to fling away fromher. Catherine leaned over the bed. 

"What is it, mother?" she said. "You are not in pain?"

Mrs. Ardagh shifted in the bed. There was a suggestion of almostintolerable uneasiness in the movement. 

"I am in pain, horrible pain, " she answered. "No--no, " as Catherine wasabout to ring for the nurse, "not in the body--not that. "

Catherine sat down by the bed and clasped her mother's hot hand. 

"What is it?" she whispered. 

Mrs. Ardagh was silent for a moment. She blinked her heavy eyelids tostop the tears from falling on her wasted cheeks. At length she said, "William Foster has done more evil. "

Catherine did not speak. Her heart beat irregularly, and then seemed tostop, and then beat with unnatural force again. 

"Catherine, " her mother continued, "Jenny is utterly lost. "

"No, mother, no!" Catherine said. "I will go to her. Let me go. I willrescue her. I will make her see----"

"Hush--you can't. She is dead and she died in shame. "

She paused. Catherine did not speak. 

"And now, " Mrs. Ardagh continued feebly, "that man is spreading the netfor others. Do you know, Catherine, I often pray for him?"

"Do you, mother?"

"Yes. He has great powers. I never let your father know it, but thatfirst book of his made an impression upon me that has never faded. That's why I think of him even now--that and the fate of poor Jenny. "

She lifted herself up a little in the bed. 

"His last book, I am told, is much more terrible, much more deadly thanthe first. "

"Is it?"

"You haven't read it?"

Catherine hesitated a moment, then she said, "I know something about it. "

Mrs. Ardagh lay still for a while, as if thinking. Presently she said, "Catherine, such an odd, foolish idea keeps coming to me. "

"What is it, mother?"

"That I should like to see 'William Foster' and--and try to make himunderstand what he is doing. Perhaps he doesn't know, doesn't realise. God often lets the devil blind us, you know. If I told him about Jenny, told him all about her, he might see--he might understand. Don't youthink so?"

Catherine was holding her mother's hand. She pressed it vehemently. 

"Oh, mother, perhaps he might!"

Mrs. Ardagh sat up still more among her pillows. 

"You don't think it's a silly fancy?"

"I don't know. I wonder. "

Catherine was crying quietly. 

"It keeps coming, " said Mrs. Ardagh, "as if God sent it to me. What canI do? How can I send to William Foster? I don't know where he is. Couldthat Mr. Berrand----?"

"Mother, " Catherine said. "Leave it to me, I will bring William Fosterto you. "

She was trembling. But the invalid, exhausted with the excitement of theconversation, was growing drowsy. She sank down again in her pillows. 

"Yes, " she murmured. "I--might--tell--him--William Foster. "

She slept heavily. 

"Mark, " Catherine said to her husband the next day. "Mother is dying. She can only live a very few days. "

"Oh, Kitty! How grieved I am!"

His face was full of the most tender sympathy. He took her hand gentlyand kissed her. 

"My Kitty, how will you bear this great sorrow?"

"Mark, " Catherine said, and her voice sounded curiously strained. "Mother wants very much to see you, before she dies. She has somethingto say to you. I think she cares more about seeing you than aboutanything else in the world. "

Mark looked surprised. 

"I will go to her at once, " he said. "What can it be? Ah, it must besomething about you. "

"No, I don't think so. "

"What then?"

"She will tell you, Mark. It is better she should tell you herself. "

"I will go to her then. I will go now. "

"Wait a moment"--Catherine was very pale--"Promise me, Mark, that youwon't--you won't be angry if--if mother--you will----"

She stopped. Her emotion was painful. Mark was more and more puzzled. 

"Angry with your mother? At such a time!" he said. 

"No--you wouldn't. I am upset. I am foolish. Let me go first to tell heryou are coming. Follow me in a few minutes. "

She went out leaving her husband amazed. When she arrived in EatonSquare Mr. Ardagh met her in the hall. 

"She is worse, " he said. "Much worse. The end cannot be far off. "

"The beginning, " Catherine said, looking him straight in the eyes. 

He understood then which parental spirit had conquered the spirit of thechild, and he smiled--sadly or gladly? He hardly knew. So strangely doesdeath play with us all. Catherine went upstairs into her mother's room, which was dim and very hot. She shut the door, sent away the nurse, andwent up to the bedside. 

"Mother, " she said, "William Foster is coming. Do you feel that you cansee him?"

Mrs. Ardagh was perfectly conscious, although so near death. 

"Yes, " she said. "God means me to give him a message--God means me. "

She lay silent; Catherine sat by her. Presently she spoke again. 

"I shall convince him, " she said quietly. "That is meant. If I did notGod would strike him down. He would be cut off. But I shall make himknow himself. "

And then she repeated, with a sort of feeble but intense conviction, "If I did not God would strike him down--yes--yes. "

Something--perhaps the fact that her mother was so near death, so closeto that great secret, --made her words, faltering though they were, gohome to Catherine with the most extraordinary poignancy, as words hadnever gone before. She felt that it was true, that there was noalternative. Either Mark must be convinced now, by this bedside, inthis hot, dark room from which a soul was passing, or he would, by someaccident, by some sudden means, be swept away from the world that he wasinjuring, that he was poisoning. 

Mrs. Ardagh seemed to grow more feeble with every moment that passed. And suddenly a great fear overtook Catherine, the dread that Mark wouldcome too late, and then--God's other means! She trembled, and strainedher ears to catch the sound of wheels. Mrs. Ardagh now seemed to besinking into sleep--Catherine strove to rouse her. She stirred and said, "What is it?" in a voice that sounded peevish. 

Just then there was a gentle tap on the door. Catherine sprang up, andhastened to it with a fast beating heart. Mr. Ardagh stood there. 

"How is she?" he whispered. 

"I think she is not in pain. She is just resting. Has Mark come?"

"No. "

"Please send him up directly he comes. "

She spoke with a hushed, but with an intense, excitement. 

"I want him to--to say good-bye to her, " she added. 

Mr. Ardagh nodded, and went softly downstairs. 

"Is that he--is that William Foster?" said Mrs. Ardagh feebly from thebed. 

"No, mother. But he will be here directly. "

"I'm very tired, " said the sick woman in reply. And again her thin voicesounded irritable. 

Catherine sat down by her and held her hand tightly, as if that graspcould keep her in this life. A few minutes passed. Then there was thesound of a cab in the Square. It ceased in front of the house. Catherinecould scarcely breathe. She bent down to the dying woman. 

"Mother!"

"Well?"

"Mother, he has come--but I want to tell you something--are youlistening?"

"Move the pillow. "

Catherine did so. 

"Mother, I want to tell you. William Foster is----"

The bedroom door opened and Mark entered softly. Catherine stood up, still holding her mother's hand, which was now very cold. Mark came tothe bed on tiptoe. 

"Mother, " Catherine said, "William Foster"--Mark started--"is here. Tellhim--tell him. "

There was no reply from the bed. 

"Kitty, " Mark whispered, "what is this?"

"Hush!" she said. "Mother--mother, don't you hear me?"

Again there was no reply. Then Catherine bent down and cast a hard, staring glance of enquiry on her mother. 

Mrs. Ardagh was dead. 

Catherine looked up at Mark. 

"God's other means, " she thought. 

 * * * * *

The death of her mother left a strong and terrible impression uponCatherine. She brooded over it continually and over Mrs. Ardagh's lastwords. The last words of the dying often dwell in the memories of theliving. Faltering, feeble, sometimes apparently inconsequent, theyappear nevertheless prophetic, touched with the dignity of Eternaltruths. Lives have been moulded by such last words. Natures have beendiverted into new and curious paths. So it was now. For the future Mr. Ardagh's influence had no force over his daughter. An influence from thegrave dominated her. Mr. Ardagh recognised the fact, shrugged hisshoulders and travelled. His philosophy taught him to accept theinevitable with the fortitude of the Stoic. From henceforward theSirretts saw little of him. As to Mark, with his habitual tenderness heset about consoling his wife for her loss. He was kindness itself. Catherine seemed grateful, was indeed grateful to him. Nevertheless, after the death of Mrs. Ardagh, something seemed to stand between herand her husband, dividing them. Mark did not know what this was. Forsome time he was unconscious of this thin veil dropped between them. Even when he became aware of it he could not tell why it was there. Hestrove to put it aside, but in vain. Then he strove not to see it, notto think of it. He forgot it in his work. But Catherine always knew whatset her apart from her husband. It was that influence from the grave. Itwas the memory of her mother's last words. She recognised them from thefirst, blindly, as words of prophecy. Yet the days went by. "WilliamFoster" sat in his study in the Surrey home once more, while the springgrew, imitative of last year's spring. And there was no sign from God. Catherine never doubted that the dying woman had been inspired. Shenever doubted that "William Foster" would be stayed, however tragically, from working fresh evil in the world. Indeed she waited, as one assuredof some particular future, breathless in expectation of its approach. Sometimes she strove to picture precisely what it might be, and, fancifully, she set two men before her--Mark and "William Foster. " Evenin real life they seemed two different men. Why not in the life of theimagination? And that was sweeter, for then she could look forward tothe one standing fast, to the other being stricken. Might not his geniusdie in a man while the man lived on? There had been instances of men whohad written one or two brilliant books and had seemed to exhaustthemselves in that effort. And she dreamed of her husband's gift beingstolen from him--divinely--of the stranger being slain. Yet thisdreaming was idle and fantastic, the image which greets closed eyes. ForMark's energy and enthusiasm were growing. The fury of the papers fedhim. The cries of pious fear emboldened his dogged and dreary talent. His genius grew darker as its darkness became recognised. 

This third book of his promised to be more powerful, more deadly, thaneither of its forerunners. He did not speak much of it to Catherine. Butnow and then, carried away by excitement and by the need of sympathy, hedropped a hint of what he was doing. She listened attentively but saidlittle. Mark noticed her lack of responsiveness, and one night he saidrather bitterly, "You no longer care for your husband's achievements, Catherine. "

He did not call her Kitty. 

"I fear them, Mark, " Catherine replied. 

"Fear them! Why?"

"They are doing great harm in the world. "

Mark uttered an impatient exclamation. As a man he was kind and gentle, but as an artist he was wilful and intolerant. Soon after this he wroteto Berrand and invited him to stay. Berrand came. This time Catherineshuddered at his coming. She began to look upon him as her husband'sevil genius. Berrand did not apparently notice any change in her, for hetreated her as usual, and spoke much to her of Mark. And Catherine wastoo reserved to express the feelings which tortured her to a comparativestranger. For this reason Berrand did not understand the terribleconflict that was raging within her as "William Foster's" new work grew, and he often spoke to her about the book, and described, withmischievous intellectual delight, its terror, its immorality and itspain. Catherine listened with apparent calm. She was waiting for thatinterruption from heaven. She was wondering why it did not come. 

One night in summer it chanced that she and Berrand spoke of Fate. Catherine, dominated by her fixed idea that God would intervene in somestrange and abrupt way to interrupt the activities of Mark, spoke ofFate as something inevitably ordained, certain as the rising of the sunor the dropping down of the darkness. Berrand laughed. 

"There is no Fate, " he said. "There is man, there is woman. Man andwoman make circumstance. We fashion our own lives and the lives ofothers. "

"And our deaths?" said Catherine. 

"We die when we've done enough, when we've done our best or worst, whenwe've pushed our energy as far as it will go--that is, if we die what iscalled a natural death. But of course now and then some other humanbeing chooses to think for us, and to think we have lived long enough ortoo long. And then----"

He paused with a smile. 

"Then----?" said Catherine, leaning slightly forward. 

"Then that human being may cut our thread prematurely, and down we go todeath. "

Catherine drew in her breath sharply. 

"But that again, " continued Berrand. "Is man--or woman--not the fantasyyou call Fate?"

"Perhaps Fate can take possession of a man or a woman, " Catherine saidslowly and thoughtfully, "govern them, act through them. "

"That's a dangerous doctrine. You believe that criminals areirresponsible then?"

"I don't know, " she said. "I suppose there must be an agent. Yes, Isuppose there must. "

She spoke as one who is thinking out a problem. 

"God, " she continued, after a moment of silence, "may choose to use aman or woman as an agent instead of a disease. "

"Oh, well, " said Berrand, with his odd, high laugh, "I cannot go withyou on that road of thought, Mrs. Sirrett. I am not afflicted with areligion. Oh, here's Mark. How have you been getting on, Mr. WilliamFoster?"

"Grandly, " he replied. 

His dark eyes were blazing with excitement. Catherine suddenly turnedvery cold. She got up and left the room. The two men scarcely noticedher departure. They plunged into an eager discussion on the book. Theydebated it till the night waned and the melancholy breath of dawn stolein at the open window. 

Meanwhile, Catherine, who had gone to bed, lay awake. This summer was solike last summer. Now, as then, she was sleepless, and heard the distant, excited voices rising and falling, murmuring on and on hour after hour. Now, as then, they accompanied activity. Now, as then, the activity wasdeadly, harmful to an invisible multitude, hidden out in the great world. But there was a difference between last year and this, so like in manyways. Mark's power had grown in the interval. He had become moredangerous. And Catherine had developed also. Circumstance--spoken of byBerrand--had changed, twisted into a different shape by dying hands, twisted again by the hands--all unconscious--of that man who talkeddownstairs, of Berrand. Was he, too, an agent of Fate, at which hescornfully laughed? Why not?

Oh, those everlasting voices! they rang hatefully in the sleeplesswoman's ears. Their eagerness, their enthusiasm, were terrible to her. For now their joy seemed to summon her to a great darkness. Their soundseemed to call her to the making of a great silence. She put her handsover her ears, but she still heard them till it was dawn. She stillheard them when they were no more speaking. 

From this time Catherine waited indeed, but with a patience quitedifferent from that which possessed her formerly. Then she wasexpectant, almost superstitiously expectant, of an abrupt interpositionof Fate. Now she waited, but with less expectancy, and with a strangeand growing sense of personal obligation which had been totally absentfrom her before the issue lay between the thing invisible and herself. And each day that passed brought the issue a step nearer to her. Howpathetical seemed to her the ignorance of the two men who were hercompanions in the cloistered house at this time. Tears rose in her eyesat the thought of her secret and their impotence to know it. But thenshe thought of her mother's death-bed and the tears ran dry. For thespirit of her mother surely was with her in the dark, the spirit thatknew all now and that could inspire and direct her. 

The book grew and Catherine waited. Would Mark be allowed to completeit? that was the great question. If he was, then the burden of actionwas laid upon her by the will of God. She had quite made up her mind onthat. She had even prayed, and believed that an answer had been given toher prayer, and that the answer was--"In the event you anticipate it isGod's will that you should act. " She was fully resolved to do God'swill. And so she waited, with a strong, but how anxious, patience. Thegrowth of the book was now become ironical to her as the growth of aplant which must die when it attains a certain height; the labour spentupon it, the discussion that raged around it, the decisions that werearrived at as to its course--all these things were now most pitifullypathetic to Catherine. As she watched Mark and Berrand, as she listenedto them, she seemed to watch and listen to children, playing idly, chattering idly, on the edge of events that must stop their play, theirchatter--perhaps for ever. 

For this book would never see the light. No one would ever read it. Noone would ever speak of it but these two men, whose lives seemed boundup in it. And Catherine alone knew this. 

Sometimes she had a longing to tell them of this knowledge, to say toMark, "Do not waste yourself in this useless energy!" to say to Berrand, "Do not rejoice over the future of that which has no future. " But sherefrained, knowing that to speak would be to give the lie to what shespoke. For such revelation must frustrate her contemplated action. Sonobody knew what she knew, except the spirit that stood by her in thenight. She waited, and the book drew slowly towards its climax and itsclose. As Berrand grew more excited about it he spoke more of it toCatherine. But Mark--conscious of that veil dropped between him and hiswife--scarcely mentioned it to her, and declined to read any passagesfrom it aloud. Catherine understood that he distrusted her and knew herutterly unsympathetic and adverse to his labours. The sign for which shehad hoped, which she had once most confidently expected, did not come. And at length she almost ceased to think of it, and was inclined to putthe idea from her as a foolish dream. 

The burden of action was, it seemed, to be laid upon her. She wouldaccept it calmly, dutifully. So the summer waned, drawing towardsautumn. The atmosphere grew heavy and mellow. The garden was languidwith its weight of bearing plants and with its fruits. Mists rose atevening in the woods, clouding the trunks of the trees, and spreadingmelancholy as a sad tale that floats, like a mist, over those who hearit. And, one day, the book was finished. 

Berrand came to tell Catherine. He was radiant. While he spoke he nevernoticed that she closed her hands tightly as one who prepares to face anenemy. 

"We are going to London this afternoon, " he added. "Mark must see hispublisher. "

"He is taking up the manuscript?" said Catherine hastily. 

"No, no. There are one or two finishing touches to be put. But he mustarrange about the date of publishing. He will return by the midnighttrain, but I shall stay in town for the night. "

Mark locked up the manuscript in a drawer of his writing table, the keyof which he carried about him on a chain. And the two men took theirdeparture, leaving Catherine alone. 

So the time of her duty was fully come. She had waited till now, because, till now, she had not been absolutely sure that she was to bethe agent through whom Fate was to work. But she could no longer dare todoubt. The book was finished. Mark had been allowed to finish it. Butits deadly work was not accomplished till it was given to the world. Itmust never be given to the world. 

The day was not cold. Yet Catherine ordered the footman to light a firein Mark's study. When he had done so she told him not to allow her to bedisturbed. Then she went into the room and shut the door behind her. Shewalked up to the writing table, at which Mark had spent so many hours, labouring, thinking, imagining, working out, fashioning that shell whichwas to burst and maim a world. The silence in the room seemed curiouslyintense. The fire gleamed, and the sun gleamed too; though already itwas slanting to the West. Catherine stood for some time by the table. Then she tried the drawer in which Mark kept his manuscript and found itlocked. The resistance of the drawer to her hand roused her. 

Two or three minutes later one of the maids in the servant's hall said, "Whatever's that?"

"What?" said the footman who had lit the study fire. 

"Listen!" said the maid. 

They listened and heard a sound like a blow struck on some hardsubstance. 

"There it is again, " said the maid. "What ever can it be?"

The footman didn't know, but they both agreed that the noise seemed tocome from the study. While they were still gossiping about it Catherinestood at Mark's writing table, and drew out from an open drawer themanuscript of the book. She lifted it in her hands slowly and her facewas hard and set. Then she turned and carried it to the hearth, wherethe fire was blazing. By the hearth she paused. She meant to destroy thebook in the fire. But now that she saw the book, now that she held it inher hands, the deed seemed so horribly merciless that she hesitated. Then she knelt down on the hearth and leaned towards the flames. Theirlight played upon her face, their heat scorched her skin. She held thebook towards them, over them. The flames flew up towards it eagerly, seeming to desire it. Catherine tantalised them by withholding from themtheir prey. For now, in this crisis of action, doubts assailed her. Sheremembered that she had never read the book, though she had heard muchof it from Berrand. He was imaginative and essentially mischievous. Perhaps he had exaggerated its tendency, drawn too lurid a picture ofits horrible power. Catherine turned a page or two and glanced at theclear, even writing. It fascinated her eyes. 

At eight the footman opened the door, announcing dinner. 

Catherine started as if from a dream. Her face was white and her eyeswere ablaze with excitement. She put the manuscript back in the drawer, went into the dining-room and made a pretence of dining. But very soonshe was back again in the study. She sat down under a lamp by the fireand went on reading the book. She knew that Mark would not be home tillmidnight; there was plenty of time. She turned the leaves one by one, and presently she forgot the passing of time, she forgot everything inthe evil fascination of the book. She was enthralled. She washorror-stricken. But she could not cease from reading. Only when she hadfinished she meant to burn the book. No one else should ever come underits spell. She never heard the clock striking the hours. She never heardthe sound of carriage wheels on the gravel of the drive. She never hearda step in the hall, the opening of the study door. Only when Mark stoodbefore her with an exclamation of keen surprise did she start up. Themanuscript dropped from her hands on to the hearth. The drawer in thewriting table, broken open, gaped wide. 

"Catherine, " Mark said, and he bent hastily and picked up the book. "Catherine, what is the meaning of this? You have--you have----"

He stopped, struck dumb by flooding astonishment. She stared up at himwithout a word and with a dazed expression in her eyes. He lookedtowards the drawer. 

"You have dared to break open my writing table!"

"Yes, " she said, finding a voice. "I have dared. "

"And to read--to read----"

She nodded. Mark seemed utterly confused by surprise. He looked almostsheepish, as men do in blank amazement. She got up and stood before himand laid her hands on his, which held the book. 

"You see that fire?" she said in a low voice. 

He looked at it, as if he had not noticed it before. 

"What's it for?" he said, also in a low voice. 

"Don't you know?"

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. 

"To--to--you intended to burn----"

She nodded again, and closed her hands tightly on the book. 

"Mark, " she said solemnly. "It's an evil thing. Let it go. "

His face changed. Astonishment died in fierce excitement. 

"You're mad!" he said brutally. 

And he struck her hands away from the book with his clenched fist. Shedid not cry out, but her face became utterly dogged. He saw that. 

"D'you hear me?" he said. 

"Yes. "

His passion rose, as he began fully to grasp the enormity of the deedthat his coming had prevented. 

"You would destroy my labour, my very soul, " he said hoarsely. "You whopretended to love me!"

"Because I love you, " she said. 

He laughed aloud. 

"You hate me, " he cried. 

"I hate to see you do evil, " she said. 

"This is fanaticism, " he muttered, looking at her obstinate white face, and steady eyes. "Sheer fanaticism. "

It began almost to frighten him. 

"You shall not do this evil, " she said. "You shall not. "

Mark stared at her for a moment. Then he turned away. 

"I'll not argue with you, " he said. "But, if you had done what you meantto do, if you had destroyed my labour, I would have recreated it, everysentence, every word. "

"No, Mark!"

"I would, I would, " he said. "The world shall have it, the world shouldhave had it even then. Go to your room. "

She left him. But her face had not changed or lost its expression. 

She went upstairs slowly. And the spirit of her mother went with her. She felt sure of that. 

 * * * * *

When two days afterwards, late in the evening, Mark Sirrett suddenlydied, --from poison, as was proved at Catherine's trial--she had nofeeling that Mark was dead. That only came to her afterwards, as she satby the body, awaiting the useless arrival of the doctor. She only knewthat the stranger was gone, the stranger into whose wild eyes she hadgazed for the first time in the Pavilion of Granada, when the world wasgolden beneath them and the roses touched his hair. She looked at thebody, and she seemed to hear again the bell of the cathedral, fillingthe drowsy valley with terrible vibrations of romance. It was a passingbell. For God had stricken down "William Foster. "

THE CRY OF THE CHILD. 

PART I. 

THE DEAD CHILD. 

THE CRY OF THE CHILD. 

PART I. 

THE DEAD CHILD. 

The peasants going homeward at evening, when the last sunbeams slantedover the mountains and struck the ruffled surface of the river, did nothear the cry. The children, picking violets and primroses in thehedgerow by the small white house, did not hear it. The occasionaltourists who trudged sturdily onward to the rugged pass at the head ofthe valley did not hear it. 

Only Maurice Dale heard it, and grew white and shivered. 

Even to him it had been at first as faint as an echo pulsing through adream. He had said to himself that it was a fancy of his brain. And thenhe had pulled himself together and listened. And again, as if from veryfar off, the little cry had stolen to his ear and faded away. Then hehad said to himself that it was the night wind caught in some cranny ofthe house, and striving to get free. He had thrown open his window andleaned out, and trembled, when he found that the hot night wasbreathless, airless, that no leaf danced in the elm that shaded hisstudy, that the ivy climbing beneath the sill did not stir as he gazeddown at it with straining eyes. 

It was not the cry of the wind then. Yet it must be. Or if not that itmust be some voice of nature. But the river had no such thrill of pain, of reproach in its song. Then he thought it was some night bird, haunting the eaves of his cottage, or the tangle of wood the countrypeople called his garden. And he put on his clothes eagerly, descendedthe narrow staircase, and let himself out on to the path that curved tothe white gate. But, in the garden there was no sound of birds. 

This was a year ago. Maurice remembered very well his long vigil in thegarden, and how he had prayed that he might hear one note, one only, ofa night-jar, or the hoot of an owl in the forest, so that the blackthought just born in his mind might be strangled, and the shadow drivenout of his heart. But his prayer had not been granted. And he knew hehad not deserved that it should be. Towards dawn he went back into hishouse again, and on the threshold, just as a pallor glimmered up as ifout of the grass at his feet, he heard the cry again. And he knew thatit came from within the house. 

Then the sweat stood on his forehead, and he said to himself, with palelips, "It is the cry of the child!"

All the people of Brayfield by the sea were agreed on one point. The newdoctor, Maurice Dale, young as he looked, was clever. He had donewonders for Mrs. Bird, the rich old lady at Ocean View. He had performeda quite brilliant amputation on Tommy Lyne, the poor little boy who hadbeen run down by a demon bicyclist. And then he was well born. It gotabout that his father was an Honourable, and all the young ladies ofBrayfield trembled at the thought that he was a bachelor. His looks werealso in his favour. Maurice was pale and tall, with black, smooth hairparted in the middle, regular features, and large black eyes. Theexpression he assumed suited him. It was curiously sad. But, at first, this apparent pathos was a great success in Brayfield. It was only at alater period that it was the cause of unkind tittle-tattle. In thebeginning of Maurice's residence at Brayfield eulogy attended it andapplause was never far off. People said that Maurice was impressionable, and that the vision of pain upon which the medical student's eyes mustlook so closely had robbed him of the natural buoyancy of youth. Pooryoung man, they thought enthusiastically, he suffers with those whosuffer. And this was considered--and rightly considered--a verytouching trait in Maurice. 

Brayfield was well satisfied with its new doctor, and set itself to beill for his benefit with a fine perseverance. But, as time went on, thesatisfaction of Brayfield became mingled with curiosity. The new doctorwas almost too melancholy. It would not be true to say that he neversmiled, but his smile was even sadder than his gravity. There was achill in it, as there is a chill in the first light of dawn. One or twoparticularly impressionable people declared that it frightened them, that it was uncanny. This idea, once started, developed. It went fromhouse to house. And so, gradually, a spirit of whispering awe arose inthe little town, and the vision of human pain ceased to be altogetheraccountable for the pale sorrow of the young doctor. It was decided thathis habitual depression must take its rise from some more personalcause, and, upon this decision, gossip naturally ran a wild course. Since nobody knew anything about Maurice Dale except that his father wasan Honourable, rumour had plenty of elbow-room. It took advantage of thesituation, and Maurice was more talked about than anybody in Brayfield. And Lily Alston, the daughter of Canon Alston, Rector of Brayfield, launched out into surmises which, however, she kept to herself. 

Lily, at this time, was a curious mixture of romance and religion, offlightiness and faith. She read French novels all night and went toearly service in the morning. She studied Swinburne and taught in theSunday-school with almost equal ardour, and did her duty and pursued athousand things outside of her duty with such enthusiasm that she wascontinually knocked up. On these continual occasions Maurice Dale wasinvariably sent for, and so an intimacy grew up between him and theRectory, which contained the Canon, his daughter, and the servants. ForMrs. Alston was dead, and Lily was an only child. Real intimacy with aRectory means, above all things, Sunday suppers after evening church, and, in time, it became an unalterable custom for Maurice Dale to spendthe twilight of his Sabbaths with the Canon and his daughter. The Canon, who was intellectual and desolate, despite his daughter, since hiswife's death, liked a talk with Maurice; and Lily, without having fallenin love with the young doctor, thought him, as she said to herself, "awonderfully interesting study. "

Lily's wild surmises, already alluded to, were born on one of theseSabbath evenings in winter, when she, the Canon, and Maurice, weregathered round the fire after supper. 

The sea could be heard rolling upon the pebbly beach at a distance, andthe wind played about the skirts of the darkness. The Canon, happily atease after his hard day's work, rested in his red armchair puffing athis well-seasoned pipe. Lily was lying on a big old-fashioned sofa drawnbefore the flames, a Persian cat, grave in its cloud of fur, nestlingagainst her and singing its song of comfort. Maurice Dale sat upright, pulling at a cigar. It chanced that Lily had been away the week before, paying a visit in London, and naturally the conversation turned idlyupon her doings. 

"I used to love London, " the Canon said, with a half sigh. "In the olddays, when I shocked one or two good people here, Lily, by taking yourmother to the playhouses. Somehow I don't care for these modern plays. Idon't think she would have liked them. "

"I love London, too, " Lily said, in her enthusiastic voice, "but I thinkmodern plays are intensely interesting, especially Ibsen's. "

"They're cruel, " the Canon said. 

"Yes, father, but not more cruel than some of the older pieces. "

"Such as--?"

"I was thinking of 'The Bells. ' I saw Irving in it on Friday for thefirst time. You've seen it, of course, Mr. Dale?"

Maurice, who had been gazing into the fire, looked up. His lipstightened for a moment, then he said:

"No, never!"

"What! Though you lived in London all those years when you were amedical student?"

"I had opportunities of seeing it, of course, but somehow I never tookthem--and I dislike the subject of the play greatly now. "

There was a certain vehemence in his voice. 

"Why?" the Canon asked. "I remember my wife was very fond of it. "

"I think it morbid and dangerous. There are troubles enough in lifewithout adding to them such a hateful notion as a--a haunting; ahorrible thing that--" he looked round with a sort of questioning gazein his dark eyes--"that must be an impossibility. "

"I don't know, " the Canon said, without observing the glance. "I don'tknow. A sin may well haunt a man. "

"Perhaps. But only as a memory, not as a jingle of bells, not as adefinite noise, like a noise a man may hear in the street any day. Thatmust be impossible. Now--don't you say so?"

Lily, on her sofa, had noticed the very peculiar excitement of the youngdoctor's manner, and that his denial was really delivered in the form ofan ardent interrogation. But the Canon's mind was not so alert after thestrain of pulpit oratory. He was calmly unaware of any personal thrillin the discussion. 

"I would not be sure, " he said. "God may have what men would callsupernatural ways of punishment as well as natural ones. "

"I decline to believe in the supernatural, " Maurice said, ratherharshly. 

"Granted that these bells might ring in a man's mind, so that hebelieved that his ears actually heard them. That would be just as badfor him. "

"Then, I suppose, he is a madman, " Lily said. 

Maurice started round on his chair. 

"That's a--a rather shocking presumption, isn't it?" he exclaimed. 

"Well, " the Canon said, knocking the ashes slowly out of his pipe, "ifyou exclude the supernatural in such a case, and come upon the natural, I must say I think Lily is not far wrong. The man who hears perpetuallya non-existent sound connected with some incident of his past will atany rate soon be on the highway to insanity, I fancy. "

Maurice said nothing for a moment, but Lily noticed that he lookeddeeply disturbed. His lips were pressed together. His eyes shone withexcitement, and his pale forehead frowned. In the short silence thatfollowed on the Canon's remark, he seemed to be thinking steadfastly. Atlast he lifted up his head with a jerk and said:

"A man may have a strong imagination, without being a madman, Canon. Hemay choose to translate a mere memory into a sound-companion, just asmen often choose to play with their fancies in various ways. He mayelect to say to himself, I remember vividly the cry of--" He stoppedabruptly, then went on hastily, "the sound of bells. My mind hears them. Let me--for my amusement--push on my imagination a step further and seewhat will happen. Hark! It's done. My ears can hear now what a momentago only my mind could hear. Yes, my ears hear it now. "

He spoke with such conviction, and the gesture which he linked with hiswords, was so dramatic, that Lily pushed herself up on the pillows ofthe sofa, and even the Canon involuntarily assumed an attitude of keenattention. 

"Why, Dale, " the latter said after a moment, "you should have been anactor, not a doctor. Really you led me to anticipate bells, and I onlyhear the wind. Lily, didn't you feel as I did, eh?"

Lily had gone a little pale. She looked across at Maurice. 

"I don't know that I expected to hear bells, father, " she said slowly. 

As she said those words, Maurice Dale, for the first time, felt as if ahuman being drew very near to his secret. Lily's glance at him asked hima question. "What was it that pierced through the wind so faintly?" itseemed to say. 

"What then?" the Canon asked. 

"I don't know, " she replied. 

Maurice got up. 

"I must go now, " he said. 

The Canon protested. It was early. They must have one more smoke. ButMaurice could not be induced to stay. As he walked rapidly homeward inthe darkness he told himself again and again that he was a fool. Howcould it be? How could she hear the cry? The cry of the child?

That night Lily did not read a French novel. She lay awake. Her fancywas set on fire by the evening's talk. Her girlish imagination waskindled. In those dark and silent hours she first began to weave a webof romance round Maurice, to see him set in a cloud of looming tragedy. He looked more beautiful to her in this cloud than he had looked before. Lily thought it might be wicked, but somehow she could not help lovingmental suffering--in others. And the face of Maurice gazed at her in theblackness beneath a shadowy crown of thorns. 

Next day, at the early service, she was inattentive to the ministrationsof religion. Her father seemed a puppet at its prayers, the choir a rowof surpliced dolls, the organ an empty voice. Only at the end, whensilence fell on the kneeling worshippers, did she wake with a start ofcontrition to the knowledge of her impiety, and blush between her littlehands at her concentration upon the suspected sorrow of the youngdoctor. But in that night and that morning Lily ran forward towardsMaurice, set her feet upon the line that divides men from women. Sheknew that she had done so only when she next encountered him. Then, astheir eyes met she was seized with a painful idea of guilt, bred by anabsurd feeling that he could see into her mind, and know how all herthoughts had been crowding about him. It is a dangerous symptom thatsensation of one's mind being visible to another as a thing observedthrough glass. Lily did not understand her danger, but she was full of aturmoil of uneasiness. Maurice noticed it and felt conscious also, as ifsome secret understanding existed between him and Lily, yet there wasnone, there could be none. 

In conclave the individually stupid can sometimes almost touchcleverness. Brayfield only began to talk steadily about Lily and theyoung doctor from the day of this meeting of self-consciousnesses whichhad, as it chanced, taken place on the pavement of the curved parade bythe sea. Till that day the little town had attributed to Mauricehopelessness, to Lily simply friendship for a sad young man. Now itsmembers talked the usual gossip that attends the flirtations of thesincere, but added to it a considerable divergence of opinions as to thelikelihood of Maurice's conversion from despair. Lily, they were alldecided, began to love Maurice. But some believed and some denied, thatMaurice began to love Lily. This would have been hard for Lily had shenoticed it, but her fanciful and enthusiastic mind was concentrated onone thing only and her range of vision was consequently narrowed. Shewas incessantly engaged in trying to trace the footsteps of the doctor'smisery, of which she was now fully convinced. And indeed, since thatSabbath evening already described, Maurice had scarcely endeavoured toplay any part of ordinary happiness to her. Her partial penetration ofhis secret quickly brought a sense of relief to him. There was somethingconsoling in the idea that this little girl divined his loneliness ofsoul, if not its reason. 

By degrees they grew quietly so accustomed to the silent familiarityexisting between their ebbing and flowing thoughts; they were--without aword spoken--so thoroughly certain of the language their minds wereuttering to each other, that when their lips did speak at length, thewords that came were like a continuance of an already long conversation. 

Lily was, once more, knocked up, and the Canon called in Maurice toprescribe. He arrived in the late afternoon and was taken by the Canoninto Lily's little sitting-room, where she lay on a couch by the fire. Asmall, shaded, reading lamp defined the shadows craftily. 

"Now, Dale, " the Canon said, "for goodness' sake tell her to be moreorderly and to do less--mind and body. She behaves as if life was awhirlpool. She swims stupendously, tell her to float--and give her atonic. "

And he went out of the room shaking his head at the culprit on thecouch. 

When the door had shut upon him, Maurice came up to the fire in silenceand looked at Lily. She smiled at him rather hopelessly, and thensuddenly she said:

"Poor dear father! To ask you to make me take life so easily!"

That remark was the first onward gliding of their minds in speech, theuttered continuance of the hitherto silent colloquy between them. Maurice sat down. He accepted the irony of the situation suggested bythe Canon without attempt at a protest. 

"Life can never be easy, if one thinks, " he said. Then, trying to adoptthe medical tone, he added:

"But you think too much. I have often felt that lately. "

"Yes, " she said. 

Her eyes were bent on him with a scrutiny that was nearly ungirlish. Maurice tried not to see it as he put his fingers on her wrist. Sheadded:

"I have felt that about you too. "

Maurice had taken out his watch. Without speaking he timed thefluttering pulsation of her life, then, dropping her hand and returningthe watch to his pocket:

"Your too eager thoughts were of me?" he asked. 

"Yes, but yours were not of me. "

"Not always, " he said, with an honesty that pleased her. 

And again Lily saw above his face the shadowy crown of thorns. She wasreally unwell and ready to be unstrung. Perhaps this made her sayhastily, as she shifted lower on her cushions:

"I'm partly ill to-day because you let me see how horribly you aresuffering. "

"Yes, " Maurice said heavily. "I let you see it. Why's that?"

There was nothing like a shock to either of them in the directness oftheir words. They seemed spoken rightly at the inevitable time. Nothought of question, of denial, was entertained by them. Maurice satthere by her and dropped his mask utterly. 

"Miss Alston, I am a haunted man, " he said. 

And, in a moment, as he spoke, he seemed to be old. Lily said nothing. She twisted between her little fingers the thin rug that covered her, and was angry with herself because, all of a sudden, she wanted to cry. 

"And I am beginning to wonder, " Maurice went on, "how much longer I canbear it, just how long. "

Lily cleared her throat. It struck her as odd that she did not feelstrange with this man who looked so old in the thin light from the lamp. Indeed, now that the mask had entirely fallen from him, he seemed morefamiliar to her than ever before. 

"I suppose we must bear everything so long as God chooses, " she said. 

"No, so long as we choose. "

"But how?"

"To live to bear it. I cannot be haunted after I am dead. That can'tbe. "

He lifted his head and looked at her with a sort of pale defiance, asif he would dare her to contradict him. Lily confronted the horror ofhis eyes, and a shudder ran over her. The thorns had pierced more deeplyeven than she had believed as she lay awake in the night. Just then adoor banged and a footstep approached on the landing. 

"Hush, it's father, " Lily whispered. 

And the Canon entered to ask the condition of the patient. Mauriceprescribed and went away. In the windy evening as he walked, he wasconscious of a large change dawning over his life. Either the spirit ofprophecy--which comes to many men even in modern days--was upon him, orhope, which he believed quite dead in him, stirred faintly in his dream. In either event he saw that on the black walk of his life there was theirregular, and as yet paltry, line of some writing, some inscription. Hecould not read the words. He only knew that there were some words to beread. And one of them was surely Lily's name. 

He did not meet her until the evening of the following Sunday when, asusual, he went to supper at the Rectory. Lily was better and had been tochurch. The Canon was delighted and thanked Maurice for his skill indiagnosis and in treatment. 

"You cure every one, " he said. 

Lily and Maurice exchanged a glance. He saw how well she understood thathe felt the words to be an irony though they were uttered soinnocently. After supper, just as the Canon, with his habitual Sundaysigh of satisfaction, was beginning to light his pipe, Sarah, theparlour maid, came in with a note. The Canon read it and his sigh movedonwards to something not unlike a groan. He put his filled pipe down onthe mantelpiece. 

"What is it, father?" asked Lily. 

"Miss Bigelow, " he replied laconically. 

"On a Sunday. Oh, it's too bad!"

"It can't be helped, " the Canon said. "Excuse me, Dale, I have to goout. But--stay--I shall be back in half an hour. "

And he went out into the hall, took his coat and hat and left the house. Miss Bigelow was his cross. She was a rich invalid, portentouslydelicate, full of benefactions to the parish and fears for the welfareof her soul. She kept the Canon's charities going royally, but, inreturn, she claimed the Canon's ghostly ministrations at odd times to anextent that sometimes caused the good man's saintly equanimity tototter. Hating doctors and loving clergymen, Miss Bigelow was foreversummoning her distracted father confessor to speed that partingguest--her soul, which however, never departed. She remarked inconfidence to those about her, that she had endured "a dozen deathbeds. "The Canon had sat beside them all. He must now take his way to thethirteenth. 

As soon as the hall door banged Maurice looked up at Lily. 

"Poor, dear father, " she murmured. 

"I am glad, " Maurice said abruptly. 

The remark might have been called rude, but it was so simply made thatit had the dignity belonging to any statement of plain truth. Neitherrude nor polite, it was merely a cry of fact from an overburdened humansoul. Lily felt that the words were forced from the young doctor by somestrange agitation that fought to find expression. 

"You wish--you wish--" she began. 

Then she stopped. The flood of expression that welled up in hercompanion's face frightened her. She trembled at the thought of thehidden thing, the force, that could loose such a sea. 

"What is it?" she said like a schoolgirl--or so, a moment afterwards, she feared. 

"I ought not to tell you, " Maurice said, "I ought not, but I must--Imust. "

He had got up and was standing before her. His back was to the fire, anda shadow was over his face. 

"I want to tell you. You have made me want to. Why is that?"

He spoke as if he were questioning his own intellect for the reason, notasking it of her. And she did not try to answer his question. 

"I suppose, " he continued, "it is because you are the only human beingwho has partially understood that there is something with me that setsme apart from all my kind, from all the others. "

"With you?" Lily said. 

She felt horribly frightened and yet strong and earnest. 

"Yes, with me, " he answered. "I told you that I was a haunted man. MissAlston, can you, will you bear to hear what it is that is with me, andwhy it comes. It is a story that, perhaps, your father might forbid youto read. I don't know. And, if it was fiction, perhaps he would beright. But--but--I think--I wonder--you might help me. I can't see how, but--I feel--"

He faltered suddenly, and seemed for the first time to becomeself-conscious and confused. 

"Tell me, please, " Lily said. 

She felt rather as if she were beginning to read some strange Frenchstory by night. Maurice still stood on the hearth. 

"It is a sound that is with me, " he said. "Only that; never anythingelse but that. "

"A sound, " she repeated. 

She thought of their conversation about the bells. 

"Yes, it is a cry--the cry of a child. "

"Yes?"

"That's nothing--you think? Absurd for a man to heed such a trifle?"

"Why do you think it comes?"

Maurice hesitated. His eyes searched the face of the little girl with analmost hard gaze of scrutiny, as if he were trying to sum up thedetails of her nature. 

"Long ago--before I came here, before I was qualified, I was cruel, bitterly cruel to a child, " he said at last, speaking now very coldlyand distinctly. 

His eyes were on Lily. Had she made just then any movement of horror orof disgust, had an expression betokening fear of him come into her eyes, Maurice knew that his lips would be sealed, that he would bid hergood-night and leave her. But she only looked more intent, moreexpectant. He went on. 

"I was bitterly cruel to my own child, " he said. 

Then Lily moved suddenly. Maurice thought she was going to start up. Ifshe had intended to she choked the impulse. Was she shocked? He couldnot tell. She had turned her face away from him. He wondered why, but hedid not know that those last words had given to Lily an abrupt and fieryinsight into the depths of her heart. 

"At that time, " Maurice said, still speaking very distinctly andquietly, "I was desperately ambitious. I was bitten by the viper whosepoison, stealing through all a man's veins, is emulation. My onlydesire, my only aim in life was to beat all the men of my year, toastonish all the authorities of the hospital to which I was attached bythe brilliance of my attainments and my achievements, I was ambitionincarnate, and such mad ambition is the most cruel thing in the world. And my child interfered with my ambition. It cried, how it cried!"

He was becoming less definitely calm. 

"It cried through my dreams, my thoughts, my endeavours, mydeterminations. Do you know what a weapon a sound can be, Miss Alston?Perhaps not. A sound can be like a sword and pierce you, like a bludgeonand strike you down. A little sound can nestle in your life, and changeall the colour and all the meaning of it. The cry of the living childwas terrible to me, I thought then. But--then--I had never heard the cryof the dead child. You see I wanted to forget something. And the tinycry of the child recalled it. There were no words in the cry, and yetthere were words, --so it seemed to me--telling over a past history. Thishistory--well, I want to say to you--"

Lily had now put a guard on watch over against her impulsive nature. When Maurice stopped speaking she was able to look towards him again andmurmur:

"Say all you want to. "

"Thank you, " he said, almost eagerly. "If you knew--Miss Alston, beforethis time, when I was a very young student, I had fallen into one of themost fatal confusions of youth. I had made a mistake as to the greatestneed of my own nature. I had, for a flash of time, thought my greatestneed was love. "

"And it wasn't, " the girl said, with a note of wonder in her voice. 

"No, it was success, to outstrip my fellows. But I thought it was love, and I followed my thought and I sacrificed another to my thought. Mychild's mother died almost in giving her to me, and, in dying, made mepromise to keep the child always with me. I kept that promise. I was ayoung student, very poor. My love had been secret. Now I was alone withthis helpless child. I left my own lodgings and took others. I broughtit there, and its presence obliged me to shut my doors against my ownfamily and against my friends. To keep the door shut I put forward theexcuse of my ambition. I said that I was giving myself up to work and Ishut myself in with the child. I was its nurse as well as its father. Ithought I should be sufficient for it. But it missed--her, whom Iscarcely missed. "

"You had not loved her?"

Maurice bent his head. 

"I had made a mistake, as I said. I had only thought so. Long before shedied I had almost hated her for crippling my ambition. She was swept outof my path. But the child was left crying for her. "

"Yes. I know. "

"Its wail came eternally between me and my great desire. When I sat downto work the sound--which I could not quiet--perplexed my brain. When Ilay down to get, in sleep, power for fresh work, it struck through mydreams. I heard it when the stars were out over London, and in the dawn, when from my lodging windows I could see the first light on the Thames. Miss Alston, at last it maddened me. "

Lily was pale. She scarcely knew of what she was expectant. 

"I had tried to comfort the child. I had failed. Now I determined toforget it, to shut it out from my working life. At last, by force ofwill, I almost succeeded. I read, I wrote, I analysed the causes ofdisease, the results of certain treatments as opposed to the results ofothers. And sometimes I no longer heard my child, no longer knew whetherit wailed and wept or whether it was silent. But one evening--"

Maurice stopped. His face was very white and his eyes burned withexcitement. 

"One evening, " he repeated, speaking almost with difficulty, and withthe obstinate note in his voice of one telling a secret half against hiswill and better judgement, "I could not work. The wail of the child wasso loud, so alarmed, so full of a fear that seemed to my imaginationintelligent, and based on a knowledge of something I did not know, thatmy professional instinct was aroused. At first I listened, sitting at mywriting table. Then I got up and softly approached the folding doors. Beyond them, in the dark, the child lamented like one to whom a namelesshorror draws near. Never had I known it to weep like this; for this wasno cry after a mother, no cry of desire, no cry even of sorrow. It was ahalf-strangled scream of terror, I did not go into the room, but as Ilistened, I knew--"

He faltered. 

"Yes, " Lily said. 

"As I listened I knew what the cry meant. Miss Alston, is it not strangethat even a baby who scarcely knows life knows so well--death?"

"Death!"

"Yes, recognises its coming, shrinks from it, fears it with the terrorof a clear intelligence. Is it not very strange?"

"Death!" Lily repeated. 

She too was pale. Maurice continued in a low voice. 

"I understood the meaning of the cry, and I did not enter the innerroom. No, I walked back to my writing table, put my hands over myears--to deaden the cry--and gave myself again to work. How long Iworked I don't know, but presently I heard a loud knocking at the doorof my room. I sprang up and opened it. My landlady stood outside. 

"'What do you want?' I asked. 

"The good woman's face was grave. 

"'Sir, I know that child must be ill, ' she said. 

"'Ill--why? What do you mean?'

"'Oh, sir, its crying is awful. It goes right through me. '

"I pushed the woman out almost roughly. 

"'It is not ill, ' I said. 'It is only restless. Leave me. Don't you seeI am working?'

"And I shut the door sharply. I sat down again at my table and toiledtill dawn. I remember that dawn so well. At last my brain had utterlytired. I could work no longer. I pushed away my papers and got up. Theroom was misty--so I thought--with a flickering grey light. The dirtywhite blind was drawn half up. I looked out over the river, and from itI heard the dull shout of a man on a black barge. This shout recalled tome my child and the noise of its lament. I listened. All was silent. There was no murmur from the inner room. And then I remember thatsuddenly the silence, for which I had so often longed and prayed, frightened me. It seemed full of a dreadful meaning. I waited a moment. Then I walked softly across the room to the folding doors. They wereclosed, I opened them furtively and looked into the bedroom. It wasnearly dark. Approaching the bed I could scarcely discern the tiny whiteheap which marked where the child lay among the tumbled bedclothes. Ibent down to listen to the sound of its breathing. I could not hear thesound. Then I caught the child in my arms and carried it over to thesitting-room window so that the dawn might strike upon its little face. The face was discoloured. The heart was not beating. Miss Alston, whileI worked, my child had died in a convulsion. It had striven againstdeath, poor feeble baby, and had had no help from its father. Mymedical skill might have eased its sufferings. Might have saved it. ButI had deliberately closed my ears to its appeal for love, forassistance. I had let it go. I should never hear it again. "

Maurice had spoken the last words with excitement. Now he paused. Withan obvious effort he controlled himself and added calmly:

"I buried my child and gave myself again to work. My examination wasclose at hand. I passed it brilliantly. But I shuddered at my success. Those lodgings by the river had become horrible to me. I left them, tooka practice in a remote Cumberland valley, and withdrew myself from theworld, from all who had known me. In this retirement, however, I had acompanion of whose presence at first I was unaware. The dead childfollowed me, the child of whom now I feel myself to have been themurderer. "

"No--no--not that!" Lily whispered. But he did not seem to hear her. 

"One night, " he continued, "in my lonely house in the valley I wasawakened by some sound. I sat up in bed and listened. All was blackaround me, and at first all was quiet too. I lay down again to sleep. But as I touched the pillow I heard a faint murmur that seemed to comefrom far away. I said to myself that it was a fancy of my mind but againit came. Then I thought it was the wind caught in some cranny of myhouse. I opened my window and leaned out. But there was no wind in thetrees. What was the noise then? The cry of a bird perhaps. Yes, it mustbe that. Yet did any note of a bird have a thrill of pain in it? Ihurried on some clothes and let myself out into the garden. I would hearthat bird again. I would convince myself of its presence. But in thegarden I could hear nothing save the thin murmur of the stream thatthreaded the valley. So I returned to the house, and at the door I wasgreeted by a little cry from within. Miss Alston, it was the cry of mydead child, full of pain and of eternal reproach. I shut the door, closing myself in with my fate, and since that night I have been ahaunted man. Scarcely a day has passed since then, scarcely a night hasgone by without my hearing that appeal for help which once Idisregarded, which now I can never reply to. I fled from the valley, ina vain hope of leaving that voice behind me. I came here. But thechild's spirit is here too. It is forever with me. "

He stopped abruptly, then he added, "I can even hear it now, while Ilook at you, while I touch your hand. "

His burning eyes were fixed on Lily's face. His burning hand closed onhers as if seeking assistance. 

"What am I to do?" he said, and for the first time his voice broke andfailed. 

"Pray!" she whispered. 

"I have prayed. But God forgives only those who reverse their evilacts. Mine can never be reversed. I can never be kind to my child towhom I have been bitterly cruel. There is no help for me, none. Yet Ihad a feeling that--that you might help me. "

"If I could!" the girl cried with a blaze of sudden eagerness. Her heartleaped up at the words, leaped up from its depth of pity for Maurice toa height of almost fiery enthusiasm. 

"But how?" he said. 

Then his face hardened and grew stern. 

"No, " he said, "there can be no help for me, none in this world. "

The drawing-room door opened and the Canon appeared. 

"Miss Bigelow has not died for the thirteenth time, " he said, coming upto the fire. 

When the Canon kissed his daughter that night, after Maurice Dale hadgone home, he seemed struck by a new expression in her face. 

"Why, how excited you look, child!" he said, "what is it?"

But Lily returned his kiss hastily and ran away without a word. Once inher room she locked the door--for no reason except that she must markthe night by some unwonted action--put on her dressing-gown and threwherself down on her bed. Her mind was alive with thoughts. Herimagination was in flames. For so much had come upon her that evening. In the first place she understood that she loved Maurice. She knewthat, when he spoke the words, "My child, " and jealousy of an unknownwoman struck like some sharp weapon to her heart. She realised that hedid not love her, yet so great was her simple unselfishness, that shedid not dwell on the knowledge, or blame for an instant the selfishnesswhich concentrated Maurice's mind so entirely upon himself and his ownsorrow. Her only anxiety was how to help him. Her only feeling was oneof tender pity for his agony. And yet, for Lily was a girl of manyfancies and full of the wilful side-thoughts of women, she found room inher nature for a highflown sense of personal romance which now wrappedher round in a certain luxury of complacency. She moved in a strangestory that was true, a story that she might have read with a quickeningof the pulses. She and Maurice, whom she loved, moved in it togetherheroine and hero of it. And none knew the story but themselves. And thenshe burst into silent tears, calling herself cruel for having thismoment of half joy in the tragedy of another. She pushed down into thedepths of Maurice's misery. And then, with a clearer mind, she sat up onthe bed. It was dead of night now. Was he listening in the silence tothat haunting cry that was destroying him? She wondered breathlessly. And she recalled the conversation about "The Bells. " Was Mathias trulyhaunted? or was he mad? She asked herself that, putting Mauriceeventually behind footlights in his place. Was there really a veritablecry, allowed to come out of the other world to Maurice? or did hisdiseased brain work out his retribution? She could not tell. Indeed shescarcely cared just then. In either event, the result upon him was thesame and was terrible. In either event, the outcome might be what shedared not name even to herself. And, though he did not love her, heturned to her for help. Lily flushed in the thought of this. Almost morethan if she had his heart it seemed to have his cry for assistance. Shemust answer it effectually. She must. But how? And then she sprang upand began to pace the room. How to help him. Slowly, and with a minuteexamination, she went in memory through his story, with its egoism, itscruelty, its ambition, its punishment, its childlike helplessness ofto-night, and of many nights. She recalled each word that he had spokenuntil she came to almost the last, "I have prayed. But God forgives onlythose who reverse their evil acts. Mine can never be reversed. I cannever be kind to my child--" Just there she stopped. Maurice's wordsflew against what Lily's religion taught her of the Great Being who canpardon simply and fully so long only as the sinner entirely and deeplyrepents. But she accepted them as true for Maurice. There was the pointto be faced. She felt that his nature, haunted indeed or betrayed by itsown weakness, but still loved by her, could only be restored to peace ifhe could fulfil the impossible, reverse--as he expressed it--that actof his past. Ah, that cry of the little dying, helpless child, of hislittle child. Lily could almost hear it too, the tears came into hereyes. How could she still it? How could she lay the little spirit torest forever? Peace for child, peace for father, sinned against andsinner--she felt she would gladly sacrifice her own life, her own peace, to work the miracle of comfort on dead and living. Yes, she could giveup her love, --if--. Suddenly Lily threw herself down on her bed andburied her burning face deep in the pillows. A thought had come to her, so strange that she wondered whether it were not wicked. The hot redcolour surged over her with this thought, and all the woman in herquivered as she asked herself whether, in this life of sorrows and ofabnegations, it could ever be that the grief and the terror of anothercould be swept away by one who, in the endeavour to bring solace, mustobtain intense personal happiness. In books it is ever self-sacrificethat purges and persuades, martyrdom of the senses that renews andrelieves. Lily was ready indeed to be a martyr for the man she loved. But the strange way she saw of being his possible saviour lay only in alight of the sun forever on herself. 

She wept and saw the light, herself and Maurice walking in it together, till the church bell chimed in the morning, and the tide came up in thesunshine to murmur that it was day. 

 * * * * *

Maurice Dale was puzzled. He noticed a change in Lily so marked thateven his self-centred nature could not fail to observe it. This girl, whom he had thought pretty, fanciful, tenderhearted and gentlysympathetic, who had attracted his confession by her quick and femininereceptiveness, now seemed developed into a woman of strength andpurpose, full of calm and of dignity. Her shining eyes were moresteadfast than of old, her manner was less changeful, less enthusiastic, but more reliant. Brayfield wondered what had come to Miss Alston. Maurice wondered too, dating the transformation accurately from thenight when he unburdened his soul in search of the help, which, afterall, no human being could give to him. It was strange, he thought, thata man's terror, a man's weakness, should endow a weak girl withconfidence and with power. It was too strange, and he laughed at himselffor supposing that he had anything to do with the new manifestation ofLily's nature. Nevertheless she began to attract him more than he hadbelieved possible. The nightmare in which his life was encircled grewless real when he was with her. There was virtue in her that went out tohim. He came to desire always to be with her and yet he could not say tohimself that he loved her with the passion of man for woman. Rather wasthe desire that he felt for her like that of a criminal towards a placeof refuge, of a coward towards an asylum of safety. Sometimes he longedthat she might share his trouble, selfishly longed that in her earsmight ring the cry of pain that tormented his. 

One day, when they were together on a down that overlooked the sea, hetold her this. 

"I wish it too, " she answered softly. 

"You are all unselfishness, as I am all selfishness, " he said, condemning himself, and nearer to loving her than ever before. 

The sails went by along the wintry sea, and the short afternoon fadedquickly into a twilight that was cold in its beauty like a pale primrosein frost. They were descending slowly towards the little town that laybeneath them in the shadows. 

"I have no voice to trouble my life, --no dead voice, that is, " Lilysaid. 

"No dead voice?" Maurice asked. "And the living?"

"Oh, in most lives there is some one voice that means almost too much, "Lily answered slowly. 

Maurice stopped. 

"Whose voice means so much to you?" he said. 

"Why do you care to ask?"

"Is it mine?"

The girl had stopped too. Her face was set towards the sea and its greatsincerity, which murmurs against the lies and the deceptions of manylives that defile the land, and takes so many more to itself that theymay persist no longer in their evil doing. And perhaps it was her visionof the sea that swept from Lily any desire to be a coquette, or to bemaidenly, --that is, false. She looked from the sea into Maurice's eyes. 

"Yes, " she answered. "It is yours. "

"You love me then, Lily?"

"Yes, I love you, Maurice. "

There was no tremor in her voice. There was no shame in her eyes. Alonein her chamber on the night of Maurice's confession she had flushed andtrembled. Now she stood before him and made this great acknowledgementsimply and fearlessly. And yet she knew that he did not love her withthe desire of man to the woman whom he chooses out of the world to behis companion. She was moved by a resolve that was very great to ignoreall that girls think most of at such a moment. Maurice took a steptowards her. How true and how strong she looked. 

"I dare not ask you to share my life, " he said. "It is too shadowed, toosad. I have not the right. "

"If you will ask me, I will share it. "

She put her hand into his. He felt as if her soul lay in it. They walkedon. Already the evening was dark around them. 

Canon Alston was a little surprised, merely because he was a father, andfathers are always a little surprised when men love their children. Buthe liked Maurice heartily and gave his consent to the marriage. MissBigelow ordered a valuable wedding-present, and resolved to live untilover the marriage day at least. And Brayfield gossiped and gloried inpossessing a legitimate cause for excitement. 

As for Lily, she was strangely happy with a happiness far different fromthat of the usual betrothed young girl. She loved Maurice deeply. Nevertheless she did not blind herself to the fact that he was stillunhappy, restless, self-engrossed and often terror-stricken, although hetried to appear more confident than of old, and to assume a gaietysuitable to his situation in the eyes of the world. She knew he couldnever be entirely free to love so long as the cry of the child rang inhis ears. And he told her that, strangely enough, since their engagementit had become more importunate. Once he even tried to break theircontract. 

"I cannot link my life with another's, " he said desperately. "Whoknows--when you are one with me, you may be haunted as I am. That wouldbe too horrible. "

It was a flash of real and heartfelt unselfishness. Lily felt herselfthrill with gratitude. But she only said:

"I am not afraid. "

On another occasion--this was about a month after they becameengaged--Maurice said:

"Lily, when shall we be married?"

She glanced up at him, and saw that he was paler even than usual, andthat his face looked drawn with fatigue. 

"Whenever you wish, " she answered. 

"Let it be soon, " he said. And then he broke out almost despairingly:

"I cannot bear this much longer. Lily, what can it mean? There issomething too strange. Ever since you and I have been betrothed thecurse that is laid upon me has been heavier, the cry of the child hasbeen more incessantly with me. I hear it more plainly. It is nearer tome. It is close to me. In the night sometimes I start up thinking thechild is even beside me on the pillow, complaining to me in thedarkness. I stretch out my hand. I feel for its little body. But thereis nothing--nothing but that cry of fear, of pain, of eternal reproach. Why does the spirit persecute me now as it never persecuted me before?Is it because it believes that you will make me happier? Is it becauseit wishes to deny me all earthly joy? Sometimes I think that, once weare actually husband and wife the cry will die away. Sometimes I thinkthat then it will never leave me even for a moment. If that were so, Lily, I should die, or I should lose my reason. "

He covered his face with his hands. He was trembling. Lily put her softhand against his hands. A great light had come into her eyes as hespoke. 

"Let us be married, Maurice, " she said. "Perhaps the little child wantsme. "

He looked up at her and his dark eyes seemed to pierce her, hungry forhelp. 

"Wants you?" he said. "How can that be? No, no. It cries against mythought of happiness, against my desire for peace. "

"We must give it peace. We must lay it to rest. "

"No one can do that. If I have not the power to redeem my deed ofwickedness, how can you, how can any one living redeem it for me?"

Lily looked away from him. Her cheeks were burning with a blush. Atingling fire seemed to run through all her veins and her pulses beat. 

"There is some way of redemption for every one, " she said. 

But he answered gloomily:

"Your religion teaches you to say that, Lily, perhaps to believe it. Butthere is no way. The dead cannot return to earth that we may give themtenderness instead of our former cruelty. No--no!"

"Maurice--trust me. Let us be married--soon. "

That night, before she went to bed, Lily knelt down and prayed until thenight was old. She asked what thousands of women have asked since theworld was young. But surely never woman before had so strange a reasonfor her request. And when at length she rose from her knees she feltthat time must bring the gift she had prayed for, unselfishly, and withher whole heart. 

A month afterwards, on a bright spring morning, Maurice and Lily weremarried. It was a great occasion for Brayfield. The church waselaborately decorated by the many young ladies who had secretly longedto be the brides of the interesting doctor. Crowds assembled within andwithout the building. Miss Bigelow rose from her fourteenth death-bed ina purple satin gown and a bonnet prodigious with feathers and testifiedto the possibility of modern resurrection in a front pew. Flowers, rice, wedding marches filled the air. But people remarked that the bridegroomlooked like a man who went in fear. Even when he was on the doorstep ofthe church in the throng of curious sightseers he moved almost as onewhom a dream attends, who sees the pale figures, who hears the faintvoices that inhabit and make musical a vision of the night. The bridetoo, had no radiant air of a young girl fulfilling her girlish destinyand giving herself up to a protector, to one stronger, more able tofight the world than a woman who loves and fears. Her face, too, waspale and grave, even--some thought--a little stern. As she passed up thechurch she glanced at no one, smiled at no friend. Her eyes were setsteadfastly towards the altar where Maurice waited. And when, after theceremony, she came down the church to the sound of music her eyes werefixed on her husband. She took no heed of any one else, for her handpressed upon his arm, felt that he was trembling. And her ears seemed tohear through all the jubilant music, through all the murmur of thegazing crowd, a cry, far away, yet more distinct than any sound ofearth, thin, piercing, full of appeal to her--the spirit-cry of thechild. 

PART II. 

THE LIVING CHILD. 

PART II. 

THE LIVING CHILD. 

The honeymoon of Lily and Maurice was short, and many would have calledit sad, could they have known how different it was from the marriageholiday of most young couples. Maurice had looked forward to the weddingas a desperate man looks forward to a new point of departure in hislife. He had fixed all his hopes of possible peace upon it. He had datednew days of calm, if not of brightness, from it. He had sometimesvaguely, sometimes desperately, looked to it as to a miracle day, onwhich--how or why he knew not--the shadow would be lifted from his life. The man who is doomed to death has a moment of acute expectation whensome new doctor places him under a fresh mode of treatment. For a fewdays the increased vitality of his anxious mind sheds a dawn of apparentlife through his body. But the mind collapses. The dawn fades. Thedarkness increases, death steals on. So it was with Maurice. Immediatelyafter the wedding, Lily noticed that he fell into a strangely watchfulcondition of abstraction. He was full of tenderness to her, full ofcares for her comfort, but even in his moments of obvious solicitude heseemed to be on the alert to catch the stir of some remote activity, orto be listening for the sound of some distant voice. His own fateengrossed him even in this first period of novel companionship withanother soul. The monomania of the haunted man gripped him and would notrelease him. He thought of Lily, but he thought more, and with a deeperpassion, of himself. 

The girl divined this, but she did not for an instant rebel. She had setup a beautiful unselfishness in her heart and had consecrated it. Purpose does much for a woman, helps her sometimes to rise higher thanperhaps man can ever rise, to the pale and vacant peaks of an inactivemartyrdom. And Lily was full of a passion of purpose known only toherself. She loved Maurice not merely as a girl loves a man, but also asthe protective woman loves the being dependent upon her. His secret washers, but hers was not his. She had her beautiful loneliness of silenthope, and that sustained her. 

They went away together. In the train Maurice said to her suddenly, witha sort of blaze of hungry eagerness:

"Lily--Lily--to-day there is a silence for me. Oh, Lily, if you havebrought me silence. "

He seized her hand and his was hot like fire. 

"Will it last--can it last?" he whispered. 

And he glanced all round the carriage like one anticipating an answer tohis question from some unknown quarter, then he said:

"The noise of the train is so loud, perhaps--"

"Hush!" Lily said. "Don't fight your own peace, Maurice. "

"Fight it--no, but I can scarcely believe in it. Lately the--it has beenso ceaseless, so poignant. Lily, I have had a fancy that you alone couldbe my saviour. If it is so! Ah, but how can that be?"

She gave him a strange answer. 

"Maurice, " she said, "it may be so, but do not despair if the cry comesagain. "

"What!" he exclaimed almost fiercely, "you--do you hear it then?"

"No, no, but it may come. "

"It shall not. The silence is so beautiful. "

He put his arms around her. The tears had sprung into his eyes. 

"How weak I am, " he said, with a fury against his own condition, "youmust despise me. "

"I love you, " she said. 

He looked at her with a creeping astonishment. 

"I wonder why, " he said, slowly. "How can you love a man who has been somiserable that he has almost ceased to be a man?"

"I love even your misery. Don't think me selfish, Maurice. But it wasyour sorrow, you see, that first taught you to think of me. "

He leaned from her suddenly towards the window which was open and pulledit sharply up. 

"Why do you do that?" Lily said quickly. 

"One hears such noises in the air when one travels at this speed, " heanswered. "With the window down one might fancy anything. I must shutout fancy. There are voices in the wind that passes, in the rustlingwoods that we rush through. I won't hear them. "

The train sped on. 

Their destination was an inland village set in the midst of a rollingpurple moor, isolated in a heather-clad gold of the land, distant fromthe sea, distant from the murmur of modern life; a sleepy, self-contented and serene abode of quiet women and ruminant men, living, loving, and dying with a greater calm than often pervades our modernlife. A lazy divinity seemed to preside over the place, in spring-timeat least. Men strolled about their work as if Time waited on them, notthey on Time. The children--so Maurice thought--played more drowsilythan the children of towns. The youths were contemplative. Even thegirls often forgot to giggle as they thought of wedding rings and Sundaylove-making. Little dogs lay blinking before the low-browed doors of thecottages, and cats reposed upon the garden walls round-eyed in soberdreams. If Maurice sought a home of silence surely he had it here. Lilyand he put up at a small inn on the skirt of the village and facing therippling emptiness of the moor. Before going to bed they stepped outinto the night and the wide air. Stars were bright in the sky. Cottagelights twinkled here and there behind them in the village. They heard astream running away into the heart of the long solitude that lay beyondthem. Lily was very quiet. Her heart was full. Thoughts, strange andbeautiful, overflowed in her mind. She felt just then how much biggerthe human soul is than the human body, how much stronger the prisoner isthan the prison in which nevertheless it is dedicated to dwell for atime. Her hand just touched the arm of Maurice as she looked across thesoft darkness of the moor. He, too, felt curiously happy and safe. Taking off his cap he passed his hand over his hair. 

"Lily, " he said, "peace is here for me, in this place with you. My brainhas been playing me tricks because I have been so much alone, the devildwells in a man's loneliness. Listen to the silence of these moors. Whata music it is!"

The lights in the cottages were extinguished one by one, as bed claimedtheir owners. But Maurice and Lily, sitting on the dry fringe of theheather, remained out under the stars. Her hand lay in his and suddenlyshe felt his quiver. 

"What is it, Maurice?" she asked. 

He got up and made a step forward. 

"Lily, " he said, "there is--there must be some one near us, a child loston the moor, or forgotten by its mother. I hear it crying close to us. Say you hear it too. No, no, it is not the old sound. Don't think that. It can't be. There's a natural explanation of this--I'll swear there is. Come with me. "

He pulled her hastily up and pressed forward some steps, stumbling amongthe bushes. Then he stopped, listening. 

"It is somewhere just here, by us, " he said. "I must see. Wait a moment. I'll strike a light. "

He drew out his match-box and struck a match, protecting the tiny flamebetween his hands. Then he bent down, searching the uneven ground attheir feet. The flame went out. 

"I wish I had a lantern, " he muttered. 

"Maurice, " Lily said, "let us go back to the inn. "

"What! and leave this child out here in the night. I tell you there is achild crying near us. "

He spoke almost angrily. 

"Let us go back, Maurice. "

He stood for a moment as if uncertain. 

"You think--" he began, then he stopped. She took his hand and led himtowards the village in silence. As they reached the inn door, the faintlight from the coffee-room encircled them. Maurice was white to thelips. He looked at Lily without speaking, and he was trembling. 

"Wasn't there anything?" he whispered. "Is it here too? Can't you keepit away?"

Lily said nothing. She opened the inn door. Maurice stepped into thepassage, heavily, almost like a drunken man. And this was the firstnight of their honeymoon. 

The incident of the moor threw Maurice back into the old misery fromwhich he had emerged for a brief moment, and, indeed, plunged him intoan abyss of despair such as he had never known before. For now he hadsincerely hoped for salvation, and his hope had been frustrated. He hadclung to a belief that Lily's love, Lily's companionship might avail torescue him from the phantom, or the reality, that was destroying hispower, shattering his manhood. The belief was dashed from him, and hesank deeper in the sea of terror. They stayed on for a while in thisSleepy Hollow, but Maurice no longer felt its peace. Remote as it was, cloistered in the rolling moors, the cry of the child penetrated to it, making it the very centre, the very core of all things hideous andterrible. Even the silence of the village, its aloofness from the world, became hateful to Maurice. For they seemed to emphasise and toconcentrate the voice that pierced more keenly in silence, that soundedmore horrible in solitude. 

"I cannot stay here, " he said to Lily. "Let us go back. I will take upmy work again. I will try to throw myself into it as I did when I was astudent. I shut out the living cry then, I will shut out the dead crynow. For you--you cannot help me. "

He looked at her while he spoke almost contemptuously, almost as onelooks at some woman whose courage or whose faith one has tried and foundwanting. 

"You cannot help me, " he repeated. 

Secretly he felt a cruel desire to sting Lily into passion, to rouse herto some demonstration of anger against his cowardice in thus tauntingher love and devotion. But she said nothing, only looked at him witheyes that had become strangely steadfast, and full of the quiet light ofa great calm and patience. 

"D'you say nothing?" he said. 

"If you wish to go, Maurice, let us go. "

He had got up and was standing by the low window that looked across themoor. 

"Don't you see, " he said, "that I am going mad in this place? And you donothing. Why did I ever think that you could help me?"

"Try to think so still. "

She, too, got up, followed him to the window and put her two hands onhis shoulders. 

"Perhaps the time has not come yet, " she said. 

Suddenly he took her hands in his and pushed her a little way from him, so that he could look clearly into her face. 

"What do you mean? What can you mean?" he said. "Sometimes I think youhave some secret that you keep from me, some purpose that I know nothingof. You look as if--as if you were waiting for something; wereexpectant; I don't know--" he broke off, "After all what does itmatter? Only let us go from here. Let us get home. I hate that stretchof moorland. At night it is full of bewailing and misery. "

He shuddered although the warm spring sunshine was pouring in at thewindow. Then he turned and left the room without another word. Lilystood still for a moment, with her eyes turned in the direction of thedoor. Her cheeks burned with a slight blush and her lips were halfopened. 

"If he only knew what I am waiting for!" she murmured to herself. "Willit ever come?"

She sank down on the broad, old-fashioned window seat, and leaned hercheek against the leaded panes of glass. The bees were humming outside. She listened to their music. It was dull and dreamy, heavy like a goldennoon in summer time. And then the white lids fell over her eyes, and thehum of the bees faded from her ears, and she heard another music thatmade her woman's heart leap up, she heard the first tiny murmur of anew-born child. 

It was sweeter than the hum of bees. It was sweeter than the soul thelute gave up to the ears of Nature when Orpheus touched the strings. Itwas so sweet that tears came stealing from under Lily's eyelids anddropped down upon her clasped hands. She sat there motionless till thetwilight came over the moor, and Maurice entered, white and weary, toask impatiently of what she was dreaming. 

As Maurice wished it, they returned the next day to Brayfield andsettled into the house that was to be their home. It stood on a lowcliff overlooking the sea; a broad green lawn, on which during theseason a band played and people promenaded, lay in front of it. Beyond, the waves danced in the sunshine. The situation of the house was almostabsurdly cheerful, and the house itself was new and prettily furnished. But the life into which Lily entered was strangely at variance with thesurroundings, strangely antagonistic to the brightness of the sea, thesweetness of the air, the holiday gaiety that pervaded the little townin the summer. For work did not abolish, did not even lull the sound ofthe voice that pursued Maurice with an inexorable persistence. It wasobvious that on his return home after the honeymoon, he made atremendous effort to get the better of his enemy. He called up all hismanhood, all his strength of character. He refused to hear the voice. When it cried in his ears, he went to sit with Lily, and plunged intoconversation on subjects that interested them both. He made her play tohim, or sing to him in the twilight. He read aloud to her. This was atnight. By day he worked unremittingly. When he was not driving to seepatients he laboured to increase his knowledge of medicine. He pursuedthe most subtle investigations into the causes of obscure diseases, andspecially directed his enquiries towards the pathology of the brain. Heanalysed the multitudinous developments of madness and traced them backto their beginnings; and when, as was often the case, he discovered thatthe mad man or woman whose malady was laid bare to him had inheritedthis curse of humanity, he smiled with a momentary thrill of joy. Hisancestors on both sides of the family had been sane. Yet one of thecommonest, most invariable delusions of the insane was the imaginaryidea that they were pursued by voices, ordering them to do this or that, suggesting crimes to them or weeping in their ears over some tragedy ofthe past. Maurice knew that the mind which does not inherit a legacy ofinsanity may yet be overturned by some terrible incident, by a greatshock, or by an unexpected bereavement. But surely such a mind would beaware of its transformation, even as a man who, from an accident, becomes disfigured is aware of the alteration of his face from beauty todesolation. Maurice was not aware that his mind had been transformed. Deliberately, calmly, he asked himself, "Am I insane?" Deliberately, calmly, his soul answered, "No. " Yet the cry of the child rang in hisears, pursued his goings out and comings in, filled his days withlamentation, and his nights with horror. 

Then, leaving the subject of madness, Maurice began to institute a closeinvestigation into the subject of alleged hauntings of human beings byapparitions and by sounds. He read of the actress, whose lover, who hadslain himself in despair at her cruelty, remained for ever with her, manifesting his presence, although invisible, by cries, curses, andclappings of the hands. He read of the clergyman who was haunted by thefootsteps of his murdered sweetheart, which even ascended the pulpitstairs behind him, and pattered furtively about him when he knelt topray for pardon of his sin. He filled his mind with visionary terrors, but they seemed remote or even ridiculous to him, and he said to himselfthat they were the clever inventions of imaginative people. They wereworked up. They were moulded into conventional stories. They pleased themagazines of their time. He alone was really haunted of all men in theworld, so far as he knew. And then a great and greedy desire came uponhim to meet some other man in a like case, to hear from live lips thetrue and undecorated history of a despair like his own, one of thosebald and terse narratives which pierce the imagination of the hearerlike a sword, with no tinselled scabbard of exaggeration and of lies. Hewondered whether upon the earth a man walked in a darkness similar tothat which fell round him like a veil. He wondered whether he wasunique, even as he felt. Sometimes he caught himself looking furtivelyat a harmless stranger, a bright girl tanned by the sea, or a lad justback from a fishing excursion to Raynor's Bay, and saying to himself lowand drearily: "Does any spirit trouble you, I wonder? Does any spiritcry to you in the night?" But neither his work, his excursions of theimagination, nor the presence of Lily in his house, availed to cleansethe life of Maurice from the stain of sound, that ever widened andspread upon it. He fought for freedom for a while, strenuously, with allhis heart and soul. But the lost battle left him with his energiesexhausted, his courage broken. One night he said to Lily:

"Do you know all I have been doing since we came back here?"

"Yes, Maurice, I know. "

"And that it has all been in vain, " he said, with a passion ofbitterness that he could not try to conceal. 

"That too I understand, Maurice--I knew it would be in vain. "

He looked at her almost as at an enemy, for his heart was so full ofmisery, his mind was so worn with weariness, that he began to lose thetrue appreciation of human relations, and to confuse the beauty near himwith the ugliness that companioned him so closely. 

"You knew it? What do you mean?" he said. "How could you know it?"

"I felt it, Maurice; do not try any longer to work out alone your ownredemption. "

"You can say that to me?"

"Yes, for I believe that it is useless--you will fail. "

He set his lips together and said nothing. But a frown distorted hisface slowly. 

"Leave your redemption to God. Oh, Maurice, leave it, " Lily said, andthere were tears in her eyes. "If this cry of the dead child is hispunishment to you it must--it will--endure so long as he pleases. Yourefforts cannot still it now. You yourself told me so once. "

"I told you?"

"Yes--for the dead are beyond our hands and our lips. We cannot claspthem. We cannot kiss them. We cannot speak to them. "

"But they can speak to us and mock us. You are right. I can't still thecry--I can't! Then it's all over with me!"

Suddenly, with a sob, Maurice flung himself down. He felt as ifsomething within him snapped, and as if straightway a dissolution of allthe man in him succeeded this rupture of the spirit. Careless of thepride of man, before the world and even in his own home, he gave himselfup to a despair that was too weak to be frantic, too complete to beangry; a despair that no longer strove but yielded, that lay down in thedust and wept. Then, presently, raising his head and seeing Lily, inwhose eyes were tears of pity, Maurice was seized with an enmity againsther, unreasonably wicked, but suddenly so vehement that he did not tryto resist it. 

"You have broken me, " he said. "You have told me that there is noredemption, that I am in the hands of God, who persecutes me. You havetold me the truth and made me hate you. "

"Maurice!"

The cry came from her lips faintly, but there was the ring of anguish init. 

"It is so, " he repeated doggedly. "And, indeed, I believe that you haveadded to the weight of my burden. Since we have been married thepersecution has increased. Once, when I was alone, I could bear it. Nowyou are here I cannot bear it. The child hates you. When you arenear--in the night--its cry is so intense that I wonder you can sleep. Yet I hear your quiet breathing. You say you love me. Then why are youso calm? Why do you tell me to trust? Why do you hint that I may yetfind peace, and then tell me to cease from working for my own peace? Youdon't love me, you laugh at my trouble. You despise me. "

He burst out of the room almost like a man demented. 

It might be supposed that Lily, who loved him, would have beenoverwhelmed by this ecstasy of anger against her. But there wassomething that sheathed her heart from death. She might be wounded, shemight suffer; but she looked beyond the present time, over the desert ofher fate to roses of a future that Maurice, in his misery, could notsee, in his self-engrossment could not divine. There is no living thingthat understands how to wait, that can feel the beauty of patience, as awoman understands and feels. The curious depth of calm in Lily whichirritated Maurice was created by a faith, half religious, halfunreasoning, wholly strong and determined, such as no man ever knows inquite the same fullness as a woman. It is such a perfection of faithwhich gilds the silences in which the souls of many women wait, surrounded by the clouds of apparently shattered lives, but consciousthat there is a great outcome, obscure and remote, but certain as thepurpose which beats forever in Creation. 

From that day Maurice no longer kept up a pretence of energy, or asimulation of even tolerable happiness in his home. The idea that thespirit of the dead child was stirred to an intense disquietude by hisconnection with Lily, and that, consequently, his marriage had deepenedhis punishment, grew in him until at length it became fixed. He broodedover it for hours together, his ears full of that eternal complaining. He began to feel that by linking himself with Lily he had added to hisoriginal sin, that his wedding had been a ceremony almost criminal, andthat if he had scourged himself by living ascetically, and by puttingrigorously away from him all earthly happiness, he might at last havelaid the child to rest and found peace and forgiveness himself. And thisfixed idea led him to shut Lily entirely out from his heart. He lookedupon the fate of her being with him in the house as irrevocable. But heresolved that he ought to disassociate himself from her as far aspossible, and, without explaining further to her the thought that nowpossessed him, he ceased to sit with her, ceased to walk out with her. 

After dinner at night he retired to his study leaving her alone in thedrawing-room. He let her go up to bed without bidding her good-night. When he was obliged to be with her at meals he maintained for the mostpart an obstinate silence. 

Yet the cry of the child grew louder. The spirit of the child was notmollified. Its persecution continued and seemed to him to grow morepersistent with each passing day. 

What else could he do? How could he separate himself more completelyfrom Lily?

Canon Alston came one day to solve this problem for him. The Canon hadresolved on taking a holiday, and being no lover of solitude in hispleasures, he wished to persuade Maurice to become a grass widower forthree weeks. 

"Can you let Lily go?" he said. "I know it is a shame to leave youalone, but--"

He stopped, surprised at the sudden brightness that had come intoMaurice's usually pale and grave face. Maurice saw his astonishment andhastened to allay it. 

"I shall miss Lily of course, " he began. "Still, if you want her, andshe is anxious to go--"

"I have not mentioned it to her, " the Canon said. 

And at this moment Lily came into the room. The project was laid beforeher. She hesitated, looking from her father to her husband. Herperplexity seemed to both the men curiously acute, even to Maurice whowas on fire to hear her decision. The prospect of solitude was sweet tohis tormented heart now that he was possessed by the fancy that Lily'spresence intensified his martyrdom. Yet Lily's obvious disturbance ofmind surprised him. The two courses open to her were really so simplethat there seemed no possible reason why she should look upon the takingof one of them as a momentous matter. 

"Well, Lily, what do you say?" the Canon asked, after a pause. "Will youcome with me?"

"But Maurice--"

"Maurice permits it, and I want you. "

"I--I had not meant to leave home at present, father, not till after--"

She stopped abruptly. 

"Till after what, my dear?" enquired the Canon. 

She made no answer. 

"Lily, " Maurice said, trying to make his voice cool and indifferent, "Ithink you ought to go. It will do you good. Do not mind me. I shallmanage very well for a little while. "

"You would rather I went, Maurice?"

"I think we ought not to let your father go on his holiday alone. "

"I will go, " she said quietly. 

So it was arranged. The Canon was jubilant at the prospect of hisdaughter's company, and asked her where they should travel. 

"What do you say to the English Lakes, Lily?" he asked, "they are lovelyat this time of year, and the rush of the tourist season has scarcelybegun. Shall we go there?"

"Wherever you like, father, " she said. 

The Canon was feeling too gay to notice the preoccupation of her manner, the ungirlish gravity of her voice. That day, in the evening, when shewas at dinner with Maurice, Lily said:

"You lived near the Lakes once, didn't you, Maurice?"

"Yes, " he said. 

"What was the name of the valley?"

He told her. 

"And the house?"

"End Cottage. It was close to the waterfall. I hate it, " he added almostfiercely. "It was there that I first heard--but I have told you. "

He relapsed into silence and sent away the food on his plate untasted. Lily glanced across at him. But she said nothing more. And Maurice wasstruck by the consciousness that she took his strangeness strangely, with a lack of curiosity, a lack of protestation unlike a woman; almostfor the first time since they were married he was moved to wonder howmuch she loved him, indeed whether she still loved him at all. He hadgot up from the dinner table and stood with one hand leaning upon it ashe looked steadily, with his heavy and hunted eyes, across at Lily. 

"Are you glad to go with the Canon?" he asked. 

"I am quite ready to go, " she said quietly. 

"You don't mind leaving me?"

"I think you wish me to leave you--"

"Perhaps I do, " he said, watching her to see if she winced at the words. 

But her face was still and calm. 

"What then?"

"Then it is better for me to go for a little while than to stay. "

"For a little while, " he repeated, "yes. "

He turned and went slowly out of the room, and suddenly his face wasdistorted. For, in the darkness of the hall, he heard the child cryingand lamenting. He stopped and listened to it like a man who resolutelyfaces his destruction. And, as so many times, he asked himself; "Is thisa freak of my imagination, a trick of my nerves?" No, the sound wassurely real, was close to him. It thrilled in his ears keenly. He couldnot doubt its reality. Yet he acknowledged to himself that he could notactually locate it. Only in that respect did it differ from other soundsof earth. As he stood in the half darkness, listening, a horror, greaterthan he had ever felt before, came over him. The cry seemed to himmenacing, no longer merely a cry for sympathy, for assistance, no longermerely the cry of a helpless creature in pain. He turned white andsick, and clapped his two hands to his ears. And just as he did so thedining-room door opened and Lily came out, a thin stream of lightfollowing her and falling upon Maurice. He started at the vision of herand at the revealing illumination. His nerves were quivering. His wholebody seemed to vibrate. 

"Don't come near me, " he cried out to Lily. "It is worse since you arewith me. Your presence makes my danger. Ah!"

And with a cry he dashed into his study, banging the door behind him, asif he fled from her. 

 * * * * *

A few days later Maurice stood at the garden gate and helped Lily intothe carriage that was to take her to the station. A summons to a patientprevented him from seeing her and the Canon off on their journeynorthwards. Just before Lily put her foot on the step she stopped andwavered. 

"Wait a moment, " she said. 

She ran back into the little house which had been her home since she wasmarried. Maurice supposed that she had forgotten something. But she onlypeeped into her bedroom, into the gay drawing-room, into Maurice's den. And as she looked at this last little chamber, at the books, the ruffledwriting-table, the pipes ranged against the wall, her photographstanding in a silver frame upon the mantelpiece, her eyes filled withtears, and there was a stricken feeling at her heart. 

"Lily, you will miss the train, " Maurice called to her. 

She hurried out, got into the carriage and was driven away, wonderingwhy she had gone back to take a last glance at her home, why she hadscarcely been able to see it for her tears. 

That evening Maurice returned from his round of visits in a curiousstate of excitement and of anticipation, mingled with nervous dread. Hefelt as if the eyes of the dead child were upon all his doings, as ifthe mind of the dead child pondered every act of his, as if the brain ofthe dead child were busy about his life, as if the soul of the deadchild concerned itself for ever with his soul, which it had secretlydedicated to a loneliness assured now by the departure of Lily. Byliving alone, even for a few weeks, was he not in a measure obeying thedesire of the little spirit, which possessed his fate like someinexorable Providence? If so, dare he not hope for an interval of peace, for that stillness after which he longed with an anxiety that was like aphysical pain?

He entered his house. Twilight was falling, and the hall, in which onthe previous night the child had complained in so grievous a manner, wasshadowy. He stood there and listened. He heard the distant wash of thesea, the voices of two servants talking together behind the swing doorthat led to the kitchen. No sound mingled with the sea, or with thechattering voices. Slowly he ascended the stairs and entered thebedroom, in which Lily had slept quietly, while he, by her side, enduredthe persecution of the child. The blinds were up. The dying daylightcrept slowly from the room, making an exit as furtive and suppressed asthat of one who steals from a death chamber. Maurice sat down upon thebed and again listened for a long time. 

He was conscious of the sense of relief which comes upon a man who, through some sudden act, has removed from his shoulders a terribleburden. He took this present silence to himself as a reward. But wouldit last? Opening the window he leaned out to hear the sea more plainly. All living voices, whether of Nature or of man, were beautiful to him, they had come to make his silence. 

A servant knocked at the door. Maurice went down to dine. He passed thelate evening as usual in his study. He slept calmly. He woke--tosilence. Did not this silence confirm his fixed idea that his marriagewith Lily had vexed that wakeful spirit, had troubled that unquiet soulof the child? Maurice, wrapped in a beautiful peace, felt that it did. And, as the silent lovely days, the silent lovely nights passed on hecame gradually to a fixed resolve. 

Lily must not return to him, must not live with him again. 

He pondered for a long time how he was to compass their furtherseparation. And, at length, he sat down and wrote a letter to Lilytelling her the exact truth. 

"Think me cruel, selfish, " he wrote at the end of his letter. "I amcruel. I am selfish. Despair has made me so. The fear of madness hasmade me so. I must have peace. I must and will have it, at whatevercost. "

He sent this letter to the _poste restante_ at Windermere, as Lily haddirected. She and her father were moving about in the Lake district, anddid not know from day to day where they might be. He received a replywithin a week. It reached him at breakfast time, and, happening toglance at the postmark before he opened it, his face suddenly flushedand his heart beat with violence. For the letter came from that lonelyvillage in that sequestered mountain valley in which he had once lived, in which he had first heard the cry of the child. What chance had ledLily's steps there? Maurice read the letter eagerly. It was very gentle, very submissive. And there was one strange passage in it:

"I understand that you are at peace, " Lily wrote. "Yet the child is notat peace. It is crying still. You will ask me how I know that. Do notask me now. Some day I shall send for you and tell you. When I send foryou, if it is by day or night, promise that you will come to me. I claimthis promise from you. And now good-bye for a time. My father is veryunhappy about us. But he trusts me completely, and I have told him thatyou and I must be apart, but only for a time. I shall not write to youagain till I send for you. Even my letter may disturb your peace and Iwould give up my life to give you peace. "

There was no allusion in the letter to the reason which had led Lily andher father to the out-of-the-way valley which had seen the dawn ofMaurice's despair. And Maurice was greatly puzzled. Again there cameover him a curious conviction that Lily had some secret from him, somesecret connected with his fate, and that she was waiting for the arrivalof some day, fixed in her mind, on which to make a revelation of herknowledge to him. This mention of an eventual summons, "by day ornight. " What could it mean otherwise? Maurice read the letter again andagain. Its last words touched him by their perfect unselfishness andalso by their feminine romance. He had a moment's thought of the manyemotional stories Lily had read. "She lives in one now, " he said tohimself. And then, as usual, he became self-engrossed, saw only his ownlife, possibly touched for ever with a light of peace. 

The Canon returned alone. He met Maurice gravely, almost sternly. 

"I trust my child entirely, " he said. "She has told me that for a timeyou must live apart. She has made me promise not to ask you the reasonof this separation. I don't ask it, but if you--"

His voice broke and he turned away for a moment. Then he said:

"Lily remains in the place from which she wrote to you. "

"She is going to live there!" Maurice exclaimed. 

"For the present, I could not persuade her otherwise. Her old nurse, Mrs. Whitehead, is going up to be with her. I cannot understand allthis. "

The old man cast his eyes searchingly upon Maurice. 

"What--?" he began, then, remembering his promise to his daughter, hestopped short. 

"We will talk no more about this, " he said slowly. "No more. "

He bade Maurice good-bye and returned, sorrowful, to the Rectory. 

Lily kept her word. Maurice had no more letters from her. He only heardof her from the Canon, and knew that she remained in that beautiful andterrible valley, which he remembered so vividly and hated so ardently. Meanwhile he dwelt in a peace that was strange to him. The little voicehad gone out of his life. The cry of the child was hushed. Often, in thepast, Maurice had contemplated the coming of this exquisite silence, buthe had always imagined it as a gradual approach. He had fancied that ifthe lamentation of the child ever died out of his haunted life it wouldfade away as the sound of the sea fades on a long strand when thewhispering tide goes down. Day by day, night by night, her crying wouldgrow less poignant, less distinct in a long diminuendo, as if therestless spirit withdrew slowly farther and farther away, till the crybecame a whisper, then a broken murmur, then--nothing. This abruptcessation of persecution, this violent change from something that hadseemed like menace to perfect immunity from trouble, was a fact thatMaurice had never thought of as a possibility. He had grown to believethat Lily's presence in his home intensified the terror from which hesuffered, certainly. But he had never supposed that her removal from himwould lay the spirit entirely to rest. And she said that it was not atrest. How could she know that? And if it were not at rest, in whatregion was it pursuing its weird activity? Whither had it gone? Hewondered long and deeply. And then he resolved to wonder no more. Peacehad come to him at last. He would not break it by questioning the reasonof it. He would accept it blindly, joyfully. Man blots the sunshine outof life by asking "Why?"

Time passed on. Brayfield had gossiped, marvelled and sunk into a sortof apathy of unrewarded and quiescent curiosity. The Canon pursued hislife at the Rectory. Maurice visited his patients and continuedunremittingly his medical researches. The immunity he now enjoyedgradually wrought a great change in him. He emerged from prison intothe outer air. His health rapidly improved. His heavy eyes grew bright. His mind was active and alert. He was a new man. The darkness fadedround him. He saw the light at last. For the silence endured. And atlast he even forgot to listen, at dawn or in the silent hours of thenight, for the cry of the child. Even the memory of it began to growfaint within his heart. So rapidly does man forget his troubles when hestill has youth and the years are not heavy on him. 

Yet Maurice often thought of Lily. And now that he was no longer bowedunder the tyranny of a shattered nervous system he felt a new tendernessfor her. He recalled her devotion and no longer linked her with hispersecution. He remembered her unselfishness. He wished her back again. And then--he remembered all his misery, and that, with her, it went. Andhis selfishness said to him--it is better so. And his mental cowardicewhispered to him--your safety is in your solitude. And he put the memoryof Lily's love and of the beauty of her nature from him. 

So his silent autumn passed by. And his silent winter came. One day, ina December frost, he met the Canon, muffled up to the chin and on hisway to see Miss Bigelow, who professed herself once again _in extremis_. They stopped in the snow and spoke a few commonplace words, but Mauricethought he observed a peculiar furtiveness in the old man's manner, ahint of some suppressed excitement in his voice. 

"How is Lily?" Maurice asked. 

"Fairly well, " the Canon said. 

"She is still at the inn?"

"No, she lately moved into a little house further up the valley. "

"Further up the valley, " Maurice said. "But there's only one other housein that direction. I have been there you know, " he added hastily. 

"Lily told me you had stayed there. "

"Well, but--" Maurice persisted, "there is only one house, a privatehouse. "

"They have been building up there, " the Canon said evasively. "Housesare springing up. It is a pity. Good-night. "

And he turned and walked away. Maurice stood looking after him. So theyhad been building in the valley, and End Cottage no longer possessed thedistinction of being the finale of man in that Arcadia of woods andstreams, and rugged hills on which the clouds brooded, from which therain came like a mournful pilgrim, to weep over the gentle shrine ofnature. 

So they had been building in the valley. 

Maurice made his way home. His mind was full of memories. 

The close of the year drew on. It was a bad season, a cruel season forthe poor. Men went about saying to one another that it was a hardwinter. The papers were full of reports of abnormal frosts, oftremendous falls of snow, of ice-bound rivers and trains delayed. Therewere deaths from cold. The starving died off like flies, under hedges byroadsides, in the fireless attics of towns. Comfortable and well-to-dopersons talked vigorously of the delights of an old-fashioned Christmas. The doctors had many patients. Among them Maurice was very busy. Histalent had monopolised Brayfield and his time was incessantly occupied. He scarcely noticed Christmas. For even on that day he was full of work. Several people managed to be very ill among the plum puddings. The yeardied and was buried. The New Year dawned, and still the evil weathercontinued. In early January Maurice came down one morning to find by hisplate a letter written in a hand of old age, straggling and complicated. It proved to be from Mrs. Whitehead, Lily's old nurse; and it containedthat summons of which Lily had spoken long ago in her letter to herhusband. Lily was ill and wished to see Maurice at once. The letter, though involved, was urgent. 

Maurice laid it down. There was a date on it but no name of a house. Bythe date Maurice saw that the letter had been delayed in transit. Blizzards, snow-storms, had been responsible for many such delays. Hegot up from the table. At that moment there was no hesitation in hismind. He would go to Lily at once, as fast as rail could carry him. In afew moments his luggage was packed. Within an hour he was on his way tothe station. He stopped the carriage at the Rectory and asked to see theCanon for a moment. The servant, looking reproachful, told him hermaster had started three days before to see "Miss Lily, " who was ill. 

"Miss Lily, " Maurice said. "You mean Mrs. Dale. I am on my way to seeher too. What is the matter? They do not tell me. "

"I don't know, sir, " the servant said, softening a little on learningthat Maurice was going north to his wife. 

Maurice drove on to the station. 

In all his after life he never could forget his white journey. It seemedto him as if nature gathered herself together to delay him, to turn himfrom his purpose of obeying the summons of Lily. Even the line fromBrayfield to London was blocked, and when at length Maurice reachedLondon he found the great city staggering under a burden of snow thatrendered its features unrecognisable. All traffic was practicallysuspended. He missed train after train, and when he drove at last intoEuston Station and expressed his intention of going north by the nightmail the porter shook his head and drew a terrible picture of thatarctic region. 

"Most of the lines are blocked, sir, " he said, "or will be. It'sa-coming on for more snow. "

"I can't help that, " Maurice said. "I must go. Label my luggage. "

The train was due to start at midnight. Maurice had a lonely dinner atthe station hotel. While he ate in the gaily lighted coffee-room hethought of Lily and of his coming journey. The influence of the weatherhad surrounded it with a curious romance such as English travel seldomaffords. Maurice was very susceptible to the mental atmosphereengendered by outward circumstances, and yielded more readily than theaverage man to the wayward promptings of the faithful spirit thatnestles somewhere in almost every intellect. He began to regard thiswhite journey to the ice-bound and rugged north with something of achild's wide-eyed, half-delighted, half-alarmed anticipation. He thoughtof the darkness, of the dangers by the way, of the multitudes of lonelysnow-wreathed miles the train would have to cover; of the increasingcold as they went higher and higher up the land, of the early dawn overfells and stone walls, of the grey light on the grey sea. Then helistened to the strangely muffled roar of a London hoarse with cold. Andhe shivered and had feelings of a man bound on some tremendous and novelquest. As he came out of the hotel the wintry air met him and embracedhim. He entered the station, dull and sinister in the night, with itshaggard gas-lamps and arches yawning to the snow. There were fewpassengers, and they looked anxious. The train drew in. Maurice had hiscarriage to himself. The porter wished him good luck on his journey withthe voice and manner of one clearly foreseeing imminent disaster anddeath. The whistle sounded, and the train glided, a long black andorange snake, into the white wonder of the clouded night. Snow beat uponthe windows, incrusted with the filagree work of frost, and as the speedof the train increased the carriage filled with the persistent music ofan intense and sustained activity. This music, and the thoughts ofMaurice fought against sleep. He leaned back with open eyes and listenedto the song of the train. Its monotony was like the monotony of anirritable man, he thought, always angry, always expressing his anger. Beneath bridges, in tunnels, the anger was dashed with ripples of fury, with spurts of brutalising passion. And then the normal current of dulltemper flowed on again as before. Maurice wished that the windows werenot merely thick white blinds completely shutting out the night. Helonged to see the storm in which they fled towards greater storms, thecountry which they spurned as they sprang northwards! Northwards! And tothat valley!

His thoughts went to his old life alone there, to the coming into it ofthe haunting voice, to his terror, his struggle, his flight southward. He had never thought to return there. Yet now he fled towards that placeof memories, calm, sane, cleansed of persecution, with his mindfortified, and his heart steadily and calmly beating, unshaken by theagonies of old. Was he the same man? It seemed almost impossible. Andnow Maurice said to himself again that perhaps after all the cry of thechild had been imagination, a symptom of illness in him from which hehad--perhaps even through some obscure physical change--recoveredcompletely. Yet Lily had believed in the cry and believed in the unquietspirit behind it. But women are romantic, credulous--

The train rocked in a rapture of motion. Maurice drew his rugs moreclosely round him. With the advance of night the cold grew more deadly. 

Towards morning the pace of the train incessantly decreased. Huge massesof snow had drifted upon the line. For a rising wind drove it togetherunder hedgerows and walls until expanding upon the track, it impeded theprogress of the engines. Maurice let down a window and peered out. Hesaw only snow, stationary or floating, at rest in shadowy heaps thatfled back in the darkness, or falling in a veil before his eyes. Itseemed to him now as if a hand were stretched out to stay his impetuousadvance to Lily. The train went slower and slower. At last, towardsmorning, it stopped. A long and distracted whistling pierced the air. There was a jerk, a movement forward, then another stoppage. They weresnowed up in the middle of a desolate stretch of country, with ablizzard raging round them. 

How many hours passed before they were released Maurice never knew. Helay wrapped up to the eyes, numbed and passive, of body, but mentallytravelling with an extraordinary rapidity. At first he was in thevalley. He saw it, as he had seen it in old days, in snow, its riverice-bound, its waterfall arrested in the midst of an army of crystalspears. White mountains rose round it to a low sky, curved, like abosom, in grey cloud shapes. The air was sharp and silent, clearer thansouthern air, a thing that seemed to hold itself alert in its narrowprison on the edge of solitude. He heard the bark of a dog on the hills, in search of the starving sheep. 

Then he came to one of those new houses of which the Canon had spoken, and in it he found Lily. She was pale, but he scarcely noticed that, engrossed in the strangeness of finding her there. For in the south hehad never fully realised Lily at home in the valley, walking on thedesolate narrow roads by day, sleeping in the shadow of the hills bynight. Now he began to realise her there. Where would the house be? NearEnd Cottage, perhaps in sight of the garden to which he had stolen onthat evil night to listen for the voice of a bird!

After many hours the train was dug out of the snow, and sped forwardagain in daylight. Maurice slept a little, but uneasily. And now, whenhe was awake, he began to be filled with an unreasonable apprehension, for which he accounted by taking stock of the low temperature of hisbody, and of the loss of vitality occasioned by want of food and rest. He was seized with fear as he came up into the north and saw vaguely themoors around him, the snowy waves where the white woods rippled up theflanks of the white hills. He began to realise again his formercondition when his life was full of the lamentation of the child. Hebegan to feel as if he drew near to that lamentation once more. Perhapsthe little sorrowful spirit had only deserted him to return to thevalley in which it first greeted him. Perhaps it would come again to himthere. He might hear the cry from the garden of the cottage as hehastened past. 

He shuddered and cursed his wild fancies. But they stayed with himthrough all the rest of the journey, through all the delays and periodsof numb patience. And they increased upon him. When at last he reachedthe dreary station by the flat sandbanks, at which he changed into thevalley train, he was pale and careworn, and full of alarm. 

Very slowly the tiny train crawled up into the heart of the hills as thedarkness of the second night came down. Maurice was the only passengerin it. He felt like one alone in a lonely world, fearing inhabitantsunseen, but whose distant presence he was aware of. Could Lily indeed behere, beyond him in this desolation? It seemed impossible. But thechild might be here, wandering, a lost spirit, in this unutterablewinter. That would not be strange to him. And his soul grew colder thanhis body. He could see nothing from the window, but occasionally heheard the dry tapping of twigs upon the glass, as the train crept amongthe leafless woods. And this tapping seemed to him to be the tinyfingers of the child, feebly endeavouring to attract his attention. Heshrank away from the window to the centre of the carriage. 

At the last station in the valley the train stopped. Maurice got outinto the darkness, and asked the guard the name of the house in whichMrs. Dale lived. 

"Mrs. Dale, " he said, in the broad Cumberland dialect, "Oh, she bides atEnd Cottage. "

Maurice stared at his rugged face peering above the round lamp which heheld. 

"End Cottage?"

"Yes, sir. The poor lady took it on a six months' lease, but I hearshe's--"

But Maurice had turned away with a muttered:

"I'll send up for the luggage. "

He stumbled out into the white lane and through the little village. Oneor two lads, roughly dressed and sprinkled with snowflakes, eyed himfrom the shelter of the inn porch. As he moved past them, he heard theirmuttered comments. He left the houses behind and found himself amongsnow-laden trees. End Cottage was hidden in this narrow wood which wasgenerally full of the sound of the waterfall. 

Now the waterfall was silent, motionless, a dead thing in a rocky grave. Maurice saw a faint and misty light among the bare trees. It came fromhis old home, and now his hand touched the white garden gate, pricklywith ice. He pushed it open and stole up the path till he reached thelittle porch of the cottage. As he stood there his heart beat hard andhis breath fluttered in his throat. It seemed to him that there must besome strange and terrible meaning in Lily's presence here. With ashaking hand he pulled at the bell. He waited. No one came. He heard nostep. The silence was dense, even appalling. After a long pause heturned the handle of the door, opened it, and stood on the threshold ofthe cottage. Instead of entering at once he waited, listening for anysound of life within the house, for the voices or footsteps of thoseinhabiting it. 

Just so had he waited on a summer night long ago, with the moon behindhim and leaf-laden trees. He listened, and, after a moment of profoundstillness, he heard--as he had heard in that very place so long ago--thefaint cry of a child. It came from within the house, clear and distinctthough frail and feeble. 

Involuntarily Maurice moved a step backward into the snow. Horroroverwhelmed him. The dead child was here then with Lily, in his oldabode. The spirit was not laid to rest. It had only deserted him for awhile to greet him again here, to take up again here its eternalpersecution; and this resurrection appalled and unmanned him more thanall the persistent haunting of the past. He was dashed from confidenceto despair. The little cry paralysed him, and he leaned against the wallof the porch almost like a dying man. 

And again he heard the cry of the child. 

How live and how real it was! Maurice remembered that he had said tohimself that the cry was a phantasy of the brain, an imaginary soundvibrating from an afflicted body. And now his intellect denied such asupposition; the cry came from a thing that lived, although it lived inanother world. It seemed to summon him with a strange insistence. Against his will, and walking slowly as one in a trance, he movedforward up the narrow stairway till he reached the room that had beenhis old bedroom. 

The cry came surely from within that room. The dead child was shut inthere. Yes, never before had Maurice been able to locate the cryprecisely. Now he could locate it. With shaking fingers he grasped thehandle of the door. He stood in a faint illumination, and the cry of thechild came louder to his ears. But there mingled with it another cry, faint yet thrilling with joy:

"Maurice!"

He looked and saw Lily, white as a flower. She was propped on pillows, and, stretching out her thin girl's arms, she held feebly towardsMaurice a tiny baby. 

"Maurice--it is the child!" she whispered. 

"The child!" he repeated hoarsely. 

For an instant he believed that his fate was sealed, that the spirit, which for so long had pursued him with its lamenting, now manifested itsactual presence to his eyes. Then, in a flash, the truth came upon him. He fell upon his knees by the bedside and put out his arms for thechild. He held it. He felt its soft breath against his cheek. A cooingmurmur, as if of tiny happiness, came from its parted lips. It turnedits little face, flushed like a rose, against the breast of Maurice, andnestled to sleep upon his heart. 

And Lily's hand touched him. 

"I thought you would not come in time, " she said, as the nurse, at asign from her, stole softly from the room. 

"In time?"

"To see me before--they say, you know, that--"

"Lily!" he cried. 

"Hush! The child! Listen, dear. If I die, take the child. It is yourdead child, I think, come to life through me. Yes, yes, it is the littlechild that has cried for love so long. Redeem your cruelty, oh, Maurice, redeem it to your child. Give it your love. Give it your life. Giveit--"

"Lily!" he said again. And there were tears on his cheeks. 

"I gave myself to you for this, Maurice. I was waiting for this. Do youunderstand me now? You scarcely loved me, Maurice. But I loved you. Letme think--in dying--that I have brought you peace at last. "

He could not speak. The mystery of woman, the mystery of child was toonear to him. Awe came upon him and the terror of his own unworthiness, rewarded--or punished--which was it?--by such compassion, suchself-sacrifice. 

"When I left you, " Lily murmured, and her voice sounded thin and tired, "it seemed as if the spirit of the child came with me, as if I, too, heard its dead voice in the night, crying for its salvation, for itsrelief from agony. But, Maurice, you cannot hear it now. You will neverhear it again--unless--unless--"

She fixed her eyes on him. They were growing dim. 

"God has given the dead to you again through me, " she faltered, "thatyou--may--redeem--redeem--your--sin. "

She moved, and leaned against him, as if she would gather him and thesleeping child into her embrace. But she could not. She slipped backsoftly, almost like a snowflake that falls and is gone. 

 * * * * *

Maurice Dale is a famous doctor now. He lives with his daughter, whonever leaves him and whom he loves passionately. Many patients throngto his consulting-room, but not one of them suspects that the gravephysician, deep down in his heart, cherishes a strange belief--not basedupon science. This belief is connected with his child. Secretly hethinks of her as of one risen from the grave, come back to him frombeyond the gates of death. 

The cry of the child is silent. Maurice never hears it now. But hebelieves that could any demon tempt him, even for one moment, to becruel to his little daughter, he would hear it again. It would lamentonce more in the darkness, would once more fill the silence with itsdespair. 

And then a dead woman would stir in her grave. 

For there are surely cries of earth that even the dead can hear. 

HOW LOVE CAME TO PROFESSOR GUILDEA. 

HOW LOVE CAME TO PROFESSOR GUILDEA. 

Dull people often wondered how it came about that Father Murchison andProfessor Frederic Guildea were intimate friends. The one was all faith, the other all scepticism. The nature of the Father was based on love. Heviewed the world with an almost childlike tenderness above his long, black cassock; and his mild, yet perfectly fearless, blue eyes seemedalways to be watching the goodness that exists in humanity, andrejoicing at what they saw. The Professor, on the other hand, had a hardface like a hatchet, tipped with an aggressive black goatee beard. Hiseyes were quick, piercing and irreverent. The lines about his small, thin-lipped mouth were almost cruel. His voice was harsh and dry, sometimes, when he grew energetic, almost soprano. It fired off wordswith a sharp and clipping utterance. His habitual manner was one ofdistrust and investigation. It was impossible to suppose that, in hisbusy life, he found any time for love, either of humanity in general orof an individual. 

Yet his days were spent in scientific investigations which conferredimmense benefits upon the world. 

Both men were celibates. Father Murchison was a member of an Anglicanorder which forbade him to marry. Professor Guildea had a poor opinionof most things, but especially of women. He had formerly held a post aslecturer at Birmingham. But when his fame as a discoverer grew heremoved to London. There, at a lecture he gave in the East End, he firstmet Father Murchison. They spoke a few words. Perhaps the brightintelligence of the priest appealed to the man of science, who wasinclined, as a rule, to regard the clergy with some contempt. Perhapsthe transparent sincerity of this devotee, full of common sense, attracted him. As he was leaving the hall he abruptly asked the Fatherto call on him at his house in Hyde Park Place. And the Father, whoseldom went into the West End, except to preach, accepted theinvitation. 

"When will you come?" said Guildea. 

He was folding up the blue paper on which his notes were written in atiny, clear hand. The leaves rustled drily in accompaniment to hissharp, dry voice. 

"On Sunday week I am preaching in the evening at St. Saviour's, not faroff, " said the Father. 

"I don't go to church. "

"No, " said the Father, without any accent of surprise or condemnation. 

"Come to supper afterwards?"

"Thank you. I will. "

"What time will you come?"

The Father smiled. 

"As soon as I have finished my sermon. The service is at six-thirty. "

"About eight then, I suppose. Don't make the sermon too long. My numberin Hyde Park Place is a hundred. Good-night to you. "

He snapped an elastic band round his papers and strode off withoutshaking hands. 

On the appointed Sunday, Father Murchison preached to a densely crowdedcongregation at St. Saviour's. The subject of his sermon was sympathy, and the comparative uselessness of man in the world unless he can learnto love his neighbour as himself. The sermon was rather long, and whenthe preacher, in his flowing, black cloak, and his hard, round hat, witha straight brim over which hung the ends of a black cord, made his waytowards the Professor's house, the hands of the illuminated clock discat the Marble Arch pointed to twenty minutes past eight. 

The Father hurried on, pushing his way through the crowd of standingsoldiers, chattering women and giggling street boys in their Sundaybest. It was a warm April night, and, when he reached number 100, HydePark Place, he found the Professor bareheaded on his doorstep, gazingout towards the Park railings, and enjoying the soft, moist air, infront of his lighted passage. 

"Ha, a long sermon!" he exclaimed. "Come in. "

"I fear it was, " said the Father, obeying the invitation. "I am thatdangerous thing--an extempore preacher. "

"More attractive to speak without notes, if you can do it. Hang your hatand coat--oh, cloak--here. We'll have supper at once. This is thedining-room. "

He opened a door on the right and they entered a long, narrow room, witha gold paper and a black ceiling, from which hung an electric lamp witha gold-coloured shade. In the room stood a small oval table with coverslaid for two. The Professor rang the bell. Then he said, "People seem to talk better at an oval table than at a square one. "

"Really. Is that so?"

"Well, I've had precisely the same party twice, once at a square table, once at an oval table. The first dinner was a dull failure, the second abrilliant success. Sit down, won't you?"

"How d'you account for the difference?" said the Father, sitting down, and pulling the tail of his cassock well under him. 

"H'm. I know how you'd account for it. "

"Indeed. How then?"

"At an oval table, since there are no corners, the chain of humansympathy--the electric current, is much more complete. Eh! Let me giveyou some soup. "

"Thank you. "

The Father took it, and, as he did so, turned his beaming blue eyes onhis host. Then he smiled. 

"What!" he said, in his pleasant, light tenor voice. "You do go tochurch sometimes, then?"

"To-night is the first time for ages. And, mind you, I was tremendouslybored. "

The Father still smiled, and his blue eyes gently twinkled. 

"Dear, dear!" he said, "what a pity!"

"But not by the sermon, " Guildea added. "I don't pay a compliment. Istate a fact. The sermon didn't bore me. If it had, I should have saidso, or said nothing. "

"And which would you have done?"

The Professor smiled almost genially. 

"Don't know, " he said. "What wine d'you drink?"

"None, thank you. I'm a teetotaller. In my profession and _milieu_ it isnecessary to be one. Yes, I will have some soda water. I think you wouldhave done the first. "

"Very likely, and very wrongly. You wouldn't have minded much. "

"I don't think I should. "

They were intimate already. The Father felt most pleasantly at homeunder the black ceiling. He drank some soda water and seemed to enjoyit more than the Professor enjoyed his claret. 

"You smile at the theory of the chain of human sympathy, I see, " saidthe Father. "Then what is your explanation of the failure of your squareparty with corners, the success of your oval party without them?"

"Probably on the first occasion the wit of the assembly had a chill onhis liver, while on the second he was in perfect health. Yet, you see, Istick to the oval table. "

"And that means----"

"Very little. By the way, your omission of any allusion to the notoriouspart liver plays in love was a serious one to-night. "

"Your omission of any desire for close human sympathy in your life is amore serious one. "

"How can you be sure I have no such desire?"

"I divine it. Your look, your manner, tell me it is so. You weredisagreeing with my sermon all the time I was preaching. Weren't you?"

"Part of the time. "

The servant changed the plates. He was a middle-aged, blond, thin man, with a stony white face, pale, prominent eyes, and an accomplishedmanner of service. When he had left the room the Professor continued, "Your remarks interested me, but I thought them exaggerated. "

"For instance?"

"Let me play the egoist for a moment. I spend most of my time in hardwork, very hard work. The results of this work, you will allow, benefithumanity. "

"Enormously, " assented the Father, thinking of more than one ofGuildea's discoveries. 

"And the benefit conferred by this work, undertaken merely for its ownsake, is just as great as if it were undertaken because I loved myfellow man and sentimentally desired to see him more comfortable than heis at present. I'm as useful precisely in my present condition of--in mypresent non-affectional condition--as I should be if I were as full ofgush as the sentimentalists who want to get murderers out of prison, orto put a premium on tyranny--like Tolstoi--by preventing the punishmentof tyrants. "

"One may do great harm with affection; great good without it. Yes, thatis true. Even _le bon motif_ is not everything, I know. Still I contendthat, given your powers, you would be far more useful in the world withsympathy, affection for your kind, added to them than as you are. Ibelieve even that you would do still more splendid work. "

The Professor poured himself out another glass of claret. 

"You noticed my butler?" he said. 

"I did. "

"He's a perfect servant. He makes me perfectly comfortable. Yet he hasno feeling of liking for me. I treat him civilly. I pay him well. But Inever think about him, or concern myself with him as a human being. Iknow nothing of his character except what I read of it in his lastmaster's letter. There are, you may say, no truly human relationsbetween us. You would affirm that his work would be better done if I hadmade him personally like me as man--of any class--can like man--of anyother class?"

"I should, decidedly. "

"I contend that he couldn't do his work better than he does it atpresent. "

"But if any crisis occurred?"

"What?"

"Any crisis, change in your condition. If you needed his help, not onlyas a man and a butler, but as a man and a brother? He'd fail you then, probably. You would never get from your servant that finest servicewhich can only be prompted by an honest affection. "

"You have finished?"

"Quite. "

"Let us go upstairs then. Yes, those are good prints. I picked them upin Birmingham when I was living there. This is my workroom. "

They came into a double room lined entirely with books, and brilliantly, rather hardly, lit by electricity. The windows at one end looked on tothe Park, at the other on to the garden of a neighbouring house. Thedoor by which they entered was concealed from the inner and smaller roomby the jutting wall of the outer room, in which stood a hugewriting-table loaded with letters, pamphlets and manuscripts. Betweenthe two windows of the inner room was a cage in which a large, greyparrot was clambering, using both beak and claws to assist him in hisslow and meditative peregrinations. 

"You have a pet, " said the Father, surprised. 

"I possess a parrot, " the Professor answered, drily, "I got him for apurpose when I was making a study of the imitative powers of birds, andI have never got rid of him. A cigar?"

"Thank you. "

They sat down. Father Murchison glanced at the parrot. It had paused inits journey, and, clinging to the bars of its cage, was regarding themwith attentive round eyes that looked deliberately intelligent, but byno means sympathetic. He looked away from it to Guildea, who wassmoking, with his head thrown back, his sharp, pointed chin, on whichthe small black beard bristled, upturned. He was moving his under lip upand down rapidly. This action caused the beard to stir and lookpeculiarly aggressive. The Father suddenly chuckled softly. 

"Why's that?" cried Guildea, letting his chin drop down on his breastand looking at his guest sharply. 

"I was thinking it would have to be a crisis indeed that could make youcling to your butler's affection for assistance. "

Guildea smiled too. 

"You're right. It would. Here he comes. "

The man entered with coffee. He offered it gently, and retired like ashadow retreating on a wall. 

"Splendid, inhuman fellow, " remarked Guildea. 

"I prefer the East End lad who does my errands in Bird Street, " said theFather. "I know all his worries. He knows some of mine. We are friends. He's more noisy than your man. He even breathes hard when he isspecially solicitous, but he would do more for me than put the coals onmy fire, or black my square-toed boots. "

"Men are differently made. To me the watchful eye of affection would beabominable. "

"What about that bird?"

The Father pointed to the parrot. It had got up on its perch and, withone foot uplifted in an impressive, almost benedictory, manner, wasgazing steadily at the Professor. 

"That's the watchful eye of imitation, with a mind at the back of it, desirous of reproducing the peculiarities of others. No, I thought yoursermon to-night very fresh, very clever. But I have no wish foraffection. Reasonable liking, of course, one desires, " he tugged sharplyat his beard, as if to warn himself against sentimentality, --"butanything more would be most irksome, and would push me, I feel sure, towards cruelty. It would also hamper one's work. "

"I don't think so. "

"The sort of work I do. I shall continue to benefit the world withoutloving it, and it will continue to accept the benefits without lovingme. That's all as it should be. "

He drank his coffee. Then he added, rather aggressively:

"I have neither time nor inclination for sentimentality. "

When Guildea let Father Murchison out, he followed the Father on to thedoorstep and stood there for a moment. The Father glanced across thedamp road into the Park. 

"I see you've got a gate just opposite you, " he said idly. 

"Yes. I often slip across for a stroll to clear my brain. Good-night toyou. Come again some day. "

"With pleasure. Good-night. "

The Priest strode away, leaving Guildea standing on the step. 

Father Murchison came many times again to number one hundred Hyde ParkPlace. He had a feeling of liking for most men and women whom he knew, and of tenderness for all, whether he knew them or not, but he grew tohave a special sentiment towards Guildea. Strangely enough, it was asentiment of pity. He pitied this hard-working, eminently successful manof big brain and bold heart, who never seemed depressed, who neverwanted assistance, who never complained of the twisted skein of life orfaltered in his progress along its way. The Father pitied Guildea, infact, because Guildea wanted so little. He had told him so, for theintercourse of the two men, from the beginning, had been singularlyfrank. 

One evening, when they were talking together, the Father happened tospeak of one of the oddities of life, the fact that those who do notwant things often get them, while those who seek them vehemently aredisappointed in their search. 

"Then I ought to have affection poured upon me, " said Guildea, smilingrather grimly. "For I hate it. "

"Perhaps some day you will. "

"I hope not, most sincerely. "

Father Murchison said nothing for a moment. He was drawing together theends of the broad band round his cassock. When he spoke he seemed to beanswering someone. 

"Yes, " he said slowly, "yes, that _is_ my feeling--pity. "

"For whom?" said the Professor. 

Then, suddenly, he understood. He did not say that he understood, butFather Murchison felt, and saw, that it was quite unnecessary to answerhis friend's question. So Guildea, strangely enough, found himselfclosely acquainted with a man--his opposite in all ways, --who pitiedhim. 

The fact that he did not mind this, and scarcely ever thought about it, shows perhaps as clearly as anything could the peculiar indifference ofhis nature. 

II. 

One Autumn evening, a year and a half after Father Murchison and theProfessor had first met, the Father called in Hyde Park Place andenquired of the blond and stony butler--his name was Pitting--whetherhis master was at home. 

"Yes, sir, " replied Pitting. "Will you please come this way?"

He moved noiselessly up the rather narrow stairs, followed by theFather, tenderly opened the library door, and in his soft, cold voice, announced:

"Father Murchison. "

Guildea was sitting in an armchair, before a small fire. His thin, long-fingered hands lay outstretched upon his knees, his head was sunkdown on his chest. He appeared to be pondering deeply. Pitting veryslightly raised his voice. 

"Father Murchison to see you, sir, " he repeated. 

The Professor jumped up rather suddenly and turned sharply round as theFather came in. 

"Oh, " he said. "It's you, is it? Glad to see you. Come to the fire. "

The Father glanced at him and thought him looking unusually fatigued. 

"You don't look well to-night, " the Father said. 

"No?"

"You must be working too hard. That lecture you are going to give inParis is bothering you?"

"Not a bit. It's all arranged. I could deliver it to you at this momentverbatim. Well, sit down. "

The Father did so, and Guildea sank once more into his chair and staredhard into the fire without another word. He seemed to be thinkingprofoundly. His friend did not interrupt him, but quietly lit a pipe andbegan to smoke reflectively. The eyes of Guildea were fixed upon thefire. The Father glanced about the room, at the walls of soberly boundbooks, at the crowded writing-table, at the windows, before which hungheavy, dark-blue curtains of old brocade, at the cage, which stoodbetween them. A green baize covering was thrown over it. The Fatherwondered why. He had never seen Napoleon--so the parrot wasnamed--covered up at night before. While he was looking at the baize, Guildea suddenly jerked up his head, and, taking his hands from hisknees and clasping them, said abruptly:

"D'you think I'm an attractive man?"

Father Murchison jumped. Such a question coming from such a manastounded him. 

"Bless me!" he ejaculated. "What makes you ask? Do you mean attractiveto the opposite sex?"

"That's what I don't know, " said the Professor gloomily, and staringagain into the fire. "That's what I don't know. "

The Father grew more astonished. 

"Don't know!" he exclaimed. 

And he laid down his pipe. 

"Let's say--d'you think I'm attractive, that there's anything about mewhich might draw a--a human being, or an animal, irresistibly to me?"

"Whether you desired it or not?"

"Exactly--or--no, let us say definitely--if I did not desire it. "

Father Murchison pursed up his rather full, cherubic lips, and littlewrinkles appeared about the corners of his blue eyes. 

"There might be, of course, " he said, after a pause. "Human nature isweak, engagingly weak, Guildea. And you're inclined to flout it. I couldunderstand a certain class of lady--the lion-hunting, the intellectuallady, seeking you. Your reputation, your great name----"

"Yes, yes, " Guildea interrupted, rather irritably--"I know all that, Iknow. "

He twisted his long hands together, bending the palms outwards till histhin, pointed fingers cracked. His forehead was wrinkled in a frown. 

"I imagine, " he said, --he stopped and coughed drily, almost shrilly--"Iimagine it would be very disagreeable to be liked, to be run after--thatis the usual expression, isn't it--by anything one objected to. "

And now he half turned in his chair, crossed his legs one over theother, and looked at his guest with an unusual, almost piercinginterrogation. 

"Anything?" said the Father. 

"Well--well, anyone. I imagine nothing could be more unpleasant. "

"To you--no, " answered the Father. "But--forgive me, Guildea, I cannotconceive you permitting such intrusion. You don't encourage adoration. "

Guildea nodded his head gloomily. 

"I don't, " he said, "I don't. That's just it. That's the curious part ofit, that I----"

He broke off deliberately, got up and stretched. 

"I'll have a pipe, too, " he said. 

He went over to the mantelpiece, got his pipe, filled it and lighted it. As he held the match to the tobacco, bending forward with an enquiringexpression, his eyes fell upon the green baize that covered Napoleon'scage. He threw the match into the grate, and puffed at the pipe as hewalked forward to the cage. When he reached it he put out his hand, tookhold of the baize and began to pull it away. Then suddenly he pushed itback over the cage. 

"No, " he said, as if to himself, "no. "

He returned rather hastily to the fire and threw himself once more intohis armchair. 

"You're wondering, " he said to Father Murchison. "So am I. I don't knowat all what to make of it. I'll just tell you the facts and you musttell me what you think of them. The night before last, after a day ofhard work--but no harder than usual--I went to the front door to get abreath of air. You know I often do that. "

"Yes, I found you on the doorstep when I first came here. "

"Just so. I didn't put on hat or coat. I just stood on the step as Iwas. My mind, I remember, was still full of my work. It was rather adark night, not very dark. The hour was about eleven, or a quarter past. I was staring at the Park, and presently I found that my eyes weredirected towards somebody who was sitting, back to me, on one of thebenches. I saw the person--if it was a person, --through the railings. "

"If it was a person!" said the Father. "What do you mean by that?"

"Wait a minute. I say that because it was too dark for me to know. Imerely saw some blackish object on the bench, rising into view above thelevel of the back of the seat. I couldn't say it was man, woman orchild. But something there was, and I found that I was looking at it. "

"I understand. "

"Gradually, I also found that my thoughts were becoming fixed upon thisthing or person. I began to wonder, first, what it was doing there;next, what it was thinking; lastly, what it was like. "

"Some poor creature without a home, I suppose, " said the Father. 

"I said that to myself. Still, I was taken with an extraordinaryinterest about this object, so great an interest that I got my hat andcrossed the road to go into the Park. As you know, there's an entrancealmost opposite to my house. Well, Murchison, I crossed the road, passedthrough the gate in the railings, went up to the seat, and found thatthere was--nothing on it. "

"Were you looking at it as you walked?"

"Part of the time. But I removed my eyes from it just as I passedthrough the gate, because there was a row going on a little way off, andI turned for an instant in that direction. When I saw that the seat wasvacant I was seized by a most absurd sensation of disappointment, almostof anger. I stopped and looked about me to see if anything was movingaway, but I could see nothing. It was a cold night and misty, and therewere few people about. Feeling, as I say, foolishly and unnaturallydisappointed, I retraced my steps to this house. When I got here Idiscovered that during my short absence I had left the hall dooropen--half open. "

"Rather imprudent in London. "

"Yes. I had no idea, of course, that I had done so, till I got back. However, I was only away three minutes or so. "

"Yes. "

"It was not likely that anybody had gone in. "

"I suppose not. "

"Was it?"

"Why do you ask me that, Guildea?"

"Well, well!"

"Besides, if anybody had gone in on your return you'd have caught him, surely. "

Guildea coughed again. The Father, surprised, could not fail torecognise that he was nervous and that his nervousness was affecting himphysically. 

"I must have caught cold that night, " he said, as if he had read hisfriend's thought and hastened to contradict it. Then he went on:

"I entered the hall, or passage, rather. "

He paused again. His uneasiness was becoming very apparent. 

"And you did catch somebody?" said the Father. 

Guildea cleared his throat. 

"That's just it, " he said, "now we come to it. I'm not imaginative, asyou know. "

"You certainly are not. "

"No, but hardly had I stepped into the passage before I felt certainthat somebody had got into the house during my absence. I felt convincedof it, and not only that, I also felt convinced that the intruder wasthe very person I had dimly seen sitting upon the seat in the Park. Whatd'you say to that?"

"I begin to think you are imaginative. "

"H'm! It seemed to me that the person--the occupant of the seat--and I, had simultaneously formed the project of interviewing each other, hadsimultaneously set out to put that project into execution. I became socertain of this that I walked hastily upstairs into this room, expectingto find the visitor awaiting me. But there was no one. I then came downagain and went into the dining-room. No one. I was actually astonished. Isn't that odd?"

"Very, " said the Father, quite gravely. 

The Professor's chill and gloomy manner, and uncomfortable, constrainedappearance kept away the humour that might well have lurked round thesteps of such a discourse. 

"I went upstairs again, " he continued, "sat down and thought the matterover. I resolved to forget it, and took up a book. I might perhaps havebeen able to read, but suddenly I thought I noticed----"

He stopped abruptly. Father Murchison observed that he was staringtowards the green baize that covered the parrot's cage. 

"But that's nothing, " he said. "Enough that I couldn't read. I resolvedto explore the house. You know how small it is, how easily one can goall over it. I went all over it. I went into every room withoutexception. To the servants, who were having supper, I made some excuse. They were surprised at my advent, no doubt. "

"And Pitting?"

"Oh, he got up politely when I came in, stood while I was there, butnever said a word. I muttered 'don't disturb yourselves, ' or somethingof the sort, and came out. Murchison, I found nobody new in thehouse--yet I returned to this room entirely convinced that somebody hadentered while I was in the Park. "

"And gone out again before you came back?"

"No, had stayed, and was still in the house. "

"But, my dear Guildea, " began the Father, now in great astonishment. "Surely----"

"I know what you want to say--what I should want to say in your place. Now, do wait. I am also convinced that this visitor has not left thehouse and is at this moment in it. "

He spoke with evident sincerity, with extreme gravity. Father Murchisonlooked him full in the face, and met his quick, keen eyes. 

"No, " he said, as if in reply to an uttered question: "I'm perfectlysane, I assure you. The whole matter seems almost as incredible to me asit must to you. But, as you know, I never quarrel with facts, howeverstrange. I merely try to examine into them thoroughly. I have alreadyconsulted a doctor and been pronounced in perfect bodily health. "

He paused, as if expecting the Father to say something. 

"Go on, Guildea, " he said, "you haven't finished. "

"No. I felt that night positive that somebody had entered the house, andremained in it, and my conviction grew. I went to bed as usual, and, contrary to my expectation, slept as well as I generally do. Yetdirectly I woke up yesterday morning I knew that my household had beenincreased by one. "

"May I interrupt you for one moment? How did you know it?"

"By my mental sensation. I can only say that I was perfectly consciousof a new presence within my house, close to me. "

"How very strange, " said the Father. "And you feel absolutely certainthat you are not over-worked? Your brain does not feel tired? Your headis quite clear?"

"Quite. I was never better. When I came down to breakfast that morning Ilooked sharply into Pitting's face. He was as coldly placid andinexpressive as usual. It was evident to me that his mind was in no waydistressed. After breakfast I sat down to work, all the time ceaselesslyconscious of the fact of this intruder upon my privacy. Nevertheless, Ilaboured for several hours, waiting for any development that might occurto clear away the mysterious obscurity of this event. I lunched. Abouthalf-past two I was obliged to go out to attend a lecture. I therefore, took my coat and hat, opened my door, and stepped on to the pavement. Iwas instantly aware that I was no longer intruded upon, and thisalthough I was now in the street, surrounded by people. Consequently, Ifelt certain that the thing in my house must be thinking of me, perhapseven spying upon me. "

"Wait a moment, " interrupted the Father. "What was your sensation? Wasit one of fear?"

"Oh, dear no. I was entirely puzzled, --as I am now--and keenlyinterested, but not in any way alarmed. I delivered my lecture with myusual ease and returned home in the evening. On entering the house againI was perfectly conscious that the intruder was still there. Last nightI dined alone and spent the hours after dinner in reading a scientificwork in which I was deeply interested. While I read, however, I neverfor one moment lost the knowledge that some mind--very attentive tome--was within hail of mine. I will say more than this--the sensationconstantly increased, and, by the time I got up to go to bed, I had cometo a very strange conclusion. "

"What? What was it?"

"That whoever--or whatever--had entered my house during my short absencein the Park was more than interested in me. "

"More than interested in you?"

"Was fond, or was becoming fond, of me. "

"Oh!" exclaimed the Father. "Now I understand why you asked me just nowwhether I thought there was anything about you that might draw a humanbeing or an animal irresistibly to you. "

"Precisely. Since I came to this conclusion, Murchison, I will confessthat my feeling of strong curiosity has become tinged with anotherfeeling. "

"Of fear?"

"No, of dislike, of irritation. No--not fear, not fear. "

As Guildea repeated unnecessarily this asseveration he looked againtowards the parrot's cage. 

"What is there to be afraid of in such a matter?" he added. "I'm not achild to tremble before bogies. "

In saying the last words he raised his voice sharply; then he walkedquickly to the cage, and, with an abrupt movement, pulled the baizecovering from it. Napoleon was disclosed, apparently dozing upon hisperch with his head held slightly on one side. As the light reached him, he moved, ruffled the feathers about his neck, blinked his eyes, andbegan slowly to sidle to and fro, thrusting his head forward and drawingit back with an air of complacent, though rather unmeaning, energy. Guildea stood by the cage, looking at him closely, and indeed with anattention that was so intense as to be remarkable, almost unnatural. 

"How absurd these birds are!" he said at length, coming back to thefire. 

"You have no more to tell me?" asked the Father. 

"No. I am still aware of the presence of something in my house. I amstill conscious of its close attention to me. I am still irritated, seriously annoyed--I confess it, --by that attention. "

"You say you are aware of the presence of something at this moment?"

"At this moment--yes. "

"Do you mean in this room, with us, now?"

"I should say so--at any rate, quite near us. "

Again he glanced quickly, almost suspiciously, towards the cage of theparrot. The bird was sitting still on its perch now. Its head was bentdown and cocked sideways, and it appeared to be listening attentively tosomething. 

"That bird will have the intonations of my voice more correctly thanever by to-morrow morning, " said the Father, watching Guildea closelywith his mild blue eyes. "And it has always imitated me very cleverly. "

The Professor started slightly. 

"Yes, " he said. "Yes, no doubt. Well, what do you make of this affair?"

"Nothing at all. It is absolutely inexplicable. I can speak quitefrankly to you, I feel sure. "

"Of course. That's why I have told you the whole thing. "

"I think you must be over-worked, over-strained, without knowing it. "

"And that the doctor was mistaken when he said I was all right?"

"Yes. "

Guildea knocked his pipe out against the chimney piece. 

"It may be so, " he said, "I will not be so unreasonable as to deny thepossibility, although I feel as well as I ever did in my life. What doyou advise then?"

"A week of complete rest away from London, in good air. "

"The usual prescription. I'll take it. I'll go to-morrow to Westgate andleave Napoleon to keep house in my absence. "

For some reason, which he could not explain to himself, the pleasurewhich Father Murchison felt in hearing the first part of his friend'sfinal remark was lessened, was almost destroyed, by the last sentence. 

He walked towards the City that night, deep in thought, remembering andcarefully considering the first interview he had with Guildea in thelatter's house a year and a half before. 

On the following morning Guildea left London. 

III. 

Father Murchison was so busy a man that he had little time for broodingover the affairs of others. During Guildea's week at the sea, however, the Father thought about him a great deal, with much wonder and somedismay. The dismay was soon banished, for the mild-eyed priest was quickto discern weakness in himself, quicker still to drive it forth as amost undesirable inmate of the soul. But the wonder remained. It wasdestined to a crescendo. Guildea had left London on a Thursday. On aThursday he returned, having previously sent a note to Father Murchisonto mention that he was leaving Westgate at a certain time. When histrain ran in to Victoria Station, at five o'clock in the evening, he wassurprised to see the cloaked figure of his friend standing upon the greyplatform behind a line of porters. 

"What, Murchison!" he said. "You here! Have you seceded from your orderthat you are taking this holiday?"

They shook hands. 

"No, " said the Father. "It happened that I had to be in thisneighbourhood to-day, visiting a sick person. So I thought I would meetyou. "

"And see if I were still a sick person, eh?"

The Professor glanced at him kindly, but with a dry little laugh. 

"Are you?" replied the Father gently, looking at him with interest. "No, I think not. You appear very well. "

The sea air had, in fact, put some brownish red into Guildea's alwaysthin cheeks. His keen eyes were shining with life and energy, and hewalked forward in his loose grey suit and fluttering overcoat with avigour that was noticeable, carrying easily in his left hand hiswell-filled Gladstone bag. 

The Father felt completely reassured. 

"I never saw you look better, " he said. 

"I never was better. Have you an hour to spare?"

"Two. "

"Good. I'll send my bag up by cab, and we'll walk across the Park to myhouse and have a cup of tea there. What d'you say?"

"I shall enjoy it. "

They walked out of the station yard, past the flower girls and newspapersellers towards Grosvenor Place. 

"And you have had a pleasant time?" the Father said. 

"Pleasant enough, and lonely. I left my companion behind me in thepassage at Number 100, you know. "

"And you'll not find him there now, I feel sure. "

"H'm!" ejaculated Guildea. "What a precious weakling you think me, Murchison. "

As he spoke he strode forward more quickly, as if moved to emphasise hissensation of bodily vigour. 

"A weakling--no. But anyone who uses his brain as persistently as you doyours must require an occasional holiday. "

"And I required one very badly, eh?"

"You required one, I believe. "

"Well, I've had it. And now we'll see. "

The evening was closing in rapidly. They crossed the road at Hyde ParkCorner, and entered the Park, in which were a number of people goinghome from work; men in corduroy trousers, caked with dried mud, andcarrying tin cans slung over their shoulders, and flat panniers, inwhich lay their tools. Some of the younger ones talked loudly orwhistled shrilly as they walked. 

"Until the evening, " murmured Father Murchison to himself. 

"What?" asked Guildea. 

"I was only quoting the last words of the text, which seems written uponlife, especially upon the life of pleasure: 'Man goeth forth to hiswork, and to his labour. '"

"Ah, those fellows are not half bad fellows to have in an audience. There were a lot of them at the lecture I gave when I first met you, Iremember. One of them tried to heckle me. He had a red beard. Chaps withred beards are always hecklers. I laid him low on that occasion. Well, Murchison, and now we're going to see. "

"What?"

"Whether my companion has departed. "

"Tell me--do you feel any expectation of--well--of again thinkingsomething is there?"

"How carefully you choose language. No, I merely wonder. "

"You have no apprehension?"

"Not a scrap. But I confess to feeling curious. "

"Then the sea air hasn't taught you to recognise that the whole thingcame from overstrain. "

"No, " said Guildea, very drily. 

He walked on in silence for a minute. Then he added:

"You thought it would?"

"I certainly thought it might. "

"Make me realise that I had a sickly, morbid, rotten imagination--heh?Come now, Murchison, why not say frankly that you packed me off toWestgate to get rid of what you considered an acute form of hysteria?"

The Father was quite unmoved by this attack. 

"Come now, Guildea, " he retorted, "what did you expect me to think? Isaw no indication of hysteria in you. I never have. One would supposeyou the last man likely to have such a malady. But which is morenatural--for me to believe in your hysteria or in the truth of such astory as you told me?"

"You have me there. No, I mustn't complain. Well, there's no hysteriaabout me now, at any rate. "

"And no stranger in your house, I hope. "

Father Murchison spoke the last words with earnest gravity, dropping thehalf-bantering tone--which they had both assumed. 

"You take the matter very seriously, I believe, " said Guildea, alsospeaking more gravely. 

"How else can I take it? You wouldn't have me laugh at it when you tellit me seriously?"

"No. If we find my visitor still in the house, I may even call upon youto exorcise it. But first I must do one thing. "

"And that is?"

"Prove to you, as well as to myself, that it is still there. "

"That might be difficult, " said the Father, considerably surprised byGuildea's matter-of-fact tone. 

"I don't know. If it has remained in my house I think I can find ameans. And I shall not be at all surprised if it is still there--despitethe Westgate air. "

In saying the last words the Professor relapsed into his former tone ofdry chaff. The Father could not quite make up his mind whether Guildeawas feeling unusually grave or unusually gay. As the two men drew nearto Hyde Park Place their conversation died away and they walked forwardsilently in the gathering darkness. 

"Here we are!" said Guildea at last. 

He thrust his key into the door, opened it and let Father Murchison intothe passage, following him closely and banging the door. 

"Here we are!" he repeated in a louder voice. 

The electric light was turned on in anticipation of his arrival. Hestood still and looked round. 

"We'll have some tea at once, " he said. "Ah, Pitting!"

The pale butler, who had heard the door bang, moved gently forward fromthe top of the stairs that led to the kitchen, greeted his masterrespectfully, took his coat and Father Murchison's cloak, and hung themon two pegs against the wall. 

"All's right, Pitting? All's as usual?" said Guildea. 

"Quite so, sir. "

"Bring us up some tea to the library. "

"Yes, sir. "

Pitting retreated. Guildea waited till he had disappeared, then openedthe dining-room door, put his head into the room and kept it there for amoment, standing perfectly still. Presently he drew back into thepassage, shut the door, and said, "Let's go upstairs. "

Father Murchison looked at him enquiringly, but made no remark. Theyascended the stairs and came into the library. Guildea glanced rathersharply round. A fire was burning on the hearth. The blue curtains weredrawn. The bright gleam of the strong electric light fell on the longrows of books, on the writing table, --very orderly in consequence ofGuildea's holiday--and on the uncovered cage of the parrot. Guildea wentup to the cage. Napoleon was sitting humped up on his perch with hisfeathers ruffled. His long toes, which looked as if they were coveredwith crocodile skin, clung to the bar. His round and blinking eyes werefilmy, like old eyes. Guildea stared at the bird very hard, and thenclucked with his tongue against his teeth. Napoleon shook himself, lifted one foot, extended his toes, sidled along the perch to the barsnearest to the Professor and thrust his head against them. Guildeascratched it with his forefinger two or three times, still gazingattentively at the parrot; then he returned to the fire just as Pittingentered with the tea-tray. 

Father Murchison was already sitting in an armchair on one side of thefire. Guildea took another chair and began to pour out tea, as Pittingleft the room closing the door gently behind him. The Father sipped histea, found it hot and set the cup down on a little table at his side. 

"You're fond of that parrot, aren't you?" he asked his friend. 

"Not particularly. It's interesting to study sometimes. The parrot mindand nature are peculiar. "

"How long have you had him?"

"About four years. I nearly got rid of him just before I made youracquaintance. I'm very glad now I kept him. "

"Are you? Why is that?"

"I shall probably tell you in a day or two. "

The Father took his cup again. He did not press Guildea for an immediateexplanation, but when they had both finished their tea he said:

"Well, has the sea-air had the desired effect?"

"No, " said Guildea. 

The Father brushed some crumbs from the front of his cassock and sat uphigher in his chair. 

"Your visitor is still here?" he asked, and his blue eyes became almostungentle and piercing as he gazed at his friend. 

"Yes, " answered Guildea, calmly. 

"How do you know it, when did you know it--when you looked into thedining-room just now?"

"No. Not until I came into this room. It welcomed me here. "

"Welcomed you! In what way?"

"Simply by being here, by making me feel that it is here, as I mightfeel that a man was if I came into the room when it was dark. "

He spoke quietly, with perfect composure in his usual dry manner. 

"Very well, " the Father said, "I shall not try to contend against yoursensation, or to explain it away. Naturally, I am in amazement. "

"So am I. Never has anything in my life surprised me so much. Murchison, of course I cannot expect you to believe more than that I honestlysuppose--imagine, if you like--that there is some intruder here, of whatkind I am totally unaware. I cannot expect you to believe that therereally is anything. If you were in my place, I in yours, I shouldcertainly consider you the victim of some nervous delusion. I could notdo otherwise. But--wait. Don't condemn me as a hysteria patient, or as amadman, for two or three days. I feel convinced that--unless I am indeedunwell, a mental invalid, which I don't think is possible--I shall beable very shortly to give you some proof that there is a newcomer in myhouse. "

"You don't tell me what kind of proof?"

"Not yet. Things must go a little farther first. But, perhaps evento-morrow I may be able to explain myself more fully. In the meanwhile, I'll say this, that if, eventually, I can't bring any kind of proof thatI'm not dreaming I'll let you take me to any doctor you like, and I'llresolutely try to adopt your present view--that I'm suffering from anabsurd delusion. That is your view of course?"

Father Murchison was silent for a moment. Then he said, ratherdoubtfully:

"It ought to be. "

"But isn't it?" asked Guildea, surprised. 

"Well, you know, your manner is enormously convincing. Still, of course, I doubt. How can I do otherwise? The whole thing must be fancy. "

The Father spoke as if he were trying to recoil from a mental positionhe was being forced to take up. 

"It must be fancy, " he repeated. 

"I'll convince you by more than my manner, or I'll not try to convinceyou at all, " said Guildea. 

When they parted that evening, he said, "I'll write to you in a day or two probably. I think the proof I amgoing to give you has been accumulating during my absence. But I shallsoon know. "

Father Murchison was extremely puzzled as he sat on the top of theomnibus going homeward. 

IV. 

In two days' time he received a note from Guildea asking him to call, ifpossible, the same evening. This he was unable to do as he had anengagement to fulfil at some East End gathering. The following day wasSunday. He wrote saying he would come on the Monday, and got a wireshortly afterwards: "Yes, Monday come to dinner seven-thirty Guildea. "At half-past seven he stood on the doorstep of Number 100. 

Pitting let him in. 

"Is the Professor quite well, Pitting?" the Father enquired as he tookoff his cloak. 

"I believe so, sir. He has not made any complaint, " the butler formallyreplied. "Will you come upstairs, sir?"

Guildea met them at the door of the library. He was very pale andsombre, and shook hands carelessly with his friend. 

"Give us dinner, " he said to Pitting. 

As the butler retired, Guildea shut the door rather cautiously. FatherMurchison had never before seen him look so disturbed. 

"You're worried, Guildea, " the Father said. "Seriously worried. "

"Yes, I am. This business is beginning to tell on me a good deal. "

"Your belief in the presence of something here continues then?"

"Oh, dear, yes. There's no sort of doubt about the matter. The night Iwent across the road into the Park something got into the house, thoughwhat the devil it is I can't yet find out. But now, before we go down todinner, I'll just tell you something about that proof I promised you. You remember?"

"Naturally. "

"Can't you imagine what it might be. "

Father Murchison moved his head to express a negative reply. 

"Look about the room, " said Guildea. "What do you see?"

The Father glanced round the room, slowly and carefully. 

"Nothing unusual. You do not mean to tell me there is any appearanceof----"

"Oh, no, no, there's no conventional, white-robed, cloud-like figure. Bless my soul, no! I haven't fallen so low as that. "

He spoke with considerable irritation. 

"Look again. "

Father Murchison looked at him, turned in the direction of his fixedeyes and saw the grey parrot clambering in its cage, slowly andpersistently. 

"What?" he said, quickly. "Will the proof come from there?"

The Professor nodded. 

"I believe so, " he said. "Now let's go down to dinner. I want some foodbadly. "

They descended to the dining-room. While they ate and Pitting waitedupon them, the Professor talked about birds, their habits, theircuriosities, their fears and their powers of imitation. He had evidentlystudied this subject with the thoroughness that was characteristic ofhim in all that he did. 

"Parrots, " he said presently, "are extraordinarily observant. It is apity that their means of reproducing what they see are so limited. If itwere not so, I have little doubt that their echo of gesture would be asremarkable as their echo of voice often is. "

"But hands are missing. "

"Yes. They do many things with their heads, however. I once knew an oldwoman near Goring on the Thames. She was afflicted with the palsy. Sheheld her head perpetually sideways and it trembled, moving from right toleft. Her sailor son brought her home a parrot from one of his voyages. It used to reproduce the old woman's palsied movement of the headexactly. Those grey parrots are always on the watch. "

Guildea said the last sentence slowly and deliberately, glancing sharplyover his wine at Father Murchison, and, when he had spoken it, a suddenlight of comprehension dawned in the Priest's mind. He opened his lipsto make a swift remark. Guildea turned his bright eyes towards Pitting, who at the moment was tenderly bearing a cheese meringue from the liftthat connected the dining-room with the lower regions. The Father closedhis lips again. But presently, when the butler had placed some apples onthe table, had meticulously arranged the decanters, brushed away thecrumbs and evaporated, he said, quickly, "I begin to understand. You think Napoleon is aware of the intruder?"

"I know it. He has been watching my visitant ever since the night ofthat visitant's arrival. "

Another flash of light came to the Priest. 

"That was why you covered him with green baize one evening?"

"Exactly. An act of cowardice. His behaviour was beginning to grate uponmy nerves. "

Guildea pursed up his thin lips and drew his brows down, giving to hisface a look of sudden pain. 

"But now I intend to follow his investigations, " he added, straighteninghis features. "The week I wasted at Westgate was not wasted by him inLondon, I can assure you. Have an apple. "

"No, thank you; no, thank you. "

The Father repeated the words without knowing that he did so. Guildeapushed away his glass. 

"Let us come upstairs, then. "

"No, thank you, " reiterated the Father. 

"Eh?"

"What am I saying?" exclaimed the Father, getting up. "I was thinkingover this extraordinary affair. "

"Ah, you're beginning to forget the hysteria theory?"

They walked out into the passage. 

"Well, you are so very practical about the whole matter. "

"Why not? Here's something very strange and abnormal come into my life. What should I do but investigate it closely and calmly?"

"What, indeed?"

The Father began to feel rather bewildered, under a sort of compulsionwhich seemed laid upon him to give earnest attention to a matter thatought to strike him--so he felt--as entirely absurd. When they came intothe library his eyes immediately turned, with profound curiosity, towards the parrot's cage. A slight smile curled the Professor's lips. He recognised the effect he was producing upon his friend. The Fathersaw the smile. 

"Oh, I'm not won over yet, " he said in answer to it. 

"I know. Perhaps you may be before the evening is over. Here comes thecoffee. After we have drunk it we'll proceed to our experiment. Leavethe coffee, Pitting, and don't disturb us again. "

"No, sir. "

"I won't have it black to-night, " said the Father, "plenty of milk, please. I don't want my nerves played upon. "

"Suppose we don't take coffee at all?" said Guildea. "If we do you maytrot out the theory that we are not in a perfectly normal condition. Iknow you, Murchison, devout Priest and devout sceptic. "

The Father laughed and pushed away his cup. 

"Very well, then. No coffee. "

"One cigarette, and then to business. "

The grey blue smoke curled up. 

"What are we going to do?" said the Father. 

He was sitting bolt upright as if ready for action. Indeed there was nosuggestion of repose in the attitudes of either of the men. 

"Hide ourselves, and watch Napoleon. By the way--that reminds me. "

He got up, went to a corner of the room, picked up a piece of greenbaize and threw it over the cage. 

"I'll pull that off when we are hidden. "

"And tell me first if you have had any manifestation of this supposedpresence during the last few days?"

"Merely an increasingly intense sensation of something here, perpetuallywatching me, perpetually attending to all my doings. "

"Do you feel that it follows you about?"

"Not always. It was in this room when you arrived. It is here now--Ifeel. But, in going down to dinner, we seemed to get away from it. Theconclusion is that it remained here. Don't let us talk about it justnow. "

They spoke of other things till their cigarettes were finished. Then, asthey threw away the smouldering ends, Guildea said, "Now, Murchison, for the sake of this experiment, I suggest that weshould conceal ourselves behind the curtains on either side of the cage, so that the bird's attention may not be drawn towards us and sodistracted from that which we want to know more about. I will pull awaythe green baize when we are hidden. Keep perfectly still, watch thebird's proceedings, and tell me afterwards how you feel about them, howyou explain them. Tread softly. "

The Father obeyed, and they stole towards the curtains that fell beforethe two windows. The Father concealed himself behind those on the leftof the cage, the Professor behind those on the right. The latter, assoon as they were hidden, stretched out his arm, drew the baize downfrom the cage, and let it fall on the floor. 

The parrot, which had evidently fallen asleep in the warm darkness, moved on its perch as the light shone upon it, ruffled the feathersround its throat, and lifted first one foot and then the other. Itturned its head round on its supple, and apparently elastic, neck, and, diving its beak into the down upon its back, made some searchinginvestigations with, as it seemed, a satisfactory result, for it soonlifted its head again, glanced around its cage, and began to addressitself to a nut which had been fixed between the bars for itsrefreshment. With its curved beak it felt and tapped the nut, at firstgently, then with severity. Finally it plucked the nut from the bars, seized it with its rough, grey toes, and, holding it down firmly on theperch, cracked it and pecked out its contents, scattering some on thefloor of the cage and letting the fractured shell fall into the chinabath that was fixed against the bars. This accomplished, the bird pausedmeditatively, extended one leg backwards, and went through an elaborateprocess of wing-stretching that made it look as if it were lopsided anddeformed. With its head reversed, it again applied itself to a subtleand exhaustive search among the feathers of its wing. This time itsinvestigation seemed interminable, and Father Murchison had time torealise the absurdity of the whole position, and to wonder why he hadlent himself to it. Yet he did not find his sense of humour laughing atit. On the contrary, he was smitten by a sudden gust of horror. When hewas talking to his friend and watching him, the Professor's manner, generally so calm, even so prosaic, vouched for the truth of his storyand the well-adjusted balance of his mind. But when he was hidden thiswas not so. And Father Murchison, standing behind his curtain, with hiseyes upon the unconcerned Napoleon, began to whisper to himself theword--madness, with a quickening sensation of pity and of dread. 

The parrot sharply contracted one wing, ruffled the feathers around itsthroat again, then extended its other leg backwards, and proceeded tothe cleaning of its other wing. In the still room the dry sound of thefeathers being spread was distinctly audible. Father Murchison saw theblue curtains behind which Guildea stood tremble slightly, as if abreath of wind had come through the window they shrouded. The clock inthe far room chimed, and a coal dropped into the grate, making a noiselike dead leaves stirring abruptly on hard ground. And again a gust ofpity and of dread swept over the Father. It seemed to him that he hadbehaved very foolishly, if not wrongly, in encouraging what must surelybe the strange dementia of his friend. He ought to have declined to lendhimself to a proceeding that, ludicrous, even childish in itself, mightwell be dangerous in the encouragement it gave to a diseasedexpectation. Napoleon's protruding leg, extended wing and twisted neck, his busy and unconscious devotion to the arrangement of his person, hisevident sensation of complete loneliness, most comfortable solitude, brought home with vehemence to the Father the undignified buffoonery ofhis conduct; the more piteous buffoonery of his friend. He seized thecurtains with his hands and was about to thrust them aside and issueforth when an abrupt movement of the parrot stopped him. The bird, asif sharply attracted by something, paused in its pecking, and, with itshead still bent backward and twisted sideways on its neck, seemed tolisten intently. Its round eye looked glistening and strained like theeye of a disturbed pigeon. Contracting its wing, it lifted its head andsat for a moment erect on its perch, shifting its feet mechanically upand down, as if a dawning excitement produced in it an uncontrollabledesire of movement. Then it thrust its head forward in the direction ofthe further room and remained perfectly still. Its attitude so stronglysuggested the concentration of its attention on something immediatelybefore it that Father Murchison instinctively stared about the room, half expecting to see Pitting advance softly, having entered through thehidden door. He did not come, and there was no sound in the chamber. Nevertheless, the parrot was obviously getting excited and increasinglyattentive. It bent its head lower and lower, stretching out its neckuntil, almost falling from the perch, it half extended its wings, raising them slightly from its back, as if about to take flight, andfluttering them rapidly up and down. It continued this flutteringmovement for what seemed to the Father an immense time. At length, raising its wings as far as possible, it dropped them slowly anddeliberately down to its back, caught hold of the edge of its bath withits beak, hoisted itself on to the floor of the cage, waddled to thebars, thrust its head against them, and stood quite still in the exactattitude it always assumed when its head was being scratched by theProfessor. So complete was the suggestion of this delight conveyed bythe bird that Father Murchison felt as if he saw a white finger gentlypushed among the soft feathers of its head, and he was seized by a moststrong conviction that something, unseen by him but seen and welcomed byNapoleon, stood immediately before the cage. 

The parrot presently withdrew its head, as if the coaxing finger hadbeen lifted from it, and its pronounced air of acute physical enjoymentfaded into one of marked attention and alert curiosity. Pulling itselfup by the bars it climbed again upon its perch, sidled to the left sideof the cage, and began apparently to watch something with profoundinterest. It bowed its head oddly, paused for a moment, then bowed itshead again. Father Murchison found himself conceiving--from thiselaborate movement of the head--a distinct idea of a personality. Thebird's proceedings suggested extreme sentimentality combined with thatsort of weak determination which is often the most persistent. Such weakdetermination is a very common attribute of persons who are partiallyidiotic. Father Murchison was moved to think of these poor creatures whowill often, so strangely and unreasonably, attach themselves withpersistence to those who love them least. Like many priests, he had hadsome experience of them, for the amorous idiot is peculiarly sensitiveto the attraction of preachers. This bowing movement of the parrotrecalled to his memory a terrible, pale woman who for a time haunted allchurches in which he ministered, who was perpetually endeavouring tocatch his eye, and who always bent her head with an obsequious andcunningly conscious smile when she did so. The parrot went on bowing, making a short pause between each genuflection, as if it waited for asignal to be given that called into play its imitative faculty. 

"Yes, yes, it's imitating an idiot, " Father Murchison caught himselfsaying as he watched. 

And he looked again about the room, but saw nothing; except thefurniture, the dancing fire, and the serried ranks of the books. Presently the parrot ceased from bowing, and assumed the concentratedand stretched attitude of one listening very keenly. He opened his beak, showing his black tongue, shut it, then opened it again. The Fatherthought he was going to speak, but he remained silent, although it wasobvious that he was trying to bring out something. He bowed again two orthree times, paused, and then, again opening his beak, made some remark. The Father could not distinguish any words, but the voice was sickly anddisagreeable, a cooing and, at the same time, querulous voice, like awoman's, he thought. And he put his ear nearer to the curtain, listeningwith almost feverish attention. The bowing was resumed, but this timeNapoleon added to it a sidling movement, affectionate and affected, like the movement of a silly and eager thing, nestling up to someone, orgiving someone a gentle and furtive nudge. Again the Father thought ofthat terrible, pale woman who had haunted churches. Several times he hadcome upon her waiting for him after evening services. Once she had hungher head smiling, had lolled out her tongue and pushed against himsideways in the dark. He remembered how his flesh had shrunk from thepoor thing, the sick loathing of her that he could not banish byremembering that her mind was all astray. The parrot paused, listened, opened his beak, and again said something in the same dove-like, amorousvoice, full of sickly suggestion and yet hard, even dangerous, in itsintonation. A loathsome voice, the Father thought it. But this time, although he heard the voice more distinctly than before, he could notmake up his mind whether it was like a woman's voice or a man's--orperhaps a child's. It seemed to be a human voice, and yet oddly sexless. In order to resolve his doubt he withdrew into the darkness of thecurtains, ceased to watch Napoleon and simply listened with keenattention, striving to forget that he was listening to a bird, and toimagine that he was overhearing a human being in conversation. After twoor three minutes' silence the voice spoke again, and at some length, apparently repeating several times an affectionate series ofejaculations with a cooing emphasis that was unutterably mawkish andoffensive. The sickliness of the voice, its falling intonations and itsstrange indelicacy, combined with a die-away softness and meretriciousrefinement, made the Father's flesh creep. Yet he could not distinguishany words, nor could he decide on the voice's sex or age. One thingalone he was certain of as he stood still in the darkness, --that such asound could only proceed from something peculiarly loathsome, could onlyexpress a personality unendurably abominable to him, if not toeverybody. The voice presently failed, in a sort of husky gasp, andthere was a prolonged silence. It was broken by the Professor, whosuddenly pulled away the curtains that hid the Father and said to him:

"Come out now, and look. "

The Father came into the light, blinking, glanced towards the cage, andsaw Napoleon poised motionless on one foot with his head under his wing. He appeared to be asleep. The Professor was pale, and his mobile lipswere drawn into an expression of supreme disgust. 

"Faugh!" he said. 

He walked to the windows of the further room, pulled aside the curtainsand pushed the glass up, letting in the air. The bare trees were visiblein the grey gloom outside. Guildea leaned out for a minute drawing thenight air into his lungs. Presently he turned round to the Father, andexclaimed abruptly, "Pestilent! Isn't it?"

"Yes--most pestilent. "

"Ever hear anything like it?"

"Not exactly. "

"Nor I. It gives me nausea, Murchison, absolute physical nausea. "

He closed the window and walked uneasily about the room. 

"What d'you make of it?" he asked, over his shoulder. 

"How d'you mean exactly?"

"Is it man's, woman's, or child's voice?"

"I can't tell, I can't make up my mind. "

"Nor I. "

"Have you heard it often?"

"Yes, since I returned from Westgate. There are never any words that Ican distinguish. What a voice!"

He spat into the fire. 

"Forgive me, " he said, throwing himself down in a chair. "It turns mystomach--literally. "

"And mine, " said the Father, truly. 

"The worst of it is, " continued Guildea, with a high, nervous accent, "that there's no brain with it, none at all--only the cunning ofidiotcy. "

The Father started at this exact expression of his own conviction byanother. 

"Why d'you start like that?" asked Guildea, with a quick suspicion whichshowed the unnatural condition of his nerves. 

"Well, the very same idea had occurred to me. "

"What?"

"That I was listening to the voice of something idiotic. "

"Ah! That's the devil of it, you know, to a man like me. I could fightagainst brain--but this!"

He sprang up again, poked the fire violently, then stood on thehearthrug with his back to it, and his hands thrust into the highpockets of his trousers. 

"That's the voice of the thing that's got into my house, " he said. "Pleasant, isn't it?"

And now there was really horror in his eyes, and in his voice. 

"I must get it out, " he exclaimed. "I must get it out. But how?"

He tugged at his short black beard with a quivering hand. 

"How?" he continued. "For what is it? Where is it?"

"You feel it's here--now?"

"Undoubtedly. But I couldn't tell you in what part of the room. "

He stared about, glancing rapidly at everything. 

"Then you consider yourself haunted?" said Father Murchison. 

He, too, was much moved and disturbed, although he was not conscious ofthe presence of anything near them in the room. 

"I have never believed in any nonsense of that kind, as you know, "Guildea answered. "I simply state a fact which I cannot understand, andwhich is beginning to be very painful to me. There is something here. But whereas most so-called hauntings have been described to me asinimical, what I am conscious of is that I am admired, loved, desired. This is distinctly horrible to me, Murchison, distinctly horrible. "

Father Murchison suddenly remembered the first evening he had spent withGuildea, and the latter's expression almost of disgust, at the idea ofreceiving warm affection from anyone. In the light of that long agoconversation the present event seemed supremely strange, and almost likea punishment for an offence committed by the Professor against humanity. But, looking up at his friend's twitching face, the Father resolved notto be caught in the net of his hideous belief. 

"There can be nothing here, " he said. "It's impossible. "

"What does that bird imitate, then?"

"The voice of someone who has been here. "

"Within the last week then. For it never spoke like that before, andmind, I noticed that it was watching and striving to imitate somethingbefore I went away, since the night that I went into the Park, onlysince then. "

"Somebody with a voice like that must have been here while you wereaway, " Father Murchison repeated, with a gentle obstinacy. 

"I'll soon find out. "

Guildea pressed the bell. Pitting stole in almost immediately. 

"Pitting, " said the Professor, speaking in a high, sharp voice, "didanyone come into this room during my absence at the sea?"

"Certainly not, sir, except the maids--and me, sir. "

"Not a soul? You are certain?"

"Perfectly certain, sir. "

The cold voice of the butler sounded surprised, almost resentful. TheProfessor flung out his hand towards the cage. 

"Has the bird been here the whole time?"

"Yes, sir. "

"He was not moved, taken elsewhere, even for a moment?"

Pitting's pale face began to look almost expressive, and his lips werepursed. 

"Certainly not, sir. "

"Thank you. That will do. "

The butler retired, moving with a sort of ostentatious rectitude. Whenhe had reached the door, and was just going out, his master called, "Wait a minute, Pitting. "

The butler paused. Guildea bit his lips, tugged at his beard uneasilytwo or three times, and then said, "Have you noticed--er--the parrot talking lately in a--a very peculiar, very disagreeable voice?"

"Yes, sir--a soft voice like, sir. "

"Ha! Since when?"

"Since you went away, sir. He's always at it. "

"Exactly. Well, and what did you think of it?"

"Beg pardon, sir?"

"What do you think about his talking in this voice?"

"Oh, that it's only his play, sir. "

"I see. That's all, Pitting. "

The butler disappeared and closed the door noiselessly behind him. 

Guildea turned his eyes on his friend. 

"There, you see!" he ejaculated. 

"It's certainly very odd, " said the Father. "Very odd indeed. You arecertain you have no maid who talks at all like that?"

"My dear Murchison! Would you keep a servant with such a voice about youfor two days?"

"No. "

"My housemaid has been with me for five years, my cook for seven. You'veheard Pitting speak. The three of them make up my entire household. Aparrot never speaks in a voice it has not heard. Where has it heard thatvoice?"

"But we hear nothing?"

"No. Nor do we see anything. But it does. It feels something too. Didn'tyou observe it presenting its head to be scratched?"

"Certainly it seemed to be doing so. "

"It was doing so. "

Father Murchison said nothing. He was full of increasing discomfort thatalmost amounted to apprehension. 

"Are you convinced?" said Guildea, rather irritably. 

"No. The whole matter is very strange. But till I hear, see, or feel--asyou do--the presence of something, I cannot believe. "

"You mean that you will not?"

"Perhaps. Well, it is time I went. "

Guildea did not try to detain him, but said, as he let him out, "Do me a favour, come again to-morrow night. "

The Father had an engagement. He hesitated, looked into the Professor'sface and said, "I will. At nine I'll be with you. Good-night. "

When he was on the pavement he felt relieved. He turned round, sawGuildea stepping into his passage, and shivered. 

V. 

Father Murchison walked all the way home to Bird Street that night. Herequired exercise after the strange and disagreeable evening he hadspent, an evening upon which he looked back already as a man looks backupon a nightmare. In his ears, as he walked, sounded the gentle andintolerable voice. Even the memory of it caused him physical discomfort. He tried to put it from him, and to consider the whole matter calmly. The Professor had offered his proof that there was some strangepresence in his house. Could any reasonable man accept such proof?Father Murchison told himself that no reasonable man could accept it. The parrot's proceedings were, no doubt, extraordinary. The bird hadsucceeded in producing an extraordinary illusion of an invisiblepresence in the room. But that there really was such a presence theFather insisted on denying to himself. The devoutly religious, those whobelieve implicitly in the miracles recorded in the Bible, and whoregulate their lives by the messages they suppose themselves to receivedirectly from the Great Ruler of a hidden World, are seldom inclined toaccept any notion of supernatural intrusion into the affairs of dailylife. They put it from them with anxious determination. They regard itfixedly as hocus-pocus, childish if not wicked. 

Father Murchison inclined to the normal view of the devoted churchman. He was determined to incline to it. He could not--so he now toldhimself--accept the idea that his friend was being supernaturallypunished for his lack of humanity, his deficiency in affection, by beingobliged to endure the love of some horrible thing, which could not beseen, heard, or handled. Nevertheless, retribution did certainly seem towait upon Guildea's condition. That which he had unnaturally dreaded andshrunk from in his thought he seemed to be now forced unnaturally tosuffer. The Father prayed for his friend that night before the little, humble altar in the barely-furnished, cell-like chamber where he slept. 

On the following evening, when he called in Hyde Park Place, the doorwas opened by the housemaid, and Father Murchison mounted the stairs, wondering what had become of Pitting. He was met at the library door byGuildea and was painfully struck by the alteration in his appearance. His face was ashen in hue, and there were lines beneath his eyes. Theeyes themselves looked excited and horribly forlorn. His hair and dresswere disordered and his lips twitched continually, as if he were shakenby some acute nervous apprehension. 

"What has become of Pitting?" asked the Father, grasping Guildea's hotand feverish hand. 

"He has left my service. "

"Left your service!" exclaimed the Father in utter amazement. 

"Yes, this afternoon. "

"May one ask why?"

"I'm going to tell you. It's all part and parcel of this--this mostodious business. You remember once discussing the relations men ought tohave with their servants?"

"Ah!" cried the Father, with a flash of inspiration. "The crisis hasoccurred?"

"Exactly, " said the Professor, with a bitter smile. "The crisis hasoccurred. I called upon Pitting to be a man and a brother. He respondedby declining the invitation. I upbraided him. He gave me warning. Ipaid him his wages and told him he could go at once. And he has gone. What are you looking at me like that for?"

"I didn't know, " said Father Murchison, hastily dropping his eyes, andlooking away. "Why, " he added. "Napoleon is gone too. "

"I sold him to-day to one of those shops in Shaftesbury Avenue. "

"Why?"

"He sickened me with his abominable imitation of--his intercoursewith--well, you know what he was at last night. Besides, I have nofurther need of his proof to tell me I am not dreaming. And, beingconvinced as I now am, that all I have thought to have happened hasactually happened, I care very little about convincing others. Forgiveme for saying so, Murchison, but I am now certain that my anxiety tomake you believe in the presence of something here really arose fromsome faint doubt on that subject--within myself. All doubt has nowvanished. "

"Tell me why. "

"I will. "

Both men were standing by the fire. They continued to stand whileGuildea went on, "Last night I felt it. "

"What?" cried the Father. 

"I say that last night, as I was going upstairs to bed, I felt somethingaccompanying me and nestling up against me. "

"How horrible!" exclaimed the Father, involuntarily. 

Guildea smiled drearily. 

"I will not deny the horror of it. I cannot, since I was compelled tocall on Pitting for assistance. "

"But--tell me--what was it, at least what did it seem to be?"

"It seemed to be a human being. It seemed, I say; and what I meanexactly is that the effect upon me was rather that of human contact thanof anything else. But I could see nothing, hear nothing. Only, threetimes, I felt this gentle, but determined, push against me, as if tocoax me and to attract my attention. The first time it happened I was onthe landing outside this room, with my foot on the first stair. I willconfess to you, Murchison, that I bounded upstairs like one pursued. That is the shameful truth. Just as I was about to enter my bedroom, however, I felt the thing entering with me, and, as I have said, squeezing, with loathsome, sickening tenderness, against my side. Then----"

He paused, turned towards the fire and leaned his head on his arm. TheFather was greatly moved by the strange helplessness and despair of theattitude. He laid his hand affectionately on Guildea's shoulder. 

"Then?"

Guildea lifted his head. He looked painfully abashed. 

"Then, Murchison, I am ashamed to say I broke down, suddenly, unaccountably, in a way I should have thought wholly impossible to me. Istruck out with my hands to thrust the thing away. It pressed moreclosely to me. The pressure, the contact became unbearable to me. Ishouted out for Pitting. I--I believe I must have cried--'Help. '"

"He came, of course?"

"Yes, with his usual soft, unemotional quiet. His calm--its oppositionto my excitement of disgust and horror--must, I suppose, have irritatedme. I was not myself, no, no!"

He stopped abruptly. Then--

"But I need hardly tell you that, " he added, with most piteous irony. 

"And what did you say to Pitting?"

"I said that he should have been quicker. He begged my pardon. His coldvoice really maddened me, and I burst out into some foolish, contemptible diatribe, called him a machine, taunted him, then--as Ifelt that loathsome thing nestling once more to me, --begged him toassist me, to stay with me, not to leave me alone--I meant in thecompany of my tormentor. Whether he was frightened, or whether he wasangry at my unjust and violent manner and speech a moment before, Idon't know. In any case he answered that he was engaged as a butler, andnot to sit up all night with people. I suspect he thought I had takentoo much to drink. No doubt that was it. I believe I swore at him as acoward--I! This morning he said he wished to leave my service. I gavehim a month's wages, a good character as a butler, and sent him off atonce. "

"But the night? How did you pass it?"

"I sat up all night. "

"Where? In your bedroom?"

"Yes--with the door open--to let it go. "

"You felt that it stayed?"

"It never left me for a moment, but it did not touch me again. When itwas light I took a bath, lay down for a little while, but did not closemy eyes. After breakfast I had the explanation with Pitting and paidhim. Then I came up here. My nerves were in a very shattered condition. Well, I sat down, tried to write, to think. But the silence was brokenin the most abominable manner. "

"How?"

"By the murmur of that appalling voice, that voice of a love-sick idiot, sickly but determined. Ugh!"

He shuddered in every limb. Then he pulled himself together, assumed, with a self-conscious effort, his most determined, most aggressive, manner, and added:

"I couldn't stand that. I had come to the end of my tether; so I sprangup, ordered a cab to be called, seized the cage and drove with it to abird shop in Shaftesbury Avenue. There I sold the parrot for a trifle. Ithink, Murchison, that I must have been nearly mad then, for, as I cameout of the wretched shop, and stood for an instant on the pavement amongthe cages of rabbits, guinea-pigs, and puppy dogs, I laughed aloud. Ifelt as if a load was lifted from my shoulders, as if in selling thatvoice I had sold the cursed thing that torments me. But when I got backto the house it was here. It's here now. I suppose it will always behere. "

He shuffled his feet on the rug in front of the fire. 

"What on earth am I to do?" he said. "I'm ashamed of myself, Murchison, but--but I suppose there are things in the world that certain men simplycan't endure. Well, I can't endure this, and there's an end of thematter. "

He ceased. The Father was silent. In presence of this extraordinarydistress he did not know what to say. He recognised the uselessness ofattempting to comfort Guildea, and he sat with his eyes turned, almostmoodily, to the ground. And while he sat there he tried to give himselfto the influences within the room, to feel all that was within it. Heeven, half-unconsciously, tried to force his imagination to play trickswith him. But he remained totally unaware of any third person with them. At length he said, "Guildea, I cannot pretend to doubt the reality of your misery here. Youmust go away, and at once. When is your Paris lecture?"

"Next week. In nine days from now. "

"Go to Paris to-morrow then, you say you have never had anyconsciousness that this--this thing pursued you beyond your own frontdoor!"

"Never--hitherto. "

"Go to-morrow morning. Stay away till after your lecture. And then letus see if the affair is at an end. Hope, my dear friend, hope. "

He had stood up. Now he clasped the Professor's hand. 

"See all your friends in Paris. Seek distractions. I would ask you alsoto seek--other help. "

He said the last words with a gentle, earnest gravity and simplicitythat touched Guildea, who returned his handclasp almost warmly. 

"I'll go, " he said. "I'll catch the ten o'clock train, and to-night I'llsleep at an hotel, at the Grosvenor--that's close to the station. Itwill be more convenient for the train. "

As Father Murchison went home that night he kept thinking of thatsentence: "It will be more convenient for the train. " The weakness inGuildea that had prompted its utterance appalled him. 

VI. 

No letter came to Father Murchison from the Professor during the nextfew days, and this silence reassured him, for it seemed to betoken thatall was well. The day of the lecture dawned, and passed. On thefollowing morning, the Father eagerly opened the Times, and scanned itspages to see if there were any report of the great meeting of scientificmen which Guildea had addressed. He glanced up and down the columns withanxious eyes, then suddenly his hands stiffened as they held the sheets. He had come upon the following paragraph:

 "We regret to announce that Professor Frederic Guildea was suddenly seized with severe illness yesterday evening while addressing a scientific meeting in Paris. It was observed that he looked very pale and nervous when he rose to his feet. Nevertheless, he spoke in French fluently for about a quarter of an hour. Then he appeared to become uneasy. He faltered and glanced about like a man apprehensive, or in severe distress. He even stopped once or twice, and seemed unable to go on, to remember what he wished to say. But, pulling himself together with an obvious effort, he continued to address the audience. Suddenly, however, he paused again, edged furtively along the platform, as if pursued by something which he feared, struck out with his hands, uttered a loud, harsh cry and fainted. The sensation in the hall was indescribable. People rose from their seats. Women screamed, and, for a moment, there was a veritable panic. It is feared that the Professor's mind must have temporarily given way owing to overwork. We understand that he will return to England as soon as possible, and we sincerely hope that necessary rest and quiet will soon have the desired effect, and that he will be completely restored to health and enabled to prosecute further the investigations which have already so benefited the world. "

The Father dropped the paper, hurried out into Bird Street, sent a wireof enquiry to Paris, and received the same day the following reply:"Returning to-morrow. Please call evening. Guildea. " On that evening theFather called in Hyde Park Place, was at once admitted, and foundGuildea sitting by the fire in the library, ghastly pale, with a heavyrug over his knees. He looked like a man emaciated by a long and severeillness, and in his wide open eyes there was an expression of fixedhorror. The Father started at the sight of him, and could scarcelyrefrain from crying out. He was beginning to express his sympathy whenGuildea stopped him with a trembling gesture. 

"I know all that, " Guildea said, "I know. This Paris affair----" Hefaltered and stopped. 

"You ought never to have gone, " said the Father. "I was wrong. I oughtnot to have advised your going. You were not fit. "

"I was perfectly fit, " he answered, with the irritability of sickness. "But I was--I was accompanied by that abominable thing. "

He glanced hastily round him, shifted his chair and pulled the rughigher over his knees. The Father wondered why he was thus wrapped up. For the fire was bright and red and the night was not very cold. 

"I was accompanied to Paris, " he continued, pressing his upper teethupon his lower lip. 

He paused again, obviously striving to control himself. But the effortwas vain. There was no resistance in the man. He writhed in his chairand suddenly burst forth in a tone of hopeless lamentation. 

"Murchison, this being, thing--whatever it is--no longer leaves me evenfor a moment. It will not stay here unless I am here, for it loves me, persistently, idiotically. It accompanied me to Paris, stayed with methere, pursued me to the lecture hall, pressed against me, caressed mewhile I was speaking. It has returned with me here. It is here now, "--heuttered a sharp cry, --"now, as I sit here with you. It is nestling up tome, fawning upon me, touching my hands. Man, man, can't you feel that itis here?"

"No, " the Father answered truly. 

"I try to protect myself from its loathsome contact, " Guildea continued, with fierce excitement, clutching the thick rug with both hands. "Butnothing is of any avail against it. Nothing. What is it? What can it be?Why should it have come to me that night?"

"Perhaps as a punishment, " said the Father, with a quick softness. 

"For what?"

"You hated affection. You put human feelings aside with contempt. Youhad, you desired to have, no love for anyone. Nor did you desire toreceive any love from anything. Perhaps this is a punishment. "

Guildea stared into his face. 

"D'you believe that?" he cried. 

"I don't know, " said the Father. "But it may be so. Try to endure it, even to welcome it. Possibly then the persecution will cease. "

"I know it means me no harm, " Guildea exclaimed, "it seeks me out ofaffection. It was led to me by some amazing attraction which I exerciseover it ignorantly. I know that. But to a man of my nature that is theghastly part of the matter. If it would hate me, I could bear it. If itwould attack me, if it would try to do me some dreadful harm, I shouldbecome a man again. I should be braced to fight against it. But thisgentleness, this abominable solicitude, this brainless worship of anidiot, persistent, sickly, horribly physical, I cannot endure. What doesit want of me? What would it demand of me? It nestles to me. It leansagainst me. I feel its touch, like the touch of a feather, tremblingabout my heart, as if it sought to number my pulsations, to find out theinmost secrets of my impulses and desires. No privacy is left to me. " Hesprang up excitedly. "I cannot withdraw, " he cried, "I cannot be alone, untouched, unworshipped, unwatched for even one-half second. Murchison, I am dying of this, I am dying. "

He sank down again in his chair, staring apprehensively on all sides, with the passion of some blind man, deluded in the belief that by hisfurious and continued effort he will attain sight. The Father knew wellthat he sought to pierce the veil of the invisible, and have knowledgeof the thing that loved him. 

"Guildea, " the Father said, with insistent earnestness, "try to endurethis--do more--try to give this thing what it seeks. "

"But it seeks my love. "

"Learn to give it your love and it may go, having received what it camefor. "

"T'sh! You talk as a priest. Suffer your persecutors. Do good to themthat despitefully use you. You talk as a priest. "

"As a friend I spoke naturally, indeed, right out of my heart. The ideasuddenly came to me that all this, --truth or seeming, it doesn't matterwhich, --may be some strange form of lesson. I have had lessons--painfulones. I shall have many more. If you could welcome----"

"I can't! I can't!" Guildea cried fiercely. "Hatred! I can give itthat, --always that, nothing but that--hatred, hatred. "

He raised his voice, glared into the emptiness of the room, andrepeated, "Hatred!"

As he spoke the waxen pallor of his cheeks increased, until he lookedlike a corpse with living eyes. The Father feared that he was going tocollapse and faint, but suddenly he raised himself upon his chair andsaid, in a high and keen voice, full of suppressed excitement:

"Murchison, Murchison!"

"Yes. What is it?"

An amazing ecstasy shone in Guildea's eyes. 

"It wants to leave me, " he cried. "It wants to go! Don't lose a moment!Let it out! The window--the window!"

The Father, wondering, went to the near window, drew aside the curtainsand pushed it open. The branches of the trees in the garden creakeddrily in the light wind. Guildea leaned forward on the arms of hischair. There was silence for a moment. Then Guildea, speaking in a rapidwhisper, said, "No, no. Open this door--open the hall door. I feel--I feel that it willreturn the way it came. Make haste--ah, go!"

The Father obeyed--to soothe him, hurried to the door and opened itwide. Then he glanced back at Guildea. He was standing up, bent forward. His eyes were glaring with eager expectation, and, as the Father turned, he made a furious gesture towards the passage with his thin hands. 

The Father hastened out and down the stairs. As he descended in thetwilight he fancied he heard a slight cry from the room behind him, buthe did not pause. He flung the hall door open, standing back against thewall. After waiting a moment--to satisfy Guildea, he was about to closethe door again, and had his hand on it, when he was attractedirresistibly to look forth towards the park. The night was lit by ayoung moon, and, gazing through the railings, his eyes fell upon a benchbeyond them. 

Upon this bench something was sitting, huddled together very strangely. 

The Father remembered instantly Guildea's description of that formernight, that night of Advent, and a sensation of horror-strickencuriosity stole through him. 

Was there then really something that had indeed come to the Professor?And had it finished its work, fulfilled its desire and gone back to itsformer existence?

The Father hesitated a moment in the doorway. Then he stepped outresolutely and crossed the road, keeping his eyes fixed upon this blackor dark object that leaned so strangely upon the bench. He could nottell yet what it was like, but he fancied it was unlike anything withwhich his eyes were acquainted. He reached the opposite path, and wasabout to pass through the gate in the railings, when his arm wasbrusquely grasped. He started, turned round, and saw a policeman eyeinghim suspiciously. 

"What are you up to?" said the policeman. 

The Father was suddenly aware that he had no hat upon his head, and thathis appearance, as he stole forward in his cassock, with his eyesintently fixed upon the bench in the Park, was probably unusual enoughto excite suspicion. 

"It's all right, policeman, " he answered, quickly, thrusting some moneyinto the constable's hand. 

Then, breaking from him, the Father hurried towards the bench, bitterlyvexed at the interruption. When he reached it nothing was there. Guildea's experience had been almost exactly repeated and, filled withunreasonable disappointment, the Father returned to the house, enteredit, shut the door and hastened up the narrow stairway into the library. 

On the hearthrug, close to the fire, he found Guildea lying with hishead lolled against the armchair from which he had recently risen. Therewas a shocking expression of terror on his convulsed face. On examininghim the Father found that he was dead. 

The doctor, who was called in, said that the cause of death was failureof the heart. 

When Father Murchison was told this, he murmured:

"Failure of the heart! It was that then!"

He turned to the doctor and said:

"Could it have been prevented?"

The doctor drew on his gloves and answered:

"Possibly, if it had been taken in time. Weakness of the heart requiresa great deal of care. The Professor was too much absorbed in his work. He should have lived very differently. "

The Father nodded. 

"Yes, yes, " he said, sadly. 

THE LADY AND THE BEGGAR. 

THE LADY AND THE BEGGAR. 

Nothing in life is more rare than the conversion of a person who is"close" about money into one generous, open-handed and lavish. Thesparrow will sooner become the peacock than the miser the spendthrift. And if this is so, if such a transformation seldom occurs in life, it iseven more unusual for a man or woman to leave behind in dying amanifesto which contradicts in set terms the obvious and universallyrecognised tendency of their whole existence. Naturally, therefore, theprovisions of Mrs. Errington's will surprised the world. Old gentlemenin Clubs stared upon the number of the Illustrated London News whichannounced the disposal of her money as they might have stared upon thehead of Medusa. The fidgety seemed turned to stone as they read. Thethoughtless gaped. As for the thoughtful, this will drove them to deepmeditation, and set them walking in a maze of surmises, from which theyfound no outlet. One or two, religiously inclined, recalled that sayingconcerning the rich individual and the passage of a camel through aneedle's eye. Possibly it had come home to Mrs. Errington upon herdeath-bed. Possibly, as her end drew near she had perceived herselftower to camel size, the entrance to Paradise shrink to thecircumference which refuses to receive a thread manipulated by anunsteady hand. Yes, yes; they began to expand in unctuous conjecturethat merged into deliberate assertion, when some one remarked that Mrs. Errington had died in exactly three minutes of the rupture of ablood-vessel on the brain. So this comfortable theory was exploded. Andno other seemed tenable. No other explained the fact that this wealthywoman, notorious during her life for her miserly disposition, herneglect of charity, her curious hatred of the poor and completeemancipation from the tender shackles of philanthropy, bequeathed atdeath the greater part of her fortune to the destitute of London, and tothe honest beggars whom fate persistently castigates, whom even Labourdeclines to accept as toilers at the meanest wage. 

Only Horace Errington, the dead woman's sole child, and CaptainHindford, of the Life Guards, exactly knew the truth of the matter. Andthis truth was so strange, and must have seemed so definite a lie to themajority of mankind, that it was never given to the world. Not even therescued poor who found themselves received into the Errington Home asinto some heaven with four beautiful walls, knew why there had sprung upsuch a home and why they were in it. The whole affair was discussedardently at the time, argued about, contested, and dropped. Mysteryveiled it. Like many things that happen, it remained an inexplicableenigma to the world. And finally, the world forgot it. But HoraceErrington remembered it, more especially when he heard light-heartedpeople merrily laughing at certain strange shadows of things unseenwhich will, at times, intrude into the most frivolous societies, turningthe meditative to thoughts deep as dark and silent-flowing rivers, thecareless to frisky sneers and the gibes which fly forth in flocks fromthe dense undergrowths of ignorance. 

The Erringtons were magnets, and irresistibly attracted gold instead ofsteel. Mr. Errington died comparatively young, overwhelmed by thebenefits showered upon him by Fortune, which continued to dogpersistently the steps of his widow, whom he left with one child, Horace. This boy was destined by his father's will to be a millionaire, and had no need of any money from his mother, so that, eventually, Mrs. Errington did him no wrong by the bequest which so troubled the curious. She was a brilliant and an attractive woman, sparkling as a diamond, andapparently as hard. That she loved Horace there was no doubt, and he hadadored her. Yet he could not influence her as most only sons caninfluence their mothers. She was liberally gifted with powers ofresistance, and in all directions opposed impenetrable barriers to themental or spiritual assaults of those with whom she came in contact. Itseemed impossible for Mrs. Errington to receive, like a waxen tablet, adefinite impression. She was so completely herself that she walked theworld as one clad in armour which turned aside all weapons. This mighthave been partly the reason why men found her so attractive, partly, also, the reason why Horace considered her, even while he was not yetacquainted with trousers, as so very wonderful among women. 

Among many indifferences, Mrs. Errington included a definiteindifference to the sufferings of those less fortunate than herself. Legacies came to her as often as mendicants to Victor Hugo's Bishop ofD----. She received them with a quiet greediness so prettily concealedat first that nobody called it vulgar. As time went on this greedinessgrew to gluttony. Mrs. Errington began to feel that fatal influencewhich came upon the man who built walls with his gold, and each daylonged to see the walls rise higher round him. A passion for merepossession seized her and dominated her. Even, she permitted the world, always curiously nosing, like a dog, in people's gutters, to becomeaware of this passion. This beautifully dressed, gay and clever womanwas known to be an eager miser by her acquaintance first, and last byher own son Horace. It is true that she spent money on the so-called"good things" of life, gave admirable dinners, and would as soon havegone without clothes as without her opera-box. But she practised anintense economy in many secret and some public ways, and, moreespecially, she was completely deaf to those appeals of suffering, andsometimes of charlatanry, which besiege our ears in London, so full ofwily outcasts and of those who are terribly in need. Mrs. Errington'sname figured in no charitable lists. She seldom even gave her patronageto a bazaar, and, above all things, she positively abhorred the beggarswho make the streets and parks their hunting-grounds, who hover beforedoorsteps, and grow up from the ground, like mustard-seeds, when aluggage-laden cab stops or a carriage unblessed with a groom pausesbefore a shop. 

Horace knew this hatred very well, so well that, although his nature wasas lavish as his mother's was mean, he seldom sought to rouse any pityin her pitiless heart, or to strike the rock from which experience hadtaught him that no water would gush out. Every habit of conduct, is, however, broken through now and then, when the moment is exceptional andthe soul is deeply stirred. And this reticent mood of the boy when withhis mother one day received a shock which drove him into a contest withher, and moved him to strive against the obedience which his love forher habitually imposed upon him. 

It was spring-time. Horace, now sixteen, and long established at Eton, was at home for the Easter vacation, which he was spending with Mrs. Errington, not at their country place, but in her town house in ParkLane. One morning, when the City was smiling with sunshine, and was sofull of the breath of the sweet season that in quiet corners it seemedin some strange and indefinite way almost Countrified, Horace went intoMrs. Errington's boudoir and begged her to come out for a walk in thePark, where he had already been bicycling before breakfast. When therewas no question of money she was always ready to accede to any requestof the boy's, and she got up at once from her writing-table--she wasjust sending a short note of refusal to subscribe to some charitypressed upon her attention by a hopeful clergyman--and went to her roomto put on her hat. Five minutes later she and Horace set forth. 

Weather may have a softening or a hardening influence on the averageperson. On Mrs. Errington it had neither. She felt much the sameessentially in a thunderstorm or in midsummer moonlight, on a black, frost-bound winter's day, or on such a perfect and tender spring morningas that on which she now passed through the park-gate with her son. Shenever drew weather into her soul, but calmly recognised it as a factsuitable for illustration on the first page of the Daily Graphic. Nowshe walked gaily into the Row with Horace, looking about her foracquaintances. She found some, and would not have been sorry to lingerwith them. But Horace wanted her to go further afield, and accordinglythey soon moved on towards the Serpentine. It was when they were just insight of the water that they met Captain Hindford, already alluded to asa man who had eventually more knowledge than other people of the eventswhich led to the drawing-up of Mrs. Errington's strange will. He was oneof the many men who admired Mrs. Errington while wondering at her narrowand excommunicative disposition. And he stopped to speak to her with theeager readiness which is so flattering to a woman. The spring, so muchdiscussed, was lightly discussed again, and, by some inadvertence, nodoubt, Captain Hindford, who was almost as genial as if he had lived inthe days of Dickens, was led to exclaim--

"By Jove, Mrs. Errington, this first sunshine's as seductive as a prettychild--makes one ready to do anything! Why, I saw an oldcrossing-sweeper just now sweeping nothing at all--for it's as dry as abone, you see--and I had to fork out a sixpence; encouraged uselessindustry just because of the change in the weather, 'pon my word, eh?"

Mrs. Errington's lips tightened ever so little. 

"A great mistake, Captain Hindford, " she said drily. 

Horace looked at his mother with a sort of bright, boyish curiosity. Although he knew so well what her nature was like, it did not cease tosurprise him. 

"You think so?" said the Captain. "Well, perhaps, you're right; I don'tknow. Daresay I've been a fool. Still, you know a fool in sunshine isbetter than a wise man in a fog; 'pon my word, yes, eh?"

Mrs. Errington did not verbally agree, and they parted after the Captainhad accepted an invitation to dine quietly in Park Lane that evening. 

"Devilish odd woman, devilish odd!" was Hindford's comment. And hewatched the mother's and son's retreating figures with a certainastonishment. 

"Wonder what the boy thinks of her?" he muttered. "Jove, if there isn'ta beggar going after them! She'll soon settle him!"

And he remained standing to watch the encounter. From where he stood hehad seen the beggar, who had been half-sitting, half-lying, on a benchfacing the water, glance up at Mrs. Errington and her son as theypassed, partially raise himself up, gaze after them, and finally rise tohis feet and follow their footsteps. Hindford could only see the man'sback. It was long, slightly bending, and apparently youngish. A thin butscrupulously neat coat of some poor shiny and black material covered it, and hung from the man's shoulders loosely, forming two folds which werealmost like two gently rounded hills with a shallow valley runningbetween them up to the blades of the shoulders. Certainly the coatdidn't fit very well. The Captain watched, expecting to see this beggaraddress an appeal to Mrs. Errington or Horace. But apparently the manwas nervous or half-hearted, for he followed them slowly, withoutcatching them up, until the trio vanished from view on the bank of theSerpentine. 

When this disappearance took place the Captain was conscious of anabsurd feeling of disappointment. He could not understand why he feltany anxiety to see Mrs. Errington refuse a beggar alms. Yet he wouldgladly have followed, like a spy, to behold a commonplace and dingyevent. Despite the apparent reluctance of the beggar to ply his trade, Hindford felt convinced that presently the man would approach Mrs. Errington and be promptly sent about his business. Her negative would, no doubt, be eager enough even upon this exquisite and charitablemorning. Wishing devoutly that, being a gentleman, he had not to conformto an unwritten code of manners, Hindford walked away. And, as hewalked, he saw continually the back of the beggar with that black coatof the two hills and the valley between the shoulder-blades. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Errington and Horace, quite unaware that they were beingfollowed, pursued their way. There were a few boats out on the water, occupied by inexpert oarsmen whose frantic efforts to seem natural andserene in this to them new and complicated art drew the undividedattention of the boy, a celebrated "wet Bob. " Mrs. Errington wasthinking about her latest investments and watching the golden walls growhigher about her. Mother and son were engrossed, and did not hear a lowvoice say, "I beg your pardon!" until it had uttered the words more thanonce. Then Horace looked round. He saw a tall and very pale young man, neatly though poorly dressed in dark trousers and a thin loose blackcoat that might have been made of alpaca, and fitted badly. This man'sface was gaunt and meagre, the features were pointed, the mouth waspiteous. His eyes blazed with some terrible emotion, it seemed, and whenHorace looked round a sudden patch of scarlet burned on his white andbony cheeks. Horace's attention was pinned by his appearance, which wasat the same time dull and piercing, as the human aspect becomes in thetremendous moment of an existence. This man's soul seemed silentlyscreaming out in his glance, his posture, his chalk-white cheeks starredwith scarlet spots, his long-fingered hands drooping down in the shadowof his ill-fitting coat, which fluttered in the breeze. Horace turned, looked, and stood still. The man also stood still. Mrs. Errington lookedsharply round. 

"What is it, Horace?" she said. 

She glanced at the man, and her lips tightened. 

"Come along, Horace, " she said. "Come!"

But Horace, who seemed fascinated by the spectre that had claimed theirattention, still hesitated, and the man, noticing this, half held outone hand and murmured in a husky voice--

"I am starving. "

With the words, the scarlet spots in his cheeks deepened to a fiercerhue, and he hung his head like one abruptly overwhelmed with shame. 

"For God's sake give me something!" he muttered. "I've--I've never donethis before. "

Horace's hand went to his waistcoat pocket, but before he could take outa coin Mrs. Errington had decisively intervened. 

"Horace, I forbid you, " she said. 

"Mater!"

"Understand--I forbid you. "

She took his arm and they walked on, leaving the man standing by thewater-side. He did not follow them or repeat his dismal statement, onlylet his head drop forward on his bosom, while his fingers twistedthemselves convulsively together. 

Meanwhile a hot argument was proceeding between Mrs. Errington andHorace. For once it seemed that the boy was inclined to defy his mother. 

"Let me give him something--only a few coppers, " he said. 

"No; beggars ought not to be encouraged. "

"That chap isn't a regular beggar. I'll wager anything it's true. He isstarving. "

"Nonsense! They always say so. "

"Mater--stop! I must----"

Horace paused resolutely and looked round. In the distance the man couldstill be seen standing where they had left him, his head drooped, hisnarrow shoulders hunched slightly forward. 

"Let me run back, " the boy went on; "I won't be a minute. "

But Mrs. Errington's curious parsimony was roused now to full activity. 

"I will not allow it, " she said; "the man is probably a thief and adrunkard. Hyde Park swarms with bad characters. "

"Bad character or not, he's starving. Anyone can see that. "

"Then let him starve. It's his own fault. Let him starve! Nobody needunless they have committed some folly, or, worse, some crime. There'sbread enough for all who deserve to live. I have no sympathy with allthis preposterous pauperising which goes by the name of charity. It's afad, a fashion--nothing more. "

She forced her son to walk on. As they went he cast a last glance backat the beggar. 

"Mater, you're cruel!" he said, moved by a strength of emotion that wasunusual in him--"hard and cruel!"

Mrs. Errington made no reply. She had gained her point, and cared forlittle else. 

"You'll repent this some day, " Horace continued. 

He was in a passion, and scarcely knew what he was saying. Stringsseemed drawn tightly round his heart, and angry tears rose to his eyes. 

"You'll repent it, I bet!" he added. 

Then he relapsed into silence, feeling that if he spoke again he wouldlose all the self-control that a boy of sixteen thinks so much of. 

All that day Horace thought incessantly of the beggar, and felt anincreasing sense of anger against his mother. He found himself lookingfurtively at her, as one looks at a stranger, and thinking her face hardand pitiless. She seemed to him as someone whom he had never reallyknown till now, as some one whom, now that he knew her, he feared. Whyhis mind dwelt so perpetually upon a casual beggar he couldn'tunderstand. But so it was. He saw perpetually the man's white face, fierce and ashamed eyes, the gesture at once hungry and abashed withwhich he asked for charity. All day the vision haunted the boy in thesunshine. 

Mrs. Errington, on her part, calmly ignored the incident of the morningand appeared not to notice any change in her son's demeanour. In theevening Captain Hindford came to dine. He was struck by Horace'sglumness, and in his frank way openly chaffed the boy about it. 

"What's up with this young scoundrel?" he said to Mrs. Errington. 

Horace grew very red. 

"Horace is not very well to-day, " said his mother. 

"Mater, that's not true--I'm all right. "

"I think it more charitable to suppose you seedy, " she replied. 

"Charitable!" Horace cried. "Well, Mater, what on earth do you knowabout charity?"

Captain Hindford began to look embarrassed, and endeavoured to changethe subject, but Horace suddenly burst out into the story of thebeggar. 

"It was just after you left us, " he said to the Captain. 

"I saw the fellow following you, " the Captain said. Then he turned toMrs. Errington. "These chaps are the plague of the Park, " he added. 

"Exactly. That is what I tell Horace. "

"I don't care!" the boy said stoutly. "He _was_ starving, and we werebrutes not to give him something. The Mater'll be sorry for it some day. I know it. I can feel it. "

Captain Hindford began to talk about French plays rather hastily. 

When Mrs. Errington went up to the drawing-room, Horace suddenly said tothe Captain--

"I say, Hindford, do me a good turn to-night, will you?"

"Well, old chap, what is it, eh?"

"When you say 'good-night, ' don't really go. "

The Captain looked astonished. 

"But----" he began. 

"Wait outside a second for me. When the Mater's gone to bed I want youto come into the Park with me. "

"The Park? What for?"

"To find that beggar chap. I bet he's there. Lots of his sort sleepthere, you know. I want to give him something. And--somehow--I'd likeyou to come with me. Besides, it doesn't do to go looking for anyone inthe Park alone at night. "

"That's true, " the Captain said. "All right, Errington; I'll come. "

And, after bidding Mrs. Errington good-night, he lingered in Park Lanetill he was joined by Horace. They turned at once into the Park andbegan to make their way in the direction of the Serpentine. It was asoft night, full of the fine and minute rain that belongs especially tospring weather. The clocks of the town had struck eleven, and most ofthe legitimate sweethearts who make the Park their lover's walk had gonehome, leaving this realm of lawns and trees and waters to thenight-birds, the pickpockets, the soldiers, and the unhealthily curiouspersons over whom it exercises such a continual and gloomy fascination. Hindford and Horace could have seen many piteous sights had they caredto as they walked down the long path by the Row. The boy peered at eachseat as they passed, and once or twice hesitated by some thin and tragicfigure, stretched in uneasy slumber or bowed in staring reverie face toface with the rainy night. But from each in turn he drew back, occasionally followed by a muttered oath or a sharp ejaculation. 

"I bet he'll be somewhere by the Serpentine, " the boy said to Hindford. 

And they walked on till at length they reached the black sheet of waterclosely muffled in the night. 

"We met him somewhere just here, " Horace said. 

"I know, " Hindford rejoined. "He got up from this seat. But he may be adozen miles off by now. "

"No, " Horace said, with a curious pertinacity; "I'm sure he's about herestill. He looked like a man with no home. Ugh! how dreary it is! Comealong, Hindford. "

The good-natured Captain obeyed, and they went on by the cheerlesswater, which was only partially revealed in the blackness. Suddenly theyboth stopped. 

"What's that?" Horace exclaimed. 

A shrill whistle, followed by shouts, came to them, apparently from thewater. Then there was an answering whistle from somewhere in the Park. 

"It's the police, " said Hindford. "There's something up. "

They hurried on, and in a moment saw what looked like a great blackshadow, rising out of the water, lifting in his arms another shadow, which drooped and hung down with the little waves curling round it. Asthey drew close they saw that the first shadow was a policeman, up tohis waist in the water, and the second shadow was a man whom he held inhis arms, as he waded with difficulty to the shore. 

"Lend a hand, mates, " he shouted as he saw them. 

Just then a light shone out over the black lake from the bull's-eye of asecond policeman who had hurried up in answer to his comrade's whistle. Between them they quickly got the man on shore, and laid him down on thepath on his back. The bull's-eye lantern, turned full on him, lit up aface that seemed all bony structure, staring eyes, a mouth out of whichthe water dripped. He had no coat on and his thin arms were like thoseof a skeleton. 

"Dead as a door-nail, " said the first policeman. "A case of suicide. "

"God! Hindford, it's he! It's the chap who asked me for money thismorning!" whispered Horace. "Is he really dead?"

The Captain, who had been examining the body and feeling the heart, nodded. Horace gazed upon the white face with a sort of awful curiosity. He had never before looked at a corpse. 

"Look here, Errington, " Hindford said to the boy that night as he partedfrom him in Park Lane, "don't tell your mother anything of this. "

"But--but, Hindford----"

"Come, now, you take my advice. Keep a quiet tongue in your head. "

"But perhaps it was her fault; it was--if we'd given the poor chapsomething he'd----"

"Probably. That's just the reason I don't want you to tell Mrs. Errington anything of it. Come, promise me on your honour. "

"All right, Hindford, I'll promise. How horrible it's all been!"

"Don't think about it, lad. Good-night. "

Horace trembled as he stole up the black staircase to bed. He meant tokeep his promise, of course, but he wondered whether the Mater wouldhave owned that she was in the wrong that morning if she had heard hisdreary tale of the beggar's death in the night. 

The next day it was Mrs. Errington who asked Horace to go out walking. She looked rather pale and fatigued at breakfast, but declared herintention of taking a constitutional. 

"Come with me, Horace, " she said. 

"Very well, " he answered, with a curious and almost shy boyish coldness. 

"Not into the Park, Mater, " he said, as they were starting. 

"Why not? We always walk there. Where else should we go?"

"Anywhere--shopping--Regent Street. "

"No, Horace, I've got a headache to-day. I want a quiet place. "

He didn't say more. They set out, and Mrs. Errington took the preciseroute they had followed the day before. She glanced rather sharply abouther as they walked. Presently they reached the seat on which the beggarhad been sitting just before he got up to follow them. Mrs. Erringtonpaused beside it. 

"I'm tired. Let us sit down here, " she said. 

"No, Mater, not here. "

"Really, Horace, " Mrs. Errington said, "you are in an extraordinary moodto-day. You have no regard for me. What is the matter with you?"

And she sat down on the seat. Horace remained standing. 

"I shan't sit here, " he said obstinately. 

"Very well, " Mrs. Errington replied. 

She really began to look ill, but Horace was too much preoccupied withhis own feelings to notice it. There was something abominable to him inhis mother sitting calmly down to rest in the very place occupied a fewhours ago by the wretched creature who had, so Horace believed, beendriven to death by her refusal of charity. He felt sick with horror inthat neighbourhood, and he moved away, and stood staring across theSerpentine. Presently Mrs. Errington called to him in a faint voice----

"Horace, come and give me your hand. "

He turned, noticed her extreme pallor, and ran up. 

"What's the row? Are you ill, Mater?"

"No. Help me up. " He put out his hand. She got up slowly. 

"We'll go home, " he said. "You look awfully seedy. "

"No; let us walk on. "

In spite of his remonstrances she insisted on walking up and down at theedge of the Serpentine for quite an hour. She appeared to be on thelook-out for somebody. Over and over again they passed the spot wherethe beggar had drowned himself. Their feet trod over the ground onwhich his dead body had been laid. Each time they reached it Horace felthimself grow cold. Death is so terrible to the young. At last Mrs. Errington stopped. 

"I can't walk much more, " she said. 

"Then do let's go home now, " Horace said. 

She stood looking round her, searching the Park with her eyes. 

"I suppose we must, " she said slowly. Then she added, "We can come hereagain to-morrow. "

Horace was puzzled. 

"What for? Why should we?" he asked. 

But his mother made no reply, and they walked home. 

Next day she insisted on going again to the same place, and again shewas obviously on the look-out. Horace grew more and more puzzled by herdemeanour. And when the third day came, and once more Mrs. Erringtoncalled him to set forth to the Serpentine, he said to her, with a boy'sbluntness----

"D'you want to meet someone there?"

Mrs. Errington looked at him strangely. 

"Yes, " she said, after a minute's silence. 

"Why, who is it?"

"That beggar I wouldn't let you give money to. "

Horace turned scarlet with the shock of surprise and theknowledge--which he absurdly felt as guilty knowledge--that the man wasdead, perhaps even buried by now. 

"Oh, nonsense, Mater!" he began, stammering. "He won't come there again. Besides, you never give to beggars. "

"I mean to give this man something. "

Horace was more and more surprised. 

"Why?" he exclaimed. "Why now? You wouldn't when I wanted you to, andnow--now it's too late. What do you wish to give to him for now?"

But all she would say was, "I feel that I should like to, that--that hisperhaps really was a deserving case. Come, Horace, let us go and try tofind him. "

And the boy, bound by his word to Captain Hindford, was forced to go outin search of a dead man. He felt the horror of this quest. To-day Mrs. Errington carried her purse in her hand, and looked eagerly out for thebeggar. Once she fancied she saw him in the distance. 

"There he is!" she cried to Horace. "Run and fetch him. "

The boy turned pale, and stared. 

"Where, Mater?"

"Among those trees. "

"It can't be! Nonsense!"

"No, " she said; "you are right. I made a mistake. It's only somebodylike him. Why, Horace, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, " he answered. 

But he was shaking. The business was too ghastly. He felt he couldn'tstand it much longer, and he resolved to go to Captain Hindford andpersuade the Captain to absolve him from his promise. In the afternoonof the same day, accordingly, he went off to Knightsbridge. He rang, andwas told that Captain Hindford had gone to Paris and was afterwardsgoing for a tour on the Continent. His heart sank at the news. Was he togo on day after day searching with his mother for this corpse, which wasrotting in the grave? He asked for Hindford's address. It was PosteRestante, Monte Carlo. But the servant added that letters sent theremight have to wait for two or three days, as his master's immediateplans were unsettled. Horace, however, went to the nearesttelegraph-office and wired to Hindford--

"Let me off promise; urgent. --HORACE ERRINGTON. "

Then, having done all he could, he went back to Park Lane. He found hismother in a curiously restless state, and directly he came in she beganto talk about the beggar. 

"I must and will find that man, " she said. 

"Mater, why?"

"Because I shall never be well till I do, " she said. "I don't know whatit is, but I cannot be still by day, and I cannot rest by night, forthinking of him. Why did I not let you give him something?"

"Mater, I wish to God you had!" the boy said solemnly. 

Mrs. Errington did not seem to notice his unusual manner. She wasself-engrossed. 

"However, we shall see him again, no doubt, " she went on. "And then Ishall give him something handsome. I know he needs it. "

Horace went hastily out of the room. He longed for a wire from CaptainHindford. Next day he "shammed ill, " as he called it to himself, so asto get out of going into the Park. So Mrs. Errington went off by herselfin a condition of almost feverish anticipation. 

"I know I shall see him to-day, " she said, as she left Horace. 

She returned at lunch-time, and came up at once to his room. 

"I have seen him, " she said. 

Horace sat up, staring at her in blank amazement. 

"What, Mater? What d'you say?"

"I have seen him. "

"No?"

"Yes. I went to the place where he asked you for money, and walked upand down for ages. But he wasn't there. At last I gave it up and crossedthe bridge. I took it into my head to come home on the other side of thewater. Well, when I was half-way along it, I looked across, and there Isaw him. "

"Rot, Mater!"

"He was standing alone by the water, staring straight across at me, justas if he saw me and was trying to attract my attention. "

"No, no!"

"Horace, don't be silly! Why do you contradict me? He looked just thesame as when we saw him first, only he had no coat on. "

Horace gave a sort of gasp. 

"I suppose his poverty had compelled him to pawn it, " Mrs. Erringtoncontinued. "Don't you think so, Horace? People can pawn clothes, can'tthey?"

The boy nodded. His eyes were fixed on her. 

"I looked across at him, " Mrs. Errington continued, "and made a sign tohim to come round to meet me by the other end, near the Row. I held upmy purse so that he might understand me. "

"What did he do?"

"He turned away and hurried off among the trees. "

"Ah!"

"Do you know, Horace, " Mrs. Errington continued rather excitedly, "Ithink if you had beckoned to him he would have come. He's afraid of me, perhaps, because--because I wouldn't let you give to him. To-morrow youmust come out with me. Till I've relieved that man's wants I shall haveno peace. "

She hastened out of the room, apparently in a quiver of unusualagitation. Horace sat petrified. If only Hindford would telegraph! Thatcursed promise!

On the following day it rained. Nevertheless, Mrs. Errington almostviolently insisted upon Horace accompanying her to search for thebeggar. 

"We shall go to the far side of the water, " she said. "I believe when wego to the other side he sees us coming and avoids us. But if we cancatch sight of him, as I did yesterday, you can beckon to him, and I amcertain when he sees you he will come. "

Horace said nothing. He felt cold about the heart, not so much with fearas with awe and wonder. They went to the far bank, and almost directlyMrs. Errington cried out----

"There he is, and without his coat again! How wet he must be getting!"

Horace looked across the dull water, through the driving rain. He saw noone on the opposite bank. 

"He sees us, " Mrs. Errington added. "Horace, you beckon to him. Here, take my purse. Hold it up, and then point to him to come round and meetus. "

Mechanically the boy obeyed. 

"Ah, I knew it! This time he is coming, " said Mrs. Errington. 

"He is coming, Mater?"

"Yes; come along. "

She hurried towards the end of the Serpentine. Horace walked by herside, staring in horror through the rain. 

"Poor man!" Mrs. Errington said presently. "How ghastly he looks!"

"Mater--I say----"

"Well?"

"Is he near?"

"Near?"

Mrs. Errington stopped in amazement. 

"Why, what do you mean, Horace?"

"What I say. Is he near now?"

"Near? He's just coming up. "

Suddenly the boy fainted. 

When he came to he was lying in the shelter of the Rescue Society. 

"Ah, Horace, " his mother said, "you ought to have stayed in bed anotherday. "

"Yes, Mater. "

"You frightened that poor man. He made off when you fainted. "

That evening Horace received a telegram from Monte Carlo----

"Very well but better say nothing. --HINDFORD. "

He read it, laid it down, and told Mrs. Errington the truth. 

 * * * * *

As already stated, she died very suddenly not long afterwards, leavingbehind her the will which so astonished London. 

 * * * * *

Transcriber's note:

 Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Inconsistent American spelling variations, being few in number and most likely introduced in the 1971 reprint, have been amended to British forms. Hyphenation has been standardised.