{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_17627/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_17627","id":"gutenberg_17627","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17627","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Religious fiction"],"text":"Produced by Geoff Horton, Geetu Melwani, Josephine Paolucci\nand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNONE OTHER GODS\n\nBY\n\nROBERT HUGH BENSON\n\nAUTHOR OF \"THE CONVENTIONALISTS,\" \"THE NECROMANCERS,\" \"A WINNOWING,\"\nETC.\n\n\n\n\nNONE OTHER GODS\n\n\n\n\nDEDICATORY LETTER\n\n\nMY DEAR JACK KIRKBY,\n\nTo whom can I dedicate this book but to you who were, not only the best\nfriend of the man I have written about, but one without whom the book\ncould not have been written? It is to you that I owe practically all the\nmaterials necessary for the work: it was to you that Frank left the\ngreater part of his diary, such as it was (and I hope I have observed\nyour instructions properly as regards the use I have made of it); it was\nyou who took such trouble to identify the places he passed through; and\nit was you, above all, who gave me so keen an impression of Frank\nhimself, that it seems to me I must myself have somehow known him\nintimately, in spite of the fact that we never met.\n\nI think I should say that it is this sense of intimacy, this\nextraordinary interior accessibility (so to speak) of Frank, that made\nhim (as you and I both think) about the most lovable person we have ever\nknown. They were very extraordinary changes that passed over him, of\ncourse--(and I suppose we cannot improve, even with all our modern\npsychology, upon the old mystical names for such changes--Purgation,\nIllumination and Union)--but, as theologians themselves tell us, that\nmysterious thing which Catholics call the Grace of God does not\nobliterate, but rather emphasizes and transfigures the natural\ncharacteristics of every man upon whom it comes with power. It was the\nsame element in Frank, as it seems to me--the same root-principle, at\nleast--that made him do those preposterous things connected with bread\nand butter and a railway train, that drove him from Cambridge in\ndefiance of all common-sense and sweet reasonableness; that held him\nstill to that deplorable and lamentable journey with his two traveling\ncompanions, and that ultimately led him to his death. I mean, it was the\nsame kind of unreasonable daring and purpose throughout, though it\nissued in very different kinds of actions, and was inspired by very\ndifferent motives.\n\nWell, it is not much good discussing Frank in public like this. The\npeople who are kind enough to read his life--or, rather, the six months\nof it with which this book deals--must form their own opinion of him.\nProbably a good many will think him a fool. I daresay he was; but I\nthink I like that kind of folly. Other people may think him simply\nobstinate and tiresome. Well, I like obstinacy of that sort, and I do\nnot find him tiresome. Everyone must form their own views, and I have a\nperfect right to form mine, which I am glad to know coincide with your\nown. After all, you knew him better than anyone else.\n\nI went to see Gertie Trustcott, as you suggested, but I didn't get any\nhelp from her. I think she is the most suburban person I have ever met.\nShe could tell me nothing whatever new about him; she could only\ncorroborate what you yourself had told me, and what the diaries and\nother papers contained. I did not stay long with Miss Trustcott.\n\nAnd now, my dear friend, I must ask you to accept this book from me, and\nto make the best of it. Of course, I have had to conjecture a great\ndeal, and to embroider even more; but it is no more than embroidery. I\nhave not touched the fabric itself which you put into my hands; and\nanyone who cares to pull out the threads I have inserted can do so if\nthey will, without any fear of the thing falling to pieces.\n\nI have to thank you for many pleasurable and even emotional hours. The\noffering which I present to you now is the only return I can make.\n\n          I am,\n            Ever yours sincerely,\n              ROBERT HUGH BENSON.\n\nP.S.--We've paneled a new room since you were last at Hare Street. Come\nand see it soon and sleep in it. We want you badly. And I want to talk\na great deal more about Frank.\n\nP.P.S.--I hear that her ladyship has gone back to live with her father;\nshe tried the Dower House in Westmoreland, but seems to have found it\nlonely. Is that true? It'll be rather difficult for Dick, won't it?\n\n\n\n\nNONE OTHER GODS\n\n\n\n\nPART I\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n(I)\n\n\"I think you're behaving like an absolute idiot,\" said Jack Kirkby\nindignantly.\n\nFrank grinned pleasantly, and added his left foot to his right one in\nthe broad window-seat.\n\nThese two young men were sitting in one of the most pleasant places in\nall the world in which to sit on a summer evening--in a ground-floor\nroom looking out upon the Great Court of Trinity College, Cambridge. It\nwas in that short space of time, between six and seven, during which the\nGreat Court is largely deserted. The athletes and the dawdlers have not\nyet returned from field and river; and Fellows and other persons, young\nenough to know better, who think that a summer evening was created for\nthe reading of books, have not yet emerged from their retreats. A\nwhite-aproned cook or two moves across the cobbled spaces with trays\nupon their heads; a tradesman's boy comes out of the corner entrance\nfrom the hostel; a cat or two stretches himself on the grass; but, for\nthe rest, the court lies in broad sunshine; the shadows slope eastwards,\nand the fitful splash and trickle of the fountain asserts itself clearly\nabove the gentle rumble of Trinity Street.\n\nWithin, the room in which these two sat was much like other rooms of the\nsame standing; only, in this one case the walls were paneled with\nwhite-painted deal. Three doors led out of it--two into a tiny bedroom\nand a tinier dining-room respectively; the third on to the passage\nleading to the lecture-rooms. Frank found it very convenient, since he\nthus was enabled, at every hour of the morning when the lectures broke\nup, to have the best possible excuse for conversing with his friends\nthrough the window.\n\nThe room was furnished really well. Above the mantelpiece, where rested\nan array of smoking-materials and a large silver cigarette-box, hung an\nancestral-looking portrait, in a dull gilded frame, of an aged man, with\na ruff round his neck, purchased for one guinea; there was a sofa and a\nset of chairs upholstered in a good damask: a black piano by Broadwood;\na large oval gate-leg table; a bureau; shelves filled with very\nindiscriminate literature--law books, novels, Badminton, magazines and\nancient school editions of the classics; a mahogany glass-fronted\nbookcase packed with volumes of esthetic appearance--green-backed poetry\nbooks with white labels; old leather tomes, and all the rest of the\nspecimens usual to a man who has once thought himself literary. Then\nthere were engravings, well framed, round the walls; a black iron-work\nlamp, fitted for electric light, hung from the ceiling; there were a\ncouple of oak chests, curiously carved. On the stained floor lay three\nor four mellow rugs, and the window-boxes outside blazed with geraniums.\nThe debris of tea rested on the window-seat nearest the outer door.\n\nFrank Guiseley, too, lolling in the window-seat in a white silk shirt,\nunbuttoned at the throat, and gray flannel trousers, and one white shoe,\nwas very pleasant to look upon. His hair was as black and curly as a\nNeapolitan's; he had a smiling, humorous mouth, and black eyes--of an\nextraordinary twinkling alertness. His clean-shaven face, brown in its\nproper complexion as well as with healthy sunburning (he had played very\nvigorous lawn-tennis for the last two months), looked like a boy's,\nexcept for the very determined mouth and the short, straight nose. He\nwas a little below middle height--well-knit and active; and though,\nproperly speaking, he was not exactly handsome, he was quite\nexceptionally delightful to look at.\n\nJack Kirkby, sitting in an arm-chair a yard away, and in the same sort\nof costume--except that he wore both his shoes and a Third Trinity\nblazer--was a complete contrast in appearance. The other had something\nof a Southern Europe look; Jack was obviously English--wholesome red\ncheeks, fair hair and a small mustache resembling spun silk. He was,\nalso, closely on six feet in height.\n\nHe was anxious just now, and, therefore, looked rather cross, fingering\nthe very minute hairs of his mustache whenever he could spare the time\nfrom smoking, and looking determinedly away from Frank upon the floor.\nFor the last week he had talked over this affair, ever since the amazing\nannouncement; and had come to the conclusion that once more, in this\npreposterous scheme, Frank really meant what he said.\n\nFrank had a terrible way of meaning what he said--he reflected with\ndismay. There was the affair of the bread and butter three years ago,\nbefore either of them had learned manners. This had consisted in the\nfastening up in separate brown-paper parcels innumerable pieces of bread\nand butter, addressing each with the name of the Reverend Junior Dean\n(who had annoyed Frank in some way), and the leaving of the parcels\nabout in every corner of Cambridge, in hansom cabs, on seats, on\nshop-counters and on the pavements--with the result that for the next\ntwo or three days the dean's staircase was crowded with messenger boys\nand unemployables, anxious to return apparently lost property.\n\nThen there had been the matter of the flagging of a fast Northern train\nin the middle of the fens with a red pocket-handkerchief, to find out if\nit were really true that the train would stop, followed by a rapid\nretreat on bicycles so soon as it had been ascertained that it was true;\nthe Affair of the German Prince traveling incognito, into which the\nMayor himself had been drawn; and the Affair of the Nun who smoked a\nshort black pipe in the Great Court shortly before midnight, before\ngathering up her skirts and vanishing on noiseless india-rubber-shod\nfeet round the kitchen quarters into the gloom of Neville's Court, as\nthe horrified porter descended from his signal-box.\n\nNow many minds could have conceived these things; a smaller number of\npeople would have announced their intention of doing them: but there\nwere very few persons who would actually carry them all out to the very\nend: in fact, Jack reflected, Frank Guiseley was about the only man of\nhis acquaintance who could possibly have done them. And he had done\nthem all on his own sole responsibility.\n\nHe had remembered, too, during the past week, certain incidents of the\nsame nature at Eton. There was the master who had rashly inquired, with\ndeep sarcasm, on the fourth or fifth occasion in one week when Frank had\ncome in a little late for five-o'clock school, whether \"Guiseley would\nnot like to have tea before pursuing his studies.\" Frank, with a radiant\nsmile of gratitude, and extraordinary rapidity, had answered that he\nwould like it very much indeed, and had vanished through the still\nhalf-open door before another word could be uttered, returning with a\nlook of childlike innocence at about five-and-twenty minutes to six.\n\n\"Please, sir,\" he had said, \"I thought you said I might go?\"\n\n\"And have you had tea?\"\n\n\"Why, certainly, sir; at Webber's.\"\n\nNow all this kind of thing was a little disconcerting to remember now.\nTruly, the things in themselves had been admirably conceived and\nfaithfully executed, but they seemed to show that Frank was the kind of\nperson who really carried through what other people only talked\nabout--and especially if he announced beforehand that he intended to do\nit.\n\nIt was a little dismaying, therefore, for his friend to reflect that\nupon the arrival of the famous letter from Lord Talgarth--Frank's\nfather--six days previously, in which all the well-worn phrases occurred\nas to \"darkening doors\" and \"roof\" and \"disgrace to the family,\" Frank\nhad announced that he proposed to take his father at his word, sell up\nhis property and set out like a prince in a fairy-tale to make his\nfortune.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJack had argued till he was sick of it, and to no avail. Frank had a\nparry for every thrust. Why wouldn't he wait a bit until the governor\nhad had time to cool down? Because the governor must learn, sooner or\nlater, that words really meant something, and that he--Frank--was not\ngoing to stand it for one instant.\n\nWhy wouldn't he come and stay at Barham till further notice? They'd all\nbe delighted to have him: It was only ten miles off Merefield, and\nperhaps--Because Frank was not going to sponge upon his friends. Neither\nwas he going to skulk about near home. Well, if he was so damned\nobstinate, why didn't he go into the City--or even to the Bar? Because\n(1) he hadn't any money; and (2) he would infinitely sooner go on the\ntramp than sit on a stool. Well, why didn't he enlist, like a\ngentleman? Frank dared say he would some time, but he wanted to stand by\nhimself a bit first and see the world.\n\n\"Let's see the letter again,\" said Jack at last. \"Where is it?\"\n\nFrank reflected.\n\n\"I think it's in that tobacco-jar just behind your head,\" he said. \"No,\nit isn't; it's in the pouch on the floor. I know I associated it somehow\nwith smoking. And, by the way, give me a cigarette.\"\n\nJack tossed him his case, opened the pouch, took out the letter, and\nread it slowly through again.\n\n            \"Merefield Court,\n              \"near Harrogate.\n              \"May 28th, _Thursday_.\n\n     \"I am ashamed of you, sir. When you first told me of your\n     intention, I warned you what would happen if you persisted, and\n     I repeat it now. Since you have deliberately chosen, in spite\n     of all that I have said, to go your own way, and to become a\n     Papist, I will have no more to do with you. From this moment\n     you cease to be my son. You shall not, while I live, darken my\n     doors again, or sleep under my roof. I say nothing of what you\n     have had from me in the past--your education and all the rest.\n     And, since I do not wish to be unduly hard upon you, you can\n     keep the remainder of your allowance up to July and the\n     furniture of your rooms. But, after that, not one penny shall\n     you have from me. You can go to your priests and get them to\n     support you.\n\n     \"I am only thankful that your poor mother has been spared this\n     blow.\n\n                                       \"T.\"\n\nJack made a small murmurous sound as he finished. Frank chuckled aloud.\n\n\"Pitches it in all right, doesn't he?\" he observed dispassionately.\n\n\"If it had been my governor--\" began Jack slowly.\n\n\"My dear man, it isn't your governor; it's mine. And I'm dashed if\nthere's another man in the world who'd write such a letter as that\nnowadays. It's--it's too early-Victorian. They'd hardly stand it at the\nAdelphi! I could have put it so much better myself.... Poor old\ngovernor!\"\n\n\"Have you answered it?\"\n\n\"I ... I forget. I know I meant to.... No, I haven't. I remember now.\nAnd I shan't till I'm just off.\"\n\n\"Well, I shall,\" remarked Jack.\n\nFrank turned a swift face upon him.\n\n\"If you do,\" he said, with sudden fierce gravity, \"I'll never speak to\nyou again. I mean it. It's my affair, and I shall run it my own way.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"I mean it. Now! give me your word of honor--\"\n\n\"I--\"\n\n\"Your word of honor, this instant, or get out of my room!\"\n\nThere was a pause. Then:\n\n\"All right,\" said Jack.\n\nThen there fell a silence once more.\n\n\n(II)\n\nThe news began to be rumored about, soon after the auction that Frank\nheld of his effects a couple of days later. He carried out the scene\nadmirably, entirely unassisted, even by Jack.\n\nFirst, there appeared suddenly all over Cambridge, the evening before\nthe sale, just as the crowds of undergraduates and female relations\nbegan to circulate about after tea and iced strawberries, a quantity of\nsandwich-men, bearing the following announcement, back and front:\n\n         TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.\n\n        THE HON. FRANK GUISELEY\n      has pleasure in announcing that on\n              JUNE 7TH (Saturday)\n        at half-past ten a.m. precisely\n    in Rooms 1, Letter J, Great Court, Trinity College,\n            he will positively offer for\n\n                SALE BY AUCTION\n\n    _The household effects, furniture, books, etc., of\n    the Hon. Frank Guiseley, including_--\n\nA piano by Broadwood (slightly out of tune); a magnificent suite of\ndrawing-room furniture, upholstered in damask, the sofa only slightly\nstained with tea; one oak table and another; a bed; a chest of drawers\n(imitation walnut, and not a very good imitation); a mahogany\nglass-fronted bookcase, containing a set of suggestive-looking volumes\nbound in faint colors, with white labels; four oriental mats; a portrait\nof a gentleman (warranted a perfectly respectable ancestor); dining-room\nsuite (odd chairs); numerous engravings of places of interest and\nnoblemen's seats; a\n\n_Silver Cigarette-box and fifteen Cigarettes in it (Melachrino and Mixed\nAmerican_); a cuckoo-clock (without cuckoo); five walking-sticks;\nnumerous suits of clothes (one lot suitable for Charitable Purposes);\nsome books--all VERY CURIOUS indeed--comprising the works of an\nEminent Cambridge Professor, and other scholastic luminaries, as well as\nmany other articles.\n\n        AT HALF-PAST TEN A.M. PRECISELY\n    All friends, and strangers, cordially invited.\n              NO RESERVE PRICE.\n\nIt served its purpose admirably, for by soon after ten o'clock quite a\nconsiderable crowd had begun to assemble; and it was only after a very\nserious conversation with the Dean that the sale was allowed to proceed.\nBut it proceeded, with the distinct understanding that a college porter\nbe present; that no riotous behavior should be allowed; that the sale\nwas a genuine one, and that Mr. Guiseley would call upon the Dean with\nfurther explanations before leaving Cambridge.\n\nThe scene itself was most impressive.\n\nFrank, in a structure resembling an auctioneer's box, erected on the\nhearth-rug, presided, with extraordinary gravity, hammer in hand, robed\nin a bachelor's gown and hood. Beneath him the room seethed with the\ncompany, male and female, all in an excellent humor, and quite tolerable\nprices were obtained. No public explanations were given of the need for\nthe sale, and Jack, in the deepest dismay, looked in again that\nafternoon, about lunch-time, to find the room completely stripped, and\nFrank, very cheerful, still in his hood and gown, smoking a cigarette in\nthe window-seat.\n\n\"Come in,\" he said. \"And kindly ask me to lunch. The last porter's just\ngone.\"\n\nJack looked at him.\n\nHe seemed amazingly genial and natural, though just a little flushed,\nand such an air of drama as there was about him was obviously\ndeliberate.\n\n\"Very well; come to lunch,\" said Jack. \"Where are you going to dine and\nsleep?\"\n\n\"I'm dining in hall, and I'm sleeping in a hammock. Go and look at my\nbedroom.\"\n\nJack went across the bare floor and looked in. A hammock was slung\nacross from a couple of pegs, and there lay a small carpet-bag beneath\nit. A basin on an upturned box and a bath completed the furniture.\n\n\"You mad ass!\" said Jack. \"And is that all you have left?\"\n\n\"Certainly. I'm going to leave the clothes I've got on to you, and you\ncan fetch the hammock when I've gone.\"\n\n\"When do you start?\"\n\n\"Mr. Guiseley will have his last interview and obtain his _exeat_ from\nthe Dean at half-past six this evening. He proposes to leave Cambridge\nin the early hours of to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"You don't mean that!\"\n\n\"Certainly I do.\"\n\n\"What are you going to wear?\"\n\nFrank extended two flanneled legs, ending in solid boots.\n\n\"These--a flannel shirt, no tie, a cap, a gray jacket.\"\n\nJack stood again in silence, looking at him.\n\n\"How much money did your sale make?\"\n\n\"That's immaterial. Besides, I forget. The important fact is that when\nI've paid all my bills I shall have thirteen pounds eleven shillings and\neightpence.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Thirteen pounds eleven shillings and eightpence.\"\n\nJack burst into a mirthless laugh.\n\n\"Well, come along to lunch,\" he said.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt seemed to Jack that he moved in a dreary kind of dream that afternoon\nas he went about with Frank from shop to shop, paying bills. Frank's\ntrouser-pockets bulged and jingled a good deal as they started--he had\ndrawn all his remaining money in gold from the bank--and they bulged\nand jingled considerably less as the two returned to tea in Jesus Lane.\nThere, on the table, he spread out the coins. He had bought some\ntobacco, and two or three other things that afternoon, and the total\namounted now but to twelve pounds nineteen shillings and fourpence.\n\n\"Call it thirteen pounds,\" said Frank. \"There's many a poor man--\"\n\n\"Don't be a damned fool!\" said Jack.\n\n\"I'm being simply prudent,\" said Frank. \"A contented heart--\"\n\nJack thrust a cup of tea and the buttered buns before him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThese two were as nearly brothers as possible, in everything but blood.\nTheir homes lay within ten miles of one another. They had gone to a\nprivate school together, to Eton, and to Trinity. They had ridden\ntogether in the holidays, shot, dawdled, bathed, skated, and all the\nrest. They were considerably more brothers to one another than were\nFrank and Archie, his actual elder brother, known to the world as\nViscount Merefield. Jack did not particularly approve of Archie; he\nthought him a pompous ass, and occasionally said so.\n\nFor Frank he had quite an extraordinary affection, though he would not\nhave expressed it so, to himself, for all the world, and a very real\nadmiration of a quite indefinable kind. It was impossible to say why he\nadmired him. Frank did nothing very well, but everything rather well; he\nplayed Rugby football just not well enough to represent his college; he\nhad been in the Lower Boats at Eton, and the Lent Boat of his first year\nat Cambridge; then he had given up rowing and played lawn-tennis in the\nsummer and fives in the Lent Term just well enough to make a brisk and\ninteresting game. He was not at all learned; he had reached the First\nHundred at Eton, and had read Law at Cambridge--that convenient branch\nof study which for the most part fills the vacuum for intelligent\npersons who have no particular bent and are heartily sick of classics;\nand he had taken a Third Class and his degree a day or two before. He\nwas remarkably averaged, therefore; and yet, somehow or another, there\nwas that in him which compelled Jack's admiration. I suppose it was that\nwhich is conveniently labeled \"character.\" Certainly, nearly everybody\nwho came into contact with him felt the same in some degree.\n\nHis becoming a Catholic had been an amazing shock to Jack, who had\nalways supposed that Frank, like himself, took the ordinary sensible\nEnglish view of religion. To be a professed unbeliever was bad form--it\nwas like being a Little Englander or a Radical; to be pious was equally\nbad form--it resembled a violent devotion to the Union Jack. No;\nreligion to Jack (and he had always hitherto supposed, to Frank) was a\ndepartment of life in which one did not express any particular views:\none did not say one's prayers; one attended chapel at the proper times;\nif one was musical, one occasionally went to King's on Sunday afternoon;\nin the country one went to church on Sunday morning as one went to the\nstables in the afternoon, and that was about all.\n\nFrank had been, too, so extremely secretive about the whole thing. He\nhad marched into Jack's rooms in Jesus Lane one morning nearly a\nfortnight ago.\n\n\"Come to mass at the Catholic Church,\" he said.\n\n\"Why, the--\" began Jack.\n\n\"I've got to go. I'm a Catholic.\"\n\n\"_What!_\"\n\n\"I became one last week.\"\n\nJack had stared at him, suddenly convinced that someone was mad. When he\nhad verified that it was really a fact; that Frank had placed himself\nunder instruction three months before, and had made his confession--(his\nconfession!)--on Friday, and had been conditionally baptized; when he\nhad certified himself of all these things, and had begun to find\ncoherent language once more, he had demanded why Frank had done this.\n\n\"Because it's the true religion,\" said Frank. \"Are you coming to mass or\nare you not?\"\n\nJack had gone then, and had come away more bewildered than ever as to\nwhat it was all about. He had attempted to make a few inquiries, but\nFrank had waved his hands at him, and repeated that obviously the\nCatholic religion was the true one, and that he couldn't be bothered.\nAnd now here they were at tea in Jesus Lane for the last time.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOf course, there was a little suppressed excitement about Frank. He\ndrank three cups of tea and took the last (and the under) piece of\nbuttered bun without apologies, and he talked a good deal, rather fast.\nIt seemed that he had really no particular plans as to what he was going\nto do after he had walked out of Cambridge with his carpet-bag early\nnext morning. He just meant, he said, to go along and see what happened.\nHe had had a belt made, which pleased him exceedingly, into which his\nmoney could be put (it lay on the table between them during tea), and he\nproposed, naturally, to spend as little of that money as possible....\nNo; he would not take one penny piece from Jack; it would be simply\nscandalous if he--a public-school boy and an University man--couldn't\nkeep body and soul together by his own labor. There would be hay-making\npresently, he supposed, and fruit-picking, and small jobs on farms. He\nwould just go along and see what happened. Besides there were always\ncasual wards, weren't there? if the worst came to the worst; and he'd\nmeet other men, he supposed, who'd put him in the way of things. Oh!\nhe'd get on all right.\n\nWould he ever come to Barham? Well, if it came in the day's work he\nwould. Yes: certainly he'd be most obliged if his letters might be sent\nthere, and he could write for them when he wanted, or even call for\nthem, if, as he said, it came in the day's work.\n\nWhat was he going to do in the winter? He hadn't the slightest idea. He\nsupposed, what other people did in the winter. Perhaps he'd have got a\nplace by then--gamekeeper, perhaps--he'd like to be a gamekeeper.\n\nAt this Jack, mentally, threw up the sponge.\n\n\"You really mean to go on at this rotten idea of yours?\"\n\nFrank opened his eyes wide.\n\n\"Why, of course. Good Lord! did you think I was bluffing?\"\n\n\"But ... but it's perfectly mad. Why on earth don't you get a proper\nsituation somewhere--land-agent or something?\"\n\n\"My dear man,\" said Frank, \"if you will have it, it's because I want to\ndo exactly what I'm going to do. No--I'm being perfectly serious. I've\nthought for ages that we're all wrong somehow. We're all so beastly\nartificial. I don't want to preach, but I want to test things for\nmyself. My religion tells me--\" He broke off. \"No; this is fooling. I'm\ngoing to do it because I'm going to do it. And I'm really going to do\nit. I'm not going to be an amateur--like slumming. I'm going to find out\nthings for myself.\"\n\n\"But on the roads--\" expostulated Jack.\n\n\"Exactly. That's the very point. Back to the land.\"\n\nJack sat up.\n\n\"Good Lord!\" he said. \"Why, I never thought of it.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"It's your old grandmother coming out.\"\n\nFrank stared.\n\n\"Grandmother?\"\n\n\"Yes--old Mrs. Kelly.\"\n\nFrank laughed suddenly and loudly.\n\n\"By George!\" he said, \"I daresay it is. Old Grandmamma Kelly! She was a\ngipsy--so she was. I believe you've hit it, Jack. Let's see: she was my\ngrandfather's second wife, wasn't she?\"\n\nJack nodded.\n\n\"And he picked her up off the roads on his own estate. Wasn't she\ntrespassing, or something?\"\n\nJack nodded again.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"and he was a magistrate and ought to have committed\nher: And he married her instead. She was a girl, traveling with her\nparents.\"\n\nFrank sat smiling genially.\n\n\"That's it,\" he said. \"Then I'm bound to make a success of it.\"\n\nAnd he took another cigarette.\n\nThen one more thought came to Jack: he had determined already to make\nuse of it if necessary, and somehow this seemed to be the moment.\n\n\"And Jenny Launton,\" he said \"I suppose you've thought of her?\"\n\nA curious look came into Frank's eyes--a look of great gravity and\ntenderness--and the humor died out. He said nothing for an instant. Then\nhe drew out of his breast-pocket a letter in an envelope, and tossed it\ngently over to Jack.\n\n\"I'm telling her in that,\" he said. \"I'm going to post it to-night,\nafter I've seen the Dean.\"\n\nJack glanced down at it.\n\n    \"MISS LAUNTON,\n      \"The Rectory,\n          \"Merefield, Yorks.\"\n\nran the inscription. He turned it over; it was fastened and sealed.\n\n\"I've told her we must wait a bit,\" said Frank, \"and that I'll write\nagain in a few weeks.\"\n\nJack was silent.\n\n\"And you think it's fair on her?\" he asked deliberately.\n\nFrank's face broke up into humor.\n\n\"That's for her to say,\" he observed. \"And, to tell the truth, I'm not\nat all afraid.\"\n\n\"But a gamekeeper's wife! And you a Catholic!\"\n\n\"Ah! you don't know Jenny,\" smiled Frank. \"Jenny and I quite understand\none another, thank you very much.\"\n\n\"But is it quite fair?\"\n\n\"Good Lord!\" shouted Frank, suddenly roused. \"Fair! What the devil does\nit matter? Don't you know that all's fair--under certain circumstances?\nI do bar that rotten conventionalism. We're all rotten--rotten, I tell\nyou; and I'm going to start fresh. So's Jenny. Kindly don't talk of what\nyou don't understand.\"\n\nHe stood up, stretching. Then he threw the end of his cigarette away.\n\n\"I must go to the Dean,\" he said. \"It's close on the half-hour.\"\n\n\n(III)\n\nThe Reverend James Mackintosh was an excellent official of his college,\nand performed his duties with care and punctilium. He rose about\nhalf-past seven o'clock every morning, drank a cup of tea and went to\nchapel. After chapel he breakfasted, on Tuesdays and Thursdays with two\nundergraduates in their first year, selected in alphabetical order,\nseated at his table; on the other days of the week in solitude. At ten\no'clock he lectured, usually on one of St. Paul's Epistles, on which\nsubjects he possessed note-books filled with every conceivable piece of\ninformation that could be gathered together--grammatical, philological,\ntopographical, industrial, social, biographical--with a few remarks on\nthe fauna, flora, imports, characteristics and geological features of\nthose countries to which those epistles were written, and in which they\nwere composed. These notes, guaranteed to guide any student who really\nmastered them to success, and even distinction, in his examinations,\nwere the result of a lifetime of loving labor, and some day, no doubt,\nwill be issued in the neat blue covers of the \"Cambridge Bible for\nSchools.\" From eleven to twelve he lectured on Church history of the\nfirst five centuries--after which period, it will be remembered by all\nhistorical students, Church history practically ceased. At one he\nlunched; from two to four he walked rapidly (sometimes again in company\nwith a serious theological student), along the course known as the\nGrantchester Grind, or to Coton and back. At four he had tea; at five he\nsettled down to administer discipline to the college, by summoning and\nremonstrating with such undergraduates as had failed to comply with the\nvarious regulations; at half-past seven he dined in hall--a meek figure,\nclean shaven and spectacled, seated between an infidel philosopher and a\nsocialist: he drank a single glass of wine afterwards in the Combination\nRoom, smoked one cigarette, and retired again to his rooms to write\nletters to parents (if necessary), and to run over his notes for next\nday.\n\nAnd he did this, with the usual mild variations of a University life,\nevery weekday, for two-thirds of the year. Of the other third, he spent\npart in Switzerland, dressed in a neat gray Norfolk suit with\nknickerbockers, and the rest with clerical friends of the scholastic\ntype. It was a very solemn thought to him how great were his\nresponsibilities, and what a privilege it was to live in the whirl and\nstir of one of the intellectual centers of England!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank Guiseley was to Mr. Mackintosh a very great puzzle. He had\ncertainly been insubordinate in his first year (Mr. Mackintosh gravely\nsuspected him of the Bread-and-Butter affair, which had so annoyed his\ncolleague), but he certainly had been very steady and even deferential\never since. (He always took off his hat, for example, to Mr. Mackintosh,\nwith great politeness.) Certainly he was not very regular at chapel, and\nhe did not dine in hall nearly so often as Mr. Mackintosh would have\nwished (for was it not part of the University idea that men of all\ngrades of society should meet as equals under the college roof?). But,\nthen, he had never been summoned for any very grave or disgraceful\nbreach of the rules, and was never insolent or offensive to any of the\nFellows. Finally, he came of a very distinguished family; and Mr.\nMackintosh had the keenest remembrance still of his own single\ninterview, three years ago, with the Earl of Talgarth.\n\nMr. Mackintosh wondered, then, exactly what he would have to say to Mr.\nGuiseley, and what Mr. Guiseley would have to say to him. He thought,\nif the young man were really going down for good, as he had understood\nthis morning, it was only his plain duty to say a few tactful words\nabout responsibility and steadiness. That ridiculous auction would serve\nas his text.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMr. Mackintosh paused an instant, as he always did, before saying \"Come\nin!\" to the knock on the door (I think he thought it helped to create a\nlittle impression of importance). Then he said it; and Frank walked in.\n\n\"Good evening, Mr. Guiseley.... Yes; please sit down. I understood from\nyou this morning that you wished for your _exeat_.\"\n\n\"Please,\" said Frank.\n\n\"Just so,\" said Mr. Mackintosh, drawing the _exeat_ book--resembling the\nbutt of a check-book--towards him. \"And you are going down to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Frank.\n\n\"Going home?\" murmured the Dean, inscribing Frank's name in his neat\nlittle handwriting.\n\n\"No,\" said Frank.\n\n\"Not?... To London, perhaps?\"\n\n\"Well, not exactly,\" said Frank; \"at least, not just yet.\"\n\nMr. Mackintosh blotted the book carefully, and extracted the _exeat_.\nHe pushed it gently towards Frank.\n\n\"About that auction!\" he said, smiling indulgently; \"I did want to have\na word with you about that. It was very unusual; and I wondered.... But\nI am happy to think that there was no disturbance.... But can you tell\nme exactly why you chose that form of ... of ...\"\n\n\"I wanted to make as much money as ever I could,\" said Frank.\n\n\"Indeed!... Yes.... And ... and you were successful?\"\n\n\"I cleared all my debts, anyhow,\" said Frank serenely. \"I thought that\nvery important.\"\n\nMr. Mackintosh smiled again. Certainly this young man was very well\nbehaved and deferential.\n\n\"Well, that's satisfactory. And you are going to read at the Bar now? If\nyou will let me say so, Mr. Guiseley, even at this late hour, I must say\nthat I think that a Third Class might have been bettered. But no doubt\nyour tutor has said all that?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so.\"\n\n\"Well, then, a little more application and energy now may perhaps make\nup for lost time. I suppose you will go to the Temple in October?\"\n\nFrank looked at him pensively a moment.\n\n\"No, Mr. Mackintosh,\" he said suddenly; \"I'm going on the roads. I mean\nit, quite seriously. My father's disowned me. I'm starting out to-morrow\nto make my own living.\"\n\nThere was dead silence for an instant. The Dean's face was stricken, as\nthough by horror. Yet Frank saw he had not in the least taken it in.\n\n\"Yes; that's really so,\" he said. \"Please don't argue with me about it.\nI'm perfectly determined.\"\n\n\"Your father ... Lord Talgarth ... the roads ... your own living ... the\ncollege authorities ... responsibility!\"\n\nWords of this sort burst from Mr. Mackintosh's mouth.\n\n\"Yes ... it's because I've become a Catholic! I expect you've heard\nthat, sir.\"\n\nMr. Mackintosh threw himself back (if so fierce a word may be used of so\nmild a manner)--threw himself back in his chair.\n\n\"Mr. Guiseley, kindly tell me all about it. I had not heard one\nword--not one word.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank made a great effort, and told the story, quite fairly and quite\npolitely. He described his convictions as well as he could, the various\nsteps he had taken, and the climax of the letter from his father. Then\nhe braced himself, to hear what would be said; or, rather, he retired\nwithin himself, and, so to speak, shut the door and pulled down the\nblinds.\n\nIt was all said exactly as he knew it would be. Mr. Mackintosh touched\nupon a loving father's impatience, the son's youth and impetuosity, the\nshock to an ancient family, the responsibilities of membership in that\nfamily, the dangers of rash decisions, and, finally, the obvious errors\nof the Church of Rome. He began several sentences with the phrase: \"No\nthinking man at the present day ...\"\n\nIn fact, Mr. Mackintosh was, so soon as he had recovered from the first\nshock, extraordinarily sensible and reasonable. He said all the proper\nthings, all the sensible and reasonable and common-sense things, and he\nsaid them, not offensively or contemptuously, but tactfully and\npersuasively. And he put into it the whole of his personality, such as\nit was. He even quoted St. Paul.\n\nHe perspired a little, gently, towards the end: so he took off his\nglasses and wiped them, looking, still with a smile, through kind,\nshort-sighted eyes, at this young man who sat so still. For Frank was so\nquiet that the Dean thought him already half persuaded. Then once more\nhe summed up, when his glasses were fixed again; he ran through his\narguments lightly and efficiently, and ended by a quiet little\nassumption that Frank was going to be reasonable, to write to his father\nonce more, and to wait at least a week. He even called him \"my dear\nboy!\"\n\n\"Thanks very much,\" said Frank.\n\n\"Then you'll think it over quietly, my dear boy. Come and talk to me\nagain. I've given you your _exeat_, but you needn't use it. Come in\nto-morrow evening after hall.\"\n\nFrank stood up.\n\n\"Thanks, very much, Mr. Mackintosh. I'll ... I'll certainly remember\nwhat you've said.\" He took up his _exeat_ as if mechanically.\n\n\"Then you can leave that for the present,\" smiled the Dean, pointing at\nit. \"I can write you another, you know.\"\n\nFrank put it down quickly.\n\n\"Oh, certainly!\" he said.\n\n\"Well, good-night, Mr. Guiseley.... I ... I can't tell you how glad I am\nthat you confided in me. Young men are a little unwise and impetuous\nsometimes, you know. Good-night ... good-night. I shall expect you\nto-morrow.\"\n\nWhen Frank reached the court below he stood waiting a moment. Then a\nlarge smile broke out on his face, and he hurried across to a passage\nopposite, found a friend's door open, and rushed in. The room was empty.\nHe flew across to the window and crouched down, peeping over the sill at\nthe opening on the other side of the court leading to Mr. Mackintosh's\nstaircase.\n\nHe was rewarded almost instantly. Even as he settled himself on the\nwindow seat a black figure, with gown ballooning behind, hurried out and\nwhisked through the archway leading towards the street. He gave him\ntwenty seconds, and then ran out himself, and went in pursuit. Half-way\nup the lane he sighted him once more, and, following cautiously on\ntiptoe, with a handkerchief up to his face, was in time to behold Mr.\nMackintosh disappear into the little telegraph office on the left of\nTrinity Street.\n\n\"That settles it, then,\" observed Frank, almost aloud. \"Poor Jack--I'm\nafraid I shan't be able to breakfast with him after all!\"\n\n\n(IV)\n\nIt was a little after four o'clock on the following morning that a\npoliceman, pacing with slow, flat feet along the little lane that leads\nfrom Trinity Hall to Trinity College, yawning as he went, and entirely\nunconscious of the divine morning air, bright as wine and clear as\nwater, beheld a remarkable spectacle.\n\nThere first appeared, suddenly tossed on to the spikes that top the gate\nthat guards the hostel, a species of pad that hung over on both sides of\nthe formidable array of points. Upon this, more cautiously, was placed\nby invisible hands a very old saddle without any stirrups.\n\nThe policeman stepped back a little, and flattened\nhimself--comparatively speaking--against the outer wall of the hostel\nitself. There followed a silence.\n\nSuddenly, without any warning, a heavy body, discernible a moment later\nas a small carpet-bag, filled to bursting, fell abruptly on to the\npavement; and, again, a moment later, two capable-looking hands made\ntheir appearance, grasping with extreme care the central rod on which\nthe spikes were supposed to revolve, on either side of the saddle.\n\nStill the policeman did not make any sign; he only sidled a step or two\nnearer and stood waiting.\n\nWhen he looked up again, a young gentleman, in flannel trousers, gray\njacket, boots, and an old deerstalker, was seated astride of the saddle,\nwith his back to the observer. There was a pause while the rider looked\nto this side and that; and then, with a sudden movement, he had dropped\nclear of the wall, and come down on feet and hands to the pavement.\n\n\"Good morning, officer!\" said the young gentleman, rising and dusting\nhis hands, \"it's all right. Like to see my _exeat_? Or perhaps half a\ncrown--\"\n\n\n(V)\n\nAbout six o'clock in the morning, Jack Kirkby awoke suddenly in his\nbedroom in Jesus Lane.\n\nThis was very unusual, and he wondered what it was all about. He thought\nof Frank almost instantly, with a jerk, and after looking at his watch,\nvery properly turned over and tried to go to sleep again. But the\nattempt was useless; there were far too many things to think about; and\nhe framed so many speeches to be delivered with convincing force at\nbreakfast to his misguided friend, that by seven o'clock he made up his\nmind that he would get up, go and take Frank to bathe, and have\nbreakfast with him at half-past eight instead of nine. He would have\nlonger time, too, for his speeches. He got out of bed and pulled up his\nblind, and the sight of the towers of Sidney Sussex College, gilded with\nsunshine, determined him finally.\n\nWhen you go to bathe before breakfast at Cambridge you naturally put on\nas few clothes as possible and do not--even if you do so at other\ntimes--say your prayers. So Jack put on a sweater, trousers, socks,\ncanvas shoes, and a blazer, and went immediately down the\noilcloth-covered stairs. As he undid the door he noticed a white thing\nlying beneath it, and took it up. It was a note addressed to himself in\nFrank's handwriting; and there, standing on the steps, he read it\nthrough; and his heart turned suddenly sick.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is all the difference in the world between knowing that a\ncatastrophe is going to happen, and knowing that it has happened. Jack\nknew--at least, with all his reasonable part--that Frank was going to\nleave Cambridge in the preposterous manner described, after breakfast\nwith himself; and it was partly because of this very knowledge that he\nhad got up earlier in order to have an extra hour with Frank before the\nfinal severance came. Yet there was something in him--the same thing\nthat had urged him to rehearse little speeches in bed just now--that\ntold him that until it had actually happened, it had not happened, and,\njust conceivably, might not happen after all. And he had had no idea how\nstrong this hopeful strain had been in him--nor, for that matter, how\nvery deeply and almost romantically he was attached to Frank--until he\nfelt his throat hammering and his head becoming stupid, as he read the\nterse little note in the fresh morning air of Jesus Lane.\n\nIt ran as follows:\n\n     \"DEAR JACK,\n\n     \"It's no good, and I'm off early! That ass Mackintosh went and\n     wired to my people directly I left him. I tracked him down. And\n     there'll be the devil to pay unless I clear out. So I can't\n     come to breakfast. Sorry.\n\n                                   \"Yours,\n                                       \"F.G.\n\n     \"P.S.--By the way, you might as well go round to the little man\n     and try to keep him quiet. Tell him it'll make a scandal for\n     Trinity College, Cambridge, if he makes a fuss. That'll stop\n     him, perhaps. And you might try to rescue my saddle from the\n     porter. He's probably got it by now.\"\n\nThree minutes later a figure in a sweater, gray trousers, canvas shoes,\nThird Trinity blazer and no cap, stood, very inarticulate with\nbreathlessness, at the door of the Senior Dean's rooms, demanding of a\nscandalized bed-maker to see the official in question.\n\n\"'E's in his barth, sir!\" expostulated the old woman.\n\n\"Then he must come out of it!\" panted Jack.\n\n\"--That is, if 'e's out o' bed.\"\n\n\"Then he can stop in it, if he isn't.... I tell you--\"\n\nJack gave up arguing. He took the old lady firmly by the shoulders, and\nplaced her in the doorway of the audience-room; then he was up the inner\nstairs in three strides, through the sitting-room, and was tapping at\nthe door of the bedroom. A faint sound of splashing ceased.\n\n\"Who's there? Don't--\"\n\n\"It's me, sir--Kirkby! I'm sorry to disturb you, but--\"\n\n\"Don't come in!\" cried an agitated voice, with a renewed sound of water,\nas if someone had hastily scrambled out of the bath.\n\nJack cautiously turned the handle and opened the door a crack. A cry of\ndismay answered his move, followed by a tremendous commotion and\nswishing of linen.\n\n\"I'm coming in, sir,\" said Jack, struggling between agitation and\nlaughter. It was obvious from the sounds that the clergyman had got into\nbed again, wet, and as God made him. There was no answer, and Jack\npushed the door wider and went in.\n\nIt was as he had thought. His unwilling host had climbed back into bed\nas hastily as possible, and the bed-clothes, wildly disordered, were\ngathered round his person. A face, with wet hair, looking very odd and\nchildlike without his glasses, regarded him with the look of one who\nsees sacrilege done. A long flannel nightgown lay on the ground between\nthe steaming bath and the bed, and a quantity of water lay about on the\nfloor, in footprints and otherwise.\n\n\"May I ask what is the meaning of this disgraceful--\"\n\n\"I'm sorry, sir,\" said Jack briefly, \"but Frank Guiseley's bolted. I've\njust found this note.\" It did not occur to him, as he handed the note to\na bare arm, coyly protruded from the tangled bed-clothes, that this very\nofficer of the college was referred to in it as \"that ass\" and \"the\nlittle man.\" ... All his attention, not occupied with Frank, was fixed\non the surprising new discovery that deans had bodies and used real\nbaths like other people. Somehow that had never occurred to him he had\nnever imagined them except in smooth, black clothes and white linen. His\ndiscovery seemed to make Mr. Mackintosh more human, somehow.\n\nThe Dean read the note through as modestly as possible, holding it very\nclose to his nose, as his glasses were unattainable, with an arm of\nwhich not more than the wrist appeared. He swallowed in his throat once\nor twice, and seemed to taste something with his lips, as his manner\nwas.\n\n\"This is terrible!\" said the Dean. \"Had you any idea--\"\n\n\"I knew he was going some time to-day,\" said Jack, \"and understood that\nyou knew too.\"\n\n\"But I had no idea--\"\n\n\"You did telegraph, didn't you, sir?\"\n\n\"I certainly telegraphed. Yes; to Lord Talgarth. It was my duty. But--\"\n\n\"Well; he spotted it. That's all. And now he's gone. What's to be done?\"\n\nMr. Mackintosh considered a moment or two. Jack made an impatient\nmovement.\n\n\"I must telegraph again,\" said the Dean, with the air of one who has\nexhausted the resources of civilization.\n\n\"But, good Lord! sir--\"\n\n\"Yes. I must telegraph again. As soon as I'm dressed. Or perhaps you\nwould--\"\n\n\"Office doesn't open till eight. That's no good. He'll be miles away by\nthen.\"\n\n\"It's the only thing to be done,\" said the Dean with sudden energy. \"I\nforbid you to take any other steps, Mr. Kirkby. I am responsible--\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"We must not make a scandal.... What else did you propose?\"\n\n\"Why--fifty things. Motor-cars; police--\"\n\n\"Certainly not. We must make no scandal as he ... as he very properly\nsays.\" (The Dean swallowed in his throat again. Jack thought afterwards\nthat it must have been the memory of certain other phrases in the\nletter.) \"So if you will be good enough to leave me instantly, Mr.\nKirkby, I will finish my dressing and deal with the matter.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJack wheeled and went out of the room.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was a miserable breakfast to which he sat down half an hour\nlater--still in flannels, and without his bath. Frank's place was laid,\nin accordance with the instructions he had given his landlady last\nnight, and he had not the heart to push the things aside. There were\nsoles for two, and four boiled eggs; there was coffee and marmalade and\ntoast and rolls and fruit; and the comfortable appearance of the table\nsimply mocked him.\n\nHe had had very confused ideas just now as to what was possible with\nregard to the pursuit of Frank; a general vision of twenty motor-cars,\neach with a keen-eyed chauffeur and an observant policeman, was all\nthat had presented itself to his imagination; but he had begun to\nrealize by now that you cannot, after all, abduct a young man who has\ncommitted no crime, and carry him back unwillingly, even to Cambridge!\nNeither the Dean of Trinity nor a father possesses quite unlimited power\nover the freedom of a pupil and a son. And, after all, Frank had only\ntaken his father at his word!\n\nThese reflections, however, did not improve the situation. He felt quite\ncertain, in theory, that something more could be done than feebly to\nsend another telegram or two; the only difficulty was to identify that\nsomething. He had vague ideas, himself, of hiring a motor-car by the\nday, and proceeding to scour the country round Cambridge. But even this\ndid not stand scrutiny. If he had failed to persuade Frank to remain in\nCambridge, it was improbable that he could succeed in persuading him to\nreturn--even if he found him. About eight important roads run out of\nCambridge, and he had not a glimmer of an idea as to which of these he\nhad taken. It was possible, even, that he had not taken any of them, and\nwas walking across country. That would be quite characteristic of Frank.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe finished breakfast dismally, and blew through an empty pipe, staring\nlackadaisically out of the window at the wall of Sidney Sussex for two\nor three minutes before lighting up. Cambridge seemed an extraordinary\nflat and stupid place now that Frank was no longer within it. Really\nthere was nothing particular to do. It had become almost a regular\nengagement for him to step round to the Great Court about eleven, and\nsee what was to be done. Sometimes Frank wanted lawn-tennis--sometimes a\ncanoe on the Backs--at any rate, they would either lunch or dine\ntogether. And if they didn't--well, at any rate, Frank was there!\n\nHe tried to picture to himself what Frank was doing; he had visions of a\nsunlit road running across a fen, with a figure tramping up it; of a\nlittle wayside inn, and Frank drinking beer in the shade. But it seemed\nan amazing waste of company that the figure should always be alone. Why\nhadn't he proposed to go with him himself? He didn't know; except, that\nit certainly would not have been accepted. And yet they could have had\nquite a pleasant time for a couple of months; and, after a couple of\nmonths, surely Frank would have had enough of it!\n\nBut, again--would he?... Frank seemed really in earnest about making his\nliving permanently; and when Frank said that he was going do a thing, he\nusually did it! And Jack Kirkby did not see himself leaving his own\nmother and sisters indefinitely until Frank had learned not to be a\nfool.\n\nHe lit his pipe at last; and then remembered the commission with regard\nto the saddle--whatever that might mean. He would stroll round presently\nand talk to the porter about it ... Yes, he would go at once; and he\nwould just look in at Frank's rooms again. There was the hammock to\nfetch, too.\n\nBut it was a dreary little visit. He went round as he was, his hands\ndeep in his pockets, trying to whistle between his teeth and smoke\nsimultaneously; and he had to hold his pipe in his hand out of respect\nfor rules, as he conversed with the stately Mr. Hoppett in Trinity\ngateway. Mr. Hoppett knew nothing about any saddle--at least, not for\npublic communication--but his air of deep and diplomatic suspiciousness\nbelied his words.\n\n\"It's all right,\" said Jack pleasantly, \"I had nothing to do with the\nelopement. The Dean knows all about it.\"\n\n\"I know nothing about that, sir,\" said Mr. Hoppett judicially.\n\n\"Then you've not got the saddle?\"\n\n\"I have not, sir.\"\n\nFrank's outer door was open as Jack came to the familiar staircase, and\nhis heart leaped in spite of himself, as he peered in and heard\nfootsteps in the bedroom beyond. But it was the bed-maker with a mop,\nand a disapproving countenance, who looked out presently.\n\n\"He's gone, Mrs. Jillings,\" said Jack.\n\nMrs. Jillings sniffed. She had heard tales of the auction and thought it\na very improper thing for so pleasant a young gentleman to do.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"There isn't a saddle here, is there?\"\n\n\"Saddle, sir? No, sir. What should there be a saddle here for?\"\n\n\"Oh, well,\" said Jack vaguely. \"I've come to fetch away the hammock,\nanyhow.\"\n\nCertainly the rooms looked desolate. Even the carpets were gone, and the\nunstained boards in the middle seemed suggestive of peculiar dreariness.\nIt was really very difficult to believe that these were the rooms where\nhe and Frank had had such pleasant times--little friendly\nbridge-parties, and dinners, and absurd theatricals, in which Frank had\nsustained, with extreme rapidity, with the aid of hardly any properties\nexcept a rouge-pot, a burnt cork and three or four wisps of hair of\nvarious shades, the part of almost any eminent authority in the\nUniversity of Cambridge that you cared to name. There were long\nhistories, invented by Frank himself, of the darker sides of the lives\nof the more respectable members of the Senate--histories that grew, like\nlegends, term by term--in which the most desperate deeds were done. The\nMaster of Trinity, for example, in these Sagas, would pass through\nextraordinary love adventures, or discover the North Pole, or give a\nlecture, with practical examples, of the art of flying; the Provost of\nKing's would conspire with the President of Queen's College, to murder\nthe Vice-Chancellor and usurp his dignities. And these histories would\nbe enacted with astonishing realism, chiefly by Frank himself, with the\nhelp of a zealous friend or two who were content to obey.\n\nAnd these were all over now; and that was the very door through which\nthe Vice-Chancellor was accustomed to escape from his assassins!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJack sighed again; passed through, picked up the parcel of clothes that\nlay in the window-seat, unhitched the hammock in which Frank had slept\nlast night (he noticed the ends of three cigarettes placed on the cover\nof a convenient biscuit-tin), and went off resembling a _retiarius_.\nMrs. Jillings sniffed again as she looked after him up the court. She\ndidn't understand those young gentlemen at all; and frequently said so.\n\n\n(VI)\n\nAt half-past six o'clock that morning--about the time that Jack awoke in\nCambridge--John Harris, laborer, emerged, very sleepy and frowsy--for he\nhad sat up late last night at the \"Spotted Dog\"--from the door of a\nsmall cottage on the Ely road, in the middle of Grunty Fen. He looked\nthis way and that, wondering whether it were as late as his\nkitchen-clock informed him, and observing the sun, that hung now\nlamentably high up in that enormous dome of summer sky that sat on the\nfenland like a dish-cover on a dish. And as he turned southwards he\nbecame aware of a young gentleman carrying a carpet-bag in one hand, and\na gray jacket over his other arm, coming up to him, not twenty yards\naway. As he came nearer, Mr. Harris noticed that his face was badly\nbruised as by a blow.\n\n\"Good morning,\" said the young gentleman. \"Hot work.\"\n\nJohn Harris made some observation.\n\n\"I want some work to do,\" said the young gentleman, disregarding the\nobservation. \"I'm willing and capable. Do you know of any? I mean, work\nthat I shall be paid for. Or perhaps some breakfast would do as a\nbeginning.\"\n\nJohn Harris regarded the young gentleman in silence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n(I)\n\nMerefield Court, as every tourist knows may be viewed from ten to five\non Tuesdays and Thursdays, when the family are not in residence, and on\nTuesdays only, from two to four, when they are. It is unnecessary,\ntherefore, to describe it very closely.\n\nIt stands very nearly on the top of a hill, protected by woods from the\nnorth winds of Yorkshire; and its towers and pinnacles can be seen from\nten miles away down the valley. It is built, architecturally considered,\nin the form of an irregular triangular court--quite unique--with the old\nbarbican at the lower end; the chapel wing directly opposite; the ruins\nof the old castle on the left, keep and all, and the new house that is\nactually lived in on the right. It is of every conceivable date (the\nhousekeeper will supply details) from the British mound on which the\nkeep stands, to the Georgian smoking-room built by the grandfather of\nthe present earl; but the main body of the house, with which we are\nprincipally concerned--the long gray pile facing south down to the\nlake, and northwards into the court--is Jacobean down to the smallest\ndetail, and extremely good at that. It was on the end of this that the\nthirteenth earl the fifteenth baron and the fourteenth viscount (one\nman, not three) thought it proper to build on a Palladian kind of\nsmoking-room of red sandstone, brought at enormous cost from half across\nEngland. Fortunately, however, ivy has since covered the greater part of\nits exterior.\n\nIt was in this room--also used as a billiard-room--that Archie Guiseley\n(Viscount Merefield), and Dick Guiseley, his first cousin, first heard\nthe news of Frank's intentions.\n\nThey were both dressed for dinner, and were knocking the balls about for\nten minutes, waiting for the gong, and they were talking in that\nincoherent way characteristic of billiard-players.\n\n\"The governor's not very well again,\" observed Archie, \"and the doctor\nwon't let him go up to town. That's why we're here.\"\n\nDick missed a difficult cannon (he had only arrived from town himself by\nthe 6.17), and began to chalk his cue very carefully.\n\n\"There's nothing whatever to do,\" continued Archie, \"so I warn you.\"\n\nDick opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, pursing it up\nprecisely as once more he addressed himself to the balls, and this time\nbrought off a really brilliant stroke.\n\n\"And he's in a terrible way about Frank,\" continued the other. \"You've\nheard all about that?\"\n\nDick nodded.\n\n\"And he swears he won't have him home again, and that he can go to the\ndevil.\"\n\nDick arched his eyebrows interrogatively.\n\n\"Of course, he doesn't mean it.... But the gout, you know, and all\nthat.... I think Frank had better keep out of the way, though, for a\nbit. Oh! by the way, the Rector and Jenny are coming to dinner.\"\n\n\"What does Jenny say to it all?\" asked Dick gently.\n\n\"Oh! Jenny laughs.\"\n\nThese two young men--for Archie was only twenty-five, and Dick a year or\ntwo older--were quite remarkably like one another in manner and general\nbearing. Each, though their faces were entirely different, wore that\nsame particular form of mask that is fashionable just now. Each had a\nlook in his eyes as if the blinds were down--rather insolent and yet\nrather pleasant. Each moved in the same kind of way, slow and\ndeliberate; each spoke quietly on rather a low note, and used as few\nwords as possible. Each, just now, wore a short braided dinner-jacket of\nprecisely the same cut.\n\nFor the rest, they were quite unlike. Archie was clean-shaven, of a\nmedium sort of complexion, with a big chin and rather loosely built;\nDick wore a small, pointed brown beard, and was neat and alert. Neither\nof them did anything particular in the world. Archie was more or less\ntied to his father, except in the autumn--for Archie drew the line at\nHomburg, and went about for short visits, returning continually to look\nafter the estate; Dick lived in a flat in town on six hundred a year,\nallowed him by his mother, and was supposed to be a sort of solicitor.\nThey saw a good deal of one another, off and on, and got on together\nrather better than most brothers; certainly better than did Archie and\nFrank. It was thought a pity by a good many people that they were only\ncousins.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThen, as they gossiped gently, the door suddenly opened and a girl came\nin.\n\nShe was a very striking girl indeed, and her beauty was increased just\nnow by obvious excitement held well in check. She was tall and very\nfair, and carried herself superbly, looking taller than she really was.\nHer eyes, particularly bright just now, were of a vivid blue, wide-open\nand well set in her face; her mouth was strong and sensible; and there\nwas a glorious air of breeziness and health about her altogether. She\nwas in evening dress, and wore a light cloak over her white shoulders.\n\n\"I'm sorry to interrupt,\" she said--\"Oh! good evening, Mr. Dick!--but\nthere's something wrong. Clarkson ran out to tell us that Lord\nTalgarth--it's a telegram or something. Father sent me to tell you.\"\n\nArchie looked at her a second; then he was gone, swiftly, but not\nhurriedly. The girl turned to Dick.\n\n\"I'm afraid it's something about Frank,\" she said. \"I heard Clarkson\nmention his name to father. Is there any more news?\"\n\nDick laid down his cue across the table.\n\n\"I only came an hour ago,\" he said. \"Archie was telling me just now.\"\n\nJenny went across to the deep chair on the hearth, threw off her cloak\nand sat down.\n\n\"Lord Talgarth's--well--if he was my father I should say he was in a\npassion. I heard his voice.\" She smiled a little.\n\nDick leaned against the table, looking at her.\n\n\"Poor Frank!\" he said.\n\nShe smiled again, more freely.\n\n\"Yes ... poor, dear Frank! He's always in hot water, isn't he?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it's serious this time,\" observed Dick. \"What did he want to\nbecome a Catholic for?\"\n\n\"Oh, Frank's always unexpected!\"\n\n\"Yes, I know; but this happens to be just the one very thing--\"\n\nShe looked at him humorously.\n\n\"Do you know, I'd no notion that Lord Talgarth was so deeply religious\nuntil Frank became a Catholic.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know,\" said Dick. \"But it is just his one obsession. Frank must\nhave known that.\"\n\n\"And I've not the slightest doubt,\" said Jenny, \"that that was an\nadditional reason for his doing it.\"\n\n\"Well, what'll happen?\"\n\nShe jerked her head a little.\n\n\"Oh! it'll pass off. You'll see. Frank'll find out, and then we shall\nall be happy ever afterwards.\"\n\n\"But meantime?\"\n\n\"Oh! Frank'll go and stay with friends a month or two. I daresay he'll\ncome to the Kirkbys', and I can go and see him.\"\n\n\"Suppose he does something violent? He's quite capable of it.\"\n\n\"Oh! I shall talk to him. It'll be all right. I'm very sensible indeed,\nyou know. All my friends tell me that.\"\n\nDick was silent.\n\n\"Don't you think so?\"\n\n\"Think what?\"\n\n\"That I'm very sensible.\"\n\nDick made a little movement with his head.\n\n\"Oh! I suppose so. Yes, I daresay.... And suppose my uncle cuts him off\nwith a shilling? He's quite capable of it. He's a very heavy father, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"He won't. I shall talk to him too.\"\n\n\"Yes; but suppose he does?\"\n\nShe threw him a swift glance.\n\n\"Frank'll put the shilling on his watch-chain, after it's been shown\nwith all the other wedding-presents. What are you going to give me, Mr.\nDick?\"\n\n\"I shall design a piece of emblematic jewelry,\" said Dick very gravely.\n\"When's the wedding to be?\"\n\n\"Well, we hadn't settled. Lord Talgarth wouldn't make up his mind. I\nsuppose next summer some time.\"\n\n\"Miss Jenny--\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Tell me--quite seriously--what you'd do if there was a real row--a\npermanent one, I mean--between Frank and my uncle?\"\n\n\"Dear Mr. Dick--don't talk so absurdly. I tell you there's not going to\nbe a row. I'm going to see to that myself.\"\n\n\"But suppose there was?\"\n\nJenny stood up abruptly.\n\n\"I tell you I'm a very sensible person, and I'm not going to imagine\nabsurdities. What do you want me to say? Do you want me to strike an\nattitude and talk about love in a cottage?\"\n\n\"Well, that would be one answer.\"\n\n\"Very well, then. That'll do, won't it? You can take it as said.... I'm\ngoing to see what's happening.\"\n\nBut as she went to the door there came footsteps and voices outside; and\nthe next moment the door opened suddenly, and Lord Talgarth, followed by\nhis son and the Rector, burst into the room.\n\n\n(II)\n\nI am very sorry to have to say it, but the thirteenth Earl of Talgarth\nwas exactly like a man in a book--and not a very good book. His\ncharacter was, so to speak, cut out of cardboard--stiff cardboard, and\nhighly colored, with gilt edges showing here and there. He also, as has\nbeen said, resembled a nobleman on the stage of the Adelphi. He had a\nhandsome inflamed face, with an aquiline nose and white eyebrows that\nmoved up and down, and all the other things; he was stout and tall,\nsuffered from the gout, and carried with him in the house a black stick\nwith an india-rubber pad on the end. There were no shades about him at\nall. Construct a conventionally theatrical heavy father, of noble\nfamily, and you have Lord Talgarth to the life. There really are people\nlike this in the world--of whom, too, one can prophesy, with tolerable\ncertainty, how they will behave in any given situation.\n\nCertainly, Lord Talgarth was behaving in character now. He had received\nmeek Mr. Mackintosh's deferential telegram, occupying several sheets,\ninforming him that his son had held an auction of all his belongings,\nand had proposed to take to the roads; asking, also, for instructions as\nto how to deal with him. And the hint of defiant obstinacy on the part\nof Frank--the fact, indeed, that he had taken his father at his\nword--had thrown that father into a yet more violent fit of passion.\nJenny had heard him spluttering and exclamatory with anger as she came\ninto the hall (the telegram had but that instant been put into his\nhands), and even now the footmen, still a little pale, were exchanging\nwinks in the hall outside; while Clarkson, his valet, and the butler\nstood in high and subdued conference a little way off.\n\nWhat Lord Talgarth would really have wished was that Frank should have\nwritten to him a submissive--even though a disobedient--letter, telling\nhim that he could not forego his convictions, and preparing to assume\nthe _role_ of a Christian martyr. For he could have sneered at this, and\nafter suitable discipline forgiven its writer more or less. Of course,\nhe had never intended for one instant that his threats should really be\ncarried out; but the situation--to one of Lord Talgarth's\ntemperament--demanded that the threats should be made, and that Frank\nshould pretend to be crushed by them. That the boy should have behaved\nlike this brought a reality of passion into the affair--disconcerting\nand infuriating--as if an actor should find his enemy on the stage was\narmed with a real sword. There was but one possibility left--which Lord\nTalgarth instinctively rather than consciously grasped at--namely, that\nan increased fury on his part should once more bring realities back\nagain to a melodramatic level, and leave himself, as father, master both\nof the situation and of his most disconcerting son. Frank had behaved\nlike this in minor matters once or twice before, and Lord Talgarth had\nalways come off victor. After all, he commanded all the accessories.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the speeches had been made--Frank cut off with a shilling, driven\nto the Colonies, brought back again, and finally starved to death at his\nfather's gates--Lord Talgarth found himself in a chair, with Jenny\nseated opposite, and the rest of the company gone to dinner. He did not\nquite realize how it had all been brought about, nor by whose\narrangement it was that a plate of soup and some fish were to come\npresently, and Jenny and he to dine together.\n\nHe pulled himself together a little, however, and began to use phrases\nagain about his \"graceless son,\" and \"the young villain,\" and \"not a\npenny of his.\" (He was, of course, genuinely angry; that must be\nunderstood.)\n\nThen Jenny began to talk.\n\n\"I think, you know,\" she said quietly, \"that you aren't going the right\nway to work. (It's very impertinent of me, isn't it?--but you did say\njust now you wanted to hear what I thought.)\"\n\n\"Of course I do; of course I do. You're a sensible girl, my dear. I've\nalways said that. But as for this young--\"\n\n\"Well, let me say what I think. (Yes, put the soup down here, will you.\nIs that right, Lord Talgarth?).\" She waited till the man was gone again\nand the old man had taken up his spoon. Then she took up her own. \"Well,\nI think what you've done is exactly the thing to make Frank more\nobstinate than ever. You see, I know him very well. Now, if you'd only\nlaughed at him and patted his head, so to speak, from the beginning, and\ntold him you thought it an excellent thing for a boy of his character,\nwho wants looking after--\"\n\nLord Talgarth glared at her. He was still breathing rather heavily, and\nwas making something of a noise over his soup.\n\n\"But how can I say that, when I think--\"\n\n\"Oh! you can't say it now, of course; it's too late. No; that would\nnever do. You must keep it up--only you mustn't be really angry. Why not\ntry a little cold severity?\"\n\nShe looked so charming and humorous that the old man began to melt a\nlittle. He glanced up at her once or twice under his heavy eyebrows.\n\n\"I wonder what you'll do,\" he said with a kind of gruffness, \"when you\nfind you've got to marry a pauper?\"\n\n\"I shan't have to marry a pauper,\" said Jenny. \"That wouldn't do\neither.\"\n\n\"Oh! you're counting on that eight hundred a year still, are you?\"\n\nJenny allowed a little coldness to appear on her face. Rude banter was\nall very well, but it mustn't go too far. (Secretly she allowed to\nherself sometimes that this old man had elements of the cad in his\ncharacter.)\n\n\"That's entirely my own affair,\" she said, \"and Frank's.\"\n\nLord Talgarth blazed up a little.\n\n\"And the eight hundred a year is mine,\" he said.\n\nJenny laid down her spoon as the servant reappeared with the fish and\nthe menu-card. He came very opportunely. And while her host was\nconsidering what he would eat next, she was pondering her next move.\n\nJenny, as has been said, was an exceedingly sensible girl. She had grown\nup in the Rectory, down at the park gates; and since her mother's death,\nthree years previously, had managed her father's house, including her\nfather, with great success. She had begun to extend her influence, for\nthe last year or two, even over the formidable lord of the manor\nhimself, and, as has been seen, was engaged to his son. Her judgment was\nusually very sound and very sane, and the two men, with the Rector, had\nbeen perfectly right just now in leaving the old man to her care for an\nhour or so. If anything could quiet him it would be this girl. She was\nquite fearless, quite dignified, and quite able to hold her own. And her\nfather perceived that she rather enjoyed it.\n\nWhen the man had gone out again, she resumed:\n\n\"Well, let's leave it,\" she said, \"for a day or two. There's no hurry,\nand--\"\n\n\"But I must answer this--this telegram,\" he growled. \"What am I to say\nto the feller?\"\n\n\"Tell him to follow his discretion, and that you have complete\nconfidence--\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"Yes; I know you haven't, really. But it'll do no harm, and it'll make\nhim feel important.\"\n\n\"And what if the boy does take to the roads?\"\n\n\"Let him,\" said Jenny coolly. \"It won't kill him.\"\n\nHe looked up at her again in silence.\n\nJenny herself was very far from comfortable, though she was conscious of\nreal pleasure, too, in the situation. She had seen this old man in a\npassion pretty often, but she had never seen him in a passion with any\nreal excuse. No one ever thwarted him. He even decided where his doctor\nshould send him for his cure, and in what month, and for how long. And\nshe was not, therefore, quite certain what would happen, for she knew\nFrank well enough to be quite sure that he meant what he said. However,\nshe reflected, the main thing at present was to smooth things down all\nround as far as possible. Then she could judge.\n\n\"Can't make out why you ever consented to marry such a chap at all!\" he\ngrowled presently.\n\n\"Oh, well--\" said Jenny.\n\n\n(III)\n\nIt was a delicious evening, and the three men, after dinner, strolled\nout on to the broad terrace that ran, looking over the lake, straight up\nand down the long side of the house. They had not had the advantage,\nsince the servants were in the room, of talking over the situation as\nthey wished, and there was no knowing when Lord Talgarth and Jenny might\nemerge. So they sat down at a little stone table at the end furthest\nfrom the smoking-room, and Archie and Dick lit their cigarettes.\n\nThere is not a great deal to say about the Rector. The most effective\nfact about him was that he was the father of Jenny. It was a case, here,\nof \"Averill following Averill\": his father and grandfather, both second\nsons, as was the Rector himself, had held the living before him, and had\nperformed the duties of it in the traditional and perfectly respectable\nway. This one was a quiet middle-aged man, clean-shaven except for two\nsmall whiskers. He wore a white tie, and a small gold stud was visible\nin the long slit of his white shirt-front. He was on very easy terms in\nthis house, in an unintimate manner, and dined here once a fortnight or\nso, without saying or hearing anything of particular interest. He had\nbeen secretly delighted at his daughter's engagement, and had given his\nconsent with gentle and reserved cordiality. He was a Tory, not exactly\nby choice, but simply--for the same reason as he was Church of\nEngland--because he was unable, in the fiber of him, to imagine anything\nelse. Of course, Lord Talgarth was the principal personage in his world,\nsimply because he was Lord Talgarth and owned practically the whole\nparish and two-thirds of the next. He regarded his daughter with the\ngreatest respect, and left in her hands everything that he decently\ncould. And, to do her justice, Jenny was a very benevolent, as well as\ncapable, despot. In short, the Rector plays no great part in this drama\nbeyond that of a discreet, and mostly silent, Greek chorus of\nunimpeachable character. He disapproved deeply, of course, of Frank's\nchange of religion--but he disapproved with that same part of him that\nappreciated Lord Talgarth. It seemed to him that Catholicism, in his\ndaughter's future husband, was a defect of the same kind as would be a\nwooden leg or an unpleasant habit of sniffing--a drawback, yet not\ninsuperable. He would be considerably relieved if it could be cured.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe three men sat there for some while without interruption from the\nsmoking-room, while the evening breeze died, the rosy sky paled, and the\nstars came out one by one, like diamonds in the clear blue. They said,\nof course, all the proper things, and Dick heard a little more than he\nhad previously known.\n\nDick was always conscious of a faint, almost impersonal, resentment\nagainst destiny when he stayed at Merefield. It was obvious to him that\nthe position of heir there was one which would exactly have suited his\ntastes and temperament. He was extremely pleased to belong to the\nfamily--and it was, indeed, a very exceptional family as regards\nhistory: it had been represented in nearly every catastrophe since the\nNorman Conquest, and always on the winning side, except once--but it was\ndifficult to enjoy the distinction as it deserved, living, as he did, in\na flat in London all by himself. When his name was mentioned to a\nwell-informed stranger, it was always greeted by the question as to\nwhether he was one of the Guiseleys of Merefield, and it seemed to him\nsingularly annoying that he could only answer \"First cousin.\" Archie, of\ncourse, was a satisfactory heir; there was no question of that--he was\ncompletely of Dick's own school of manner--but it seemed a kind of\noutrage that Frank, with his violent convictions and his escapades,\nshould be Archie's only brother. There was little of that repose about\nhim that a Guiseley needed.\n\nIt would be about half-past nine that the sound of an opening door, and\nvoices, from the further end of the terrace, told them that the\nsmoking-room conference was over, and they stood up as Jenny, very\nupright and pale in the twilight, with her host at her side, came up\ntowards them. Dick noticed that the cigar his uncle carried was smoked\ndown almost to the butt, and augured well from that detail. The old\nman's arm was in the girl's, and he supported himself on the other side,\nlimping a little, on his black stick.\n\nHe sat down with a grunt and laid his stick across the table.\n\n\"Well, boys, we've settled it,\" he said. \"Jenny's to write the\ntelegram.\"\n\n\"No one need be anxious any more,\" announced Jenny imperturbably. \"Lord\nTalgarth's extremely angry still, as he has every right to be, and\nFrank's going to be allowed to go on the tramp if he wants to.\"\n\nThe Rector waited, in deferential silence, for corroboration.\n\n\"Jenny's a very sensible girl,\" observed Lord Talgarth. \"And what she\nsays is quite right.\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say--\" began Archie.\n\nThe old man frowned round at him.\n\n\"All that I've said holds good,\" he said.\n\n\"Frank's made his bed and he must lie on it. I warned him. And Jenny\nsees that, too.\"\n\nArchie glanced at the girl, and Dick looked hard at her, straight into\nher face. But there was absolutely no sign there of any perturbation.\nCertainly she looked white in the falling dusk, but her eyes were merry\nand steadfast, and her voice perfectly natural.\n\n\"That's how we've settled it,\" she said. \"And if I'm satisfied, I\nimagine everyone else ought to be. And I'm going to write Frank a good\nlong letter all by myself. Come along, father, we must be going. Lord\nTalgarth isn't well, and we mustn't keep him up.\"\n\n\n(IV)\n\nWhen the last game of billiards had been played, and whisky had been\ndrunk, and Archie had taken up his candle, Dick stood still, with his\nown in his hand.\n\n\"Aren't you coming?\" said Archie.\n\nDick paused.\n\n\"I think I'll smoke one more cigarette on the terrace,\" he said. \"It's a\nheavenly night, and I want to get the taste of the train out of my\nmouth.\"\n\n\"All right, then. Lock up, will you, when you come in? I'm off.\"\n\nIt was, indeed, a heavenly night. Behind him as he sat at the table\nwhere they had had coffee the great house shimmered pale in the summer\ntwilight, broken here by a line or two of yellow light behind shuttered\nwindows, here with the big oriel window of the hall, blazing with coats,\nfully illuminated. (He must remember, he thought, to put out the lights\nthere as he went to bed.)\n\nAnd about him was the great soft, sweet-smelling darkness, roofed in by\nthe far-off sky alight with stars; and beneath him in the valley he\ncould catch the glimmer of the big lake and the blotted masses of pine\nand cypress black against it.\n\nIt was here, then, under these circumstances, that Dick confessed to\nhimself, frankly and openly for the first time, that he was in love with\nJenny Launton.\n\nHe had known her for years, off and on, and had thought of her as a\npretty girl and a pleasant companion. He had skated with her, ridden\nwith her, danced with her, and had only understood, with a sense of mild\nshock, at the time of her engagement to Frank six months before, that\nshe was of an age to become a wife to someone.\n\nThat had been the beginning of a process which culminated to-night, as\nhe now understood perfectly. Its next step had been a vague wonder why\nArchie hadn't fallen in love with her himself; and he had explained it\nby saying that Archie had too great a sense of his own importance to\npermit himself to marry a rector's daughter with only a couple of\nhundred a year of her own. (And in this explanation I think he was quite\ncorrect.) Then he had begun to think of her himself a good\ndeal--dramatically, rather than realistically--wondering what it would\nfeel like to be engaged to her. If a younger son could marry her, surely\na first cousin could--even of the Guiseleys. So it had gone on, little\nby little. He had danced with her here at Christmas--just after the\nengagement--and had stayed on a week longer than he had intended. He had\ncome up again at Easter, and again at Whitsuntide, though he always\nprotested to his friends that there was nothing to do at Merefield in\nthe summer. And now here he was again, and the thing had happened.\n\nAt first, as he sat here, he tried to analyze his attitude to Frank.\n\nHe had never approved of Frank altogether; he didn't quite like the\nqueer kinds of things that Frank did; for Frank's reputation at\nMerefield was very much what it was at Cambridge. He did ridiculous and\nundignified things. As a small boy, he had fought at least three pitched\nbattles in the village, and that was not a proper thing for a Guiseley\nto do. He liked to go out with the keepers after poachers, and Dick,\nvery properly, asked himself what keepers were for except to do that\nkind of thing for you? There had been a bad row here, too, scarcely\neighteen months ago; it had been something to do with a horse that was\nill-treated, and Frank had cut a very absurd and ridiculous figure,\ngetting hot and angry, and finally thrashing a groom, or somebody, with\nhis own hands, and there had been uncomfortable talk about police-courts\nand actions for assault. Finally, he had fallen in love with, proposed\nto, and become engaged to, Jenny Launton. That was an improper thing for\na younger son to do, anyhow, at his age, and Dick now perceived that the\nfact that Jenny was Jenny aggravated the offense a hundredfold. And,\nlast of all, he had become a Catholic--an act of enthusiasm which seemed\nto Dick really vulgar.\n\nAltogether, then, Frank was not a satisfactory person, and it would do\nhim no harm to have a little real discipline at last....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was the striking of midnight from the stable clock that woke Dick up\nfrom his deep reverie, and was the occasion of his perceiving that he\nhad come to no conclusion about anything, except that Frank was an ass,\nthat Jenny was--well--Jenny, and that he, Dick, was an ill-used person.\n\nI do not like to set down here, even if I could, all the considerations\nthat had passed through Dick's mind since a quarter-past eleven, simply\nbecause the very statement of them would give a false impression. Dick\nwas not a knave, and he did not deceive himself about himself more than\nmost of us do. Yet he had considered a number of points that, strictly\nspeaking, he ought not to have considered. He had wondered whether Frank\nwould die; he had wondered whether, if he did not, Lord Talgarth would\nreally be as good as his word; and, if so, what effect that would have\non Jenny. Finally, he had wondered, with a good deal of intellectual\napplication, what exactly Jenny had meant when she had announced all\nthat about the telegram she was going to send in Lord Talgarth's name,\nand the letter she was going to send in her own. (He had asked Archie\njust now in the smoking-room, and he, too, had confessed himself beaten.\nOnly, he had been quite sure that jenny would get her way and obtain\nFrank's forgiveness.)\n\nAlso, in the course of his three-quarters of an hour he had considered,\nfor perhaps the hundredth time since he had come to the age of\ndiscretion, what exactly three lives between a man and a title stood\nfor. Lord Talgarth was old and gouty; Archie was not married, and showed\nno signs of it; and Frank--well, Frank was always adventurous and\nalways in trouble.\n\nWell, I have set down the points, after all. But it must not be thought\nthat the gentleman with the pointed brown beard and thoughtful eyes, who\nat five minutes past twelve went up the two steps into the smoking-room,\nlocked the doors, as he had been directed, took up his candle and went\nto bed, went with an uneasy conscience, or, in fact, was a villain in\nany way whatever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n(I)\n\nThe first spot in Frank's pilgrimage which I have been able to visit and\nidentify in such a way that I am able to form to myself a picture of his\nadventure more or less complete in all its parts, lies about ten miles\nnorth-west of Doncaster, in a little valley, where curiously enough\nanother pilgrim named Richard lived for a little while nearly six\nhundred years ago.\n\nUp to the time of Frank's coming there, in the season of hay-making,\nnumberless little incidents of his experience stand out, vivid, indeed,\nbut fragmentary, yet they do not form to my mind a coherent whole. I\nthink I understand to some extent the process by which he became\naccustomed to ordinary physical hard living, into which the initiation\nbegan with his series of almost wholly sleepless nights and heavy\nsleep-burdened days. Night was too strange--in barns, beneath hay-ricks,\nin little oppressive rooms, in stable-lofts--for him to sleep easily at\nfirst; and between his tramps, or in the dinner-hour, when he managed to\nget work, he would drop off in the hot sunshine down into depths of\nthat kind of rest that is like the sea itself--glimmering gulfs, lit by\nglimpses of consciousness of the grass beneath his cheek, the bubble of\nbird-song in the copses, stretching down into profound and utter\ndarkness.\n\nOf how the little happenings of every day wore themselves into a\ncoherent whole, and modified, not indeed himself, but his manner of life\nand his experience and knowledge, I can make no real picture at all. The\nfirst of these took place within ten miles of Cambridge on his first\nmorning, and resulted in the bruised face which Mr. Harris noticed; it\nconcerned a piece of brutality to a dog in which Frank interfered....\n(He was extraordinarily tender to animals.) Then there was the learning\nas to how work was obtained, and, even more considerable, the doing of\nthe work. The amateur, as Frank pointed out later, began too vigorously\nand became exhausted; the professional set out with the same\ndeliberation with which he ended. One must not run at one's spade, or\nhoe, or whatever it was; one must exercise a wearisome self-control ...\nsurvey the work to be done, turn slowly, spit on one's hands, and after\na pause begin, remembering that the same activity must show itself, if\nthe work was to be renewed next day, up to the moment of leaving off.\n\nThen there was the need of becoming accustomed to an entirely different\nkind of food, eaten in an entirely different way, and under entirely\ndifferent circumstances. There was experience to be gained as to washing\nclothes--I can almost see Frank now by a certain kind of stream,\nstripped to the waist, waiting while his shirt dried, smoking an\nill-rolled cigarette, yet alert for the gamekeeper. Above all, there was\nan immense volume of learning--or, rather, a training of instinct--to be\ngained respecting human nature: a knowledge of the kind of man who would\ngive work, the kind of man who meant what he said, and the kind of man\nwho did not; the kind of woman who would threaten the police if milk or\nbread were asked for--Frank learned to beg very quickly--the kind of\nwoman who would add twopence and tell him to be off, and the kind of\nwoman who, after a pause and a slow scrutiny, would deliberately refuse\nto supply a glass of water. Then there was the atmosphere of the little\ntowns to be learned--the intolerable weariness of pavements, and the\npatient persistence of policemen who would not allow you to sit down. He\ndiscovered, also, during his wanderings, the universal fact that\npolicemen are usually good-hearted, but with absolutely no sense of\nhumor whatever; he learned this through various attempts to feign that\nthe policeman was in fancy-dress costume and had no real authority. He\nlearned, too, that all crimes pale before \"resisting the police in the\nexecution of their duty\"; then, he had to learn, to, the way in which\nother tramps must be approached--the silences necessary, the sort of\nquestions which were useless, the jokes that must be laughed at and the\njokes that must be resented.\n\nAll this is beyond me altogether; it was beyond even Frank's own powers\nof description. A boy, coming home for the holidays for the first time,\ncannot make clear to his mother, or even to himself, what it is that has\nso utterly changed his point of view, and his relations towards familiar\nthings.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSo with Frank.\n\nHe could draw countless little vignettes of his experiences and\nemotions--the particular sensation elicited, for example, by seeing\nthrough iron gates happy people on a lawn at tea--the white china, the\nsilver, the dresses, the flannels, the lawn-tennis net--as he went past,\nwith string tied below his knees to keep off the drag of the trousers,\nand a sore heel; the emotion of being passed by a boy and a girl on\nhorseback; the flood of indescribable associations roused by walking for\nhalf a day past the split-oak paling of a great park, with lodge-gates\nhere and there, the cooing of wood-pigeons, and the big house, among\nits lawns and cedars and geranium-beds, seen now and then, far off in\nthe midst. But what he could not describe, or understand, was the inner\nalchemy by which this new relation to things modified his own soul, and\ngave him a point of view utterly new and bewildering. Curiously enough,\nhowever (as it seems to me), he never seriously considered the\npossibility of abandoning this way of life, and capitulating to his\nfather. A number of things, I suppose--inconceivable to\nmyself--contributed to his purpose; his gipsy blood, his extraordinary\npassion for romance, the attraction of a thing simply because it was\ndaring and unusual, and finally, a very exceptionally strong will that,\nfor myself, I should call obstinacy.\n\nThe silence--as regards his old world--was absolute and unbroken. He\nknew perfectly well that by now letters and telegrams must be waiting\nfor him at Jack's home, including at least one from Jenny, and probably\na dozen; but as to Jenny, he knew she would understand, and as to the\nrest, he honestly did not care at all. He sent her a picture postcard\nonce or twice--from Ely, Peterborough, Sleaford and Newark--towns where\nhe stayed for a Sunday (I have seen in Sleaford the little room where he\ntreated himself to a bed for two nights)--and was content. He made no\nparticular plans for the future; he supposed something would turn up;\nand he settled with himself, by the help of that same will which I have\nmentioned before, that he would precipitate no conclusions till he\nreached Barham later on in the early autumn.\n\nHis faith and morals during these weeks are a little difficult to\ndescribe. As regards his morals, at least in one particular point, he\nhad formulated the doctrine that, when he was very hungry, game might\nnot be touched, but that rabbits and birds were permissible if they\ncould be snared in the hedges of the high-road. He became an expert at\nthis kind of thing, and Jack has described to me, as taught by Frank, a\nfew devices of which I was entirely ignorant. Frank tramped for a couple\nof days with a gamekeeper out of work, and learned these things from\nhim, as well as one or two simple methods of out-of-door cookery. As\nregards his religion, I think I had better not say much just now; very\ncurious influences were at work upon him: I can only say that Frank\nhimself has described more than once, when he could be induced to talk,\nthe extraordinary, and indeed indescribable, thrill with which he saw,\nnow and again, in town or country, a priest in his vestments go to the\naltar--for he heard mass when he could....\n\nSo much, then, is all that I can say of the small, detached experiences\nthat he passed through, up to the point when he came out one evening at\nsunset from one of the fields of Hampole where he had made hay all day,\nwhen his job was finished, and where he met, for the first time, the\nMajor and Gertie Trustcott.\n\n\n(II)\n\nThey were standing with the sunset light behind them, as a glory--two\ndisreputable figures, such as one sees in countless thousands along all\nthe high-roads of England in the summer. The Major himself was a lean\nman, with a red mustache turning gray, deep-set, narrow, blood-shot\neyes, a chin and very square jaw shaved about two days previously. He\nhad an old cricketing cap on his head, trousers tied up with string,\nlike Frank's, and one of those long, square-tailed, yellowish coats with\nbroad side-pockets such as a gamekeeper might have worn twenty years\nago. One of his boots was badly burst, and he, seemed to rest his weight\nby preference on the other foot. He was not prepossessing; but Frank\nsaw, with his newly-gained experience, that he was different from other\ntramps. He glanced at the girl and saw that she too was not quite of the\nregular type, though less peculiar than her companion; and he noticed\nwith an odd touch at his heart that she had certain characteristics in\ncommon with Jenny. She was not so tall, but she had the same colored\nhair under a filthy white sun-bonnet and the same kind of blue eyes: but\nher oval face again was weak and rather miserable. They were both deeply\nsunburned.\n\nFrank had learned the discretion of the roads by now, and did no more\nthan jerk his head almost imperceptibly as he went past. (He proposed to\ngo back to the farm to get his dwindled belongings, as the job was over,\nand to move on a few miles northward before sleeping.)\n\nAs he went, however, he knew that the man had turned and was looking\nafter him: but he made no sign. He had no particular desire for company.\nHe also knew by instinct, practically for certain, that these two were\nneither husband and wife, nor father and daughter. The type was obvious.\n\n\"I say, sir!\"\n\nFrank turned as bucolically as he could.\n\n\"I say, sir--can you direct this lady and myself to a lodging?\"\n\nFrank had tried to cultivate a low and characterless kind of voice, as\nof a servant or a groom out of work. He knew he could never learn the\nproper accent.\n\n\"Depends on what kind of lodging you want, sir.\"\n\n\"What'd suit you 'ud suit us,\" said the Major genially, dropping the\n\"sir.\"\n\n\"I'm going further, sir,\" said Frank. \"I've done my job here.\"\n\nThe Major turned to the girl, and Frank caught the words, \"What d'you\nsay, Gertie?\" There was a murmur of talk; and then the man turned to him\nagain:\n\n\"If you've no objection, sir, we'll come with you. My good lady here is\ngood for a mile or two more, she says, and we'd like some company.\"\n\nFrank hesitated. He did not in the least wish for company himself. He\nglanced at the girl again.\n\n\"Very good, sir,\" he said. \"Then if you'll wait here I'll be back in\nfive minutes--I've got to get my belongings.\"\n\nHe nodded to the low farm buildings in the valley just below the\nvillage.\n\n\"We will await you here, sir,\" said the Major magnificently, stroking\nhis mustache.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs Frank came back up the little hill a few minutes later, he had made\nup his mind as to what to say and do. It was his first experience of a\ngentleman-tramp, and it was obvious that under the circumstances he\ncould not pretend to be anything else himself. But he was perfectly\ndetermined not to tell his name. None of his belongings had anything\nmore than his initials upon them, and he decided to use the name he had\nalready given more than once. Probably they would not go far together;\nbut it was worth while to be on the safe side.\n\nHe came straight up to the two as they sat side by side with their feet\nin the ditch.\n\n\"I'm ready, sir,\" he said. \"Yes; you've spotted me all right.\"\n\n\"University man and public school boy,\" said the Major without moving.\n\n\"Eton and Cambridge,\" said Frank.\n\nThe Major sprang up.\n\n\"Harrow and the Army,\" he said. \"Shake hands.\"\n\nThis was done.\n\n\"Name?\" said the Major.\n\nFrank grinned.\n\n\"I haven't my card with me,\" he said. \"But Frank Gregory will do.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" said the Major. \"And 'The Major' will do for me. It has\nthe advantage of being true. And this lady?--well, we'll call her my\nwife.\"\n\nFrank bowed. He felt he was acting in some ridiculous dream; but his\nsense of humor saved him. The girl gave a little awkward bow in\nresponse, and dropped her eyes. Certainly she was very like Jenny, and\nvery unlike.\n\n\"And a name?\" asked Frank. \"We may as well have one in case of\ndifficulties.\"\n\nThe Major considered.\n\n\"What do you say to Trustcott?\" he asked. \"Will that do?\"\n\n\"Perfectly,\" said Frank. \"Major and Mrs. Trustcott.... Well, shall we be\ngoing?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank had no particular views as to lodgings, or even to roads, so long\nas the direction was more or less northward. He was aiming, generally\nspeaking, at Selby and York; and it seemed that this would suit the\nMajor as well as anything else. There is, I believe, some kind of\nroutine amongst the roadsters; and about that time of the year most of\nthem are as far afield as at any time from their winter quarters. The\nMajor and Mrs. Trustcott, he soon learned, were Southerners; but they\nwould not turn homewards for another three months yet, at least. For\nhimself, he had no ideas beyond a general intention to reach Barham some\ntime in the autumn, before Jack went back to Cambridge for his fourth\nyear.\n\n\"The country is not prepossessing about here,\" observed the Major\npresently; \"Hampole is an exception.\"\n\nFrank glanced back at the valley they were leaving. It had, indeed, an\nextraordinarily retired and rural air; it was a fertile little tract of\nground, very limited and circumscribed, and the rail that ran through it\nwas the only sign of the century. But the bright air was a little dimmed\nwith smoke; and already from the point they had reached tall chimneys\nbegan to prick against the horizon.\n\n\"You have been here before?\" he said.\n\n\"Why, yes; and about this time last year, wasn't it, Gertie? I\nunderstand a hermit lived here once.\"\n\n\"A hermit might almost live here to-day,\" said Frank.\n\n\"You are right, sir,\" said the Major.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank began to wonder, as he walked, as to why this man was on the\nroads. Curiously enough, he believed his statement that he had been in\nthe army. The air of him seemed the right thing. A militia captain would\nhave swaggered more; a complete impostor would have given more details.\nFrank began to fish for information.\n\n\"You have been long on the roads?\" he said.\n\nThe Major did not appear to hear him.\n\n\"You have been long on the roads?\" persisted Frank.\n\nThe other glanced at him furtively and rather insolently. \"The younger\nman first, please.\"\n\nFrank smiled.\n\n\"Oh, certainly!\" he said. \"Well, I have left Cambridge at the end of\nJune only.\"\n\n\"Ah! Anything disgraceful?\"\n\n\"You won't believe me, I suppose, if I say 'No'?\"\n\n\"Oh! I daresay I shall.\"\n\n\"Well, then, 'No.'\"\n\n\"Then may I ask--?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! I was kicked out by my father--I needn't go into details. I\nsold up my things and came out. That's all!\"\n\n\"And you mean to stick to it?\"\n\n\"Certainly--at least for a year or two.\"\n\n\"That's all right. Well, then--Major--what did we say? Trustcott? Ah,\nyes, Trustcott. Well, then, I think we might add 'Eleventh Hussars';\nthat's near enough. The final catastrophe was, I think, cards. Not that\nI cheated, you understand. I will allow no man to say that of me. But\nthat was what was said. A gentleman of spirit, you understand, could not\nremain in a regiment when such things could be said. Then we tumbled\ndownhill; and I've been at this for four years. And, you know, sir, it\nmight be worse!\"\n\nFrank nodded.\n\nNaturally he did not believe as necessarily true this terse little\nstory, and he was absolutely certain that if cards were mixed up in it\nat all, obviously the Major had cheated. So he just took the story and\nput it away, so to speak. It was to form, he perceived, the\nunderstanding on which they consorted together. Then he began to wonder\nabout the girl. The Major soon supplied a further form.\n\n\"And Mrs. Trustcott, here? Well, she joined me, let us say, rather more\nthan eighteen months ago. We had been acquainted before that, however.\nThat was when I was consenting to serve as groom to some--er--some\nJewish bounder in town. Mrs. Trustcott's parents live in town.\"\n\nThe girl, who had been trudging patiently a foot or two behind them,\njust glanced up at Frank and down again. He wondered exactly what her\nown attitude was to all this. But she made no comment.\n\n\"And now we know one another,\" finished the Major in a tone of genial\nfinality. \"So where are you taking us--er--Mr. Gregory?\"\n\n\n(III)\n\nThey were fortunate that night.\n\nThe part of Yorkshire where they were traveling consists chiefly of an\ninnumerable quantity of little cottages, gathered for the most part\nround collieries. One has the impression--at any rate, from a\nmotor--that there is nothing but villages. But that is not a fact. There\nare stretches of road, quite solitary at certain hours; and in one of\nthese they noticed presently a little house, not twenty yards from the\nroad, once obviously forming part of a row of colliers' cottages, of\nwhich the rest were demolished.\n\nIt was not far off from ruin itself, and was very plainly uninhabited.\nAcross the front door were nailed deal props, originally, perhaps, for\nthe purpose of keeping it barred, and useful for holding it in its\nplace. The Major and Gertie kept watch on the road while Frank pushed\nopen the crazy little gate and went round to the back. A minute later he\ncalled to them softly.\n\nHe had wrenched open the back door, and within in the darkness they\ncould make out a little kitchen, stripped of everything--table,\nfurniture, and even the range itself. The Major kicked something\npresently in the gloom, swore softly, and announced he had found a\nkettle. They decided that all this would do very well.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTramps do not demand very much, and these were completely contented when\nthey had made a small fire, damped down with a turf to prevent it\nsmoking, had boiled a little water, stewed some tea, and eaten what they\nhad. Even this was not luxurious. The Major produced the heel of a\ncheese and two crushed-looking bananas, and Frank a half-eaten tin of\nsardines and a small, stale loaf. The Major announced presently that he\nwould make a savory; and, indeed, with cheese melted on to the bread,\nand sardines on the top, he did very well. Gertie moved silently about;\nand Frank, in the intervals of rather abrupt conversation with the\nMajor, found his eyes following her as she spread out their small\npossessions, vanished up the stairs and reappeared. Certainly she was\nvery like Jenny, even in odd little details--the line of her eyebrows,\nthe angle of her chin and so forth--perhaps more in these details than\nin anything else. He began to wonder a little about her--to imagine her\npast, to forecast her future. It seemed all rather sordid. She\ndisappeared finally without a word: he heard her steps overhead, and\nthen silence.\n\nThen he had to attend to the Major a little more.\n\n\"It was easy enough to tell you,\" said that gentleman.\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Oh, well, if nothing else, your clothes.\"\n\n\"Aren't they shabby enough?\"\n\nThe Major eyed him with half-closed lids, by the light of the single\ncandle-end, stuck in its own wax on the mantelshelf.\n\n\"They're shabby enough, but they're the wrong sort. There's the cut,\nfirst--though that doesn't settle it. But these are gray flannel\ntrousers, for one thing, and then the coat's not stout enough.\"\n\n\"They might have been given me,\" said Frank, smiling.\n\n\"They fit you too well for that.\"\n\n\"I'll change them when I get a chance,\" observed Frank.\n\n\"It would be as well,\" assented the Major.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSomehow or another the sense of sordidness, which presently began to\naffect Frank so profoundly, descended on him for the first time that\nnight. He had managed, by his very solitariness hitherto, to escape it\nso far. It had been possible to keep up a kind of pose so far; to\nimagine the adventure in the light of a very much prolonged and very\nrealistic picnic. But with this other man the thing became impossible.\nIt was tolerable to wash one's own socks; it was not so tolerable to see\nanother man's socks hung up on the peeling mantelpiece a foot away from\nhis own head, and to see two dirty ankles, not his own, emerging from\ncrazy boots.\n\nThe Major, too, presently, when he grew a trifle maudlin over his own\nsorrows, began to call him \"Frankie,\" and \"my boy,\" and somehow it\nmattered, from a man with the Major's obvious record. Frank pulled\nhimself up only just in time to prevent a retort when it first happened,\nbut it was not the slightest use to be resentful. The thing had to be\nborne. And it became easier when it occurred to him to regard the Major\nas a study; it was even interesting to hear him give himself away, yet\nall with a pompous appearance of self-respect, and to recount his first\nmeeting with Gertie, now asleep upstairs.\n\nThe man was, in fact, exactly what Frank, in his prosperous days, would\nhave labeled \"Bounder.\" He had a number of meaningless little\nmannerisms--a way of passing his hand over his mustache, a trick of\nbringing a look of veiled insolence into his eyes; there were subjects\nhe could not keep away from--among them Harrow School, the Universities\n(which he called 'Varsity), the regiment he had belonged to, and a\ncertain type of adventure connected with women and champagne. And\nunderneath the whole crust of what the Major took to be breeding, there\nwas a piteous revelation of a feeble, vindictive, and rather nasty\ncharacter. It became more and more evident that the cheating\nincident--or, rather, the accusation, as he persisted in calling\nit--was merely the last straw in his fall, and that the whole thing had\nbeen the result of a crumbly unprincipled kind of will underneath,\nrather than of any particular strain of vice. He appeared, even now, to\nthink that his traveling about with a woman who was not his wife was a\nsort of remnant of fallen splendor--as a man might keep a couple of\nsilver spoons out of the ruin of his house.\n\n\"I recommend you to pick up with one,\" remarked the Major. \"There are\nplenty to be had, if you go about it the right way.\"\n\n\"Thanks,\" said Frank, \"but it's not my line.\"\n\n\n(IV)\n\nThe morning, too, was a little trying.\n\nFrank had passed a tolerable night. The Major had retired upstairs about\nten o'clock, taking his socks with him, presumably to sleep in them, and\nFrank had heard him creaking about upstairs for a minute or two; there\nhad followed two clumps as the boots were thrown off; a board suddenly\nspoke loudly; there was a little talking--obviously the Major had\nawakened Gertie in order to make a remark or two--and then silence.\n\nFrank had not slept for half an hour; he was thinking, with some\ndepression, of the dreary affair into which he had been initiated, of\nthe Major, and of Gertie, for whom he was beginning to be sorry. He did\nnot suppose that the man actually bullied her; probably he had done this\nsufficiently for the present--she was certainly very quiet and\nsubdued--or perhaps she really admired him, and thought it rather\nmagnificent to travel about with an ex-officer. Anyhow, it was rather\ndeplorable....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen he awoke next morning, the depression was on him still; and it was\nnot lifted by the apparition of Gertie on which he opened his eyes from\nhis corner, in an amazingly dirty petticoat, bare-armed, with her hair\nin a thick untidy pig-tail, trying to blow the fire into warmth again.\n\nFrank jumped up--he was in his trousers and shirt.\n\n\"Let me do that,\" he said.\n\n\"I'll do it,\" said Gertie passionlessly.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Major came down ten minutes later, considerably the worse for his\nnight's rest. Yesterday he had had a day's beard on him; to-day he had\ntwo, and there was a silvery sort of growth in the stubble that made it\nlook wet. His eyes, too, were red and sunken, and he began almost\ninstantly to talk about a drink. Frank stood it for a few minutes, then\nhe understood and capitulated.\n\n\"I'll stand you one,\" he said, \"if you'll get me two packets of\nCinderellas.\"\n\n\"What's the good of that?\" said the Major. \"Pubs aren't open yet. It's\nonly just gone five.\"\n\n\"You'll have to wait, then,\" said Frank shortly.\n\nPresently the Major did begin to bully Gertie. He asked her what the\ndevil was the good of her if she couldn't make a fire burn better than\nthat. He elbowed her out of the way and set to work at it himself. She\nsaid nothing at all. Yet there was not the faintest use in Frank's\ninterfering, and, indeed, there was nothing to interfere in.\n\nFood, too, this morning, seemed disgusting; and again Frank learned the\ndifference between a kind of game played by oneself and a reality in\nwhich two others joined. There had been something almost pleasing about\nunrolling the food wrapped up at supper on the previous night, and\neating it, with or without cooking, all alone; but there was something\nastonishingly unpleasant in observing sardines that were now common\nproperty lying in greasy newspaper, a lump of bread from which their\nhands tore pieces, and a tin bowl of warmish cocoa from which all must\ndrink. This last detail was a contribution on the part of Major and Mrs.\nTrustcott, and it would have been ungracious to refuse. The Major, too,\nwas sullen and resentful this morning, and growled at Gertie more than\nonce.\n\nEven the weather seemed unpropitious as they set out together again soon\nafter six. Rain had fallen in the night, yet not all the rain that there\nwas overhead. There were still clouds hanging, mixed with the smoke from\nthe chimneys; the hedges seemed dulled and black in spite of their\ngreen; the cinder path they walked on was depressing, the rain-fed road\neven more so. They passed a dozen men on their way to the pits, who made\nremarks on the three, and retaliation was out of the question.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was very disconcerting to Frank to find the difference that his new\ncircumstances made; and yet he did not seriously consider changing them.\nIt seemed to him, somehow or other, in that strange fashion in which\nsuch feelings come, that the whole matter was pre-arranged, and that the\ncompany in which he found himself was as inevitably his--at least for\nthe present--as the family to a child born into it. And there was, of\ncourse, too, a certain element of relief in feeling himself no longer\ncompletely alone; and there was also, as Frank said later, a curious\nsense of attraction towards, and pity for, Gertie that held him there.\n\nAt the first public-house that was open the Major stopped.\n\n\"I'll get your Cinderellas now, if you like,\" he said.\n\nThis had not been Frank's idea, but he hardly hesitated.\n\n\"All right,\" he said. \"Here's fourpence.\"\n\nThe Major vanished through the swing-doors as a miner came out, and a\ngush of sweet and sickly scent--beer, spirits, tobacco--poured upon the\nfresh air. And there was a vision of a sawdusted floor and spittoons\nwithin.\n\nFrank looked at Gertie, who had stopped like a patient donkey, and, like\na prudent one, had let her bundle instantly down beside the Major's.\n\n\"Like one, too?\" he said.\n\nShe shook her head.\n\n\"Not for me.\" ... And no more.\n\nIn a couple of minutes the Major was out again.\n\n\"Only had one packet left,\" he said, and with an air of extreme\npunctiliousness and magnanimity replaced one penny in Frank's hand. He\nhad the air of one who is insistent on the little honesties of life.\nThere was also a faintly spirituous atmosphere about him, and his eyes\nlooked a little less sunken.\n\nThen he handed over the cigarettes.\n\n\"Shouldn't mind one myself,\" he said genially.\n\nFrank gave him one before lighting his own.\n\n\"You're a good sort,\" said the Major, \"and I wish I could give you one\nof my old cigars I used to give my friends.\"\n\n\"Ah! well, when your ship comes home,\" observed Frank, throwing away his\nmatch.\n\nThe Major nodded his head as with an air of fallen grandeur.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"_vorwaerts_. That means 'forward,' my dear,\" he\nexplained to Gertie.\n\nGertie said nothing. They took up their bundles and went on.\n\n\n(V)\n\nIt was not till a week later that Gertie did that which was to effect so\nmuch in Frank--she confided in him.\n\nThe week had consisted of the kind of thing that might be\nexpected--small negligible adventures; work now and then--the Major and\nFrank working side by side--a digging job on one day, the carrying of\nrather dingy smoke-stained hay on another, the scraping of garden-paths\nthat ran round the small pink house of a retired tradesman, who observed\nthem magnificently though a plate-glass window all the while, with a\ncigar in his teeth, and ultimately gave them ninepence between them.\nThey slept here and there--once, on a rainy night, in real lodgings,\nonce below a haystack. Frank said hardly a word to Gertie, and did\nlittle more than listen to the Major, who was already beginning to\nrepeat himself; but he was aware that the girl was watching him.\n\nThe crisis came about under circumstances that might be expected--on a\nrather sentimental kind of Sunday evening, in a village whose name I\nforget (perhaps it was Escrick) between Selby and York. Frank had made a\nsmall excursion by himself in the morning and had managed to hear mass;\nthey had dined well off cold bacon and beans, and had walked on in the\nafternoon some miles further; and they came to the village a little\nafter six o'clock. The Major had a blister, which he had exhibited at\nleast four times to the company, and had refused to go further; and as\nthey came to the outskirts of the village, volunteered to go and look\nfor shelter, if the two would wait for him at a stile that led across\nfields to the old church.\n\nThe scene was rather like the setting of the last act in a melodrama of\na theater on the Surrey side of the Thames--the act in which the injured\nheroine, with her child, sinks down fainting as the folk are going to\nchurch in the old village on a June evening among the trees--leading up\nto moonlight effects and reunion. There was no organ to play \"off,\" but\nthe bells were an excellent substitute, and it was these that presently\nmelted the heart of Gertie.\n\nWhen the Major had disappeared, limping, the two climbed over the stile\nand sat down with their bundles under the hedge, but they presently\nfound that they had chosen something of a thoroughfare. Voices came\nalong presently, grew louder, and stopped as the speakers climbed the\nstile. The first pair was of a boy and girl, who instantly clasped again\nmutual waists, and went off up the path across the field to the\nchurchyard without noticing the two tramps; their heads were very near\ntogether.\n\nThen other couples came along, old and young, and twice a trio--one, two\nyoung men in black, who skirmished on either side of a very sedate girl\nin white; one, two girls who shoved one another, and giggled, walking in\nstep three yards behind another young man with his hat on one side, who\ngloried in being talked at and pretended to be rapt in abstraction. Then\nsome children came; then a family--papa walking severely apart in a silk\nhat, and mamma, stout and scarlet-faced, in the midst of the throng.\nFinally there came along a very old Darby and Joan, who with many\nYorkshire ejaculations helped one another over the stile, and moved on\nwith bent heads, scolding one another affectionately. It was as this\nlast couple reached the spot where the path ran into the corn that the\npeal of four bells broke out, and Gertie broke down.\n\nFrank had not been noticing her particularly. He was gloomy himself; the\nnovelty of the whole affair had gone; the Major was becoming\nintolerable, and Frank's religion was beginning to ebb from his\nemotions. Mass this morning had not been a success from an emotional\npoint of view; he had had an uncomfortable seat on a pitch-pine bench in\na tin church with an American organ; the very young priest had been\ntiresome and antipathetic.... Frank had done his best, but he was tired\nand bored; the little church had been very hot, and it was no longer any\nfun to be stared at superciliously by a stout tradesman as he came out\ninto the hot sunshine afterwards.\n\nJust now he had been watching the figures make their appearance from the\nstile, re-form groups and dwindle slowly down to the corn, and their\nheads and shoulders bob along above it--all with a kind of resentment.\nThese people had found their life; he was still looking for his. He was\nwatching, too, the strangely unreal appearance of the sunlit fields, the\nlong shadows, the golden smoky light, and the church tower, set among\ncypresses half a mile away--yet without any conscious sentiment. He had\nnot said a word to Gertie, nor she to him, and he was totally taken by\nsurprise when, after the first soft crash of bells for evening service,\nshe had suddenly thrown herself round face forward among the grasses and\nburst out sobbing.\n\n\"My dear girl!\" said Frank, \"whatever's the matter?\" Then he stopped.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFortunately, the procession of worshipers had run dry, and the two were\nquite alone. He sat upright, utterly ignorant of what to say. He thought\nperhaps she was in pain ... should he run for the Major or a doctor?...\nThen, as after a minute or two of violent sobbing she began a few\nincoherent words, he understood.\n\n\"Oh! I'm a wicked girl ... a wicked girl ... it's all so beautiful ...\nthe church bells ... my mother!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe understood, then, what had precipitated this crisis and broken down\nthe girl's reserve. It was, in fact, exactly that same appeal which\nholds a gallery breathless and tearful in the last act of a Surrey-side\nmelodrama--the combination of Sunday quiet, a sunset, church bells,\nassociations and human relationships; and Gertie's little suburban soul\nresponded to it as a bell to a bell-rope. It was this kind of thing that\nstood to her for holiness and peace and purity, and it had gone clean\nthrough her heart. And he understood, too, that it was his presence\nthat had allowed her to break down. The Major's atmosphere had held her\ntaut so far. Frank was conscious of a lump in his own throat as he\nstared out, helpless, first at the peaceful Sunday fields and then down\nat the shaking shoulders and the slender, ill-clad, writhed form of\nGertie.... He did not know what to do ... he hoped the Major would not\nbe back just yet. Then he understood he must say something.\n\n\"Don't cry,\" he said. \"The Major--\"\n\nShe sat up on the instant in sudden consternation, her pretty, weak,\nsunburned face disfigured with tears, but braced for the moment by fear.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Frank; \"he isn't coming yet; but--\"\n\nThen she was down again, moaning and talking. \"Oh!... Oh!... I'm a\nwicked girl.... My mother!... and I never thought I should come to\nthis!\"\n\n\"Well, why don't you chuck it?\" said Frank practically.\n\n\"I can't!... I can't! I ... I love him!\"\n\nThat had not occurred to this young man as a conceivable possibility,\nand he sat silenced. The church-bells pealed on; the sun sank a little\nlower; Gertie sobbed more and more gently; and Frank's mind worked like\na mill, revolving developments. Finally, she grew quiet, lay still, and,\nas the bells gave place to one of their number, sat up. She dabbed at\nher eyes with a handful of wet grass, passed her sleeve across them once\nor twice, and began to talk.\n\n\"I ... I'm very silly, Frankie,\" she said, \"but I can't help it. I'm\nbetter now. Don't tell George.\"\n\n\"Of course I shan't!\" said Frank indignantly.\n\n\"You're a gentleman too,\" said Gertie. (Frank winced a little,\ninteriorly, at the \"too.\") \"I can see that you're polite to a lady. And\nI don't know however I came to tell you. But there it is, and no harm's\ndone.\"\n\n\"Why don't you leave him?\" said Frank courageously. A little wave of\nfeeling went over her face.\n\n\"He's a gentleman,\" she said.... \"No, I can't leave him. But it does\ncome over you sometimes; doesn't it?\" (Her face wavered again.) \"It was\nthem bells, and the people and all.\"\n\n\"Where's your home?\"\n\nShe jerked her head in a vague direction.\n\n\"Down Londonwards,\" she said. \"But that's all done with. I've made my\nbed, and--\"\n\n\"Tell me plainly: does he bully you?\"\n\n\"Not to say bully,\" she said. \"He struck me once, but never again.\"\n\n\"Tell me if he does it again.\"\n\nA small, sly, admirative look came into her eyes. \"We'll see,\" she said.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank was conscious of a considerable sense of disappointment. The thing\nhad been almost touching just now, as the reserve first broke up, but it\nwas a very poor little soul, it seemed to him, that had at last made its\nappearance. (He did not yet see that that made it all the more\ntouching.) He did not quite see what to do next. He was Christian enough\nto resent the whole affair; but he was aristocratic enough in his\nfastidiousness to think at this moment that perhaps it did not matter\nmuch for people of this sort. Perhaps it was the highest ideal that\npersons resembling the Major and Gertie could conceive. But her next\nremark helped to break up his complacency.\n\n\"You're a Catholic,\" she said. \"People say that you Catholics don't mind\nthis kind of thing--me and the Major, I mean.\"\n\nThere was a dreadful sort of sly suggestiveness about this remark that\nstung him. He exploded: and his wounded pride gave him bitterness.\n\n\"My good girl,\" he said, \"Catholics simply loathe it. And even,\npersonally, I think it's beastly.\"\n\n\"Well--I ...\"\n\n\"I think it's beastly,\" said Frank didactically. \"A good girl like you,\nwell-brought-up, good parents, nice home, religious--instead of which\n\"--he ended in a burst of ironical reminiscence--\"you go traveling about\nwith a--\" he checked himself--\"a man who isn't your husband. Why don't\nyou marry him?\"\n\n\"I can't!\" wailed Gertie, suddenly stricken again with remorse; \"his\nwife's alive.\"\n\nFrank jumped. Somehow that had never occurred to him. And yet how\namazingly characteristic of the Major!\n\n\"Well--leave him, then!\"\n\n\"I can't!\" cried poor Gertie. \"I can't!... I can't!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n(I)\n\nFrank awoke with a start and opened his eyes.\n\nBut it was still dark and he could see nothing. So he turned over on the\nother side and tried to go to sleep.\n\nThe three of them had come to this little town last night after two or\nthree days' regular employment; they had sufficient money between them;\nthey had found a quite tolerable lodging; they had their programme, such\nas it was, for the next day or so; and--by the standard to which he had\nlearned to adjust himself--there was no sort of palpable cause for the\nhorror that presently fell on him. I can only conjecture that the origin\nlay within, not without, his personality.\n\nThe trouble began with the consciousness that on the one side he was\nreally tired, and on the other that he could not sleep and, to clinch\nit, the knowledge that a twenty-mile walk lay before him. He began to\ntell himself that sleep was merely a question of will--of will\ndeliberately relaxing attention. He rearranged his position a little;\nshifted his feet, fitted himself a little more closely into the\noutlines of the bed, thrust one hand under the pillow and bade himself\nlet go.\n\nThen the procession of thoughts began as orderly as if by signal.\n\nHe found himself presently, after enumerating all the minor physical\npoints of discomfort--the soreness of his feet, the knobbiness of the\nbed, the stuffiness of the room in which the three were sleeping, the\nsound of the Major's slow snoring--beginning to consider the wisdom of\nthe whole affair. This was a point that he had not consciously yet\nconsidered, from the day on which he had left Cambridge. The impetus of\nhis first impulse and the extreme strength of his purpose had, up to the\npresent--helped along by novelty--kept him going. Of course, the moment\nhad to come sooner or later; but it seems a little hard that he was\nobliged to face it in that peculiarly dreary clarity of mind that falls\nupon the sleepless an hour or two before the dawn.\n\nFor, as he looked at it all now, he saw it as an outsider would see it,\nno longer from the point of view of his own personality. He perceived a\nyoung man, of excellent abilities and prospects, sacrificing these\nthings for an idea that fell to pieces the instant it was touched. He\ntouched it now with a critical finger, and it did so fall to pieces;\nthere was, obviously, nothing in it at all. It was an impulse of silly\npride, of obstinacy, of the sort of romance that effects nothing. There\nwas Merefield waiting for him--for he knew perfectly well that terms\ncould be arranged; there was all that leisureliness and comfort and\ndistinction in which he had been brought up and which he knew well how\nto use; there was Jenny; there was his dog, his horse ... there was, in\nfact, everything for which Merefield stood. He saw it all now,\nvisualized and clear in the dark; and he had exchanged all\nthis--well--for this room, and the Major's company, and back-breaking\ntoil.... And for no reason.\n\nSo he regarded all this for a good long while; with his eyes closed,\nwith the darkness round him, with every detail visible and insistent,\nseen as in the cold light of morning before colors reassert themselves\nand reconcile all into a reasonable whole....\n\n\"... I must really go to sleep!\" said Frank to himself, and screwed up\nhis eyes tight.\n\nThere came, of course, a reaction presently, and he turned to his\nreligion. He groped for his rosary under his pillow, placed before him\n(according to the instructions given in the little books) the \"Mystery\nof the Annunciation to Mary,\" and began the \"Our Father.\" ... Half-way\nthrough it he began all over again to think about Cambridge, and\nMerefield and Jack Kirkby, and the auction in his own rooms, and his\nlast dinner-party and the design on the menu-cards, and what a fool he\nwas; and when he became conscious of the rosary again he found that he\nheld in his fingers the last bead but three in the fifth decade. He had\nrepeated four and a half decades without even the faintest semblance of\nattention. He finished them hopelessly, and then savagely thrust the\nstring of beads under his pillow again; turned over once more,\nrearranged his feet, wished the Major would learn how to sleep like a\ngentleman; and began to think about his religion in itself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter all, he began to say to himself, what proof was there--real\nscientific proof--that the thing was true at all? Certainly there was a\ngreat deal of it that was, very convincing--there was the curious ring\nof assertion and confidence in it, there was its whole character,\ncomposed (like personality) of countless touches too small to be\ndefinable; there was the definite evidence adduced from history and\nphilosophy and all the rest. But underneath all that--was there, after\nall, any human evidence in the world sufficient to establish the\nastounding dogmas that lay at the root? Was it conceivable that any such\nevidence could be forthcoming?\n\nHe proceeded to consider the series of ancient dilemmas which, I\nsuppose, have presented themselves at some time or another to every\nreasonable being--Free-will and Predestination; Love and Pain;\nForeknowledge and Sin; and their companions. And it appeared to him, in\nthis cold, emotionless mood, when the personality shivers, naked, in the\npresence of monstrous and unsympathetic forces, that his own religion,\nas much as every other, was entirely powerless before them.\n\nHe advanced yet further: he began to reflect upon the innumerable little\nconcrete devotions that he had recently learned--the repetition of\ncertain words, the performance of certain actions--the rosary for\ninstance; and he began to ask himself how it was credible that they\ncould possibly make any difference to eternal issues.\n\nThese things had not yet surrounded themselves with the atmosphere of\nexperience and association, and they had lost the romance of novelty;\nthey lay before him detached, so to say, and unconvincing.\n\nI do not mean to say that during this hour he consciously disbelieved;\nhe honestly attempted to answer these questions; he threw himself back\nupon authority and attempted to reassure himself by reflecting that\nhuman brains a great deal more acute than his own found in the dilemmas\nno final obstacles to faith; he placed himself under the shelter of the\nChurch and tried to say blindly that he believed what she believed. But,\nin a sense, he was powerless: the blade of his adversary was quicker\nthan his own; his will was very nearly dormant; his heart was entirely\nlethargic, and his intellect was clear up to a certain point and\nextraordinarily swift....\n\nHalf an hour later he was in a pitiable state; and had begun even to\nquestion Jenny's loyalty. He had turned to the thought of her as a last\nresort for soothing and reassurance, and now, in the chilly dawn, even\nshe seemed unsubstantial.\n\nHe began by remembering that Jenny would not live for ever; in fact, she\nmight die at any moment; or he might; and he ended by wondering,\nfirstly, whether human love was worth anything at all, and, secondly,\nwhether he possessed Jenny's. He understood now, with absolute\ncertitude, that there was nothing in him whatever which could possibly\nbe loved by anyone; the whole thing had been a mistake, not so much on\nhis part as on Jenny's. She had thought him to be something he was not.\nShe was probably regretting already the engagement; she would certainly\nnot fulfill it. And could she possibly care for anyone who had been such\nan indescribable fool as to give up Merefield, and his prospects and his\npast and his abilities, and set out on this absurd and childish\nadventure? So once more he came round in a circle and his misery was\ncomplete.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe sat up in bed with a sudden movement as the train of thought clicked\nback into its own beginning, clasped his hands round his knees and\nstared round the room.\n\nThe window showed a faint oblong of gray now, beyond where the Major\nbreathed, and certain objects were dingily and coldly visible. He\nperceived the broken-backed chair on which his clothes were heaped--with\nthe exception of his flannel shirt, which he still wore; he caught a\nglimmer of white where Gertie's blouse hung up for an airing.\n\nHe half expected that things would appear more hopeful if he sat up in\nbed. Yet they did not. The sight of the room, such as it was, brought\nthe concrete and material even more forcibly upon him--the gross things\nthat are called Facts. And it seemed to him that there were no facts\nbeyond them. These were the bones of the Universe--a stuffy bedroom, a\nrasping flannel suit, a cold dawn, a snoring in the gloom, and three\nbodies, heavy with weariness.... There once had been other facts:\nMerefield and Cambridge and Eton had once existed; Jenny had once been a\nliving person who loved him; once there had been a thing called\nReligion. But they existed no longer. He had touched reality at last.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank drew a long, dismal sigh; he lay down; he knew the worst now; and\nin five minutes he was asleep.\n\n\n(II)\n\nOf course, the thing wore away by midday, and matters had readjusted\nthemselves. But the effect remained as a kind of bruise below the\nsurface. He was conscious that it had once been possible for him to\ndoubt the value of everything; he was aware that there was a certain\nmood in which nothing seemed worth while.\n\nIt was practically his first experience of the kind, and he did not\nunderstand it. But it did its work; and I date from that day a certain\nincreased sort of obstinacy that showed itself even more plainly in his\ncharacter. One thing or the other must be the effect of such a mood in\nwhich--even though only for an hour or two--all things other than\nphysical take on themselves an appearance of illusiveness: either the\nstandard is lowered and these things are treated as slightly doubtful;\nor the will sets its teeth and determines to live by them, whether they\nare doubtful or not. And the latter I take to be the most utter form of\nfaith.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAbout midday the twine round Frank's bundle broke abruptly, and every\nseveral article fell on to the road. He repressed a violent feeling of\nirritation, and turned round to pick them up. The Major and Gertie\ninstinctively made for a gate in the hedge, rested down their bundles\nand leaned against it.\n\nFrank gathered the articles--a shirt, a pair of softer shoes, a razor\nand brush, a tin of potted meat, a rosary, a small round cracked\nlooking-glass and a piece of lead piping--and packed them once more\ncarefully together on the bank. He tested his string, knotted it, drew\nit tight, and it broke again. The tin of potted meat--like some small\nintelligent animal--ran hastily off the path and dived into a small\ndrain.\n\nA short cry of mirth broke from the Major, and Gertie smiled.\n\nFrank said nothing at all. He lay down on the road, plunged his arm into\nthe drain and drew up the potted meat; it had some disagreeable-looking\nmoist substance adhering to it, which he wiped off on to his sleeve, and\nthen regretted having done so. Again he packed his things; again he drew\nthe string tight, and again it snapped.\n\n\"Lord! man, don't be so hard on it.\"\n\nFrank looked up with a kind of patient fury. His instinct was to kick\nevery single object that lay before him on the path as hard as possible\nin every direction.\n\n\"Have you any more string?\" he said.\n\n\"No. Stick the things in your pocket and come on.\"\n\nFrank made no answer. He went to the hedge and drew out a long supple\ntwig of hazel, stripped it of its leaves, and once more tried, with it,\nto tie up his parcel. But the angle was too acute, and just as the twig\ntightened satisfactorily it snapped, and this time the razor slid out\nsideways into a single minute puddle that lay on the path.\n\nThe Major snorted in mirthful impatience.\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"Kindly let me alone,\" said Frank icily. \"The thing's got to go like\nthis, or not at all.\"\n\nHe drew out the razor from the puddle, opened it and dried the blade on\nhis sleeve. During the process Gertie moved suddenly, and he looked up.\nWhen he looked down again be perceived that he had slit a neat slice\ninto the cloth of his jacket.\n\nHe remained quite still for one moment. Then he sat down on the bank,\nand examined the twine once more.\n\nThe Major began to make slightly offensive comments. Then Frank looked\nup.\n\n\"You can go to hell!\" he said quite softly, \"or anywhere else you like.\nBut I'm going to do up the bundle in my way and not yours.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow that is a sort of parable. It really happened, for it was reported\nto a witness by Frank himself exactly as I have told it, and it seems to\nme a very good little symbol of his state of mind. It is quite\nindefensible, of course--and especially his regrettable language that\nclosed the interview; but it gives a pleasant little glimpse, I think,\nof Frank's character just now, in section. The things had to go in a\ncertain way: he saw no adequate reason to change that way, and\nultimately, of course, the twine held. It must have been a great\nsatisfaction to him.\n\n\n(III)\n\nIt seems that Frank must have been allowed just now to sample several\ndifferent kinds of moods, for he had a very different kind of awakening\na day or two later.\n\nThey had come to some piece of open country that I am unable to\nidentify, and for some reason or other determined to spend the night out\nof doors. There was a copse a hundred yards away from the road, and in\nthe copse a couple of small shelters built, probably, for wood-pigeon\nshooting. The Major and Gertie took possession of one, and Frank of the\nother, after they had supped in the dark under the beeches.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank slept deeply and well, half waking once, however, at that strange\nmoment of the night when the earth turns and sighs in her sleep, when\nevery cow gets up and lies down again. He was conscious of a shrill\ncrowing, thin as a bugle, from some farm-yard out of sight; then he\nturned over and slept again.\n\nWhen he awoke it was daylight. He lay on his back looking at the network\nof twigs overhead, the beech leaves beyond, and the sky visible only in\nglimpses--feeling extremely awake and extremely content. Certainly he\nwas a little stiff when he moved, but there was a kind of interior\ncontentment that caused that not to matter.\n\nAfter a minute or two he sat up, felt about for his shoes and slipped\nthem on. Then he unwound the wrapping about his neck, and crept out of\nthe shelter.\n\nIt was that strange pause before the dawn when the light has broadened\nso far as to extinguish the stars, and to bring out all the colors of\nearth into a cold deliberate kind of tint. Everything was absolutely\nmotionless about him as he went under the trees and came out above the\nwide park-land of which the copse was a sort of barrier. The dew lay\nsoaking and thick on the grass slopes, but there was not yet such light\nas to bring out its sparkle; and everywhere, dotted on the green before\nhim, sat hundreds of rabbits, the nearest not twenty yards away.\n\nThe silence and the solemnity of the whole seemed to him extraordinary.\nThere was not a leaf that stirred--each hung as if cut of steel; there\nwas not a bird which chirped nor a distant cock that crew; the rabbits\neyed him unafraid in this hour of truce.\n\nIt seemed to him like some vast stage on to which he had wandered\nunexpectedly. The performance of the day before had been played to an\nend, the night scene-shifting was finished, and the players of the new\neternal drama were not yet come. An hour hence they would be all about:\nthe sounds would begin again; men would cross the field-paths, birds\nwould be busy; the wind would awake and the ceaseless whisper of leaves\nanswer its talking. But at present the stage was clear-swept, washed,\nclean and silent.\n\nIt was the solemnity then that impressed him most--solemnity and an air\nof expectation. Yet it was not mere expectation. There was a suggestion\nof the fundamental and the normal, as if perhaps movement and sound\nwere, after all, no better than interruptions; as if this fixed poise of\nnature were something complete in itself; as if these trees hung out\ntheir leaves to listen to something that they could actually hear, as if\nthese motionless creatures of the woodland were looking upon something\nthat they could actually see; as if there were some great secret\nactually present and displayed in dead silence and invisibility before\nthose only who possessed the senses necessary to perceive it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was odd to regard life from this standpoint--to look back upon the\ndays and their incidents that were past, forward upon the days and\nincidents to come. Again it was possible for Frank to look upon these\nthings as an outsider and a deliberate critic--as he had done in the\nstuffy room of the lodging-house in the town. Yet now, though he was\nagain an outsider, though he was again out of the whirl of actual\nliving, he seemed to be looking at things--staring out, as he was,\nalmost unseeingly at the grass slopes before him--from exactly the\nopposite side. Then, they had seemed to him the only realities, these\ntangible physical things, and all else illusion: now it was the physical\nthings that were illusive, and something else that was real. Once again\nthe two elements of life lay detached--matter and spirit; but it was as\nobviously now spirit that was the reality as it had been matter a day or\ntwo before. It was obviously absurd to regard these outward things on\nwhich he looked as anything but a frame of something completely\ndifferent. They were too silent, too still, too little self-sufficient\nto be complete in themselves. Something solid lay embraced within\nthem....\n\nSo, then, he stared and ruminated, scarcely perceiving that he thought,\nso intensely conscious was he of that of which he thought. It was not\nthat he understood anything of that on which he looked; he was but aware\nthat there was something to be understood. And the trees hung rigid\nabove him, and the clear blue sky still a hard stone beyond them, not\nyet flushed with dawn; and the grass lay before him, contracted, it\nseemed, with cold, and every blade soaked in wet; and the silence was\nprofound....\n\nThen a cock crew, a mile away, a thin, brazen cry; a rabbit sat up, then\ncrouched and bolted, and the spell faded like a mist.\n\nFrank turned and walked back under the trees, to see if the Major was\nawake.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n(I)\n\nWe are arrived now at one of those few deplorable incidents in Frank's\ncareer, against which there is no defense. And the painful thing about\nit is that Frank never seemed to think that it required any defense. He\nshows no penitence for it in his diary: and yet moralists are united in\ntelling us that we must never do evil that good may come. It is only,\nparalleled by his rash action in leaving Cambridge in defiance of all\nadvice and good sense; so far, that is to say, as a legally permissible\nact, however foolish, can be paralleled by one of actual crime.\nMoralists, probably, would tell us, in fact, that the first led\ninevitably to the second.\n\nIt fell out in this way.\n\nOnce or twice in his travels with the Major he had been haunted by an\nuncomfortable suspicion that this or that contribution that the warrior\nmade to their common table had not been come by honestly. When a\ngentleman, known to possess no more than tenpence, and with a\npredilection to drink, leaves the shelter of a small copse; let us say,\nat seven o'clock, and reappears, rather breathless, forty minutes later\nwith a newly-plucked fowl--or even with a fowl not plucked at all, and\nstill warm, or with half a dozen eggs; and, in addition, issues out\nagain later in the evening and returns with a strong smell of spirits\nand a watery eye--it seems a little doubtful as to whether he has been\nscrupulously honest. In cases of this kind Frank persevered in making\nsome excuse for not joining in the festivity: he put it to himself as\nbeing a matter of pride; but it is hard to understand that it was simply\nthat in a young man who made no scruple of begging in cases of\nnecessity. However, there it was, and even the Major, who began by\nprotesting, ended by acquiescing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey were somewhere in the neighborhood of Market Weighton when the\nthing happened--I cannot identify the exact spot. The situation was as\nfollows:\n\nThey had secured an excellent barn for their night's lodging--facing on\nthe road on the outskirts of a village. Behind them were, the farm\nbuildings, and the farmer's household gone to bed. The sun had set and\nit was dark. They had supped sparingly, of necessity, and had finished\nevery morsel of food. (Frank had even found himself mechanically\ngathering up crumbs on a wet finger.) They had had a bad week of it;\nthe corn was not yet ready for cutting, and there seemed no work\nanywhere for honest men. The Major's gloom had become terrible; he had\neven made remarks upon a choice between a workhouse and a razor. He had\ngot up after supper and turned his waistcoat pockets inside out to\nsecure the last possible grains of tobacco, and had smoked about a\nquarter of a pipeful gathered in this way without uttering one word. He\nhad then uttered a short string of them, had seized his cap and\ndisappeared.\n\nFrank, too, was even more heavy and depressed than usual. The last\nshreds of romance were gone from his adventure long ago, and yet his\nobstinacy held firm. But he found he could not talk much. He watched\nGertie listlessly as she, listless too, began to spread out nondescript\ngarments to make a bed in the corner. He hardly spoke to her, nor she to\nhim.\n\nHe was beginning to feel sleepy, when he heard rather hurried steps, as\nof one trying to run on tiptoe, coming up the lane, and an instant later\nin popped the Major.\n\n\"Put out that damned light!\" he whispered sharply.\n\nThe candle end went out with the swiftness of thought.\n\n\"What's up?\" Frank roused himself to ask. There had been a strenuous\nlook about the face seen an instant before that interested him.\n\nThere was dead silence. Gertie seemed frozen into motionlessness in her\ncorner, almost as if she had had experience of this kind of thing\nbefore. Frank listened with all his ears; it was useless to stare into\nthe dark: here in this barn the blackness was complete.\n\nAt first there was no sound at all, except a very soft occasional scrape\nof a boot-nail that betokened that the Major was seeking cover\nsomewhere. Then, so suddenly that he started all over, Frank felt a hand\non his arm and smelt a tobacco-laden breath. (Alas! there had been no\ndrink to-night.)\n\n\"See here, Frankie, my boy.... I ... I've got the thing on me.... What\nshall I do with it?... It's no good chucking it away: they'd find it.\"\n\n\"Got what?\" whispered Frank.\n\n\"There was a kid coming along ... she had a tin of something ... I don't\neven know what it is.... And ... and she screamed out and someone ran\nout. But they couldn't spot me; it was too dark.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" whispered Frank sharply, and the hand tightened on his arm. But\nit was only a rat somewhere in the roof.\n\n\"Well?\" he said.\n\n\"Frankie ... I suppose you wouldn't take it from me ... and ... and be\noff somewhere. We could meet again later.... I ... I'm afraid someone\nmay have spotted us coming through the village earlier. They'll ...\nthey'll search, I expect.\"\n\n\"You can do your own dirty work,\" whispered Frank earnestly through the\ndarkness.\n\n\"Frankie, my boy ... don't be hard on a poor devil.... I ... I can't\nleave Gertie.\"\n\n\"Well, hide it somewhere.\"\n\n\"No good--they'd ... Good God--!\"\n\nThe voice was stricken into silence once more, as a light, hardly seen\nbefore it was gone again, shone through a crack in the side of the barn.\nThen there was unmistakable low talking somewhere.\n\nFrank felt the man, crouched at his side, suddenly stand up noiselessly,\nand in that instant his own mind was made up.\n\n\"Give it here, you fool,\" he said. \"Here!\"\n\nHe felt a smooth flat and circular thing thrust suddenly into his hands\nwith a whisper that he could not catch, and simultaneously he heard a\nrush of footsteps outside. He had just time to stuff the thing inside\nhis coat and roll over as if asleep when the door flew open, and three\nor four men, with a policeman at their head, burst into the barn.\n\n\n(II)\n\nIt would be charitable, I think, to suppress the name of the small\nmarket-town where the trial was held. The excellent magistrates who\nconducted it certainly did their best under very difficult\ncircumstances; for what are you to do if a man accused of theft\ncordially pleads guilty? and yet, certainly it would distress them to\nhear of a very obvious miscarriage of justice executed at their hands.\n\nOn Friday morning at ten o'clock the vehicles began to arrive--the motor\nof the country gentleman, the dog-cart of the neighboring rector, and\nthe brougham of the retired general. It was the General who presided.\n\nThe court-room was not more dismal than court-rooms usually are. When I\nvisited it on my little pilgrimage, undertaken a few months ago, it had\nbeen repainted and the woodwork grained to represent oak. Even so, it\nwas not cheering.\n\nAt the upper end, under one of the windows, were ranged five seats on a\ndais, with a long baize-covered table before them. Then, on a lower\nlevel, stood the clerk's and solicitors' table, fenced by a rail from\nthe vulgar crowd who pressed in, hot and excited, to see the criminals\nand hear justice done. There was a case arising from an ancient family\nfeud, exploded at last into crime; one lady had thrown a clog at another\nas the last repartee in a little dialogue held at street doors; the clog\nhad been well aimed, and the victim appeared now with a very large white\nbandage under her bonnet, to give her testimony. This swelled the crowd\nbeyond its usual proportions, as both ladies were well known in society.\n\nThe General was a kindly-looking old man (Frank recognized his name as\nsoon as he heard it that morning, though he had never met him before)\nand conversed cheerily with his brother magistrates as they took their\nseats. The Rector was--well, like other rectors, and the Squire like\nother squires.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was a quarter to twelve before the ladies' claims were adjusted. They\nwere both admonished in a paternal kind of way, and sent about their\nbusiness, since there was disputed evidence as to whether or not the\nlady with the bandage had provoked the attack, not only by her language,\nbut by throwing a banana-skin at the lady without the bandage. They were\nwell talked to, their husbands were bidden to keep them in order, and\nthey departed, both a little crestfallen, to discuss the whole matter\nover a pint of beer.\n\nThere was a little shifting about in court; a policeman, looking\ncuriously human without his helmet, pushed forward from the door and\ntook his place by the little barrier. The magistrates and the clerk and\nthe inspector all conferred a little together, and after an order or\ntwo, the door near the back of the court leading from the police-cells\nopened, and Frank stepped forward into the dock, followed by another\npoliceman who clicked the barrier behind the prisoner and stood,\nwaiting, like Rhadamanthus. Through the hedge of the front row of the\ncrowd peered the faces of Gertie and the Major.\n\nWe need not bother with the preliminaries--in fact, I forget how they\nran--Frank gave his name of Frank Gregory, his age as twenty-two years,\nhis occupation as casual laborer, and his domicile as no fixed abode.\n\nThe charge was read to him. It was to the effect that he, on the night\nof Tuesday, the twenty-third instant, had in the village (whose name I\nchoose to forget, if I ever knew it), seized from Maggie Cooper, aged\nnine years, a tin of preserved salmon, with intent to steal. The\nquestion put to the prisoner was: Did he or did he not plead guilty?\n\n\"I plead guilty, sir,\" said Frank, without a tremor.\n\nHe had been two full days in the cells by now, and it had not improved\nhis appearance. He was still deeply sunburned, but he was a little pale\nunder the eyes, and he was unshaven. He had also deliberately rumpled\nhis hair and pulled his clothes to make them look as untidy as possible.\nHe answered in a low voice, so as to attract as little attention as\npossible. He had given one quick look at the magistrates as he came in,\nto make sure he had never met them out shooting or at dinner-parties,\nand he had been deeply relieved to find them total strangers.\n\n\"You plead guilty, eh?\" said the General.\n\nFrank nodded.\n\n\"Well, well! let's hear the whole story. Where is the complainant?\"\n\nA rather pale and awe-stricken child appeared somewhere in a little box\nopposite Frank, with a virtuous mother in black silk behind her. It\nappeared that this child was on her way to her aunt--her father was a\ngrocer--with a tin of salmon that had been promised and forgotten (that\nwas how she came to be out so late). As she reached the corner by\nBarker's Lane a man had jumped at her and seized the tin. (No; he had\nnot used any other violence.) She had screamed at the top of her voice,\nand Mrs. Jennings' door had opened. Then the man had run away.\n\n\"Had she seen the man clearly?\" No, she hadn't seen him at all; she had\njust seen that he was a man. (\"Called himself one,\" put in a voice.) The\nwitness here cast an indignant--almost vindictive--look at Frank.\n\nThen a few corroborations were issued. Mrs. Jennings, a widow lady,\nkeeping house for her brother who was a foreman in Marks' yard, ratified\nthe statement about the door being opened. She was going to shut up for\nthe night when she heard the child scream. Her brother, a severe-looking\nman, with a black beard, finished her story. He had heard his sister\ncall out, as he was taking off his boots at the foot of the stairs; he\nhad run out with his laces dangling, in time to see the man run past the\npublic-house fifty yards up the street. No ... he, too, had not seen the\nman clearly, but he had seen him before, in company with another; the\ntwo had come to his yard that afternoon to ask for work and been\nrefused, as they wanted no more hands.\n\n\"Well, what had happened then?\"\n\nHe had hammered at two or three doors as he ran past, among them that of\nthe police-constable, and himself had run on, in time to hear the\nprisoner's footsteps run up the lane leading to the barn. He had stopped\nthen as he was out of breath, and as he thought they would have the man\nnow, since there was no exit from the lane except through Mr. Patten's\nfarm-yard, and if he'd gone that way they'd have heard the dogs.\n\nFinally the police-constable corroborated the entire story, and added\nthat he, in company with the foreman and two other men, had \"proceeded\"\nto the barn immediately, and there had found the prisoner, who was\npretending to be asleep, with the tin of salmon (produced and laid on\nthe table) hidden inside his jacket. He had then taken him into custody.\n\n\"Was there any one else in the barn?\"\n\nYes--two persons, who gave the names of George and Gertie Trustcott.\nThese were prepared to give evidence as to the prisoner's identity, and\nas to his leaving and returning to the barn on the evening in question,\nif the magistrate wished.... Yes; they were present in court.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe General began to turn a little testy as the constable finished. He\nseemed a magistrate who liked to be paternal, and he appeared to grow\nimpatient under the extraordinarily correct language of the policeman.\n\nHe turned to Frank--seeming to forget all about the two witnesses not\nyet called--and spoke rather sharply:\n\n\"You don't deny all that? You plead guilty, eh?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Frank, gazing at the very pink salmon emblazoned on\nthe tin.\n\n\"Why did you do it?\"\n\n\"I was hungry, sir.\"\n\n\"Hungry, eh? An able-bodied lad like you? Can't you work, then?\"\n\n\"When I can get it, sir,\" said Frank\n\n\"Eh?... eh? Well, that's true enough. You couldn't get it that day,\nanyhow. Mr. What's-his-name's told us that.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nThen the Rector leaned forward swiftly--to Frank's horror.\n\n\"You speak like an educated man.\"\n\n\"Do I, sir? I'm very pleased to hear it.\"\n\nThere was a faint snigger in court.\n\n\"Where were you educated?\" persisted the Rector.\n\n\"Am I bound to incriminate myself, sir?\"\n\n\"Incriminate?\" said the General suddenly interested. \"Eh? you mean,\nafter a good education. I see. No, of course you're not, my lad.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir.\"\n\n\"And you plead guilty? And you'd like the case dealt with now?\"\n\n\"If you please, sir.\"\n\nThe clerk rose swiftly in his place and began to whisper to the\nmagistrates behind his hand. Frank understood perfectly what was\nhappening; he understood that it was doubtful whether or no his case\ncould be dealt with in this court. He exploded within himself a violent\nadjuration to the Supreme Authorities, and the next instant the General\nsat back.\n\n\"Nonsense! nonsense! It isn't highway robbery at all within the meaning\nof the term. We'll deal with it now--eh, gentlemen?\"\n\nThere was a little more whispering, and finally the General settled\nhimself and took up a quill pen.\n\n\"Well, we'll deal with it now, my lad, as you wish. I'm sorry to see a\nfellow like you in this position--particularly if you've had a good\neducation, as you seem to have had. Cowardly thing, you know, to attack\na child like that, isn't it? even if you were hungry. You ought to be\nmore hardy than that, you know--a great fellow like you--than to mind a\nbit of hunger. Boys like you ought to enlist; that'd make a man of you\nin no time. But no.... I know you; you won't.... You'd sooner loaf about\nand pick up what you can--sooner than serve His Majesty. Well, well,\nthere's no compulsion--not yet; but you should think over it. Come and\nsee me, if you like, when you've done your time, and we'll see what can\nbe done. That'd be better than loafing about and picking up tins of\nsalmon, eh?\"\n\n\"Well, I've no more to say. But you just think over it. And we'll give\nyou fourteen days.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThen as Frank went out he saw the three magistrates lean back in\nconversation.\n\n\n(III)\n\nI find it very hard to explain, even to myself, the extraordinary\ndepression that fell upon Frank during his fourteen days. He could\nhardly bear even to speak of it afterwards, and I find in his diary no\nmore than a line or two, and those as bald as possible. Apparently it\nwas no kind of satisfaction to him to know that the whole thing was\nentirely his own doing, or that it was the thought of Gertie that had\nmade him, in the first instance, take the tin from the Major. Yet it was\nnot that there was any sense of guilt, or even of mistake. One would\nhave thought that from everybody's point of view, and particularly\nGertie's, it would be an excellent thing for the Major to go to prison\nfor a bit. It would certainly do him no harm, and it would be a real\nopportunity to separate the girl from his company. As for any wrong in\nhis pleading guilty, he defended it (I must say, with some adroitness)\nby saying that it was universally acknowledged that the plea of \"Not\nGuilty\" is merely formal, and in no way commits one to its intrinsic\ntruth (and he is right there, at least according to Moral Theology as\nwell as common sense) and, therefore, that the alternative plea is also\nmerely formal.\n\nAnd yet he was depressed by his fourteen days to the verge of\nmelancholia.\n\nThere are several contributory causes that may be alleged.\n\nFirst, there is the extreme ignominy of all the circumstances, beginning\nwith the paternal scolding in court, in the presence of grocers and\npersons who threw clogs, continuing with the dreary journey by rail, in\nhandcuffs, and the little crowds that gathered to laugh or stare, and\nculminating with the details of the prison life. It is not pleasant for\na cleanly man to be suspected of dirt, to be bathed and examined all\nover by a man suffering himself apparently from some species of eczema;\nit is not pleasant to be ordered about peremptorily by uniformed men,\nwho, three months before, would have touched their hats to you, and to\nhave to do things instantly and promptly for the single reason that one\nis told to do them.\n\nSecondly, there was the abrupt change of life--of diet, air and\nexercise....\n\nThirdly, there was the consideration, the more terrible because the more\ncompletely unverifiable, as to what difference all this would make, not\nonly to the regard of his friends for him, but to his own regard for\nhimself. Innocence of a fault does not entirely do away with the\ndistress and stigma of its punishment. He imagined himself telling\nJenny; he tried to see her laughing, and somehow he could not. It was\nwholly uncharacteristic of all that he knew of her, and yet somehow,\nnight after night, as the hours dragged by, he seemed to see her looking\nat him a little contemptuously.\n\n\"At any rate,\" he almost heard her say, \"if you didn't do it, you made a\nfriend of a man who did. And you were in prison.\"\n\nOh! there are countless excellent explanations of his really terrible\ndepression; and yet somehow it does not seem to me at all in line with\nwhat I know of Frank, to think that they explain it in the least. I\nprefer to believe, with a certain priest who will appear by and by, that\nthe thing was just one stage of a process that had to be accomplished,\nand that if it had not come about in this way, it must have come about\nin another. As for his religion, all emotional grasp of that fled, it\nseemed finally, at the touch of real ignominy. He retained the\nintellectual reasons for which he had become a Catholic, but the thing\nseemed as apart from him as his knowledge of law--such as it\nwas--acquired at Cambridge, or his proficiency in lawn-tennis. Certainly\nit was no kind of consolation to him to reflect on the sufferings of\nChristian martyrs!\n\nIt was a Friday evening when he came out and went quickly round the\ncorner of the jail, in order to get away from any possibility of being\nidentified with it.\n\nHe had had a short interview with the Governor--a very conscientious and\nreligious man, who made a point of delivering what he called \"a few\nearnest words\" to every prisoner before his release. But, naturally\nenough, they were extraordinarily off the point. It was not helpful to\nFrank to have it urged upon him to set about an honest livelihood--it\nwas what he had tried to do every day since June--and not to go about\nrobbing innocent children of things like tins of salmon--it was the very\nlast thing he had ever dreamed of doing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe had also had more than one interview with the chaplain of the\nEstablished Church, in consequence of his resolute refusal to\nacknowledge any religious body at all (he had determined to scotch this\npossible clue to his identification); and those interviews had not been\nmore helpful than any other. It is not of much use to be entreated to\nturn over a new leaf when you see no kind of reason for doing so; and\nlittle books left tactfully in your cell, directed to the same point,\nare equally useless. Frank read them drearily through. He did not\nactually kick them from side to side of his cell when he had finished;\nthat would have been offensive to the excellent intentions of the\nreverend gentleman....\n\nAltogether I do not quite like to picture Frank as he was when he came\nout of jail, and hurried away. It is such a very startling contrast with\nthe gayety with which he had begun his pilgrimage.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe had had plenty of time to think over his plans during the last\nfortnight, and he went, first, straight to the post-office. The Governor\nhad given him half-a-crown to start life with, and he proposed to\nsquander fourpence of it at once in two stamps, two sheets of paper and\ntwo envelopes.\n\nHis first letter was to be to Jack; the second to Major Trustcott, who\nhad thoughtfully given him the address where he might be found about\nthat date.\n\nBut there were to be one or two additional difficulties first.\n\nHe arrived at the post-office, went up the steps and through the swing\ndoors. The place had been newly decorated, with a mahogany counter and\nlight brass lattice rails, behind which two young ladies of an\ninexpressibly aristocratic demeanor and appearance were engaged in\nconversation: their names, as he learned from a few sentences he\nlistened to before daring to interrupt so high a colloquy, were Miss\nMills and Miss Jamieson.\n\nAfter a decent and respectful pause Frank ventured on his request.\n\n\"Two stamps, two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please ... miss.\"\n(He did manage that!)\n\nMiss Mills continued her conversation:\n\n\"So I said to her that that would never do, that Harold would be sure to\nget hold of it, and that then--\"\n\nFrank shuffled his feet a little. Miss Mills cast him a high glance.\n\n\"--There'd be trouble, I said, Miss Jamieson.\"\n\n\"You did quite right, dear.\"\n\n\"Two stamps, two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please, miss.\" He\nclicked four pence together on the counter. Miss Mills rose slowly from\nher place, went a yard or two, and took down a large book. Frank watched\nher gratefully. Then she took a pen and began to make entries in it.\n\n\"Two stamps, two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please.\"\n\nFrank's voice shook a little with anger. He had not learned his lesson\nyet.\n\nMiss Mills finished her entry; looked at Frank with extreme disdain,\nand finally drew out a sheet of stamps.\n\n\"Pennies?\" she inquired sharply.\n\n\"Please.\"\n\nTwo penny stamps were pushed across and two pennies taken up.\n\n\"And now two sheets of paper and two envelopes, please, miss,\" went on\nFrank, encouraged. He thought himself foolish to be angry. Miss Jamieson\nuttered a short laugh and glanced at Miss Mills. Miss Mills pursed her\nlips together and took up her pen once more.\n\n\"Will you be good enough to give me what I ask for, at once, please?\"\n\nThe whole of Frank blazed in this small sentence: but Miss Mills was\nequal to it.\n\n\"You ought to know better,\" she said, \"than to come asking for such\nthings here! Taking up a lot of time like that.\"\n\n\"You don't keep them?\"\n\nMiss Mills uttered a small sound. Miss Jamieson tittered.\n\n\"Shops are the proper places for writing-paper. This is a post-office.\"\n\nWords cannot picture the superb high breeding shown in this utterance.\nFrank should have understood that he had been guilty of gross\nimpertinence in asking such things of Miss Mills; it was treating her\nalmost as a shop-girl. But he was extremely angry by now.\n\n\"Then why couldn't you have the civility to tell me so at once?\"\n\nMiss Jamieson laid aside a little sewing she was engaged on.\n\n\"Look here, young man, you don't come bullying and threatening here.\nI'll have to call the policeman if you do.... I was at the railway\nstation last Friday week, you know.\"\n\nFrank stood still for one furious instant. Then his heart sank and he\nwent out without a word.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe letters got written at last, late that evening, in the back room of\na small lodging-house where he had secured a bed. I have the one he\nwrote to Jack before me as I write, and I copy it as it stands. It was\nwithout address or date.\n\n     \"DEAR JACK,\n\n     \"I want you to do, something for me. I want you to go to\n     Merefield and see, first, Jenny, and then my father; and tell\n     them quite plainly and simply that I've been in prison for a\n     fortnight. I want Jenny to know first, so that she can think of\n     what to say to my father. The thing I was sent to prison for\n     was that I pleaded guilty to stealing a tin of salmon from a\n     child called Mary Cooper. You can see the account of the case\n     in the County Gazette for last Saturday week, the\n     twenty-seventh. The thing I really did was to take the tin from\n     somebody else I was traveling with. He asked me to.\n\n     \"Next, I want you to send on any letters that may have come for\n     me to the address I enclose on a separate piece of paper.\n     Please destroy the address at once; but you can show this\n     letter to Jenny and give her my love. You are not to come and\n     see me. If you don't, I'll come and see you soon.\n\n     \"Things are pretty bad just now, but I'm going to go through\n     with it.\n\n     \"Yours,\n\n     \"F.\n\n     \"P.S.--By the way, please address me as Mr. F. Gregory when you\n     write.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe was perfectly obstinate, you understand, still.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank's troubles as regards prison were by no means exhausted by his\ndistressing conversation with the young ladies in the post office, and\nthe next one fell on him as he was leaving the little town early on the\nSaturday morning.\n\nHe had just turned out of the main street and was going up a quiet side\nlane that looked as if it would lead to the York Road, when he noticed\na disagreeable little scene proceeding up a narrow _cul-de-sac_ across\nwhose mouth he was passing.\n\nA tall, loose-limbed young man, in his working-clothes, obviously\nslightly excited with drink, had hold of a miserable old man by the\nscruff of the neck with one hand, and was cuffing him with the other.\n\nNow I do not wish to represent Frank as a sort of knight-errant, but the\nfact is that if anyone with respectable and humane ideas goes on the\ntramp (I have this from the mouth of experienced persons) he has to make\nup his mind fairly soon either to be a redresser of wrongs or to be\nconveniently short-sighted. Frank was not yet sufficiently experienced\nto have learned the wisdom of the second alternative.\n\nHe went straight up the _cul-de-sac_ and without any words at all hit\nthe young man as hard as possible under the ear nearest to him.\n\nThere seems to have been a moment of amazed silence; the young man\ndropped the old one, who fled out into the lane, and struck back at\nFrank, who parried. Simultaneously a woman screamed somewhere; and faces\nbegan to appear at windows and doors.\n\nIt is curious how the customs of the Middle Ages, as well as some of\ntheir oaths, seem to have descended to the ranks of the British\nworking-man. In the old days--as also in prize-fights to-day--it was\nquite usual to assail your adversary with insults as well as with blows.\nThis was done now. The young man, with a torrent of imprecations,\ndemanded who Frank thought he was, asked where he was coming to,\nrequired of society in general an explanation of a stranger's\ninterfering between a son and a qualified father. There was a murmur of\napplause and dissent, and Frank answered, with a few harmless expletives\nsuch as he had now learned to employ as a sort of verbal disguise, that\nhe did not care how many sons or fathers were in question, that he did\nnot propose to see a certain kind of bully abuse an old man, and that he\nwould be happy to take the old man's place....\n\nThen the battle was set.\n\nFrank had learned to box in a certain small saloon in Market Street,\nCambridge, and knew perfectly well how to take care of himself. He\nreceived about half the force of one extremely hard blow just on his\nleft cheek-bone before he got warmed to his work; but after that he did\nthe giving and the loose-limbed young man the receiving, Frank was even\nscientific; he boxed in the American manner, crouching, with both arms\nhalf extended (and this seems to have entirely bewildered his adversary)\nand he made no effort to reach the face. He just thumped away steadily\nbelow the spot where the ribs part, and where--a doctor informs me--a\nnerve-center, known as the _solar plexus_, is situated. He revolved,\ntoo, with considerable agility, round his opponent, and gradually drew\nthe battle nearer and nearer to the side lane outside. He knew enough of\nslum-chivalry by now to be aware that if a sympathizer, or sycophant, of\nthe young man happened to be present, he himself would quite possibly\n(if the friend happened to possess sufficient courage) suddenly collapse\nfrom a disabling blow on the back of the neck. Also, he was not sure\nwhether there was any wife in the question; and in this case it would be\na poker, or a broken bottle, held dagger-wise, that he would have to\nmeet. And he wished therefore to have more room round him than the\n_cul-de-sac_ afforded.\n\nBut there was no need for precaution.\n\nThe young man had begun to look rather sickly under the eyes and to\nhiccup three or four times in distressed manner; when suddenly the\nclamor round the fight ceased. Frank was aware of a shrill old voice\ncalling out something behind him; and the next instant, simultaneously\nwith the dropping of his adversary's hands, he himself was seized from\nbehind by the arms, and, writhing, discerned is blue sleeve and a gloved\nhand holding him.\n\n\"Now, what's all this?\" said a voice in his ear.\n\nThere was a chorus of explanation, declaring that \"'Alb\" had been set\nupon without provocation. There was a particularly voluble woman with\nred arms and an exceedingly persuasive manner, who advanced from a\ndoorway and described the incident from her own point of view. She had\nbeen hanging out the children's things, she began, and so forth; and\nFrank was declared the aggressor and \"'Alb\" the innocent victim.\n\nThen the chorus broke out again, and \"'Alb,\" after another fit of\nhiccupping, corroborated the witnesses in a broken and pathetically\nindignant voice.\n\nFrank tore himself from one embracing arm and faced round, still held by\nthe other.\n\n\"All right; I shan't run away.... Look here; that's a black lie. He was\nhitting that old man. Where is he? Come on, uncle, and tell us all about\nit.\"\n\nThe old man advanced, his toothless face contorted with inexplicable\nemotion, and corroborated the red-armed woman, and the chorus generally,\nwith astonishing volubility and emphasis.\n\n\"You old fool!\" said Frank curtly. \"What are you afraid of? Let's have\nthe truth, now. Wasn't he hitting you?\"\n\n\"He, he, he!\" giggled the old man, torn by the desire of\nself-preservation on one side and, let us hope, by a wish for justice on\nthe other. \"He warn't hittin' of me. He's my son, he is.... 'Alb is....\nWe were just having--\"\n\n\"There! get out of this,\" said the policeman, releasing Frank with a\nshove. \"We don't want your sort here. Coming and making trouble.... Yes;\nmy lad. You needn't look at me like that. I know you.\"\n\n\"Who the deuce are you talking to?\" snapped Frank.\n\n\"I know who I'm talking to, well enough,\" pronounced the policeman\njudicially. \"F. Gregory, ain't it? Now you be off out of this, or you'll\nbe in trouble again.\"\n\nThere was something vaguely kindly about the man's manner, and Frank\nunderstood that he knew very tolerably where the truth lay, but wished\nto prevent further disturbance. He gulped down his fury. It was no good\nsaying anything; but the dense of the injustice of the universe was very\nbitter. He turned away--\n\nA murmur of indignation broke out from the crowd, bidding the policeman\ndo his duty.\n\nAnd as Frank went up the lane, he heard that zealous officer addressing\nthe court with considerable vigor. But it was very little comfort to\nhim. He walked out of the town with his anger and resentment still hot\nin his heart at the indignity of the whole affair.\n\n\n(V)\n\nBy the Sunday afternoon Frank was well on his way to York.\n\nIt was a heavy, hot day, sunny, but with brooding clouds on the low\nhorizons; and he was dispirited and tired as he came at last into a\nsmall, prim village street rather after two o'clock (its name, once\nmore, I suppress).\n\nHis possessions by now were greatly reduced. His money had gone, little\nby little, all through his journey with the Major, and he had kept of\nother things only one extra flannel shirt, a pair of thick socks and a\nsmall saucepan he had bought one day. The half-crown that the Governor\nhad given him was gone, all but fourpence, and he wanted, if possible,\nto arrive at York, where he was to meet the Major, at least with that\nsum in his possession. Twopence would pay for a bed and twopence more\nfor supper.\n\nHalf-way up the street he stopped suddenly. Opposite him stood a small\nbrick church, retired by a few yards of turf, crossed by a path, from\nthe iron railings that abutted on the pavement: and a notice-board\nproclaimed that in this, church of the Sacred Heart mass was said on\nSundays at eleven, on holidays of obligation at nine, and on weekdays at\neight-thirty A.M. Confessions were heard on Saturday evenings\nand on Thursday evenings before the first Friday, from eight\nto nine P.M. Catechism was at three P.M. on Sundays; and\nrosary, sermon and benediction at seven P.M. A fat cat, looking\nas if it were dead, lay relaxed on the grass beneath this board.\n\nThe door was open and Frank considered an instant. But he thought that\ncould wait for a few minutes as he glanced at the next house. This was\nobviously the presbytery.\n\nFrank had never begged from a priest before, and he hesitated a little\nnow. Then he went across the street into the shadow on the other side,\nleaned against the wall and looked. The street was perfectly empty and\nperfectly quiet, and the hot summer air and sunshine lay on all like a\ncharm. There was another cat, he noticed, on a doorstep a few yards\naway, and he wondered how any living creature in this heat could\npossibly lie like that, face coiled round to the feet, and the tail laid\nneatly across the nose. A dreaming cock crooned heart-brokenly somewhere\nout of sight, and a little hot breeze scooped up a feather of dust in\nthe middle of the road and dropped again.\n\nEven the presbytery looked inviting on a day like this. He had walked a\ngood twenty-five miles to-day, and the suggestion of a dark, cool room\nwas delicious. It was a little pinched-looking house, of brick, like the\nchurch, squeezed between the church and a large grocery with a\nflamboyant inscription over its closed shutters. All the windows were\nopen, hung inside with cheap lace curtains, and protected with\ndust-screens. He pictured the cold food probably laid out within, and\nhis imagination struck into being a tall glass jug of something like\nclaret-cup, still half-full. Frank had not dined to-day.\n\nThen he limped boldly across the street, rapped with the cast-iron\nknocker, and waited.\n\nNothing at all happened.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPresently the cat from the notice-board appeared round the corner, eyed\nFrank suspiciously, decided that he was not dangerous, came on, walking\ndelicately, stepped up on to the further end of the brick stair, and\nbegan to arch itself about and rub its back against the warm angle of\nthe doorpost. Frank rapped again, interrupting the cat for an instant,\nand then stooped down to scratch it under the ear. The cat crooned\ndelightedly. Steps sounded inside the house; the cat stopped writhing,\nand as the door opened, darted in noiselessly with tail erect past the\nwoman who held the door uninvitingly half open.\n\nShe had a thin, lined face and quick black eyes.\n\n\"What do you want?\" she asked sharply, looking up and down Frank's\nfigure with suspicion. Her eyes dwelt for a moment on the bruise on his\ncheek-bone.\n\n\"I want to see the priest, please,\" said Frank.\n\n\"You can't see him.\"\n\n\"I am very sorry,\" said Frank, \"but I must see him.\"\n\n\"Coming here begging!\" exclaimed the woman bitterly. \"I'd be ashamed! Be\noff with you!\"\n\nFrank's dignity asserted itself a little.\n\n\"Don't speak to me in that tone, please. I am a Catholic, and I wish to\nsee the priest.\"\n\nThe woman snorted; but before she could speak there came the sound of an\nopening door and a quick step on the linoleum of the little dark\npassage.\n\n\"What's all this?\" said a voice, as the woman stepped back.\n\nHe was a big, florid young man, with yellow hair, flushed as if with\nsleep; his eyes were bright and tired-looking, and his collar was\nplainly unbuttoned at the back. Also, his cassock was unfastened at the\nthroat and he bore a large red handkerchief in his hand. Obviously this\nhad just been over his face.\n\nNow, I do not blame this priest in the slightest. He had sung a late\nmass--which never agreed with him--and in his extreme hunger he had\neaten two platefuls of hot beef, with Yorkshire pudding, and drunk a\nglass and a half of solid beer. And he had just fallen into a deep sleep\nbefore giving Catechism, when the footsteps and voices had awakened him.\nFurther, every wastrel Catholic that came along this road paid him a\ncall, and he had not yet met with one genuine case of want. When he had\nfirst come here he had helped beggars freely and generously, and he\nlived on a stipend of ninety pounds a year, out of which he paid his\nhousekeeper fifteen.\n\n\"What do you want?\" he said.\n\n\"May I speak to you, father?\" said Frank.\n\n\"Certainly. Say what you've got to say.\"\n\n\"Will you help me with sixpence, father?\"\n\nThe priest was silent, eyeing Frank closely.\n\n\"Are you a Catholic?\"\n\n\"Yes, father.\"\n\n\"I didn't see you at mass this morning.\"\n\n\"I wasn't here this morning. I was walking on the roads.\"\n\n\"Where did you hear mass?\"\n\n\"I didn't hear it at all, father. I was on the roads.\"\n\n\"What's your work?\"\n\n\"I haven't any.\"\n\n\"Why's that?\"\n\nFrank shrugged his shoulders a little.\n\n\"I do it when I can get it,\" he said.\n\n\"You speak like an educated man.\"\n\n\"I am pretty well educated.\"\n\nThe priest laughed shortly.\n\n\"What's that bruise on your cheek?\"\n\n\"I was in a street fight, yesterday, father.\"\n\n\"Oh, this is ridiculous!\" he said. \"Where did you come from last?\"\n\nFrank paused a moment. He was very hot and very tired.... Then he spoke.\n\n\"I was in prison till Friday,\" he said. \"I was given fourteen days on\nthe charge of robbing a child, on the twenty-sixth. I pleaded guilty.\nWill you help me, father?\"\n\nIf the priest had not been still half stupid with sleep and indigestion,\nand standing in the full blaze of this hot sun, he might have been\nrather struck by this last sentence. But he did have those\ndisadvantages, and he saw in it nothing but insolence.\n\nHe laughed again, shortly and angrily.\n\n\"I'm amazed at your cheek,\" he said. \"No, certainly not! And you'd\nbetter learn manners before you beg again.\"\n\nThen he banged the door.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAbout ten minutes later he woke up from a doze, very wide awake indeed,\nand looked round. There lay on the table by him a Dutch cheese, a large\ncrusty piece of bread and some very soft salt butter in a saucer. There\nwas also a good glass of beer left--not claret-cup--in a glass jug, very\nmuch as Frank had pictured it.\n\nHe got up and went out to the street door, shading his eyes against the\nsun. But the street lay hot and dusty in the afternoon light, empty from\nend to end, except for a cat, nose in tail, coiled on the grocery\ndoor-step.\n\nThen he saw two children, in white frocks, appear round a corner, and he\nremembered that it was close on time for Catechism.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n(I)\n\nAbout the time that Frank was coming into the village where the priest\nlived, Jenny had just finished lunch with her father. She took a book,\ntwo cigarettes, a small silver matchbox and a Japanese fan, and went out\ninto the garden. She had no duties this afternoon; she had played the\norgan admirably at the morning service, and would play it equally\nadmirably at the evening service. The afternoon devotions in the little\nhot Sunday school--she had decided, in company with her father a year or\ntwo ago--and the management of the children, were far better left in the\nprofessional hands of the schoolmistress.\n\nShe went straight out of the drawing-room windows, set wide and shaded\nby awnings, and across the lawn to the seat below the ancient yews.\nThere she disposed herself, with her feet up, lit a cigarette, buried\nthe match and began to read.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe had not heard from Frank for nearly three weeks; his last\ncommunication had been a picture postcard of Selby Abbey, with the\ninitial \"F\" neatly printed at the back. But she was not very greatly\nupset. She had written her letter as she had promised, and had heard\nfrom Jack Kirkby, to whose care she sent it, that he had no idea of\nFrank's whereabouts, and that he would send on the letter as soon as he\nknew more. She supposed that Frank would communicate with her again as\nsoon as he thought proper.\n\nOther circumstances to be noted were that Dick had gone back to town\nsome while ago, but would return almost immediately now for the\ngrouse-shooting; that Archie and Lord Talgarth were both up at the\nhouse--indeed, she had caught sight of them in the red-curtained\nchancel-pew this morning, and had exchanged five words with them both\nafter the service--and that in all other respects other things were as\nthey had been a month ago.\n\nThe Dean of Trinity had telegraphed in great dismay on the morning\nfollowing his first communication that Frank had gone, and that no one\nhad the slightest idea of his destination; he had asked whether he\nshould put detectives on the track, and had been bidden, in return,\npolitely but quite firmly, to mind his own business and leave Lord\nTalgarth's younger son to Lord Talgarth.\n\nIt was a sleepy afternoon, even up here among the hills, and Jenny had\nnot read many pages before she became aware of it. The Rectory garden\nwas an almost perfect place for a small doze; the yews about her made a\ngrateful shade, and the limes behind them even further cooled the air,\nand, when the breeze awoke, as one talking in his sleep, the sound about\nher was as of gentle rain. The air was bright and dusty with insects;\nfrom the limes overhead, the geranium beds, and the orchard fifty yards\naway, came the steady murmur of bees and flies.\n\nJenny woke up twenty minutes later with a sudden start, and saw someone\nstanding almost over her. She threw her feet down, still bewildered by\nthe sudden change and the glare on which she opened her eyes, and\nperceived that it was Jack Kirkby, looking very dusty and hot.\n\n\"I am so sorry,\" said Jack apologetically, \"but I was told you were out\nhere.\"\n\nShe did not know Jack very well, though she had known him a long time.\nShe looked upon him as a pleasant sort of boy whom she occasionally met\nat lawn-tennis parties and flower shows, and things like that, and she\nknew perfectly how to talk to young men.\n\n\"How nice of you to came over,\" she said. \"Did you bicycle? Have\nsomething to drink?\"\n\nShe made room for him on the seat and held out her second cigarette.\n\n\"It's your last,\" said Jack.\n\n\"I've lots more in the house.\"\n\nShe watched him as he lit it, and as the last shreds of sleep rolled\naway, put the obvious question.\n\n\"You've news of Frank?\"\n\nJack threw away the match and drew two or three draughts of smoke before\nanswering.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\n\"Where is he?\"\n\n\"He gave an address at York, though he wasn't there when he wrote. I\nsent your letter on there yesterday.\"\n\n\"Oh I did he give any account of himself?\"\n\nJack looked at her.\n\n\"Well, he did. I've come about that. It's not very pleasant.\"\n\n\"Is he ill?\" asked Jenny sharply.\n\n\"Oh, no; not at all; at least, he didn't say so.\"\n\n\"What's the matter, then?\"\n\nJack fumbled in his breast-pocket and drew out a letter, which he held a\nmoment before unfolding.\n\n\"I think you'd better read what he says, Miss Launton. It isn't\npleasant, but it's all over now. I thought I'd better tell you that\nfirst.\"\n\nShe held out her hand without speaking.\n\nJack gave it her, and addressed himself carefully to his cigarette. He\ndidn't like this kind of thing at all, he wished Frank wouldn't give him\nunpleasant commissions. But, of course, it had to be done. He looked out\nat the lawn and the sleepy house, but was aware of nothing except the\ngirl beside him in her white dress and the letter in her hands. When she\nhad finished it, she turned back and read it again. Then she remained\nperfectly still, with the letter held on her knee.\n\n\"Poor, dear old boy!\" she said suddenly and quietly.\n\nAn enormous wave of relief rolled up and enveloped Jack. He had been\nexceedingly uncomfortable this morning, ever since the letter had come.\nHis first impulse had been to ride over instantly after breakfast; then\nhe had postponed it till lunch; then he had eaten some cold beef about\nhalf-past twelve and come straight away. He told himself he must give\nher plenty of time to write by the late Sunday night post.\n\nHe had not exactly distrusted Jenny; Frank's confidence was too\noverwhelming and too infectious. But he had reflected that it was not a\nwholly pleasant errand to have to inform a girl that her lover had been\nin prison for a fortnight. But the tone in which she had just said those\nfour words was so serene and so compassionate that he was completely\nreassured. This really was a fine creature, he said to himself.\n\n\"I'm extraordinarily glad you take it like that,\" he said.\n\nJenny looked at him out of her clear, direct eyes.\n\n\"You didn't suppose I should abuse him, did you?... How exactly like\nFrank! I suppose he did it to save some blackguard or other.\"\n\n\"I expect that was it,\" said Jack.\n\n\"Poor, dear old boy!\" she said again.\n\nThere was a moment's silence. Then Jack began again:\n\n\"You see, I've got to go and tell Lord Talgarth. Miss Launton, I wish\nyou'd come with me. Then we can both write by to-night's post.\"\n\nJenny said nothing for an instant. Then:\n\n\"I suppose that would be best,\" she said. \"Shall we go up pretty soon? I\nexpect we shall find him in the garden.\"\n\nJack winced a little. Jenny smiled at him openly.\n\n\"Best to get it over, Mr. Jack. I know it's like going to the dentist.\nBut it can't be as bad as you think. It never is. Besides, you'll have\nsomebody to hold your hand, so to speak.\"\n\n\"I hope I shan't scream out loud,\" observed Jack. \"Yes, we'd better\ngo--if you don't mind.\"\n\nHe stood up and waited. Jenny rose at once.\n\n\"I'll go and get a hat. Wait for me here, will you? I needn't tell\nfather till this evening.\"\n\n\n(II)\n\nThe park looked delicious as they walked slowly up the grass under the\nshade of the trees by the side of the drive. The great beeches and elms\nrose in towering masses, in clump after clump, into the distance, and\nbeneath the nearest stood a great stag with half a dozen hinds about\nhim, eyeing the walkers. The air was very still; only from over the hill\ncame the sound of a single church bell, where some infatuated clergyman\nhoped to gather the lambs of his flock together for instruction in the\nChristian religion.\n\n\"That's a beauty,\" said Jack, waving a languid hand towards the stag.\n\"Did you ever hear of the row Frank and I got into when we were boys?\"\n\nJenny smiled. She had been quite silent since leaving the Rectory.\n\n\"I heard of a good many,\" she said. \"Which was this?\"\n\nJack recounted a story of Red Indians and ambuscades and a bow and\narrows, ending in the flight of a frantic stag over the palings and\namong the garden beds; it was on a Sunday afternoon, too.\n\n\"Frank was caned by the butler, I remember; by Lord Talgarth's express\norders. Certainly he richly deserved it. I was a guest, and got off\nclear.\"\n\n\"How old were you?\"\n\n\"We were both about eleven, I think.\"\n\n\"Frank doesn't strike me as more than about twelve now,\" observed Jenny.\n\n\"There's something in that,\" admitted Jack.... \"Oh! Lord! how hot it\nis!\" He fanned himself with his hat.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was no sign of life as they passed into the court and up to the\npillared portico; and at last, when the butler appeared, the irregular\nstate of his coat-collar showed plainly that he but that moment had put\nhis coat on.\n\n(This would be about the time that Frank left the village after his\ninterview with the priest.)\n\nYes; it seemed that Lord Talgarth was probably in the garden; and, if\nso, almost certainly in the little square among the yews along the upper\nterrace. His lordship usually went there on hot days. Would Miss Launton\nand Mr. Kirkby kindly step this way?\n\nNo; he was not to trouble. They would find their own way. On the upper\nterrace?\n\n\"On the upper terrace, miss.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe upper terrace was the one part of the old Elizabethan garden left\nentirely unaltered. On either side rose up a giant wall of yew, shaped\nlike a castle bastion, at least ten feet thick; and between the two ran\na broad gravel path up to the sun-dial, bordered on either side by huge\nherbaceous beds, blazing with the color of late summer. In two or three\nplaces grass paths crossed these, leading by a few yards of turf to\nwindows cut in the hedge to give a view of the long, dazzling lake\nbelow, and there was one gravel path, parallel to these, that led to the\nlittle yew-framed square built out on the slope of the hill.\n\nTwo very silent persons now came out from the house by the garden door\non the south side, turned along the path, went up a dozen broad steps,\npassed up the yew walk and finally turned again down the short gravel\nway and stood abashed.\n\nHis lordship was indeed here!\n\nA long wicker chair was set in one angle, facing them, in such a\nposition that the movement of the sun would not affect the delightful\nshade in which the chair stood. A small table stood beside it, with the\n_Times_ newspaper tumbled on to it, a box of cigars, a spirit-bottle of\niridescent glass, a syphon, and a tall tumbler in which a little ice lay\ncrumbled at the bottom. And in the wicker chair, with his mouth wide\nopen, slept Lord Talgarth.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" whispered Jenny.\n\nThere was a silence, and then like far-off thunder a slow meditative\nsnore. It was not an object of beauty or dignity that they looked upon.\n\n\"In one second I shall laugh,\" asserted Jenny, still in a cautious\nwhisper.\n\n\"I think we'd better--\" began Jack; and stopped petrified, to see one\nvindictive-looking eye opened and regarding him, it seemed, with an\nexpression of extraordinary malignity. Then the other eye opened, the\nmouth abruptly closed and Lord Talgarth sat up.\n\n\"God bless my soul!\"\n\nHe rolled his eyes about a moment while intelligence came back.\n\n\"You needn't be ashamed of it,\" said Jenny. \"Mr. Jack Kirkby caught me\nat it, too, half an hour ago.\"\n\nHis lordship's senses had not even now quite returned. He still stared\nat them innocently like a child, cleared his throat once or twice, and\nfinally stood up.\n\n\"Jack Kirkby, so it is! How do, Jack? And Jenny?\n\n\"That's who we are,\" said Jenny. \"Are you sure you're quite recovered?\"\n\n\"Recovered! Eh--!\" (He emitted a short laugh.) \"Sit down. There's chairs\nsomewhere.\"\n\nJack hooked out a couple that were leaning folded against the low wall\nof yew beneath the window and set them down.\n\n\"Have a cigar, Jack?\"\n\n\"No, thanks.\"\n\nThey were on good terms--these two. Jack shot really well, and was smart\nand deferential. Lord Talgarth asked no more than this from a young man.\n\n\"Well--what's the matter?\"\n\nJack left it thoughtfully for Jenny to open the campaign. She did so\nvery adroitly.\n\n\"Mr. Jack came over to see me,\" she said, \"and I thought I couldn't\nentertain him better than by bringing him up to see you. You haven't\nsuch a thing as a cigarette, Lord Talgarth?\"\n\nHe felt about in his pockets, drew out a case and pushed it across the\ntable.\n\n\"Thanks,\" said Jenny; and then, without the faintest change of tone:\n\"We've some news of Frank at last.\"\n\n\"Frank, eh? Have you? And what's the young cub at, now?\"\n\n\"He's in trouble, as usual, poor boy!\" remarked Jenny, genially. \"He's\nvery well, thank you, and sends you his love.\"\n\nLord Talgarth cast her a pregnant glance.\n\n\"Well, if he didn't, I'm sure he meant to,\" went on Jenny; \"but I\nexpect he forgot. You see, he's been in prison.\"\n\nThe old man jerked such a face at her, that even her nerve failed for an\ninstant. Jack saw her put her cigarette up to her mouth with a hand that\nshook ever so slightly. And yet before the other could say one word she\nrecovered herself.\n\n\"Please let me say it right out to the end first,\" she said. \"No; please\ndon't interrupt! Mr. Jack, give me the letter ... oh! I've got it.\" (She\ndrew it out and began to unfold it, talking all the while with\nastonishing smoothness and self-command.) \"And I'll read you all the\nimportant part. It's written to Mr. Kirkby. He got it this morning and\nvery kindly brought it straight over here at once.\"\n\nJack was watching like a terrier. On the one side he saw emotions so\nfurious and so conflicting that they could find no expression, and on\nthe other a restraint and a personality so complete and so compelling\nthat they simply held the field and permitted no outburst. Her voice was\ncool and high and natural. Then he noticed her flick a glance at\nhimself, sideways, and yet perfectly intelligible. He stood up.\n\n\"Yes, do just take a stroll, Mr. Kirkby.... Come back in ten minutes.\"\n\nAnd as he passed out again through the thick archway on to the terrace\nhe heard, in an incredibly matter-of-fact voice, the letter begin.\n\n     \"DEAR JACK....\"\n\nThen he began to wonder what, as a matter of interest, Lord Talgarth's\nfirst utterance would be. But he felt he could trust Jenny to manage\nhim. She was an astonishingly sane and sensible girl.\n\n\n(III)\n\nHe was at the further end of the terrace, close beneath the stable wall,\nwhen the stable clock struck the quarter for the second time. That would\nmake, he calculated, about seventeen minutes, and he turned reluctantly\nto keep his appointment. But he was still thirty yards away from the\nopening when a white figure in a huge white hat came quickly out. She\nbeckoned to him with her head, and he followed her down the steps. She\ngave him one glance as if to reassure him as he caught her up, but said\nnot a word, good or bad, till they had passed through the house again,\nand were well on their way down the drive.\n\n\"Well?\" said Jack.\n\nJenny hesitated a moment.\n\n\"I suppose anyone else would have called him violent,\" she said. \"Poor\nold dear! But it seems to me he behaved rather well on the\nwhole--considering all things.\"\n\n\"What's he going to do?\"\n\n\"If one took anything he said as containing any truth at all, it would\nmean that he was going to flog Frank with his own hands, kick him first\nup the steps of the house then down again, and finally drown him in the\nlake with a stone round his neck. I think that was the sort of\nprogramme.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"Oh! we needn't be frightened,\" said Jenny. \"But if you ask me what he\nwill do, I haven't the faintest idea.\"\n\n\"Did you suggest anything?\"\n\n\"He knows what my views are,\" said jenny.\n\n\"And those?\"\n\n\"Well--make him a decent allowance and let him alone.\"\n\n\"He won't do that!\" said Jack. \"That's far too sensible.\"\n\n\"You think so?\"\n\n\"That would solve the whole problem, of course,\" went on Jack, \"marriage\nand everything. I suppose it would have to be about eight hundred a\nyear. And Talgarth must have at least thirty thousand.\"\n\n\"Oh! he's more than that,\" said Jenny. \"He gives Mr. Dick twelve\nhundred.\"\n\nThere was a pause. Jack did not know what to think. He was only quite\ncertain that the thing would have been far worse if he had attempted to\nmanage it himself.\n\n\"Well, what shall I say to Frank?\" he asked. Jenny paused again.\n\n\"It seems to me the best thing for you to do is not to write. I'll write\nmyself this evening, if you'll give me his address, and explain--\"\n\n\"I can't do that,\" said Jack. \"I'm awfully sorry, but--\"\n\n\"You can't give me his address?\"\n\n\"No, I'm afraid I mustn't. You see, Frank's very particular in his\nletter....\"\n\n\"Then how can I write to him? Mr. Kirkby, you're really rather--\"\n\n\"By George! I've got it!\" cried Jack. \"If you don't mind my waiting at\nthe Rectory. Why shouldn't you write to him now, and let me take the\nletter away and post it? It'll go all the quicker, too, from Barham.\"\n\nHe glanced at her, wondering whether she were displeased. Her answer\nreassured him.\n\n\"That'll do perfectly,\" she said, \"if you're sure you don't mind\nwaiting.\"\n\nThe Rectory garden seemed more than ever a harbor from storm as they\nturned into it. The sun was a little lower now, and the whole lawn lay\nin shadow. As they came to the door she stopped.\n\n\"I think I'd better go and get it over,\" she said. \"I can tell father\nall about it after you've gone. Will you go now and wait there?\" She\nnodded towards the seat where they had sat together earlier.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut it was nearly an hour before she came out again, and a neat maid, in\napron and cap, had come discreetly out with the tea-things, set them\ndown and retired.\n\nJack had been thinking of a hundred things, which all centered round\none--Frank. He had had a real shock this morning. It had been\nintolerable to think of Frank in prison, for even Jack could guess\nsomething of what that meant to him; and the tone of the letter had been\nso utterly unlike what he had been accustomed to from his friend. He\nwould have expected a bubbling torrent of remarks--wise and\nfoolish--full of personal descriptions and unkind little sketches. And,\nindeed, there had come this sober narration of facts and requests....\n\nBut in all this there was one deep relief--that it should be a girl like\nJenny who was the heart of the situation. If she had been in the least\nlittle bit disturbed, who could tell what it would mean to Frank? For\nFrank, as he knew perfectly well, had a very deep heart indeed, and had\nenshrined Jenny in the middle of it. Any wavering or hesitation on her\npart would have meant misery to his friend. But now all was perfectly\nright, he reflected; and really, after all, it did not matter very much\nwhat Lord Talgarth said or did. Frank was a free agent; he was very\ncapable and very lovable; it couldn't possibly be long before something\nturned up, and then, with Jenny's own money the two could manage very\nwell. And Lord Talgarth could not live for ever; and Archie would do the\nright thing, even if his father didn't.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was after half-past four before he looked up at a glint of white and\nsaw Jenny standing at the drawing-room window. She stood there an\ninstant with a letter in her hand; then she stepped over the low sill\nand came towards him across the grass, serene and dignified and\ngraceful. Her head was bare again, and the great coils of her hair\nflashed suddenly as they caught a long horizontal ray from the west.\n\n\"Here it is,\" she said. \"Will you direct it? I've told him everything.\"\n\nJack nodded.\n\n\"That's excellent!\" he said. \"It shall go to-night.\"\n\nHe glanced up at her and saw her looking at him with just the faintest\nwistfulness. He understood perfectly, he said to himself: she was still\na little unhappy at not being allowed to send the letter herself. What a\ngood girl she was!\n\n\"Have some tea before you go?\" she said.\n\n\"Thanks. I'd better not. They'll be wondering what's happened to me.\"\n\nAs he shook hands he tried to put something of his sympathy into his\nlook. He knew exactly how she was feeling, and he thought her splendidly\nbrave. But she hardly met his eyes, and again he felt he knew why.\n\nAs he opened the garden gate beyond the house he turned once more to\nwave. But she was busy with the tea-things, and a black figure was\nadvancing briskly upon her from the direction of the study end of the\nhouse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n(I)\n\nLife had been a little difficult for the Major for the last fortnight or\nso. Not only was Frank's material and moral support lacking to him, but\nthe calls upon him, owing to Gertie's extreme unreasonableness, had\nconsiderably increased. He had explained to her, over and over again,\nwith a rising intensity each time, how unselfishly he had acted\nthroughout, how his sole thought had been for her in his recent course\nof action. It would never have done, he explained pacifically, for a\nyoung man like Frank to have the responsibility of a young girl like\nGertie on his hands, while he (the Major) was spending a fortnight\nelsewhere. And, in fact, even on the most economical grounds he had\nacted for the best, since it had been himself who had been charged in\nthe matter of the tin of salmon, it would not have been a fortnight, but\nmore like two months, during which the little community would have been\ndeprived of his labor. He reminded her that Frank had had a clean record\nup to that time with the police....\n\nBut explanation had been fruitless. Gertie had even threatened a\nrevelation of the facts of the case at the nearest police-station, and\nthe Major had been forced to more manly tactics with her. He had not\nused a stick; his hands had served him very well, and in the course of\nhis argument he had made a few insincere remarks on the mutual relations\nof Frank and Gertie that the girl remembered.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe had obtained a frugal little lodging in one of the small streets of\nYork, down by the river--indeed looking straight on to it; and, for a\nwonder, five days' regular work at the unloading of a string of barges.\nThe five days expired on the Saturday before Frank was expected, but he\nhad several shillings in hand on the Sunday morning when Frank's letter\narrived, announcing that he hoped to be with them again on Sunday night\nor Monday morning. Two letters, also, had arrived for his friend on the\nSunday morning--one in a feminine handwriting and re-directed, with an\nold postmark of June, as well as one of the day before--he had held it\nup to the light and crackled it between his fingers, of course, upon\nreceiving it--and the other an obvious bill--one postmark was Cambridge\nand the other Barham. He decided to keep them both intact. Besides,\nGertie had been present at their delivery.\n\nThe Major spent, on the whole, an enjoyable Sunday. He lay in bed till\na little after twelve o'clock, with a second-hand copy of the Sporting\nTimes, and a tin of tobacco beside him. They dined at about one o'clock,\nand he managed to get a little spirit to drink with his meal. He had\nwalked out--not very far--with Gertie in the afternoon, and had managed\nby representing himself as having walked seven miles--he was determined\nnot to risk anything by foolishly cutting it too fine--to obtain a\nlittle more. They had tea about six, and ate, each of them, a kippered\nherring and some watercress. Then about seven o'clock Frank suddenly\nwalked in and sat down.\n\n\"Give me something to eat and drink,\" he said.\n\nHe looked, indeed, extraordinarily strained and tired, and sat back on\nthe upturned box by the fireplace as if in exhaustion. He explained\npresently when Gertie had cooked another herring, and he had drunk a\nslop-basinful of tea, that he had walked fasting since breakfast, but he\nsaid nothing about the priest. The Major with an air of great\npreciseness measured out half a finger of whisky and insisted, with the\nair of a paternal doctor, upon his drinking it immediately.\n\n\"And now a cigarette, for God's sake,\" said Frank. \"By the way, I've got\nsome work for to-morrow.\"\n\n\"That's first-rate, my boy,\" said the Major. \"I've been working myself\nthis week.\"\n\nFrank produced his fourpence and laid it on the corner of the table.\n\n\"That's for supper and bed to-night,\" he said.\n\n\"Nonsense, my boy; put it back in your pocket.\"\n\n\"Kindly take that fourpence,\" remarked Frank. \"You can add some\nbreakfast to-morrow, if you like.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe related his adventures presently--always excepting the priest--and\ndescribed how he had met a man at the gate of a builder's yard this\nevening as he came through York, who had promised him a day's job, and\nif things were satisfactory, more to follow.\n\n\"He seemed a decent chap,\" said Frank.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Major and Gertie had not much to relate. They had left the\nmarket-town immediately after Frank's little matter in the magistrates'\ncourt, and had done pretty well, arriving in York ten days ago. They\nhardly referred to Frank's detention, though he saw Gertie looking at\nhim once or twice in a curiously shy kind of way, and understood what\nwas in her mind. But for very decency's sake the Major had finally to\nsay something.\n\n\"By the way, my boy, I won't forget what you did for me and for my\nlittle woman here. I'm not a man of many words, but--\"\n\n\"Oh! that's all right,\" said Frank sleepily. \"You'll do as much for me\none day.\"\n\nThe Major assented with fervor and moist eyes. It was not till Frank\nstood up to go to bed that anyone remembered the letters.\n\n\"By the way, there are two letters come for you,\" said the Major,\nhunting in the drawer of the table. Frank's bearing changed. He whisked\nround in an instant.\n\n\"Where are they?\"\n\nThey were put into his hand. He looked at them carefully, trying to make\nout the postmark--turned them upside down and round, but he made no\nmotion to open them.\n\n\"Where am I to sleep?\" he said suddenly. \"And can you spare a bit of\ncandle?\"\n\n(And as he went upstairs, it must have been just about the time that the\nletter-box at Barham was cleared for the late Sunday post.)\n\n\n(II)\n\nFrank lay a long time awake in the dark that night, holding tight in his\nhand Jenny's letter, written to him in June. The bill he had not even\ntroubled to open.\n\nFor the letter said exactly and perfectly just all those things which\nhe most wished to hear, in the manner in which he wished to hear them.\nIt laughed at him gently and kindly; it called him an extraordinarily\nsilly boy; it said that his leaving Cambridge, and, above all, his\nmanner of leaving it--Frank had added a postscript describing his\nadventure with the saddle and the policeman--were precisely what the\nwriter would have expected of him; it made delightful and humorous\nreflections upon the need of Frank's turning over a new leaf--there was\nquite a page of good advice; and finally it gave him a charming\ndescription--just not over the line of due respect--of his father's\nmanner of receiving the news, with extracts from some of the choicest\nremarks made upon that notable occasion. It occupied four\nclosely-written pages, and if there were, running underneath it\nall, just the faintest taint of strain and anxiety, loyally\nconcealed--well--that made the letter no less pleasant.\n\nI have not said a great deal about what Jenny meant to Frank, just\nbecause he said so very little about her himself. She was, in fact,\nalmost the only element in his variegated life upon which he had not\nbeen in the habit of pouring out torrential comments and reflections.\nHis father and Archie were not at all spared in his conversation with\nhis most intimate friends; in fact, he had been known, more than once,\nin a very select circle at Cambridge, to have conducted imaginary\ndialogues between those two on himself as their subject, and he could\nimitate with remarkable fidelity his Cousin Dick over a billiard-table.\nBut he practically never mentioned Jenny; he had not even a photograph\nof her on his mantelpiece. And it very soon became known among his\nfriends, when the news of his engagement leaked out through Jack, that\nit was not to be spoken of in his presence. He had preserved the same\nreticence, it may be remembered, about his religion.\n\nAnd so Frank at last fell asleep on a little iron bedstead, just\nremembering that it was quite possible he might have another letter from\nher to-morrow, if Jack had performed his commission immediately. But he\nhardly expected to hear till Tuesday.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGertie was up soon after five next morning to get breakfast for her men,\nsince the Major had announced that he would go with Frank to see whether\npossibly there might not be a job for him too; and as soon as they had\ngone, very properly went to sleep again on the bed in the sitting-room.\n\nGertie had a strenuous time of it, in spite of the Major's frequently\nexpressed opinion that women had no idea what work was. For, first,\nthere was the almost unending labor of providing food and cooking it as\nwell as possible; there was almost a standing engagement of mending and\nwashing clothes; there were numerous arguments to be conducted, on terms\nof comparative equality, if possible, with landladies or farmers'\nwives--Gertie always wore a brass wedding-ring and showed it sometimes a\nlittle ostentatiously; and, finally, when the company was on the march,\nit was only fair that she should carry the heavier half of the luggage,\nin order to compensate for her life of luxury and ease at other times.\nGertie, then, was usually dog-tired, and slept whenever she could get a\nchance.\n\nIt was nearly eight o'clock before she was awakened again by sharp\nknocking on her door; and on opening it, found the landlady' standing\nthere, examining a letter with great attention. (It had already been\nheld up to the light against the kitchen window.)\n\n\"For one of your folks, isn't it, Mrs.--er--\" Gertie took it. It was\nwritten on excellent paper, and directed in a man's handwriting to Mr.\nGregory:\n\n\"Thank you, Mrs.--er--\" said Gertie.\n\nThen she went back into her room, put the letter carefully away in the\ndrawer of the table and set about her household business.\n\nAbout eleven o'clock she stepped out for a little refreshment. She had,\nof course, a small private exchequer of her own, amounting usually to\nonly a few pence, of which the Major knew nothing. This did not strike\nher as at all unfair; she only wondered gently sometimes at masculine\ninnocence in not recognizing that such an arrangement was perfectly\ncertain. She got into conversation with some elder ladies, who also had\nstepped out for refreshment, and had occasion, at a certain point, to\nlay her wedding-ring on the bar-counter for exhibition. So it was not\nuntil a little after twelve that she remembered the time and fled. She\nwas not expecting her men home to dinner; in fact, she had wrapped up\nprovisions for them in fragments of the Major's _Sporting Times_ before\nthey had left; but it was safer to be at home. One never knew.\n\nAs she came into the room, for an instant her heart leaped into her\nmouth, but it was only Frank.\n\n\"Whatever's the matter?\" she said.\n\n\"Turned off,\" said Frank shortly. He was sitting gloomily at the table\nwith his hands in his pockets.\n\n\"Turned off?\"\n\nHe nodded.\n\n\"What's up?\"\n\n\"'Tecs,\" said Frank.\n\nGertie's mouth opened a little.\n\n\"One of them saw me going in and wired for instructions. He had seen the\ncase in the police-news and thought I answered to the description. Then\nhe came back at eleven and told the governor.\"\n\n\"And--\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"And George?\"\n\n\"Oh! he's all right,\" said Frank a little bitterly. \"There's nothing\nagainst him. Got any dinner, Gertie? I can't pay for it ... oh, yes, I\ncan; here's half a day.\" (He chucked ninepence upon the table; the\nsixpence rolled off again, but he made no movement to pick it up.)\n\nGertie looked at him a moment.\n\n\"Well--\" she began emphatically, then she stooped to pick up the\nsixpence.\n\nFrank sighed.\n\n\"Oh! don't begin all that--there's a good girl. I've said it all\nmyself--quite adequately, I assure you.\"\n\nGertie's mouth opened again. She laid the sixpence on the table.\n\n\"I mean, there's nothing to be said,\" explained Frank. \"The point\nis--what's to be done?\"\n\nGertie had no suggestions. She began to scrape out the frying-pan in\nwhich the herrings had been cooked last night.\n\n\"There's a letter for you,\" she said suddenly.\n\nFrank sat up.\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"In the drawer there--by your hand. Frankie....\"\n\nFrank tore at the handle and it came off. He uttered a short\nexclamation. Then, with infinite craft he fitted the handle in again,\nwrapped in yet one more scrap of the _Sporting Times_, and drew out the\ndrawer. His face fell abruptly as he saw the handwriting.\n\n\"That can wait,\" he muttered, and chucked the letter face downwards on\nto the table.\n\n\"Frankie,\" said the girl again, still intent on her frying-pan.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"It's all my fault,\" she said in a low voice.\n\n\"Your fault! How do you make that out?\"\n\n\"If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have taken the tin from George,\nand....\"\n\n\"Oh, Lord!\" said Frank, \"if we once begin on that!... And if it hadn't\nbeen for George, he wouldn't have taken the tin; and if it hadn't been\nfor Maggie Cooper, there wouldn't have been the tin; and if it hadn't\nbeen for Maggie's father's sister, she wouldn't have gone out with it.\nIt's all Maggie's father's sister's fault, my dear! It's nothing to do\nwith you.\"\n\nThe words were brisk enough, but the manner was very heavy. It was like\nrepeating a lesson learned in childhood.\n\n\"That's all right,\" began Gertie again, \"but--\"\n\n\"My dear girl, I shall be annoyed if you go back to all that. Why can't\nyou let it alone? The point is, What's to happen? I can't go on sponging\non you and the Major.\"\n\nGertie flushed under her tan.\n\n\"If you ever leave us,\" she said, \"I'll--\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I'll ... I'll never leave George.\"\n\nFrank was puzzled for a moment. It seemed a _non sequitur_.\n\n\"Do you mean--\"\n\n\"I've got me eyes,\" said Gertie emphatically, \"and I know what you're\nthinking, though you don't say much. And I've been thinking, too.\"\n\nFrank felt a faint warmth rise in his own heart. \"You mean you've been\nthinking over what I said the other day?\"\n\nGertie bent lower over her frying-pan and scraped harder than ever.\n\n\"Do stop that confounded row one second!\" shouted Frank.\n\nThe noise stopped abruptly. Gertie glanced up and down again. Then she\nbegan again, more gently.\n\n\"That's better,\" said Frank.... \"Well, I hope you have,\" he went on\npaternally. \"You're a good girl, Gertie, and you know better. Go on\nthinking about it, and tell me when you've made up your mind. When'll\ndinner be ready?\"\n\n\"Half an hour,\" said Gertie.\n\n\"Well, I'll go out for a bit and look round.\"\n\nHe took up the letter carelessly and went out.\n\n\n(III)\n\nAs he passed the window Gertie glanced towards it with the corner of her\neye. Then, frying-pan still in hand, she crept up to the angle and\nwatched him go down the quay.\n\nA very convenient barrel was set on the extreme edge of the embankment\nabove the water, with another beside it, and Frank made for this\nimmediately. She saw him sit on one of the barrels and put the letter,\nstill unopened, on the top of the other. Then he fumbled in his pockets\na little, and presently a small blue cloud of smoke went upwards like\nincense. Gertie watched him for an instant, but he did not move again.\nThen she went back to her frying-pan.\n\nTwenty minutes later dinner was almost ready.\n\nGertie had spread upon the table, with great care, one of the Major's\nwhite pocket-handkerchiefs. He insisted upon those being, not only\nretained, but washed occasionally, and Gertie understood something of\nhis reasons, since in the corner of each was embroidered a monogram, of\nwhich the letters were not \"G.T.\" But she never could make out what they\nwere.\n\nUpon this tablecloth she had placed on one side a black-handled fork\nwith two prongs, and a knife of the same pattern (this was for Frank)\nand on the other a small pewter tea-spoon and a knife, of which the only\nhandle was a small iron spike from which the wood had fallen away. (This\nwas for herself.) Then there was a tooth-glass for Frank, and a\nteacup--without a handle, but with a gold flower in the middle of it, to\nmake up--for herself. In the center of the pocket-handkerchief stood a\ncrockery jug, with a mauve design of York Minster, with a thundercloud\nbehind it and a lady and gentleman with a child bowling a hoop in front\nof it. This was the landlady's property, and was half full of beer.\nBesides all this, there were two plates, one of a cold blue color, with\na portrait of the Prince Consort, whiskers and hat complete, in a small\nmedallion in the center, and the other white, with a representation of\nthe Falls of Lodore. There was no possibility of mistaking any of the\nsubjects treated upon these various pieces of table-ware, since the\ntitle of each was neatly printed, in various styles, just below the\npicture.\n\nGertie regarded this array with her head on one side. It was not often\nthat they dined in such luxury. She wished she had a flower to put in\nthe center. Then she stirred the contents of the frying-pan with an iron\nspoon, and went again to the window.\n\nThe figure on the barrel had not moved; but even as she looked she saw\nhim put out his hand to the letter. She watched him. She saw him run a\nfinger inside the envelope, and toss the envelope over the edge of the\nquay. Then she saw him unfold the paper inside and become absorbed.\n\nThis would never do. Gertie's idea of a letter was that it occupied at\nleast several minutes to read through; so she went out quickly to the\nstreet door to call him in.\n\nShe called him, and he did not turn his head, nor even answer.\n\nShe called him again.\n\n\n(IV)\n\nThe letter that Frank read lies, too, with a few other papers, before me\nas I write.\n\nIt runs as follows:\n\n     \"MY DEAR FRANK,\n\n     \"I know you won't like what I have to say, but it has to be\n     said. Believe me, it costs me as much to write as you to\n     read--perhaps more.\n\n     \"It is this: Our engagement must be at an end.\n\n     \"You have a perfect right to ask me for reasons, so I will give\n     them at once, as I don't want to open the subject again. It\n     would do no kind of good. My mind is absolutely made up.\n\n     \"My main reason is this: When I became engaged to you I did not\n     know you properly. I thought you were quite different from what\n     you are. I thought that underneath all your nice wildness, and\n     so on, there was a very solid person. And I hinted that, you\n     will remember, in my first letter, which I suppose you have\n     received just before this. And now I simply can't think that\n     any longer.\n\n     \"I don't in the least blame you for being what you are: that's\n     not my business. But I must just say this--that a man who can\n     do what you've done, not only for a week or two, as I thought\n     at first, as a sort of game, but for nearly three months, and\n     during that time could leave me with only three or four\n     postcards and no news; above all, a man who could get into\n     such disgrace and trouble, and actually go to prison, and yet\n     not seem to mind much--well, it isn't what I had thought of\n     you.\n\n     \"You see, there are a whole lot of things together. It isn't\n     just this or that, but the whole thing.\n\n     \"First you became a Catholic, without telling me anything until\n     just before. I didn't like that, naturally, but I didn't say\n     anything. It isn't nice for a husband and wife to be of\n     different religions. Then you ran away from Cambridge; then you\n     got mixed up with this man you speak of in your letter to Jack;\n     and you must have been rather fond of him, you know, to go to\n     prison for him, as I suppose you did. And yet, after all that,\n     I expect you've gone to meet him again in York. And then\n     there's the undeniable fact of prison.\n\n     \"You see, it's all these things together--one after another. I\n     have defended you to your father again and again; I haven't\n     allowed anybody to abuse you without standing up for you; but\n     it really has gone too far. You know I did half warn you in\n     that other letter. I know you couldn't have got it till just\n     now, but that wasn't my fault; and the letter shows what I was\n     thinking, even three months ago.\n\n     \"Don't be too angry with me, Frank. I'm very fond of you still,\n     and I shall always stand up for you when I can. And please\n     don't answer this in any way. Jack Kirkby isn't answering just\n     yet. I asked him not, though he doesn't know why.\n\n     \"Your father is going to send the news that the engagement is\n     broken off to the newspapers.\n\n                       \"Yours sincerely,\n                           \"JENNY LAUNTON.\"\n\n\n\n\nPART II\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n(I)\n\nBarham, as all Yorkshire knows, lies at the foot of a long valley, where\nit emerges into the flatter district round Harrogate. It has a railway\nall to itself, which goes no further, for Barham is shut in on the north\nby tall hills and moors, and lies on the way to nowhere. It is almost\nwholly an agricultural town, and has a curious humped bridge, right in\nthe middle of the town, where men stand about on market days and discuss\nthe price of bullocks. It has two churches--one, disused, on a\nprecipitous spur above the town, surrounded by an amazingly irregular\nsort of churchyard, full, literally, to bursting (the Kirkbys lie there,\ngeneration after generation of them, beneath pompous tombs), and the\nother church a hideous rectangular building, with flat walls and\nshallow, sham Gothic windows. It was thought extremely beautiful when it\nwas built forty years ago. The town itself is an irregular and rather\npicturesque place, with a twisting steep High Street, looking as if a\nnumber of houses had been shot at random into this nook among the hills\nand left to find their own levels.\n\nThe big house where the Kirkbys have lived since the middle of the\nseventeenth century is close to the town, as the squire's house ought to\nbe, and its park gates open right upon the northern end of the old\nbridge. There's nothing of great interest in the house (I believe there\nis an old doorway in the cellar, mentioned in guide-books), since it was\nrebuilt about the same time as the new church first rose. It is just a\nbig, comfortable, warm, cool, shady sort of house, with a large hall and\na fine oak staircase, surrounded by lawns and shrubberies, that adjoin\non the west the lower slopes, first of the park and then of the moors\nthat stretch away over the horizon.\n\nThere is a pleasant feudal air about the whole place--feudal, in a small\nand neighborly kind of way. Jack's father died just a year before his\nonly son came of age; and Jack himself, surrounded by sisters and an\nexcellent and beneficently-minded mother, has succeeded to all the\nimmemorial rights and powers, written and unwritten, of the Squire of\nBarham. He entertained me delightfully for three or four days a few\nmonths ago, when I was traveling about after Frank's footsteps, and I\nnoticed with pleasure as we drove through the town that there was\nhardly a living creature in the town whom he did not salute; and who did\nnot salute him.\n\nHe took me first to the bridge and pulled up in the middle of it, to\npoint out a small recess in it, over the central pier, intended, no\ndoubt, to give shelter to foot-passengers before the bridge was widened,\nin case a large vehicle came through.\n\n\"There,\" he said. \"That's the place I first saw Frank when he came.\"\n\nWe drove on up through the town, and at the foot of the almost\nprecipitous hill leading up to the ruined church we got out, leaving the\ndog-cart in charge of the groom. We climbed the hill slowly, for it was\na hot day, Jack uttering reminiscences at intervals (many of which are\nrecorded in these pages) and turned in at the churchyard gate.\n\n\"And this was the place,\" said Jack, \"where I said good-by to him.\"\n\n\n(II)\n\nIt was on the twenty-fifth of September, a Monday, that Jack sat in the\nsmoking-room, in Norfolk jacket and gaiters, drinking tea as fast as he\npossibly could. He had been out on the moors all day, and was as thirsty\nas the moors could make him, and he had been sensual enough to smoke a\ncigarette deliberately before beginning tea, in order to bring his\nthirst to an acute point.\n\nThen, the instant he had finished he snatched for his case again, for\nthis was to be the best cigarette of the whole day, and discovered that\nhis sensuality had overreached itself for once, and that there were none\nleft. He clutched at the silver box with a sinking heart,\nhalf-remembering that he had filled his case with the last of them this\nmorning. It was a fact, and he knew that there were no others in the\nhouse.\n\nThis would never do, and he reflected that if he sent a man for some\nmore, he would not get them for at least twenty minutes. (Jack never\ncould understand why an able-bodied footman always occupied twenty\nminutes in a journey that ought to take eight.) So he put on his cap\nagain, stepped out of the low window and set off down the drive.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was getting a little dark as he passed out of the lodge-gates. The\nsun, of course, had set at least an hour before behind the great hill to\nthe west, but the twilight proper was only just beginning. He was nearly\nat the place now, and as he breasted the steep ascent of the bridge,\npeered over it, at least with his mind's eye, at the tobacconist's\nshop--first on the left--where a store of \"Mr. Jack's cigarettes\" was\nalways on hand.\n\nHe noticed in the little recess I have just spoken of a man leaning\nwith his elbows on the parapet, and staring out up the long reach of the\nstream to the purple evening moors against the sky and the luminous\nglory itself; and as he came opposite him, wondered vaguely who it was\nand whether he knew him. Then, as he got just opposite him, he stopped,\nuneasy at heart.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNaturally Frank was never very far away from Jack's thoughts just\nnow--ever since, indeed, he had heard the news in a very discreet letter\nfrom the Reverend James Launton a week or two ago. (I need not say he\nhad answered this letter, not to the father, but to the daughter, but\nhad received no reply.)\n\nHe had written a frantic letter to Frank himself then, but it had been\nreturned, marked: \"Unknown at this address.\" And ever since he had eyed\nall tramps on the road with an earnestness that elicited occasionally a\nsalute, and occasionally an impolite remark.\n\nThe figure whose back he saw now certainly was not much like Frank; but\nthen--again--it was rather like him. It was dressed in a jacket and\ntrousers so stained with dust and wet as to have no color of their own\nat all, and a cloth cap of the same appearance. A bundle tied up in a\nred handkerchief, and a heavy stick, rested propped against an angle of\nthe recess.\n\nJack cleared his throat rather loud and stood still, prepared to be\nadmiring the view, in case of necessity; the figure turned an eye over\nits shoulder, then faced completely round; and it was Frank Guiseley.\n\nJack for the first instant said nothing at all, but stood transfixed,\nwith his mouth a little open and his eyes staring. Frank's face was\nsunburned almost beyond recognition, his hair seemed cut shorter than\nusual, and the light was behind him.\n\nThen Jack recovered.\n\n\"My dear man,\" he said, \"why the--\"\n\nHe seized him by the hands and held him, staring at him.\n\n\"Yes; it's me all right,\" said Frank. \"I was just wondering--\"\n\n\"Come along, instantly.... Damn! I've got to go to a tobacconist's; it's\nonly just here. There isn't a cigarette in the house. Come with me?\"\n\n\"I'll wait here,\" said Frank.\n\n\"Will you? I shan't be a second.\"\n\nIt was, as a matter of fact, scarcely one minute before Jack was back;\nhe had darted in, snatched a box from the shelf and vanished, crying out\nto \"put it down to him.\" He found Frank had faced round again and was\nstaring at the water and sky and high moors. He snatched up his friend's\nbundle and stick.\n\n\"Come along,\" he said, \"we shall have an hour or two before dinner.\"\n\nFrank, in silence, took the bundle and stick from him again, firmly and\nirresistibly, and they did not speak again till they were out of\near-shot of the lodge. Then Jack began, taking Frank's arm--a custom for\nwhich he had often been rebuked.\n\n\"My dear old man!\" he said. \"I ... I can't say what I feel. I know the\nwhole thing, of course, and I've expressed my mind plainly to Miss\nJenny.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"And to your father. Neither have answered, and naturally I haven't been\nover again.... Dick's been there, by the way.\"\n\nFrank made no comment.\n\n\"You look simply awful, old chap,\" pursued Jack cheerily. \"Where on\nearth have you been for the last month? I wrote to York and got the\nletter returned.\"\n\n\"Oh! I've been up and down,\" said Frank impassively.\n\n\"With the people you were with before--the man, I mean?\"\n\n\"No. I've left them for the present. But I shall probably join them\nagain later.\"\n\n\"Join...!\" began the other aghast.\n\n\"Certainly! This thing's only just begun,\" said Frank, with that same\nodd impassivity. \"We've seen the worst of it, I fancy.\"\n\n\"But you don't mean you're going back! Why, it's ridiculous!\"\n\nFrank stopped. They were within sight of the house now and the lights\nshone pleasantly out.\n\n\"By the way, Jack, I quite forgot. You will kindly give me your promise\nto make no sort of effort to detain me when I want to go again, or I\nshan't come any further.\"\n\n\"But, my dear chap--\"\n\n\"Kindly promise at once, please.\"\n\n\"Oh, well! I promise, but--\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Frank, and moved on.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I say,\" said Jack, as they came up to the hall door. \"Will you talk now\nor will you change, or what?\"\n\n\"I should like a hot bath first. By the way, have you anyone staying in\nthe house?\"\n\n\"Not a soul; and only two sisters at home. And my mother, of course.\"\n\n\"What about clothes?\"\n\n\"I'll see about that. Come on round to the smoking-room window. Then\nI'll get in Jackson and explain to him. I suppose you don't mind your\nname being known? He'll probably recognize you, anyhow.\"\n\n\"Not in the least, so long as no one interferes.\"\n\nJack rang the bell as soon as they came into the smoking-room, and Frank\nsat down in a deep chair. Then the butler came. He cast one long look at\nthe astonishing figure in the chair.\n\n\"Oh!--er--Jackson, this is Mr. Frank Guiseley. He's going to stay here.\nHe'll want some clothes and things. I rather think there are some suits\nof mine that might do. I wish you'd look them out.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir?\n\n\"This is Mr. Frank Guiseley--of Merefield.... It is, really! But we\ndon't want more people talking than are necessary. You understand?\nPlease don't say anything about it, except that he's come on a\nwalking-tour. And please tell the housekeeper to get the Blue Room\nready, and let somebody turn on the hot water in the bath-room until\nfurther notice. That's all, Jackson ... and the clothes. You\nunderstand?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"And get the _eau de lubin_ from my dressing-room and put it in the\nbath-room. Oh, yes; and the wooden bowl of soap.\"\n\n\"These clothes of mine are not to be thrown away, please, Jackson,\"\nsaid Frank gravely from the chair. \"I shall want them again.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"That's all, then,\" said Jack.\n\nMr. Jackson turned stiffly and left the room.\n\n\"It's all right,\" said Jack. \"You remember old Jackson. He won't say a\nword. Lucky no one saw us as we came up.\"\n\n\"It doesn't matter much, does it?\" said Frank.\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"I say, Frank, when will you tell me--\"\n\n\"I'll answer any questions after dinner to-night. I simply can't talk\nnow.\"\n\nDinner was a little difficult that night.\n\nMrs. Kirkby had been subjected to a long lecture from her son during the\nhalf hour in which she ought to have been dressing, in order to have it\nfirmly implanted in her mind that Frank--whom she had known from a\nboy--was simply and solely in the middle of a walking-tour all by\nhimself. She understood the situation perfectly in a minute and a\nhalf--(she was a very shrewd woman who did not say much)--but Jack was\nnot content. He hovered about her room, fingering photographs and\nsilver-handled brushes, explaining over and over again how important it\nwas that Frank should be made to feel at his case, and that Fanny and\nJill--(who were just old enough to come to dinner in white high-necked\nfrocks that came down to their very slender ankles, and thick pig-tails\ndown their backs)--must not be allowed to bother him. Mrs. Kirkby said,\n\"Yes, I understand,\" about a hundred and thirty times, and glanced at\nthe clock. She stood with one finger on the electric button for at least\nfive minutes before venturing to ring for her maid, and it was only that\nlady's discreet tap at one minute before eight that finally got Jack out\nof the room. He looked in on Frank in the middle of his dressing, found\nto his relief that an oldish suit of dress-clothes fitted him quite\ndecently, and then went to put on his own. He came down to the\ndrawing-room seven minutes after the gong with his ears very red and his\nhair in a plume, to find Frank talking to his mother, and eyed by his\nsisters who were pretending to look at photographs, with all the ease in\nthe world.\n\nBut dinner itself was difficult. It was the obvious thing to talk about\nFrank's \"walking-tour\"; and yet this was exactly what Jack dared not do.\nThe state of the moors, and the deplorable ravages made among the young\ngrouse by the early rains, occupied them all to the end of fish; to the\ngrouse succeeded the bullocks: to the bullocks, the sheep, and, by an\nobvious connection--obvious to all who knew that gentleman--from the\nsheep to the new curate.\n\nBut just before the chocolate _soufflee_ there came a pause, and Jill,\nthe younger of the two sisters, hastened to fill the gap.\n\n\"Did you have a nice walking-tour, Mr. Guiseley?\"\n\nFrank turned to her politely.\n\n\"Yes, very nice, considering,\" he said.\n\n\"Have you been alone all the time?\" pursued Jill, conscious of a social\nsuccess.\n\n\"Well, no,\" said Frank. \"I was traveling with a ... well, with a man who\nwas an officer in the army. He was a major.\"\n\n\"And did you--\"\n\n\"That's enough, Jill,\" said her mother decidedly. \"Don't bother Mr.\nGuiseley. He's tired with his walk.\"\n\nThe two young men sat quiet for a minute or two after the ladies had\nleft the room. Then Jack spoke.\n\n\"Well?\" he said.\n\nFrank looked up. There was an odd, patient kind of look in his eyes that\ntouched Jack a good deal. Frank had not been distinguished for\nsubmissiveness hitherto.\n\n\"Oh! a bit later, if you don't mind,\" he said. \"We can talk in the\nsmoking-room.\"\n\n\n(IV)\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you the whole thing as far as I understand it,\" began\nFrank, as the door closed behind Jackson, who had brought whisky and\ncandles. \"And then I'll answer any questions you want.\"\n\nHe settled himself back in his chair, stretching out his legs and\nclasping his hands behind his head. Jack had a good view of him and\ncould take notice of his own impressions, though he found them hard to\nput into words afterwards. The words he finally chose were \"subdued\" and\n\"patient\" again, and there are hardly two words that would have been\nless applicable to Frank three months before. At the same time his\nvirility was more noticeable than ever; he had about him, Jack said,\nsomething of the air of a very good groom--a hard-featured and sharp,\nyet not at all unkindly look, very capable and, at the same time, very\nmuch restrained. There was no sentimental nonsense about him at all--his\nsorrow had not taken that form.\n\n\"Well, I needn't talk much about Jenny's last letter and what happened\nafter that. I was entirely unprepared, of course. I hadn't the faintest\nidea--Well, she was the one person about whom I had no doubts at all! I\nactually left the letter unread for a few minutes (the envelope was in\nyour handwriting, you know)--because I had to think over what I had to\ndo next. The police had got me turned away from a builder's yard--\"\n\nJack emitted a small sound. He was staring at Frank with all his eyes.\n\n\"Yes; that's their way,\" said Frank. \"Well, when I read it, I simply\ncouldn't think any more at all for a time. The girl we were traveling\nwith--she had picked up with the man I had got into trouble over, you\nknow--the girl was calling me to dinner, she told me afterwards. I\ndidn't hear a sound. She came and touched me at last, and I woke up. But\nI couldn't say anything. They don't even now know what's the matter. I\ncame away that afternoon. I couldn't even wait for the Major--\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"The Major.... Oh! that's what the chap calls himself. I don't think\nhe's lying, either. I simply couldn't stand him another minute just\nthen. But I sent them a postcard that night--I forget where from;\nand--There aren't any letters for me, are there?\n\n\"One or two bills.\"\n\n\"Oh! well, I shall hear soon, I expect. I must join them again in a day\nor two. They're somewhere in this direction, I know.\"\n\n\"And what did you do?\"\n\nFrank considered.\n\n\"I'm not quite sure. I know I walked a great deal. People were awfully\ngood to me. One woman stopped her motor--and I hadn't begged, either--\"\n\n\"You! Begged!\"\n\n\"Lord, yes; lots of times.... Well, she gave me a quid, and I didn't\neven thank her. And that lasted me very well, and I did a little work\ntoo, here and there.\"\n\n\"But, good Lord! what did you do?\"\n\n\"I walked. I couldn't bear towns or people or anything. I got somewhere\noutside of Ripon at last, and went out on to the moors. I found an old\nshepherd's hut for about a week or ten days--\"\n\n\"And you--\"\n\n\"Lived there? Yes. I mended the hut thoroughly before I came away. And\nthen I thought I'd come on here.\"\n\n\"What were you doing on the bridge?\"\n\n\"Waiting till dark. I was going to ask at the lodge then whether you\nwere at home.\"\n\n\"And if I hadn't been?\"\n\n\"Gone on somewhere else, I suppose.\"\n\nJack tried to help himself to a whisky and soda, but the soda flew out\nall over his shirt-front like a fountain, and he was forced to make a\nsmall remark. Then he made another.\n\n\"What about prison?\"\n\nFrank smiled.\n\n\"Oh! I've almost forgotten that. It was beastly at the time, though.\"\n\n\"And ... and the Major and the work! Lord! Frank, you do tell a story\nbadly.\"\n\nHe smiled again much more completely.\n\n\"I'm too busy inside,\" he said. \"Those things don't seem to matter much,\nsomehow.\"\n\n\"Inside? What the deuce do you mean?\"\n\nFrank made a tiny deprecating gesture.\n\n\"Well, what it's all about, you know ... Jack.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"It's a frightfully priggish thing to say, but I'm extraordinarily\ninterested as to what's going to happen next--inside, I mean. At least,\nsometimes; and then at other times I don't care a hang.\"\n\nJack looked bewildered, and said so tersely. Frank leaned forward a\nlittle.\n\n\"It's like this, you see. Something or other has taken me in hand: I'm\nblessed if I know what. All these things don't happen one on the top of\nthe other just by a fluke. There's something going on, and I want to\nknow what it is. And I suppose something's going to happen soon.\"\n\n\"For God's sake do say what you mean!\"\n\n\"I can't more than that. I tell you I don't know. I only wish somebody\ncould tell me.\"\n\n\"But what does it all amount to? What are you going to do next?\"\n\n\"Oh! I know that all right. I'm going to join the Major and Gertie\nagain.\"\n\n\"Frank!\"\n\n\"Yes?... No, not a word, please. You promised you wouldn't. I'm going to\njoin those two again and see what happens.\"\n\n\"But why?\"\n\n\"That's my job. I know that much. I've got to get that girl back to her\npeople again. She's not his wife, you know.\"\n\n\"But what the devil--\"\n\n\"It seems to me to matter a good deal. Oh! she's a thoroughly stupid\ngirl, and he's a proper cad; but that doesn't matter. It's got to be\ndone; or, rather, I've got to try to do it. I daresay I shan't succeed,\nbut that, again, doesn't matter. I've got to do my job, and then we'll\nsee.\"\n\nJack threw up his hands.\n\n\"You're cracked!\" he said.\n\n\"I daresay,\" said Frank solemnly.\n\nThere was a pause. It seemed to Jack that the whole thing must be a\ndream. This simply wasn't Frank at all. The wild idea came to him that\nthe man who sat before him with Frank's features was some kind of\nchangeling. Mentally he shook himself.\n\n\"And what about Jenny?\" he said.\n\nFrank sat perfectly silent and still for an instant. Then he spoke\nwithout heat.\n\n\"I'm not quite sure,\" he said. \"Sometimes I'd like to ... well, to make\nher a little speech about what she's done, and sometimes I'd like to\ncrawl to her and kiss her feet--but both those things are when I'm\nfeeling bad. On the whole, I think--though I'm not sure--that is not my\nbusiness any more; in fact, I'm pretty sure it's not. It's part of the\nwhole campaign and out of my hands. It's no good talking about that any\nmore. So please don't, Jack.\"\n\n\"One question?\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Have you written to her or sent her a message?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"And I want to say one other thing. I don't think it's against the\nbargain.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Will you take five hundred pounds and go out to the colonies?\"\n\nFrank looked up with an amused smile.\n\n\"No, I won't--thanks very much.... Am I in such disgrace as all that,\nthen?\"\n\n\"You know I don't mean that,\" said Jack quietly.\n\n\"No, old chap. I oughtn't to have said that. I'm sorry.\"\n\nJack waved a hand.\n\n\"I thought perhaps you'd loathe England, and would like--And you don't\nseem absolutely bursting with pride, you know.\"\n\n\"Honestly, I don't think I am,\" said Frank. \"But England suits me very\nwell--and there are the other two, you know. But I'll tell you one thing\nyou could do for me.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Pay those extra bills. I don't think they're much.\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Jack. \"And you really mean to go on with it\nall?\"\n\n\"Why, yes.\"\n\n\n(V)\n\nThe moors had been pretty well shot over already since the twelfth of\nAugust, but the two had a very pleasant day, for all that, a couple of\ndays later. They went but with a keeper and half a dozen beaters--Frank\nin an old homespun suit of Jack's, and his own powerful boots, and made\na very tolerable bag. There was one dramatic moment, Jack told me, when\nthey found that luncheon had been laid at a high point on the hills from\nwhich the great gray mass of Merefield and the shimmer of the lake in\nfront of the house were plainly visible only eight miles away. The flag\nwas flying, too, from the flagstaff on the old keep, showing, according\nto ancient custom, that Lord Talgarth was at home. Frank looked at it a\nminute or two with genial interest, and Jack wondered whether he had\nnoticed, as he himself had, that even the Rectory roof could be made\nout, just by the church tower at the foot of the hill.\n\nNeither said anything, but as the keeper came up to ask for orders as\nthey finished lunch, he tactfully observed that there was a wonderful\nfine view of Merefield.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Frank, \"you could almost make out people with a telescope.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe two were walking together alone as they dropped down, an hour before\nsunset, on to the upper end of Barham. They were both glowing with the\nsplendid air and exercise, and were just in that state of weariness that\nis almost unmixed physical pleasure to an imaginative thinker who\ncontemplates a hot bath, a quantity of tea, and a long evening in a\ndeep chair. Frank still preserved his impassive kind of attitude towards\nthings in general, but Jack noticed with gentle delight that he seemed\nmore off his guard, and that he even walked with something more of an\nalert swing than he had on that first evening when they trudged up the\ndrive together.\n\nTheir road led them past the gate of the old churchyard, and as they\napproached it, dropping their feet faster and faster down the steep\nslope, Jack noticed two figures sitting on the road-side, with their\nfeet in the ditch--a man and a girl. He was going past them, just\nobserving that the man had rather an unpleasant face, with a ragged\nmustache, and that the girl was sunburned, fair-haired and rather\npretty, when he became aware that Frank had slipped behind him. The next\ninstant he saw that Frank was speaking to them, and his heart dropped to\nzero.\n\n\"All right,\" he heard Frank say, \"I was expecting you. This evening,\nthen.... I say, Jack!\"\n\nJack turned.\n\n\"Jack, this is Major and Mrs. Trustcott, I told you of. This is my\nfriend, Mr.--er--Mr. Jack.\"\n\nJack bowed vaguely, overwhelmed with disgust.\n\n\"Very happy to make your acquaintance, sir,\" said the Major,\nstraightening himself in a military manner. \"My good lady and I were\nresting here. Very pleasant neighborhood.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you like it,\" said Jack.\n\n\"Then, this evening,\" said Frank again. \"Can you wait an hour or two?\"\n\n\"Certainly, my boy,\" said the Major. \"Time's no consideration with us,\nas you know.\"\n\n(Jack perceived that this was being said at him, to show the familiarity\nthis man enjoyed with his friend.)\n\n\"Would nine o'clock be too late?\"\n\n\"Nine o'clock it shall be,\" said the Major.\n\n\"And here?\"\n\n\"Here.\"\n\n\"So long, then,\" said Frank. \"Oh, by the way--\" He moved a little closer\nto this appalling pair, and Jack stood off, to hear the sound of a\nsentence or two, and then the chink of money.\n\n\"So long, then,\" said Frank again. \"Come along, Jack; we must make\nhaste.\"\n\n\"Good-evening, sir,\" cried the Major, but Jack made no answer.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Frank, you don't mean to tell me that those are the people?\"\n\n\"That's the Major and Gertie--yes.\"\n\n\"And what was all that about this evening?\"\n\n\"I must go, Jack. I'm sorry; but I told you it couldn't be more than a\nfew days at the outside.\"\n\nJack was silent, but it was a hard struggle.\n\n\"By the way, how shall we arrange?\" went on the other. \"I can't take\nthese clothes, you know; and I can't very well be seen leaving the house\nin my own.\"\n\n\"Do as you like,\" snapped Jack.\n\n\"Look here, old man, don't be stuffy. How would it do if I took a bag\nand changed up in that churchyard? It's locked up after dark, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You've got a key, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, then, that's it. And I'll leave the bag and the key in the hedge\nsomewhere.\"\n\nJack was silent.\n\nJack held himself loyally in hand that evening, but he could not talk\nmuch. He consented to explain to his mother that Frank had to be off\nafter dinner that night, and he also visited the housekeeper's room, and\ncaused a small bundle, not much larger than a leg of mutton, including\ntwo small bottles which jingled together, to be wrapped up in brown\npaper--in which he inserted also a five-pound note (he knew Frank would\nnot take more)--and the whole placed in the bag in which Frank's old\nclothes were already concealed. For the rest of the evening he sat,\nmostly silent, in one chair, trying not to watch Frank in another;\npretending to read, but endeavoring to picture to his imagination what\nhe himself would feel like if he were about to join the Major and Gertie\nin the churchyard at nine o'clock.... Frank sat quite quiet all the\nevening, reading old volumes of _Punch_.\n\nThey dined at half-past seven, by request--Frank still in his homespun\nsuit. Fanny and Jill were rather difficult. It seemed to them both a\nmost romantic thing that this black-eyed, sunburned young man, with whom\nthey had played garden-golf the day before, should really be continuing\nhis amazing walking-tour, in company with two friends, at nine o'clock\nthat very night. They wondered innocently why the two friends had not\nbeen asked to join them at dinner. It was exciting, too, and unusual,\nthat this young man should dine in an old homespun suit. They asked a\nquantity of questions. Where was Mr. Guiseley going first? Frank didn't\nquite know; Where would he sleep that night? Frank didn't quite know; he\nwould have to see. When was the walking-tour going to end? Frank didn't\nquite know. Did he really like it? Oh, well, Frank thought it was a good\nthing to go on a walking tour, even if you were rather uncomfortable\nsometimes.\n\nThe leave-taking was unemotional. Jack had announced suddenly and\nloudly in the smoking-room before dinner that he was going to see the\nlast of Frank, as far as the churchyard; Frank had protested, but had\nyielded. The rest had all said good-by to him in the hall, and at a\nquarter to nine the two young men went out into the darkness.\n\n\n(VI)\n\nIt was a clear autumn night--a \"wonderful night of stars\"--and the skies\nblazed softly overhead down to the great blotted masses of the high\nmoors that stood round Barham. It was perfectly still, too--the wind had\ndropped, and the only sound as the two walked down the park was the low\ntalking of the stream over the stones beyond the belt of trees fifty\nyards away from the road.\n\nJack was sick at heart; but even so, he tells me, he was conscious that\nFrank's silence was of a peculiar sort. He felt somehow as if his friend\nwere setting out to some great sacrifice in which he was to suffer, and\nwas only partly conscious of it--or, at least, so buoyed by some kind of\nexaltation or fanaticism as not to realize what he was doing. (He\nreminded me of a certain kind of dream that most people have now and\nthen, of accompanying some friend to death: the friend goes forward,\nsilent and exultant, and we cannot explain nor hold him back.\n\n\"That was the sort of feeling,\" said Jack lamely.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJack had the grim satisfaction of carrying the bag in which, so to\nspeak, the knife and fillet were hidden. He changed his mood half a\ndozen times even in that quarter of an hour's walk through the town. Now\nthe thing seemed horrible, like a nightmare; now absurdly preposterous;\nnow rather beautiful; now perfectly ordinary and commonplace. After all,\nJack argued with himself, there are such people as tramps, and they\nsurvive. Why should not Frank? He had gipsy blood in him, too. What in\nthe world was he--Jack--frightened of?\n\n\"Do you remember our talking about your grandmother?\" he said suddenly,\nas they neared the lodge.\n\n\"Yes. Why?\"\n\n\"Only I've just thought of something else. Wasn't one of your people\nexecuted under Elizabeth?\"\n\n\"By gad, yes; so he was. I'd quite forgotten. It was being on the wrong\nside for once.\"\n\n\"How--the wrong side?\"\n\nThere was amusement in Frank's voice as he answered.\n\n\"It was for religion,\" he said. \"He was a Papist. All the rest of them\nconformed promptly. They were a most accommodating lot. They changed\neach time without making any difficulty. I remember my governor telling\nus about it once. He thought them very sensible. And so they were, by\nGeorge! from one point of view.\"\n\n\"Has your religion anything to do with all this?\"\n\n\"Oh, I suppose so,\" said Frank, with an indifferent air.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere were a good many doors open in the High Street as they went up it,\nand Jack saluted half a dozen people mechanically as they touched their\nhats to him as he passed in the light from the houses.\n\n\"What does it feel like being squire?\" asked Frank.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" said Jack.\n\n\"Rather good fun, I should think,\" said Frank.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey were nearing the steep part of the ascent presently, and the church\nclock struck nine.\n\n\"Bit late,\" said Frank.\n\n\"When will you come again?\" asked the other suddenly. \"I'm here another\nfortnight, you know, and then at Christmas again. Come for Christmas if\nyou can.\"\n\n\"Ah! I don't know where I shall be. Give my love to Cambridge, though.\"\n\n\"Frank!\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Mayn't I say what I think?\"\n\n\"No!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAh! there was the roof of the old church standing out against the stars,\nand there could be no more talking. They might come upon the other two\nat any moment now. They went five steps further, and there, in the\nshadow of the gate, burned a dull red spot of fire, that kindled up as\nthey looked, and showed for an instant the heavy eyes of the Major with\na pipe in his mouth.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Good-evening, sir,\" came the military voice, and the girl rose to her\nfeet beside him. \"You're just in time.\"\n\n\"Good-evening,\" said Jack dully.\n\n\"We've had a pleasant evening of it up here, Mr. Kirkby, after we'd\nstepped down and had a bit of supper at the 'Crown.'\"\n\n\"I suppose you heard my name there,\" said Jack.\n\n\"Quite right, sir.\"\n\n\"Give us the key,\" said Frank abruptly.\n\nHe unlocked the door and pushed it back over the grass-grown gravel.\n\n\"Wait for me here, will you?\" he said to Jack.\n\n\"I'm coming in. I'll show you where to change.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwenty yards of an irregular twisted path, over which they stumbled two\nor three times, led them down to the little ruined doorway at the west\nend of the old church. Jack's father had restored the place admirably,\nso far as restoration was possible, and there stood now, strong as ever,\nthe old tower, roofed and floored throughout, abutting on the four\nroofless walls, within which ran the double row of column bases.\n\nJack struck a light, kindled a bicycle lamp he had brought with him, and\nled the way.\n\n\"Come in here,\" he said.\n\nFrank followed him into the room at the base of the tower and looked\nround.\n\n\"This looks all right,\" he said. \"It was a Catholic church once, I\nsuppose?\n\n\"Yes; the parson says this was the old sacristy. They've found things\nhere, I think--cupboards in the wall, and so on.\"\n\n\"This'll do excellently,\" said Frank. \"I shan't be five minutes.\"\n\nJack went out again without a word. He felt it was a little too much to\nexpect him to see the change actually being made, and the garments of\nsacrifice put on. (It struck him with an unpleasant shock, considering\nthe form of his previous metaphor, that he should have taken Frank into\nthe old sacristy.)\n\nHe sat down on the low wall, built to hold the churchyard from slipping\naltogether down the hill-side, and looked out over the little town\nbelow.\n\nThe sky was more noticeable here; one was more conscious of the enormous\nsilent vault, crowded with the steady stars, cool and aloof; and,\nbeneath, of the feverish little town with sparks of red light dotted\nhere and there, where men wrangled and planned and bargained, and\ncarried on the little affairs of their little life with such astonishing\nzest. Jack was far from philosophical as a rule, but it is a fact that\nmeditations of this nature did engross him for a minute or two while he\nsat and waited for Frank, and heard the low voices talking in the lane\noutside. It even occurred to him for an instant that it was just\npossible that what Frank had said in the smoking-room before dinner was\ntrue, and that Something really did have him in hand, and really, did\nintend a definite plan and result to emerge from this deplorable and\nquixotic nonsense. (I suppose the contrast of stars and human lights may\nhave helped to suggest this sort of thing to him.)\n\nThen he gave himself up again to dismal considerations of a more\nparticular kind.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe heard Frank come out, and turned to see him in the dim light, bag in\nhand, dressed again as he had been three days ago. On his head once more\nwas the indescribable cap; on his body the indescribable clothes. He\nwore on his feet the boots in which he had tramped the moors that day.\n(How far away seemed that afternoon now, and the cheerful lunch in the\nsunshine on the hill-top!)\n\n\"Here I am, Jack.\"\n\nThen every promise went to the winds. Jack stood up and took a step\ntowards him.\n\n\"Frank, I do implore you to give up this folly. I asked you not to do it\nat Cambridge, and I ask you again now. I don't care a damn what I\npromised. It's simple madness, and--\"\n\nFrank had wheeled without a word, and was half-way to the gate. Jack\nstumbled after him, calling under his breath; but the other had already\npassed through the gate and joined the Major and Gertie before Jack\ncould reach him.\n\n\"And so you think up here is the right direction?\" Frank was saying.\n\n\"I got some tips at the 'Crown,'\" said the Major. \"There are some farms\nup there, where--\"\n\n\"Frank, may I speak to you a minute?\"\n\n\"No.... All right, Major; I'm ready at once if you are.\"\n\nHe turned towards Jack.\n\n\"By the way,\" he said, \"what's in this parcel?\"\n\n\"Something to eat and drink,\" murmured Jack.\n\n\"Oh ... I shan't want that, thanks very much. Here's the bag with the\nclothes in it. I'm awfully grateful, old man, for all your kindness.\nAwfully sorry to have bothered you.\"\n\n\"By the way, Frankie,\" put in the hateful voice at his side, \"I'll take\ncharge of that parcel, if you don't want it.\"\n\n\"Catch hold, then,\" said Frank. \"You're welcome to it, if you'll carry\nit. You all right, Gertie?\"\n\nThe girl murmured something inaudible. As at their first meeting, she\nhad said nothing at all. The Major lifted a bundle out of the depths of\nthe hedge, slung it on his stick, and stood waiting, his face again\nilluminated with the glow of his pipe. He had handed the new parcel to\nGertie without a word.\n\n\"Well, good-by again, old man,\" said Frank, holding out his hand. He,\ntoo, Jack saw, had his small bundle wrapped up in the red handkerchief,\nas on the bridge when they had first met. Jack took his hand and shook\nit. He could say nothing.\n\nThen the three turned and set their faces up the slope. He could see\nthem, all silent together, pass up, more and more dim in the darkness of\nthe hedge, the two men walking together, the girl a yard behind them.\nThen they turned the corner and were gone. But Jack still stood where\nFrank had left him, listening, until long after the sound of their\nfootfalls had died away.\n\n\n(VII)\n\nJack had a horrid dream that night.\n\nHe was wandering, he thought, gun in hand after grouse, alone on the\nhigh moors. It was one of those heavy days, so common in dreams, when\nthe light is so dim that very little can be seen. He was aware of\ncountless hill-tops round him, and valleys that ran down into profound\ndarkness, where only the lights of far-off houses could be discerned.\nHis sport was of that kind peculiar to sleep-imaginings. Enormous birds,\nlarger than ostriches, rose occasionally by ones or twos with incredible\nswiftness, and soared like balloons against the heavy, glimmering sky.\nHe fired at these and feathers sprang from them, but not a bird fell.\nOnce he inflicted an indescribable wound ... and the bird sped across\nthe sky, blotting out half of it, screaming. Then as the screaming died\nhe became aware that there was a human note in it, and that Frank was\ncrying to him, somewhere across the confines of the wold, and the horror\nthat had been deepening with each shot he fired rose to an intolerable\nclimax. Then began one of the regular nightmare chases: he set off to\nrun; the screaming grew fainter each instant; he could not see his way\nin the gloom; he clambered over bowlders; he sank in bogs, and dragged\nhis feet from them with infinite pains; his gun became an unbearable\nburden, yet he dared not throw it from him; he knew that he should need\nit presently.... The screaming had ceased now, yet he dared not stop\nrunning; Frank was in some urgent peril, and he knew it was not yet too\nlate, if he could but find him soon. He ran and ran; the ground was\nknee-deep now in the feathers that had fallen from the wounded birds; it\nwas darker than ever, yet he toiled on hopelessly, following, as he\nthought, the direction from which the cries had come. Then as at last he\ntopped the rise of a hill, the screaming broke out again, shrill and\nfrightful, close at hand, and the next instant he saw beneath him in the\nvalley a hundred yards away that for which he had run so far. Running up\nthe slope below, at right angles to his own path came Frank, in the\ndress-clothes he had borrowed, with pumps upon his feet; his hands were\noutstretched, his face white as ashes, and he screamed as he ran.\nBehind him ran a pack of persons whose faces he could not see; they ran\nlike hounds, murmuring as they came in a terrible whining voice. Then\nJack understood that he could save Frank; he brought his gun to the\nshoulder, aimed it at the brown of the pack and drew the trigger. A snap\nfollowed, and he discovered that he was unloaded; he groped in his\ncartridge-belt and found it empty.... He tore at his pockets, and found\nat last one cartridge; and as he dashed it into the open breach, his gun\nbroke in half. Simultaneously the quarry vanished over an edge of hill,\nand the pack followed, the leaders now not ten yards behind the flying\nfigure in front.\n\nJack stood there, helpless and maddened. Then he flung the broken pieces\nof his gun at the disappearing runners; sank down in the gloom, and\nbroke out into that heart-shattering nightmare sobbing which shows that\nthe limit has been reached.\n\nHe awoke, still sobbing--certain that Frank was in deadly peril, if not\nalready dead, and it was a few minutes before he dared to go to sleep\nonce more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n(I)\n\nThe Rectory garden at Merefield was, obviously, this summer, the proper\nplace to spend most of the day. Certainly the house was cool--it was one\nof those long, low, creeper-covered places that somehow suggest William\nIV. and crinolines (if it is a fact that those two institutions\nflourished together, as I think), with large, darkish rooms and wide,\nlow staircases and tranquil-looking windows through which roses peep;\nbut the shadow of the limes and the yews was cooler still. A table stood\nalmost permanently through those long, hot summer days in the place\nwhere Dick had sat with Jenny, and here the Rector and his daughter\nbreakfasted, lunched and dined, day after day, for a really\nextraordinarily long period.\n\nJenny herself lived in the garden even more than her father; she got\nthrough the household business as quickly as possible after breakfast,\nand came out to do any small businesses that she could during the rest\nof the morning. She wrote a few letters, read a few books, sewed a\nlittle, and, on the whole, presented a very domestic and amiable\npicture. She visited poor people for an hour or so two or three days a\nweek, and occasionally, when Lord Talgarth was well enough, rode out\nwith him and her father after tea, through the woods, and sometimes with\nLord Talgarth alone.\n\nShe suffered practically no pangs of conscience at all on the subject of\nFrank. Her letter had been perfectly sincere, and she believed herself\nto have been exceedingly sensible. (It is, perhaps, one may observe, one\nof the most dangerous things in the world to think oneself sensible; it\nis even more dangerous than to be told so.) For the worst of it all was\nthat she was quite right. It was quite plain that she and Frank were not\nsuited to one another; that she had looked upon that particular quality\nin him which burst out in the bread-and-butter incident, the leaving of\nCambridge, the going to prison, and so forth, as accidental to his\ncharacter, whereas it was essential. It was also quite certain that it\nwas the apotheosis of common-sense for her to recognize that, to say so,\nand to break off the engagement.\n\nOf course, she had moments of what I should call \"grace,\" and she would\ncall insanity, when she wondered for a little while whether to be\nsensible was the highest thing in life; but her general attitude to\nthese was as it would be towards temptation of any other kind. To be\nsensible, she would say, was to be successful and effective; to be\notherwise was to fail and to be ineffective.\n\nVery well, then.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the beginning of September Dick Guiseley came to Merefield to shoot\ngrouse. The grouse, as I think I have already remarked, were backward\nthis year, and, after a kind of ceremonial opening, to give warning as\nit were, on the twelfth of August, they were left in peace. Business was\nto begin on the third, and on the evening of the second Dick arrived.\n\nHe opened upon the subject that chiefly occupied his thoughts just now\nwith Archie that night when Lord Talgarth had gone to bed. They were\nsitting in the smoking-room, with the outer door well open to admit the\nwarm evening air. They had discussed the prospects of grouse next day\nwith all proper solemnity, and Archie had enumerated the people who were\nto form their party. The Rector was coming to shoot, and Jenny was to\nride out and join them at lunch.\n\nThen Archie yawned largely, finished his drink, and took up his candle.\n\n\"Oh! she's coming, is she?\" said Dick meditatively.\n\nArchie struck a match.\n\n\"How's Frank?\" went on Dick.\n\n\"Haven't heard from him.\"\n\n\"Where is the poor devil?\"\n\n\"Haven't an idea.\"\n\nDick emitted a monosyllabic laugh.\n\n\"And how's she behaving?\"\n\n\"Jenny? Oh! just as usual. She's a sensible girl and knows her mind.\"\n\nDick pondered this an instant.\n\n\"I'm going to bed,\" said Archie. \"Got to have a straight eye to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Oh! sit down a second.... I want to talk.\"\n\nArchie, as a compromise, propped himself against the back of a chair.\n\n\"She doesn't regret it, then?\" pursued Dick.\n\n\"Not she,\" said Archie. \"It would never have done.\"\n\n\"I know,\" agreed Dick warmly. (It was a real pleasure to him that head\nand heart went together in this matter.) \"But sometimes, you know, women\nregret that sort of thing. Wish they hadn't been quite so sensible, you\nknow.\"\n\n\"Jenny doesn't,\" said Archie.\n\nDick took up his glass which he had filled with his third\nwhisky-and-soda, hardly five minutes before, and drank half of it. He\nsucked his mustache, and in that instant confidentialism rose in his\nheart.\n\n\"Well, I'm going to have a shot myself,\" he said.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I'm going to have a shot. She can but say 'No.'\"\n\nArchie's extreme repose of manner vanished for a second. His jaw dropped\na little.\n\n\"But, good Lord! I hadn't the faintest--\"\n\n\"I know you hadn't. But I've had it for a long time.... What d'you\nthink, Archie?\"\n\n\"My good chap--\"\n\n\"Yes, I know; leave all that out. We'll take that as read. What comes\nnext?\"\n\nArchie looked at him a moment.\n\n\"How d'you mean? Do you mean, do I approve?\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't mean that,\" admitted Dick. \"I meant, how'd I better set\nabout it?\"\n\nArchie's face froze ever so slightly. (It will be remembered that Jack\nKirkby considered him pompous.)\n\n\"You must do it your own way,\" he said.\n\n\"Sorry, old man,\" said Dick. \"Didn't mean to be rude.\"\n\nArchie straightened himself from the chair-back.\n\n\"It's all rather surprising,\" he said. \"It never entered my head. I\nmust think about it. Good-night. Put the lights out when you come.\"\n\n\"Archie, old man, are you annoyed?\"\n\n\"No, no; that's all right,\" said Archie.\n\nAnd really and truly that was all that passed between these two that\nnight on the subject of Jenny--so reposeful were they.\n\n\n(II)\n\nThere was a glorious breeze blowing over the hills as Jenny rode slowly\nup about noon next day. The country is a curious mixture--miles of moor,\nas desolate and simple and beautiful as moors can be, and by glimpses,\nnow and then in the valleys between, of entirely civilized villages,\nwith even a town or two here and there, prick-up spires and roofs; and,\neven more ominous, in this direction and that, lie patches of smoke\nabout the great chimneys.\n\nJenny was meditative as she rode up alone. It is very difficult to be\notherwise when one has passed through one considerable crisis, and\nforesees a number of others that must be met, especially if one has not\nmade up one's mind as to the proper line of action. It is all very well\nto be sensible, but a difficulty occasionally arises as to which of two\nor three courses is the more in accordance with that character. To be\nimpulsive certainly leads to trouble sometimes, but also, sometimes it\nsaves it.\n\nJenny looked charming in repose. She was in a delightful green habit;\nshe wore a plumy kind of hat; she rode an almost perfect little mare\nbelonging to Lord Talgarth, and her big blue, steady eyes roved slowly\nround her as she went, seeing nothing. It was, in fact, the almost\nperfect little mare who first gave warning of the approach to the\nsportsmen, by starting violently all over at the sound of a shot, fired\nabout half a mile away. Jenny steadied her, pulled her up, and watched\nbetween the cocked and twitching ears.\n\nBelow her, converging slowly upwards, away from herself, moved a line of\ndots, each precisely like its neighbor in color (Lord Talgarth was very\nparticular, indeed, about the uniform of his beaters), and by each moved\na red spot, which Jenny understood to be a flag. The point towards which\nthey were directed culminated in a low, rounded hill, and beneath the\ncrown of this, in a half circle, were visible a series of low defenses,\nlike fortifications, to command the face of the slope and the dips on\neither side. This was always the last beat--in this moor--before lunch;\nand lunch itself, she knew, would be waiting on the other side of the\nhill. Occasionally as she watched, she saw a slight movement behind\nthis or that butt--no more--and the only evidence of human beings,\nbeside the beaters, lay in the faint wreath of all but invisible smoke\nthat followed the reports, coming now quicker and quicker, as the grouse\ntook alarm. Once with a noise like a badly ignited rocket, there burst\nover the curve before her a flying brown thing, that, screaming with\nterrified exultation, whirred within twenty yards of her head and\nvanished into silence. (One cocked ear of the mare bent back to see if\nthe rocket were returning or not.)\n\nJenny's meditations became more philosophical than ever as she looked.\nShe found herself wondering how much free choice the grouse--if they\nwere capable themselves of philosophizing--would imagine themselves to\npossess in the face of this noisy but insidious death. She reminded\nherself that every shred of instinct and experience that each furious\nlittle head contained bade the owner of it to fly as fast and straight\nas possible, in squawking company with as many friends as possible, away\nfrom those horrible personages in green and silver with the agitating\nred flags, and up that quiet slope which, at the worst, only emitted\nsudden noises. A reflective grouse would perhaps (and two out of three\ndid) consider that he could fly faster and be sooner hidden from the\ngreen men with red flags, if he slid crosswise down the valleys on\neither side. But--Jenny observed--that was already calculated by these\nhuman enemies, and butts (like angels' swords) commanded even these\napproaches too.\n\nIt was obvious, then, that however great might be the illusion of free\nchoice, in reality there was none: they were betrayed hopelessly by the\nvery instincts intended to safeguard them; practical common-sense, in\nthis case, at least, led them straight into the jaws of death. A little\noriginality and impulsiveness would render them immortal so far as guns\nwere concerned....\n\nYes; but there was one who had been original, who had actually preferred\nto fly straight past a monster in green on a gray mare rather than to\nface the peaceful but deathly slopes; and he had escaped. But obviously\nhe was an exception. Originality in grouse--\n\nAt this point the mare breathed slowly and contemptuously and advanced a\ndelicate, impatient foot, having quite satisfied herself that danger was\nno longer imminent; and Jenny became aware she was thinking nonsense.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere were a number of unimportant but well-dressed persons at lunch,\nwith most of whom Jenny was acquainted. These extended themselves on the\nground and said the right things one after another; and all began with\nlong drinks, and all ended with heavy meals. There were two other women\nwhom she knew slightly, who had driven up half an hour before.\nEverything was quite perfect--down even to hot grilled grouse that\nemerged from emblazoned silver boxes, and hot black coffee poured from\n\"Thermos\" flasks. Jenny asked intelligent questions and made herself\nagreeable.\n\nAt the close of lunch she found herself somehow sitting on a small rock\nbeside Dick. Lord Talgarth was twenty yards away, his gaitered legs very\nwide apart, surveying the country and talking to the keeper. Her father\nwas looking down the barrels of his rather ineffective gun, and Archie,\nwith three or four other men and two women, a wife and a sister, was\nsmoking with his back against a rock.\n\n\"Shall you be in to-morrow?\" asked Dick casually.\n\nJenny paused an instant.\n\n\"I should think so!\" she said. \"I've got one or two things to do.\"\n\n\"Perhaps I may look in? I want to talk to you about something if I may.\"\n\n\"Shan't you be shooting again?\"\n\n\"No; I'm not very fit and shall take a rest.\"\n\nJenny was silent.\n\n\"About what time?\" pursued Dick.\n\nJenny roused herself with a little start. She had been staring out over\nthe hills and wondering if that was the church above Barham that she\ncould almost see against the horizon.\n\n\"Oh! any time up to lunch,\" she said vaguely.\n\nDick stood up slowly with a satisfied air and stretched himself. He\nlooked very complete and trim, thought Jenny, from his flat cap to his\nbeautifully-spatted shooting-boots. (It was twelve hundred a year, at\nleast, wasn't it?)\n\n\"Well, I suppose we shall be moving directly,\" he said.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA beater came up bringing the mare just before the start was made.\n\n\"All right, you can leave her,\" said Jenny. \"I won't mount yet. Just\nhitch the bridle on to something.\"\n\nIt was a pleasant and picturesque sight to see the beaters, like a file\nof medieval huntsmen, dwindle down the hill in their green and silver in\none direction, and, five minutes later, the sportsmen in another. It\nlooked like some mysterious military maneuver on a small scale; and\nagain Jenny considered the illusion of free choice enjoyed by the\ngrouse, who, perhaps, two miles away, crouched in hollows among the\nheather. And yet, practically speaking, there was hardly any choice at\nall....\n\nLady Richard, the wife of one of the men, interrupted her in a drawl.\n\n\"Looks jolly, doesn't it?\" she said.\n\nJenny assented cordially.\n\n(She hated this woman, somehow, without knowing why. She said to herself\nit was the drawl and the insolent cold eyes and the astonishing\ncomplacency; and she only half acknowledged that it was the beautiful\nlines of the dress and the figure and the assured social position.)\n\n\"We're driving,\" went on the tall girl. \"You rode, didn't you?\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Lord Talgarth's mare, isn't it? I thought I recognized her.\"\n\n\"Yes. I haven't got a horse of my own, you know,\" said Jenny\ndeliberately.\n\n\"Oh!\"\n\nJenny suddenly felt her hatred rise almost to passion.\n\n\"I must be going,\" she said. \"I've got to visit an old woman who's\ndying. A rector's daughter, you know--\"\n\n\"Ah! yes.\"\n\nThen Jenny mounted from a rock (Lady Richard held the mare's head and\nsettled the habit), and rode slowly away downhill.\n\n\n(III)\n\nDick approached the Rectory next day a little before twelve o'clock with\nas much excitement in his heart as he ever permitted to himself.\n\nDick is a good fellow--I haven't a word to say against him, except\nperhaps that he used to think that to be a Guiseley, and to have\naltogether sixteen hundred a year and to live in a flat in St. James's,\nand to possess a pointed brown beard and melancholy brown eyes and a\nreposeful manner, relieved him from all further effort. I have wronged\nhim, however; he had made immense efforts to be proficient at billiards,\nand had really succeeded; and, since his ultimate change of fortune, has\nembraced even further responsibilities in a conscientious manner.\n\nOf course, he had been in love before in a sort of way; but this was\ntruly different. He wished to marry Jenny very much indeed.... That she\nwas remarkably sensible, really beautiful and eminently presentable, of\ncourse, paved the way; but, if I understand the matter rightly, these\nwere not the only elements in the case. It was the genuine thing. He did\nnot quite know how he would face the future if she refused him; and he\nwas sufficiently humble to be in doubt.\n\nThe neat maid told him at the door that Miss Launton had given\ndirections that he was to be shown into the garden if he came.... No;\nMiss Launton was in the morning-room, but she should be told at once. So\nDick strolled across the lawn and sat down by the garden table.\n\nHe looked at the solemn, dreaming house in the late summer sunshine; he\nobserved a robin issue out from a lime tree and inspect him sideways;\nand then another robin issue from another lime tree and drive the first\none away. Then he noticed a smear of dust on his own left boot, and\nflicked it off with a handkerchief. Then, as he put his handkerchief\naway again, he saw Jenny coming out from the drawing-room window.\n\nShe looked really extraordinarily beautiful as she came slowly across\ntowards him and he stood to meet her. She was bare-headed, but her face\nwas shadowed by the great coils of hair. She was in a perfectly plain\npink dress, perfectly cut, and she carried herself superbly. She looked\njust a trifle paler than yesterday, he thought, and there was a very\nreserved, steady kind of question in her eyes. (I am sorry to be obliged\nto go on saying this sort of thing about Jenny every time she comes upon\nthe scene; but it is the sort of thing that everyone is obliged to go on\nthinking whenever she makes her appearance.)\n\n\"I've got a good deal to say,\" said Dick, after they had sat a moment\nor two. \"May I say it right out to the end?\"\n\n\"Why, certainly,\" said Jenny.\n\nDick leaned back and crossed one knee over the other. His manner was\nexactly right--at any rate, it was exactly what he wished it to be, and\nall through his little speech he preserved it. It was quite restrained,\nextremely civilized, and not at all artificial. It was his method of\npresenting a fact--the fact that he really was in love with this\ngirl--and was in his best manner. There was a lightness of touch about\nthis method of his, but it was only on the surface.\n\n\"I daresay it's rather bad form my coming and saying all this so soon,\nbut I can't help that. I know you must have gone through an awful lot in\nthe last month or two--perhaps even longer--but I don't know about that.\nAnd I want to begin by apologizing if I am doing what I shouldn't. The\nfact is that--well, that I daren't risk waiting.\"\n\nHe did not look at Jenny (he was observing the robin that had gone and\ncome again since Jenny had appeared), but he was aware that at his first\nsentence she had suddenly settled down into complete motionlessness. He\nwondered whether that was a good omen or not.\n\n\"Well, now,\" he said, \"let me give a little account of myself first. I'm\njust thirty-one; I've got four hundred a year of my own, and Lord\nTalgarth allows me twelve hundred a year more. Then I've got other\nexpectations, as they say. My uncle gives me to understand that my\nallowance is secured to me in his will; and I'm the heir of my aunt,\nLady Simon, whom you've probably met. I just mention that to show I'm\nnot a pauper--\"\n\n\"Mr. Guiseley--\" began Jenny.\n\n\"Please wait. I've not done yet. Do you mind? ... I'm a decent living\nman. I'm not spotless, but I'll answer any questions you like to put--to\nyour father. I've not got any profession, though I'm supposed to be a\nsolicitor; but I'm perfectly willing to work if ... if it's wished, or\nto stand for Parliament, or anything like that--there hasn't, so far,\nseemed any real, particular reason why I should work. That's all. And I\nthink you know the sort of person I am, all round.\n\n\"And now we come to the point.\" (Dick hesitated a fraction of a second.\nHe was genuinely moved.) \"The point is that I'm in love with you, and I\nhave been for some time past. I ... I can't put it more plainly ... (One\nmoment, please, I've nearly done.) ... I can't think of anything else;\nand I haven't been able to for the last two or three months. I ... I ...\nI'm fearfully sorry for poor old Frank; I'm very fond of him, you know,\nbut I couldn't help finding it an extraordinary relief when I heard the\nnews. And now I've come to ask you, perfectly straight, whether you'll\nconsent to be my wife.\"\n\nDick looked at her for the first time since he had begun his little\nspeech.\n\nShe still sat absolutely quiet (she had not even moved at the two words\nshe had uttered), but she had gone paler still. Her mouth was in repose,\nwithout quiver or movement, and her beautiful eyes looked steadily on to\nthe lawn before her. She said nothing.\n\n\"If you can't give me an answer quite at once,\" began Dick again\npresently, \"I'm perfectly willing to--\"\n\nShe turned and looked him courageously in the face.\n\n\"I can't say 'Yes,'\" she said. \"That would be absurd.... You have been\nquite straightforward with me, and I must be straightforward with you.\nThat is what you wish, isn't it?\"\n\nDick inclined his head. His heart was thumping furiously with\nexultation--in spite of her words.\n\n\"Then what I say is this: You must wait a long time. If you had insisted\non an answer now, I should have said 'No.' I hate to keep you waiting,\nparticularly when I do really think it will be 'No' in the long run; but\nas I'm not quite sure, and as you've been perfectly honest and\ncourteous, if you really wish it I won't say 'No' at once. Will that\ndo?\"\n\n\"Whatever you say,\" said Dick.\n\n\"You mustn't forget I was engaged to Frank till quite lately. Don't you\nsee how that obscures one's judgment? I simply can't judge now, and I\nknow I can't.... You're willing to wait, then?--even though I tell you\nnow that I think it will be 'No'?\"\n\n\"Whatever you say,\" said Dick again; \"and may I say thank you for not\nsaying 'No' at once?\"\n\nA very slight look of pain came into the girl's eyes.\n\n\"I would sooner you didn't,\" she said. \"I'm sorry you said that....\"\n\n\"I'm sorry,\" said poor Dick.\n\nThere was a pause.\n\n\"One other thing,\" said Jenny. \"Would you mind not saying anything to my\nfather? I don't want him to be upset any more. Have you told anybody\nelse you were--?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dick bravely, \"I told Archie.\"\n\n\"I'm sorry you did that. Will you then just tell him exactly what I\nsaid--exactly, you know. That I thought it would be 'No'; but that I\nonly didn't say so at once because you wished it.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Dick.\n\nIt was a minute or so before either spoke again. Jenny had that\ndelightful and soothing gift which prevents silence from being empty. It\nis the same gift, in another form, as that which enables its possessor\nto put people at their ease. (It is, I suppose, one of the elements of\ntact.) Dick had a sense that they were still talking gently and\nreasonably, though he could not quite understand all that Jenny was\nmeaning.\n\nShe interrupted it by a sudden sentence.\n\n\"I wonder if it's fair,\" she said. \"You know I'm all but certain. I only\ndon't say so because--\"\n\n\"Let it be at that,\" said Dick. \"It's my risk, isn't it?\"\n\n\n(III)\n\nWhen he had left her at last, she sat on perfectly still in the same\nplace. The robin had given it up in despair: this human creature was not\ngoing to scratch garden-paths as she sometimes did, and disclose rich\nworms and small fat maggots. But a cat had come out instead and was now\npacing with stiff forelegs, lowered head and trailing tail, across the\nsunny grass, endeavoring to give an impression that he was bent on some\ncompletely remote business of his own.\n\nHe paused at the edge of the shadow and eyed the girl malignantly.\n\n\"Wow!\" said the cat.\n\nThere was no response.\n\n\"Wow!\" said the cat.\n\nJenny roused herself.\n\n\"Wow!\" said Jenny meditatively.\n\n\"Wow!\" said the cat, walking on.\n\n\"Wow!\" said Jenny.\n\nAgain there was a long silence.\n\n\"Wow!\" said Jenny indignantly.\n\nThe cat turned a slow head sideways as he began to cross the path, but\nsaid nothing. He waited for another entreaty, but Jenny paid no more\nattention. As he entered the yews he turned once more.\n\n\"Wow!\" said the cat, almost below his breath.\n\nBut Jenny made no answer. The cat cast one venomous look and\ndisappeared.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThen there came out a dog--a small brown and black animal, very sturdy\non his legs, and earnest and independent in air and manner. He was the\nillegitimate offspring of a fox-terrier. He trotted briskly across from\nthe direction of the orchard, diagonally past Jenny. As he crossed the\ntrail of the cat he paused, smelt, and followed it up for a yard or two,\ntill he identified for certain that it proceeded from an acquaintance;\nthen he turned to resume his journey. The movement attracted the girl's\nattention.\n\n\"Lama!\" called Jenny imperiously. \"Come here this instant!\"\n\nLama put his head on one side, nodded and smiled at her indulgently, and\ntrotted on.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Oh, dear me!\" said Jenny, sighing out loud.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n(I)\n\nThere lived (and still lives, I believe) in the small Yorkshire village\nof Tarfield a retired doctor, entirely alone except for his servants, in\na large house. It is a very delightful house, only--when I stayed there\nnot long ago--it seemed to me that the doctor did not know how to use\nit. It stands in its own grounds of two or three acres, on the\nright-hand side of the road to a traveler going north, separated by a\nrow of pollarded limes from the village street, and approached--or,\nrather, supposed to be approached--by a Charles II. gate of iron-scroll\nwork. I say \"supposed to be approached\" because the gate is invariably\nkept locked, and access can only be gained to the house through the side\ngate from the stable-yard. The grounds were abominably neglected when I\nsaw them; grass was growing on every path, and as fine a crop of weeds\nsurged up amongst the old autumn flowers as ever I have seen. The house,\ntoo, was a sad sight. There here two big rooms, one on either side of\nthe little entrance-hall--one a dining-room, the other a sort of\ndrawing-room--and both were dreary and neglected-looking places. In the\none the doctor occasionally ate, in the other he never sat except when a\nrare visitor came to see him, and the little room supposed to be a study\nat the foot of the stairs in the inner hall that led through the kitchen\nwas hardly any better. I was there, I say, last autumn, and the\ncondition of the place must have been very much the same as that in\nwhich it was when Frank came to Tarfield in October.\n\nFor the fact was that the doctor--who was possessed of decent private\nmeans--devoted the whole of his fortune, the whole of his attention, and\nthe whole of his life--such as it was--to the study of toxins upstairs.\n\nToxins, I understand, have something to do with germs. Their study\ninvolves, at any rate at present, a large stock of small animals, such\nas mice and frogs and snakes and guinea-pigs and rabbits, who are given\nvarious diseases and then studied with loving attention. I saw the\ndoctor's menagerie when I went to see him about Frank; they were chiefly\nhoused in a large room over the kitchen, communicating with the doctor's\nown room by a little old powder-closet with two doors, and the smell was\nindescribable. Ranks of cages and boxes rose almost to the ceiling, and\nin the middle of the room was a large business-like looking wooden\nkitchen-table with various appliances on it. I saw the doctor's room\nalso--terribly shabby, but undoubtedly a place of activity. There were\npiles of books and unbound magazines standing about in corners, with\nmore on the table, as well as a heap of note-books. An array of glass\ntubes and vary-colored bottles stood below the window, with a\nmicroscope, and small wooden boxes on one side. And there was, besides,\nsomething which I think he called an \"incubator\"--a metal affair,\nstanding on four slender legs; a number of glass tubes emerged from\nthis, each carefully stoppered with cotton wool, and a thermometer\nthrust itself up in one corner.\n\nA really high degree of proficiency in any particular subject invariably\nleads to atrophy in other directions. A man who eats and breathes and\ndreams Toxins, for instance, who lives so much in Toxins that he\ncorresponds almost daily with learned and unintelligible Germans; who\nknows so much about Toxins that when he enters, with shabby trousers and\na small hand-bag, into the room of a polished specialist in Harley\nStreet, he sees as in a dream the specialist rise and bow before\nhim--who, when he can be persuaded to contribute a short and highly\ntechnical article to a medical magazine, receives a check for\ntwenty-five guineas by return of post--a man of this kind is peculiarly\nopen to the danger of thinking that anything which cannot be expressed\nin terms of Toxin is negligible nonsense. It is the characteristic\ndanger of every specialist in every branch of knowledge; even\ntheologians are not wholly immune.\n\nIt was so in the case of Dr. Whitty (I forget all the initials that\nshould follow his name). He had never been married, he never took any\nexercise; occasionally, when a frog's temperature approached a crisis,\nhe slept in his clothes, and forgot to change them in the morning. And\nhe was the despair of the zealous vicar. He was perfectly convinced\nthat, since the force that underlay the production of Toxins could\naccomplish so much, it could surely accomplish everything. He could\nreduce his roses, his own complexion, the grass on his garden-paths, the\ncondition of his snakes', and frogs' skins, and the texture of his\nkitchen-table--if you gave him time--to terms of Toxin; therefore,\nargued Dr. Whitty, you could, if you had more time, reduce everything\nelse to the same terms. There wasn't such a thing as a soul, of\ncourse--it was a manifestation of a combination of Toxins (or\nanti-Toxins, I forget which); there was no God--the idea of God was the\nresult of another combination of Toxins, akin to a belief in the former\nillusion. Roughly speaking, I think his general position was that as\nToxins are a secretion of microbes (I am certain of that phrase,\nanyhow), so thought and spiritual experiences and so forth are a\nsecretion of the brain. I know it sounded all very brilliant and\nunanswerable and analogous to other things. He hardly ever took the\ntrouble to say all this; he was far too much interested in what he\nalready knew, or was just on the point of finding out, to treat of these\nextravagant and complicated ramifications of his subject. When he really\ngot to know his mice and bats, as they deserved to be known, it might be\npossible to turn his attention to other things. Meanwhile, it was\nfoolish and uneconomical. So here he lived, with a man-of-all-work and\nhis man's wife, and daily went from strength to strength in the\nknowledge of Toxins.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was to this household that there approached, in the month of October,\na small and dismal procession of three.\n\nThe doctor was first roused to a sense of what was happening as he\nshuffled swiftly through his little powder-closet one morning soon after\nbreakfast, bearing in his hand the corpse of a mouse which had at last,\nand most disappointingly, succumbed to a severe attack of some hybrid of\nleprosy. As he flew through to his microscope he became aware of an\naltercation in the stable-yard beneath.\n\n\"I tell you he ain't a proper doctor,\" he heard his man explaining; \"he\nknows nothing about them things.\"\n\n\"My good fellow,\" began a high, superior voice out of sight; but Dr.\nWhitty swept on, and was presently deep in indescribable disgustingness\nof the highest possible value to the human race, especially in the South\nSeas. Time meant nothing at all to him, when this kind of work was in\nhand; and it was after what might be an hour or two hours, or ten\nminutes, that he heard a tap on his door.\n\nHe uttered a sound without moving his eye, and the door opened.\n\n\"Very sorry, sir,\" said his man, \"but there's a party in the yard as\nwon't--\"\n\nThe doctor held up his hand for silence, gazed a few moments longer,\npoked some dreadful little object two or three times, sighed and sat\nback.\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"There's a party in the yard, sir, wants a doctor.\"\n\n(This sort of thing had happened before.)\n\n\"Tell them to be off,\" he said sharply. He was not an unkindly man, but\nthis sort of thing was impossible. \"Tell them to go to Dr. Foster.\"\n\n\"I 'ave, sir,\" said the man.\n\n\"Tell them again,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"I 'ave, sir. 'Arf a dozen times.\"\n\nThe doctor sighed--he was paying practically no attention at all, of\ncourse. The leprous mouse had been discouraging; that was all.\n\n\"If you'd step down, sir, an instant--\"\n\nThe doctor returned from soaring through a Toxined universe.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" he said sharply. \"Tell them I'm not practicing. What do they\nwant?\"\n\n\"Please, sir, it's a young man as 'as poisoned 'is foot, 'e says. 'E\nlooks very bad, and--\"\n\n\"Eh? Poison?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nThe doctor appeared to reflect a moment (that mouse, you know--); then\nhe recovered.\n\n\"I'll be down directly,\" he said almost mechanically. \"Take 'em all into\nthe study.\"\n\n\n(II)\n\nDr. Whitty could hardly explain to me, even when he tried, exactly why\nhe had made an exception in this particular instance. Of course, I\nunderstand perfectly myself why he did; but, for himself, all he could\nsay was that he supposed the word Poison happened to meet his mood. He\nhad honestly done with the mouse just now; he had no other very critical\ncase, and he thought he might as well look at the poisoned young man\nfor an instant, before finally despatching him to Dr. Foster, six miles\nfurther on.\n\nWhen he came into the study ten minutes later he found the party ranged\nto meet him. A girl was sitting on a box in the corner by the window,\nand stood up to receive him; a young man was sitting back in a Windsor\nchair, with one boot off, jerking spasmodically; his eyes stared\nunmeaningly before him. A tallish, lean man of a particularly\nunprepossessing appearance was leaning over him with an air of immense\nsolicitude. They were all three evidently of the tramp-class.\n\nWhat they saw--with the exception of Frank, I expect, who was too far\ngone to notice anything--was a benignant-looking old man, very shabby,\nin an alpaca jacket, with a rusty velvet cap on his head, and very\nbright short-sighted eyes behind round spectacles. This figure appeared\nin the doorway, stood looking at them a moment, as if bewildered as to\nwhy he or they were there at all; and then, with a hasty shuffling\nmovement, darted across the floor and down on his knees.\n\nThe following colloquy was held as soon as the last roll of defiled\nbandage had dropped to the floor, and Frank's foot was disclosed.\n\n\"How long's this been going on?\" asked the doctor sharply, holding the\ndiscolored thing carefully in his two hands.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said the Major reflectively, \"he began to limp about--let's\nsee--four days ago. We were coming through--\"\n\nThe doctor, watching Frank's face curiously (the spasm was over for the\npresent), cut the Major short by a question to the patient.\n\n\"Now, my boy, how d'you feel now?\"\n\nFrank's lips moved; he seemed to be trying to lick them; but he said\nnothing, and his eyes closed, and he grinned once or twice, as if\nsardonically.\n\n\"When did these spasms begin?\" went on the doctor, abruptly turning to\nthe Major again.\n\n\"Well, sir--if you mean that jerking--Frankie began to jerk about half\nan hour ago when we were sitting down a bit; but he's seemed queer since\nbreakfast. And he didn't seem to be able to eat properly.\"\n\n\"How do you mean? D'you mean he couldn't open his mouth?\"\n\n\"Well, sir, it was something like that.\"\n\nThe doctor began to make comments in a rapid undertone, as if talking to\nhimself; he pressed his hand once or twice against Frank's stomach; he\ntook up the filthy bandage and examined it. Then he looked at the boot.\n\n\"Where's the sock?\" he asked sharply.\n\nGertie produced it from a bundle. He looked at it closely, and began to\nmumble again. Then he rose to his feet.\n\n\"What's the matter with him, doctor?\" asked the Major, trying to look\nperturbed.\n\n\"We call it tetanus,\" said the doctor.\n\n\"Who are you, my man?\" he said. \"Any relation?\"\n\nThe Major looked at him loftily.\n\n\"No, sir.... I am his friend.\"\n\n\"Ha! Then you must leave your friend in my charge. He shall be well in a\nweek at the latest.\"\n\nThe Major was silent.\n\n\"Well?\" snapped the doctor.\n\n\"I understood from your servant, sir--\"\n\n\"You speak like an educated man.\"\n\n\"I am an educated man.\"\n\n\"Ha--well--no business of mine. What were you about to say?\"\n\n\"I understood from your servant, sir, that this was not quite in your\nline; and since--\"\n\nThe specialist smiled grimly. He snatched up a book from a pile on the\ntable, thrust open the title-page and held it out.\n\n\"Read that, sir.... As it happens, it's my hobby. Go and ask Dr.\nFoster, if you like.... No, sir; I must have your friend; it's a good\nsound case.\"\n\nThe Major read the title-page in a superior manner. It purported to be\nby a James Whitty, and the name was followed by a series of distinctions\nand of the initials, which I have forgotten. F.R.S. were the first.\n\n\"My name,\" said the doctor.\n\nThe Major handed the book back with a bow.\n\n\"I am proud to make your acquaintance, Dr. Whitty. I have heard of you.\nMay I present Mrs. Trustcott?\"\n\nGertie looked confused. The doctor made a stiff obeisance. Then his face\nbecame animated again.\n\n\"We must move your friend upstairs,\" he said. \"If you will help, Mr.\nTrustcott, I will call my servant.\"\n\n\n(III)\n\nIt was about half-past nine that night that the doctor, having rung the\nbell in the spare bedroom, met his man at the threshold.\n\n\"I'll sleep in this room to-night,\" he said; \"you can go to bed. Bring\nin a mattress, will you?\"\n\nThe man looked at his master's face. (He looked queer-like, reported\nThomas later to his wife.)\n\n\"Hope the young man's doing well, sir?\"\n\nA spasm went over the doctor's face.\n\n\"Most extraordinary young man in the world,\" he said.... Then he broke\noff. \"Bring the mattress at once, Thomas. Then you can go to bed.\"\n\nHe went back and closed the door.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThomas had seldom seen his master so perturbed over a human being\nbefore. He wondered what on earth was the matter. During the few minutes\nthat he was in the room he looked at the patient curiously, and he\nnoticed that the doctor was continually looking at him too. Thomas\ndescribed to me Frank's appearance. He was very much flushed, he said,\nwith very bright eyes, and he was talking incessantly. And it was\nevidently this delirious talking that had upset the doctor. I tried to\nget out of Doctor Whitty what it was that Frank had actually said, but\nthe doctor shut up his face tight and would say nothing. Thomas was more\ncommunicative, though far from adequate.\n\nIt was about religion, he said, that Frank was talking--about\nreligion.... And that was really about all that he could say of that\nincident.\n\nThomas awoke about one o'clock that night, and, still with the\nuneasiness that he had had earlier in the evening, climbed out of bed\nwithout disturbing his wife, put on his slippers and great-coat and made\nhis way down the attic stairs. The October moon was up, and, shining\nthrough the staircase window, showed him the door of the spare bedroom\nwith a line of light beneath it. From beyond that door came the steady\nmurmur of a voice....\n\nNow Thomas's nerves were strong: he was a little lean kind of man, very\nwiry and active, nearly fifty years old, and he had lived with his\nmaster, and the mice and the snakes, and disagreeable objects in\nbottles, for more than sixteen years. He had been a male nurse in an\nasylum before that. Yet there was something--he told me later--that\ngripped him suddenly as he was half-way down the stairs and held him in\na kind of agony which he could in no way describe. It was connected with\nthe room behind that lighted door. It was not that he feared for his\nmaster, nor for Frank. It was something else altogether. (What a pity it\nis that our system of education teaches neither self-analysis nor the\nart of narration!)\n\nHe stood there--he told me--he should think for the better part of ten\nminutes, unable to move either way, listening, always listening, to the\nvoice that rose and sank and lapsed now and then into silences that\nwere worse than all, and telling himself vigorously that he was not at\nall frightened.\n\nIt was a creak somewhere in the old house that disturbed him and snapped\nthe thin, rigid little thread that seemed to paralyze his soul; and\nstill in a sort of terror, though no longer in the same stiff agony, he\nmade his way down the three or four further steps of the flight, laid\nhold of the handle, turned it and peered in.\n\nFrank was lying quiet so far as he could see. A night-light burned by\nthe bottles and syringes on the table at the foot of the bed, and,\nalthough shaded from the young man's face, still diffused enough light\nto shoes the servant the figure lying there, and his master, seated\nbeyond the bed, very close to it, still in his day-clothes--still, even,\nin his velvet cap--his chin propped in his hand, staring down at his\npatient, utterly absorbed and attentive.\n\nThere was nothing particularly alarming in all that, and yet there was\nthat in the room which once more seized the man at his heart and held\nhim there, rigid again, terrified, and, above all, inexpressibly awed.\n(At least, that is how I should interpret his description.) He said that\nit wasn't like the spare bedroom at all, as he ordinarily knew it (and,\nindeed, it was a mean sort of room when I saw it, without a fireplace,\nthough of tolerable size). It was like another room altogether, said\nThomas.\n\nHe tried to listen to what Frank was saying, and I imagine he heard it\nall quite intelligently; yet, once more, all he could say afterwards was\nthat it was about religion ... about religion....\n\nSo he stood, till he suddenly perceived that the doctor was looking at\nhim with a frown and contorted features of eloquence. He understood that\nhe was to go. He closed the door noiselessly; and, after another pause,\nsped upstairs without a sound in his red cloth slippers.\n\n\n(IV)\n\nWhen Frank awoke to normal consciousness again, he lay still, wondering\nwhat it was all about. He saw a table at the foot of his bed and noticed\non it a small leather case, two green bottles stoppered with\nindia-rubber, and a small covered bowl looking as if it contained\nbeef-tea. He extended his explorations still further, and discovered an\nHanoverian wardrobe against the left wall, a glare of light (which he\npresently discerned to be a window), a dingy wall-paper, and finally a\ndoor. As he reached this point the door opened and an old man with a\nvelvet skull-cap, spectacles, and a kind, furrowed face, came in and\nstood over him.\n\n\"Well?\" said the old man.\n\n\"I am a bit stiff,\" said Frank.\n\n\"Are you hungry?\"\n\n\"I don't think so.\"\n\n\"Well, you're doing very well, if that's any satisfaction to you,\"\nobserved the doctor, frowning on him doubtfully.\n\nFrank said nothing.\n\nThe doctor sat down on a chair by the bed that Frank suddenly noticed\nfor the first time.\n\n\"Well,\" said the doctor, \"I suppose you want to know the facts. Here\nthey are. My name is Whitty; I'm a doctor; you're in my house. This is\nWednesday afternoon; your friends brought you here yesterday morning.\nI've given them some work in the garden. You were ill yesterday, but\nyou're all right now.\"\n\n\"What was the matter?\"\n\n\"We won't bother about names,\" said the doctor with a kind sharpness.\n\"You had a blister; it broke and became a sore; then you wore one of\nthose nasty cheap socks and it poisoned it. That's all.\"\n\n\"That's in those bottles?\" asked Frank languidly. (He felt amazingly\nweak and stupid.)\n\n\"Well, it's an anti-toxin,\" said the doctor. \"That doesn't tell you\nmuch, does it?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Frank.... \"By the way, who's going to pay you, doctor? I\ncan't.\"\n\nThe doctor's face rumpled up into wrinkles. (Frank wished he wouldn't\nsit with his back to the window.)\n\n\"Don't you bother about that, my boy. You're a case--that's what you\nare.\"\n\nFrank attempted a smile out of politeness.\n\n\"Now, how about some more beef-tea, and then going to sleep again?\"\n\nFrank assented.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was not until the Thursday morning that things began to run really\nclear again in Frank's mind. He felt for his rosary under his pillow and\nit wasn't there. Then he thumped on the floor with a short stick which\nhad been placed by him, remembering that in some previous existence he\nhad been told to do this.\n\nA small, lean man appeared at the door, it seemed, with the quickness of\nthought.\n\n\"My rosary, please,\" said Frank. \"It's a string of beads. I expect it's\nin my trouser-pocket.\"\n\nThe man looked at him with extraordinary earnestness and vanished.\n\nThen the doctor appeared holding the rosary.\n\n\"Is this what you want?\" he asked.\n\n\"That's it! Thanks very much.\"\n\n\"You're a Catholic?\" went on the other, giving it him.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThe doctor sat down again.\n\n\"I thought so,\" he said.\n\nFrank wondered why. Then a thought crossed his mind.\n\n\"Have I been talking?\" he said. \"I suppose I was delirious?\"\n\nThe doctor made no answer for a moment; he was looking at him fixedly.\nThen he roused himself.\n\n\"Well, yes, you have,\" he said.\n\nFrank felt rather uncomfortable.\n\n\"Hope I haven't said anything I shouldn't.\"\n\nThe old man laughed shortly and grimly.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" he said. \"Far from it. At least, your friends wouldn't think\nso.\"\n\n\"What was it about?\"\n\n\"We'll talk about that later, if you like,\" said the doctor. \"Now I want\nyou to get up a bit after you've had some food.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was with a very strange sensation that Frank found himself out in the\ngarden next day, in a sheltered corner, seated in a wicker chair in\nwhich, by the help of bamboo poles, he had been carried downstairs by\nThomas and the Major, with the doctor leading the way and giving\ndirections as to how to turn the corners. The chair was brought out\nthrough an irregularly-shaped little court at the back of the house and\nset down in the warm autumn noon, against an old wall, with a big\nkitchen garden, terribly neglected, spread before him. The smoke of\nburning went up in the middle distance, denoting the heap of weeds\npulled by the Major and Gertie during the last three days. He saw Gertie\nin the distance once or twice, in a clean sun-bonnet, going about her\nbusiness, but she made no sign. The smell of the burning weeds gave a\npleasant, wholesome and acrid taste to his mouth.\n\n\"Now then,\" said the doctor, \"we can have our little talk.\" And he sat\ndown beside him on another chair.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank felt a little nervous, he scarcely knew why. It seemed to him that\nit would be far better not to refer to the past at all. And it appeared\nto him a little unusual that a doctor should be so anxious about it.\nTwice or three times since yesterday this old man had begun to ask him a\nquestion and had checked himself. There was a very curious eagerness\nabout him now.\n\n\"I'm awfully grateful and all that,\" said Frank. \"Is there anything\nspecial you want to know? I suppose I've been talking about my people?\"\n\nThe doctor waved a wrinkled hand.\n\n\"No, no,\" he said, \"not a word. You talked about a girl a little, of\ncourse--everybody does; but not much. No, it isn't that.\"\n\nFrank felt relieved. He wasn't anxious about anything else.\n\n\"I'm glad of that. By the way, may I smoke?\"\n\nThe doctor produced a leather case of cigarettes and held it out.\n\n\"Take one of these,\" he said.\n\n\"Because,\" continued Frank, \"I'm afraid I mustn't talk about my people.\nThe name I've got now is Gregory, you know.\" He lit his cigarette,\nnoticing how his fingers still shook, and dropped the match.\n\n\"No, it's not about that,\" said the doctor; \"it's not about that.\"\n\nFrank glanced at him, astonished by his manner.\n\n\"Well, then--?\" he began.\n\n\"I want to know first,\" said the doctor slowly, \"where you've got all\nyour ideas from. I've never heard such a jumble in my life. I know you\nwere delirious; but ... but it hung together somehow; and it seemed much\nmore real to you than anything else.\"\n\n\"What did?\" asked Frank uncomfortably.\n\nThe doctor made no answer for a moment. He looked out across the untidy\ngarden with its rich, faded finery of wild flowers and autumn leaves,\nand the yellowing foliage beyond the wall, and the moors behind--all\ntransfigured in October sunshine. The smoke of the burning weeds drew\nheavenly lines and folds of ethereal lace-work across the dull splendors\nbeyond.\n\n\"Well,\" he said at last, \"everything. You know I've heard hundreds and\nhundreds of folks ...\" he broke off again, \"... and I know what people\ncall religion about here--and such a pack of nonsense ...\" (He turned on\nFrank again suddenly.) \"Where d'you get your ideas from?\"\n\n\"Do you mean the Catholic religion?\" said Frank.\n\n\"Bah! don't call it that. I know what that is--\" Frank interrupted him.\n\n\"Well, that's my religion,\" he said. \"I haven't got any other.\"\n\n\"But ... but the way you hold it,\" cried the other; \"the grip ... the\ngrip it has of you. That's the point. D'you mean to tell me--\"\n\n\"I mean that I don't care for anything else in the whole world,\" said\nFrank, stung with sudden enthusiasm.\n\n\"But ... but you're not mad! You're a very sensible, fellow. You don't\nmean to tell me you really believe all that--all that about pain and so\non? We doctors know perfectly what all that is. It's a reaction of\nNature ... a warning to look out ... it's often simply the effects of\nbuilding up; and we're beginning to think--ah! that won't interest you!\nListen to me! I'm what they call a specialist--an investigator. I can\ntell you, without conceit, that I probably know all that is to be known\non a certain subject. Well, I can tell you as an authority--\"\n\nFrank lifted his head a little. He was keenly interested by the fire\nwith which this other enthusiast spoke.\n\n\"I daresay you can,\" said Frank. \"And I daresay it's all perfectly true;\nbut what in the world has all that got to do with it--with the use made\nof it--the meaning of it? Now I--\"\n\n\"Hush! hush!\" said the doctor. \"We mustn't get excited. That's no good.\"\n\nHe stopped and stared mournfully out again.\n\n\"I wish you could really tell me,\" he said more slowly. \"But that's just\nwhat you can't. I know that. It's a personal thing.\"\n\n\"But my dear doctor--\" said Frank.\n\n\"That's enough,\" said the other. \"I was an old fool to think it\npossible--\"\n\nFrank interrupted again in his turn. (He was conscious of that\nextraordinary mental clearness that comes sometimes to convalescents,\nand he suddenly perceived there was something behind all this which had\nnot yet made its appearance.)\n\n\"You've some reason for asking all this,\" he said. \"I wish you'd tell me\nexactly what's in your mind.\"\n\nThe old man turned and looked at him with a kind of doubtful fixedness.\n\n\"Why do you say that, my boy?\"\n\n\"People like you,\" said Frank smiling, \"don't get excited over people\nlike me, unless there's something.... I was at Cambridge, you know. I\nknow the dons there, and--\"\n\n\"Well, I'll tell you,\" said the doctor, drawing a long breath. \"I hadn't\nmeant to. I know it's mere nonsense; but--\" He stopped an instant and\ncalled aloud: \"Thomas! Thomas!\"\n\nThomas's lean head, like a bird's, popped out from a window in the\nkitchen court behind.\n\n\"Come here a minute.\"\n\nThomas came and stood before them with a piece of wash-leather in one\nhand and a plated table-spoon in the other.\n\n\"I want you to tell this young gentleman,\" said the doctor\ndeliberately, \"what you told me on Wednesday morning.\"\n\nThomas looked doubtfully from one to the other.\n\n\"It was my fancy, sir,\" he said.\n\n\"Never mind about that. Tell us both.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, I didn't like it. Seemed to me when I looked in--\"\n\n(\"He looked in on us in the middle of the night,\" explained the doctor.\n\"Yes, go on, Thomas.\")\n\n\"Seemed to me there was something queer.\"\n\n\"Yes?\" said the doctor encouragingly.\n\n\"Something queer,\" repeated Thomas musingly.... \"And now if you'll\nexcuse me, sir, I'll have to get back--\"\n\nThe doctor waved his hands despairingly as Thomas scuttled back without\nanother word.\n\n\"It's no good,\" he said, \"no good. And yet he told me quite\nintelligibly--\"\n\nFrank was laughing quietly to himself.\n\n\"But you haven't told me one word--\"\n\n\"Don't laugh,\" said the old man simply. \"Look here, my boy, it's no\nlaughing matter. I tell you I can't think of anything else. It's\nbothering me.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\nThe doctor waved his hands.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"I can say it no better. It was the whole thing. The\nway you looked, the way you spoke. It was most unusual. But it affected\nme--it affected me in the same way; and I thought that perhaps you could\nexplain.\"\n\n\n(V)\n\nIt was not until the Monday afternoon that Frank persuaded the doctor to\nlet him go. Dr. Whitty said everything possible, in his emphatic way, as\nto the risk of traveling again too soon; and there was one scene,\nactually conducted in the menagerie--the only occasion on which the\ndoctor mentioned Frank's relations--during which he besought the young\nman to be sensible, and to allow him to communicate with his family.\nFrank flatly refused, without giving reasons.\n\nThe doctor seemed strangely shy of referring again to the conversation\nin the garden; and, for his part, Frank shut up like a box. They seem\nboth to have been extraordinarily puzzled at one another--as such people\noccasionally are. They were as two persons, both intelligent and\ninterested, entirely divided by the absence of any common language, or\neven of symbols. Words that each used meant different things to the\nother. (It strikes me sometimes that the curse of Babel was a deeper\nthing than appears on the surface.)\n\nThe Major and Gertie, all this while, were in clover. The doctor had no\nconception of what six hours' manual work could or could not do, and, in\nreturn for these hours, he made over to the two a small disused\ngardener's cottage at the end of his grounds, some bedding, their meals,\nand a shilling the day. It was wonderful how solicitous the Major was as\nto Frank's not traveling again until it was certain he was capable of\nit; but Frank had acquired a somewhat short and decisive way with his\nfriend, and announced that Monday night must see them all cleared out.\n\nThe leave-taking--so far as I have been able to gather--was rather\nsurprisingly emotional. The doctor took Frank apart into the study where\nhe had first seen him, and had a short conversation, during which one\nsovereign finally passed from the doctor to the patient.\n\nI have often tried to represent to myself exactly what elements there\nwere in Frank that had such an effect upon this wise and positive old\nman. He had been a very upsetting visitor in many ways. He had\ndistracted his benefactor from a very important mouse that had died of\nleprosy; he had interfered sadly with working hours; he had turned the\nhouse, comparatively speaking, upside down. Worse than all, he had--I\nwill not say modified the doctor's theories--that would be far too\nstrong a phrase; but he had, quite unconsciously, run full tilt against\nthem; and finally, worst of all, he had done this right in the middle of\nthe doctor's own private preserve. There was absolutely every element\nnecessary to explain Frank's remarks during his delirium; he was a\nreligiously-minded boy, poisoned by a toxin and treated by the\nanti-toxin. What in the world could be expected but that he should rave\nin the most fantastic way, and utter every mad conception and idea that\nhis subjective self contained. As for that absurd fancy of the doctor\nhimself, as well as of his servant that there was \"something queer\" in\nthe room--the more he thought of it, the less he valued it. Obviously it\nwas the result of a peculiar combination of psychological conditions,\njust as psychological conditions were themselves the result of an\nobscure combination of toxin--or anti-toxin--forces.\n\nYet for all that, argue as one may, the fact remained that this dry and\nrather misanthropic scientist was affected in an astonishing manner by\nFrank's personality. (It will appear later on in Frank's history that\nthe effect was more or less permanent.)\n\nStill more remarkable to my mind was the very strong affection that\nFrank conceived for the doctor. (There is no mystery coming: the doctor\nwill not ultimately turn out to be Frank's father in disguise; Lord\nTalgarth still retains that distinction.) But it is plainly revealed by\nFrank's diary that he was drawn to this elderly man by very much the\nsame kind of feelings as a son might have. And yet it is hardly possible\nto conceive two characters with less in common. The doctor was a\ndogmatic materialist--and remains so still--Frank was a Catholic. The\ndoctor was scientific to his finger-tips--Frank romantic to the same\nextremities; the doctor was old and a confirmed stay-at-home--Frank was\nyoung, and an incorrigible gipsy. Yet so the matter was. I have certain\nideas of my own, but there is no use in stating them, beyond saying\nperhaps that each recognized in the other--sub-consciously only, since\neach professed himself utterly unable to sympathize in the smallest\ndegree with the views of the other--a certain fixity of devotion that\nwas the driving-force in each life. Certainly, on the surface, there are\nnot two theories less unlike than the one which finds the solution of\nall things in Toxin, and the other which finds it in God. But perhaps\nthere is a reconciliation somewhere.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Major and Gertie were waiting in the stable-yard when the two other\nmen emerged. The Major had a large bag of apples--given him by Thomas at\nthe doctor's orders--which he was proceeding to add to Gertie's load at\nthe very moment when the two others came out. Frank took them, without a\nword, and slung them over his own back.\n\nThe doctor stood blinking a moment in the strong sunshine.\n\n\"Well, good-by, my boy,\" he said. \"Good luck! Remember that if ever you\ncome this way again--\"\n\n\"Good-by, sir,\" said Frank.\n\nHe held out his disengaged hand.\n\nThen an astonishing thing happened. The doctor took the hand, then\ndropped it; threw his arms round the boy's neck, kissed him on both\ncheeks, and hurried back through the garden gate, slamming it behind\nhim. And I imagine he ran upstairs at once to see how the mice were.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWell, that is the whole of the incident. The two haven't met since, that\nI am aware. And I scarcely know why I have included it in this book. But\nI was able to put it together from various witnesses, documentary and\npersonal, and it seemed a pity to leave it out.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n(I)\n\nAn enormous physical weariness settled down on Frank, as he trudged\nsilently with the Major, towards evening, a week later.\n\nHe had worked all the previous day in a farm-yard--carting manure, and\nthe like; and though he was perfectly well again, some of the spring had\nebbed from his muscles during his week's rest. This day, too, the first\nof November, had been exhausting. They had walked since daybreak, after\na wretched night in a barn, plodding almost in silence, mile after mile,\nagainst a wet south-west wind, over a discouraging kind of high-road\nthat dipped and rose and dipped again, and never seemed to arrive\nanywhere.\n\nIt is true that Frank was no longer intensely depressed; quite another\nprocess had been at work upon him for the last two or three months, as\nwill be seen presently; but his limbs seemed leaden, and the actual\nstiffness in his shoulders and loins made walking a little difficult.\n\nThey were all tired together. They did not say much to one another.\nThey had, in fact, said all that there was to be said months ago; and\nthey were reduced--as men always are reduced when a certain pitch is\nreached--to speak simply of the most elementary bodily things--food,\ntobacco and sleep. The Major droned on now and then--recalling luxuries\nof past days--actual roofs over the head, actual hot meat to put in the\nmouth, actual cigars--and Frank answered him. Gertie said nothing.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe made up for it, soon after dark had fallen, by quite suddenly\ncollapsing into a hedge, and announcing that she would die if she didn't\nrest. The Major made the usual remarks, and she made no answer.\n\nFrank interposed suddenly.\n\n\"Shut up,\" he said. \"We can't stop here. I'll go on a bit and see what\ncan be done.\"\n\nAnd, as he went off into the darkness, leaving his bundle, he heard the\nscolding voice begin again, but it was on a lower key and he knew it\nwould presently subside into a grumble, soothed by tobacco.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe had no idea as to the character of the road that lay before him. They\nhad passed through a few villages that afternoon, whose names meant\nnothing to him, and he scarcely knew why, even, they were going along\nthis particular road. They were moving southwards towards London--so\nmuch had been agreed--and they proposed to arrive there in another month\nor so. But the country was unfamiliar to him, and the people seemed\ngrudging and uncouth. They had twice been refused the use of an outhouse\nfor the night, that afternoon.\n\nIt seemed an extraordinarily deserted road. There were no lights from\nhouses, so far as he could make out, and the four miles that had been\ndeclared at their last stopping-place to separate them from the next\nvillage appeared already more like five or six. Certainly the three of\nthem had between two and three shillings, all told; there was no actual\nneed of a workhouse just yet, but naturally it was wished to spend as\nlittle as possible.\n\nThen on a sudden he caught a glimpse of a light burning somewhere, that\nappeared and vanished again as he moved, and fifty yards more brought\nhim to a wide sweep, a pair of gate-posts with the gate fastened back,\nand a lodge on the left-hand side. So much he could make out dimly\nthrough the November darkness; and as he stood there hesitating, he\nthought he could see somewhere below him a few other lights burning\nthrough the masses of leafless trees through which the drive went\ndownhill.\n\nHe knew very well by experience that lodge-keepers were, taken\naltogether, perhaps the most unsympathetic class in the community. (They\nlive, you see, right on the high road, and see human nature at its\nhottest and crossest as well as its most dishonest.) Servants at back\ndoors were, as a rule, infinitely more obliging; and, as obviously this\nwas the entrance to some big country house, the right thing to do would\nbe to steal past the lodge on tiptoe and seek his fortune amongst the\ntrees. Yet he hesitated; the house might be half a mile away, for all he\nknew; and, certainly there was a hospitable look about the fastened-back\ngate.\n\nThere came a gust of wind over the hills behind him, laden with wet....\nHe turned, went up to the lodge door and knocked.\n\nHe could hear someone moving about inside, and just as he was beginning\nto wonder whether his double tap had been audible, the door opened and\ndisclosed a woman in an apron.\n\n\"Can you very kindly direct me--\" began Frank politely.\n\nThe woman jerked her head sharply in the direction of the house.\n\n\"Straight down the hill,\" she said. \"Them's the orders.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\nIt was no good; the door was shut again in his face, and he stood alone\nin the dark.\n\nThis was all very unusual. Lodge-keepers did not usually receive\n\"orders\" to send tramps, without credentials, on to the house which the\nlodge was supposed to guard.... That open gate, then, must have been\nintentional. Plainly, however, he must take her at her word; and as he\ntramped down the drive, he began to form theories. It must be a fanatic\nof some kind who lived here, and he inclined to consider the owner as\nprobably an eccentric old lady with a fad, and a large number of\nlap-dogs.\n\nAs he came nearer, through the trees, he became still more astonished,\nfor as the branches thinned, he became aware of lights burning at such\nenormous distances apart that the building seemed more like a village\nthan a house.\n\nStraight before him shone a row of lighted squares, high up, as if hung\nin air, receding in perspective, till blocked out by a black mass which\nseemed a roof of some kind; far on the left shone some kind of\nilluminated gateway, and to his right another window or two glimmered\nalmost beneath his feet.\n\nAnother fifty yards down the winding drive disclosed a sight that made\nhim seriously wonder whether the whole experience were real, for now\nonly a few steps further on, and still lower than the level at which he\nwas, stood, apparently, a porter's lodge, as of a great college. There\nwas a Tudor archway, with rooms above it and rooms on either side; a\nlamp hung from the roof illuminated the dry stone pavement within, and\nhuge barred gates at the further end, shut off all other view. It looked\nlike the entrance to some vast feudal castle, and he thought again that\nif an eccentric old lady lived here, she must be very eccentric indeed.\nHe began to wonder whether a seneschal in a belt hung with keys would\npresently make his appearance: he considered whether or not he could\nwind a horn, if there were no other way of summoning the retainers.\n\nWhen at last he tapped at a small interior door, also studded and barred\nwith iron, and the door opened, the figure he did see was hardly less of\na shock to him than a seneschal would have been.\n\nFor there stood, as if straight out of a Christmas number, the figure of\na monk, tall, lean, with gray hair, clean-shaven, with a pair of merry\neyes and a brisk manner. He wore a broad leather band round his black\nfrock, and carried his spare hand thrust deep into it.\n\n\n(II)\n\nThe monk sighed humorously.\n\n\"Another of them,\" he said. \"Well, my man?\"\n\n\"Please, father--\"\n\nThe monk closed his eyes as in resignation.\n\n\"You needn't try that on,\" he said. \"Besides, I'm not a father. I'm a\nbrother. Can you remember that?\"\n\nFrank smiled back.\n\n\"Very well, brother. I'm a Catholic myself.\"\n\n\"Ah! yes,\" sighed the monk briskly. \"That's what they all say. Can you\nsay the 'Divine Praises'? Do you know what they are?... However, that\nmakes no difference, as--\"\n\n\"But I can, brother. 'Blessed be God. Blessed be His--\"\n\n\"But you're not Irish?\"\n\n\"I know I'm not. But--\"\n\n\"Are you an educated man? However, that's not my affair. What can I do\nfor you, sir?\"\n\nThe monk seemed to take a little more interest in him, and Frank took\ncourage.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"I'm an educated man. My name's Frank Gregory. I've got\ntwo friends out on the road up there--a man and a woman. Their name's\nTrustcott--and the woman--\"\n\n\"No good; no good,\" said the monk. \"No women.\"\n\n\"But, brother, she really can't go any further. I'm very sorry, but we\nsimply must have shelter. We've got two or three shillings, if\nnecessary--\"\n\n\"Oh, you have, have you?\" said the monk keenly. \"That's quite new. And\nwhen did you touch food last? Yesterday morning? (Don't say 'S'elp me!'\nIt's not necessary.)\"\n\n\"We last touched food about twelve o'clock to-day. We had beans and cold\nbacon,\" said Frank deliberately. \"We're perfectly willing to pay for\nshelter and food, if we're obliged. But, of course, we don't want to.\"\n\nThe monk eyed him very keenly indeed a minute or two without speaking.\nThis seemed a new type.\n\n\"Come in and sit down a minute,\" he said. \"I'll fetch the guest-master.\"\n\nIt was a very plain little room in which Frank sat, and seemed designed,\non purpose, to furnish no temptation to pilferers. There was a table,\ntwo chairs, a painted plaster statue of a gray-bearded man in black\nstanding on a small bracket with a crook in his hand; a pious book, much\nthumb-marked, lay face downwards on the table beside the oil lamp. There\nwas another door through which the monk had disappeared, and that was\nabsolutely all. There was no carpet and no curtains, but a bright little\ncoal fire burned on the hearth, and two windows looked, one up the drive\ndown which Frank had come, and the other into some sort of courtyard on\nthe opposite side.\n\nAbout ten minutes passed away without anything at all happening. Frank\nheard more than one gust of rain-laden wind dash against the little\nbarred window to the south, and he wondered how his friends were getting\non. The Major, at any rate, he knew, would manage to keep himself\ntolerably dry. Then he began to think about this place, and was\nsurprised that he was not surprised at running into it like this in the\ndark. He knew nothing at all about monasteries--he hardly knew that\nthere were such things in England (one must remember that he had only\nbeen a Catholic for about five months), and yet somehow, now that he had\ncome here, it all seemed inevitable. (I cannot put it better than that:\nit is what he himself says in his diary.)\n\nThen, as he meditated, the door opened, and there came in a thin,\neager-looking elderly man, dressed like the brother who followed him,\nexcept that over his frock he wore a broad strip of black stuff,\nsomething like a long loose apron, hanging from his throat to his feet,\nand his head was enveloped in a black hood.\n\nFrank stood up and bowed with some difficulty. He was beginning to feel\nstiff.\n\n\"Well,\" said the priest sharply, with his bright gray eyes, puckered at\nthe corners, running over and taking in the whole of Frank's figure from\nclose-cut hair to earthy boots. \"Brother James tells me you wish to see\nme.\"\n\n\"It was Brother James who said so, father,\" said Frank.\n\n\"What is it you want?\"\n\n\"I've got two friends on the road who want shelter--man and woman. We'll\npay, if necessary, but--\"\n\n\"Never mind about that,\" interrupted the priest sharply. \"Who are you?\"\n\n\"The name I go by is Frank Gregory.\"\n\n\"The name you go by, eh?... Where were you educated?\"\n\n\"Eton and Cambridge.\"\n\n\"How do you come to be on the roads?\"\n\n\"That's a long story, father.\"\n\n\"Did you do anything you shouldn't?\"\n\n\"No. But I've been in prison since.\"\n\n\"And your name's Frank Gregory.... F.G., eh?\"\n\nFrank turned as if to leave. He understood that he was known.\n\n\"Well--good-night, father--\"\n\nThe priest turned with upraised hand.\n\n\"Brother James, just step outside.\"\n\nThen he continued as the door closed.\n\n\"You needn't go, Mr.--er--Gregory. Your name shall not be mentioned to a\nliving being without your leave.\"\n\n\"You know about me?\"\n\n\"Of course I do.... Now be sensible, my dear fellow; go and fetch your\nfriends. We'll manage somehow.\" (He raised his voice and rapped on the\ntable.) \"Brother James ... go up with Mr. Gregory to the porter's lodge.\nMake arrangements to put the woman up somewhere, either there or in a\ngardener's cottage. Then bring the man down here.... His name?\"\n\n\"Trustcott,\" said Frank.\n\n\"And when you come back, I shall be waiting for you here.\"\n\n\n(III)\n\nFrank states in his diary that an extraordinary sense of familiarity\ndescended on him as, half an hour later, the door of a cell closed\nbehind Dom Hildebrand Maple, and he found himself in a room with a\nbright fire burning, a suit of clothes waiting for him, a can of hot\nwater, a sponging tin and a small iron bed.\n\nI think I understand what he means. Somehow or other a well-ordered\nmonastery represents the Least Common Multiple of nearly all pleasant\nhouses. It has the largeness and amplitude of a castle, and the\nplainness of decent poverty. It has none of that theatricality which it\nis supposed to have, none of the dreaminess or the sentimentality with\nwhich Protestants endow it. He had passed just now through, first, a\nnetwork of small stairways, archways, vestibules and passages, and then\nalong two immense corridors with windows on one side and closed doors on\nthe other. Everywhere there was the same quiet warmth and decency and\nplainness--stained deal, uncarpeted boards, a few oil pictures in the\nlower corridor, an image or two at the turn and head of the stairs; it\nwas lighted clearly and unaffectedly by incandescent gas, and the only\nfigures he had seen were of two or three monks, with hooded heads (they\nhad raised these hoods slightly in salutation as he passed), each going\nabout his business briskly and silently. There was even a cheerful smell\nof cooking at the end of one of the corridors, and he had caught a\nglimpse of two or three aproned lay brothers, busy in the firelight and\nglow of a huge kitchen, over great copper pans.\n\nThe sense of familiarity, then, is perfectly intelligible: a visitor to\na monastery steps, indeed, into a busy and well-ordered life, but there\nis enough room and air and silence for him to preserve his individuality\ntoo.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs soon as he was washed and dressed, he sat down in a chair before the\nfire; but almost immediately there came a tap on his door, and the\nsomewhat inflamed face of the Major looked in.\n\n\"Frankie?\" he whispered, and, reassured, came in and closed the door\nbehind. (He looked very curiously small and unimportant, thought Frank.\nPerhaps it was the black suit that had been lent him.)\n\n\"By gad, Frankie ... we're in clover,\" he whispered, still apparently\nunder the impression that somehow he was in church. \"There are some\nother chaps, you know, off the roads too, but they're down by the lodge\nsomewhere.\" (He broke off and then continued.) \"I've got such a queer\nJohnnie in my room--ah! you've got one, too.\"\n\nHe went up to examine a small plaster statue of a saint above the\nprie-dieu.\n\n\"It's all right, isn't it?\" said Frank sleepily.\n\n\"And there's another Johnnie's name on the door. The Rev. S. Augustine,\nor something.\"\n\nHe tip-toed back to the fire, lifted his tails, and stood warming\nhimself with a complacent but nervous smile.\n\n(Frank regarded him with wonder.)\n\n\"What do all the Johnnies do here?\" asked the Major presently. \"Have a\nrare old time, I expect. I bet they've got cellars under here all right.\nJust like those chaps in comic pictures, ain't it?\"\n\n(Frank decided it was no use to try to explain.)\n\nThe Major babbled on a minute or two longer, requiring no answer, and\nevery now and then having his roving eye caught by some new marvel. He\nfingered a sprig of yew that was twisted into a crucifix hung over the\nbed. (\"Expect it's one of those old relics,\" he said, \"some lie or\nother.\") He humorously dressed up the statue of the saint in a\npocket-handkerchief, and said: \"Let us pray,\" in a loud whisper, with\none eye on the door. And all the while there still lay on him apparently\nthe impression that if he talked loud or made any perceptible sound he\nwould be turned out again.\n\nHe was just beginning a few steps of a noiseless high-kicking dance when\nthere was a tap at the door, and he collapsed into an attitude of\nweak-kneed humility. Dom Hildebrand came in.\n\n\"If you're ready,\" he said, \"we might go down to supper.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank relates in his diary that of all else in the monastery, apart from\nthe church, the refectory and its manners impressed him most. (How easy\nit is to picture it when one has once seen the ceremonies!)\n\nHe sat at a center table, with the Major opposite (looking smaller than\never), before a cloth laid with knife, spoon and forks. All round the\nwalls on a low dais, with their backs against them, sat a row of perhaps\nforty monks, of every age, kind and condition. The tables were bare\nwood, laid simply with utensils and no cloths, with a napkin in each\nplace. At the end opposite the door there sat at a table all alone a\nbig, portly, kindly-faced man, of a startlingly fatherly appearance,\nclean-shaven, gray-haired, and with fine features. This was the Abbot.\nAbove him hung a crucifix, with the single word \"_Sitio_\" beneath it on\na small black label.\n\nThe meal began, however, with the ceremony of singing grace. The rows of\nmonks stood out, with one in the middle, facing the Abbot, each with his\nhood forward and his hands hidden in his scapular. It was sung to a\ngrave tone, with sudden intonations, by the united voices in\nunison--blessing, response, collect, psalm and the rest. (Frank could\nnot resist one glance at the Major, whose face of consternation\nresembled that of a bird in the company of sedate cats.)\n\nThen each went to his place, and, noiselessly, the orderly meal began\nand continued to the reading first of the gospel, and then of a history,\nfrom a pulpit built high in the wall. All were served by lay brothers,\ngirded with aprons; almost every movement, though entirely natural,\nseemed ordered by routine and custom, and was distinguished by a serious\nsort of courtesy that made the taking of food appear, for once, as a\nreally beautiful, august, and almost sacramental ceremony. The great\nhall, too, with its pointed roof, its tiled floor, its white-wood\nscrubbed tables, and its tall emblazoned windows, seemed exactly the\nproper background--a kind of secular sanctuary. The food was plain and\nplentiful: soup, meat, cheese and fruit; and each of the two guests had\na small decanter of red wine, a tiny loaf of bread, and a napkin. The\nmonks drank beer or water.\n\nThen once more followed grace, with the same ceremonial.\n\nWhen this was ended, Frank turned to see where Father Hildebrand was,\nsupposing that all would go to their rooms; but as he turned he saw the\nAbbot coming down alone. He moved on, this great man, with that same\nlarge, fatherly air, but as he passed the two guests, he inclined\nslightly towards them, and Frank, with a glance to warn the Major,\nunderstanding that they were to follow, came out of his place and passed\ndown between the lines of the monks, still in silence.\n\nThe Abbot went on, turned to the right, and as he moved along the\ncloister, loud sonorous chanting began behind. So they went, on and on,\nup the long lighted corridor, past door after door, as in some church\nprocession. Yet all was obviously natural and familiar.\n\nThey turned in at last beneath an archway to the left, went through a\nvestibule, past a great stone of a crowned Woman with a Child in her\narms, and as they entered the church, the Abbot dipped his finger into a\nstoop and presented it to Frank. Frank touched the drop of water, made\nthe sign of the cross, and presented again his damp finger to the Major,\nwho looked at him with a startled eye.\n\nThe Abbot indicated the front row of the seats in the nave, and Frank\nwent into it, to watch the procession behind go past, flow up the steps,\nand disappear into the double rows of great stalls that lined the choir.\n\nThere was still silence--and longer silence, till Frank understood....\n\n\n(IV)\n\nHis eyes grew accustomed to the gloom little by little, and he began to\nbe able to make out the magnificence of the place he was in. Behind him\nstretched the immense nave, its roof and columns lost in darkness, its\nsides faintly illuminated by the glimmer of single oil-lamps, each in a\nsmall screened-off chapel. But in front of him was the greater splendor.\n\nFrom side to side across the entrance to the choir ran the rood-screen,\na vast erection of brown oak and black iron, surmounted by a high loft,\nfrom which glimmered down sheaves of silvered organ pipes, and, higher\nyet, in deep shadow, he could make out three gigantic figures, of which\nthe center one was nailed to a cross. Beyond this began the stalls--dark\nand majestic, broken by carving--jutting heads of kings and priests\nleaning forward as if to breathe in the magnetism of that immense living\nsilence generated by forty men at their prayers. At the further end\nthere shone out faintly the glory of the High Altar, almost luminous, it\nseemed, in the light of the single red spark that hung before it. Frank\ncould discern presently the gilded figures that stood among the\ncandlesticks behind, the throne and crucifix, the mysterious veiling\ncurtains of the Tabernacle.... Finally, in the midst of the choir,\nstood a tall erection which he could not understand.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAn extraordinary peace seemed to descend and envelop him as he looked--a\nkind of crown and climax of various interior experiences that were\nfalling on him now--for the last few weeks. (It is useless trying to put\nit into words. I shall hope to do my best presently by quoting Frank\nhimself.) There was a sense of home-coming; there was a sense of\nastonishing sanity; there was a sense of an enormous objective peace,\nmeeting and ratifying that interior peace which was beginning to be his.\nIt appeared to him, somehow, as if for the first time he experienced\nwithout him that which up to now he had chiefly found within. Certainly\nthere had been moments of this before--not merely emotional, you\nunderstand--when heart and head lay still from their striving, and the\nwill reposed in Another Will. But this was the climax: it summed up all\nthat he had learned in the last few months; it soothed the last scars\naway, it explained and answered--and, above all, correlated--his\nexperiences. No doubt it was the physical, as well as the spiritual,\natmosphere of this place, the quiet corridors, the warmth and the\nplainness and the solidity, even the august grace of the refectory--all\nthese helped and had part in the sensation. Yet, if it is possible for\nyou to believe it, these were no more than the vessels from which the\nheavenly fluid streamed; vessels, rather, that contained a little of\nthat abundance that surged up here as in a fountain....\n\nFrank started a little at a voice in his ear.\n\n\"When's it going to begin?\" whispered the Major in a hoarse,\napprehensive voice.\n\n\n(V)\n\nA figure detached itself presently from the dark mass of the stalls and\ncame down to where they were sitting. Frank perceived it was Father\nHildebrand.\n\n\"We're singing Mattins of the Dead, presently,\" he said in a low voice.\n\"It's All Souls' Eve. Will you stay, or shall I take you to your room?\"\n\nThe Major stood up with alacrity.\n\n\"I'll stay, if I may,\" said Frank.\n\n\"Very well. Then I'll take Mr. Trustcott upstairs.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHalf an hour later the ceremony began.\n\nHere, I simply despair of description. I know something of what Frank\nwitnessed and perceived, for I have been present myself at this affair\nin a religious house; but I do not pretend to be able to write it down.\n\nFirst, however, there was the external, visible, audible service: the\ncatafalque, a bier-like erection, all black and yellow, guarded by\nyellow flames on yellow candles--the grave movements, the almost\nmonstrous figures, the rhythm of the ceremonies, and the wail of, the\nmusic of forty voices singing as one--all that is understood....\n\nBut the inner side of these things--the reverse of which these things\nare but a coarse lining, the substance of which this is a shadow--that\nis what passes words and transcends impressions.\n\nIt seemed to Frank that one section, at any rate, of that enormous truth\nat which he had clutched almost blindly when he had first made his\nsubmission to the Church--one chamber in that House of Life--was now\nflung open before him, and he saw in it men as trees walking.... He was\ntired and excited, of course; he was intensely imaginative; but there\nare some experiences that a rise of temperature cannot explain and that\nan imagination cannot originate....\n\nFor it seemed to him that here he was aware of an immeasurable need to\nwhich those ministrations were addressed, and this whole was countless\nin its units and clamant in its silence. It was as a man might see the\nwall of his room roll away, beyond which he had thought only the night\nto lie, and discern a thronging mass of faces crying for help, pressing\nupon him, urging, yet all without sound or word. He attempts in his\ndiary to use phrases for all this--he speaks of a pit in which is no\nwater, of shadows and forms that writhe and plead, of a light of glass\nmingled with fire; and yet of an inevitability, of a Justice which there\nis no questioning and a Force that there is no resisting. And, on the\nother side, there was this help given by men of flesh and blood like\nhimself--using ceremonies and gestures and strange resonant words....\nThe whole was as some enormous orchestra--there was the wail on this\nside, the answer on that--the throb of beating hearts--there were\nclimaxes, catastrophes, soft passages, and yet the result was one vast\nand harmonious whole.\n\nIt was the catafalque that seemed to him the veiled door to that other\nworld that so manifested itself--seen as he saw it in the light of the\nyellow candles--it was as the awful portal of death itself; beneath that\nheavy mantle lay not so much a Body of Humanity still in death, as a\nSoul of Humanity alive beyond death, quick and yet motionless with pain.\nAnd those figures that moved about it, with censor and aspersorium, were\nas angels for tenderness and dignity and undoubted power. They were men\nlike himself, yet they were far more; and they, too, one day, like\nhimself, would pass beneath that pall and need the help of others that\nshould follow them....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSomething of this is but a hint of what Frank experienced; it came and\nwent, no doubt, in gusts, yet all through he seems to have felt that\nsense that here was a door into that great watching world beyond--that\nhere, in what is supposed by the world to be the narrow constraint of\nreligion, was a liberty and an outlook into realities such as the open\nroad and nature can but seldom give. But for my part, I can no more\nfollow him further than I can write down the passion of the lover and\nthe ecstasy of the musician. If these things could be said in words,\nthey would have been said long ago. But at least it was along this path\nof perception that Frank went--a path that but continued the way along\nwhich he had come with such sure swiftness ever since the moment he had\ntaken his sorrows and changed them from bitter to sweet. Some sentences\nthat he has written mean nothing to me at all....\n\nOnly this I see clearly, both from my talks with Father Hildebrand and\nfrom the diary which Frank amplified at his bidding--that Frank had\nreached the end of a second stage in his journey, and that a third was\nto begin.\n\nIt is significant also, I think, in view of what is to follow, that the\nlast initiation of this stage should have taken place on such an\noccasion as this.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n(I)\n\nThere are certain moods into which minds, very much tired or very much\nconcentrated, occasionally fall, in which the most trifling things take\non them an appearance of great significance. A man in great anxiety, for\nexample, will regard as omens or warnings such things as the ringing of\na bell or the flight of a bird. I have heard this process deliberately\ndefended by people who should know better. I have heard it said that\nthose moods of intense concentration are, as a matter of fact states of\nsoul in which the intuitive or mystical faculties work with great\nfacility, and that at such times connections and correlations are\nperceived which at other times pass unnoticed. The events of the world\nthen are, by such people, regarded as forming links in a chain of\npurpose--events even which are obviously to the practical man merely the\neffects of chance and accident. It is utterly impossible, says the\npractical man, that the ringing of a bell, or the grouping of\ntea-leaves, or the particular moment at which a picture falls from a\nwall, can be anything but fortuitous: and it is the sign of a weak and\nsuperstitious mind to regard them as anything else. There can be no\npurpose or sequence except in matters where we can perceive purpose or\nsequence.\n\nOf course the practical man must be right; we imply that he is right,\nsince we call him practical, and I have to deplore, therefore, the fact\nthat Frank on several occasions fell into a superstitious way of looking\nat things. The proof is only too plain from his own diary--not that he\ninterprets the little events which he records, but that he takes such\nextreme pains to write them down--events, too, that are, to all\nsensibly-minded people, almost glaringly unimportant and insignificant.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI have two such incidents to record between the the travelers' leaving\nthe Benedictine monastery and their arriving in London in December. The\nMajor and Gertie have probably long since forgotten the one which they\nthemselves witnessed, and, indeed, there is no particular reason why\nthey should remember it. Of the other Frank seems to have said nothing\nto his friends. Both of them, however, are perfectly insignificant--they\nconcern, respectively, only a few invisible singers and a couple of\nquite ordinary human beings. They are described with a wholly\nunnecessary wealth of detail in Frank's diary, though without comment,\nand I write them down here for that reason, and that reason only.\n\nThe first was as follows:\n\nThey were approaching a certain cathedral town, not a hundred miles from\nLondon, and as the evening was clear and dry, though frosty, and money\nwas low, they determined to pass the night in a convenient brick-yard\nabout half a mile out of the town.\n\nThere was a handy shed where various implements were kept; the Major, by\nthe help of a little twisted wire, easily unfastened the door. They\nsupped, cooking a little porridge over a small fire which they were able\nto make without risk, and lay down to sleep after a pipe or two.\n\nTramps go to sleep early when they mean business, and it could not have\nbeen more than about eleven o'clock at night when Frank awoke with the\nsense that he had slept long and deeply. He seems to have lain there,\ncontent and quiet enough, watching the last ember dying in the brazier\nwhere they had made their fire.... There was presently a stir from the\nfurther corner of the shed, a match was struck, and Frank, from his\nimprovised pillow, beheld the Major's face suddenly illuminated by the\nlight with which he was kindling his pipe once more. He watched the face\nwith a sort of artistic interest for a few seconds--the drooping\nshadows, the apparently cavernous eyes, the deep-shaded bar of the\nmustache across the face. In the wavering light cast from below it\nresembled the face of a vindictive beast. Then the Major whispered,\nbetween his puffs:\n\n\"Frankie?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Oh! you're awake too, are you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nA minute later, though they had spoken only in whispers, Gertie drew a\nlong sighing breath from her corner of the shed and they could hear that\nshe, too, sat up and cleared her throat.\n\n\"Well, this is a pretty job,\" said the Major jovially to the company\ngenerally. \"What's the matter with us?\"\n\nFrank said nothing. He lay still, with a sense of extraordinary content\nand comfort, and heard Gertie presently lie down again. The Major smoked\nsteadily.\n\nThen the singing began.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was a perfectly still night, frost-bound and motionless. It was late\nenough for the sounds of the town to have died away (cathedral towns go\nto bed early and rise late), and, indeed, almost the only sounds they\nhad heard, even three or four hours before, had been the occasional\ndeliberate chime of bells, like a meditative man suddenly uttering a\nword or two aloud. Now, however, everything was dead silent. Probably\nthe hour had struck immediately before they awoke, since Frank remarks\nthat it seemed a long time before four notes tolled out the quarter.\n\nThe singing came first as a sensation rather than as a sound, so far\naway was it. It was not at once that Frank formulated the sense of\npleasure that he experienced by telling himself that someone was\nsinging.\n\nAt first it was a single voice that made itself heard--a tenor of\nextraordinary clarity. The air was unknown to him, but it had the\ncharacter of antiquity; there was a certain pleasant melancholy about\nit; it contained little trills and grace-notes, such as--before harmony\ndeveloped in the modern sense--probably supplied the absence of chords.\nThere was no wind on which the sound could rise or fall, and it grew\nfrom a thread out of the distance into clear singing not a quarter of a\nmile away....\n\nThe Major presently grunted over his pipe some expression of surprise;\nbut Frank could say nothing. He was almost holding his breath, so great\nwas his pleasure.\n\nThe air, almost regretfully, ran downhill like a brook approaching, an\ninevitable full close; and then, as the last note was reached, a chord\nof voices broke in with some kind of chorus.\n\nThe voices were of a quartette of men, and rang together like struck\nnotes, not loud or harsh, but, on the contrary, with a restrained\nsoftness that must, I suppose, have been the result of very careful\ntraining. It was the same air that they were repeating, but the\ngrace-notes were absent, and the four voices, in chord after chord,\nsupplied their place by harmony. It was impossible to tell what was the\nsubject of the song or even whether it were sacred or secular, for it\nwas of that period--at least, so I conjecture--when the two worlds were\none, and when men courted their love and adored their God after the same\nfashion. Only there ran through all that air of sweet and austere\nmelancholy, as if earthly music could do no more than hint at what the\nheart wished to express.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFrank listened in a sort of ecstasy. The music was nearer now, coming\nfrom the direction from which the three travelers had themselves come\nthis afternoon. Presently, from the apparent diminuendo, it was plain\nthat the singers were past, and were going on towards the town. There\nwas no sound of footsteps; the Major remarked on that, when he could\nget Frank to attend a few minutes later, when all was over; but there\nwere field paths running in every direction, as well as broad stretches\nof grass beside the road, so the singers may very well have been walking\non soft ground. (These points are dispassionately noted down in the\ndiary.)\n\nThe chorus was growing fainter now; once more the last slopes of the\nmelody were in sight--those downhill gradations of the air that told of\nthe silence to come. Then once more, for an instant, there was silence,\ntill again, perhaps nearly a quarter of a mile away, the single tenor\nvoice began _da capo_. And the last that Frank heard, at the moment\nbefore the quarter struck and, soft and mellow though it was, jarred the\nair and left the ear unable to focus itself again on the tiny woven\nthread of sound, was, once more the untiring quartette taking up the\nmelody, far off in the silent darkness.\n\nIt seems to me a curious little incident--this passing of four singers\nin the night; it might have seemed as if our travelers, by a kind of\nchance, were allowed to overhear the affairs of a world other than their\nown--and the more curious because Frank seems to have been so much\nabsorbed by it. Of course, from a practical point of view, it is almost\npainfully obvious what is the explanation. It must have been a quartette\nfrom the cathedral choir, returning from some festivity in the suburbs;\nand it must have happened that they followed the same route, though\nwalking on the grass, along which Frank himself had come that evening.\n\n\n(II)\n\nThe second incident is even more ordinary, and once again I must declare\nthat nothing would have induced me to incorporate it into this story had\nit not appeared, described very minutely in the sort of log-book into\nwhich Frank's diary occasionally degenerates.\n\nThey were within a very few miles of the outskirts of London, and\nDecember had succeeded November. They had had a day or two of work upon\nsome farm or other. (I have not been able to identify the place), and\nhad run into, and, indeed, exchanged remarks with two or three groups of\ntramps also London bound.\n\nThey were given temporary lodgings in a loft over a stable, by the\nfarmer for whom they worked, and this stable was situated in a court at\nthe end of the village street, with gates that stood open all day,\nsince the yard was overlooked by the windows of the farmer's\nliving-house--and, besides, there was really nothing to steal.\n\nThey had finished their work in the fields (I think it had to do with\nthe sheep and mangel-wurzels, or something of the kind); they had\nreturned to their lodgings, received their pay, packed up their\nbelongings, and had already reached the further end of the village on\ntheir way to London, when Frank discovered that he had left a pair of\nsocks behind. This would never do: socks cost money, and their absence\nmeant sore feet and weariness; so he told the Major and Gertie to walk\non slowly while he went back. He would catch them up, he said, before\nthey had gone half a mile. He hid his bundle under a hedge--every pound\nof weight made a difference at the end of a day's work--and set off.\n\nIt was just at that moment between day and night--between four and five\no'clock--as he came back into the yard. He went straight through the\nopen gates, glancing about, to explain matters to the farmer if\nnecessary, but, not seeing him, went up the rickety stairs, groped his\nway across to the window, took down his socks from the nail an which he\nhad hung them last night, and came down again.\n\nAs he came into the yard, he thought he heard something stirring within\nthe open door of the stable on his right, and thinking it to be the\nfarmer, and that an explanation would be advisable, looked in.\n\nAt first he saw nothing, though he could hear a horse moving about in\nthe loose-box in the corner. Then he saw a light shine beneath the crack\nof the second door, beside the loose-box, that led into the farm-yard\nproper; and the next instant the door opened, a man came in with a\nlantern obviously just lighted, as the flame was not yet burned up, and\nstopped with a half-frightened look on seeing Frank. But he said\nnothing.\n\nFrank himself was just on the point of giving an explanation when he,\ntoo, stopped dead and stared. It seemed to him that he had been here\nbefore, under exactly the same circumstances; he tried to remember what\nhappened next, but he could not....\n\nFor this was what he saw as the flame burned up more brightly.\n\nThe man who held the lantern and looked at him in silence with a\nhalf-deprecating air was a middle-aged man, bearded and bare-headed. He\nhad thrown over his shoulders a piece of sacking, that hung from him\nalmost like a robe. The light that he carried threw heavy wavering\nshadows about the stable, and Frank noticed the great head of a\ncart-horse in the loose-box peering through the bars, as if to inquire\nwhat the company wanted. Then, still without speaking, Frank let his\neyes rove round, and they stopped suddenly at the sight of yet one more\nliving being in the stable. Next to the loose-box was a stall, empty\nexcept for one occupant; for there, sitting on a box with her back to\nthe manger and one arm flung along it to support her weight, was the\nfigure of a girl. Her head, wrapped in an old shawl, leaned back against\nher arm, and a very white and weary face, absolutely motionless, looked\nat him. She had great eyes, with shadows beneath, and her lips were half\nopened. By her side lay a regular tramp's bundle.\n\nFrank looked at her steadily a moment, then he looked back at the man,\nwho still had not moved or spoken. The draught from the door behind blew\nin and shook the flame of his lantern, and the horse sighed long and\nloud in the shadows behind. Once more Frank glanced at the girl; she had\nlowered her arm from the manger and now sat looking at him, it seemed,\nwith a curious intentness and expectancy.\n\nThere was nothing to be said. Frank bowed a little, almost\napologetically, and went out.\n\nNow that was absolutely all that happened. Frank says so expressly in\nhis diary. He did not speak to them, nor they to him; nor was any\nexplanation given on either side. He went out across the yard in\nsilence, seeing nothing of the farmer, but hearing a piano begin to play\nbeyond the brightly lighted windows, of which he could catch a glimpse\nover the low wall separating the yard from the garden. He walked quickly\nup the village street and caught up his companions, as he had said, less\nthan half a mile further on. He said nothing to them of his\nexperience--indeed, what was there to say?--but he must have written it\ndown that same night when they reached their next lodging, and written\nit down, too, with that minuteness of detail which surprised me so much\nwhen I first read it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor the explanation of the whole thing is as foolishly obvious as was\nthat of the singing that the three had heard in the suburbs of\nPeterborough. Obviously a couple of tramps had turned into this stable\nfor shelter. Perhaps the girl was the man's daughter; perhaps his wife;\nperhaps neither. Plainly they had no right there--and that would explain\nthe embarrassed silence of the two: they knew they were trespassing, and\nfeared to be turned away. Perhaps already they had been turned away from\nthe village inn. But the girl was obviously tired out, and the man had\ndetermined to risk it.\n\nThat, then, was the whole affair--commonplace, and even a little sordid.\nAnd yet Frank thought that it was worth writing down!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n_An extract, taken by permission, from a few pages of Frank Guiseley's\ndiary. These pages were written with the encouragement of Dom Hildebrand\nMaple, O.S.B., and were sent to him later at his own request._\n\n\"... He told me a great many things that surprised me. For instance, he\nseemed to know all about certain ideas that I had had, before I told him\nof them, and said that I was not responsible, and he picked out one or\ntwo other things that I had said, and told me that these were much more\nserious....\n\n\"I went to confession to him on Friday morning, in the church. He did\nnot say a great deal then, but he asked if I would care to talk to him\nafterwards. I said I would, and went to him in the parlor after dinner.\nThe first thing that happened was that he asked me to tell him as\nplainly as I could anything that had happened to me--in my soul, I\nmean--since I had left Cambridge. So I tried to describe it.\n\n\"I said that at first things went pretty well in my soul, and that it\nwas only bodily things that troubled me--getting fearfully tired and\nstiff, being uncomfortable, the food, the sleeping, and so on. Then, as\nsoon as this wore off I met the Major and Gertie. I was rather afraid of\nsaying all that I felt about these; but he made me, and I told him how\nextraordinarily I seemed to hate them sometimes, how I felt almost sick\nnow and then when the Major talked to me and told me stories.... The\nthing that seemed to torment me most during this time was the contrast\nbetween Cambridge and Merefield and the people there, and the company of\nthis pair; and the only relief was that I knew I _could_, as a matter of\nfact, chuck them whenever I wanted and go home again. But this relief\nwas taken away from me as soon as I understood that I had to keep with\nthem, and do my best somehow to separate them. Of course, I must get\nGertie back to her people some time, and till that's done it's no good\nthinking about anything else.\n\n\"After a while, however--I think it was just before I got into trouble\nwith the police--I began to see that I was a conceited ass for hating\nthe Major so much. It was absurd for me, I said, to put on airs, when\nthe difference between him and me was just that he had been brought up\nin one way and I in another. I hated the things he did and said, not\nbecause they were wrong, but because they were what I called 'bad form.'\nThat was really the whole thing. Then I saw a lot more, and it made me\nfeel miserable. I used to think that it was rather good of me to be kind\nto animals and children, but I began to see that it was simply the way I\nwas made: it wasn't any effort to me. I simply 'saw red' when I came\nacross cruelty. And I saw that that was no good.\n\n\"Then I began to see that I had done absolutely nothing of any good\nwhatever--that nothing had _really_ cost me anything; and that the\nthings I was proud of were simply self-will--my leaving Cambridge, and\nall the rest. They were theatrical, or romantic, or egotistical; there\nwas no real sacrifice. I should have minded much more not doing them. I\nbegan to feel extraordinarily small.\n\n\"Then the whole series of things began that simply smashed me up.\n\n\"First there was the prison business. That came about in this way:\n\n\"I had just begun to see that I was all wrong with the Major--that by\ngiving way to my feelings about him (I don't mean that I ever showed it,\nbut that was only because I thought it more dignified not to!), I was\ngetting all wrong with regard to both him and myself, and that I must do\nsomething that my whole soul hated if it was to be of any use. Then\nthere came that minute in the barn, when I heard the police were after\nus, and that there was really no hope of escape. The particular thing\nthat settled me was Gertie. I knew, somehow, that I couldn't let the\nMajor go to prison while she was about. And then I saw that this was\njust the very thing to do, and that I couldn't be proud of it ever,\nbecause the whole thing was so mean and second-rate. Well, I did it, and\nit did me a lot of good somehow. I felt really rolled in the dirt, and\nthat little thing in the post-office afterwards rubbed it in. I saw how\nchock-full I must be of conceit really to mind that, as I did, and to\nshow off, and talk like a gentleman.\n\n\"Then there came the priest who refused to help me. That made me for a\ntime perfectly furious, because I had always said to myself that\nCatholics, and especially priests, would always understand. But before I\ngot to York I saw what an ass I had made of myself. Of course, the\npriest was perfectly right (I saw that before I got ten yards away,\nthough I wouldn't acknowledge it for another five miles). I was a dirty\ntramp, and I talked like a brazen fool. (I remember thinking my\n'openness' to him rather fine and manly!) Well, that made me smaller\nstill.\n\n\"Then a sort of despair came on me when the police got me turned out of\nmy work in York. I know it was only a little thing (though I still\nthink it unfair), but it was like a pebble in your boot when you're\nalready going lame from something else.\n\n\"And then came Jenny's letter. (I want to write about that rather\ncarefully.)\n\n\"I said just now that I was getting to feel smaller and smaller. That's\nperfectly true, but there was still a little hard lump in the middle\nthat would not break. Things might have gone crumbling away at me for\never, and I might have got smaller still, but they wouldn't have smashed\nme.\n\n\"Now there were two things that I held on to all this time--my religion\nand Jenny. I gave them turns, so to speak, though Jenny was never\nabsent. When everything religious tasted flat and dull and empty, I\nthought about Jenny: when things were better--when I had those two or\nthree times I told Father Hildebrand about (...)--I still thought of\nJenny, and imagined how splendid it would be when we were both Catholics\ntogether and married. But I never dreamed that Jenny would ever be angry\nor disappointed. I wouldn't talk about her to anybody ever, because I\nwas so absolutely certain of her. I knew, I thought, that the whole\nworld might crumble away, but that Jenny would always understand, down\nat the bottom, and that she and I would remain....\n\n\"Well, then came her letter.\n\n\"Honestly, I don't quite know what I was doing inside for the next week\nor so. Simply everything was altered. I never had any sort of doubt that\nshe meant what she said, and it was as if there wasn't any sun or moon\nor sky. It was like being ill. Things happened round me: I ate and drank\nand walked, but the only thing I wanted was to get away, and get down\nsomewhere into myself and hide. Religion, of course, seemed no good at\nall. I don't understand quite what people mean by 'consolations' of\nreligion. Religion doesn't seem to me a thing like Art or Music, in\nwhich you can take refuge. It either covers everything, or it isn't\nreligion. Religion never has seemed to me (I don't know if I'm wrong)\none thing, like other things, so that you can change about and back\nagain.... It's either the background and foreground all in one, or it's\na kind of game. It's either true, or it's a pretense.\n\n\"Well, all this, in a way, taught me it was absolutely true. Things\nwouldn't have held together at all unless it was true. But it was no\nsort of satisfaction. It seemed to me for a while that it was horrible\nthat it was true; that it was frightful to think that God could be like\nthat--since this Jenny-business had really happened. But I didn't feel\nall this exactly consciously at the time. I seemed as if I was ill, and\ncould only lie still and watch and be in hell. One thing, however,\nFather Hildebrand thought very important (he asked me about it\nparticularly) was that I honestly did not feel any resentment whatever\nagainst either God or Jenny. It was frightful, but it was true, and I\njust had to lie still inside and look at it. He tells me that this shows\nthat the first part of the 'process,' as he called it, was finished (he\ncalled it the 'Purgative Way'). And I must say that what happened next\nseems to fit in rather well.\n\n\"The new 'process' began quite suddenly when I awoke in the shepherd's\nhut one morning at Ripon. The instant I awoke I knew it. It was very\nearly in the morning, just before sunrise, but there was a little wood\nbehind me, and the birds were beginning to chirp.\n\n\"It's very hard to describe it in words, but the first thing to say is\nthat I was not exactly happy just then, but absolutely content. I think\nI should say that it was like this: I saw suddenly that what had been\nwrong in me was that I had made myself the center of things, and God a\nkind of circumference. When He did or allowed things, I said, 'Why does\nHe?'--_from my point of view_. That is to say, I set up my ideas of\njustice and love and so forth, and then compared His with mine, not mine\nwith His. And I suddenly saw--or, rather, I knew already when I\nawoke--that this was simply stupid. Even now I cannot imagine why I\ndidn't see it before: I had heard people say it, of course--in sermons\nand books--but I suppose it had meant nothing to me. (Father Hildebrand\ntells me that I had seen it intellectually, but had never embraced it\nwith my will.) Because when one once really sees that, there's no longer\nany puzzle about anything. One can simply never say 'Why?' again. The\nthing's finished.\n\n\"Now this 'process' (as Father H. calls it) has gone on in a most\nextraordinary manner ever since. That beginning near Ripon was like\nopening a door into another country, and I've been walking ever since\nand seeing new things. All sorts of things that I had believed as a\nCatholic--things, I mean, which I assented to simply because the Church\nsaid so, have, so to speak, come up and turned themselves inside out. I\ncouldn't write them down, because you can't write these things down, or\neven put them intelligibly to yourself. You just _see that they are so_.\nFor instance, one morning at mass--quite suddenly--I saw how the\nsubstance of the bread was changed, and how our Lord is united with the\nsoul at Communion--of course it's a mystery (that's what I mean by\nsaying that it can't be written down)--but I saw it, in a flash, and I\ncan see it still in a sort of way. Then another day when the Major was\ntalking about something or other (I think it was about the club he used\nto belong to in Piccadilly), I understood about our Lady and how she is\njust everything from one point of view. And so on. I had that kind of\nthing at Doctor Whitty's a good deal, particularly when I was getting\nbetter. I could talk to him all the time, too, or count the knobs on the\nwardrobe, or listen to the Major and Gertie in the garden--and yet go on\nall the time seeing things. I knew it wasn't any good talking to Doctor\nWhitty himself much, though I can't imagine why a man like that doesn't\nsee it all for himself....\n\n\"It seems to me most extraordinary now that I ever could have had those\nother thoughts I told Father H. about--I mean about sins, and about\nwondering whether, after all, the Church was actually true. In a sort of\nway, of course, they come back to me still, and I know perfectly well I\nmust be on my guard; but somehow it's different.\n\n\"Well, all this is what Father H. calls the 'Illuminative Way,' and I\nthink I understand what he means. It came to a sort of point on All\nSouls' Eve at the monastery. I saw the whole thing then for a moment or\ntwo, and not only Purgatory. But I will write that down later. And\nFather H. tells me that I must begin to look forward to a new\n'process'--what he calls the 'Way of Union.' I don't understand much\nwhat he means by that; I don't see that more could happen to me. I am\nabsolutely and entirely happy; though I must say that there has seemed a\nsort of lull for the last day or two--ever since All Souls' Day, in\nfact. Perhaps something is going to happen. It's all right, anyhow. It\nseems very odd to me that all this kind of thing is perfectly well known\nto priests. I thought I was the first person who had ever felt quite\nlike this.\n\n\"I must add one thing. Father H. asked me whether I didn't feel I had a\nvocation to the Religious Life; he told me that from everything he could\nsee, I had, and that my coming to the monastery was simply providential.\n\n\"Well, I don't agree, and I have told him so. I haven't the least idea\nwhat is going to happen next; but I know, absolutely for certain, that I\nhave got to go on with the Major and Gertie to East London. Gertie will\nhave to be got away from the Major somehow, and until that is done I\nmustn't do anything else.\n\n\"I have written all this down as plainly as I can, because I promised\nFather H. I would.\"\n\n\n\n\nPART III\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nMrs. Partington was standing at the door of her house towards sunset,\nwaiting for the children to come back from school.\n\nHer house is situated in perhaps the least agreeable street--Turner\nRoad--in perhaps the least agreeable district of East London--Hackney\nWick. It is a disagreeable district because it isn't anything in\nparticular. It has neither the tragic gayety of Whitechapel nor the\ncomparative refinement of Clapton. It is a large, triangular piece of\nland, containing perhaps a square mile altogether, or rather more,\napproached from the south by the archway of the Great Eastern Railway,\ndefined on one side by the line, and along its other two sides, partly\nby the river Lea--a grimy, depressed-looking stream--and partly by the\nHackney Marshes--flat, dreary wastes of grass-grown land, useless as\nbuilding ground and of value only for Saturday afternoon recreations of\nrabbit coursing and football. The dismalness of the place is beyond\ndescription at all times of the year. In winter it is bleak and chilly;\nin summer it is hot, fly-infested, and hideously and ironically\nreminiscent of real fields and real grass. The population is calculated\nto change completely about every three years, and I'm sure I am not\nsurprised. It possesses two important blocks of buildings besides the\nschools--a large jam factory and the church and clergy-house of the Eton\nMission.\n\nTurner Road is perhaps the most hopeless of all the dozen and a half of\nstreets. (It is marked black, by the way, in Mr. Booth's instructive\nmap.) It is about a quarter of a mile long and perfectly straight. It is\nintersected at one point by another street, and is composed of tall dark\nhouses, with flat fronts, perhaps six or seven stories in height. It is\ngenerally fairly silent and empty, and is inhabited by the most\ncharacteristic members of the Hackney Wick community--quiet, white-faced\nmen, lean women, draggled and sharp-tongued, and countless\nover-intelligent children--all of the class that seldom remain long\nanywhere--all of the material out of which the real criminal is\ndeveloped. No booths or stalls ever stand here; only, on Saturday\nnights, there is echoed here, as in a stone-lined pit, the cries and the\nwheel-noises from the busy thoroughfare a hundred yards away round the\ncorner. The road, as a whole, bears an aspect of desperate and fierce\ndignity; there is never here the glimpse of a garden or of flowers, as\nin Mortimer Road, a stone's throw away. There is nothing whatever except\nthe tall, flat houses, the pavements, the lampposts, the grimy\nthoroughfare and the silence. The sensation of the visitor is that\nanything might happen here, and that no one would be the wiser. There is\nan air of horrible discretion about these houses.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMrs. Partington was--indeed is (for I went to see her not two months\nago)--of a perfectly defined type. She must have been a handsome factory\ngirl--dark, slender, and perfectly able to take care of herself, with\nthin, muscular arms, generally visible up to the elbow, hard hands, a\nquantity of rather untidy hair--with the tongue of a venomous orator and\nany amount of very inferior sentiment, patriotic and domestic. She has\nbecome a lean, middle-aged woman, very upright and very strong, without\nany sentiment at all, but with a great deal of very practical human\nexperience to take its place. She has no illusions about either this\nworld or the next; she has borne nine children, of which three survive;\nand her husband is almost uninterruptedly out of work. However, they are\nprosperous (for Turner Road), and have managed, so far, to keep their\nhome together.\n\nThe sunset was framed in a glow of smoky glory at the end of the street\ndown which Mrs. Partington was staring, resembling a rather angry\nsearch-light turned on from the gates of heaven. The street was still\nquiet; but already from the direction of the Board-school came thin and\nshrill cries as the swarm of children exploded in all directions. Mrs.\nPartington (she would have said) was waiting for her children--Jimmy,\nMaggie and 'Erb--and there were lying within upon the bare table three\nthick slices of bread and black jam; as a matter of fact, she was\nlooking out for her lodgers, who should have arrived by midday.\n\nThen she became aware that they were coming, even as she looked,\nadvancing down the empty street _en echelon_. Two of them she knew well\nenough--they had lodged with her before; but the third was to be a\nstranger, and she was already interested in him--the Major had hinted at\nwonderful mysteries....\n\nSo she shaded her eyes against the cold glare and watched them\ncarefully, with that same firm, resolute face with which she always\nlooked out upon the world; and even as, presently, she exchanged that\nquick, silent nod of recognition with the Major and Gertie, still she\nwatched the brown-faced, shabby young man who came last, carrying his\nbundle and walking a little lame.\n\n\"You're after your time,\" she said abruptly.\n\nThe Major began his explanations, but she cut them short and led the way\ninto the house.\n\n\n(II)\n\nI find it very difficult to record accurately the impression that Frank\nmade upon Mrs. Partington; but that the impression was deep and definite\nbecame perfectly clear to me from her conversation. He hardly spoke at\nall, she said, and before he got work at the jam factory he went out for\nlong, lonely walks across the marshes. He and the Major slept together,\nit seemed, in one room, and Gertie, temporarily with the children and\nMrs. Partington in another. (Mr. Partington, at this time, happened to\nbe away on one of his long absences.) At meals Frank was always quiet\nand well-behaved, yet not ostentatiously. Mrs. Partington found no fault\nwith him in that way. He would talk to the children a little before they\nwent to school, and would meet them sometimes on their way back from\nschool; and all three of them conceived for him an immense and\nindescribable adoration. All this, however, would be too long to set\ndown in detail.\n\nIt seems to have been a certain air of pathos which Mrs. Partington\nherself cast around him, which affected her the most, and I imagine her\nfeeling to have been largely motherly. There was, however, another\nelement very obviously visible, which, in anyone but Mrs. Partington, I\nshould call reverence.... She told me that she could not imagine why he\nwas traveling with the Major and Gertie, so she at least understood\nsomething of the gulf between them.\n\nSo the first week crept by, bringing us up to the middle of December.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was on the Friday night that Frank came back with the announcement\nthat he was to go to work at the jam factory on Monday. There was a\ngreat pressure, of course, owing to the approach of Christmas, and Frank\nwas to be given joint charge of a van. The work would last, it seemed,\nat any rate, for a week or two.\n\n\"You'll have to mind your language,\" said the Major jocosely. (He was\nsitting in the room where the cooking was done and where, by the way,\nthe entire party, with the exception of the two men, slept; and, at this\nmoment, had his feet on the low mantelshelf between the saucepan and\nJimmy's cap.)\n\n\"Eh?\" said Frank.\n\n\"No language allowed there,\" said the Major. \"They're damn particular.\"\n\nFrank put his cap down and took his seat on the bed.\n\n\"Where's Gertie?\" he asked. (\"Yes, come on, Jimmie.\")\n\nJimmie crept up beside him, looking at him with big black, reverential\neyes. Then he leaned against him with a quick smile and closed his eyes\necstatically. Frank put an arm round the boy to support him.\n\n\"Oh! Gertie's gone to see a friend,\" said the Major. \"Did you want her?\"\n\nFrank said nothing, and Mrs. Partington looked from one to the other\nswiftly.\n\nMrs. Partington had gathered a little food for thought during the last\nfew days. It had become perfectly evident to her that the girl was very\nmuch in love with this young man, and that while this young man either\nwas, or affected to be, ignorant of it, the Major was not. Gertie had\nodd silences when Frank came into the room, or yet more odd\nvolubilities, and Mrs. Partington was not quite sure of the Major's\nattitude. This officer and her husband had had dealings together in the\npast of a nature which I could not quite determine (indeed, the figure\nof Mr. Partington is still a complete mystery to me, and rather a\nformidable mystery); and I gather that Mrs. Partington had learned from\nher husband that the Major was not simply negligible. She knew him for a\nblackguard, but she seems to have been uncertain of what kind was this\nblack-guardism--whether of the strong or the weak variety. She was just\na little uncomfortable, therefore, as to the significance of Gertie; and\nhad already wondered more than once whether or no she should say a\nmotherly word to the young man.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere came a sound of footsteps up the street as Mrs. Partington ironed\na collar of Jimmie's on the dining-room table, and laid down the iron as\na tap fell on the door. The Major took out his pipe and began to fill it\nas she went out to see who was knocking.\n\n\"Oh! good evening, Mrs. Partington,\" sounded in a clear, high-bred voice\nfrom the street door. \"May I come in for a minute or two? I heard you\nhad lodgers, and I thought perhaps--\"\n\n\"Well, sir, we're rather upside-down just now--and--\"\n\n\"Oh! I won't disturb you more than a minute,\" came the other voice\nagain. There were footsteps in the passage, and the next instant, past\nthe unwilling hostess, there came a young, fresh-colored clergyman,\ncarrying a silk hat, into the lamplight of the kitchen. Frank stood up\ninstantly, and the Major went so far as to take down his feet. Then he,\ntoo, stood up.\n\n\"Good evening!\" said the clergyman. \"May I just come in for a minute or\ntwo? I heard you had come, and as it's in my district--May I sit down,\nMrs. Partington?\"\n\nMrs. Partington with sternly knit lips, swept a brown teapot, a\nstocking, a comb, a cup and a crumby plate off the single unoccupied\nchair, and set it a little forward near the fire. Clergymen were, to her\nmind, one of those mysterious dispensations of the world for which there\nwas no adequate explanation at all--like policemen and men's gamblings\nand horse-races. There they were, and there was no more to be said. They\nwere mildly useful for entertaining the children and taking them to\nSouthend, and in cases of absolute despair they could be relied upon for\nsoup-tickets or even half-crowns; but the big mysterious church, with\nits gilded screen, its curious dark glass, and its white little\nside-chapel, with the Morris hangings, the great clergy-house, the\nladies, the parish magazine and all the rest of it--these were simply\ninexplicable. Above all inexplicable was the passion displayed for\ndistrict-visiting--that strange impulse that drove four\nhighly-cultivated young men in black frock-coats and high hats and\nridiculous little collars during five afternoons in the week to knock at\ndoor after door all over the district and conduct well-mannered\nconversations with bored but polite mothers of families. It was one of\nthe phenomena that had to be accepted. She supposed it stood for\nsomething beyond her perceptions.\n\n\"I thought I must come in and make your acquaintance,\" said the\nclergyman, nursing his hat and smiling at the company. (He, too,\noccasionally shared Mrs. Partington's wonder as to the object of all\nthis; but he, too, submitted to it as part of the system.) \"People come\nand go so quickly, you know--\"\n\n\"Very pleased to see a clergyman,\" said the Major smoothly. \"No\nobjection to smoke, sir, I presume?\" He indicated his pipe.\n\n\"Not at all,\" said the clergyman. \"In fact, I smoke myself; and if Mrs.\nPartington will allow me--\" He produced a small pink and gilded packet\nof Cinderellas. (I think he thought it brought him vaguely nearer the\npeople to smoke Cinderellas.)\n\n\"Oh! no objection at all, sir,\" put in Mrs. Partington, still a little\ngrimly. (She was still secretly resenting being called upon at half-past\nsix. You were usually considered immune from this kind of thing after\nfive o'clock.)\n\n\"So I thought I must just look in and catch you one evening,\" explained\nthe clergyman once more, \"and tell you that we're your friends here--the\nclergy, you know--and about the church and all that.\"\n\nHe was an extremely conscientious young man--this Mr. Parham-Carter--an\nold Etonian, of course, and now in his first curacy. It was all pretty\nbewildering to him, too, this great and splendid establishment, the\nglorious church by Bodley, with the Magnificat in Gothic lettering below\nthe roof, the well-built and furnished clergy-house, the ladies' house,\nthe zeal, the self-devotion, the parochial machinery, the Band of\nHope, the men's and boys' clubs, and, above all, the furious\ndistrict-visiting. Of course, it produced results, it kept up the\nstandards of decency and civilization and ideals; it was a weight in the\nbalances on the side of right and good living; the clubs kept men from\nthe public-house to some extent, and made it possible for boys to grow\nup with some chance on their side. Yet he wondered, in fits of\ndespondency, whether there were not something wrong somewhere.... But he\naccepted it: it was the approved method, and he himself was a learner,\nnot a teacher.\n\n\"Very kind of you, sir,\" said the Major, replacing his feet on the\nmantelshelf. \"And at what time are the services on Sunday?\"\n\nThe clergyman jumped. He was not accustomed to that sort of question.\n\n\"I ...\" he began.\n\n\"I'm a strong Churchman, sir,\" said the Major. \"And even if I were not,\none must set an example, you know. I may be narrow-minded, but I'm\nparticular about all that sort of thing. I shall be with you on Sunday.\"\n\nHe nodded reassuringly at Mr. Parham-Carter.\n\n\"Well, we have morning prayer at ten-thirty next Sunday, and the Holy\nEucharist at eleven--and, of course, at eight.\"\n\n\"No vestments, I hope?\" said the Major sternly.\n\nMr. Parham-Carter faltered a little. Vestments were not in use, but to\nhis regret.\n\n\"Well, we don't use vestments,\" he said, \"but--\"\n\nThe Major resumed his pipe with a satisfied air.\n\n\"That's all right,\" he said. \"Now, I'm not bigoted--my friend here's a\nRoman Catholic, but--\"\n\nThe clergyman looked up sharply, and for the first time became\nconsciously conscious of the second man. Frank had sat back again on the\nbed, with Jimmie beside him, and was watching the little scene quietly\nand silently, and the clergyman met his eyes full. Some vague shock\nthrilled through him; Frank's clean-shaven brown face seemed somehow\nfamiliar--or was it something else?\n\nMr. Parham-Carter considered the point for a little while in silence,\nonly half attending to the Major, who was now announcing his views on\nthe Establishment and the Reformation settlement. Frank said nothing at\nall, and there grew on the clergyman a desire to hear his voice. He\nmade an opportunity at last.\n\n\"Yes, I see,\" he said to the Major; \"and you--I don't know your name?\"\n\n\"Gregory, sir,\" said Frank. And again a little shock thrilled Mr.\nParham-Carter. The voice was the kind of thing he had expected from that\nface.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was about ten minutes later, that the clergyman thought it was time\nto go. He had the Major's positive promise to attend at least the\nevening service on the following Sunday--a promise he did not somehow\nvery much appreciate--but he had made no progress with Frank. He shook\nhands all round very carefully, told Jimmie not to miss Sunday-school,\nand publicly commended Maggie for a recitation she had accomplished at\nthe Band of Hope on the previous evening; and then went out, accompanied\nby Mrs. Partington, still silent, as far as the door. But as he actually\nwent out, someone pushed by the woman and came out into the street.\n\n\"May I speak to you a minute?\" said the strange young man, dropping the\n\"sir.\" \"I'll walk with you as far as the clergy-house if you'll let me.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen they were out of earshot of the house Frank began.\n\n\"You're Parham-Carter, aren't you?\" he said. \"Of Hales'.\"\n\nThe other nodded. (Things were beginning to resolve themselves in his\nmind.)\n\n\"Well, will you give me your word not to tell a soul I'm here, and I'll\ntell you who I am? You've forgotten me, I see. But I'm afraid you may\nremember. D'you see?\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"I'm Guiseley, of Drew's. We were in the same division once--up to\nRawlins. Do you remember?\"\n\n\"Good Lord! But--\"\n\n\"Yes, I know. But don't let's go into that. I've not done anything I\nshouldn't. That's not the reason I'm like this. It's just turned out so.\nAnd there's something else I want to talk to you about. When can I come\nand see you privately? I'm going to begin work to-morrow at the jam\nfactory.\"\n\nThe other man clutched at his whirling faculties.\n\n\"To-night--at ten. Will that do?\"\n\n\"All right. What am I to say--when I ring the bell, I mean?\"\n\n\"Just ask for me. They'll show you straight up to my room.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Frank, and was gone.\n\n\n(III)\n\nMr. Parham-Carter's room in the clergy-house was of the regular\ntype--very comfortable and pleasing to the eye, as it ought to be for a\nyoung man working under such circumstances; not really luxurious; pious\nand virile. The walls were a rosy distemper, very warm and sweet, and\nupon them, above the low oak book-cases, hung school and college groups,\ndiscreet sporting engravings, a glorious cathedral interior, and the\nSistine Madonna over the mantelpiece. An oar hung all along one ceiling,\npainted on the blade with the arms of an Oxford college. There was a\nsmall _prie-dieu_, surmounted by a crucifix of Ober-Ammergau\nworkmanship: there was a mahogany writing-table with a revolving chair\nset before it; there were a couple of deep padded arm-chairs, a\npipe-rack, and a row of photographs--his mother in evening dress, a\ncouple of sisters, with other well-bred-looking relations. Altogether,\nwith the curtains drawn and the fire blazing, it was exactly the kind of\nroom that such a wholesome young man ought to have in the East of\nLondon.\n\nFrank was standing on the hearth-rug as Mr. Parham-Carter came in a\nminute or two after ten o'clock, bearing a small tray with a covered\njug, two cups and a plate of cake.\n\n\"Good-evening again,\" said the clergyman. \"Have some cocoa? I generally\nbring mine up here.... Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.\"\n\nFrank said nothing. He sat down. He put his cap on the floor by his\nchair and leaned back. The other, with rather nervous movements, set a\nsteaming cup by his side, and a small silver box of cigarettes, matches\nand an ash-tray. Then he sat down himself, took a long pull at his\ncocoa, and waited with a certain apprehensiveness.\n\n\"Who else is here?\" asked Frank abruptly.\n\nThe other ran through the three names, with a short biography of each.\nFrank nodded, reassured at the end.\n\n\"That's all right,\" he said. \"All before my time, I expect. They might\ncome in, you know.\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said the clergyman. \"I told them not, and--\"\n\n\"Well, let's come to business,\" said Frank. \"It's about a girl. You saw\nthat man to-day? You saw his sort, did you? Well, he's a bad hat. And\nhe's got a girl going about with him who isn't his wife. I want to get\nher home again to her people.\"\n\n\"Yes?\"\n\n\"Can you do anything? (Don't say you can if you can't, please....) She\ncomes from Chiswick. I'll give you her address before I go. But I don't\nwant it muddled, you know.\"\n\nThe clergyman swallowed in his throat. He had only been ordained\neighteen months, and the extreme abruptness and reality of the situation\ntook him a little aback.\n\n\"I can try,\" he said. \"And I can put the ladies on to her. But, of\ncourse, I can't undertake--\"\n\n\"Of course. But do you think there's a reasonable chance? If not, I'd\nbetter have another try myself.\"\n\n\"Have you tried, then?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, half a dozen times. A fortnight ago was the last, and I really\nthought--\"\n\n\"But I don't understand. Are these people your friends, or what?\"\n\n\"I've been traveling with them off and on since June. They belong to\nyou, so far as they belong to anyone. I'm a Catholic, you know--\"\n\n\"Really? But--\"\n\n\"Convert. Last June. Don't let's argue, my dear chap. There isn't time.\"\n\nMr. Parham-Carter drew a breath.\n\nThere is no other phrase so adequate for describing his condition of\nmind as the old one concerning head and heels. There had rushed on him,\nnot out of the blue, but, what was even more surprising, out of the very\ndingy sky of Hackney Wick (and Turner Road, at that!), this astonishing\nyoung man, keen-eyed, brown-faced, muscular, who had turned out to be a\nschool-fellow of his own, and a school-fellow whose reputation, during\nthe three hours since they had parted, he had swiftly remembered point\nby point--Guiseley of Drew's--the boy who had thrown off his coat in\nearly school and displayed himself shirtless; who had stolen four out of\nthe six birches on a certain winter morning, and had conversed affably\nwith the Head in school yard with the ends of the birches sticking out\nbelow the skirts of his overcoat; who had been discovered on the fourth\nof June, with an air of reverential innocence, dressing the bronze\nstatue of King Henry VI. in a surplice in honor of the day. And now here\nhe was, and from his dress and the situation of his lodging-house to be\nreckoned among the worst of the loafing class, and yet talking, with an\nair of complete confidence and equality of a disreputable young\nwoman--his companion--who was to be rescued from a yet more disreputable\ncompanion and restored to her parents in Chiswick.\n\nAnd this was not all--for, as Mr. Parham-Carter informed me\nhimself--there was being impressed upon him during this interview a very\ncurious sensation, which he was hardly able, even after consideration,\nto put into words--a sensation concerning the personality and presence\nof this young man which he could only describe as making him feel\n\"beastly queer.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt seems to have been about this point that he first perceived it\nclearly--distinguished it, that is to say, from the whole atmosphere of\nstartling and suggesting mystery that surrounded him.\n\nHe looked at Frank in silence a moment or two....\n\nThere Guiseley sat--leaning back in the red leather chair, his cocoa\nstill untouched. He was in a villainous suit that once, probably, had\nbeen dark blue. The jacket was buttoned up to his chin, and a grimy\nmuffler surrounded his neck. His trousers were a great deal too short,\nand disclosed above a yellow sock, on the leg nearest to him, about four\ninches of dark-looking skin. His boots were heavy, patched, and entirely\nuncleaned, and the upper toe-cap of one of them gaped from the leather\nover the instep. His hands were deep in his pockets, as if even in this\nwarm room, he felt the cold.\n\nThere was nothing remarkable there. It was the kind of figure presented\nby unsatisfactory candidates for the men's club. And yet there was about\nhim this air, arresting and rather disconcerting....\n\nIt was a sort of electric serenity, if I understand Mr. Parham-Carter\naright--a zone of perfectly still energy, like warmth or biting cold, as\nof a charged force: it was like a real person standing motionless in\nthe middle of a picture. (Mr. Parham-Carter did not, of course, use such\nbeautiful similes as these; he employed the kind of language customary\nto men who have received a public school and university education, half\nslang and half childishness; but he waved his hands at me and distorted\nhis features, and conveyed, on the whole, the kind of impression I have\njust attempted to set down.)\n\nFrank, then, seemed as much out of place in this perfectly correct and\nsuitable little room as an Indian prince in Buckingham Palace; or, if\nyou prefer it, an English nobleman (with spats) in Delhi. He was just\nentirely different from it all; he had nothing whatever to do with it;\nhe was wholly out of place, not exactly as regarded his manner (for he\nwas quite at his ease), but with regard to his significance. He was as a\nforeign symbol in a familiar language.\n\nIts effect upon Mr. Parham-Carter was quite clear and strong. He\ninstanced to me the fact that he said nothing to Frank about his soul:\nhe honestly confessed that he scarcely even wished to press him to come\nto Evensong on Sunday. Of course, he did not like Frank's being a Roman\nCatholic; and his whole intellectual being informed him that it was\nbecause Frank had never really known the Church of England that he had\nleft it. (Mr. Parham-Carter had himself learned the real nature of the\nChurch of England at the Pusey House at Oxford.) But there are certain\natmospheres in which the intellectual convictions are not very\nimportant, and this was one of them. So here the two young men sat and\nstared at one another, or, rather, Mr. Parham-Carter stared at Frank,\nand Frank looked at nothing in particular.\n\n\"You haven't drunk your cocoa,\" said the clergyman suddenly.\n\nFrank turned abruptly, took up the cup and drank the contents straight\noff at one draught.\n\n\"And a cigarette?\"\n\nFrank took up a cigarette and put in his mouth.\n\n\"By the way,\" he said, taking it out again, \"when'll you send your\nladies round? The morning's best, when the rest of us are out of the\nway.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't think there's anything else?\"\n\n\"My dear chap,\" said the other, \"I wish you'd tell me what it's all\nabout--why you're in this sort of life, you know. I don't want to pry,\nbut--\"\n\nFrank smiled suddenly and vividly.\n\n\"Oh, there's nothing to say. That's not the point. It's by my own choice\npractically. I assure you I haven't disgraced anybody.\"\n\n\"But your people--\"\n\n\"Oh! they're all right. There's nothing the matter with them.... Look\nhere! I really must be going.\"\n\nHe stood up, and something seemed to snap in the atmosphere as he did\nso.\n\n\"Besides, I've got to be at work early--\"\n\n\"I say, what did you do then?\"\n\n\"Do then? What do you mean?\"\n\n\"When you stood up--Did you say anything?...\"\n\nFrank looked at him bewildered.\n\n\"I don't know what you're talking about.\"\n\nMr. Parham-Carter did not quite know what he had meant himself. It was a\nsensation come and gone, in an instant, as Frank had moved ... a\nsensation which I suppose some people would call \"psychical\"--a\nsensation as if a shock had vibrated for one moment through every part\nof his own being, and of the pleasant little warm room where he was\nsitting. He looked at the other, dazed for a second or two, but there\nwas nothing. Those two steady black eyes looked at him in a humorous\nkind of concern....\n\nHe stood up himself.\n\n\"It was nothing,\" he said. \"I think I must be getting sleepy.\"\n\nHe put out his hand.\n\n\"Good-night,\" he said. \"Oh! I'll come and see you as far as the gate.\"\n\nFrank looked at him a second.\n\n\"I say,\" he said; \"I suppose you've never thought of becoming a\nCatholic?\"\n\n\"My dear chap--\"\n\n\"No! Well, all right.... oh! don't bother to come to the gate.\"\n\n\"I'm coming. It may be locked.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMr. Parham-Carter stood looking after Frank's figure even after it had\npassed along the dark shop fronts and was turning the corner towards\nTurner Road. Then it went under the lamplight, and disappeared.\n\nIt was a drizzling, cold night, and he himself was bareheaded; he felt\nthe moisture run down his forehead, but it didn't seem to be happening\nto him. On his right rose up the big parish-hall where the\nentertainments were held, and beyond it, the east end of the great\nchurch, dark now and tenantless; and he felt the wet woodwork of the\ngate grasped in his fingers.\n\nHe did not quite know what was happening to him but everything seemed\ndifferent. A hundred thoughts had passed through his mind during the\nlast half hour. It had occurred to him that he ought to have asked\nGuiseley to come to the clergy-house and lodge there for a bit while\nthings were talked over; that he ought, tactfully, to have offered to\nlend him money, to provide him with a new suit, to make suggestions as\nto proper employment instead of at the jam factory--all those proper,\nphilanthropic and prudent suggestions that a really sensible clergyman\nwould have made. And yet, somehow, not only had he not made them, but it\nwas obvious and evident when he regarded them that they could not\npossibly be made. Guiseley (of Drew's) did not require them, he was on\nanother line altogether.... And what was that line?\n\nMr. Parham-Carter leaned on the gate a full five minutes considering all\nthis. But he arrived at no conclusion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n(I)\n\nThe Rector of Merefield was returning from a short pastoral visitation\ntowards the close of an afternoon at the beginning of November. His\nmethod and aims were very characteristic of himself, since he was one of\nthat numerous class of persons who, interiorly possessing their full\nshare of proper pride, wear exteriorly an appearance of extreme and\nalmost timid humility. The aims of his visiting were, though he was\nquite unaware of the fact, directed towards encouraging people to hold\nfast to their proper position in life (for this, after all, is only\nanother name for one's duty towards one's neighbor), and his method was\nto engage in general conversation on local topics. There emerged, in\nthis way, information as to the patient's habits and actions; it would\nthus transpire, for example, whether the patient had been to church or\nnot, whether there were any quarrels, and, if so, who were the\ncombatants and for what cause.\n\nHe had been fairly satisfied to-day; he had met with good excuses for\nthe absence of two children from day-school, and of a young man from\nchoir-practice; he had read a little Scripture to an old man, and had\nbeen edified by his comments upon it. It was not particularly\nsupernatural, but, after all, the natural has its place, too, in life,\nand he had undoubtedly fulfilled to-day some of the duties for whose\nsake he occupied the position of Rector of Merefield, in a completely\ninoffensive manner. The things he hated most in the world were\ndisturbances of any kind, abruptness and the unexpected, and he had a\nstrong reputation in the village for being a man of peace.\n\nIt sounds a hard thing to say of so conscientious a man, but a properly\npreserved social order was perhaps to his mind the nearest approach to\nthe establishment of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. Each person held\nhis proper position, including himself, and he no more expected others\nto be untrue to their station than he wished to be untrue to his own.\nThere were, of course, two main divisions--those of gentle birth and\nthose not of gentle birth, and these were as distinct as the sexes. But\nthere were endless gradations in each respectively, and he himself\nregarded those with as much respect as those of the angelic hierarchy:\nthe \"Dominations\" might, or might not be as \"good\" as the \"Powers,\" but\nthey were certainly different, by Divine decree. It would be a species\nof human blasphemy, therefore, for himself not to stand up in Lord\nTalgarth's presence, or for a laborer not to touch his hat to Miss\nJenny. This is sometimes called snobbishness, but it is nothing of the\nkind. It is merely a marked form of Toryism.\n\nIt was a pleasant autumnal kind of afternoon, and he took off his hat as\nhe turned up past the park gates to feel the cool air, as he was a\nlittle heated with his walk. He felt exceedingly content with all\nthings: there were no troubles in the parish, he enjoyed excellent\nhealth, and he had just done his duty. He disliked pastoral visiting\nvery deeply indeed; he was essentially a timid kind of man, but he made\nhis rules and kept them, for he was essentially a conscientious man. He\nwas so conscientious that he was probably quite unaware that he disliked\nthis particular duty.\n\nJust as he came opposite the gates--great iron-work affairs with ramping\neagles and a Gothic lodge smothered in ivy--the man ran out and began to\nwheel them back, after a hasty salute to his pastor; and the Rector,\nturning, saw a sight that increased his complacency. It was just Jenny\nriding with Lord Talgarth, as he knew she was doing that afternoon.\n\nThey made a handsome, courtly kind of pair--a sort of \"father and\ndaughter\" after some romantic artist or other. Lord Talgarth's heavy\nfigure looked well-proportioned on horseback, and he sat his big black\nmare very tolerably indeed. And Jenny looked delicious on the white\nmare, herself in dark green. A groom followed twenty yards behind.\n\nLord Talgarth's big face nodded genially to the Rector and he made a\nkind of salute; he seemed in excellent dispositions; Jenny was a little\nflushed with exercise, and smiled at her father with a quiet, friendly\ndignity.\n\n\"Just taking her ladyship home,\" said the old man.... \"Yes; charming\nday, isn't it?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Rector followed them, pleased at heart. Usually Jenny rode home\nalone with the groom to take back her mare to the stables. It was the\nfirst time, so far as he could remember, that Lord Talgarth had taken\nthe trouble to escort her all the way home himself. It really was very\npleasant indeed, and very creditable to Jenny's tact, that relations\nwere so cordial.... And they were dining there to-morrow, too. The\nsocial order of Merefield seemed to be in an exceedingly sound\ncondition.\n\n\n(II)\n\nLord Talgarth, too, seemed to the lodge-keeper, as ten minutes later the\ngates rolled back again to welcome their lord, in an unusually genial\ntemper (and, indeed, there was always about this old man as great a\ncapacity for geniality on one side as for temper on the other; it is\nusually so with explosive characters). He even checked his horse and\nasked after \"the missus\" in so many words; although two days before a\nviolent message had come down to complain of laxity in the gate-opening,\nowing to the missus' indisposition on an occasion when the official\nhimself had been digging cabbages behind the Gothic lodge and the hoot\nof the motor had not been heard.\n\nThe missus, it seemed, was up and about again (indeed her husband caught\na glimpse out of the tail of his eye of a pale face that glanced and\nwithdrew again apprehensively above the muslin curtain beyond his\nlordship).\n\n\"That's all right,\" remarked Lord Talgarth heartily, and rode on.\n\nThe lodge-keeper exchanged a solemn wink with the groom half a minute\nlater, and stood to watch the heavy figure ahead plunging about rather\nin the saddle as the big black mare set her feet upon the turf and\nviewed her stable afar off.\n\nIt was a fact that Lord Talgarth was pleased with himself and all the\nworld to-day, for he kept it up even with the footman who slipped, and\nall but lost his balance, as he brought tea into the library.\n\n\"Hold up!\" remarked the nobleman.\n\nThe footman smiled gently and weakly, after the manner of a dependent,\nand related the incident with caustic gusto to his fellows in the\npantry.\n\nAfter tea Lord Talgarth lay back in his chair and appeared to meditate,\nas was observed by the man who fetched out the tea-things and poked the\nfire; and he was still meditating, though now there was the aromatic\nsmell of tobacco upon the air, when his own man came to tell him that it\nwas time to dress.\n\nIt was indeed a perfect room for arm-chair meditations; there were tall\nbook-shelves, mahogany writing-tables, each with its shaded electric\nlamp; the carpet was as deep as a summer lawn; and in the wide hearth\nlogs consumed themselves in an almost deferential silence. There was\nevery conceivable thing that could be wanted laid in its proper place.\nIt was the kind of room in which it would seem that no scheme could\nmiscarry and every wish must prevail; the objective physical world\ngrouped itself so obediently to the human will that it was almost\nimpossible to imagine a state of things in which it did not so. The\ngreat house was admirably ordered; there was no sound that there should\nnot be--no hitches, no gaps or cracks anywhere; it moved like a\nwell-oiled machine; the gong, sounded in the great hall, issued\ninvitations rather than commands. All was leisurely, perfectly adapted\nand irreproachable.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is always more difficult for people who live in such houses as these\nto behave well under adverse fortune than for those who live in houses\nwhere the Irish stew can be smelled at eleven o'clock in the morning,\nand where the doors do not shut properly, and the kitchen range goes\nwrong. Possibly something of this fact helped to explain the owner's\nextreme violence of temper on the occasion of his son's revolt. It was\nintolerable for a man all of whose other surroundings moved like\nclockwork, obedient to his whims, to be disobeyed flatly by one whose\nobedience should be his first duty--to find disorder and rebellion in\nthe very mainspring of the whole machine.\n\nPossibly, too, the little scheme that was maturing in Lord Talgarth's\nmind between tea and dinner that evening helped to restore his\ngeniality; for, as soon as the thought was conceived, it became obvious\nthat it could be carried through with success.\n\nHe observed: \"Aha! it's time, is it?\" to his man in a hearty kind of\nway, and hoisted himself out of his chair with unusual briskness.\n\n\n(III)\n\nHe spent a long evening again in the library alone. Archie was away; and\nafter dining alone with all the usual state, the old man commanded that\ncoffee should be brought after him. The butler found him, five minutes\nlater, kneeling before a tall case of drawers, trying various keys off\nhis bunch, and when the man came to bring in whisky and clear away the\ncoffee things he was in his deep chair, a table on either side of him\npiled with papers, and a drawer upon his knees.\n\n\"You can put this lot back,\" he remarked to the young footman,\nindicating a little pile of four drawers on the hearth-rug. He watched\nthe man meditatively as he attempted to fit them into their places.\n\n\"Not that way, you fool! Haven't you got eyes?... The top one at the\ntop!\"\n\nBut he said it without bitterness--almost contemplatively. And, as the\nbutler glanced round a moment or two later to see that all was in order,\nhe saw his master once more beginning to read papers.\n\n\"Good-night,\" said Lord Talgarth.\n\n\"Good-night, my lord,\" said the butler.\n\nThere was a good deal of discussion that night in the men's wing as to\nthe meaning of all this, and it was conducted with complete frankness.\nMr. Merton, the butler, had retired to his own house in the stable-yard,\nand Mr. Clarkson, the valet, was in his lordship's dressing-room; so the\nmen talked freely. It was agreed that only two explanations were\npossible for the unusual sweetness of temper: either Mr. Frank was to be\nreinstated, or his father was beginning to break up. Frank was extremely\npopular with servants always; and it was generally hoped that the former\nexplanation was the true one. Possibly, however, both were required.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMr. Clarkson too was greatly _intrigue_ that night. He yawned about the\ndressing-room till an unusually late hour, for Lord Talgarth generally\nretired to rest between ten and half-past. To-night, however, it was\ntwenty minutes to twelve before the man stood up suddenly from the sofa\nat the sound of a vibration in the passage outside. The old man came in\nbriskly, bearing a bundle of papers in one hand and a bed-candle in the\nother, with the same twinkle of good temper in his eyes that he had\ncarried all the evening.\n\n\"Give me the dispatch-box under the sofa,\" he said; \"the one in the\nleather case.\"\n\nThis was done and the papers were laid in it, carefully, on the top.\nMr. Clarkson noticed that they had a legal appearance, were long-shaped\nand inscribed in stiff lettering. Then the dispatch-box was reclosed and\nset on the writing-table which my lord used sometimes when he was\nunwell.\n\n\"Remind me to send for Mr. Manners to-morrow,\" he said. (This was the\nsolicitor.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nGetting ready for bed that evening was almost of a sensational nature,\nand Mr. Clarkson had to keep all his wits about him to respond with\nsufficient agility to the sallies of his master. Usually it was all a\nvery somber ceremony, with a good deal of groaning and snarling in\nasides. But to-night it was as cheerful as possible.\n\nThe mysteries of it all are too great for me to attempt to pierce them;\nbut it is really incredible what a number of processes are necessary\nbefore an oldish man, who is something of a buck and something of an\ninvalid, and altogether self-centered, is able to lay him down to rest.\nThere are strange doses to be prepared and drunk, strange manipulations\nto be performed and very particular little ceremonies to be observed,\neach in its proper place. Each to-night was accompanied by some genial\ncomment: the senna-pod distillation, that had been soaking since seven\np.m. in hot water, was drunk almost with the air of a toast; the\nmassaging of the ankles and toes (an exercise invented entirely by Lord\nTalgarth himself) might have been almost in preparation for a dance.\n\nHe stood up at last, an erect, stoutish figure, in quilted dressing-gown\nand pyjamas, before the fire, as his man put on his slippers for him,\nfor the little procession into the next room.\n\n\"I think I'm better to-night, Clarkson,\" he said.\n\n\"Your lordship seems very well indeed, my lord,\" murmured that diplomat\non the hearth-rug.\n\n\"How old do you think I am, Clarkson?\"\n\nClarkson knew perfectly well, but it was better to make a deprecatory\nconfused noise.\n\n\"Ah! well, we needn't reckon by years ... I feel young enough,\" observed\nthe stately figure before the fire.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThen the procession was formed: the double doors were set back, the\nelectric light switched on; Lord Talgarth passed through towards the\ngreat four-posted bed that stood out into the bedroom, and was in bed,\nwith scarcely a groan, almost before the swift Mr. Clarkson could be at\nhis side to help him in. He lay there, his ruddy face wonderfully\nhandsome against the contrast of his gray hair and the white pillow,\nwhile Mr. Clarkson concluded the other and final ceremonies. A small\ntable had to be wheeled to a certain position beside the bed, and the\nhandle of the electric cord laid upon it in a particular place, between\nthe book and the tray on which stood some other very special draught to\nbe drunk in case of thirst.\n\n\"Call me a quarter of an hour earlier than usual,\" observed the face on\nthe pillow. \"I'll take a little stroll before breakfast.\"\n\n\"Yes, my lord.\"\n\n\"What did I tell you to remind me to do after breakfast?\"\n\n\"Send for Mr. Manners, my lord.\"\n\n\"That's right. Good-night, Clarkson.\"\n\n\"Good-night, my lord.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was the usual discreet glance round the room to see that all was\nin order; then the door into the dressing-room closed imperceptibly\nbehind Mr. Clarkson's bent back.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n(I)\n\nWinter at Merefield Rectory is almost as delightful as summer, although\nin an entirely different way. The fact is that the Rectory has managed\nthe perfect English compromise. In summer, with the windows and doors\nwide open, with the heavy radiant creepers, with the lawns lying about\nthe house, with the warm air flowing over the smooth, polished floors\nand lifting the thin mats, with the endless whistle of bird song--then\nthe place seems like a summer-house. And in winter, with the heavy\ncarpets down, and the thick curtains, the very polished floors, so cool\nin summer, seem expressly designed to glimmer warmly with candle and\nfire-light; and the books seem to lean forward protectively and reassert\nthemselves, and the low beamed ceilings to shelter and safeguard the\ninterior comfort. The center of gravity is changed almost imperceptibly.\nIn summer the place is a garden with a house in the middle; in winter a\nhouse surrounded by shrubberies.\n\nThe study in one way and the morning-room in another are the respective\npivots of the house. The study is a little paneled room on the\nground-floor, looking out upon the last of the line of old yews and the\nbeginning of the lawn; the morning-room (once known as the school-room)\nis the only other paneled room in the house, on the first floor, looking\nout upon the front. And round these two rooms the two sections of the\nhouse-life tranquilly revolve. Here in one the Rector controls the\naffairs of the parish, writes his sermons, receives his men friends (not\nvery many), and reads his books. There in the other Jenny orders the\ndomestic life of the house, interviews the cook, and occupies herself\nwith her own affairs. They are two rival, but perfectly friendly, camps.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nLately (I am speaking now of the beginning of November) there had not\nbeen quite so much communication between the two camps as usual, not so\nmany informal negotiations. Jenny did not look in quite so often upon\nher father--for ten minutes after breakfast, for instance, or before\nlunch--and when he looked in on her he seemed to find her generally with\nrather a preoccupied air, often sitting before the wide-arched\nfireplace, with her hands behind her head, looking at the red logs.\n\nHe was an easy man, as has been seen, and did not greatly trouble his\nhead about it: he knew enough of the world to recognize that an\nextremely beautiful girl like Jenny, living on the terms she did with\nthe great house--and a house with men coming and going continually, to\nsay nothing of lawn-tennis parties and balls elsewhere--cannot\naltogether escape complications. He was reasonable enough, too, to\nunderstand that a father is not always the best confidant, and he had\nsupreme confidence in Jenny's common sense.\n\nI suppose he had his dreams; he would scarcely have been human if he had\nnot, and he was quite human. The throwing over of Frank had brought him\nmixed emotions, but he had not been consulted either at the beginning or\nthe end of the engagement, and he acquiesced. Of Dick's affair he knew\nnothing at all.\n\nThat, then, was the situation when the bomb exploded. It exploded in\nthis way.\n\nHe was sitting in his study one morning--to be accurate, it was the\nfirst Saturday in November, two days after the events of the last\nchapter--preparing to begin the composition of his sermon for the next\nday. They had dined up at the great house the night before quite quietly\nwith Lord Talgarth and Archie, who had just come back.\n\nHe had selected his text with great care from the Gospel for the day,\nwhen the door suddenly opened and Jenny came in. This was very unusual\non Saturday morning; it was an understood thing that he must be at his\nsermon; but his faint sense of annoyance was completely dispelled by his\ndaughter's face. She was quite pale--not exactly as if she had received\na shock, but as if she had made up her mind to something; there was no\nsign of tremor in her face; on the contrary, she looked extremely\ndetermined, but her eyes searched his as she stopped.\n\n\"I'm dreadfully sorry, father, but may I talk to you for a few minutes?\"\n\nShe did not wait for his answer, but came straight in and sat down in\nhis easy-chair. He laid his pen down and turned a little at his\nwriting-table to face her.\n\n\"Certainly, dear. What is it? Nothing wrong?\"\n\n(He noticed she had a note in her hand.)\n\n\"No, nothing wrong....\" She hesitated. \"But it's rather important.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\nShe glanced down at the note she carried. Then she looked up at him\nagain.\n\n\"Father, I suppose you've thought of my marrying some day--in spite of\nFrank?\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"Would you mind if I married a man older than myself--I mean a good deal\nolder?\"\n\nHe looked at her in silence. Two or three names passed before his mind,\nbut he couldn't remember--\n\n\"Father, I'm in trouble. I really am. I didn't expect--\"\n\nHer voice faltered. He saw that she really found it difficult to speak.\nA little wave of tenderness rolled over his heart. It was unlike her to\nbe so much moved. He got up and came round to her.\n\n\"What is it, dear? Tell me.\"\n\nShe remained perfectly motionless for an instant. Then she held out the\nnote to him, and simultaneously stood up. As he took it, she went\nswiftly past him and out of the door. He heard the swish of her dress\npass up the stairs, and then the closing of a door. But he hardly heeded\nit. He was reading the note she had given him. It was a short, perfectly\nformal offer of marriage to her from Lord Talgarth.\n\n\n(II)\n\n\"Father, dear,\" said Jenny, \"I want you to let me have my say straight\nout, will you?\"\n\nHe bowed his head.\n\nThey were sitting, on the evening of the same day, over the tea-things\nin his study. He had not seen her alone for one moment since the\nmorning. She had refused to open her door to him when he went up after\nreading the note: she had pleaded a headache at lunch, and she had been\ninvisible all the afternoon. Then, as he came in about tea-time, she had\ndescended upon him, rather pale, but perfectly herself, perfectly\nnatural, and even rather high-spirited. She had informed him that tea\nwould be laid in his study, as she wanted a long talk. She had poured\nout tea, talking all the time, refusing, it seemed, to meet his eyes.\nWhen she had finished, she had poured out his third cup, and then pushed\nher own low chair back so far that he could not see her face.\n\nThen she had opened the engagement.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTo say that the poor man had been taken aback would be a very poor way\nof describing his condition. The thing simply had never entered his\nhead. He had dreamed, in wild moments, of Archie; he had certainly\ncontemplated Dick; but Lord Talgarth himself, gouty and aged\nsixty-five!... And yet he had not been indignant. Indignation not only\ndid not do with Jenny, but it was impossible. To be quite frank, the man\nwas afraid of his daughter; he was aware that she would do ultimately\nas she wished, and not as he wished; and his extreme discomfort at the\nthought of this old man marrying his daughter was, since he was human,\npartly counter-balanced by the thought of who the old man was. Lastly,\nit must be remembered that Jenny was really a very sensible girl, and\nthat her father was quite conscious of the fact.\n\nJenny settled herself once more in her chair and began.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Father, dear, I want to be quite sensible about this. And I've been\nvery foolish and silly about it all day. I can't imagine why I behaved\nas I did. There's nothing to go and mope about, that Lord Talgarth has\nbeen kind enough to do me this honor. Because it is an honor, you know,\nhowever you look at it, that anyone should ask one to be his wife.\n\n\"Well, I want to say what I have to say first, and then I want you to\nsay exactly what you think. I've thought it all out, so I shan't be very\nlong.\"\n\n(He put down his cup noiselessly, as if in the presence of a sick\nperson. He was anxious not to lose a word, or even an inflection).\n\n\"First of all, let's have all the things against it. He's an old man. We\nmustn't forget that for one minute. And that's a very strong argument\nindeed. Some people would think it final, but I think that's\nfoolish....\n\n\"Secondly, it never entered my head for one instant.\" (Jenny said this\nquite deliberately, almost reverently.) \"Of course I see now that he's\nhinted at it very often, but I never understood it at the time. I've\nalways thought of him as a sort of--well--a sort of uncle. And that's\nanother strong argument against it. If it was a right thing to do,\noughtn't it to have occurred to me too? I'm not quite sure about that.\n\n\"Thirdly, it's unsuitable for several reasons. It'll make talk. Here\nhave I been engaged to Frank for ages and broken it off. Can't you\nimagine how people will interpret that now? I suppose I oughtn't to mind\nwhat people say, but I'm afraid I do. Then I'm the Rector's daughter ...\nand I've been running in and out continually--dining with them, sitting\nwith him alone. Can't you imagine what people--Lady Richard, for\ninstance--will make of it?... I shall be an adventuress, and all the\nrest of it. That's not worth much as an argument, but it is a ... a\nconsideration. One must look facts in the face and think of the future.\n\n\"Fourthly, Lord Talgarth probably won't live very long....\" (Jenny\npaused, and then, with extraordinary impressiveness, continued).... \"And\nthat, of, course, is perhaps the strongest argument of all. If I could\nbe of any real use to him--\" She stopped again.\n\nThe Rector shifted a little in his chair.\n\nIt was impossible for him to conceal from himself any longer the fact\nthat up to now he had really been expecting Jenny to accept the offer.\nBut he was a little puzzled now at the admirable array of reasons she\nhad advanced against that. She had put into words just the sensible view\nof which he himself had only had a confused apprehension; she had\nanalyzed into all its component parts that general sense which one side\nof him had pushed before him all day--that the thing was really\nabominable. And this side of him at this time was uppermost. He drew a\nwhistling breath.\n\n\"Well, my dear,\" he began, and the relief was very apparent in his\nvoice. But Jenny interrupted.\n\n\"One minute, please, father! In fairness to--to everyone I must put the\nother side.... I suppose the main question is this, after all. Am I fond\nof him?--fond enough, that is, to marry him--because, of course, I'm\nfond of him; he's been so extraordinarily kind always.... I suppose\nthat's really the only thing to be considered. If I were fond enough of\nhim, I suppose all the arguments against count for nothing. Isn't that\nso?... Yes; I want you to say what you think.\"\n\nHe waited. Still he could make out nothing of her face, though he\nglanced across the tea-things once or twice.\n\n\"My dear, I don't know what to say. I--\"\n\n\"Father, dear, I just want that from you. Do you think that any\nconsideration at all ought to stand in the way, if I were--I don't say\nfor one single moment that I am--but if I were--well, really fond of\nhim? I'm sorry to have to speak so very plainly, but it's no good being\nsilly.\"\n\nHe swallowed in his throat once or twice.\n\n\"If you really were fond of him--I think ... I think that, no\nconsideration of the sort you have mentioned ought to ... to stand in\nyour way.\"\n\n\"Thank you, father,\" said Jenny softly.\n\n\"When did you first think of it?\"\n\nJenny paused.\n\n\"I think I knew he was going to ask me two days ago--the day you met us\nout riding, you know.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was a long silence.\n\nThey had already discussed, when Frank's affair had been before them,\nall secondary details.\n\nThe Rector's sister was to have taken Jenny's place. There was nothing\nof that sort to talk about now. They were both just face to face with\nprimary things, and they both knew it.\n\nThe Rector's mind worked like a mill--a mill whose machinery is running\naimlessly. The wheels went round and round, but they effected nothing.\nHe was completely ignorant as to what Jenny intended. He perceived--as\nin a series of little vignettes--a number of hypothetical events, on\nthis side and that, but they drew to no conclusion in his mind. He was\njust waiting on his daughter's will.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nJenny broke the silence with a slow remark in another kind of voice.\n\n\"Father, dear, there's something else I must tell you. I didn't see any\nneed to bother you with it before. It's this. Mr. Dick Guiseley proposed\nto me when he was here for the shooting.\"\n\nShe paused, but her father said nothing.\n\n\"I told him he must wait--that I didn't know for certain, but that I was\nalmost certain. If he had pressed for an answer I should have said 'No.'\nOddly enough, I was thinking only yesterday that it wasn't fair to keep\nhim waiting any longer. Because ... because it's 'No' ... anyhow, now.\"\n\nThe Rector still could not speak. It was just one bewilderment. But\napparently Jenny did not want any comments.\n\n\"That being so,\" she went on serenely, \"my conscience is clear, anyhow.\nAnd I mustn't let what I think Mr. Dick might say or think affect\nme--any more than the other things. Must I?\"\n\n\"... Jenny, what are you going to do? Tell me!\"\n\n\"Father, dear,\" came the high astonished voice, \"I don't know. I don't\nknow at all. I must think. Did you think I'd made up my mind? Why! How\ncould I? Of course I should say 'No' if I had to answer now.\"\n\n\"I--\" began the Rector and stopped. He perceived that the situation\ncould easily be complicated.\n\n\"I must just think about it quietly,\" went on the girl. \"And I must\nwrite a note to say so.... Father ...\"\n\nHe glanced in her direction.\n\n\"Father, about being fond of a man.... Need it be--well, as I was fond\nof Frank? I don't think Lord Talgarth could have expected that, could\nhe? But if you--well--get on with a man very well, understand him--can\nstand up to him without annoying him ... and ... and care for him,\nreally, I mean, in such a way that you like being with him very much,\nand look up to him very much in all kinds of ways--(I'm very sorry to\nhave to talk like this, but whom am I to talk to, father dear?) Well, if\nI found I did care for Lord Talgarth like that--like a sort of daughter,\nor niece, and more than that too, would that--\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said the Rector, abruptly standing up. \"I don't know;\nyou mustn't ask me. You must settle all that yourself.\"\n\nShe looked up at him, startled, it seemed, by the change in his manner.\n\n\"Father, dear--\" she began, with just the faintest touch of pathetic\nreproach in her voice. But he did not appear moved by it.\n\n\"You must settle,\" he said. \"You have all the data. I haven't. I--\"\n\nHe stepped towards the door.\n\n\"Tell me as soon as you have decided,\" he said, and went out.\n\n\n(III)\n\nThe little brown dog called Lama, who in an earlier chapter once trotted\nacross a lawn, and who had lately been promoted to sleeping upon Jenny's\nbed, awoke suddenly that night and growled a low breathy remonstrance.\nHe had been abruptly kicked from beneath the bedclothes.\n\n\"Get off, you heavy little beast,\" said a voice in the darkness.\n\nLama settled himself again with a grunt, half of comfort, half of\ncomplaint.\n\n\"_Get off!_\" came the voice again, and again his ribs were heaved at by\na foot.\n\nHe considered it a moment or two, and even shifted nearer the wall,\nstill blind with sleep; but the foot pursued him, and he awoke finally\nto the conviction that it would be more comfortable by the fire; there\nwas a white sheepskin there, he reflected. As he finally reached the\nground, a scratching was heard in the corner, and he was instantly\nalert, and the next moment had fitted his nose, like a kind of\nindia-rubber pad, deep into a small mouse-hole in the wainscoting, and\nwas breathing long noisy sighs down into the delicious and\ngamey-smelling darkness.\n\n\"Oh! be quiet!\" came a voice from the bed.\n\nLama continued his investigations unmoved, and having decided, after one\nlong final blow, that there was to be no sport, returned to the\nsheepskin with that brisk independent air that was so characteristic of\nhim. He was completely awake now, and stood eyeing the bed a moment,\nwith the possibility in his mind that his mistress was asleep again,\nand that by a very gentle leap--But a match was struck abruptly, and he\nlay down, looking, with that appearance of extreme wide-awakedness in\nhis black eyes that animals always wear at night, at his restless\nmistress.\n\nHe could not quite understand what was the matter.\n\nFirst she lit a candle, took a book from the small table by the bed and\nbegan to read resolutely. This continued till Lama's eyes began to blink\nat the candle flame, and then he was suddenly aware that the light was\nout and the book closed, and all fallen back again into the clear gray\ntones which men call darkness.\n\nHe put his head down on his paws, but his eyebrows rose now and again as\nhe glanced at the bed.\n\nThen the candle was lighted again after a certain space of time, but\nthis time there was no book opened. Instead, his mistress took her arms\nout of bed, and clasped them behind her head, staring up at the\nceiling....\n\nThis was tiresome, as the light was in his eyes, and his body was just\ninert enough with sleep to make movement something of an effort....\n\nLittle by little, however, his eyebrows came down, remained down, and\nhis eyes closed....\n\nHe awoke again at a sound. The candle was still burning, but his\nmistress had rolled over on to her side and seemed to be talking gently\nto herself. Then she was over again on this side, and a minute later was\nout of bed, and walking to and fro noiselessly on the soft carpet.\n\nHe watched her with interest, his eyes only following her. He had never\nyet fully understood this mysterious change of aspect that took place\nevery night--the white thin dress, the altered appearance of the head,\nand--most mysterious of all--the two white things that ought to be feet,\nbut were no longer hard and black. He had licked one of them once\ntentatively, and had found that the effect was that it had curled up\nsuddenly; there had been a sound as of pain overhead, and a swift slap\nhad descended upon him.\n\nHe was observing these things now--to and fro, to and fro--and his eyes\nmoved with them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter a certain space of time the movement stopped. She was standing\nstill near a carved desk--important because a mouse had once been\ndescribed sitting beneath it; and she stood so long that his eyes began\nto blink once more. Then there was a rustle of paper being torn, and he\nwas alert again in a moment. Perhaps paper would be thrown for him\npresently....\n\nShe came across to the hearth-rug, and he was up, watching her hands,\nwhile his own short tail flickered three or four times in invitation.\nBut it was no good: the ball was crumpled up and thrown on to the red\nlogs. There was a \"whup\" from the fire and a flame shot up. He looked at\nthis carefully with his head on one side, and again lay down to watch\nit. His mistress was standing quite still, watching it with him.\n\nThen, as the flame died down, she turned abruptly, went straight back to\nthe bed, got into it, drew the clothes over her and blew the candle out.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter a few moments steady staring at the fire, he perceived that a part\nof the ball of paper had rolled out on to the stone hearth unburned. He\nlooked at it for some while, wondering whether it was worth getting up\nfor. Certainly the warmth was delicious and the sheepskin exquisitely\nsoft.\n\nThere was no sound from the bed. A complete and absolute silence had\nsucceeded to all the restlessness.\n\nFinally he concluded that it was impossible to lie there any longer and\nwatch such a crisp little roll of paper still untorn. He got up, stepped\ndelicately on to the wide hearth, and pulled the paper towards him with\na little scratching sound. There was a sigh from the bed, and he paused.\nThen he lifted it, stepped back to his warm place, lay down, and\nplacing his paws firmly upon the paper, began to tear scraps out of it\nwith his white teeth.\n\n\"Oh, _be quiet_!\" came the weary voice from the bed.\n\nHe paused, considered; then he tore two more pieces. But it did not\ntaste as it should; it was a little sticky, and too stiff. He stood up\nonce more, turned round four times and lay down with a small grunt.\n\nIn the morning the maid who swept up the ashes swept up these fragments\ntoo. She noticed a wet scrap of a picture postcard, with the word\n\"Selby\" printed in the corner. Then she threw that piece, too, into the\ndustpan.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n(I)\n\nMrs. Partington and Gertie had many of those mysterious conversations\nthat such women have, full of \"he's\" and \"she's\" and nods and becks and\nallusions and broken sentences, wholly unintelligible to the outsider,\nyet packed with interest to the talkers. The Major, Mr. Partington\n(still absent), and Frank were discussed continually and exhaustively;\nand, so far as the subjects themselves ranged, there was hardly an\nunimportant detail that did not come under notice, and hardly an\nimportant fact that did. Gertie officially passed, of course, as Mrs.\nTrustcott always.\n\nA couple of mornings after Frank had begun his work at the jam factory,\nMrs. Partington, who had stepped round the corner to talk with a friend\nfor an hour or so, returned to find Gertie raging. She raged in her own\nway; she was as white as a sheet; she uttered ironical and\nunintelligible sentences, in which Frank's name appeared repeatedly, and\nit emerged presently that one of the Mission-ladies had been round\nminding other folks' business, and that Gertie would thank that lady to\nkeep her airs and her advice to herself.\n\nNow Mrs. Partington knew that Gertie was not the Major's wife, and\nGertie knew that she knew it; and Mrs. Partington knew that Gertie knew\nthat she knew it. Yet, officially, all was perfectly correct; Gertie\nwore a wedding-ring, and there never was the hint that she had not a\nright to it. It was impossible, therefore, for Mrs. Partington to\nobserve out loud that she understood perfectly what the Mission-lady had\nbeen talking about. She said very little; she pressed her thin lips\ntogether and let Gertie alone. The conversations that morning were of\nthe nature of disconnected monologues from Gertie with long silences\nbetween.\n\nIt was an afternoon of silent storm. The Major was away in the West End\nsomewhere on mysterious affairs; the children were at school, and the\ntwo women went about, each knowing what was in the mind of the other,\nyet each resolved to keep up appearances.\n\nAt half-past five o'clock Frank abruptly came in for a cup of tea, and\nMrs. Partington gave it him in silence. (Gertie could be heard moving\nabout restlessly overhead.) She made one or two ordinary remarks,\nwatching Frank when he was not looking. But Frank said very little. He\nsat up to the table; he drank two cups of tea out of the chipped enamel\nmug, and then he set to work on his kippered herring. At this point Mrs.\nPartington left the room, as if casually, and a minute later Gertie came\ndownstairs.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe came in with an indescribable air of virtue, rather white in the\nface, with her small chin carefully thrust out and her eyelids drooping.\nIt was a pose she was accustomed to admire in high-minded and\naristocratic barmaids. Frank nodded at her and uttered a syllable or two\nof greeting.\n\nShe said nothing; she went round to the window, carrying a white cotton\nblouse she had been washing upstairs, and hung it on the clothes-line\nthat ran inside the window. Then, still affecting to be busy with it,\nshe fired her first shot, with her back to him.\n\n\"I'll thank you to let my business alone....\"\n\n(Frank put another piece of herring into his mouth.)\n\n\"... And not to send round any more of your nasty cats,\" added Gertie\nafter a pause.\n\nThere was silence from Frank.\n\n\"Well?\" snapped Gertie.\n\n\"How dare you talk like that!\" said Frank, perfectly quietly.\n\nHe spoke so low that Gertie mistook his attitude, and, leaning her\nhands on the table, she poured out the torrent that had been gathering\nwithin her ever since the Mission-lady had left her at eleven o'clock\nthat morning. The lady had not been tactful; she was quite new to the\nwork, and quite fresh from a women's college, and she had said a great\ndeal more than she ought, with an earnest smile upon her face that she\nhad thought conciliatory and persuasive. Gertie dealt with her\nfaithfully now; she sketched her character as she believed it to be; she\ntraced her motives and her attitude to life with an extraordinary wealth\nof detail; she threw in descriptive passages of her personal appearance,\nand she stated, with extreme frankness, her opinion of such persons as\nshe had thought friendly, but now discovered to be hypocritical parsons\nin disguise. Unhappily I have not the skill to transcribe her speech in\nfull, and there are other reasons, too, why her actual words are best\nunreported: they were extremely picturesque.\n\nFrank ate on quietly till he had finished his herring; then he drank his\nlast cup of tea, and turned a little in his chair towards the fire. He\nglanced at the clock, perceiving that he had still ten minutes, just as\nGertie ended and stood back shaking and pale-eyed.\n\n\"Is that all?\" he asked.\n\nIt seemed it was not all, and Gertie began again, this time on a\nslightly higher note, and with a little color in her face. Frank waited,\nquite simply and without ostentation. She finished.\n\nAfter a moment's pause Frank answered.\n\n\"I don't know what you want,\" he said. \"I talked to you myself, and you\nwouldn't listen. So I thought perhaps another woman would do it\nbetter--\"\n\n\"I did listen--\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said Frank instantly. \"I was wrong. You did listen,\nand very patiently. I meant that you wouldn't do what I said. And so I\nthought--\"\n\nGertie burst out again, against cats and sneaking hypocrites, but there\nwas not quite the same venom in her manner.\n\n\"Very good,\" said Frank. \"Then I won't make the mistake again. I am very\nsorry--not in the least for having interfered, you understand, but for\nnot having tried again myself.\" (He took up his cap.) \"You'll soon give\nin, Gertie, you know. Don't you think so yourself?\"\n\nGertie looked at him in silence.\n\n\"You understand, naturally, why I can't talk to you while the Major's\nhere. But the next time I have a chance--\"\n\nThe unlatched door was pushed open and the Major came in.\n\n\n(II)\n\nThere was an uncomfortable little pause for a moment. It is extremely\ndoubtful, even now, exactly how much the Major heard; but he must have\nheard something, and to a man of his mind the situation that he found\nmust have looked extremely suspicious. Gertie, flushed now, with emotion\nvery plainly visible in her bright eyes, was standing looking at Frank,\nwho, it appeared, was a little disconcerted. It would have been almost\nmiraculous if the Major had not been convinced that he had interrupted a\nlittle private love-making.\n\nIt is rather hard to analyze the Major's attitude towards Gertie; but\nwhat is certain is that the idea of anyone else making love to her was\nsimply intolerable. Certainly he did not treat her with any great\nchivalry; he made her carry the heavier bundles on the tramp; he behaved\nto her with considerable disrespect; he discussed her freely with his\nfriends on convivial occasions. But she was his property--his and no one\nelse's. He had had his suspicions before; he had come in quietly just\nnow on purpose, and he had found himself confronted by this very\npeculiar little scene.\n\nHe looked at them both in silence. Then his lips sneered like a dog's.\n\n\"Pardon me,\" he said, with extreme politeness. \"I appear to be\ninterrupting a private conversation.\"\n\nNo one said anything. Frank leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece.\n\n\"It was private, then?\" continued the Major with all the poisonous\ncourtesy at his command.\n\n\"Yes; it was private,\" said Frank shortly.\n\nThe Major put his bowler hat carefully upon the table.\n\n\"Gertie, my dear,\" he said. \"Will you be good enough to leave us for an\ninstant? I regret having to trouble you.\"\n\nGertie breathed rather rapidly for a moment or two. She was not\naltogether displeased. She understood perfectly, and it seemed to her\nrather pleasant that two men should get into this kind of situation over\nher. She was aware that trouble would come to herself later, probably in\nthe form of personal chastisement, but to the particular kind of\nfeminine temperament that she possessed even a beating was not wholly\npainful, and the cheap kind of drama in which she found herself was\nwholly attractive. After an instant's pause, she cast towards Frank what\nshe believed to be a \"proud\" glance and marched out.\n\n\"If you've got much to say,\" said Frank rapidly, as the door closed,\n\"you'd better keep it for this evening. I've got to go in ... in two\nminutes.\"\n\n\"Two minutes will be ample,\" said the Major softly.\n\nFrank waited.\n\n\"When I find a friend,\" went on the other, \"engaged in an apparently\nexciting kind of conversation, which he informs me is private, with one\nwho is in the position of my wife--particularly when I catch a sentence\nor two obviously not intended for my ears--I do not ask what was the\nsubject of the conversation, but I--\"\n\n\"My dear man,\" said Frank, \"do put it more simply.\"\n\nThe Major was caught, so to speak, full in the wind. His face twitched\nwith anger.\n\nThen he flung an oath at Frank.\n\n\"If I catch you at it again,\" he said, \"there'll be trouble. God damn\nyou!\"\n\n\"That is as it may be,\" said Frank.\n\nThe Major had had just one drink too much, and he was in the kind of\nexpansive mood that changes very rapidly.\n\n\"Can you tell me you were not trying to take her from me?\" he cried,\nalmost with pathos in his voice.\n\nThis was, of course, exactly what Frank had been trying to do.\n\n\"You can't deny it!... Then I tell you this, Mr. Frankie\"--the Major\nsprang up--\"one word more from you to her on that subject ... and ...\nand you'll know it. D'you understand me?\"\n\nHe thrust his face forward almost into Frank's.\n\nIt was an unpleasant face at most times, but it was really dangerous\nnow. His lips lay back, and the peculiar hot smell of spirit breathed\ninto Frank's nostrils. Frank turned and looked into his eyes.\n\n\"I understand you perfectly,\" he said. \"There's no need to say any more.\nAnd now, if you'll forgive me, I must get back to my work.\"\n\nHe took up his cap and went out.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Major, as has been said, had had one glass too much, and he had,\naccordingly, put into words what, even in his most suspicious moments,\nhe had intended to keep to himself. It might be said, too, that he had\nput into words what he did not really think. But the Major was, like\neveryone else, for good or evil, a complex character, and found it\nperfectly possible both to believe and disbelieve the same idea\nsimultaneously. It depended in what stratum the center of gravity\nhappened to be temporarily suspended. One large part of the Major knew\nperfectly well, therefore, that any jealousy of Frank was simply\nridiculous--the thing was simply alien; and another part, not so large,\nbut ten times more concentrated, judged Frank by the standards by which\nthe Major (_qua_ blackguard) conducted his life. For people who lived\nusually in that stratum, making love to Gertie, under such\ncircumstances, would have been an eminently natural thing to do, and,\njust now, the Major chose to place Frank amongst them.\n\nThe Major himself was completely unaware of these psychological\ndistinctions, and, as he sat, sunk in his chair, brooding, before\nstepping out to attend to Gertie, he was entirely convinced that his\nsuspicions were justified. It seemed to him now that numberless little\ndetails out of the past fitted, with the smoothness of an adjusted\npuzzle, into the framework of his thought.\n\nThere was, first, the very remarkable fact that Frank, in spite of\nopportunities to better himself, had remained in their company. At\nBarham, at Doctor Whitty's, at the monastery, obvious chances had\noffered themselves and he had not taken them. Then there were the small\nacts of courtesy, the bearing of Gertie's bundles two or three times.\nFinally, there was a certain change in Gertie's manner--a certain silent\npeevishness towards himself, a curious air that fell on her now and then\nas she spoke to Frank or looked at him.\n\nAnd so forth. It was an extraordinarily convincing case, clinched now\nby the little scene that he had just interrupted. And the very\nirregularity of his own relations with Gertie helped to poison the\nsituation with an astonishingly strong venom.\n\nOf course, there were other considerations, or, rather, there was\none--that Frank, obviously, was not the kind of man to be attracted by\nthe kind of woman that Gertie was--a consideration made up, however, of\ninfinitely slighter indications. But this counted for nothing. It seemed\nunsubstantial and shadowy. There were solid, definable arguments on the\none side; there was a vague general impression on the other....\n\nSo the Major sat and stared at the fire, with the candle-light falling\non his sunken cheeks and the bristle on his chin--a poor fallen kind of\nfigure, yet still holding the shadow of a shadow of an ideal that might\nyet make him dangerous.\n\nPresently he got up with a sudden movement and went in search of Gertie.\n\n\n(III)\n\nThere are no free libraries in Hackney Wick; the munificences of Mr.\nCarnegie have not yet penetrated to that district (and, indeed, the\nthought of a library of any kind in Hackney Wick is a little\nincongruous). But there is one in Homerton, and during the dinner-hour\non the following day Frank went up the steps of it, pushed open the\nswing-doors, and found his way to some kind of a writing-room, where he\nobtained a sheet of paper, an envelope and a penny stamp, and sat down\nto write a letter.\n\nThe picture that I have in my mind of Frank at this present time may\npossibly be a little incorrect in one or two details, but I am quite\nclear about its main outlines, and it is extremely vivid on the whole. I\nsee him going in, quietly and unostentatiously--quite at his ease, yet a\nvery unusual figure in such surroundings. I hear an old gentleman sniff\nand move his chair a little as this person in an exceedingly shabby blue\nsuit with the collar turned up, with a muffler round his neck and large,\nbulging boots on his feet, comes and sits beside him. I perceive an\nearnest young lady, probably a typist in search of extra culture, look\nat him long and vacantly from over her copy of Emerson, and can almost\nsee her mind gradually collecting conclusions about him. The attendant,\ntoo, as he asks for his paper, eyes him shrewdly and suspiciously, and\nwaits till the three halfpence are actually handed across under the\nbrass wire partition before giving him the penny stamp. These\ncircumstances may be incorrect, but I am absolutely clear as to Frank's\nown attitude of mind. Honestly, he no longer minds in the very least\nhow people behave to him; he has got through all that kind of thing long\nago; he is not at all to be commiserated; it appears to him only of\nimportance to get the paper and to be able to write and post his letter\nwithout interruption. For Frank has got on to that plane--(I know no\nother word to use, though I dislike this one)--when these other things\nsimply do not matter. We all touch that plane sometimes, generally under\ncircumstances of a strong mental excitement, whether of pleasure or\npain, or even annoyance. A man with violent toothache, or who has just\nbecome engaged to be married, really does not care what people think of\nhim. But Frank, for the present at least, has got here altogether,\nthough for quite different reasons. The letter he wrote on this occasion\nis, at present, in my possession. It runs as follows. It is very short\nand business-like:\n\n     \"DEAR JACK,\n\n     \"I want to tell you where I am--or, rather, where I can be got\n     at in case of need. I am down in East London for the present,\n     and one of the curates here knows where I'm living. (He was at\n     Eton with me.) His address is: The Rev. E. Parham-Carter, The\n     Eton Mission, Hackney Wick, London, N.E.\n\n     \"The reason I'm writing is this: You remember Major Trustcott\n     and Gertie, don't you? Well, I haven't succeeded in getting\n     Gertie back to her people yet, and the worst of it is that the\n     Major knows that there's something up, and, of course, puts the\n     worst possible construction upon it. Parham-Carter knows all\n     about it, too--I've just left a note on him, with instructions.\n     Now I don't quite know what'll happen, but in case anything\n     does happen which prevents my going on at Gertie, I want you to\n     come and do what you can. Parham-Carter will write to you if\n     necessary.\n\n     \"That's one thing; and the next is this: I'd rather like to\n     have some news about my people, and for them to know (if they\n     want to know--I leave that to you) that I'm getting on all\n     right. I haven't heard a word about them since August. I know\n     nothing particular can have happened, because I always look at\n     the papers--but I should like to know what's going on\n     generally.\n\n     \"I think that's about all. I am getting on excellently myself,\n     and hope you are. I am afraid there's no chance of my coming to\n     you for Christmas. I suppose you'll be home again by now.\n\n                                          \"Ever yours,\n                                               \"F.G.\"\n\n     \"P.S.--Of course you'll keep all this private--as well as where\n     I'm living.\"\n\nNow this letter seems to me rather interesting from a psychological\npoint of view. It is extremely business-like, but perfectly unpractical.\nFrank states what he wants, but he wants an absurd impossibility. I like\nJack Kirkby very much, but I cannot picture him as likely to be\nsuccessful in helping to restore a strayed girl to her people. I suppose\nFrank's only excuse is that he did not know whom else to write to.\n\nIt is rather interesting, too, to notice his desire to know what is\ngoing on at his home; it seems as if he must have had, some faint\ninkling that something important was about to happen, and this is\ninteresting in view of what now followed immediately.\n\nHe directed his letter, stamped it, and posted it in the library\npost-box in the vestibule. Then, cap in hand, he pushed open the\nswing-doors and ran straight into Mr. Parham-Carter.\n\n\"Hullo!\" said that clergyman--and went a little white.\n\n\"Hullo!\" said Frank; and then: \"What's the matter?\"\n\n\"Where are you going?\"\n\n\"I'm going back to the jam factory.\"\n\n\"May I walk with you?\"\n\n\"Certainly, if you don't mind my eating as I go along.\"\n\nThe clergyman turned with him and went beside him in silence, as Frank,\ndrawing out of his side-pocket a large hunch of bread and cheese,\nwrapped up in the advertisement sheet of the _Daily Mail_, began to fill\nhis mouth.\n\n\"I want to know if you've had any news from home.\"\n\nFrank turned to him slightly.\n\n\"No,\" he said sharply, after a pause.\n\nMr. Parham-Carter licked his lips.\n\n\"Well--no, it isn't bad news; but I wondered whether--\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Your governor's married again. It happened yesterday. I thought perhaps\nyou didn't know.\"\n\nThere was dead silence for an instant.\n\n\"No, I didn't know,\" said Frank. \"Who's he married?\"\n\n\"Somebody I never heard of. I wondered whether you knew her.\"\n\n\"What's her name?\"\n\n\"Wait a second,\" said the other, plunging under his greatcoat to get at\nhis waistcoat pocket. \"I've got the paragraph here. I cut it out of the\n_Morning Post_. I only saw it half an hour ago. I was coming round to\nyou this evening.\"\n\nHe produced a slip of printed paper. Frank stood still a moment, leaning\nagainst some area-railings--they were in the distinguished quarter of\nVictoria Park Road--and read the paragraph through. The clergyman\nwatched him curiously. It seemed to him a very remarkable situation that\nhe should be standing here in Victoria Park Road, giving information to\na son as to his father's marriage. He wondered, but only secondarily,\nwhat effect it would have upon Frank.\n\nFrank gave him the paper back without a tremor.\n\n\"Thanks very much,\" he said. \"No; I didn't know.\"\n\nThey continued to walk.\n\n\"D'you know her at all?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know her. She's the Rector's daughter, you know.\"\n\n\"What! At Merefield? Then you must know her quite well.\"\n\n\"Oh! yes,\" said Frank, \"I know her quite well.\"\n\nAgain there was silence. Then the other burst out:\n\n\"Look here--I wish you'd let me do something. It seems to me perfectly\nghastly--\"\n\n\"My dear man,\" said Frank. \"Indeed you can't do anything.... You got my\nnote, didn't you?\"\n\nThe clergyman nodded.\n\n\"It's just in case I'm ill, or anything, you know. Jack's a great friend\nof mine. And it's just as well that some friend of mine should be able\nto find out where I am. I've just written to him myself, as I said in my\nnote. But you mustn't give him my address unless in case of real need.\"\n\n\"All right. But are you sure--\"\n\n\"I'm perfectly sure.... Oh! by the way, that lady you sent round did no\ngood. I expect she told you?\"\n\n\"Yes; she said she'd never come across such a difficult case.\"\n\n\"Well, I shall have to try again myself.... I must turn off here. Good\nluck!\"\n\n\n(IV)\n\nGertie was sitting alone in the kitchen about nine o'clock that\nnight--alone, that is to say, except for the sleeping 'Erb, who, in a\ncot at the foot of his mother's bed, was almost invisible under a pile\nof clothes, and completely negligible as a witness. Mrs. Partington,\nwith the other two children, was paying a prolonged visit in Mortimer\nRoad, and the Major, ignorant of this fact, was talking big in the bar\nof the \"Queen's Arms\" opposite the Men's Club of the Eton Mission.\n\nGertie was enjoying herself just now, on the whole. It is true that she\nhad received some chastisement yesterday from the Major; but she had the\nkind of nature that preferred almost any sensation to none. And, indeed,\nthe situation was full of emotion. It was extraordinarily pleasant to\nher to occupy such a position between two men--and, above all, two\n\"gentlemen.\" Her attitude towards the Major was of the most simple and\nprimitive kind; he was her man, who bullied her, despised her, dragged\nher about the country, and she never for one instant forgot that he had\nonce been an officer in the army. Even his blows (which, to tell the\ntruth, were not very frequent, and were always administered in a\njudicial kind of way) bore with them a certain stamp of brilliance; she\npossessed a very pathetic capacity for snobbishness. Frank, on the other\nside, was no less exciting. She regarded him as a good young man, almost\nromantic, indeed, in his goodness--a kind of Sir Galahad; and he,\nwhatever his motive (and she was sometimes terribly puzzled about his\nmotives), at any rate, stood in a sort of rivalry to the Major; and it\nwas she who was the cause of contention. She loved to feel herself\npulled this way and that by two such figures, to be quarreled over by\nsuch very strong and opposite types. It was a vague sensation to her,\nbut very vivid and attractive; and although just now she believed\nherself to be thoroughly miserable, I have no doubt whatever that she\nwas enjoying it all immensely. She was very feminine indeed, and the\nlittle scene of last night had brought matters to an almost exquisite\npoint. She was crying a little now, gently, to herself.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe door opened. Frank came in, put down his cap, and took his seat on\nthe bench by the fire.\n\n\"All out?\" he asked.\n\nGertie nodded, and made a little broken sound.\n\n\"Very good,\" said Frank. \"Then I'm going to talk to you.\"\n\nGertie wiped away a few more tears, and settled herself down for a\nlittle morbid pleasure. It was delightful to her to be found crying over\nthe fire. Frank, at any rate, would appreciate that.\n\n\"Now,\" said Frank, \"you've got the choice once more, and I'm going to\nput it plainly. If you don't do what I want this time, I shall have to\nsee whether somebody else can't persuade you.\"\n\nShe glanced up, a little startled.\n\n\"Look here,\" said Frank. \"I'm not going to take any more trouble myself\nover this affair. You were a good deal upset yesterday when the lady\ncame round, and you'll be more upset yet before the thing's over. I\nshan't talk to you myself any more: you don't seem to care a hang what I\nsay; in fact, I'm thinking of moving my lodgings after Christmas. So now\nyou've got your choice.\"\n\nHe paused.\n\n\"On the one side you've got the Major; well, you know him; you know the\nway he treats you. But that's not the reason why I want you to leave\nhim. I want you to leave him because I think that down at the bottom\nyou've got the makings of a good woman--\"\n\n\"I haven't,\" cried Gertie passionately.\n\n\"Well, I think you have. You're very patient, and you're very\nindustrious, and because you care for this man you'll do simply anything\nin the world for him. Well, that's splendid. That shows you've got grit.\nBut have you ever thought what it'll all be like in five years from\nnow?\"\n\n\"I shall be dead,\" wailed Gertie. \"I wish I was dead now.\"\n\nFrank paused.\n\n\"And when you're dead--?\" he said slowly.\n\nThere was an instant's silence. Then Frank took up his discourse again.\n(So far he had done exactly what he had wanted. He had dropped two tiny\nideas on her heart once more--hope and fear.)\n\n\"Now I've something to tell you. Do you remember the last time I talked\nto you? Well, I've been thinking what was the best thing to do, and a\nfew days ago I saw my chance and took it. You've got a little\nprayer-book down at the bottom of your bundle, haven't you? Well, I got\nat that (you never let anyone see it, you know), and I looked through\nit. I looked through all your things. Did you know your address was\nwritten in it? I wasn't sure it was your address, you know, until--\"\n\nGertie sat up, white with passion.\n\n\"You looked at my things?\"\n\nFrank looked her straight in the face.\n\n\"Don't talk to me like that,\" he said. \"Wait till I've done.... Well, I\nwrote to the address, and I got an answer; then I wrote again, and I got\nanother answer and a letter for you. It came this morning, to the\npost-office where I got it.\"\n\nGertie looked at him, still white, with her lips parted.\n\n\"Give me the letter,\" she whispered.\n\n\"As soon as I've done talking,\" said Frank serenely. \"You've got to\nlisten to me first. I knew what you'd say: you'd say that your people\nwouldn't have you back. And I knew perfectly well from the little things\nyou'd said about them that they would. But I wrote to make sure....\n\n\"Gertie, d'you know that they're breaking their hearts for you?... that\nthere's nothing, in the whole world they want so much as that you\nshould come back?...\"\n\n\"Give me the letter!\"\n\n\"You've got a good heart yourself, Gertie; I know that well enough.\nThink hard, before I give you the letter. Which is best--the Major and\nthis sort of life--and ... and--well, you know about the soul and God,\ndon't you?... or to go home, and--\"\n\nHer face shook all over for one instant.\n\n\"Give me the letter,\" she wailed suddenly.\n\nThen Frank gave it her.\n\n\n(V)\n\n\"But I can't possibly go home like this,\" whispered Gertie agitatedly in\nthe passage, after the Major's return half an hour later.\n\n\"Good Lord!\" whispered Frank, \"what an extraordinary girl you are, to\nthink--\"\n\n\"I don't care. I can't, and I won't.\"\n\nFrank cast an eye at the door, beyond which dozed the Major in the chair\nbefore the fire.\n\n\"Well, what d'you want?\"\n\n\"I want another dress, and ... and lots of things.\"\n\nFrank stared at her resignedly.\n\n\"How much will it all come to?\"\n\n\"I don't know. Two pounds--two pounds ten.\"\n\n\"Let's see: to-day's the twentieth. We must get you back before\nChristmas. If I let you have it to-morrow, will it do?--to-morrow\nnight?\"\n\nShe nodded. A sound came from beyond the door, and she fled.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI am not sure about the details of the manner in which Frank got the two\npounds ten, but I know he got it, and without taking charity from a\nsoul. I know that he managed somehow to draw his week's money two days\nbefore pay-day, and for the rest, I suspect the pawnshop. What is quite\ncertain is that when his friends were able to take stock of his\nbelongings a little later, the list of them was as follows:\n\nOne jacket, one shirt, one muffler, a pair of trousers, a pair of socks,\na pair of boots, one cap, one tooth-brush, and a rosary. There was\nabsolutely nothing else. Even his razor was gone.\n\nThings, therefore, were pretty bad with him on the morning of the\ntwenty-second of December. I imagine that he still possessed a few\npence, but out of this few pence he had to pay for his own and Gertie's\njourney to Chiswick, as well as keep himself alive for another week. At\nleast, so he must have thought.\n\nIt must have been somewhere in Kensington High Street that he first had\na hint of a possibility of food to be obtained free, for, although I\nfind it impossible to follow all his movements during these days, it is\nquite certain that he partook of the hospitality of the Carmelite\nFathers on this morning. He mentions it, with pleasure, in his diary.\n\nIt is a very curious and medieval sight--this feeding of the poor in the\nlittle deep passage that runs along the outside of the cloister of the\nmonastery in Church Street. The passage is approached by a door at the\nback of the house, opening upon the lane behind, and at a certain hour\non each morning of the year is thronged from end to end with the most\nastonishing and deplorable collection of human beings to be seen in\nLondon. They are of all ages and sizes, from seventeen to seventy, and\nthe one thing common to them all is extreme shabbiness and poverty.\n\nA door opens at a given moment; the crowd surges a little towards a\nblack-bearded man in a brown frock, with an apron over it, and five\nminutes later a deep silence, broken only by the sound of supping and\nswallowing, falls upon the crowd. There they stand, with the roar of\nLondon sounding overhead, the hooting of cars, the noise of innumerable\nfeet, and the rain--at least, on this morning--falling dismally down the\nlong well-like space. And here stand between two and three hundred men,\npinched, feeble, and yet wolfish, gulping down hot soup and bread,\nlooking something like a herd of ragged prisoners pent in between the\nhigh walls.\n\nHere, then, Frank stood in the midst of them, gulping his soup. His van\nand horses, strictly against orders, remained in Church Street, under\nthe care of a passer-by, whom Frank seems to have asked, quite openly,\nto do it for him for God's sake.\n\nIt is a dreary little scene in which to picture him, and yet, to myself,\nit is rather pleasant, too. I like to think of him, now for the second\ntime within a few weeks, and all within the first six months of his\nCatholic life, depending upon his Church for the needs of the body as\nwell as for the needs of the soul. There was nothing whatever to\ndistinguish him from the rest; he, too, had now something of that lean\nlook that is such a characteristic of that crowd, and his dress, too,\nwas entirely suitable to his company. He spoke with none of his hosts;\nhe took the basin in silence and gave it back in silence; then he wiped\nhis mouth on his sleeve, and went out comforted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n(I)\n\nDick Guiseley sat over breakfast in his rooms off Oxford Street,\nentirely engrossed in a local Yorkshire paper two days old.\n\nHis rooms were very characteristic of himself. They were five in\nnumber--a dining-room, two bedrooms, and two sitting-rooms divided by\ncurtains, as well as a little entrance-hall that opened on to the\nlanding, close beside the lift that served all the flats. They were\nfurnished in a peculiarly restrained style--so restrained, in fact, that\nit was almost impossible to remember what was in them. One was just\nconscious of a sense of extreme comfort and convenience. There was\nnothing in particular that arrested the attention or caught the eye,\nexcept here and there a space or a patch of wall about which Dick had\nnot yet made up his mind. He had been in them two years, indeed, but he\nhad not nearly finished furnishing. From time to time a new piece of\nfurniture appeared, or a new picture--always exceedingly good of its\nkind, and even conspicuous. Yet, somehow or other, so excellent was his\ntaste, as soon as the thing was in place its conspicuousness (so to\nspeak) vanished amidst the protective coloring, and it looked as if it\nhad been there for ever. The colors were chosen with the same superfine\nskill: singly they were brilliant, or at least remarkable (the ceilings,\nfor instance, were of a rich buttercup yellow); collectively they were\nsubdued and unnoticeable. And I suppose this is exactly what rooms ought\nto be.\n\nThe breakfast-table at which he sat was a good instance of his taste.\nThe silver-plate on it was really remarkable. There was a delightful\nCaroline tankard in the middle, placed there for the sheer pleasure of\nlooking at it; there was a large silver cow with a lid in its back;\nthere were four rat-tail spoons; the china was an extremely cheap\nVenetian crockery of brilliant designs and thick make. The coffee-pot\nand milk-pot were early Georgian, with very peculiar marks; but these\nvessels were at present hidden under the folded newspaper. There were\nfour chrysanthemums in four several vases of an exceptional kind of\nglass. It sounds startling, I know, but the effect was not startling,\nthough I cannot imagine why not. Here again one was just conscious of\nfreshness and suitability and comfort.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut Dick was taking no pleasure in it all this morning. He was feeling\nalmost physically sick, and the little spirit-heated silver dish of\nkidneys on his Queen Anne sideboard was undisturbed. He had cut off the\ntop of an egg which was now rapidly cooling, and a milky surface\nresembling thin ice was forming on the contents of his coffee-cup. And\nmeanwhile he read.\n\nThe column he was reading described the wedding of his uncle with Miss\nJenny Launton, and journalese surpassed itself. There was a great deal\nabout the fine old English appearance of the bridegroom, who, it\nappeared, had been married in a black frock-coat and gray trousers, with\nwhite spats, and who had worn a chrysanthemum in his button-hole (Dick\ncast an almost venomous glance upon the lovely blossom just beside the\npaper), and the beautiful youthful dignity of the bride, \"so popular\namong the humble denizens of the country-side.\" The bride's father, it\nseemed, had officiated at the wedding in the \"sturdy old church,\" and\nhad been greatly affected--assisted by the Rev. Matthieson. The wedding,\nit seemed, had been unusually quiet, and had been celebrated by special\nlicense: few of the family had been present, \"owing,\" said the discreet\nreporter, \"to the express wish of the bridegroom.\" (Dick reflected\nsardonically upon his own convenient attack of influenza from which he\nwas now completely recovered.) Then there was a great deal more about\nthe ancient home of the Guiseleys, and the aristocratic appearance of\nViscount Merefield, the young and popular heir to the earldom, who, it\nappeared, had assisted at the wedding in another black frock-coat.\nGeneral Mainwaring had acted as best man. Finally, there was a short\ndescription of the presents of the bridegroom to the bride, which\nincluded a set of amethysts, etc....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDick read it all through to the luxuriant end, down to the peals of the\nbells and the rejoicings in the evening. He ate several pieces of dry\ntoast while he read, crumbling them quickly with his left hand, and when\nhe had finished, drank his coffee straight off at one draught. Then he\ngot up, still with the paper, sat down in the easy-chair nearest to the\nfire and read the whole thing through once more. Then he pushed the\npaper off his knee and leaned back.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt would need a complete psychological treatise to analyze properly all\nthe emotions he had recently gone through--emotions which had been, so\nto say, developed and \"fixed\" by the newspaper column he had just read.\nHe was a man who was accustomed to pride himself secretly upon the speed\nwith which he faced each new turn of fortune, and the correctness of the\nattitude he assumed. Perhaps it would be fair to say that the Artistic\nStoic was the ideal towards which he strove. But, somehow, those\nemotions would not sort themselves. There they all were--fury,\nindignation, contempt, wounded pride, resignation, pity--there were no\nmore to be added or subtracted; each had its place and its object, yet\nthey would not coalesce. Now fury against his uncle, now pity for\nhimself, now a poisonous kind of contempt of Jenny. Or, again, a\nprimitive kind of longing for Jenny, a disregard of his uncle, an\nabasement of himself. The emotions whirled and twisted, and he sat quite\nstill, with his eyes closed, watching them.\n\nBut there was one more emotion which had made its appearance entirely\nunexpectedly as soon as he had heard the news, that now, greatly to his\nsurprise, was beginning to take a considerable place amongst the\nrest--and this was an extraordinarily warm sense of affection towards\nFrank--of all people. It was composed partly of compassion, and partly\nof an inexplicable sort of respect for which he could perceive no\nreason. It was curious, he thought later, why this one figure should\nhave pushed its way to the front just now, when his uncle and Jenny and,\nsecondarily, that Rector (\"so visibly affected by the ceremony\") should\nhave occupied all the field. Frank had never meant very much to Dick; he\nhad stood for the undignified and the boyish in the midst of those\nother stately elements of which Merefield, and, indeed, all truly\nadmirable life, was composed.\n\nYet now this figure stood out before him with startling distinctness.\n\nFirst there was the fact that both Frank and himself had suffered\ncruelly at the hands of the same woman, though Frank incomparably the\nmore cruelly of the two. Dick had the honesty to confess that Jenny had\nat least never actually broken faith with himself; but he had also the\nperspicuity to see that it came to very nearly the same thing. He knew\nwith the kind of certitude that neither needs nor appeals to evidence\nthat Jenny would certainly have accepted him if it had not been that\nLord Talgarth had already dawned on her horizon, and that she put him\noff for a while simply to see whether this elderly sun would rise yet\nhigher in the heavens. It was the same consideration, no doubt, that had\ncaused her to throw Frank over a month or two earlier. A Lord Talgarth\nin the bush was worth two cadets in the hand. That was where her\nsensibleness had come in, and certainly it had served her well.\n\nIt was this community of injury, then, that primarily drew Dick's\nattention to Frank; and, when once it lead been so drawn, it lingered on\nother points in his personality. Artistic Stoicism is a very satisfying\nideal so long as things go tolerably well. It affords an excellent\nprotection against such misfortunes as those of not being appreciated or\nof losing money or just missing a big position--against all such ills as\naffect bodily or mental conveniences. But when the heart is touched,\nArtistic Stoicism peels off like rusted armour. Dick had seriously began\nto consider, during the last few days, whether the exact opposite of\nArtistic Stoicism (let us call it Natural Impulsiveness) is not almost\nas good an equipment. He began to see something admirable in Frank's\nattitude to life, and the more he regarded it the more admirable it\nseemed.\n\nFrank, therefore, had begun to wear to him the appearance of something\nreally moving and pathetic. He had had a communication or two from Jack\nKirkby that had given him a glimpse of what Frank was going through, and\nhis own extremely artificial self was beginning to be affected by it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe looked round his room now, once or twice, wondering whether it was\nall worth while. He had put his whole soul into these rooms--there was\nthat Jacobean press with the grotesque heads--ah! how long he had\nagonized over that in the shop in the King's Road, Chelsea, wondering\nwhether or not it would do just what he wanted, in that space between\nthe two doors. There was that small statue of a Tudor lady in a square\nhead-dress that he had bought in Oxford: he had occupied at least a week\nin deciding exactly from what point she was to smile on him; there was\nthe new curtain dividing the two rooms: he had had half a dozen\npatterns, gradually eliminated down to two, lying over his sofa-back for\nten days before he could make up his mind. (How lovely it looked, by the\nway, just now, with that patch of mellow London sunlight lying across\nthe folds!)\n\nBut was it all worth it?... He argued the point with himself, almost\npassively, stroking his brown beard meditatively; but the fact that he\ncould argue it at all showed that the foundations of his philosophy were\nshaken.\n\nWell, then ... Frank ... What about him? Where was he?\n\n\n(II)\n\nAbout eleven o'clock a key turned in his outer door and a very\nsmart-looking page-boy came through, after tapping, with a telegram on a\nsalver.\n\nDick was writing to Hamilton's, in Berners Street, about a question of\ngray mats for the spare bedroom, and he took the telegram and tore open\nthe envelope with a preoccupied air. Then he uttered a small\nexclamation.\n\n\"Any answer, sir?\"\n\n\"No. Yes.... Wait a second.\"\n\nHe took a telegraph-form with almost indecent haste, addressed it to\nJohn Kirkby, Barham, Yorks, and wrote below:\n\n     \"_Certainly; will expect you dinner and sleep_.--RICHARD\n     GUISELEY.\"\n\nThen, when the boy had gone, he read again the telegram he had received:\n\n     \"_Have received letter from Frank; can probably discover\n     address if I come to town. Can you put me up\n     to-night?_--JACK KIRKBY, Barham.\"\n\nHe pondered it a minute or so. Then he finished his note to Hamilton's,\nbut it was with a distracted manner. Then for several minutes he walked\nup and down his rooms with his hands in his jacket-pockets, thinking\nvery deeply. He was reflecting how remarkable it was that he should hear\nof Frank again just at this time, and was wondering what the next move\nof Providence would be.\n\nThe rest of Dick's day was very characteristic of him; and considering\nmy other personages in this story and their occupations, I take a\ndramatic sort of pleasure in writing it down.\n\nHe went out to lunch with a distinguished lady of his\nacquaintance--whose name I forbear to give; she was not less than\nseventy years old, and the two sat talking scandal about all their\nfriends till nearly four o'clock. The Talgarth affair, even, was\ndiscussed in all its possible lights, and Dick was quite open about his\nown part in the matter. He knew this old lady very well, and she knew\nhim very well. She was as shrewd as possible and extremely experienced,\nand had helped Dick enormously in various intricacies and troubles of\nthe past; and he, on the other hand, as a well-informed bachelor, was of\nalmost equal service to her. She was just the least bit in the world\nlosing touch with things (at seventy you cannot do everything), and Dick\nhelped to keep her in touch. He lunched with her at least once a week\nwhen they were both in town.\n\nAt four he went to the Bath Club, ordered tea and toast and cigarettes,\nand sat out, with his hat over his eyes, on the balcony, watching the\nswimmers. There was a boy of sixteen who dived with surprising skill,\nand Dick took the greatest possible pleasure in observing him. There was\nalso a stout man of his acquaintance whose ambition it had been for\nmonths to cross the bath by means of the swinging rings, and this\nperson, too, afforded him hardly less pleasure, as he always had to let\ngo at the fourth ring, if not the third, whence he plunged into the\nwater with a sound that, curiously enough, was more resonant than\nsibilant.\n\nAt six, after looking through all the illustrated papers, he went out to\nget his coat, and was presently in the thick of a heated argument with a\nmember of the committee on the subject of the new carpet in the front\nhall. It was not fit, said Dick (searching for hyperboles), for even the\ndrawing-room of the \"Cecil.\"\n\nThis argument made him a little later than he had intended, and, as he\ncame up in the lift, the attendant informed him, in the passionless\nmanner proper to such people, that the Mr. Kirkby who had been mentioned\nhad arrived and was waiting for him in his rooms.\n\n\n(III)\n\nShortly before midnight Dick attempted to sum up the situation. They had\ntalked about Frank practically without ceasing, since Dick's man had set\ncoffee on the table at nine o'clock, and both had learned new facts.\n\n\"Well, then, wire to go down to this man, Parham-Carter,\" said Dick,\n\"the first thing after breakfast to-morrow. Do you know anything about\nthe Eton Mission?\"\n\n\"No. One used to have a collection for it each half, you know, in the\nhouses.\"\n\n\"How do we go?\"\n\n\"Oh! railway from Broad Street. I've looked it up. Victoria Park's the\nstation.\"\n\nDick drew two or three draughts of smoke from his cigar-butt, and laid\nit down in a small silver tray at his elbow. (The tray was a gift from\nthe old lady he had lunched with to-day.)\n\n\"All you've told me is extraordinarily interesting,\" he said. \"It really\nwas to get away this girl that he's stopped so long?\"\n\n\"I expect that's what he tells himself--that's the handle, so to speak.\nBut it's chiefly a sort of obstinacy. He said he would go on the roads,\nand so he's gone.\"\n\n\"I rather like that, you know,\" said Dick.\n\nJack snorted a little.\n\n\"Oh, it's better than saying a thing and not doing it. But why say it?\"\n\n\"Oh! one must do something,\" said Dick. \"At least, some people seem to\nthink so. And I rather envy them, you know. I'm afraid I don't.\"\n\n\"Don't what?\"\n\n\"Don't do anything. Unless you can call this sort of thing doing\nsomething.\" He waved his hand vaguely round his perfectly arranged\nroom.\n\nJack said nothing. He was inclined to be a little strenuous himself in\nsome ways, and he had always been conscious of a faint annoyance with\nDick's extreme leisureliness.\n\n\"I see you agree,\" went on Dick. \"Well, we must see what can be done.\"\n\nHe stood up smiling and began to expand and contract his fingers\nluxuriously before the fire behind his back.\n\n\"If we can only get Frank away,\" murmured Jack. \"That's enough for the\npresent.\"\n\n\"And what do you propose to do with him then?\"\n\n\"Oh, Lord! Anything. Go round the world if he likes. Come and stay at my\nplace.\"\n\n\"And suppose he thinks that's a bit too near to ... to Lady Talgarth.\".\n\nThis switched Jack back again to a line he had already run on for an\nhour this evening.\n\n\"Yes, that's the ghastly part of it all. He's sure not to have heard.\nAnd who the devil's to tell him? And how will he take it?\"\n\n\"Do you know,\" said Dick, \"I'm really not frightened about that? All\nyou've told me about him makes me think he'll behave very well. Funny\nthing, isn't it, that you know him so much better than I do? I never\ndreamed there was so much in him, somehow.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's a lot in Frank. But one doesn't always know what it is.\"\n\n\"Do you think his religion's made much difference?\"\n\n\"I think it's done this for him,\" said Jack slowly. \"(I've been thinking\na lot about that). I think it's fixed things, so to speak ....\" He\nhesitated. He was not an expert in psychological analysis. Dick took him\nup quickly. He nodded three or four times.\n\n\"Exactly,\" he said. \"That's it, no doubt. It's given him a center--a hub\nfor the wheel.\"\n\n\"Eh?\"\n\n\"It's ... it's joined everything on to one point in him. He'll be more\nobstinate and mad than ever before. He's got a center now.... I suppose\nthat's what religion's for,\" he added meditatively.\n\nThis was Greek to Jack. He looked at Dick uncomprehendingly.\n\nDick turned round and began to stare into the fire, still contracting\nand expanding his fingers.\n\n\"It's a funny thing--this religion,\" he said at last. \"I never could\nunderstand it.\"\n\n\"And what about Archie?\" asked Jack with sudden abruptness. (He had no\ncontinuity of mind.)\n\nDick brought his meditations to a close with equal abruptness, or\nperhaps he would not have been so caustic as regards his first cousin.\n\n\"Oh, Archie's an ass!\" he said. \"We can leave him out.\"\n\nJack changed the subject again. He was feeling the situation very\nacutely indeed, and the result was that all its elements came tumbling\nout anyhow.\n\n\"I've been beastly uncomfortable,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes?\" said Dick. \"Any particular way?\"\n\nJack shifted one leg over the other. He had not approached one element\nin the situation at all, as yet, with Dick, but it had been simmering in\nhim for weeks, and had been brought to a point by Frank's letter\nreceived this morning. And now the curious intimacy into which he had\nbeen brought with Dick began to warm it out of him.\n\n\"You'll think me an ass, too, I expect,\" he said. \"And I rather think\nit's true. But I can't help it.\"\n\nDick smiled at him encouragingly. (Certainly, thought Jack, this man was\nnicer than he had thought him.)\n\n\"Well, it's this--\" he said suddenly. \"But it's frightfully hard to put\ninto words. You know what I told you about Frank's coming to me at\nBarham?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, there was something he said then that made me uncomfortable. And\nit's made me more and more uncomfortable ever since ...\" (He paused\nagain.) \"Well, it's this. He said that he felt there was something going\non that he couldn't understand--some sort of Plan, he said--in which he\nhad to take part--a sort of scheme to be worked out, you know. I suppose\nhe meant God,\" he explained feebly.\n\nDick looked at him questioningly.\n\n\"Oh! I can't put it into words,\" said Jack desperately. \"Nor did he,\nexactly. But that was the kind of idea. A sort of Fate. He said he was\nquite certain of it.... And there were lots of little things that fitted\nin. He changed his clothes in the old vestry, you know--in the old\nchurch. It seemed like a sort of sacrifice, you know. And then I had a\nbeastly dream that night. And then there was something my mother said....\nAnd now there's his letter: the one I showed you at dinner--about\nsomething that might happen to him.... Oh! I'm a first-class ass, aren't\nI?\"\n\nThere was a considerable silence. He glanced up in an ashamed sort of\nway, at the other, and saw him standing quite upright and still, again\nwith his back to the fire, looking out across the room. From outside\ncame the hum of the thoroughfare--the rolling of wheels, the jingle of\nbells, the cries of human beings. He waited in a kind of shame for\nDick's next words. He had not put all these feelings into coherent form\nbefore, even to himself, and they sounded now even more fantastic than\nhe had thought them. He waited, then, for the verdict of this quiet man,\nwhom up to now he had deemed something of a fool, who cared about\nnothing but billiards and what was called Art. (Jack loathed Art.)\n\nThen the verdict came in a surprising form. But he understood it\nperfectly.\n\n\"Well, what about bed?\" said Dick quietly.\n\n\n(IV)\n\nIt was on the morning of the twenty-fourth that Mr. Parham-Carter was\nsummoned by the neat maid-servant of the clergy-house to see two\ngentlemen. She presented two cards on a plated salver, inscribed with\nthe names of Richard Guiseley and John B. Kirkby. He got up very\nquickly, and went downstairs two at a time. A minute later he brought\nthem both upstairs and shut the door.\n\n\"Sit down,\" he said. \"I'm most awfully glad you've come. I ... I've been\nfearfully upset by all this, and I haven't known what to do.\"\n\n\"Now where is he?\" demanded Jack Kirkby.\n\nThe clergyman made a deprecatory face.\n\n\"I've absolutely promised not to tell,\" he said. \"And you know--\"\n\n\"But that's ridiculous. We've come on purpose to fetch him away. It\nsimply mustn't go on. That's why I didn't write. I sent Frank's letter\non to Mr. Guiseley here (he's a cousin of Frank's, by the way), and he\nasked me to come up to town. I got to town last night, and we've come\ndown here at once this morning.\"\n\nMr. Parham-Carter glanced at the neat melancholy-faced, bearded man who\nsat opposite.\n\n\"But you know I promised,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes,\" burst in Jack; \"but one doesn't keep promises one makes to\nmadmen. And--\"\n\n\"But he's not mad in the least. He's--\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I was going to say that it seems to me that he's more sane than anyone\nelse,\" said the young man dismally. \"I know it sounds ridiculous, but--\"\n\nDick Guiseley nodded with such emphasis that he stopped.\n\n\"I know what you mean,\" said Dick in his gentle drawl. \"And I quite\nunderstand.\"\n\n\"But it's all sickening rot,\" burst in Jack. \"He must be mad. You don't\nknow Frank as I do--neither of you. And now there's this last\nbusiness--his father's marriage, I mean; and--\"\n\nHe broke off and looked across at Dick.\n\n\"Go on,\" said Dick; \"don't mind me.\"\n\n\"Well, we don't know whether he's heard of it or not; but he must hear\nsooner or later, and then--\"\n\n\"But he has heard of it,\" interrupted the clergyman. \"I showed him the\nparagraph myself.\"\n\n\"He's heard of it! And he knows all about it!\"\n\n\"Certainly. And I understood from him that he knew the girl: the\nRector's daughter, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Knows the girl! Why, he was engaged to her himself.\"\n\n\"_What_?\"\n\n\"Yes; didn't he tell you?\"\n\n\"He didn't give me the faintest hint--\"\n\n\"How did he behave? What did he say?\"\n\nMr. Parham-Carter stared a moment in silence.\n\n\"What did he say?\" snapped out Jack impatiently.\n\n\"Say? He said nothing. He just told me he knew the girl, when I asked\nhim.\"\n\n\"Good God!\" remarked Jack. And there was silence.\n\nDick broke it.\n\n\"Well, it seems to me we're rather in a hole.\"\n\n\"But it's preposterous,\" burst out Jack again. \"Here's poor old Frank,\nsimply breaking his heart, and here are we perfectly ready to do\nanything we can--why, the chap must be in hell!\"\n\n\"Look here, Mr. Parham-Carter,\" said Dick softly. \"What about your going\nround to his house and seeing if he's in, and what he's likely to be\ndoing to-day.\"\n\n\"He'll be at the factory till this evening.\"\n\n\"The factory?\"\n\n\"Yes; he's working at a jam factory just now.\"\n\nA sound of fury and disdain broke from Jack.\n\n\"Well,\" continued Dick, \"(May I take a cigarette, by the way?), why\nshouldn't you go round and make inquiries, and find out how the land\nlies? Then Kirkby and I might perhaps hang about a bit and run up\nagainst him--if you'd just give us a hint, you know.\"\n\nThe other looked at him a moment.\n\n\"Well, perhaps I might,\" he said doubtfully. \"But what--\"\n\n\"Good Lord! But you'll be keeping your promise, won't you? After all,\nit's quite natural we should come down after his letter--and quite on\nthe cards that we should run up against him.... Please to go at once,\nand let us wait here.\"\n\nIn a quarter of an hour Mr. Parham-Carter came back quickly into the\nroom and shut the door.\n\n\"Yes; he's at the factory,\" he said. \"Or at any rate he's not at home.\nAnd they don't expect him back till late.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"There's something up. The girl's gone, too. (No; she's not at the\nfactory.) And I think there's going to be trouble.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n(I)\n\nThe electric train slowed down and stopped at the Hammersmith terminus,\nand there was the usual rush for the doors.\n\n\"Come on, Gertie,\" said a young man, \"here we are.\"\n\nThe girl remained perfectly still with her face hidden.\n\nThe crowd was enormous this Christmas Eve, and for the most part laden\nwith parcels; the platforms surged with folk, and each bookstall,\nblazing with lights (for it was after seven o'clock), was a center of a\nkind of whirlpool. There was sensational news in the evening papers, and\neveryone was anxious to get at the full details of which the main facts\nwere tantalizingly displayed on the posters. Everyone wanted to know\nexactly who were the people concerned and how it had all happened. It\nwas a delightful tragedy for the Christmas festivities.\n\n\"Come on,\" said the young man again. \"They're nearly all out.\"\n\n\"I can't,\" moaned the girl.\n\nFrank took her by the arm resolutely.\n\n\"Come!\" he said.\n\nThen she came, and the two passed out together into the mob waiting to\ncome in.\n\n\"We shall have to walk,\" said Frank. \"I'm sorry; but I've got to get\nhome somehow.\"\n\nShe bowed her head and said nothing.\n\nGertie presented a very unusual appearance this evening. Certainly she\nhad laid out the two-pound-ten to advantage. She was in a perfectly\ndecent dark dress with a red stripe in it; she had a large hat and some\nspecies of boa round her neck; she even carried a cheap umbrella with a\nsham silver band and a small hand-bag with one pocket-handkerchief\ninside it. And to her own mind, no doubt, she was a perfect picture of\nthe ideal penitent--very respectable and even prosperous looking, and\nyet with a dignified reserve. She was not at all flaunting, she must\nhave thought; neither was she, externally, anything of a disgrace. It\nwould be evident presently to her mother that she had returned out of\nsimple goodness of heart and not at all because her recent escapade had\nbeen a failure. She would still be able to talk of \"the Major\" with\nsomething of an air, and to make out that he treated her always like a\nlady. (When I went to interview her a few months ago I found her very\ndignified, very self-conscious, excessively refined and faintly\nreminiscent of fallen splendor; and her mother told me privately that\nshe was beginning to be restless again and talked of going on to the\nmusic-hall stage.)\n\nBut there is one thing that I find it very hard to forgive, and that is,\nthat as the two went together under the flaming white lights towards\nChiswick High Street, she turned to Frank a little nervously and asked\nhim if he would mind walking just behind her. (Please remember, however,\nin extenuation, that Gertie's new pose was that of the Superior Young\nLady.)\n\n\"I don't quite like to be seen--\" murmured this respectable person.\n\n\"Oh, certainly!\" said Frank, without an instant's hesitation.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThey had met, half an hour before, by appointment, at the entrance to\nthe underground station at Victoria. Frank's van-journeyings would, he\ncalculated, bring him there about half-past six, and, strictly against\nthe orders of his superiors, but very ingeniously, with the connivance\nof his fellow-driver of the van, he had arranged for his place to be\ntaken on the van for the rest of the evening by a man known to his\nfellow-driver--but just now out of work--for the sum of one shilling, to\nbe paid within a week. He was quite determined not to leave Gertie alone\nagain, when once the journey to Chiswick had actually begun, until he\nhad seen her landed in her own home.\n\nThe place of meeting, too, had suited Gertie very well. She had left\nTurner Road abruptly, without a word to anyone, the instant that the\nMajor's military-looking back had been seen by her to pass within the\nswing-doors of the \"Queen's Arms\" for his usual morning refreshment.\nThen she had occupied herself chiefly by collecting her various things\nat their respective shops, purchased by Frank's two-pound-ten, and\nputting them on. She had had a clear threepence to spare beyond the few\nshillings she had determined to put by out of the total, and had\nexpended it by a visit to the cinematograph show in Victoria Street.\nThere had been a very touching series of pictures of the \"Old Home in\nthe Country,\" and the milking of the cows, with a general atmosphere of\nroses and church-bells, and Gertie had dissolved into tears more than\nonce, and had cried noiselessly into her new pocket-handkerchief drawn\nfrom her new hand-bag. But she had met Frank quite punctually, for,\nindeed, she had burned her boats now entirely and there was nothing else\nleft for her to do.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAt the entrance to Chiswick High Street another brilliant thought struck\nher. She paused for Frank to come up.\n\n\"Frankie,\" she said, \"you won't say anything about the two-pound-ten,\nwill you? I shouldn't like them to think--\"\n\n\"Of course not,\" said Frank gravely, and after a moment, noticing that\nshe glanced at him again uneasily, understood, and fell obediently to\nthe rear once more.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAbout a quarter of a mile further on her steps began to go slower. Frank\nwatched her very carefully. He was not absolutely sure of her even now.\nThen she crossed over the street between two trams, and Frank dodged\nafter her. Then she turned as if to walk back to Hammersmith. In an\ninstant Frank was at her side.\n\n\"You're going the wrong way,\" he said.\n\nShe stopped irresolutely, and had to make way for two or three hurrying\npeople, to pass.\n\n\"Oh, Frankie! I can't!\" she wailed softly.\n\n\"Come!\" said Frank, and took her by the arm once more.\n\nFive minutes later they stood together half-way down a certain long lane\nthat turns out of Chiswick High Street to the left, and there, for the\nfirst time, she seems to have been genuinely frightened. The street was\nquite empty; the entire walking population was parading up and down the\nbrightly-lit thoroughfare a hundred yards behind them, or feverishly\nengaged in various kinds of provision shops. The lamps were sparse in\nthis lane, and all was comparatively quiet.\n\n\"Oh, Frankie!\" she moaned again. \"I can't! I can't!... I daren't!\"\n\nShe leaned back against the sill of a window.\n\nYet, even then, I believe she was rather enjoying herself. It was all so\nextremely like the sort of plays over which she had been accustomed to\nshed tears. The Prodigal's Return! And on Christmas Eve! It only\nrequired a little snow to be falling and a crying infant at her\nbreast....\n\nI wonder what Frank made of it. He must have known Gertie thoroughly\nwell by now, and certainly there is not one sensible man in a thousand\nwhose gorge would not have risen at the situation. Yet I doubt whether\nFrank paid it much attention.\n\n\"Where's the house?\" he said.\n\nHe glanced up at the number of the door by which he stood.\n\n\"It must be a dozen doors further on,\" he said.\n\n\"It's the last house in the row,\" murmured Gertie, in a weak voice. \"Is\nfather looking out? Go and see.\"\n\n\"My dear girl,\" said Frank, \"do not be silly. Do remember your mother's\nletter.\"\n\nThen she suddenly turned on him, and if ever she was genuine she was in\nthat moment.\n\n\"Frankie,\" she whispered, \"why not take me away yourself? Oh! take me\naway! take me away!\"\n\nHe looked into her eyes for an instant, and in that instant he caught\nagain that glimpse as of Jenny herself.\n\n\"Take me away--I'll live with you just as you like!\" She took him by his\npoor old jacket-lapel. \"You can easily make enough, and I don't ask--\"\n\nThen he detached her fingers and took her gently by the arm.\n\n\"Come with me,\" he said. \"No; not another word.\"\n\nTogether in silence they went the few steps that separated them from the\nhouse. There was a little garden in front, its borders set alternately\nwith sea-shells and flints. At the gate she hesitated once more, but he\nunlatched the gate and pushed her gently through.\n\n\"Oh! my gloves!\" whispered Gertie, in a sharp tone of consternation. \"I\nleft them in the shop next the A.B.C. in Wilton Road.\"\n\nFrank nodded. Then, still urging her, he brought her up to the door and\ntapped upon it.\n\nThere were footsteps inside.\n\n\"God bless you, Gertie. Be a good girl. I'll wait in the road for ten\nminutes, so that you can call me if you want to.\"\n\nThen he was gone as the door opened.\n\n\n(II)\n\nThe next public appearance of Frank that I have been able to trace, was\nin Westminster Cathedral. Now it costs an extra penny at least, I think,\nto break one's journey from Hammersmith to Broad Street, and I imagine\nthat Frank would not have done this after what he had said to Gertie\nabout the difficulty connected with taking an omnibus, except for some\ndefinite reason, so it is only possible to conclude that he broke his\njourney at Victoria in an attempt to get at those gloves.\n\nIt seems almost incredible that Gertie should have spoken of her gloves\nat such a moment, but it really happened. She told me so herself. And,\npersonally, on thinking over it, it seems to me tolerably in line\n(though perhaps the line is rather unusually prolonged) with all that I\nhave been able to gather about her whole character. The fact is that\ngloves, just then, were to her really important. She was about to appear\non the stage of family life, and she had formed a perfectly consistent\nconception of her part. Gloves were an integral part of her\ncostume--they were the final proof of a sort of opulence and refinement;\ntherefore, though she could not get them just then, it was perfectly\nnatural and proper of her to mention them. It must not be thought that\nGertie was insincere: she was not; she was dramatic. And it is a fact\nthat within five minutes of her arrival she was down on her knees by her\nmother, with her face hidden in her mother's lap, crying her heart out.\nBy the time she remembered Frank and ran out into the street, he had\nbeen gone more than twenty minutes.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOne of the priests attached to Westminster Cathedral happened to have a\npause about half-past nine o'clock in his hearing of confessions. He had\nbeen in his box without a break from six o'clock, and he was extremely\ntired and stiff about the knees. He had said the whole of his office\nduring intervals, and he thought he would take a little walk up and down\nthe south aisle to stretch his legs.\n\nSo he unlatched the little door of his confessional, leaving the light\nburning in case someone else turned up; he slipped off his stole and\ncame outside.\n\nThe whole aisle, it seemed, was empty, though there was still a\nsprinkling of folks in the north aisle, right across the great space of\nthe nave; and he went down the whole length, down to the west end to\nhave a general look up the Cathedral.\n\nHe stood looking for three or four minutes.\n\nOverhead hung the huge span of brickwork, lost in darkness, incredibly\nvast and mysterious, with here and there emerging into faint light a\nslice of a dome or the slope of some architrave-like dogmas from\nimpenetrable mystery. Before him lay the immense nave, thronged now with\nclose-packed chairs in readiness for the midnight Mass, and they seemed\nto him as he looked with tired eyes, almost like the bent shoulders of\nan enormous crowd bowed in dead silence of adoration. But there was\nnothing yet to adore, except up there to the left, where a very pale\nglimmer shone on polished marble among the shadows before the chapel of\nthe Blessed Sacrament. There was one other exception; for overhead,\nagainst the half-lighted apse, where a belated sacristan still moved\nabout, himself a shadow, busy with the last preparations of the High\nAltar--there burgeoned out the ominous silhouette of the vast hanging\ncross, but so dark that the tortured Christ upon it was invisible....\nYet surely that was right on this night, for who, of all those who were\nto adore presently the Child of joy, gave a thought to the Man of\nSorrows? His Time was yet three months away....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs the priest stood there, looking and imagining, with that strange\nclarity of mind and intuition that a few hours in the confessional gives\nto even the dullest brain, he noticed the figure of a man detach itself\nfrom one of the lighted confessionals on the left and come down towards\nhim, walking quickly and lightly. To his surprise, this young man,\ninstead of going out at the northwest door, wheeled and came towards\nhim.\n\nHe noticed him particularly, and remembered his dress afterwards: it was\na very shabby dark blue suit, splashed with mud from the Christmas\nstreets, very bulgy about the knees; the coat was buttoned up tightly\nround a muffler that had probably once been white, and his big boots\nmade a considerable noise as he came.\n\nThe priest had a sudden impulse as the young man crossed him.\n\n\"A merry Christmas,\" he said.\n\nThe young man stopped a moment and smiled all over his face, and the\npriest noticed the extraordinary serenity and pleasantness of the\nface--and that, though it was the face of a Poor Man, with sunken cheeks\nand lines at the corners of the mouth.\n\n\"Thank you, Father,\" he said. \"The same to you.\"\n\nThen he went on, his boots as noisy as ever, and turned up the south\naisle. And presently the sound of his boots ceased.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe priest still stood a moment or two, looking and thinking, and it\nstruck him with something of pleasure that the young man, though\nobviously of the most completely submerged tenth, had not even hesitated\nor paused, still less said one word, with the hope of a little something\nfor Christmas' sake. Surely he had spoken, too, with the voice of an\neducated man.\n\nHe became suddenly interested--he scarcely knew why, and the impression\nmade just by that single glimpse of a personality deepened every\nmoment.... What in the world was that young man doing here?... What was\nhis business up in that empty south aisle? Who was he? What was it all\nabout?\n\nHe thought presently that he would go up and see; it was on his way back\nto the clergy-house, too. But when he reached the corner of the aisle\nand could see up it, there seemed to be no one there.\n\nHe began to walk up, wondering more than ever, and then on a sudden he\nsaw a figure kneeling on the lower step of the chapel on the right,\nrailed off and curtained now, where the Crib was ready to be disclosed\ntwo hours later.\n\nIt all seemed very odd. He could not understand why anyone should wish\nto pray before an impenetrable curtain. As he came nearer he saw it was\nhis friend all right. Those boots were unmistakable. The young man was\nkneeling on the step, quite upright and motionless, his cap held in his\nhands, facing towards the curtain behind which, no doubt, there stood\nthe rock-roofed stable, with the Three Personages--an old man, a maid\nand a new-born Child. But their time, too, was not yet. It was two hours\naway.\n\nPriests do not usually stare in the face of people who are saying their\nprayers--they are quite accustomed to that phenomenon; but this priest\n(he tells me) simply could not resist it. And as he passed on his\nnoiseless shoes, noticing that the light from his own confessional shone\nfull upon the man, he turned and looked straight at his face.\n\nNow I do not understand what it was that he saw; he does not understand\nit himself; but it seems that there was something that impressed him\nmore than anything else that he had ever seen before or since in the\nwhole world.\n\nThe young man's eyes were open and his lips were closed. Not one muscle\nof his face moved. So much for the physical facts. But it was a case\nwhere the physical facts are supremely unimportant.... At any rate, the\npriest could only recall them with an effort. The point was that there\nwas something supra-physical there--(personally I should call it\nsupernatural)--that stabbed the watcher's heart clean through with one\nover whelming pang.... (I think that's enough.)\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen the priest reached the Lady chapel he sat down, still trembling a\nlittle, and threw all his attention into his ears, determined to hear\nthe first movement that the kneeling figure made behind him. So he sat\nminute after minute. The Cathedral was full of echoes--murmurous\nrebounds of the noises of the streets, drawn out and mellowed into long,\nsoft, rolling tones, against which, as against a foil, there stood out\ndetached, now and then, the sudden footsteps of someone leaving or\nentering a confessional, the short scream of a slipping chair--once the\nsudden noise of a confessional-door being opened and the click of the\nhandle which turned out the electric light. And it was full of shadows,\ntoo; a monstrous outline crossed and recrossed the apse behind the High\nAltar, as the sacristan moved about; once a hand, as of a giant,\nremained poised for an instant somewhere on the wall beside the throne.\nIt seemed to the priest, tired and clear-brained as he was, as if he sat\nin some place of expectation--some great cavern where mysteries moved\nand passed in preparation for a climax. All was hushed and confused, yet\nalive; and the dark waves would break presently in the glory of the\nmidnight Mass.\n\nHe scarcely knew what held him there, nor what it was for which he\nwaited. He thought of the lighted common-room at the end of the long\ncorridor beyond the sacristy. He wondered who was there; perhaps one or\ntwo were playing billiards and smoking; they had had a hard day of it\nand would scarcely get to bed before three. And yet, here he sat, tired\nand over-strained, yet waiting--waiting for a disreputable-looking young\nman in a dirty suit and muffler and big boots, to give over praying\nbefore a curtain in an empty aisle.\n\nA figure presently came softly round the corner behind him. It was the\npriest whom he had heard leaving his confessional just now.\n\n\"Haven't you done yet?\" whispered the new-comer, pausing behind his\nchair.\n\n\"Coming in a minute or two,\" he said.\n\nThe figure passed on; presently a door banged like muffled thunder\nsomewhere beyond the sacristy, and simultaneously he heard a pair of\nboots going down the aisle behind.\n\nHe got up instantly, and with long, silent steps made his way down the\naisle also. The figure wheeled the corner and disappeared; he himself\nran on tip-toe and was in time to see him turning away from the\nholy-water basin by the door. But he came so quickly after him that the\ndoor was still vibrating as he put his hand upon it. He came out more\ncautiously through the little entrance, and stood on the steps in time\nto see the young man moving off, not five yards away, in the direction\nof Victoria Street. But here something stopped him.\n\nComing straight up the pavement outside the Art and Book Company depot\nwas a newsboy at the trot, yelling something as he came, with a poster\nflapping from one arm and a bundle of papers under the other. The priest\ncould not catch what he said, but he saw the young man suddenly stop and\nthen turn off sharply towards the boy, and he saw him, after fumbling in\nhis pocket, produce a halfpenny and a paper pass into his hands.\n\nThere then he stood, motionless on the pavement, the sheet spread before\nhim flapping a little in the gusty night wind.\n\n\"Paper, sir!\" yelled the boy, pausing in the road. \"'Orrible--\"\n\nThe priest nodded; but he was not thinking much about the paper, and\nproduced his halfpenny. The paper was put into his hand, but he paid no\nattention to it. He was still watching the motionless figure on the\npavement. About three minutes passed. Then the young man suddenly and\ndexterously folded the paper, folded it again and slipped it into his\npocket. Then he set off walking and a moment later had vanished round\nthe corner into Victoria Street.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe priest thought no more of the paper as he went back through the\nCathedral, wondering again over what he had seen....\n\nBut the common-room was empty when he got to it, and presently he spread\nthe paper before him on the table and leaned over it to see what the\nexcitement was about. There was no doubt as to what the news was--there\nwere headlines occupying nearly a third of a column; but it appeared to\nhim unimportant as general news: he had never heard of the people\nbefore. It seemed that a wealthy peer who lived in the North of England,\nwho had only recently been married for the second time, had been killed\nin a motor smash together with his eldest son. The chauffeur had escaped\nwith a fractured thigh. The peer's name was Lord Talgarth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n(I)\n\nOn the morning of the twenty-fourth a curious little incident\nhappened--I dug the facts out of the police news--in a small\npublic-house on the outskirts of South London. Obviously it is no more\nthan the sheerest coincidence. Four men were drinking a friendly glass\nof beer together on their way back to work from breakfast. Their\necclesiastical zeal seems to have been peculiarly strong, for they\ndistinctly stated that they were celebrating Christmas on that date, and\nI deduce from that statement that beer-drinking was comparatively\ninfrequent with them.\n\nHowever, as they were about to part, there entered to them a fifth,\ntravel-stained and tired, who sat down and demanded some stronger form\nof stimulant. The new-comer was known to these four, for his name was\ngiven, and his domicile was mentioned as Hackney Wick. He was a small\nman, very active and very silent and rather pale; and he seems to have\nhad something of a mysterious reputation even among his friends and to\nbe considered a dangerous man to cross.\n\nHe made no mystery, however, as to where he had come from, nor whither\nhe was going. He had come from Kent, he said, and humorously added that\nhe had been hop-picking, and was going to join his wife and the family\ncircle for the festival of Christmas. He remarked that his wife had\nwritten to him to say she had lodgers.\n\nThe four men naturally stayed a little to hear all this news and to\ncelebrate Christmas once more, but they presently were forced to tear\nthemselves away. It was as the first man was leaving (his foreman\nappears to have been of a tyrannical disposition) that the little\nincident happened.\n\n\"Why,\" he said, \"Bill\" (three out of the five companions seemed to have\nbeen usually called \"Bill\"), \"Bill, your boots are in a mess.\"\n\nThe Bill in question made caustic remarks. He observed that it would be\nremarkable if they were not in such weather. But the other persisted\nthat this was not mud, and a general inspection was made. This resulted\nin the opinion of the majority being formed that Bill had trodden in\nsome blood. Bill himself was one of the majority, though he attempted in\nvain to think of any explanation. Two men, however, declared that in\ntheir opinion it was only red earth. (A certain obscurity appears in the\nevidence at this point, owing to the common use of a certain expletive\nin the mouth of the British working-man.) There was a hot discussion on\nthe subject, and the Bill whose boots were under argument seems to have\nbeen the only man to keep his head. He argued very sensibly that if the\nstains were those of blood, then he must have stepped in some--perhaps\nin the gutter of a slaughter-house; and if it was not blood, then it\nmust be something else he had trodden in. It was urged upon him that it\nwas best washed off, and he seems finally to have taken the advice,\nthough without enthusiasm.\n\nThen the four men departed.\n\nThe landlady's evidence was to the same effect. She states that the\nnew-comer, with whose name she had been previously unacquainted, though\nshe knew his face, had remained very tranquilly for an hour or so and\nhad breakfasted off bacon and eggs. He seemed to have plenty of money,\nshe said. He had finally set off, limping a little, in a northward\ndirection.\n\nNow this incident is a very small one. I only mention it because, in\nreading the evidence later, I found myself reminded of a parallel\nincident, recorded in a famous historical trial, in which something\nresembling blood was seen on the hand of the judge. His name was Ayloff,\nand his date the sixteenth century.\n\n\n(II)\n\nMrs. Partington had a surprise--not wholly agreeable--on that Christmas\nEve. For at half-past three, just as the London evening was beginning to\nclose in, her husband walked into the kitchen.\n\nShe had seen nothing of him for six weeks, and had managed to get on\nfairly well without him. I am not even now certain whether or no she\nknows what her husband's occupation is during these absences of his--I\nthink it quite possible that, honestly, she does not--and I have no idea\nmyself. It seemed, however, this time, that he had prospered. He was in\nquite a good temper, he was tolerably well dressed, and within ten\nminutes of his arrival he had produced a handful of shillings. Five of\nthese he handed over to her at once for Christmas necessaries, and ten\nmore he entrusted to Maggie with explicit directions as to their\nexpenditure.\n\nWhile he took off his boots, his wife gave him the news--first, as to\nthe arrival of the Major's little party, and next as to its unhappy\ndispersion on that very day.\n\n\"He will 'ave it as the young man's gone off with the young woman,\" she\nobserved.\n\nMr. Partington made a commentatory sound.\n\n\"An' 'e's 'arf mad,\" she added. \"'E means mischief if 'e can manage it.\"\n\nMr. Partington observed, in his own particular kind of vocabulary, that\nthe Major's intentions were absurd, since the young man would scarcely\nbe such a peculiarly qualified kind of fool as to return. And Mrs.\nPartington agreed with him. (In fact, this had been her one comfort all\nday. For it seemed to her, with her frank and natural ideas, that, on\nthe whole, Frank and Gertie had done the proper thing. She was pleased,\ntoo, to think that she had been right in her surmises as to Gertie's\nattitude to Frank. For, of course, she never doubted for one single\ninstant that the two had eloped together in the ordinary way, though\nprobably without any intentions of matrimony.)\n\nMr. Partington presently inquired as to where the Major was, and was\ninformed that he was, of course, at the \"Queen's Arms.\" He had been\nthere, in fact, continuously--except for sudden excursions home, to\ndemand whether anything had been heard of the fugitives--since about\nhalf-past eleven that morning. It was a situation that needed comfort.\n\nMrs. Partington added a few comments on the whole situation, and\npresently put on her bonnet and went out to supplement her Christmas\npreparations with the extra five shillings, leaving her husband to doze\nin the Windsor chair, with his pipe depending from his mouth. He had\nwalked up from Kent that morning, he said.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe returned in time to get tea ready, bringing with her various\n\"relishes,\" and found that the situation had developed slightly since\nher departure. The Major had made another of his infuriated returns, and\nhad expanded at length to his old friend Mr. Partington, recounting the\nextraordinary kindness he had always shown to Frank and the confidence\nhe had reposed in him. He had picked him up, it seemed, when the young\nman had been practically starving, and had been father and comrade to\nhim ever since. And to be repaid in this way! He had succeeded also by\nhis eloquence, Mrs. Partington perceived, in winning her husband's\nsympathies, and was now gone off again, ostensibly to scour the\nneighborhood once more, but, more probably, to attempt to drown his\ngrieved and wounded feelings.\n\nMrs. Partington set her thin lips and said nothing. She noticed also, as\nshe spread the table, a number of bottles set upon the floor, two of\nthem with yellow labels--the result of Maggie's errand--and prepared\nherself to face a somewhat riotous evening. But Christmas, she reflected\nfor her consolation, comes but once a year.\n\nIt was about nine o'clock that the two men and the one woman sat down to\nsupper upstairs. The children had been put to bed in the kitchen as\nusual, after Jimmie had informed his mother that the clergyman had been\nround no less than three times since four o'clock to inquire after the\nvanished lodger. He was a little tearful at being put to bed at such an\nunusually early hour, as Mr. Parham-Carter, it appeared, had promised\nhim no less than sixpence if he would come round to the clergy-house\nwithin five minutes after the lodger's return, and it was obviously\nimpossible to traverse the streets in a single flannel shirt.\n\nHis mother dismissed it all as nonsense. She told him that Frankie was\nnot coming back at all--that he wasn't a good young man, and had run\naway without paying mother her rent. This made the situation worse than\never, as Jimmie protested violently against this shattering of his\nideal, and his mother had to assume a good deal of sternness to cover up\nher own tenderness of feeling. But she, too--though she considered the\nflight of the two perfectly usual--was conscious of a very slight sense\nof disappointment herself that it should have been this particular young\nman who had done it.\n\nThen she went upstairs again to supper.\n\n\n(III)\n\nThe famous archway that gives entrance to the district of Hackney Wick\nseems, especially on a rainy night, directly designed by the Great\nEastern Railway as a vantage ground for observant loafers with a desire\nto know every soul that enters or leaves Hackney Wick. It is, of course,\npossible to, enter Hackney Wick by other ways--it may be approached by\nthe marshes, and there is, I think, another way round about half a mile\nto the east, under the railway. But those ways have nothing whatever to\ndo with people coming from London proper. You arrive at Victoria Park\nStation; you turn immediately to the right and follow the pavement down,\nwith the park on your left, until you come to the archway where the road\nunites with that coming from Homerton. One is absolutely safe,\ntherefore, assuming that one has not to deal with watchful criminals, in\nstanding under the arch with the certitude that sooner or later, if you\nwait long enough, the man whom you expect to enter Hackney Wick will\npass within ten yards of you.\n\nMr. Parham-Carter, of course, knew this perfectly well, and had,\nfinally, communicated the fact to the other two quite early in the\nafternoon. An elaborate system of watches, therefore, had been arranged,\nby which one of the three had been on guard continuously since three\no'clock. It was Jack who had had the privilege (if he had but known it)\nof observing Mr. Partington himself returning home to his family for\nChristmas, and it was Dick, who came on guard about five, who had seen\nthe Major--or, rather, what was to him merely a shabby and excited\nman--leave and then return to the \"Queen's Arms\" during his hour's\nwatch.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAfter the amazing and shocking news, however, of the accident to Lord\nTalgarth and Archie, the precautions had been doubled. It was the\nclergyman who had first bought an evening paper soon after five o'clock,\nand within five minutes the other two knew it also.\n\nIt is of no good to try to describe the effect it had on their minds,\nbeyond saying that it made all three of them absolutely resolute that\nFrank should by no possible means escape them. The full dramatic\nsituation of it all they scarcely appreciated, though it soaked more and\nmore into them gradually as they waited--two of them in the Men's Club\njust round the corner, and the third, shivering and stamping, under the\narch. (An unemployed man, known to the clergyman, had been set as an\nadditional sentry on the steps of the Men's Club, whose duty it would\nbe, the moment the signal was given from the arch that Frank was\ncoming, to call the other two instantly from inside. Further, the\nclergyman--as has been related--had been round three times since four\no'clock to Turner Road, and had taken Jimmie into his pay.)\n\nThe situation was really rather startling, even to the imperturbable\nDick. This pleasant young man, to whom he had begun to feel very\nstrangely tender during the last month or two, now tramping London\nstreets (or driving a van), in his miserable old clothes described to\nhim by the clergyman, or working at the jam factory, was actually no one\nelse at this moment but the new Lord Talgarth--with all that that\nimplied. Merefield was his, the big house in Berkeley Square was his;\nthe moor in Scotland.... It was an entire reversal of the whole thing:\nit was as a change of trumps in whist: everything had altered its\nvalue....\n\nWell, he had plenty of time, both before he came off guard at seven and\nafter he had joined the clergyman in the Men's Club, to sort out the\nfacts and their consequences.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAbout half-past ten the three held a consultation under the archway,\nwhile trains rumbled overhead. They attracted very little attention\nhere: the archway is dark and wide; they were muffled to the eyes; and\nthere usually is a fringe of people standing under shelter here on rainy\nevenings. They leaned back against the wall and talked.\n\nThey had taken further steps since they had last met. Mr. Parham-Carter\nhad been round to the jam factory, and had returned with the news that\nthe van had come back under the charge of only one of the drivers, and\nthat the other one, who was called Gregory (whom Mr. Parham-Carter was\ninquiring after), would certainly be dismissed in consequence. He had\ntaken the address of the driver, who was now off duty--somewhere in\nHomerton--with the intention of going to see him next morning if Frank\nhad not appeared.\n\nThere were two points they were discussing now. First, should the police\nbe informed? Secondly, was it probable that Frank would have heard the\nnews, and, if so, was it conceivable that he had gone straight off\nsomewhere in consequence--to his lawyers, or even to Merefield itself?\n\nDick remembered the name of the firm quite well--at least, he thought\nso. Should he send a wire to inquire?\n\nBut then, in that case, Jack shrewdly pointed out, everything was as it\nshould be. And this reflection caused the three considerable comfort.\n\nFor all that, there were one or two \"ifs.\" Was it likely that Frank\nshould have heard the news? He was notoriously hard up, and the name\nTalgarth had not appeared, so far, on any of the posters. Yet he might\neasily have been given a paper, or picked one up ... and then....\n\nSo the discussion went on, and there was not much to be got out of it.\nThe final decision come to was this: That guard should be kept, as\nbefore, until twelve o'clock midnight; that at that hour the three\nshould leave the archway and, in company, visit two places--Turner Road\nand the police-station--and that the occupants of both these places\nshould be informed of the facts. And that then all three should go to\nbed.\n\n\n(IV)\n\nAt ten minutes past eleven Dick moved away from the fire in the Men's\nClub, where he had just been warming himself after his vigil, and began\nto walk up and down.\n\nHe had no idea why he was so uncomfortable, and he determined to set to\nwork to reassure himself. (The clergyman, he noticed, was beginning to\ndoze a little by the fire, for the club had just been officially closed\nand the rooms were empty.)\n\nOf course, it was not pleasant to have to tell a young man that his\nfather and brother were dead (Dick himself was conscious of a\nconsiderable shock), but surely the situation was, on the whole,\nenormously improved. This morning Frank was a pauper; to-night he was\npractically a millionaire, as well as a peer of the realm. This morning\nhis friends had nothing by which they might appeal to him, except common\nsense and affection, and Frank had very little of the one, and, it would\nseem, a very curious idea of the other.\n\nOf course, all that affair about Jenny was a bad business (Dick could\nhardly even now trust himself to think of her too much, and not to\ndiscuss her at all), but Frank would get over it.\n\nThen, still walking up and down, and honestly reassured by sheer reason,\nhe began to think of what part Jenny would play in the future.... It was\na very odd situation, a very odd situation indeed. (The deliberate and\nself-restrained Dick used an even stronger expression.) Here was a young\nwoman who had jilted the son and married the father, obviously from\nambitious motives, and now found herself almost immediately in the\nposition of a very much unestablished kind of dowager, with the jilted\nson reigning in her husband's stead. And what on earth would happen\nnext? Diamonds had been trumps; now it looked as if hearts were to\nsucceed them; and what a very remarkable pattern was that of these\nhearts.\n\nBut to come back to Frank--\n\nAnd at that moment he heard a noise at the door, and, as the clergyman\nstarted up from his doze, Dick saw the towzled and becapped head of the\nunemployed man and his hand beckoning violently, and heard his hoarse\nvoice adjuring them to make haste. The gentleman under the arch, he\nsaid, was signaling.\n\nThe scene was complete when the two arrived, with the unemployed man\nencouraging them from behind, half a minute later under the archway.\n\nJack had faced Frank fairly and squarely on the further pavement, and\nwas holding him in talk.\n\n\"My dear chap,\" he was saying, \"we've been waiting for you all day.\nThank the Lord you've come!\"\n\nFrank looked a piteous sight, thought Dick, who now for the first time\nsaw the costume that Mr. Parham-Carter had described with such\nminuteness. He was standing almost under the lamp, and there were heavy\ndrooping shadows on his face; he looked five years older than when Dick\nhad last seen him--only at Easter. But his voice was confident and\nself-respecting enough.\n\n\"My dear Jack,\" he was saying, \"you really mustn't interrupt. I've only\njust--\" Then he broke off as he recognized the others.\n\n\"So you've given me away after all,\" he said with a certain sternness to\nthe clergyman.\n\n\"Indeed I haven't,\" cried that artless young man. \"They came quite\nunexpectedly this morning.\"\n\n\"And you've told them that they could catch me here,\" said Frank \"Well,\nit makes no difference. I'm going on--Hullo! Dick!\"\n\n\"Look here!\" said Dick. \"It's really serious. You've heard about--\" His\nvoice broke.\n\n\"I've heard about it,\" said Frank. \"But that doesn't make any difference\nfor to-night.\"\n\n\"But my dear man,\" cried Jack, seizing him by the lapel of his coat,\n\"it's simply ridiculous. We've come down here on purpose--you're killing\nyourself--\"\n\n\"One moment,\" said Frank. \"Tell me exactly what you want.\"\n\nDick pushed to the front.\n\n\"Let him alone, you fellows.... This is what we want, Frank. We want you\nto come straight to the clergy-house for to-night. To-morrow you and\nI'll go and see the lawyers first thing in the morning, and go up to\nMerefield by the afternoon train. I'm sorry, but you've really got to go\nthrough with it. You're the head of the family now. They'll be all\nwaiting for you there, and they can't do anything without you. This\nmustn't get into the papers. Fortunately, not a soul knows of it yet,\nthough they would have if you'd been half an hour later. Now, come\nalong.\"\n\n\"One moment,\" said Frank. \"I agree with nearly all that you've said. I\nquite agree with you that\"--he paused a moment--\"that the head of the\nfamily should be at Merefield to-morrow night. But for to-night you\nthree must just go round to the clergy-house and wait. I've got to\nfinish my job clean out--and--\"\n\n\"What job?\" cried two voices simultaneously.\n\nFrank leaned against the wall and put his hands in his pockets.\n\n\"I really don't propose to go into all that now. It'd take an hour. But\ntwo of you know most of the story. In a dozen words it's this--I've got\nthe girl away, and now I'm going to tell the man, and tell him a few\nother things at the same time. That's the whole thing. Now clear off,\nplease. (I'm awfully obliged, you know, and all that), but you really\nmust let me finish it before I do anything else.\"\n\nThere was a silence.\n\nIt seemed tolerably reasonable, put like that--at least, it seemed\nconsistent with what appeared to the three to be the amazing unreason of\nall Frank's proceedings. They hesitated, and were lost.\n\n\"Will you swear not to clear out of Hackney Wick before we've seen you\nagain?\" demanded Jack hoarsely.\n\nFrank bowed his head.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said.\n\nThe clergyman and Dick were consulting in low voices. Jack looked at\nthem with a wild sort of appeal in his face. He was completely\nbewildered, and hoped for help. But none came.\n\n\"Will you swear--\" he began again.\n\nFrank put his hand suddenly on his friend's shoulder.\n\n\"Look here, old man. I'm really rather done up. I think you might let me\ngo without any more--\"\n\n\"All right, we agree,\" said Dick suddenly. \"And--\"\n\n\"Very good,\" said Frank. \"Then there's really no more--\"\n\nHe turned as if to go.\n\n\"Frank, Frank--\" cried Jack.\n\nFrank turned and glanced at him, and then went on.\n\n\"Good-night,\" he cried.\n\nAnd so they let him go.\n\nThey watched him, in silence, cross the road by the \"Queen's Arms\" and\npass up the left-hand pavement. As he drew near each lamp his shadow\nlay behind him, shortened, vanished and reappeared before him. After\nthe third lamp they lost him, and they knew he would a moment later pass\ninto Turner Road.\n\nSo they let him go.\n\n\n(V)\n\nMr. Parham-Carter's room looked very warm and home-like after the\ncomfortlessness of the damp lamp-lit streets. It was as has already been\nrelated: the Madonna, the prints, the low book-cases, the drawn\ncurtains, the rosy walls, the dancing firelight and the electric lamp.\n\nIt was even reassuring at first--safe and protected, and the three sat\ndown content. A tray with some cold meat and cheese rested on the table\nby the fire, and cocoa in a brown jug stood warming in the fender. They\nhad had irregular kinds of refreshments in the Men's Club at odd\nintervals, and were exceedingly hungry....\n\nThey began to talk presently, and it was astonishing how the sight and\ntouch of Frank had cheered them. More than one of the three has\nconfessed to me since that a large part of the anxiety was caused by his\nsimple absence and by imaginative little pictures of street accidents.\nIt would have been so extremely ironical if he had happened to have\nbeen run over on the day on which he became Lord Talgarth.\n\nThey laid their little plans, too, for the next day. Dick had thought it\nall out. He, Jack and Frank were to call at the lawyers' office in\nLincoln's Inn Fields, and leave a message, as the office would be closed\nof course, immediately after the wanderer had been dressed properly in\nready-made clothes. Then they would catch the early afternoon train and\nget to Merefield that night. The funeral could not possibly take place\nfor several days: there would have to be an inquest.\n\nThen they read over the account of the smash in the _Star_\nnewspaper--special edition. It seemed to have been nobody's fault. The\nbrake had refused to act going down a steep hill; they had run into a\nwall; the chauffeur had been thrown clean over it; the two passengers\nhad been pinned under the car. Lord Talgarth was dead at once; Archie\nhad died five minutes after being taken out.\n\nSo they all talked at once in low voices, but in the obvious excitement\nof relief. It was an extraordinary pleasure to them--now that they\nlooked at it in the sanity conferred by food and warmth--to reflect that\nFrank was within a quarter of a mile of them--certainly in dreary\nsurroundings; but it was for the last time. To-morrow would see him\nrestored to ordinary life, his delusions and vagaries plucked from him\nby irresistible circumstance, and the future in his hands.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMidnight still found them talking--alert and cheerful; but a little\nsilence fell as they heard the chiming of bells.\n\n\"Christmas Day, by George!\" said the clergyman. \"Merry Christmas!\"\n\nThey shook hands, smiling shamefacedly, as is the custom of Englishmen.\n\n\"And to think of old Frank--\" mused Jack half aloud. \"I told you,\nGuiseley, about his coming to me in the autumn?\" (He had been thinking a\ngreat deal about that visit lately, and about what Frank had told him of\nhimself--the idea he had of Something going on behind the scenes in\nwhich he had passively to take his part; his remark on how pleasant it\nmust be to be a squire. Well, the play had come to an end, it seemed;\nnow there followed the life of a squire indeed. It was curious to think\nthat Frank was, actually at this moment, Lord Talgarth!)\n\nDick nodded his head, smiling to himself in his beard. Somehow or\nanother the turn things had taken had submerged in him for the present\nthe consciousness of the tragedy up at Merefield, and his own private\ngriefs, and the memory of Jenny.\n\nJack told it all again briefly. He piled it on about the Major and his\nextreme repulsiveness, and the draggled appearance of Gertie, and\nFrank's incredible obstinacy.\n\n\"And to think that he's brought it off, and got the girl home to her\npeople.... Well, thank the Lord that's over! We shan't have any more of\nthat sort of thing.\"\n\nDick got up presently and began to walk about, eyeing the pictures and\nthe books.\n\n\"Want to turn in?\" asked the cleric.\n\n\"Well, I think, as we've an early start--\"\n\nThe clergyman jumped up.\n\n\"You've a beastly little room, I'm afraid. We're rather full up. And\nyou, Mr. Kirkby!\"\n\n\"I'll wait till you come back,\" he said.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe two went out, after good-nights, and Jack was left staring at the\nfire.\n\nHe felt very wide-awake, and listened contentedly to the dying noises of\nthe streets. Somewhere in that hive outside was Frank--old Frank. That\nwas very good to think of....\n\nDuring these last months Frank's personality had been very persistently\nbefore him. It was not that he pretended to understand him in the very\nleast; but he understood enough now to feel that there was something\nvery admirable in it all. It was mad and quixotic and absurd, but it\nhad a certain light of nobility. Of course, it would never do if people\nin general behaved like that; society simply could not go on if everyone\nwent about espousing the cause of unhappy and badly-behaved individuals,\nand put on old clothes and played the Ass. But, for all that, it was not\nunpleasant to reflect that his own friend had chosen to do these things\nin despite of convention. There was a touch of fineness in it. And it\nwas all over now, thank God.... What times they would have up in the\nnorth!\n\nHe heard a gate clash somewhere outside. The sound just detached itself\nfrom the murmur of the night. Then a late train ran grinding over the\nembanked railway behind the house, and drew up with the screaming of\nbrakes at Victoria Park Station, and distracted him again.\n\n\"Are you ready, Mr. Kirkby?\" said the clergyman, coming in.\n\nJack stood up, stretching himself. In the middle of the stretch he\nstopped.\n\n\"What's that noise?\" he asked.\n\nThey stood listening.\n\nThen again came the sharp, prolonged tingle of an electric bell,\nfollowed by a battering at a door downstairs.\n\nJack, looking in the other's face, saw him go ever so slightly pale\nbeneath his eyes.\n\n\"There's somebody at the door,\" said Mr. Parham-Carter. \"I'll just go\ndown and see.\"\n\nAnd, as Jack stood there, motionless and breathless, he could hear no\nsound but the thick hammering of his own heart at the base of his\nthroat.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n(I)\n\nAt half-past eleven o'clock Mrs. Partington came upstairs to the room\nwhere the two men were still drinking, to make one more suggestion that\nit was time to go to bed.\n\nIt was a dreary little room, this front bedroom on the first floor,\nwhere Frank and the Major had slept last night in one large double bed.\nThe bed was pushed now close against the wall, the clothes still tumbled\nand unmade, with various articles lying upon it, as on a table. A chair\nwithout a back stood between it and the window.\n\nThe table where the two men still sat was pulled close to the fire that\nhad been lighted partly in honor of Mr. Partington and partly in honor\nof Christmas, and was covered with a _debris_ of plates and glasses and\ntobacco and bottles. There was a jam-jar filled with holly obtained from\nthe butcher's shop, in the middle of the table. There was very little\nfurniture in the room; there was a yellow-painted chest of drawers\nopposite the door, and this, too, held a little regiment of bottles;\nthere was a large oleograph of Queen Victoria hanging above the bed,\nand a text--for some inscrutable reason--was permitted to hang above the\nfireplace, proclaiming that \"The Lord is merciful and long-suffering,\"\nin Gothic letters, peeping modestly out of a wealth of painted\napple-blossoms, with a water-wheel in the middle distance and a stile.\nOn the further side of the fireplace was a washhand-stand, with a tin\npail below it, and the Major's bowler hat reposing in the basin. There\nwas a piece of carpet underneath the table, and a woolly sort of mat,\ntrodden through in two or three places, beside the bed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nMrs. Partington coughed as she came in, so tremendous was the reek of\ntobacco smoke, burning paraffin and spirits.\n\n\"Bless the men!\" she said, and choked once more.\n\nShe was feeling comparatively light-hearted; it was a considerable\nrelief to her that Frank actually had not come back, though she never\nhad for one instant expected him to do so. But she didn't want any more\ndisturbances or quarrels, and, as she looked at the Major, who turned in\nhis chair as she came in, she felt even more relieved. His appearance\nwas not reassuring.\n\nHe had been drinking pretty steadily all day to drown his grief, and had\nended up by a very business-like supper with his landlord. There were\nfour empty beer bottles and one empty whisky bottle distributed on the\ntable or floor, and another half-empty whisky bottle stood between the\ntwo men on the table. And as she looked at the Major (she was completely\nexperienced in alcoholic symptoms), she understood exactly what stage he\nhad reached....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow the Major was by no means a drunkard--let that be understood. He\ndrank whenever he could, but a tramp cannot drink to very grave excess.\nHe is perpetually walking and he is perpetually poor. But this was a\nspecial occasion; it was Christmas; he was home in London; his landlord\nhad returned, and he had lost Gertie.\n\nHe had reached, then, the dangerous stage, when the alcohol, after\nhaving excited and warmed and confused the brain, recoils from it to\nsome extent, leaving it clear and resolute and entirely reckless, and\nentirely conscious of any idea that happens to be dominant (at least,\nthat is the effect on some temperaments). The maudlin stage had passed\nlong ago, at the beginning of supper, when the Major had leaned his head\non his plate and wept over the ingratitude of man and the peculiar\npoignancy of \"old Frankie's\" individual exhibition of it. A noisy stage\nhad succeeded to this, and now there was deadly quiet.\n\nHe was rather white in the face; his eyes were set, but very bright, and\nhe was smoking hard and fast.\n\n\"Now then,\" said Mrs. Partington cheerfully, \"time for bed.\"\n\nHer husband winked at her gravely, which was his nearest approach to\nhilarity. He was a quiet man at all times.\n\nThe Major said nothing.\n\n\"There! there's 'Erb awake again,\" said the mother, as a wail rose up\nthe staircase. \"I'll be up again presently.\" And she vanished once more.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTwo of the children were awake after all.\n\nJimmie lay, black-eyed and alert, beside his brother, and looked at his\nmother reflectively as she came in. He was still thinking about the\nsixpence that might conceivably have been his. 'Erb's lamentation\nstopped as she came in, and she went to the table first to turn down the\nsmoking lamp.\n\nShe was quite a kindly mother, a great deal more tender than she seemed,\nand 'Erb knew it well enough. But he respected her sufficiently to stop\ncrying when she came in.\n\n\"Now then,\" she said with motherly sternness. \"I can't 'ave--\"\n\nThen she stopped abruptly. She had heard steps on the pavement outside\nas she came into the room, and now she heard the handle of the street\ndoor turned and someone come into the passage. She stood wondering, and\nin that pause she missed her chance, for the steps came straight past\nthe door and began to go upstairs. It might, of course, conceivably be\none of the lodgers on the top-floor, and yet she knew it was not. She\nwhisked to the door a moment later, but it was too late, and she was\nonly just in time to see the figure she knew turn the corner of the four\nstairs that led to the first-floor landing.\n\n\"Is that Frankie?\" asked Jimmie, suddenly sitting up in bed. \"Oh!\nmother, let me--\"\n\n\"You be quiet!\" snapped the woman, and stood listening; with parted\nlips.\n\n\n(II)\n\nFrom that point Mrs. Partington seems to have been able to follow very\nclosely what must have taken place upstairs.\n\nIt was a very quiet night, here in Turner Road: the roysterers were in\nthe better-lighted streets, and the sober folk were at home. And there\nwas not a footstep on the pavements outside to confuse the little drama\nof sound that came down to her through the ill-fitting boards overhead.\nShe could not explain afterwards why she did not interfere. I imagine\nthat she hoped against hope that she was misinterpreting what she heard,\nand also that a kind of terror seized her which she found it really\nimpossible to shake off.\n\nFirst, there was the opening and closing of the door; two or three\nfootsteps, and then dead silence.\n\nThen she heard talking begin, first one voice, then a crescendo, as if\ntwo or three clamored together; then one voice again. (It was\nimpossible, so far, to distinguish which was which.)\n\nThis went on for a minute or two; occasionally there was a crescendo,\nand once or twice some voice rose almost into a shout.\n\nThen, without warning, there was a shuffling of feet, and a crash, as of\nan overturned chair; and, instant upon the noise, 'Erb set up a\nprolonged wail.\n\n\"You be quiet!\" snapped the woman in a sharp whisper.\n\nThe noises went on: now the stamp of a foot; now the scraping of\nsomething overhead and a voice or two in sharp deep exclamation, and\nthen complete silence once more. 'Erb was sobbing now, as noiselessly as\nhe could, terrified at his mother's face, and Jimmie was up, standing\non the floor in his flannel shirt, listening like his mother. Maggie\nstill slept deeply on the further side of the bed.\n\nThe woman went on tip-toe a step nearer the door, opened it, and peeped\nout irresolutely. But the uncarpeted stairs stretched up into the\ndarkness, unlit except for the glimmer that came from the room at whose\ndoor she was standing....\n\nThere was a voice now, rising and falling steadily, and she heard it\nbroken in upon now and again by something that resembled a chuckle.\nSomehow or another this sickened her more than all else; it was like her\nhusband's voice. She recoiled into the room, and, as she did so, there\ncame the sound of blows and the stamping of feet, and she knew, in a way\nthat she could not explain, that there was no fight going on. It was\nsome kind of punishment, not a conflict....\n\nShe would have given the world to move, to run to the street door and\nscream for help; but her knees shook under her and her heart seemed to\nbe hammering itself to bits. Jimmie had hold of her now, clinging round\nher, shaking with terror and murmuring something she could not\nunderstand. Her whole attention was upstairs. She was wondering how long\nit would go on.\n\nIt must be past midnight now, she thought: the streets seethed still as\ndeath. But overhead there was still movement and the sound of blows,\nand then abruptly the end came.\n\nThere was one more crescendo of noise--two voices raised in dispute, one\nalmost shrill, in anger or expostulation; then one more sudden and heavy\nnoise as of a blow or a fall, and dead silence.\n\n\n(III)\n\nThe next thing that Mrs. Partington remembered afterwards was that she\nfound herself standing on the landing upstairs, listening, yet afraid to\nmove.\n\nAll was very nearly silent within: there was just low talking, and the\nsound of something being moved. It was her husband's voice that she\nheard.\n\nBeyond her the stairs ran up to the next story, and she became aware\npresently that someone else was watching, too. An untidy head of a woman\nleaned over the banisters, and candle-light from somewhere beyond lit up\nher face. She was grinning.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThen the sharp whisper came down the stairs demanding what was up.\n\nMrs. Partington jerked her thumb towards the closed door and nodded\nreassuringly. She was aware that she must be natural at all costs. The\nwoman still hung over the banisters a minute longer and then was gone.\n\nJimmie was with her too, now, still just in his shirt, perfectly quiet,\nwith a face as white as paper. His big black eyes dwelt on his mother's\nface.\n\nThen suddenly she could bear the suspense no more. She stole up to the\ndoor, still on tip-toe, still listening, and laid her fingers on the\nhandle. There were more gentle movements within now, the noise of water\nand a basin (she heard the china clink distinctly), but no more words.\n\nShe turned the handle resolutely and looked in.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe Major was leaning in the corner by the window, with his hands in his\npockets, staring with a dull, white, defiant kind of face at the bed.\nThe lamp on the mantelpiece lighted him up clearly. On his knees by the\nbedside was her husband, with his back to her, supporting a basin on the\nbed and some thing dark that hung over it. Then she saw Frank. It was he\nwho was lying on the bed almost upon his face; one boot dangled down on\nthis side, and it was his head that her husband was supporting. She\nstared at it a moment in terror.... Then her eyes wandered to the floor,\nwhere, among the pieces of broken glass, a pool of dark liquid spread\nslowly over the boards. Twigs and detached leaves of holly lay in the\nmidst of it. And at that sight her instinct reasserted herself.\n\nShe stepped forward and took her husband by the shoulder. He turned a\nface that twitched a little towards her. She pushed him aside, took the\nbasin from him, and the young man's head....\n\n\"Clear out of this,\" she whispered sharply. \"Quick, mind! You and the\nMajor!... Jimmie!\" The boy was by her in an instant, shaking all over,\nbut perfectly self-controlled.\n\n\"Jimmie, put your things on and be off to the clergy-house. Ring 'em up,\nand ask for Mr. Carter. Bring him round with you.\"\n\nFrank's head slipped a little in her hands, and she half rose to steady\nit. When she had finished and looked round again for her husband, the\nroom was empty. From below up the stairs came a sudden draught, and the\nflame leaped in the lamp-chimney. And then, once more unrestrained, rose\nup the wailing of 'Erb.\n\n\n(IV)\n\nA little after dawn on that Christmas morning Mr. Parham-Carter sat\nsolitary in the kitchen. The children had been packed off to a\nneighbor's house before, and he himself had been to and fro all night\nand was tired out--to the priest's house at Homerton, to the doctor's,\nand to the parish nurse. All the proper things had been done. Frank had\nbeen anointed by the priest, bandaged by the doctor, and settled in by\nthe nurse into the middle of the big double bed. He had not yet\nrecovered consciousness. They were upstairs now--Jack, Dick and the\nnurse; the priest and the doctor had promised to look in before\nnine--there was nothing more that they could do for the present, they\nsaid--and Mrs. Partington was out at this moment to fetch something from\nthe dispensary.\n\nHe had heard her story during one of the intervals in the course of the\nnight, and it seemed to him that he had a tolerably accurate theory of\nthe whole affair--if, that is to say, her interpretation of the noises\nshe had heard was at all correct.\n\nThe Major must have made an unexpected attack, probably by a kick that\nhad temporarily disabled Frank, and must then, with Mr. Partington's\njudicial though amused approval, have proceeded to inflict chastisement\nupon Frank as he lay on the floor. This must have gone on for a\nconsiderable time; Frank seemed to have been heavily kicked all over his\nbody. And the thing must have ended with a sudden uncontrolled attack on\nthe part of the Major, not only with his boots, but with at least one of\nthe heavy bottles. The young man's head was cut deeply, as if by glass,\nand it was probably three or four kicks on the head, before Mr.\nPartington could interfere, that had concluded the punishment. The\ndoctor's evidence entirely corroborated this interpretation of events.\nIt was, of course, impossible to know whether Frank had had the time or\nthe will to make any resistance. The police had been communicated with,\nbut there was no news yet of the two men involved.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was one of those bleak, uncomfortable dawns that have no beauty\neither of warmth or serenity--at least it seemed so here in Turner Road.\nAbove the torn and dingy strip of lace that shrouded the lower part of\nthe window towered the black fronts of the high houses against the\nsteely western sky. It was extraordinarily quiet. Now and then a\nfootstep echoed and died suddenly as some passer-by crossed the end of\nthe street; but there was no murmur of voices yet, or groups at the\ndoors, as, no doubt, there would be when the news became known.\n\nThe room, too, was cheerless; the fire was long ago gone out; the\nchildren's bed was still tumbled and disordered, and the paraffin lamp\nhad smoked itself out half an hour ago. Overhead the clergyman could\nhear now and again a very gentle footstep, and that was all.\n\nHe was worn out with excitement and a kind of terror; and events took\nfor him the same kind of clear, hard outline as did the physical objects\nthemselves in this cold light of dawn. He had passed through a dozen\nmoods: furious anger at the senseless crime, at the hopeless, miserable\nwaste of a life, an overwhelming compassion and a wholly unreasonable\nself-reproach for not having foreseen danger more clearly the night\nbefore. There were other thoughts that had come to him too--doubts as to\nwhether the internal significance of all these things were in the least\nanalogous to the external happenings; whether, perhaps, after all, the\nwhole affair were not on the inner side a complete and perfect event--in\nfact, a startling success of a nature which he could not understand.\nCertainly, exteriorly, a more lamentable failure and waste could not be\nconceived; there had been sacrificed such an array of advantages--birth,\nmoney, education, gifts, position--and for such an exceedingly small and\ndoubtful good, that no additional data, it would appear, could possibly\nexplain the situation. Yet was it possible that such data did exist\nsomewhere, and that another golden and perfect deed had been done--that\nthere was no waste, no failure, after all?\n\nBut at present these thoughts only came to him in glimpses; he was\nexhausted now of emotion and speculation. He regarded the pitiless\nfacts with a sunken, unenergetic attention, and wondered when he would\nbe called again upstairs.\n\nThere came a footstep outside; it hesitated, then the street door was\npushed open and the step came in, up to the room door, and a small face,\npinched with cold, its eyes all burning, looked at him.\n\n\"Come in, Jimmie,\" he whispered.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd so the two sat, huddled one against the other, and the man felt\nagain and again a shudder, though not of cold, shake the little body at\nhis side.\n\n\n(V)\n\nTen minutes later a step came down the stairs, a little hurriedly,\nthough on tip-toe; and Mrs. Partington, her own thin face lined with\nsleeplessness and emotion, and her lips set, nodded at him emphatically.\nHe understood, and went quickly past her, followed closely by the child,\nand up the narrow stairs.... He heard the street-door close behind him\nas the woman left the house.\n\nIt seemed to him as he came into the room as if he had stepped clean out\nof one world into another. And the sense of it was so sudden and abrupt\nthat he stood for an instant on the threshold amazed at the transition.\n\nFirst, it was the absolute stillness and motionlessness of the room that\nimpressed him, so far as any one element predominated. There were\npersons in the room, but they were as statues.\n\nOn the farther side of the bed, decent now and arranged and standing out\nacross the room, kneeled the two men, Jack Kirkby and Dick Guiseley, but\nthey neither lifted their eyes nor showed the faintest consciousness of\nhis presence as he entered. Their faces were in shadow: behind them was\nthe cold patch of the window, and a candle within half an inch of\nextinction stood also behind them on a table in the corner, with one or\ntwo covered vessels and instruments.\n\nThe nurse kneeled on this side, one arm beneath the pillow and the other\non the counterpane.\n\nAnd then there was Frank.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe lay perfectly still upon his back, his hands clasped before him (and\neven these were bandaged). His head lay high on three or four pillows,\nand he wore what looked like a sort of cap, wholly hiding his hair and\nears. His profile alone showed clear-cut and distinct against the gloom\nin the corner behind. His face was entirely tranquil, as pale as ivory;\nhis lips were closed. His eyes alone were alive.\n\nPresently those turned a little, and the man standing at the door,\nunderstanding the look, came forward and kneeled too by the bed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThen, little by little, he began, in that living stillness, to\nunderstand rather better what it was that he was witnessing.... It was\nnot that there was anything physical in the room, beyond the things of\nwhich his senses told him; there was but the dingy furniture, the white\nbed, august now with a strange dignity as of a white altar, and the four\npersons beside himself--five now, for Jimmie was beside him. But that\nthe physical was not the plane in which these five persons were now\nchiefly conscious was the most evident thing of all.... There was about\nthem, not a Presence, not an air, not a sweetness or a sound, and yet it\nis by such negatives only that the thing can be expressed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd so they kneeled and waited.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Why, Jack--\"\n\nIt shook the waiting air like the sound of a bell, yet it was only\nwhispered. The man nearest him on the other side shook with a single\nspasmodic movement and laid his fingers gently on the bandaged hands.\nAnd then for a long while there was no further movement or sound.\n\n\"Rosary!\" said Frank suddenly, still in a whisper.... \"Beads....\"\n\nJack moved swiftly on his knees, took from the table a string of beads\nfrom where they had been laid the night before, and put them into the\nstill fingers. Then he laid his own hands over them again.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAgain there was a long pause.\n\nOutside in the street a footstep came up from the direction of Mortimer\nRoad, waxed loud and clear on the pavement, and died again down towards\nthe street leading to the marshes. And, but for this, there was no\nfurther sound for a while. Then a cock crew, thin and shrill, somewhere\nfar away; a dray rumbled past the end of the street and was silent.\n\nBut the silence in the room was of a different quality; or, rather, the\nworld seemed silent because this room was so, and not the other way. It\nwas here that the center lay, where a battered man was dying, and from\nthis center radiated out the Great Peace.\n\nIt was no waste then, after all!--this life of strange unreason ending\nin this very climax of uselessness, exactly when ordinary usefulness was\nabout to begin. Could that be waste that ended so?\n\n\"Priest,\" whispered the voice from the bed.\n\nThen Dick leaned forward.\n\n\"He has been,\" he said distinctly and slowly. \"He was here at two\no'clock. He did--what he came for. And he's coming again directly.\"\n\nThe eyes closed in sign of assent and opened again.\n\nHe seemed to be looking, as in a kind of meditation, at nothing in\nparticular. It was as a man who waits at his ease for some pleasant\nlittle event that will unroll by and by. He was in no ecstasy, and, it\nseemed, in no pain and in no fierce expectation; he was simply at his\nease and waiting. He was content, whatever those others might be.\n\nFor a moment it crossed the young clergyman's mind that he ought to pray\naloud, but the thing was dismissed instantly. It seemed to him\nimpertinent nonsense. That was not what was required. It was his\nbusiness to watch, not to act.\n\nSo, little by little, he ceased to think actively, he ceased to consider\nthis and that. At first he had wondered how long it would be before the\ndoctor and the priest arrived. (The woman had gone to fetch them.) He\nhad wished that they would make haste.... He had wondered what the\nothers felt, and how he would describe it all to his Vicar. Now, little\nby little, all this ceased, and the peace grew within and without, till\nthe balance of pressure was equalized and his attention floated at the\nperfect poise.\n\nAgain there was no symbol or analogy that presented itself. It was not\neven by negation that he thought. There was just one positive element\nthat included all: time seemed to mean nothing, the ticks of the clock\nwith the painted face were scarcely consecutive; it was all one, and\ndistance was nothing, nor nearness--not even the nearness of the dying\nface against the pillows....\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was so, then, that something of that state to which Frank had passed\ncommunicated itself to at least one of those who saw him die.\n\nA little past the half hour Frank spoke again.\n\n\"My love to Whitty,\" he said.... \"Diary.... Tell him....\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe end came a few minutes before nine o'clock, and it seems to have\ncome as naturally as life itself. There was no drama, no dying speech,\nnot one word.\n\nThose who were there saw him move ever so slightly in bed, and his head\nlifted a little. Then his head sank once more and the Failure was\ncomplete.\n\n\nTHE END","title":"None Other Gods","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":99856}