{"collection":"ritual-magic","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_72241/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_72241","id":"gutenberg_72241","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72241","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Short Stories","Mysticism -- Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"THE WILLOW WEAVER\n                         AND SEVEN OTHER TALES\n\n\n\n\n                        A LIST OF THE STORIES OF\n                              MICHAEL WOOD\n\n\n  THE HOUSE OF PEACE\n\n  THE DOUBLE ROAD (_shortly_)\n                          _Published by_ LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.\n\n  THE SAINT AND THE OUTLAW\n    1. THE SAINT AND THE OUTLAW\n    2. THE PRINCE AND THE WATER GATES\n    3. LOX\n    4. THE DREAM GARDEN\n    5. THE WAY OF THE HERB GATHERER\n    6. THE LAND OF MARVELLOUS NIGHT\n    7. THE FOOL AND THE FOLK OF PEACE\n    8. THE SINNER\u2019S REQUIEM\n    9. THE PREACHER\n   10. THE TELLER OF DROLLS\n   11. THE TUMULTUOUS SHADOWS\n   12. THE GUARDIAN OF THE CITY\n   13. THE HOUSE OF HATE\n\n  THE KING PREDESTINATE\n    THE KING PREDESTINATE\n    THE ALCHEMIST\n    THE WORSHIPPER\n    THE BUILDER\n           _Published by_ THE THEOSOPHICAL PUBLISHING\n                              SOCIETY.\n\n  THE RIDDLE      _Published by_ REBMAN LTD.\n\n  THE FIRE OF THE ROSE\n\n  THE GARMENT OF GOD\n\n  THE SECRET OF THE CHILD\n             _Published by_ THE ST. M\u00c2HEL WORKSHOP.\n\n\n\n\n                                  THE\n                             WILLOW WEAVER\n\n                         AND SEVEN OTHER TALES\n\n                                   BY\n\n                              MICHAEL WOOD\n\n\n                         [Illustration: colophon]\n\n\n                                NEW YORK\n                           E. P. DUTTON & CO.\n                                 MCMXVI\n\n\n\n\n                                PREFACE\n\n  \u201cDost thou feel the soil of thy soul stirred by tender thoughts?\n     Disturb it not with speech but let it work in quietness and\n     secrecy.\u201d\n\n\nThese few stories of Michael Wood are here reprinted with the consent\nbut not at the suggestion of the author. To those who understand, the\nappeal is diverse but unmistakable; the delicate description of our\nMother Earth, the sense of the invisible, the value of the things that\ncount, the scorn of a good deal that is conventional, ordinary, and\nadmitted, are here writ plain for those, who, in the French phrase,\nhave the seeing ear and the hearing eye. At a time when much that is\ningrained in us is thrown into a crucible of fire, and elemental doubts\nand certainties have taken its place, such attempts to pierce through\nveils may be welcomed, and with a little book a little appeal is made.\n\nIf justification were further needed it is twofold. First, the stories\ndo not by any means stand alone; and half a dozen names might be quoted\nof writers who, to-day, in the short story, persistently turn aside\nto listen to the obstinate questionings which will not, for all our\ndin, be stilled; but secondly, the Editor, to whom the privilege of\ncollecting these stories has been entrusted, has had for some time the\nrare experience of trying them with the living voice on audiences large\nand small. The response has never in any case been doubtful, though\nit might be difficult or impertinent to analyse such a lifting of\nconventional veils. Partly in the hope of passing on an experience like\nthis, and partly with the wish that Michael Wood\u2019s other published work\nmight be more widely known, the Editor commends to other story-tellers\nthese diamonds from a mystic mine.\n\nThanks are given to the Manager of the _Theosophical Review_ for\npermission to reprint the stories in this volume.\n\n\n  _September 1915._\n\n\n\n\n                             CONTENTS\n\n                                                  PAGE\n           THE WILLOW WEAVER                         1\n\n           THE BENDING OF THE TWIG                  25\n\n           THE MYSTERY OF THE SON OF MAN            49\n\n           THE EXCELLENT VERSATILITY OF THE MINOR\n             POET                                   64\n\n           \u201cTHE TREE OF BEAUTY\u201d                     85\n\n           FORTY-EIGHT HOURS                       102\n\n           THE BREATH UPON THE SLAIN               121\n\n           THE GLAMOUR-LAND                        129\n\n\n\n\n                           THE WILLOW WEAVER\n\n\n\u201cI shall give you twenty-four hours to vanish in, Campion,\u201d said the\nelder and superior to the younger and inferior. \u201cI can\u2019t do more for\nyou than that. Let me tell you very few men in my position would do as\nmuch.\u201d\n\nHe held his finger up impressively.\n\n\u201cIt is for the sake of your father that I do this. You ought to be\ngrateful. Twenty-four hours in which to vanish! Of course you must\ncarefully choose the method of vanishing. Under the circumstances I\nknow the way I should take were I in your shoes, but I hesitate to\nadvise you to take it.\u201d\n\nThe last sentence was in the man\u2019s mind, not on his tongue; it produced\nthe most effect because the whole gist of his speech was contained\nin it, and it was the point about which he was (half unconsciously)\nanxious. A respectable citizen can hardly suggest to a lad fifteen\nyears his junior that he shall take his own life; it would be\ndifficult, though rather easier, to say to a man of equal age, \u201cUnder\nyour circumstances I should blow my brains out\u201d\u2015\u2015and Campion was so\nyoung. It might become known, too, that such advice had been given;\nthen people would question the adviser\u2019s motives, and what would become\nof that valuable business asset his respectability; he had foolishly\nrisked it a little already, but that was not known to people whose\nopinion mattered. It would take wing with the soul of the young man,\nand his income might even suffer in consequence. Besides he would not\nlike to remember he had advised suicide as a course of action; of\ncourse it did not matter if he only thought how conveniently it might\nsmooth the state of affairs.\n\nThere were reasons why he did not want this young man, the only child\nof a very poor and respectable widow, to stand in the dock and have\nall the circumstances which led to his standing there sifted publicly\nby a painstaking gentleman intent on obtaining for his client if not\nacquittal at any rate as light a sentence as possible. The young\nsinner\u2019s immediate superior was not his own master; his employer\nwas uncompromising and old fashioned in his views. He was a man who\npractised no form of dishonesty or immorality that might not be\ndecently practised by people of honest and moral repute. He would be\nhard on Ralph Campion on general business principles, but he would be\nmuch harder on one whose years and standing should be a guarantee for\nhis good behaviour and influence over others if the conduct of such\nan one did not stand the test of public scrutiny. And the personal\nelement would come in, for this man was not only the employer of\nRalph Campion\u2019s superior but also his father-in-law, and there was\nhis wife\u2019s attitude to be remembered besides that of her father; all\nthis might affect his reputation, his business prospects, and his\ndomestic life very seriously. He felt kindly to Ralph Campion. There\nwas the whole point. The affair began with the kindly impulse of a\nrather coarse man of the world who had \u201cmarried well\u201d from his point\nof view and prospered socially and financially by so doing; prosperous\nhimself, he saw no prosperity of any type other than that which he\npursued and had pursued since he was Campion\u2019s age. Therefore he was\nkindly according to his own lights. His moral code had nothing to do\nwith his inner convictions; he had no convictions as to the nature of\nrighteousness. His morality was to \u201cget on,\u201d and it was a tremendous\nbulwark against obvious criminality. His twelve-year-old son was\n\u201cbackward and delicate,\u201d to quote the scholastic advertisements; he\nsent him to Ralph Campion\u2019s father for tuition because the little\nvicarage stood in a bracing air. He liked and vaguely honoured his\nboy\u2019s tutor\u2015\u2015irrationally indeed, for he had certainly not \u201cgot on\u201d\nfrom the standpoint of the financier. When the man died he obtained for\nhis son, young Campion, that position of trust which he had betrayed.\nThe boy was then nineteen; it was three years ago. The patron did\nmore; still moved by kindliness he took a great deal of notice of\nhis young subordinate. He liked the lad; he confided in him to some\nextent, increasingly so when he found him to be rather silent; he liked\nhis refinement, at which he laughed\u2015\u2015liking it despite his laughter,\nas coarse people sometimes do like a quality they do not possess. He\ngave him worldly precepts whereby he might in the future prosper in\nbusiness. He chaffed him gaily concerning the young ladies of the\nneighbourhood, pointing out matrimonial prizes which he might have\nsome chance of winning. He showed him a side of life he would probably\nhave passed by unheeded; in so doing (here was the crux) he showed\nhim a side of his own life that was not generally known. His prot\u00e9g\u00e9\nbecame in some respects his tool, in some his victim. He found out that\nbetrayal of trust before others did so because he knew which man to\nsuspect, because he knew the circumstances that might cause him to be\nspecially tempted. The story was rather vulgar\u2015\u2015sordid\u2015\u2015common. From\ncoarse kindliness to selfishness, from selfishness by way of fear to\nthat which was in thought\u2015\u2015murder. But yet he liked the boy, and he was\nsorry for him.\n\n\u201cYou mustn\u2019t suppose I think you a blackguard, Ralph,\u201d he said. \u201cIn my\nprivate capacity, not as your business head, you know, we\u2019re as good\nfriends as ever, my boy. _I_ know how things go, bless your life! I\nknow how one gets let in for what one never meant to do at the start.\nThat\u2019s one pull a man has who isn\u2019t always all that I suppose he ought\nto be. He knows from his own experience that whatever he may do he has\nreally heaps of good points; and he applies that reasoning to other\npeople when they don\u2019t go quite straight, you know. But if you\u2019re here\nwhen Mr. Warrener comes back I shall have you arrested. I must. I don\u2019t\nknow this now, you understand.\u201d\n\nThe young man drew lines in the ashes of the hearth with a small brass\npoker. He did not look in the least the sort of person from whom one\nwould expect a criminal to be made; he had what some people would call\na \u201cnice face\u201d\u2015\u2015comely to look upon, refined, rather sensitive, grave;\nby no means weak nor yet unintellectual. He looked as though he could\nthink; he looked as though he could love; and he looked as though he\ncould be ashamed of himself and admit the fact both to himself and to\nother people. These are good signs. He was as white as a sheet, and for\nthe moment he seemed to be stunned rather than repentant.\n\n\u201cIf,\u201d he said slowly, speaking quietly and unemotionally, \u201cif I do not\nvanish, but stay here and pay the penalty\u2015\u2015I\u2019ve behaved very badly, and\nI\u2019m willing to pay it\u2015\u2015will you let bygones be bygones\u2015\u2015afterwards?\u201d\n\n\u201cBless my soul, Ralph Campion, you must be a raving ass! It is the\n\u2018penalty\u2019 as you call it, that counts. It is not the thing in itself so\nmuch. I don\u2019t for a moment suppose you to be much worse than most other\nyoung fellows. I should think you\u2019re better than most.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hoped when you\u2019d paid a debt you were given a receipt, and there\nwas an end of the matter.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy good fellow! You\u2019re old enough and you\u2019ve seen enough to know that\nthings aren\u2019t done that way in this world. I say I don\u2019t think you in\nthe least a worse, or perhaps a more dishonest man than I am myself;\nnot the least! But\u2015\u2015excuse my bluntness\u2015\u2015it\u2019s the prison that sticks,\nit\u2019s not the sin.\u201d\n\nThe young man gave a little start and shiver; the other\u2019s bluntness\nhad suddenly brought the whole position, and its future developments,\nhome to him. It was the difference between theoretic and practical\nknowledge; his white face grew green-white, his hands became limp, and\nhe laid the poker down. These two people sat in the superior\u2019s country\nhouse on the outskirts of a big smoky town. Young Campion was asked\nthere as a guest in order that his host might tell him he knew him to\nbe a criminal. The boy\u2015\u2015for he was little more than a boy\u2015\u2015went there\nsuffering qualms of conscience bred of gratitude. He knew his host\nhad not quite the influence on his life that\u2015\u2015let us say\u2015\u2015Campion\u2019s\nfather would have wished to have, but he did not think of excusing his\nown behaviour on that account. He knew he had been, and was, doing\nwrong; it worried him, and he was ashamed of accepting the kindness\nwhich led his superior to ask him to stay with him from Saturday till\nSunday evening. \u201cMy wife\u2019s away, staying with her mother,\u201d he said to\nRalph Campion. \u201cI\u2019m alone. You\u2019re looking out of sorts. You\u2019d better\ncome down to me this afternoon; besides, I\u2019ve something to say to you\nquietly.\u201d\n\nSo on Sunday afternoon when Campion was feeling particularly ashamed\nof himself and very unhappy and perplexed, he said, quietly, what he\nhad to say, and thereby gave his unsuspecting guest a nervous shock\nwhich some people may think to be accountable for what followed. That\nis a matter of opinion, and \u201cthought is free.\u201d As aforesaid, there\nwere reasons, serious reasons more important than the life, death,\nhappiness, or pain of young Ralph Campion, why his ill-doing should not\nbe found out till he was dead and incapable of speech.\n\nIt was a damp November day; the land was vivid brown and green\u2015\u2015green\nfields, wet brown earth, brown stubble, brown rushes by a little\nbluish-brown canal, brown-green boughs with bright brown leaves\nclinging to them here and there. There had been much rain, the earth\nwas sodden and reeking; there were black, purplish-grey clouds, shot\nwith dull green in the East, and a pale silver-yellow sky in the West.\nIt was early afternoon; the light was clear save where the smoke\nwreaths of the town brooded in the distance; there was no sunshine.\n\nRalph Campion looked at the brown-green earth; he did not see it. For\nthe last few minutes his mind swung between two pictures; one of a\nlittle wind-swept churchyard where was the grave of an upright man\nwhose name he bore; the other of a wee grey stone house very bleak\nand trim, standing on a shelterless hillside; therein lived his thin\nlittle, meek little old mother, dressed in a scanty black gown and a\nwidow\u2019s cap, reading her Bible at night and praying to God for her only\nson; she did not pray for her husband because he was dead, and she\ndisliked Popery. At last Ralph Campion\u2019s eyes filled with tears, and he\nfelt it was time to go. Therefore he rose.\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d he said, \u201cI don\u2019t feel very grateful; but I should be\nso if you could hush it up when I have vanished, so that my\u2015\u2015mother\nmightn\u2019t know.\u201d\n\n\u201cI shall hush it up if I can.\u201d And no man knew better than he how\nsincerely he spoke the truth, and how earnestly he regretted it\nwould be impossible to do so. There was no need to tell Ralph it was\nimpossible. \u201cEven if the young idiot were dead it wouldn\u2019t be safe not\nto come out,\u201d he thought. \u201cBut it would be much safer. If Carry and\nher father got to know what had led up to his playing the fool like\nthis, and how far I\u2019m responsible (though, of course, I\u2019m not really\nresponsible) there\u2019d be the devil to pay.\u201d\n\nCarry was his wife, who was staying with her mother. Aloud he said:\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve ordered the dog-cart for you. The thing to do will be to say\ngood-bye cordially, you see. Then I shan\u2019t know anything till this time\nto-morrow, when Mr. Warrener comes back.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you don\u2019t mind shaking hands,\u201d said Ralph Campion, listlessly, \u201cof\ncourse I don\u2019t.\u201d\n\nSo they shook hands, and the host shouted cheerful and jocular\ngood-speed after the parting guest. Campion left the cart half way to\nthe station; he told the groom to drive on and leave his portmanteau\nin the cloak-room to be called for. He struck straight across the\nsodden fields, and walked townwards. It was ten miles to the town; his\nboots were clogged with dank clay when he reached the first houses on\nthe outskirts. They were hideous little brick boxes in an unmade road\nleading nowhere.\n\nBeyond them lay a patch of flat, foul, betrampled, houseless, roadless,\ngrassless ground. It was an expanse of thick sticky mud; on it stood\npools of dirty water, held by the clay from sinking into the earth;\nold bricks (why are ancient broken bricks so peculiarly sordid and\ndepressing in appearance?) and bent rusty tin cans. Over the whole\nbrooded a raw, poisonous, yellow-black fog. Across the waste ground\ncrawled the canal that started in the clean green-brown country; here\nit ran between a clammy grassless towing path and a brick wall. \u201cRan\u201d\nis too jocund a word to describe its action. It crept stickily along, a\nslimy glaze coating its surface, whereon floated the hairless swollen\nbody of a drowned rat.\n\nRalph Campion stood at the side of the black canal, and looked at the\nsheer drop of the brick work. This might be a place in which to vanish.\nVery few of the words he heard that afternoon lingered with him; but\nthe thought fashioned by the reputable citizen who wished that he was\ndead, pursued him during the ten mile walk, and was with him still. It\nwas the unspoken words which Campion remembered; he knew as well as\nthe other the way in which he must disappear. Oddly enough, it never\nstruck him he might have demanded protection as a price for silence;\nhe did not realise that family and business complications might be\nthe result of evidence elicited by cross-examination; simplicity and\ngenerosity clave to him still; perhaps this was why the powers were\nsorry for him and dealt with him mercifully. The place was lonely;\nit was growing dusk, there were no barges about; the street was but\njust finished, the houses were unlet. Only\u2015\u2015he could swim. He did not\nwant to live to face public shame, and loneliness, and bitter remorse;\nthis was a man who wanted to live an honourable life, and leave an\nhonourable name. But though he wished to die his body would struggle\nfor life, and this conviction struck him with fear lest he was not this\nbody which willed otherwise than he; if so, perhaps he could not kill\nhimself. Well! if there was hell on the other side, at any rate there\nwas not prison, and his friends staring at and cutting him. There could\nnot be superior persons amongst lost souls. The thought was momentarily\ncheering.\n\nHis body would struggle to live; perhaps poison would be the better\nway; but drowning might mean accident or murder, whereas if he bought\npoison\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015. He took a silk scarf from his pocket and tried to tie his\nwrists, but his hands were cold and he was clumsy. He flung his watch,\nchain, and purse into the water\u2015\u2015when his body was found their absence\nwould suggest robbery and murder; he kept a little silver loose in his\npocket lest poison should after all prove to be the better way.\n\nSuddenly he noticed what, till now, he had not seen. There was a\ntumble-down hut within a few paces of where he stood; coming towards\nit was a woman with a huge bundle on her bowed shoulders. As she drew\nnear he saw she carried willow withies; she was a tall old woman, very\npoorly clad; her feet were naked, and in spite of her burden she walked\nwith a stately step, as lightly as a girl.\n\nThis young man was poor, and a criminal to boot, but he was also a\ngentleman; when he saw this woman, he, though he was thinking of\nhis sins, his despair, and his coming death, showed to her, half\nmechanically, what all should show at all times, especially to a woman\nvery old and poor, namely, courtesy and helpfulness.\n\n\u201cLet me carry those to the hut,\u201d he said. \u201cThey are surely much too\nheavy for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake them,\u201d she said briefly. He took them; they were indeed very\nheavy. He threw them on the ground by her door.\n\n\u201cYou had better enter my hut,\u201d she said gravely.\n\nNow there was no reason why Ralph Campion should enter her hut; in\nfact there was every reason why he should not do so. Nevertheless, he\nwent in. It was not very dark there; by no means so dark as the waning\nlight warranted it should be. There were willow withies on the floor;\nthe woman sat on the ground, leaned against the door-post, and began to\nweave them.\n\n\u201cDo you weave baskets?\u201d said Ralph Campion.\n\n\u201cI do,\u201d she answered. \u201cBy some I am called the Willow-weaver.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou weave fast.\u201d\n\n\u201cNaturally. I have had much practice.\u201d\n\nShe twisted a bent twig as she spoke.\n\n\u201cThat twig is crooked,\u201d said Ralph. His behaviour was irrational, but a\nsudden need of hearing human speech had come upon him; and, besides, he\nliked her voice, which was soothing, soft and deep, like organ notes in\nthe distance.\n\n\u201cIt is so,\u201d she replied.\n\n\u201cWhy don\u2019t you throw it away?\u201d\n\n\u201cI throw nothing away. I suffer no waste. I put all my willow twigs to\nuse\u2015\u2015crooked or straight.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the crooked ones spoil the shape of your basket.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true. They spoil the shape of the basket. I shall put a straight\none by the side of the crooked. That balances it a little.\u201d\n\n\u201cStill the whole basket is awry.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is so.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a pity.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a pity. But it cannot be helped. It will be so till I find\nnothing and pluck nothing save straight fair-growing withies.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere do you pick them?\u201d\n\n\u201cFrom the floating island in the lake.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know it. Where is the lake?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere,\u201d she answered. She waved her hand towards the waste ground with\nits slimy clay and broken bricks.\n\n\u201cThere! Where?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere\u2015\u2015there\u2015\u2015there\u2015\u2015my child!\u201d she answered, smiling gravely, and\nwaving her hand again at the immediate foreground. Campion saw she was\nsubject to hallucinations. She was probably much alone, and certainly\nvery poor. He felt impelled to do what was obviously the very last\nthing he should have done. He drew out the silk scarf, and his loose\nsilver.\n\n\u201cI will give you these shillings,\u201d he said, \u201cif you will tie this\ntightly round my wrists, and promise, whatever happens, never to tell a\nsoul you have done it. Indeed, it will probably be the worse for you if\nyou do tell.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will not take your money,\u201d she replied. \u201cTo tell you the truth I\nhave no use for it. But I will tie the knot you bid me tie. It is thus\nwith me; the knots with which men charge me to bind them, I can by no\nmeans refuse to fasten, but I cannot undo them.\u201d\n\n\u201cTie this knot,\u201d he said, with a faint piteous laugh. \u201cAnd let it\nremain tied till I ask you to undo it. But first, since you do not want\nit\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\nHe flung the silver into the canal.\n\n\u201cNow take my thanks for what you are going to do for me, since you\u2019ll\ntake nothing else. Here\u2019s the scarf.\u201d\n\nShe took it. He crossed his wrists, and held them out. She tied the\nscarf loosely, once.\n\n\u201cI am pleased to do you this service,\u201d she said kindly, in her solemn\nperfect speech, that seemed unsuited to her poverty and her humble\ntrade. \u201cChiefly I am pleased because of the honour which is mine, that\nI should take the place of the dweller in that grey small house on the\nhill yonder. For, I suppose, were she here, you would beg her, rather\nthan me, to tie this knot.\u201d\n\nHis crossed wrists fell apart; the silk scarf fluttered to the ground.\n\n\u201cMy God! No!\u201d he said, shuddering. \u201cWhat do you mean? Who are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Willow-weaver.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you know her?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf whom do you ask me, my child?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy\u2015\u2015my mother,\u201d he faltered; and now the tears were in his eyes, his\nthroat was choking, and he turned his face from her.\n\n\u201cSurely,\u201d she made answer, \u201cI know her well. And because such a mother\nas this makes my weaving easier, I, the Willow-weaver, shall be mother\nto her son to-night.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do not deserve it,\u201d he muttered.\n\nShe did not heed him; she wove apace, seated as before, leaning on the\ndoor-post of the hut. He fell beside her kneeling, and holding out his\nhands to her pleadingly:\n\n\u201cWillow-weaver,\u201d he cried. \u201cIf you know about her, do you know about\nme too? Or must I tell you?\u201d\n\n\u201cSurely,\u201d she said, \u201cI know about you. Child of so many prayers, of\nsuch vain hopes, of so many innocent womanly ambitions never now to be\nfulfilled, is it not an evil thing that the loving unwise heart in that\nhill cottage should break through you? Is it not an evil thing in the\neyes of a Willow-weaver that one crooked twig should make the whole\nweaving awry? Yet these things are so, and may not now be changed.\u201d\n\nShe spoke with sober and stern tenderness. He flung himself on the heap\nof willow withies, and hid his face from her.\n\n\u201cI know it,\u201d he sobbed. \u201cDo you think you need to tell me that? I was\ngoing to kill myself when you talked to me of my mother. And what more\ncan I do? What more can I do?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou can turn the tide by the waving of your hand,\u201d said she. \u201cYou can\nstay the flight of the earth through space; or you can kill yourself.\nBehold! the one is as possible as either of the others. Will you mend\nthe broken heart in the hill cottage by the way of the black canal?\nWill you wipe out the shame of a soul by the death of a body?\u201d\n\nHe moaned, and thrust his fingers through his hair, clutching and\ntwisting it.\n\n\u201cBe wiser, child,\u201d she said. \u201cMy words are harsh, my thought is\ngentle towards you. I said I, the Willow-weaver, would be your mother\nto-night. What do you see from my hut door, child?\u201d\n\nHe raised himself obediently from the withies and told her what he saw.\n\n\u201cAnd yet there is more to be seen here,\u201d she said. \u201cBecause there is\nmore I spoke to you harshly, pointing out the ill you had wrought.\nFor I knew that here, even here in this very spot, there is another\ncountry whereof you are native born, and wherein you live. Therefore,\nson of that good mother of whom you and I know, lie at peace upon these\nwithies, cut from the floating island in this lake whereon we look;\nI shall sing you a cradle song that you may sleep. When you wake the\nChild\u2019s Song shall never wholly leave your ears on this side of that\ndeath you sought but now, and you shall break your heart and brain with\nlonging after it in vain. This, for the sake of that good mother, is\nthe Willow-weaver\u2019s mercy to you; and you shall find that men, too,\nhave mercy on those who hear in broken snatches the Child\u2019s Song.\u201d\n\nThe power of the woman was upon him; meek and dazed as a tired babe\nhe lay upon the twisted withies; he heard the sound of the twigs as\nshe twisted them in and out in her weaving. He could neither move\nnor speak; he wondered dreamily whether he lay in a trance or swoon,\nor whether this was death, and thus the problem of his vanishing was\nsolved without effort of his own. He felt either the light cold touch\nof her finger tip or the touch of a willow withy between his brows.\nSuddenly, how and when he did not know, he saw that other country of\nwhich the Willow-weaver spake; he had not moved from the spot; he felt\nsure his body lay on the willow withies in the hut by the canal. He\nknew it lay there with a burden of sin and folly, of ignorance, shame,\nand remorse; but they belonged to the place of their brooding, and he,\nreaching forth in order that he might know, knew them as apart from\nhimself, like a school task learned well or ill, with praise or the rod\nfor its reward. He saw the other country, and this was the fashion of\nthat which he thought he saw. Whether he saw it as it was is another\nmatter.\n\nOn every side lay the broad shining levels of a lake of silver, he\ndid not know whether it was water, or silver fire that had no heat,\nbut was still and cool as the hour before a summer sunrise. He saw no\nshores nor any boundary set to it; as far as his eyes, or some other\nsense than sight, would suffer him to perceive, the waters lay. From\nthe lake rose a many-petalled pink blossom; about each petal quivered a\ndelicate fringe of many-coloured flame, and at the heart of the fiery\nflower that sprang from the water\u2019s breast was music. As he saw these\nthings his life passed into them; or else they were the body of his\nlife. Thereupon a certain knowledge came to him, but it was knowledge\nthe man was never able to tell to any one, not even to himself. He\nheard a high clear voice singing, so he afterwards remembered, but\nwhether it was the Cradle Song of the Willow-weaver, or the speech of\nthe wordless music at the blossom\u2019s heart, he could not tell.\n\nIt is my belief (I who tell these things) that the words, and indeed\nthe whole matter, were by no manner of means such as are here recorded.\nHe told me the words he heard were something like to these, but he\nadmitted they were not really like them either in sound or sense. This\nis what he crooned in the day that came after, when men said his\nmother-wit had been stolen by the Folk of Peace:\n\n    Thou mak\u2019st thy cry to me, thou mak\u2019st thy plea,\n    I watch the waters of a changeless sea.\n    Upon its breast I mark a shadow fall,\n    Wherein a myriad shadows toss and crawl.\n    Weep\u2019st thou because their turmoil will not cease,\n    O passing ripple on the Lake of Peace?\n    I watch the toiling shadows fight and strive,\n    I hear the murmur of a Dream-world hive.\n    Why is their warfare more to thee than me,\n    Thou wave that risest from a boundless sea?\n    No shadow-battle stirs the silent breast\n    Of the deep waters of the Lake of Rest.\n    Where mourning shadows throng the dreary side\n    Of the black river\u2019s foul and sluggish tide,\n    I see the shining of the Silver Peace,\n    I hear its music bid their moaning cease.\n    Thy fair is foul to me, thy foul is fair;\n    Thy songs are cries, thy joys are pain-fraught care;\n    Thy griefs are gladness, and thy woes are gain,\n    Thy deaths are jewels in an age-long chain.\n    Thy sins but shadows on the waters wide,\n    Thy virtues gleams upon the silent tide.\n\nWhen those twenty-four hours in which Ralph Campion was to vanish were\nended, he came wandering, hatless, over the green-brown fields in the\ndrenching rain; he was soaked to the skin, but he did not seem to know\nthis. He asked to see his superior and elder, who was even then in\nserious consultation with his father-in-law and employer. When this\nman, Mr. Warrener, heard Ralph Campion was there he was glad. He was\na plain dealing person, and he thought when people did wrong and were\nfound out it was good for them to be punished. His son-in-law on the\nother hand was sorry and alarmed.\n\n\u201cShow Mr. Campion in,\u201d said the older of the two men who were\ndiscussing Ralph Campion\u2019s sins. Mr. Campion came in, dripping. He\nsmiled, greeted his hosts, and tried to explain what had happened\nand why he had not vanished. The two listeners looked at each other\nsilently; to do the younger of the twain justice he seemed to be\nshocked and dismayed. There was a pause. The elder laid his hand on\nRalph Campion\u2019s shoulder: \u201cSit down, Campion,\u201d he said gently. \u201cSit\ndown and keep quiet. You\u2019re dripping wet, you know; you\u2019ll be ill, you\nmust see the doctor. I\u2019ll send for him at once. There\u2019s no need for you\nto worry about anything.\u201d Then he drew his son-in-law out of earshot.\n\n\u201cThis must be hushed up,\u201d he whispered. \u201cYou see what\u2019s happened to\nhim. He\u2019s off his head. Didn\u2019t you see it yesterday? Where are his\npeople? They must be sent for, and the doctor too. I\u2019ll telephone to\nhim at once. Whether this is a cause or an effect I don\u2019t know. Be\ncharitable and assume the first. Anyway we will say nothing; he\u2019s not\nresponsible for what he did.\u201d\n\nIt was more of a truth than he knew. The other man, white as a sheet,\nassented eagerly.\n\nCertain superstitious folk of Celtic blood said that the son of the\nsorrowful, patient little old widow who lived with his mother in the\nsmall grey house on the windswept hill above the churchyard, had\nwandered in the \u201cgentle places\u201d whence no man ever returns to the\nhuman habitations; only the bodily seeming of such a man comes back;\nhe is away with the \u201cgood people\u201d; at night he dances in their mystic\nrings and makes merry with them in the heart of the hills. This, they\nsaid, was the case with Ralph Campion, for he had the look of eternal\nchildhood on his face and the fairy fire was in his eyes. But they\nwere wrong; it was with him, as the Willow-weaver said; the Cradle\nSong of the Children of the Lake of Peace would not wholly leave his\nears, and because he could not recall nor sing it perfectly he wandered\nbewildered, trying vainly to interpret its broken snatches, with\nlabouring brain and longing, breaking heart.\n\n\n\n\n                        THE BENDING OF THE TWIG\n\n\nEarly in the morning of the hot July day there had been a sea-mist,\nand the fog lay on the horizon like a rolled banner gleaming with\nineffable tints of opalescent purple. The glassy sea was purest blue,\nsave where the shimmering paths of the currents shone silver-white or\nwhere the lap and fret of waves at the cliff foot made the water pink\nwith Devon earth. The weed on the rocks glowed orange-brown in the\ndazzling light, and the dark line of the low-flying shag gave the only\nsombre touch to the brilliant hues of land, sea, and sky. The turf\nsweet with the breath of wild thyme, and studded with pale yellow rock\nrose, crept well-nigh to the water\u2019s edge. Here a hundred years ago\nthe sea had claimed tribute of the earth, and a big landslip rent the\nbosom of the patient mother. Half a mile of cliff had fallen, and in\nthe chasm thus made, now filled full with greenery and prodigal growth\nof fern, bramble, and berry, a long white house stood sun-bathed and\ncreeper-clad.\n\nA little spring sprang seawards from the cliff, tinkling in a baby\nwaterfall down grey rocks splashed with orange lichen, and forming in\na small crystal pool ere it ran on to lose itself in the greyish-white\nsand of the shore.\n\nBy this little pool sat three children: two flaxen-haired girls and a\nsmall dark-haired grey-eyed boy. The girls lay on the ground; their\nchins resting on their clasped hands, their eyes round, blue, and\nawestruck. The boy knelt stiffly on the verge of the pool, his eyes\nlooking straight out over the sea, his hands linked behind his head.\nHe was a slim little child with a small pale face, delicate irregular\nfeatures, and long-lashed grey eyes.\n\n\u201cThey came up,\u201d he was saying, \u201cup the little path that comes from the\nshore. They left their boats on the beach. They broke down our doors,\nmaking a great noise. The doors fell down; I heard them fall; I could\nhear the others shrieking as the men killed them. I was painting, you\nknow; I painted coloured letters round a face which was in the middle.\nI drew the face myself; it was a white face with gold all round it. The\nmen broke into my room and killed an old man who was there with me. I\nstood with my back against the wall. I put out my hands, so; I had no\nsword, and\u2015\u2015and\u2015\u2015then they killed me....\u201d\n\nThe child broke off abruptly; he gasped, threw himself face downwards\non the turf sobbing either with grief or excitement. The audience drew\na long breath. Never\u2015\u2015never\u2015\u2015never\u2015\u2015in all the annals of the nursery\nhad even the most gifted grown-up person told them such tales as did\nthis, their small orphan cousin.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter now,\u201d said a man\u2019s voice. \u201cQuarrelling? Dennis, why\nare you crying?\u201d\n\nThree people had unheard approached the little group; a man, a young\ngirl, and a boy. The man and boy were sufficiently alike to be easily\nrecognisable as father and son. The boy was seventeen or eighteen years\nold; handsome, vigorous, and graceful. He carried a gun; he had been\nshooting rabbits on the cliffs, and two little helpless brown bodies\ndangled from his left hand. The man was past middle age, but time alone\nhad not carved the straight, severe lines about his mouth, nor made\nhis eyes so cold. That was the work of temperament; the comely lad\nbeside him would never have such lips and eyes, though the tinting and\nmoulding of the two faces were very much the same.\n\nThe crying child scrambled to his feet blushing and half laughing;\nhis grief had not been very deeply rooted. The youngest girl clinging\nto her father\u2019s hand cried out eagerly in praise of the tale; \u201cDennis\ntells us such lovely stories, daddy.\u201d\n\nThe boy with the gun threw the rabbits on the grass. \u201cKitty\u2019s quite\nright,\u201d he said. \u201cThey\u2019re ripping. I can\u2019t think how he gets hold of\nthem. He says they\u2019re true.\u201d \u201cHe says they happened to him,\u201d broke in\nthe enthusiastic auditor. \u201cAnd he tells us what he sees too. O Dennis,\ntell them about the little men you saw in the mist this morning.\u201d\n\nThe dark brows of the elder listener drew together.\n\n\u201cLook here, Dennis,\u201d he said shortly, \u201cif you prefer to tell stories to\nthe girls rather than go rabbiting with the boys\u201d\u2015\u2015there was a little\ntouch of contempt in the voice\u2015\u2015\u201cof course there\u2019s no harm in that; but\nyou must not say what is untrue.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it is true,\u201d said the child eagerly. \u201cIt is true, Uncle Hugh. That\ndid happen to me; it did really. It was a grey house by the sea, and\nthey killed me in the room where I was painting.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake care, Dennis. When did this happen, may I ask?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2015\u2015I don\u2019t know, Uncle Hugh.\u201d\n\n\u201cNor any one else. Did you tell the girls it was true?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is true,\u201d said Dennis, beginning to pant and rock from heel to toe\nand back again. \u201cIt is quite true.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is, is it? And you see little men in the mist, eh?\u201d\n\n\u201cI did this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd he sees pictures in the water,\u201d broke in one of the listening\nchildren.\n\n\u201cDo you see pictures in the water, Dennis?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sometimes.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that water for instance? Look and see.\u201d\n\nThe child knelt down and stared into the pool.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t\u201d\u2015\u2015he began after a pause. \u201cYes. I do, yes I do, I see a little\nhouse and a cornfield and a\u2015\u2015O, there it\u2019s gone!\u201d\n\nThe man laid his finger-tips lightly on the child\u2019s shoulder. \u201cGet up\nand listen to me,\u201d he said gravely. Dennis rose; the touch had not been\nat all rough; on the contrary it was very gentle, and the voice was\nquiet, but there was a sense of danger in the air; an ominous thrill;\nand the child\u2019s eyes, why he knew not, grew slightly frightened.\n\n\u201cWhat you have just said is a lie,\u201d said his elder very distinctly,\n\u201cand you know that just as well as I do; you are very young yet, and\nI don\u2019t want to be hard on you. If you confess that you told a lie, I\nwon\u2019t say any more about it, unless you do it again. Come.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut\u2015\u2015I can\u2019t. It wasn\u2019t a lie.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake care now. Tell me you said what wasn\u2019t true and are sorry; and\nthen run into tea and forget about it.\u201d\n\nThe child began to tremble. \u201cBut I can\u2019t\u2015\u2015it wasn\u2019t\u2015\u2015indeed\u2015\u2015it\u2015\u2015O\ndear, O dear!\u201d\n\n\u201cI tell you I don\u2019t want to be hard upon you. I mean to be, and I hope\nI always am, perfectly just. I shall ask you three times whether your\nstories are true. If you say no\u2015\u2015well and good. If you persist in\nsaying yes, you\u2019ll\u2015\u2015take the consequences, that\u2019s all. I shall ask you\nthis question every day till I make you speak the truth.\u201d\n\nThings were now looking very serious. The little girls were struck\nwith awe. The young girl and the lad exchanged glances and strove to\nextenuate the crime of Dennis.\n\n\u201cO please, Mr. March,\u201d said the girl softly, \u201che\u2019s so very little and\nhe\u2019s imaginative, you know.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s dotty, poor little chap,\u201d said the boy cheerily. \u201cHe means no\nharm, dad. He\u2019ll be all right when he goes to school. Let him off this\nonce.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe has the matter in his own hands. Now then, Dennis, are these tales\nof yours true?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d faltered the quivering lips.\n\n\u201cOnce more, are they true?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are true! they are true! What shall I do? If you kill me, they\u2019re\ntrue.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m not at all likely to kill you, but I mean to cure you of lying.\nIt\u2019s obstinacy; for you must know you\u2019ve told lies. Are these things\ntrue?\u201d\n\n\u201cY\u2015\u2015ye\u2015\u2015I mean\u2015\u2015I think so,\u201d hedged poor Dennis desperately.\n\n\u201cGo into the house,\u201d said the man with a push. \u201cYou\u2019ve brought it on\nyourself, and it serves you right.\u201d\n\nConsolatory reflection. The child slunk into the house crying bitterly.\nThe girl attempted further intercession.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s no good, Kate,\u201d said the man angrily. \u201cI\u2019m shocked at the\nchild\u2019s obstinacy. He has told a gratuitous falsehood, and he must, as\nI said, take the consequences.\u201d\n\nSo Dennis took the consequences, and woke up at night shrieking with\nnightmare as their direct result. Daily the same question was put to\nhim, and received the same answer which produced the same pains and\npenalties, save that they grew a little more grievous daily because of\nthe increasing blackness of his sin. Dennis went about with a white\nface and silent tongue; his eyes were red and swollen, and there were\npurple rings under them. At last on the fifth day the child breaking\ndown confessed himself to be a wilful and egregious perverter of the\ntruth.\n\n\u201cWhy couldn\u2019t you have said that before?\u201d said Hugh March. \u201cNow speak\nthe truth in future, there\u2019s a good boy.\u201d\n\nDennis promised that he certainly would do so, and went away to cry\nover his first lie. He knew that lying was a grievous sin; and the\npreacher under whom the March family \u201csat\u201d predicted a fiery doom for\nsinners. Dennis cried over his probable damnation; but the undying\nworm and quenchless fire of a vengeful God were far away, whereas Hugh\nMarch\u2019s birch was horribly near; so Dennis risked eternity for the\nsake of comparative well-being in time.\n\nIt must not be supposed that March was the typical wicked uncle\nof nursery tales; he was sincerely anxious to be kind to his dead\nbrother\u2019s little boy. The \u201cqueerness\u201d of Dennis was a source of\nconcerned perplexity to his guardian. Perry, his own son, whom he\nidolised, was an athlete rather than a scholar, and March was glad of\nthe fact; nevertheless he would have been satisfied with his fragile\nnon-athletic nephew if he had shown signs of studiousness; but the\nchild was not clever; he was backward, lazy, and dreamy; his only\ntalents were a gift for drawing and an eye for colour effects, which\nwere \u201cmere accomplishments\u201d in the eyes of his uncle. Dennis had no\nother gifts unless his stories presaged a future novelist.\n\nDennis, on his side, was stunned and terrified by his uncle\u2019s treatment\nof his powers of vision. His Irish mother, like her son, possessed \u201cthe\nsight,\u201d and she had treated his visions as simple facts, which were\nby no means extraordinary; hence the child was not vain of the gift,\nnor did he dream of boasting of or colouring his visions. When his\nmother died and he came to live with his uncle and cousins, he came\nsimply and confidingly as to friends; unsuspicious of the possibility\nof harshness, inexperienced in aught save tenderness. To be suddenly\ndenounced as an obstinate liar, to be flogged because he saw things\nwhich his cousins did not see, not only terrified but stupefied him.\nHe relapsed into bewildered silence, and bent all his small powers of\ndeception to conceal his power of vision.\n\nHitherto \u201cthe sight\u201d had been spasmodic; but either from some influence\nof climate or because of his nervous tension it now became almost\nunintermittent; he saw very often, and the strain of concealment\ntroubled him. The visions were in a measure consolatory; that which he\nsaw did not frighten him, and he lived in a world of sound, colour, and\nlight, which was unshared by his companions. The child was very lonely,\nfor he feared to talk much lest he should betray himself; nevertheless\nhe became gradually aware of the fact that he had one staunch and\nkindly friend. This was his cousin Perry.\n\nPerry was a good humoured, genial and sympathetic soul; his very\nsuperabundant vigour and strength gave him a chivalrous sense of\npitiful protection towards the poor little frightened nervous child.\n\nOnce at a picnic on the Head, Dennis began to watch some little folk\nwho were unseen by the others. Suddenly he became aware that Perry was\nwatching him with puzzled eyes and knitted brows. Dennis started, his\nvision vanished, and he lay quivering with fear lest Perry should ask\nhim what he had been looking at with such interest. But Perry did not\nask; he smiled at his little cousin, and turned his eyes away.\n\nAfter the picnic that night a party sat on the verandah and told\nghost stories of a grisly nature. Dennis grew frightened, the \u201cother\nworld\u201d was real to him; this grim aspect of it was terrible. He did\nnot understand the things he saw, and the dread of seeing the horrors\ndescribed in the tales fell upon him. The nervous system of a sensitive\nchild is a delicate instrument, though it is sometimes the custom to\ntreat it as though it were constructed of equal parts of whalebone,\nsteel, and cast-iron. The stream of tales ran dry.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s become of all your fine stories, Dennis?\u201d said one of the\ncircle mockingly; one who knew of the little tragedy enacted a month\nago. \u201cI\u2019m afraid I\u2019ve spoilt the flow of Dennis\u2019s genius,\u201d said March,\nand the laugh rippled round the circle at the expense of the young\nseer. Is this world so purely joyous that we should forget our heavenly\nheritage if our brethren did not try now and then to give us a little\npain, even though it be a tongue stab to make us less contented with\nour earthly bliss? It would seem that there be many who think so. Perry\nput forth an arm in the darkness and laid it round the child\u2019s neck.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a beastly shame,\u201d he said to the first speaker.\n\nThey were only four homely schoolboy words; it was only the touch of a\nstrong kindly young arm, but they drew forth a disproportionate flood\nof adoring gratitude from the child\u2019s sensitive heart. Therefore when\nhe went to bed that night he ventured to ask a favour of Perry. In\nDennis\u2019s room there was an unpleasant-looking green and yellow curtain,\nwhich had a reprehensible habit of swaying when there was not any wind.\nGhost stories had made that curtain a thing of horror to Dennis; he\nfeared it would draw back very slowly one of these days, and he should\nsee some hideous object gibbering behind it\u2015\u2015a class of vision of which\nhe had formerly never dreamed. He once asked whether the curtain might\nbe taken away: but as he could assign no reason for his request he was\ntold \u201cnot to be silly,\u201d and the curtain, like the poor, remained with\nhim always. Alas! for the dumb terrors, the helpless inarticulateness\nof the soul of a young misunderstood child.\n\nTo-night he took courage.\n\n\u201cPerry,\u201d he said, \u201cwon\u2019t you come and stay with me till I\u2019m asleep?\u201d\n\nSince the five days\u2019 holy war which March had waged with Dennis the\nchild had stammered slightly; it was a pathetic little falter of\nthe tongue and Perry felt vaguely touched by it. He looked at him\nquestioningly. At last he said:\n\n\u201cWhy? Well, never mind. Right you are.\u201d\n\nHe entered the room whistling, and by some instinct drew the green and\nyellow curtain back. Dennis undressed and slipped into bed. Perry knelt\ndown, put his arm over the child and spoke kindly:\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re not very happy here, Den,\u201d he said; \u201cwhat\u2019s the matter with\nyou?\u201d\n\nDennis bit his lip and closed his eyes; at last by dint of coaxing\nPerry arrived at the fact that Dennis was mourning over the sin of\ndeceit.\n\n\u201cThat wasn\u2019t much,\u201d said Perry immorally but cheerfully.\n\nHe hesitated, then he said in a whisper:\n\n\u201cI say, Denny, which was the lie, eh?\u201d\n\nHe felt the slender body beneath his arm start, quiver, and grow\nunnaturally still.\n\n\u201cWas it a lie that you saw those things or that you didn\u2019t see them,\nwhich?\u201d\n\n\u201cTh-that I saw th-them.\u201d\n\nThere was a pause. Then Perry said gently:\n\n\u201cPoor little chap; it\u2019s a shame. All right old man. Go to sleep; I\u2019ll\nstay with you.\u201d\n\nTo himself he said: \u201cWho\u2019s to blame for that lie, Den or the dad?\u201d\n\nThe holidays were nearly over; Perry was about to return for his last\nterm to Harrow and Dennis was going for his first term to a preparatory\nschool. Before his final departure Perry was going to walk fifteen\nmiles in order to stay for a couple of days with some friends. A week\nbefore this visit there was a farewell picnic at the Head. It was\na lovely day and the sea was blue and calm. Perry was on the cliff\nbuilding the fire for the picnic tea; Dennis was on the rocks below.\nThen he turned and ran; he rushed up the cliff path sobbing out that\nthere was a drowned man in the water below. Of course March, Perry,\nand three or four young men ran to the shore only to see the water\nrippling peacefully in and the brown weed swaying with the lazy tide.\n\nMarch shouted to the child on the cliff:\n\n\u201cCome here.\u201d\n\nDennis obeyed him shuddering still.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s no drowned man here,\u201d said March sternly. \u201cWhy did you say\nthere was?\u201d\n\nThe child caught his breath with a jerk and his face grew white as\nashes. The thing he so dreaded had come; he had betrayed himself. He\nglanced imploringly at his only hope\u2015\u2015Perry, and his lip quivered.\n\n\u201cIt was the weed he saw,\u201d said Perry. \u201cHe\u2019s always fanciful and nervous\nyou know.\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense,\u201d said March. \u201cThese are his old tricks. I thought I\u2019d cured\nyou of this, Dennis.\u201d\n\nHe left the shore with an angry glance at the child.\n\nDennis began to cry, and Perry laid a hand on his shoulder. Dennis\nclutched his arm.\n\n\u201cO Perry,\u201d he wailed, \u201cdo go to him. Do speak to him. Do tell him I\u2019m\nsorry. I\u2019d n-never have said what I saw if I hadn\u2019t thought everyb-body\ncould see it t-too.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought so,\u201d said Perry under his breath; \u201cyou do see these things\nand you pretend you don\u2019t for fear of a licking.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t tell. Please don\u2019t tell; dear Perry, d-don\u2019t tell.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll right, don\u2019t cry. I\u2019ll speak to the governor.\u201d\n\nBut Perry spoke in vain. March was an obstinate thick-headed man, and\nhe was very angry indeed. The vials of his righteous wrath descended on\nthe luckless seer, who was utterly broken and unnerved in consequence.\nPerry also was very angry though not with the helpless little victim\nof March\u2019s dull wits. When three days after the child\u2019s punishment a\ndrowned sailor was actually washed up at the Head, Perry boldly avowed\nhis belief in the visions of Dennis. March was as angry with Perry as\nit was possible for him to be with his idolised only son. He made many\nacute and scathing remarks about ignorance, superstition, and naughty,\nlying, hysterical children whose imagination and hysteria must be\ncrushed with the strong hand of authority.\n\nPerry went away in a very bad temper, and Dennis remained behind in\nsuch a state of abject terror that he hardly dared to grasp his coffee\ncup when it was offered to him at the breakfast table lest it should\nprove to be an elusive and unshared vision.\n\nOn the evening of Perry\u2019s departure Dennis stood at the door of his\nuncle\u2019s study trying to make up his mind to go in. Like many men who\nnever read anything save the daily paper March had a \u201cstudy.\u201d At last\nDennis went in. March who was writing a letter looked up:\n\n\u201cWell, Dennis, what is it?\u201d\n\n\u201cH-have you heard from Perry, Uncle?\u201d stammered the child.\n\n\u201cHeard from Perry! The boy\u2019s daft. He only left this morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cO,\u201d said Dennis nervously, \u201cy-yes, so he did; I f-forgot.\u201d\n\nAnd he crept out again like a frightened mouse.\n\nThe next morning a telegram arrived for Perry which his father opened;\nit was from the friends with whom he was supposed to be staying asking\nthe reason of his non-arrival; Perry was going over to play in a\ncricket match; hence their agitation. March rode over to them at once.\nPerry had not arrived; inquiries on the road gained no tidings of him.\nSearch was made for him throughout that day and through the night and\nthrough the next day and still there was no news of Perry.\n\nFor the first time in his life March was shaken to the finest fibre\nof his soul. His son was the apple of his eye, the best beloved of\nall his children. He felt a tremor of the nerves which he would have\ncalled weakness and affectation in another. When on the third night the\nsearchers returned with no tidings of the young man, March went to his\nroom with a grey-hued face and eyes that were glazed with agony and\nsuspense. He sat at his table and bowed his head upon it. He tried to\npray\u2015\u2015March was a somewhat conventionally religious man\u2015\u2015but he could\nonly groan. In the room above where was the green and yellow curtain\nthe child knelt by the side of the bed shaking from head to foot, the\ndrops of agony standing on his forehead. The soul which was so much\nolder than the little body was wrestling in the throes of a complex\npassion of love and personal cowardly dread; the poor little ten-year\nold body could scarcely support the strain.\n\nIn the afternoon, two hours after Perry had left, Dennis knelt by the\nlittle pool and chanced to look therein. Before his eyes a picture\ngrew. It was Perry stunned and lifeless lying in a hollow, the mouth\nof which was hidden by elder bushes with their luscious black berries.\nIt was a narrow rocky crevasse formed by the rending slipping land.\nEverything about the picture was very clear; on the hill above the\nhollow was an old pine tree twisted into a strange shape; there was a\nbent bough on it on which a human form dangled\u2015\u2015a dead man hanged by\nthe neck to the bent tree. This was the vision that had driven Dennis\nto his uncle\u2019s room; since then the picture appeared to him again and\nyet again. Sometimes the hanged man was not there, but the scene was\nalways the same point for point. Even now as he knelt it formed itself\nbetween him and the green and yellow curtain.\n\nThe child sobbed and twisted his fingers in his hair. In his ears rang\nthe stern words: \u201cIf I hear a whisper of this again I shall write very\nstrongly to Mr. Brownlow and warn him of your untruthfulness.\u201d\n\nMr. Brownlow was Dennis\u2019s future schoolmaster and poor Dennis pictured\nhimself as being pilloried and held up for execration before a whole\ncommunity of youthful devotees of truth. But then there was Perry.\nPerry had been kind to him; Perry had banished the terrors of the\ngreen and yellow curtain; had tried to screen him from wrath. If\nonly some one else could see! His Highland nurse had told him \u201cthe\nsight\u201d was God\u2019s gift. If only He would give that gift to some one\nelse; to some one who would not be punished and scolded because of\nhis possession. Dennis had prayed on this subject with a child\u2019s\nunreasoning and sometimes unreasonable faith, and now he once more\nextended his clasped hands and sobbed into the darkness:\n\n\u201cO do-do-do make some one else see instead of me.\u201d\n\nBut no one else saw, and the burden, responsibility, and terror of a\ngift, whatsoever be its nature, lay heavily on the slender shoulders\nof Dennis. Therefore the end was inevitable. All strong powers lie\nupon the men who possess them like mighty compelling forces unless\nthe man be stronger than the gift. To Dennis and to no other was the\nvision; as he closed his streaming eyes it slowly formed itself once\nmore. He staggered to his feet and made for the room below; the force\nwas stronger than he, or else he was stronger than his weak nerves\nand trembling body. Though March should beat him within an inch of\nhis fragile life he must tell that which he saw. He did not hesitate\nnow; he opened the door and went straight in. March raised his head,\nstarted, and stood up.\n\n\u201cDennis! Bless my soul, child, what are you doing at this hour? Not\nundressed. Are you ill.\u201d\n\n\u201cUncle Hugh,\u201d said Dennis, steadying himself by the table edge, \u201cI\u2015\u2015I\nknow where Perry is. At least I think so.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou know where Perry is. What do you mean?\u201d\n\nThe child began to describe the place of his vision and March listened\nwith growing interest and excitement; when Dennis spoke of the pine and\nthe dangling figure he sprang up:\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s the highwayman\u2019s pine,\u201d he almost shouted; \u201cthey say a man was\nhanged there a hundred years ago. But I\u2019ll take my oath you\u2019ve never\nbeen there. How do you know the place?\u201d\n\n\u201cI s-saw it,\u201d faltered Dennis, and having thus betrayed his evil-doing\nhe swung forward and fainted. When he recovered he was lying on a sofa\nand March was pouring water on his face.\n\n\u201cLie still,\u201d he said kindly. \u201cDon\u2019t be frightened. You must have been\ndreaming, you know. I\u2015\u2015I think I\u2019ll go to this place you dreamed of. It\nis superstition, of course, but er\u2015\u2015er\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\nMarch called a maid to tend the child; then he summoned the men who had\nbeen searching through the day and led them on another quest. This time\nthey found the missing lad. He was insensible and his leg was broken.\n\nThe next day the doctor spoke gravely of the condition of his patient.\n\u201cI am very much afraid his condition is serious,\u201d he said. \u201cIf he had\nbeen cared for at once recovery would have been quite certain; but he\nhas been lying there half-stunned and without food, drink, or care four\ndays and nights.\u201d\n\nMarch did not speak; possessed by a sudden thought he sought his nephew.\n\n\u201cDennis, child,\u201d he said, \u201cwhen did you first see the place where we\nfound Perry?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe day he left.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me at once what you saw? Perry\u2019s very ill from\nlying there four days.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d murmured Dennis, \u201cI\u2015\u2015I thought you\u2019d, you\u2019d\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cYou thought I should be angry?\u201d\n\n\u201cY-yes, I was afraid.\u201d\n\nHe did not know how innocently he avenged himself and paid off old\nscores. March was silent for a minute, then he said in a low voice:\n\u201cIt\u2019s just. It\u2019s my own fault.\u201d\n\nHe stooped and took the child\u2019s face gently between his hands, kissed\nhis forehead and went out alone to wrestle with his pain and anxiety.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs this tale began so it ends at the pool in the landslip. Perry lay\nbeside the stream apparently none the worse for his fall of the year\nbefore. Dennis sitting cross-legged beside the little rock basin\nwatched the water. March was talking with his son; following the\ndirection of Perry\u2019s smiling eyes he saw Dennis. Dennis\u2019s pictures were\nless frequent now and his \u201cstories\u201d were less marvellous. The press of\nouter interest which crowded in was doing its work. March looked at the\nboy as he rose and stood beside him and laid his hand on his head:\n\n\u201cSeeing pictures?\u201d he asked with a half-mocking laugh. March\u2019s position\nwas a very illogical one and he was semi-conscious of the fact. The\nchild looked up and nodded.\n\n\u201cWhat nonsense,\u201d said March, \u201cit\u2019s all fancy. If there was anything to\nsee why shouldn\u2019t I see it?\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, father,\u201d said Perry laughing, \u201cwhy can\u2019t I tell \u2018Rule Britannia\u2019\nfrom \u2018God save the King?\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cNonsense! I tell you it\u2019s a rampant medieval superstition that\u2019s got\nhold of you. As for Denny he\u2019s a little donkey.\u201d\n\nBut he laughed and pulled the boy\u2019s hair with a gentle hand; which\nseems to prove that one is not necessarily incapable of learning even\nafter one has \u201ccome to forty years.\u201d\n\n\n_Note._\u2015\u2015This story is founded on fact. That is to say, although it is\nmine as regards characters and incidents, the _motif_, the clairvoyance\nof the child, is true. The drastic methods which were employed for the\nrepression of the gifts of the luckless little seer are also facts, and\nthat is the reason I wrote the story.\n\n\n\n\n                         THE MYSTERY OF THE SON\n                                 OF MAN\n\n    Lord God of Glory, Pow\u2019r of Perfect Light,\n    Look on Thy little children of the wild,\n    In whose frail souls the Son of Man is born\n    Thine is the pow\u2019r of pain and anguish, Lord,\n    Thine is the chrysm of the agony,\n    The bitter wisdom born within the soul\n    That knows the sorrow of sin\u2019s piteous load.\n    Father in Heaven, blessed be the hour\n    When in the beast-soul rises the sad voice\n    Of human shame, crying: \u201cI will arise,\n    And seek my Father\u2019s feet, and mourn my sin.\u201d\n    Blessed the hour when the dread scourge of pain\n    Is gladly borne by some poor tortur\u2019d soul,\n    Because it sees its foulness before Thee\n    By the white light of Christ, Who dwells within\n    The outrag\u2019d temple of humanity.\n\n\nThere was wrath and distress in the House of the Cold Strand by reason\nof the sin of Brother Gorlois. He was the child of the Holy House,\ntaken into the pious nurture of the brethren, from the dead breast of\nhis murdered mother, a heathen woman, found by Brother Pacificus lying\ndead in the undergrowth of the great forest nigh the House of the Cold\nStrand. The pious company of Christian monks, who had built their\nhouse of prayer in that land, baptised the babe, and reared him by\nthe precepts of Solomon, by the rule of their House, and by the wisdom\nwhich flowed from their hearts. And when the Brother Gorlois was twelve\nyears old he entered his noviciate, and when he was fifteen he took\nupon him the vows of a monk, namely, the vows of poverty, chastity, and\nobedience. He had little wit, and was not studious; nor was he called\nto the way of contemplation, but he was strong, and waxed mighty of\nmuscle. As he grew to manhood the good gift of comeliness was bestowed\nupon him by the Hand of God, and the thick crisp waves of his curly\nyellow hair rose up like billows around his head.\n\nHe liked to trap and fish for the Holy House, but when the glee of\nsport was passed he was lazy and loved to sleep. He gave the first\noccasion for scandal during a fast of twice forty days, wherein the\nbrethren ate no flesh. This Brother Gorlois, stealing forth on the\neighth day, slew a coney, and was taken in the wood, having built a\nfire in order that he might cook and devour it to the gratification of\nhis body, and the peril of his soul; moreover, he lied concerning his\nsin, scandalously, and indeed foolishly, for it was manifest to the\nsimplest, and denial was vain.\n\nThe second scandal was when the Brother Gorlois was found in the\nrefectory drunk with wine; for this offence he did penance, being\nscourged, and sorely rebuked by the brethren. But the third and\nmost grievous scandal was when he was taken in the forest with the\nswineherd\u2019s daughter; whereupon the brethren placed him in ward, whilst\nthey debated whether or no a monk who had broken his vows to the shame\nof his House, should not lie within a narrow cell, the entrance whereof\nshould be securely barred by mortised stones, that soul and body might\npart slowly in the terrors of a death by hunger and by thirst. Such was\nthe fate adjudged to Brother Gorlois, who was then but a young man of\ntwenty years, and he was brought forth, bound, to hear the same.\n\nThe Brother Gorlois was, as aforesaid, young and lusty, comely and\nof great stature; he looked sullen, but he was less fearful and less\nashamed than might have been expected. God had granted to him vigorous\nyouth, health, and a person as goodly to behold as those He had given\nto the great stags on the moor, and the mighty milk-white bulls which\ncrashed through the forest, leading a drove of their kind; but He in\nHis Wisdom had not yet given to Brother Gorlois the blessing (or\ncurse) of a lively power of imagery, and a sensitive memory.\n\nStill he had been taken, as he knew, in what the brethren denounced as\nsin, and he knew they were so made that they visited sin by fasting,\nand by the scourge, to the Brother Gorlois\u2019 great dis-ease; for he\nloved food, and he esteemed the scourge to be a needless discomfort.\nTherefore he looked very sulky, and stood gazing upon his feet, and\nwishing vaguely that his arms were free.\n\nThen he who was Head of the lonely little House of the Cold Strand\nrose to pronounce the doom of Brother Gorlois, when the aged Brother\nPacificus uplifted his voice. It was the Brother Pacificus who had\nfound Brother Gorlois a young babe upon the dead breast of the\nhalf-savage heathen woman, his mother.\n\nBrother Pacificus was very old, and a reputed seer; esteemed as a saint\nwas he; twenty years had he travelled over Europe carrying the Gospel\nof the Christ among heathen people; founding many a Holy House, but\nnever taking the Headship of any; thirty years lived he as a hermit,\nsupplicating God for the world; ten years he had dwelt at the House\nof the Cold Strand, speaking little and praying much; but during the\nlast year he spoke more frequently and more freely, and the Head of the\nHouse of the Cold Strand consulted him reverently as his soul-friend,\nwhat though in that House he was his superior in religion.\n\n\u201cIt is in my mind, holy father,\u201d said Brother Pacificus, \u201cthat we have\nsinned greatly against our Brother Gorlois, and owe him amends.\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak thy mind, my brother, therefore,\u201d said he who was the Head of\nthe House. \u201cMake plain to us wherein we have sinned, and he shall live.\u201d\n\n\u201cMy father,\u201d said the Brother Pacificus, \u201cthis, our young brother, so\nlusty in his youth, is not bound by his vows, seeing that in truth he\ntook them not upon him.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho then took them, venerable brother?\u201d\n\n\u201cVerily, that did we,\u201d said Brother Pacificus; \u201cfor we knew their\nmeaning, our Brother Gorlois did not so. He, obeying babe-like those\nwho nurtured him, uttered words of which his heart knew not the\nmeaning. For it is written that once a man of God made a religious\nhouse in the wilderness and bound by vows Brother Fox, binding him to\na religious life, and to eat no flesh; the which vow he broke, adding\nto this offence the sin of theft, for so mightily desired he to eat\nflesh that he ate the leathern shoe-straps of his superior in religion,\nnamely, the holy saint; whereupon the holy man rebuked him for conduct\nunbefitting a monk, when it was revealed to him that no vow can make\na religious of a beast of the field; the blame is his who bindeth a\nlittle brother by a harsh rule against which the nature which God hath\ngiven constraineth him. Wherefore let our Brother Gorlois abide with\nus in peace, doing such tasks as his youth and great thews and sinews\nmake very fitting for him; but do not bind him to eat no flesh, nor\ndrink wine, nor even forbid him to seek the love of a maid, for to\nthese things the youth\u2019s nature mightily constraineth him; nor doth\nhe perceive in any measure the beauty of holiness, nor desireth he to\nenter into the secrets of the Kingdom of Heaven. Behold! he is no monk;\nthough his lips spake vow on vow, God would not register them in Heaven\nas we foolish men do on earth; this Brother Gorlois is but a lad, and\nin his heart a heathen, like the woman who bore him. Nevertheless he is\nthe child of our House. His hour is not yet. Spare him, my father, and\nlet us not\u2015\u2015we who follow Him who bade the woman go unhurt and sin no\nmore\u2015\u2015give our child to a cruel death. For we took him in God\u2019s name,\nand in the Power of that Name shall he dwell amongst us unhurt and\nforgiven.\u201d\n\nNow no other voice in the Holy House would have been heard on behalf\nof Brother Gorlois save only that of Brother Pacificus. But to his\nvoice the brethren listened with heed, and now his counsel prevailed,\nand they spared the Brother Gorlois, and absolved him from his vows,\nbidding him remain in the House of the Cold Strand, doing such work\nas his youth and strength rendered fitting for him. Thus then Brother\nGorlois was pardoned by the holy father who ruled the brethren. This\nholy father was a man of great zeal, and jealous for the fair repute of\nthe House, and often he mourned to Brother Pacificus because the soul\nof the House was barren, and he knew not by what means the brethren\ncould make thereof a mightier power in the Hand of the Lord. But\nBrother Pacificus said:\n\n\u201cThe soul of a Holy House, my father, is like unto the Kingdom of God;\nit cometh not with observation. It is from the beginning, and to hold\nthis diligently in our minds in all that is possible for us to do in\nthis matter. Let us then act as our nature constraineth us, under the\nguidance of the Lord, remembering all natures are rooted in Him, and\nit may ofttimes be our duty to suffer gladly, as His servant, one who\nsorely opposes us; now this is hard for the natural man, but the Lord\nfrom Heaven useth the one and the other for His service according to\nthe measure of their gifts, asking not wit from him who lacketh, nor\nclerkly lore from the simple, nor the power of the spirit from him who\nis yet a babe in Christ. Nor can we expect to know the subtle workings\nof our brethren\u2019s souls, and though it be our duty to dwell in sympathy\nwith them when we may, yet ofttimes it is our duty sweetly to resign\nourselves to dwell in ignorance of them. But the soul of a House of\nPrayer is born from above, not from below, and this, meseemeth, is the\nmeaning of that Scripture which saith a man by taking thought can add\nnot a cubit to his stature.\u201d\n\nIt was summer time when the sin of Brother Gorlois was judged by the\nbrethren; the following winter was very cold, and the Brother Pacificus\ngrew feebler. When the spring came he was very infirm; he slept little,\nand it grew a custom that a brother should watch beside him to\nminister to him in the night. On a moonlit night of May Brother Gorlois\nwas bidden to keep vigil by the old man\u2019s side. Brother Pacificus slept\nlightly during the first watch of the night. Brother Gorlois rose up\ngently and looked from the little unglazed casement upon the forest.\nIt was a warm night, the glamour of the moon lay on the great silent\nglades. Brother Gorlois felt restless, and upon him was a desire to\nrove the forest. The oaks were in leaf, the smell of bluebells filled\nthe air, the fierce life of night and springtide was pulsing apace\nthrough the dim sweet land; it was a night when all the beasts of the\nforest did roam, seeking their bread from God.\n\nBrother Gorlois leaned out, and smelled the night air and the earth;\nthen he drew back and sat by the old monk.\n\nSomething flew through the casement and hit Brother Gorlois on his\nbroad chest; it was a bunch of bluebells. Brother Gorlois looked out\nonce more. Below the window was the swineherd\u2019s daughter; the night\nwas sultry, and her smock was open by reason of the heat; her skirt\nwas made of the stitched skins of beasts; about her neck was a garland\nof blue flowers of the wood, swaying rope-like about her throat. When\nshe saw Brother Gorlois she laughed loudly and fled, but as she fled\nshe looked back. Then Brother Gorlois leaped from the window. When she\nheard the beat of his feet behind her she ran faster; nevertheless, as\nshe ran she dragged the bluebells from about her throat and flung them\nearth-wards to mark the way by which she went. Soon the thicket hid\nher, and Brother Gorlois, flying in pursuit, was hidden too.\n\nA little while after the flight of Brother Gorlois, the Brother\nPacificus stirred.\n\n\u201cMy son,\u201d he said faintly, \u201cgive me to drink, I pray thee.\u201d\n\nNo one answered, and the old man murmured:\n\n\u201cHe is young, he sleeps.\u201d\n\nHe sighed, for his mouth was very parched and dry. After a while he\nsaid again:\n\n\u201cMy son, sleepest thou? Wake, I pray thee.\u201d\n\nBut no one answered, and he said:\n\n\u201cMy voice is weak, and the sleep of youth is heavy. O Lord, Thy chosen\nslept in the hour of Thy agony; how didst Thou thirst, O Master, and\nthere was none to succour Thee, save with the bitter vinegar and gall!\u201d\n\nAfter a while the old monk\u2019s thirst grew grievous, and he strove,\nslowly and tremulously, to raise his aged limbs.\n\n\u201cIt is but a little way to yonder jug,\u201d he murmured, \u201cI am a selfish\nold man; the lad is tired with toil. I will seek the water for myself.\u201d\n\nHe rose slowly, groped a pace or two, stumbled, and fell to the\nfloor of his cell. He lay there, moaning a little now and then, and\nshivering. Thus did he lie during two hours of the night; and thus\nBrother Gorlois found him when he slunk back, just as day broke. In\ngreat terror he called the brethren, praying God that the old man\nhad not known his absence, or at least would be speechless till the\nend. But Brother Pacificus, though all might see his death was near,\nrecovered speech and clearness of mind, and received the last rites of\nthe Church. Then said he:\n\n\u201cMy brethren, ye are weary. Leave me to await the coming of my Lord and\nMaster. I shall die this night when midnight strikes. Wherefore at that\nhour go ye to the chapel, and speed my soul with songs of holy joy; and\nleave with me, I pray you, Brother Gorlois.\u201d\n\nThen they obeyed, weeping; but the Head said:\n\n\u201cDare we trust thee, beloved brother, with this youth?\u201d and sternly he\nsaid to Brother Gorlois:\n\n\u201cSlept ye not, nor had left our holy brother when this sickness\nincreased upon him?\u201d\n\nThen Brother Gorlois lied; and Brother Pacificus smiled very tenderly\nupon him and said:\n\n\u201cNay, ye shall leave me, my father, with the babe I found.\u201d\n\nWhen the brethren were gone, Brother Pacificus said:\n\n\u201cCome near to me, my child, and lift me in thy arms, for I breathe\nhardly.\u201d\n\nBrother Gorlois obeyed, and Brother Pacificus said:\n\n\u201cWherefore left ye me, my son and little brother? The pain was sore as\nI lay yonder; and that ye might have spared me. But in truth I sinned\nin lack of patience; nevertheless, the thirst which was upon me was\ngreat when I strove to fetch the water, that I might drink a little to\ncool my tongue.\u201d\n\nThe old man spoke very feebly, a word or two and then a long pause;\nbut when he had spoken Brother Gorlois knew Brother Pacificus had\nperceived his absence. He said no word, but hung his head. He\nperceived there was no fear that Brother Pacificus would betray him.\nAnd yet he hung his head; there grew up about his heart a feeling new\nand strange, and he felt very wroth with the swineherd\u2019s brown daughter.\n\n\u201cSee thy penance, child,\u201d said Brother Pacificus. \u201cHold me in thy arms;\nthus I breathe more freely.\u201d\n\nBrother Gorlois said nothing, not even when the cramp in his arms grew\ngreat.\n\nThe old man fell into a stupor; but sometimes he wandered a little. He\nwould moan and say:\n\n\u201cMy son\u2015\u2015Gorlois\u2015\u2015my son\u2015\u2015where are thou?\u201d\n\nSometimes he would say:\n\n\u201cI thirst\u2015\u2015alone\u2015\u2015Thou, Lord, wast left\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\nAnd Brother Gorlois, albeit dull of wit, saw he was living through the\npain and loneliness of the past night. Brother Gorlois did not ask the\nold monk\u2019s pardon; he did not know he wanted him to forgive; he knew\nhis heart felt heavy; he began to wish the Head might find out what he\nhad done, and have him flogged; and he felt more and more wroth with\nthe swineherd\u2019s daughter, who was the cause of his discomfort.\n\nIn the chapel the brethren began to sing, Brother Pacificus could not\nhear them. The hour of midnight was near.\n\n    Dies ir\u00e6, dies illa,\n    Solvet s\u00e6clum in favilla,\n    Teste David cum Sybilla.\n\nBrother Pacificus waxed heavier in the strong arms of his \u201clittle\nbrother;\u201d his breathing grew slower, and more slow.\n\n    Rex tremend\u00e6 majestatis,\n    Qui salvandos salvas gratis,\n    Salva me, fons pietatis.\n\nBrother Pacificus shuddered once with a great shudder, and his\nbreathing ceased; then he breathed once more, opened his eyes, and\nsmiled.\n\n\u201cJhesu!\u201d he said, \u201cJhesu! Jhesu! Jhesu!\u201d Then he laughed softly and\ngladly, as a lover at the sight of his beloved, or as an exile when he\nsees again the land he loves.\n\nThe hour was midnight; a light like moonlight flickering upon blue\nsteel flashed through the room, and Brother Pacificus died.\n\nThen as Brother Gorlois laid him down, and slowly rubbed his cramped\narms, there flew through the casement a bunch of blue flowers; they\nsmote him on the chest, and dropped upon the dead man\u2019s breast.\n\nBrother Gorlois gave a cry that was like unto a human sob of pain, but\nliker still to the cry of an angry beast that has been hurt. He leaped\nthrough the unglazed casement; in the silent wood below there was the\nshriek of a woman in a swiftly stilled anguish of bodily fear.\n\nFrom the chapel, when the day broke, the weeping brethren came. They\nfound Brother Pacificus dead, and on his breast a bunch of blue\nsweet-smelling flowers; under the window on the dew-drenched forest\nturf, there lay a half-clad girl; a bunch of blossoms like those on the\ndead saint\u2019s breast was in her stiffened hand; there was a wound in her\nthroat that an arm nerved by savage rage had given; in the tangle of\nher rough hair was the knife that had killed her. It was the Brother\nGorlois\u2019 hunting knife; but he had fled, and the House of the Cold\nStrand knew him no more from the hour when the Son of Man was born in\nhim, in the throes of a first \u201cconviction of sin,\u201d the passing anguish\nof a first remorse.\n\n\n\n\n                       THE EXCELLENT VERSATILITY\n                           OF THE MINOR POET\n\n\nPetals of wild cherry blossom were flying on a soft rush of wind that\nswept through the beech wood. Little bright sheathlets lay, brown and\nshining, at the feet of the smooth silver-green boles of the trees.\nThe leaves, not yet rid of the silky soft fringes of their babyhood,\nfluttered like little flags, and glowed like green flame; they were\nnot yet thick enough to hide the misty blue sky, laced with feathery\ncloudlets. Light seemed to flow from the little leaves\u2015\u2015the light of\nlife, the life of spring-time. The \u201cFire of God\u201d was aflame in the\nwood world; a green mist of colour was aglow in the very air that\npulsed between the beech-tree boles. In every dell the bracken sprang\nup straightly, uncurling its brown heads to spread abroad the branches\nof its later summer greenery. The first blue-bells were there too,\ncovering the ground with tender blue mist, and filling the air with an\necstasy of perfume that smote the senses with the pain that attends the\ninexpressible and almost intangible; for the soul of all joy, of all\nsweetness, whether of perfume, sight, or sound, is ever hidden away in\nthe heart of things, whereof all that can be smelt, or seen, or heard,\ndoes but torment us with a deeper, eternally elusive longing.\n\nOn a bough a blue tit hung head downwards, and beneath the bough, half\nhidden in a crisp bed of last year\u2019s leaves, lay a child who watched\nthe tit with half-shut eyes, and shook with a delight he did not\nunderstand, which was akin to pain. A queer, lonely, shy child, lying\nin a wood, trembling with a force which was trying to express itself\nthrough him. He was the motherless son of an old country vicar, who\ntook scarcely any notice of him until the boy was old enough to read\nthe books his father loved, who let the child \u201crun wild\u201d from sunrise\nto sunset, and after.\n\nThose who commented on the matter said it was very bad for a boy to\nhave no young companions, and to dream alone in a wood all day. This\nwas true, but circumstances alter cases. The training, or rather the\nlack of any training from the world of men, happened to be just what\nthis particular child needed; this was probably the reason he was\nplaced where he was, to struggle through a short life alone. People\nwere as shadows to the boy\u2015\u2015shadows whom he greeted kindly, to whom he\nmeekly submitted himself in much, for he was docile in most matters,\npartly because there were so few things of the outer world for which\nthis queer child really cared. When the outer things were forced upon\nhis notice, he observed all manner of traits in people which others did\nnot see. But for the most part he did not live in the world of men at\nall, but in the life of the beech wood, and in the life of that which\nthe wood partly expressed\u2015\u2015a life after which he reached continually\nwithout knowing or finding it.\n\nHe lay in the withered leaves and quivered with the thoughts and dim\nsensations that came about him like living presences; a power, not his\nown, seemed to press upon the child, till the wood vanished from his\neyes; it was as though the wide sky had suddenly stooped to the boy and\nengulfed him in a flood of quivering, living light.\n\nVague longings, longings to express somewhat that lurked within and\never eluded him, compassed the child about; until at last the knowledge\nstole upon him that he could put a shadow of his thought into rhythmic\nwords; words with a cadence that should tell of brooks and whispering\nleaves, and the songs and rustling of the birds in the beech wood.\n\nIt was about this time that the father saw that his child was not as\nother children; when he saw it he gave the boy no less liberty, but\nhe bestowed upon him freely such knowledge as was his, and let him\nlearn from the poets of past and present the power that lies in deftly\nwielded words.\n\nSo this boy, Fletewode Garth, lived in the quiet old vicarage house,\nsurrounded by the beech woods and the meadows, and dreamed, and wrote,\nand read such books as his father possessed, which were less numerous\nthan well chosen. His father, the gentlest, simplest, most unworldly of\nmen, never speculated as to his boy\u2019s future. Nor did the lad himself\ndream, as yet, of giving his thoughts to the world; of fame to be or\nmoney making he never thought at all.\n\nThe day came (it was when Fletewode was twenty years old) that the\nmild old vicar, having finished his appointed course as pastor of\nBeechenfield, sat down peacefully to smoke and doze under the shade of\na trellised Crimson Rambler in the vicarage garden, and there he fell\nasleep and never woke up again. Then it was found that save for the\nsum of \u00a3100 in the Bank, his son was left penniless; very well read\nin English literature, with much delicacy of taste in art and poetry,\nwith such classical attainments as the old vicar had himself possessed,\nand with no other qualifications for making his way in the world\u2015\u2015save\ngenius. So that it is obvious he ran a very good chance of starving.\n\nHis father\u2019s cousin, a prosperous man of business, desired to do well\nby him. He offered to obtain for him a clerkship in the city. Fletewode\nthanked him; then he pointed out that he was very unbusinesslike, that\narithmetic was not his strong point, in fact he was in the habit, when\nnecessity arose, of adding up on his fingers; also that he wrote a very\nunclerkly hand. Moreover, he said: \u201cI want to write about the things\nof which I think, and I believe that is the only thing I can really do\nwell.\u201d\n\nHis relative regarded him as a fool, and did not take the trouble to\nhide the fact. Fletewode was quite unruffled by this, which annoyed his\nkinsman still more. There is nothing to be done with a person who does\nnot mind what you think of, or say to, him, and it makes you appear as\nthough you were of little account in his eyes. Fletewode\u2019s relative was\nunpleasantly conscious of this, nevertheless he tried again to rouse\nthe impracticable youth to a sense of realities; he asked him how he\nproposed to live. Fletewode replied that he possessed \u00a3100; he supposed\nhe could live on that for some time; perhaps he should earn money by\nthe things he wrote; he had not considered the matter deeply, and,\nafter all, money was of secondary importance. To speak disrespectfully\nof other people\u2019s Gods is unjustifiable; Fletewode\u2019s relative, very\nproperly, cursed him in the names of Worldly Wisdom, and Business and\nCommonsense; also he said he washed his hands of him, when he was\nstarving in the gutter he would come to his senses. Fletewode smiled\nlike one who is occupied with more important questions, but lends a\nkindly ear to childlike babblings; then he went out to sit under the\nCrimson Rambler, where his father died. The crimson petals lay thickly\non the walk, and in a crook of the thorny boughs a flycatcher was\nfeeding a youthful family.\n\nA week later Fletewode left the vicarage, and the roses, the beech wood\nand the birds, and went to London with a sheaf of manuscripts and a\nfew books. At the end of a year he had written a great deal, but no\none heeded him. Who was to be expected to turn aside from the press of\nlife to see whether this shabbily dressed young man, who couched all\nmanner of wild, mystical thoughts of God and humanity and nature in\nmelodious verse, that made one think of the murmur of the wind through\na perfumed wood on a June night\u2015\u2015who was to take much trouble, I say,\nto see whether there was any truth in the words, or genius in the soul,\nof such a country lad as this?\n\nAt the end of a year the \u00a3100 was nearly gone; not that Fletewode had\nrecklessly spent the whole of this enormous sum on himself, but he\nfound (it is not an unusual experience) many people in the not too\nmagnificent street where he rented a room who were poorer than he;\nthese people looked upon him as a man of fortune, and they explained to\nhim the duty of the rich towards the poor.\n\nOn a day in spring Fletewode Garth sat in his room and shivered with\nnervousness and hunger, while he faced the fact that he had but three\nshillings left.\n\nSoon he would not be able to buy ink and paper; his work was beginning\nto suffer a little by reason of lack of food, and anxiety. It was for\nthat reason the sheet of paper on the table before him was angrily\ntorn across, and stained, moreover, with tears. He could not think;\nthe halting of his brain, the blunting of his perceptions were the\nkeenest tortures life could bring a soul like Fletewode Garth. He\nhad altered during his year of town life; the child-look, which had\nlingered in his eyes despite his twenty years, was gone. He was no\nlonger semi-unconscious of his surroundings and steeped in dreams of\nthe things beyond. He was nervously, irritably, bitterly conscious of\nhis world. Life\u2015\u2015the seamy side of it\u2015\u2015had made him look on the things\nmen call the realities of existence; the ugliest, most sordid, most\nevil side of life. He had looked to some purpose, looked till his heart\nwas sickened, till his heart was weary with pain and hopelessness.\nLooked till the pressure of the sordid-seeming struggle without, and\nthe strong constraining power of that mystic something within, a power\nwhich was laid on him despite himself, sometimes strained his nerves to\nbreaking point.\n\nNow, too, a dread seized him. The sight of the world\u2019s sorrow had made\nhim tremblingly anxious that his human comrades should hear him speak\nof the fairer things; of that which he felt to be true, which once\nhad been the whole of life for him. For the first time he desired to\ncomfort and to succour, and though he knew it not, this longing gave to\nhis work the last touch it needed\u2015\u2015the human touch, the power of speech\nfrom heart to heart.\n\nSuppose, he thought, he died of poverty, and all he had written was\nswept away unread. Fletewode actually believed that it is possible to\nsweep out of existence, irrevocably and for all time, a thing which the\nworld needs, or will need. Therefore he grieved; he had no personal\nambitions, he did not mind obscurity or death, nor did he greatly mind\nsuffering; but now, at last, he wished people to have the happiness\nthat had vanished from his own life.\n\nHe got up with a sigh, took his hat, and went out. He was going to seek\na possible patron. John Chalmers, a man whom he once helped with some\nof the vanished \u00a3100, told him \u201cto go and see Scottie; Scottie might\nput something in his way.\u201d\n\nJohn Chalmers was a clever man, who would have been a successful\nartist, save for drink. He drew rather coarse cartoons for inferior\ncomic papers.\n\n\u201cScottie,\u201d on the other hand, was a prosperous person. He had a talent\nfor inventing jingling refrains which \u201ccaught on\u201d with the public; his\ncomic songs, \u201cpatriotic\u201d songs, and dance music were whistled by every\nstreet boy, and ground out by every piano organ in London.\n\nFletewode Garth reached the house of this prosperous man; it was a\nlittle house in the suburbs, with a lilac tree bursting into bloom in\nthe small front garden. Mr. Scottie had lunched an hour before his\nvisitor\u2019s arrival; but, being conscienceless in such matters, he lied\nand said he was famished, and luncheon was late. This he did because\nhe knew Fletewode Garth was hungry; for, before he and the public had\ndiscovered his gift for tunes, he was a struggling provincial actor,\nstranded in South Wales by a decamping manager; wherefore he had\ntramped to the nearest large town, went forty-eight hours without food,\nand slept under a hayrick in a pelting thunderstorm; this invaluable\nexperience caused him to feel for Fletewode, and also caused him to\nperceive the signs of famine, and shape his lie in accordance with his\nobservations. Now if some persons had refrained from that lie, it would\nhave indicated in them a high regard for truth; but if Mr. Scottie had\nrefrained from it, it would have argued lack of sympathy rather than\nmorality; for he lied fairly often, and believed it to be necessary;\ntherefore his untruthfulness to Fletewode was an act of unmixed virtue.\n\nAfter luncheon he told his guest he wanted verses\u2015\u2015up-to-date\nverses\u2015\u2015to which he could attach tunes; his old friend Farquharson, who\nused to write them for him, was dead; would Fletewode try to fill his\nplace. It was pure philanthropy on the part of this patron of poetry;\nhe could get countless jingles of the kind he needed; but he was sorry\nfor the lad, whose white face, hollow eyes, and air of nervous strain,\nhad touched him.\n\nFletewode said he would try. He went home, and thought for a few\nminutes. Then he drew from his memory a quaint country tale from his\nold home; he cast it into the form of a ballad. It was stirring enough;\na story of love and heroism, of those elemental passions of the race\nwhich are always young, always able to grip the imagination. The next\nday he took it to his patron, who shook his head.\n\n\u201cMy dear chap,\u201d said he amiably, \u201c_this_ won\u2019t do. I want something\nwhich will go down at the _Rag Bag_. Never been to the _Rag Bag_?\nGreat Scott! How on earth can you write unless you know the world? I\u2019ll\ngive you a pass. You go and see for yourself the kind of thing I want.\u201d\n\nFletewode went to the _Rag Bag_; at first the foolish vulgarity of the\nsongs, the dull, sordid atmosphere of the place, wearied him. Then his\nmind, an ever-plastic machine, adapted itself a little; he began to\ntake a sort of amused pleasure in learning the \u201ctrick of the thing.\u201d\nHis cleverness began to prompt him; to show him how easily he could\nwrite rhymes much more pointed, much more witty, and considerably more\nharmful, than the majority of these coarse, imbecile jingles; his\ngenius, which was the power beyond, held his mind back, and said: \u201cKeep\nthese powers holy for me.\u201d\n\nNext day he went to see Scottie, and told him he did not care to do it.\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d said his patron, a little piqued.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t care to wade in the gutter mud,\u201d said Fletewode irritably,\nand indeed, very rudely and ungratefully; but he was over-strung and\ntormented by various sections of his mental and emotional make-up\npulling at him at once, and each in a different direction.\n\n\u201cWhat bosh,\u201d said the other. \u201cGutter mud! Gutter mud be hanged! The\npeople _want_ it. Old Farquharson was as decent a fellow as ever\nbreathed. You think the poor old chap has gone below, I suppose,\nbecause he wrote these things to keep his missus and kids out of the\nworkhouse? Well! Of all the beastly _cant_\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, I don\u2019t mean that. It was all right for him.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you think you\u2019re a better fellow than old Farquharson was, my\nyoung friend, you\u2019re jolly well mistaken,\u201d said the other, strumming\nexcruciatingly on the piano, for he was growing annoyed.\n\n\u201cI never said I was better. I never think, or care either, whether I am\ngood, bad, or indifferent. Can\u2019t you see how hideously ugly these songs\nare? Jingling tunes and Bank Holiday verses! They\u2019re like the smell of\nwithered cabbages and naphtha lamps.\u201d\n\nThis was not very courteous to the kindly composer of the said tunes.\n\n\u201cOh, well,\u201d said he, rather sharply, \u201cas you please. Er\u2015\u2015I\u2019m rather\nbusy, Mr. Garth.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, I beg your pardon,\u201d said Fletewode, starting and colouring. \u201cI\u2019m\nafraid I\u2019ve been very rude. I\u2019m sorry. Good morning, and\u2015\u2015thank you.\u201d\n\nThat evening he sat alone as usual, and tried to write his thoughts.\nHe was cold and tired and half-starved. There was only a shilling\nleft. He had written a sonnet, perhaps one of the most difficult forms\nof poetry, needing the greatest perfection of execution. He read it,\nsitting near the window, where a streak of the dying sunlight could\nfall on his numbed frame. The lines halted, they did not even scan;\nthe thoughts were feeble, confused. His work was bad; it was fatally,\nirredeemably bad. He crushed the paper in his hands, fell on his knees\non the floor, and rested his head on the seat of his one wooden chair.\nThere are some agonies of the soul into which it is sacrilege to pry;\nthis was one of them; we will not try to gauge it.\n\nAt last Fletewode stood up, went out, spent his last shilling on a\nmeal, and came back penniless. That was no matter, to-morrow Scottie\nwould give him five, perhaps ten shillings.\n\nHe sat at the table and wrote; as he wrote he became absorbed in his\nwork, he found himself laughing over it. When it was finished he read\nit through, he dropped it on the table, rested his head upon it and\ncried like a child. He had sold his birthright for a mess of pottage,\nand his life died within him for very shame. The dawn found him asleep\nin his chair, his head still resting upon the paper.\n\nThe next day he sought his patron, apologised for his folly, was easily\nforgiven by the most placable and kindly of slip-knot-principled men,\nand tendered his verses. The amiable Scottie took them, read, and\nchuckled over them appreciatively.\n\n\u201cYou jolly humbug!\u201d he said with genuine admiration. \u201cAnd you got a\npass for the _Rag Bag_ out of me to give you a tip!\u201d\n\n\u201cWill they do\u2015\u2015these verses?\u201d\n\n\u201cRather,\u201d still chuckling. \u201cI\u2019ll give you ten shillings for\nthem\u2015\u2015yes\u2015\u2015I don\u2019t mind giving you ten shillings. They\u2019re very smart.\n_This_ is your real line, you see; you\u2019ll get on now like a house on\nfire.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive them to me. I\u2019ll polish them. They\u2019re in the rough. I wrote them\nquickly.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey\u2019ll do.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive them back, I tell you,\u201d said Fletewode irritably. \u201cThey might\nhave been raked out of the Thames mud; but, even so, I won\u2019t let them\ngo like that. I\u2019ll polish them. You shall have them to-morrow.\u201d\n\nScottie handed him the verses and a ten-shilling piece. Fletewode went\nhome to \u201cpolish\u201d his production.\n\nHe spread the verses out before him. From his window he could see\nstacks of chimney pots, their crudeness of colour mellowed by the\npicturesqueness of dirt lit by the benign influence of May sunshine.\nThrough the open window floated the fluty call of a caged thrush,\nwhose cage hung over a great heap of wallflowers on the stall of a\ngreengrocer\u2019s shop.\n\nFletewode listened awhile, picked up the verses, dropped them, half\nraised his hands to his head, let them fall, and sat still. His limbs\ngrew numb and heavy, then they vanished from his consciousness; all his\nlife seemed to be focussed to one point, with a great eagerness and\nyearning, for what he knew not.\n\nThe room faded from his sight. Petals of wild cherry blossom, like\nfaery cups fashioned from snowflakes, were flying through the air; the\ngreen of the beeches was like living flame; the wood was full of keen\nstrong life. The birds were building; a wren flew by with thistledown\nin her beak; down by the little stream where marsh marigolds and water\nforget-me-nots grew, a kingfisher was flashing by; a blackbird was\nsplashing and bathing in the shallows; over the cowslip-spangled meadow\nbeyond, the rooks were flying, and the sheep bells\u2019 clang blended with\ntheir sober calling.\n\nBut there was a keener, swifter life in the wood than that of opening\nleaf and building bird. He had always felt its throbbing, but now it\nwaxed perceptible to sight; it flowed like living light through the\nboles of the trees; they seemed to grow translucent; it thrilled in\nthe air; through the shining vistas of the beechen woods, the gods\nand dryads of old legends came trooping; and the elfin peoples of the\nflowers and air, of the water and the moss-decked rock, made good sport\nin the flitting lights and shadows.\n\nHe cast himself, so it seemed, in the old hollow filled with the dead\ncrisp beech leaves; their faint pungent smell and the delicate odour\nof the opening leaves were all about him in this strange old-new\nworld. About him a presence wove itself; an unreal, most-real,\ncompelling power, without him and within. He felt the pulsing of a\nstronger life smite upon his. And then, even as when he was a child,\nthe inner and the outer world alike flowed away from him, the great\nsky seemed to stoop to him in a blinding flood of living light and\nwrap him round, and \u201cthere was neither speech nor language,\u201d only\nlight\u2015\u2015light\u2015\u2015light\u2015\u2015and again more light and keener life.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next day Mr. Scottie received a note which was left at his door.\nOut of it dropped a ten-shilling piece. On a sheet of paper was written:\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t do it, I\u2019ve torn them up. To every man his work and his line,\nthis isn\u2019t mine. I must do the work they mean me to do. If you say:\n\u2018Who are they?\u2019 I do not know. If through some fault of mine, or of the\nworld\u2019s, I fail to do as I am meant to do, then let me go. There\u2019s no\npoint in a man\u2019s keeping his body alive by making his brain grind out\nwork for which it wasn\u2019t built. Better work with one\u2019s hands than that,\ntill the hour strikes. That is what I shall try now, and wait results.\u201d\n\nMr. Scottie was greatly concerned, because his _prot\u00e9g\u00e9_ had, as he\nphrased it, \u201cgone dotty,\u201d and, being as kindly a creature as ever\npursued the tasks appointed for him by his past, he took pains to find\nFletewode. But Fletewode and his MSS. were gone.\n\nA week later the gardener of a well-to-do literary man, a minor poet,\nreceived a shock. Within his master\u2019s grounds was a little clump of\nbeech trees; they grew far away from Fletewode\u2019s old home, but they\nwere fine trees, all bravely decked in their spring green, and at\ntheir feet grew bluebells. The gardener found a dead man lying face\ndownwards in a bluebell patch, and beside him was a great bundle of\npapers tied up in a scarlet and white handkerchief. The gardener gave\nthe alarm; he carried the bundle to his master, and the dead man was\nlaid in the harness room in the stables. There was no clue at all as\nto the identity of the man; the doctor discovered he had died of heart\nfailure. The minor poet looked through the papers; he said at the\ninquest there was no clue in the bundle as to who the man was, there\nwere only a few unimportant documents; he would pay the expenses of the\npoor young fellow\u2019s funeral.\n\nNow the minor poet was an ambitious man, well known in the literary\nworld. His ambitions were larger than his power of performance. He\nwas well known among men of letters as a very good critic of other\npeople\u2019s work. The day of the funeral he sat alone and trembled in\nthe throes of temptation. He did not understand the subtle mystic\nthought of the poems in the bundle, but he saw their marvellous beauty\nof expression. He appreciated keenly the lovely lilt and melody of\nthe lines which seemed to ring out from the heart of a fairy haunted\nwood. The minor poet was not a very righteous man. Three beautiful\nlittle books emanated from his pen point, they were finally bound in\nwhite vellum and tied chastely with blue ribbons. Those books were\nwidely read. The critics greatly praised the versatility of the minor\npoet, who had never written anything of that kind before; also they\nwarned him\u2015\u2015friendly-wise\u2015\u2015against a tendency to mysticism, which\never saps the judgment and emasculates the intellect. The minor poet\nsaid he would never fall again into that snare, and indeed he never\ndid so. The thoughts enshrined within those poems struck strongly on\nthe consciousness of four readers only. One was a foreign writer of\nromance, the second was a great preacher, the third a musician, and\nthe fourth a man of science to whom the world harkened when he spake.\nAnd the thought of these four men, and through them the thought of\nthe world, was coloured for all time to come by the work of the\nminor poet; men who had not heeded that of Fletewode Garth, heard his\nvoice gladly. Thus the wheel that none can stay rolled on, and the\nworld, through the heart failure of Fletewode, and the ambition of an\nunrighteous man, received the message which it would not receive by\nother means. For the hour had struck upon the clock of time when it was\nfit that it should hear, therefore its ears were opened.\n\nBut the problem for the wise is this: When sheaves are garnered what\nshall be the minor poet\u2019s share in the reaping?\n\n\n\n\n                          \u201cTHE TREE OF BEAUTY\u201d\n\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d said the playwright, \u201cis a beautiful story. I suppose every one\nwho reads it will think so; but I am not sure that more than one in a\nmillion will guess a tithe of what it means. Frankly, I know I don\u2019t. I\ndaresay even the writer himself didn\u2019t know all that it suggests.\u201d\n\nThe book was _The Light Invisible_, and the story was \u201cConsolatrix\nAfflictorum.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo you agree with me?\u201d said the playwright after a pause, in which\nthe only sound heard was the wind and the drumming of the waves on the\nrocks. Since he received no answer he looked at his companion, a man\nwhom he believed he knew very well; when he looked at him he knew his\nown folly, and was silent.\n\nPresently the man said:\n\n\u201cDo you like stories? Shall I tell you one?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it true?\u201d\n\n\u201cNaturally. How could it be otherwise? Do you think I can create out of\nnothingness? The story in itself must be true, if I could understand\nit. But I shall have to grope after it, and translate it for you; and I\nshall do it badly, no doubt. Still\u2015\u2015shall I tell it?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo,\u201d said the playwright. Whereupon the man began as follows:\n\n     \u201cYears ago, perhaps a couple of centuries or so, there was\n     a village in the north of England, which remains little\n     altered to this day. It has never been touched by that\n     change in the method of viewing truth which some call the\n     Reformation, and others name after a different fashion.\n     This was partly because it is an isolated moorland village;\n     partly because it was, and is, owned by a family whose\n     representative at that time was not only a very rich and\n     influential man, but also of the type with whom other men,\n     and even Church and State, do not very readily interfere.\n     He was grave and discreet, sober of speech and very devout,\n     and he ruled his village with a most benevolent despotism.\n     He was especially filled with devotion for the Virgin\n     Mother, \u201cthe blossoming Tree, the Mother of Christ,\u201d in\n     whose honour he had built a small but most beautiful chapel\n     in his grounds; here the rites celebrated were of the\n     highest perfection of reverent elaboration, and here the\n     devout builder retired daily for prayer and meditation.\n\n     \u201cOne day as he came from prayer his servants brought him\n     a vagabond gipsy lad who had been selling songs in the\n     village or offering them in exchange for food. This outcast\n     was very little past his boyhood; his garments were worn,\n     and faded with sun and rain, his feet were bare, and in his\n     cap was fastened a bough stolen from a blossoming fruit\n     tree.\n\n     \u201cAt that time the once persecuted had become the\n     persecutors; coarse, bitter, and profane songs were\n     written, and sold to be sung in taverns and at country\n     fairs, which mocked at things which were by many people\n     justly held sacred. Among this stroller\u2019s songs were two\n     which spoke profanely of Her whom the king of the little\n     moorland village reverenced. When therefore he read them\n     he became very angry; he bade that the songs\u2015\u2015one and\n     all\u2015\u2015should be destroyed; he told his servants that the\n     gipsy should be whipped, set in the stocks, and finally\n     pelted from the place after being ducked in the pond\n     which was on the village green. Then the lad begged for\n     mercy; he pleaded that he could not read, that he knew no\n     difference between faith and faith, but only the crafts of\n     the wood and the lore of his people. He bought and sold in\n     ignorance, partly because he must eat, but chiefly because\n     he wished to buy a string of red beads for his sweetheart,\n     which he had promised her, because she desired to hang them\n     round her throat.\n\n     \u201cBut the devout man, being wounded by the insults to his\n     faith, for the verses were both coarse and flippant, would\n     not listen. The lad was punished; his songs were destroyed;\n     and at the time of sunset he fled, followed by the hoots\n     of the villagers, bruised, bleeding, breathless, and half\n     drowned.\n\n     \u201cNow a year later his judge was riding, at nightfall,\n     through a strange district of the south, whither he had\n     come on business. He met a sober man in the dress of a\n     preacher, and rode with him because the hour was late and\n     the roads dangerous because of highwaymen. After a while\n     they began to talk of grave matters touching their faith,\n     and the salvation of their souls. Thus it happened that\n     very soon they quarrelled, and well nigh came to reviling\n     each other, in speech as well as in thought, the one for\n     a blasphemous idolater, the other for a vile heretical\n     outcast from the faith. At last they found that, in the\n     heat of argument, they had missed the way, and were on a\n     swampy bridle path in the depths of a misty oak wood.\n\n     \u201cThen they called a truce, and reflected what they should\n     do; as they considered thus they heard one coming through\n     the wood who whistled. Soon he drew near; it was a young\n     man, little more than a boy; as he came nearer he began\n     to hoot like an owl, and the owls in the wood called back\n     to him. When he was quite near and saw the faces of the\n     riders he seemed as though he would fly; then he pulled his\n     cap from his head, and came towards them, pleading that\n     he was doing no ill. The ruler of the northern village\n     saw he was the lad whom he had caused to be punished. He\n     saw, moreover, that the gipsy knew him; therefore he told\n     him very sternly that if, in revenge for a well-merited\n     punishment, he played them evil tricks and directed them\n     wrongly he should most bitterly repent it. But when the\n     gipsy raised his eyes to his and asked simply:\n\n     \u201c\u2018Why should I lie to you, sir, about the way?\u2019 he felt\n     ashamed and was silent. Then the preacher asked if there\n     was any house at hand where they might purchase food and\n     lodging. The gipsy answered:\n\n     \u201c\u2018Good gentlemen, there is a farm a mile hence where this\n     morning the farmer set his dog at me, thinking I would\n     rob his hen-roost; when the dog did not bite me he kicked\n     him. But he will gladly receive two worthy gentlemen with\n     purses. Shall I guide you?\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018Guide us,\u2019 said the preacher, \u2018and we will pay you.\u2019 So\n     the boy went before them whistling. He was a wonderful\n     whistler, and he seemed to have bat\u2019s eyes that could see\n     in the dark.\n\n     \u201cPresently the man who had so severely condemned him called\n     to him.\n\n     \u201c\u2018Come here,\u2019 he said, \u2018and walk at my horse\u2019s head.\u2019\n\n     \u201cThe boy came obediently; at first he was afraid and loth\n     to speak, but he seemed to be shy rather than sullen,\n     and after a while he talked fearlessly and simply of\n     such things as he knew; of the lore of his race, and of\n     the customs of the peoples of the wood, sometimes called\n     dumb brutes by those who cannot speak their tongue. His\n     simplicity and gentleness, and his forgetfulness of the\n     harshness of his former judge, won upon the man. He felt\n     remorse, and asked him what he had done when his songs were\n     destroyed, \u2018For I might,\u2019 said he, \u2018have left those to you\n     in which I found no offence.\u2019 The gipsy answered simply\n     that he went hungry for three days; also his sweetheart\n     followed another because he could not give her the beads he\n     had promised her. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke\n     and yet he laughed.\n\n     \u201cThey went on for a while in silence; at last the lad\n     stopped, and said:\n\n     \u201c\u2018Gentlemen, I am sorry. The wood is very strange to-night,\n     and I have missed my way. I meant to lead you right. Do\n     not think evil of me. I know now that you who are not of\n     our race quarrel among yourselves. But in this you agree.\n     To curse us who are not of any faith, and to believe evil\n     of us because we live under the sky and have other ways\n     and thoughts than yours. But\u2015\u2015but I am very tired of being\n     cursed.\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018You shall not be cursed by me,\u2019 said the man by whose\n     side he walked. \u2018Nor will I believe you wilfully led us\n     wrong.\u2019\n\n     \u201cThen the gipsy took courage; he listened a little while,\n     and cried:\n\n     \u201c\u2018I hear the crackle of a camp fire. Perhaps some of my\n     people are hereabouts. If so, do not fear us; we will\n     welcome you if you trust us, and give you what we have to\n     share.\u2019\n\n     \u201cThe others heard nothing, but the lad led them towards the\n     sound his ears caught, and soon they saw he was right. They\n     came to an open space in the wood; there was a circle of\n     huge grey stones, a temple of the gods of a vanished faith;\n     within the circle was turf, where rabbits leaped and ate;\n     in the centre a pool twenty feet deep, crystal clear, and\n     green as pale chrysolite; had it been day each tiny weed\n     that grew in the depth, each little stone that lay there,\n     would have shone clear. In the centre of the pool was an\n     islet, and on the isle a little ruined chapel dedicated to\n     the Mother of God; in the chapel was a gipsy fire streaming\n     upwards towards the great starlit sky, and causing wondrous\n     shadows to leap and chase on the ruined walls. A thin slab\n     of rock rose from the depths of the pool to the surface of\n     the water, so that there was a narrow perilous pathway from\n     the shore to the isle. In the chapel by the fire there sat\n     on the broken pavement a young barefooted woman, clad in a\n     peasant dress of blue frieze, a cloak about her shoulders,\n     her hair falling veilwise around her, and a young child\n     sleeping in her arms. The boy called to her in Romany;\n     she rose and came to the shore of the isle, her child in\n     her arms, and answered him in the same tongue. She was a\n     beautiful brown-haired young woman; her solemn eyes were\n     grey, and as clear as the pool by which she stood.\n\n     \u201c\u2018Bid her speak in a tongue we can understand,\u2019 said the\n     preacher.\n\n     \u201cThe boy did so; asking whether she could direct them.\n\n     \u201c\u2018I could, little brother,\u2019 she answered in a sweet voice.\n     \u2018But you and these gentlemen might not understand me well.\n     Better to shelter by these stones to-night, or cross the\n     water to my fire; to-morrow you may seek your own way.\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018Have you any food, mother,\u2019 said the lad, \u2018food fit to\n     offer such worshipful gentlemen?\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018Scarcely is it fit, brother,\u2019 said the gipsy woman. \u2018I\n     have here bread, and a little wine, and one cup only in\n     which to serve it.\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018If I had known you camped here, sister,\u2019 said the boy,\n     \u2018and if you had no man to see that all is well with you and\n     the child, I could have set snares in the fern, and you\n     would have supped better.\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018I know it,\u2019 she answered. \u2018Had I asked it of you, you\n     would have set snares for these little children. Nay, then,\n     brother, you would have shared all you trapped till you\n     went supperless yourself. Therefore you shall eat of my\n     bread and drink the wine I have to give. Cross the water to\n     me.\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018But these good gentlemen, mother?\u2019 asked the boy.\n\n     \u201c\u2018They may take you by the hand,\u2019 she said, \u2018and cross the\n     water to me.\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018I do not think they can tread a path so narrow as this\n     rock. It is slippery. Sister, I will cross and bring to\n     them what you have of food and drink, and fire that we may\n     build a fire by the stone.\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018You may take them fire,\u2019 she answered, \u2018but for food and\n     drink they must cross to me. They cannot walk with your\n     feet; they must use their own. They must cross barefoot, or\n     they will fall into the pool.\u2019\n\n     \u201cAfter a while the man who ruled this little northern\n     village determined to cross; he was hungry, and preferred\n     the scantiest fare to fasting; besides he saw the cross on\n     the ruined altar, and he desired to enter the chapel and\n     pray. The preacher demurred at the depth of the cold still\n     water; the chapel was a former place of Popish worship, the\n     cross on the altar offended him, and he was not yet very\n     hungry, besides he had a little food still in his wallet.\n     He tethered the horses and sat down to eat, while his two\n     companions crept, hand in hand, inch by inch over the\n     narrow rock path that was just visible above the shifting\n     shimmer of the pool\u2019s surface.\n\n     \u201cEntering the chapel they sat side by side on the broken\n     pavement. The woman, sitting beside the fire, broke her\n     cakes of bread; she gave them each a portion, and ate some\n     herself; she drank from the cup and handed it to them.\n\n     \u201c\u2018Till the sun rises,\u2019 she said, \u2018I shall rest here, I and\n     my child. Rest you here, also, and sleep or watch as you\n     will. Through the night my fire will burn; at dawn I shall\n     let it die. It will have lighted and warmed us till the sun\n     shall rise.\u2019\n\n     \u201cThe preacher, having prayed, wrapped himself in his cloak,\n     and sat at the foot of a great stone, watching the horses\n     as they cropped the turf, lest they should stray and be\n     lost; he mused profitably and seriously on his labours and\n     doctrine. He heard the cropping of the horses, the murmur\n     of the wind, and the trickle of a stream, fed by the deep\n     still pool. He heard the woman singing softly to her child,\n     in crooning snatches, in seeming unmindfulness of what she\n     sang:\n\n     \u201c\u2018He that is down need fear no fall,\u2019 she crooned. \u2018He that\n     is low no pride\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2019\n\n     \u201cShe whispered wordless music as she rocked to and fro;\n     then her song changed:\n\n     \u201c\u2018O Tree of Beauty\u2015\u2015Tree of Might,\u2019 she sang, clear, faint,\n     and high, in a monotonous chant, such as the chapel must\n     have echoed to in the days when priests served before its\n     ruined altar, and men and women knelt at the little shrine\n     above which was the statue of a Mother and Child, \u2018O Tree\n     of Beauty\u2015\u2015Tree of Beauty\u2015\u2015Tree of Might\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2019\n\n     \u201cThe gipsy boy lay near the fire rejoicing in the warmth,\n     looking sometimes up to the starlit sky, across which many\n     a meteor flamed and died, sometimes at the shadows that\n     leaped on the walls, sometimes into the woman\u2019s face.\n\n     \u201c\u2018What do you sing, sister?\u2019 he said. \u2018It is not a song of\n     our people.\u2019\n\n     \u201c\u2018It is a song of all peoples, brother,\u2019 she answered. \u2018But\n     they sing it in many tongues, and to many tunes.\u2019\n\n     \u201cThe lad looked at her wonderingly; then he began to watch\n     the stars again, and the little thin clouds that flew\n     across the dark sky. At last he went to sleep with his head\n     resting on his arm; sometimes he laughed and whispered as\n     he slept, and thrice he sobbed. The woman bent down and\n     cast over him a fold of her cloak, as he lay and dreamed\n     under the stars.\n\n     \u201cAs for the third traveller, he, mindful of the sacredness\n     of the place, stood not alone barefooted (for to cross the\n     rock it had been needful to lay aside all covering of his\n     feet), but also bareheaded he turned his face to the East,\n     and perceiving the little side altar with the statue of\n     the Mother, he approached and knelt before it, making the\n     sign of the cross. There he knelt till dawn, for he was\n     one used to prayer and vigil. The woman sat motionless,\n     guarding the leaping flames; bread in her hands, the wine\n     cup at her feet, her cloak enfolding the sleeping outcast,\n     the swaddled babe on her knees. Now of her thoughts, which\n     were measureless, there is no record I can read; nor can I\n     tell of the gipsy boy\u2019s dreams. But it is said the other\n     two wanderers saw the place in very different fashion, and\n     this is what they saw. The preacher beheld the dark circle\n     of the enclosing oak trees, stirred by the wind; he saw the\n     great grey stones reared by the dead pagans; he saw the\n     turf, the horses, and the wild rabbits; he saw the pool\n     shining in the firelight, the ruined chapel, the leaping\n     flame, and the woman sitting beside it with her child on\n     her knee, and the sleeping lad lying at her feet. And his\n     eyes rested on her till he forgot the strife of creeds; he\n     watched till she seemed to him the image or forthshowing of\n     the motherhood of the world; and when next he preached he\n     spoke no harsh doctrine, nor railed at idolatrous worship\n     of a creature rather than of the Creator, as he was wont to\n     do; but he spoke of the Love of God shown forth in human\n     love, and above all in the great love of a mother for\n     her little children; for this pure love, said he, is an\n     example to us of the love that gives rather than takes, it\n     is a symbol of the Divine Love, that, motherlike, feeds,\n     sustains, and preserves all creatures.\n\n     \u201cNow the other traveller passed into profound musing, till\n     his outer senses were locked as though in sleep; and he\n     saw the place in which he was after the following manner\n     and semblance. He saw the girdle of trees as the wall of\n     a great temple, therein there were three courts, and at\n     the centre a shrine. In the first court was the image\n     of a woman bearing a child in her arms; about her were\n     lights burning and the smell of incense, and the song of\n     human praise; priests in rich vestments celebrated solemn\n     rites, and worshippers, both male and female, old and\n     young, bowed down before this mother and child. In the\n     second court there was a dimness as of a starlit night;\n     there was no incense save the smell of earth and flowers,\n     no song but the song of birds, and of streams, and the\n     boom of waves like the tones of an organ; no lights but\n     strange fires that gleamed and flickered through the night,\n     no worshippers save dim forms of the gracious \u2018hidden\n     peoples,\u2019 the gods of wood and orchard, plain and tilth.\n\n     \u201cIn the third court was a turmoil of cold flame; those who\n     served and worshipped there (if servitors and worshippers\n     there were), were many-hued, transparent, flame-like; here\n     was no human being\u2015\u2015neither was there male nor female, but\n     in that turmoil of fires were strange forms moving in time\n     to music, and wonderful shapes that changed and gleamed and\n     moved in marvellous sort with a motion and rhythm that had\n     therein nothing earthly whereof tongue can rightly speak or\n     pen set down; but throughout the turmoil of this wondrous\n     dance there was an order and a purpose, for they moved in\n     time to a great song that seemed like silence.\n\n     \u201cBut in the Shrine there was nothing visible; only from it\n     a voice was heard crying:\n\n     \u201c\u2018She who is worshipped in this temple is the Mother of all\n     Faiths, past and present. She is worshipped as the Divine\n     Mother of the Worlds, as the Power of Wisdom, as the Secret\n     Rose, as star-strewn space, as Mary the Virgin, Mother of\n     God; as the deep waters of the sea, also; and some there\n     be who think of Her as woman. She is the Form Divine,\n     Memory and Time; She is angel and man, woman and child,\n     beast and bird, sky and cloud and flower, song of bird,\n     dew, sunshine and rain, wind and water, snow and frost,\n     tree and stream, priests\u2019 chant and sacred writ, learning\n     and holy rites. She is the Sacred Mirror of God, in Whom\n     are all things visible and invisible. They who toil in Her\n     service worship and praise Her, and of Her the Holy Child\n     is born in every human heart. She, the sacred cup, and the\n     holy bread; She, the lily of flame set in the waters of\n     space; She, the waters whence it springs; She, the hearts\n     of men, and their souls and bodies; She, the Holy Cave, the\n     consecrated Manger wherein the Babe is cradled; She is the\n     Mother of the Sacred Humanity whereby we enter the mystery\n     of the Godhead. She, then is Nature and Beauty, the Power\n     of God, the Builder of all Forms, the Mother of all Tales.\n     Those sing of Her and praise Her who love to worship God\n     as Divine Form rather than as hidden all-sustaining Life.\n     For He, though he be One, is likewise manifold; and those\n     who adore Him in the many praise Him in the sacred Form,\n     eternal in the heavens when all earthly forms have passed\n     like spray driven by the wind; Mary the Ever-Virgin, the\n     Root of all the worlds, one with the life that sustains\n     them, eternally inseparate from It. She is the Temple of\n     God, the glorified body of the saint, the celestial garden\n     of the souls made one; She is the Sacred Wood of the Cross,\n     the Tree of Might and Beauty\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015\u2019\u201d\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe man who told this tale ceased to speak. He was silent till the\nplaywright touched his arm; he started:\n\n\u201cIs that the end?\u201d said the playwright.\n\n\u201cIt is the end,\u201d said the man, dreamily. \u201cThere is nothing more to\ntell.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                           FORTY-EIGHT HOURS\n\n    We are in Thee who art strength:\n                Give us Thy strength!\n    We are in Thee who art love:\n                Give us Thy love!\n    We are in Thee who art power:\n                Give us Thy power!\n    We are in Thee who art peace:\n                Give, Lord, Thy peace!\n    We are in Thee who dost wait:\n                Teach us to wait!\n                          _Litany of the Wood._\n\n\nThere were three men in the large square, solidly furnished room.\nTwo of them were talking; the third was silent. It was a comfortable\nroom\u2015\u2015a library well filled with books. The men who talked were the\nhost and his guest; he who was silent was the secretary, who wrote in\nthe large bow window looking on the terrace, where sparrows quarrelled\nin the ivy, and the daffodils and nancies nodded in the soft blustering\nwind of late spring.\n\nThe secretary was a pale, shrewd-faced young man of twenty-eight; he\nwas of middle height, not plain, nor yet comely, except for his eyes,\nwhich were very clear and quiet, and of a striking yellowish-grey.\nHe was unobtrusively dressed, and very impassive, not to say dull, in\nmanner. He was civil, however, attentive when he was spoken to; his\nvoice was pleasant, and rather conciliatory in tone, as though he was\ndeprecating anger.\n\nHe was writing letters in a small, neat hand, and showed no sign of\nhearing any conversation that was not addressed to him.\n\nHis employer was talking; he was a good talker, and a good lecturer.\nHe was a very public-spirited person full of affairs and had just\nwritten a certain world-compelling pamphlet, which was intended to\nrevolutionise thought in various unexpected quarters. He was a very\nwell-known, much-applauded, and generally respected person.\n\nHe was talking to a guest who was less applauded because he was held to\nbe soberly commonplace; nevertheless he too was generally respected,\nfor he did nothing in particular, whether of good or evil, and was\nknown to be very rich and growing richer.\n\nHe listened to his host, but an observant person would have noticed\nthat he often glanced at the secretary.\n\nWhen the host proposed a stroll before luncheon he rose; he was silent\ntill they were on the terrace, then he said carelessly:\n\n\u201cThat man of yours, Dexter, is a steady-looking fellow.\u201d\n\n\u201cO yes; he\u2019s steady and shrewd too. I believe him to be a good fellow\nin the main. Not quite reliable\u2015\u2015as regards money matters some years\nago. However, he was young, and he paid the penalty. I gave him a fresh\nstart, and I\u2019ve never repented it. I think bygones should be bygones.\u201d\n\n\u201cQuite so,\u201d said the guest.\n\nThe host had a \u201ccarrying voice\u201d; it \u201ccarried\u201d into the room where the\nsecretary sat.\n\nHe had finished the letters; he was sorting and arranging the MS. of\nthe world-compelling pamphlet, before proceeding to type it. The writer\nwas a religiously-disposed man and a church-goer; he liked to preface\nhis pamphlets with a motto, generally a text. This one was a text; it\nran: \u201cDo unto others as ye would they should do unto you.\u201d\n\nHe was an excellent man; but he never stopped to think whether he\nwas in the habit of making a catalogue of his past offences to his\nlistening friends and new acquaintances or whether he would like to\nknow that they did so on his behalf.\n\nThere was once a converted heathen who was much cleverer than those\nwho converted him. He told the bishop of the diocese that he and his\nfellow-converts were in the habit of gathering together to make public\nconfession of their sins.\n\n\u201cAn excellent discipline, doubtless,\u201d said the good bishop, \u201cbut such\npublic confession must be painful.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy no means,\u201d said the simple penitent. \u201cBecause we do not confess our\nown sins, but each others\u2019.\u201d\n\nThe bishop mused on the childlike simplicity of the convert; but\u2015\u2015was\nthe former heathen as guileless as he sounded?\n\nThe secretary heard the words of his employer; his hands began to\nshake. Presently he dropped the MS. and sat staring out of the window.\nIt was seven years since he had \u201cpaid the penalty,\u201d seven solid years\nof dull drudgery and loneliness, and they were still discussing it, and\nhis \u201cfresh start.\u201d\n\nHe sighed; picked up his pencil (he was numbering chaotic scraps of a\nvery badly written MS.), let it slide to the carpet, rested his arms\non the table, and his head on his arms, and sighed, and sighed, and\nsighed again; a sigh sadder than a sob, because it spoke of a greater\nweariness, and a more utter depression and spiritlessness.\n\nThe door opened; the guest appeared; he shut the door quietly and stood\nlooking at the secretary. At last he said softly:\n\n\u201cDexter.\u201d\n\nThe man started and sprang up; his eyes looked nervous and ashamed.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all right,\u201d said the other. \u201cI only want to tell you what I\u2019ve\nbeen leading up to for days. You knew I\u2019d been leading up to something.\u201d\n\n\u201cI thought you were. I don\u2019t know what it is.\u201d\n\n\u201cI should not have come in here when I was supposed to be writing\nletters and talked to you, unless I had been trying to size you up. I\nshouldn\u2019t size you up unless I wanted you for something.\u201d\n\n\u201cWant me! For what?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you.\u201d\n\nThe guest sat in the bow window and began to talk in a low voice. It\ndoes not matter specially what he said: it was a plan of action which\na man of fair repute could only have told to one whose reputation for\nhonesty was smirched. It was a very creditable scheme from the point\nof view of a skilful speculator and financier who was not particular\nabout his methods.\n\n\u201cMy name must never appear,\u201d he said, \u201cthough of course I am the backer\nof the concern. If you will run the thing for me as your own, you\nunderstand, then\u2015\u2015I will make it worth your while. I don\u2019t mind, to\nspeak quite frankly, broaching the matter to you, because my reputation\nstands high, and I can back it with a big cheque. If you were to say I\nhad spoken to you thus, you would not be believed if I denied it. You\nwould be thought a blackmailer, that\u2019s all.\u201d\n\n\u201cI suppose so. I\u2019m not likely to tell any one. I don\u2019t talk much; and I\nshould only get into fresh trouble if I talked of this.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes. You\u2019re quiet and shrewd. I\u2019ve watched you a long time. Your\nlife here is a dog\u2019s life. You are ticketed as the man\u2015\u2015who was found\nout. Now there\u2019s very little risk in this; practically none. For if\nthe thing fails I don\u2019t think the law can touch you. Of course your\nreputation would be gone; but then you\u2019ve damaged that already, and he\ndoesn\u2019t forget it, any more than you do, does he?\u201d\n\n\u201cNaturally he does not.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf it succeeds, and I think it will, then I will give you enough of\nthe proceeds to give you a real \u201cfresh start\u201d in America. My name will\nnever appear; it will never be traced who paid you the money; you will\nsimply reserve a sum agreed on between us. That\u2019s tempting to you,\nisn\u2019t it? It means freedom, and a clean record in another country.\nThat\u2019s tempting?\u201d\n\n\u201cI think so. Will you give me twenty-four hours to think it over?\u201d\n\n\u201cAs long as you like in moderation.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s only that I feel rather played out and tired, that\u2019s all. I funk\nat anything that is fresh; anything that needs thought and smartness.\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk for a holiday; rest and think it over.\u201d\n\nSo the man asked for a holiday, and was granted forty-eight hours; not\nmore, because there was haste to produce the world-compelling pamphlet.\nHe thought he would walk five miles to the forest, and live two days\nand nights in solitude under the open sky. He started in the dark,\nwith a knapsack strapped to his shoulders. It was dawn when he reached\nthe forest, and crossed a stretch of heath, whence the sea could be\nsmelt, salt and pungent; and the island, too, could be seen, lying,\nindigo-blue, in the clear distance.\n\nIt was a very clear dawn, as clear as crystal, and sights and sounds\nand smells had a bell-like clean-cut purity that struck the soul\nat first hand, so that one hardly realised the perception of them\ncame by way of the body. There was a winding ribbon-like road, which\ncrossed the heath after it crept out of the thick forest, and along\nit a red-painted mailcart went. Behind the cart ran an old dog, lured\nneither to the right nor to the left in his steady following. The cart\nclattered over a railless wooden bridge which crossed a slow stream in\nwhich watergrasses waved; there were two moor-fowl swimming on it, and\nits banks were shining with water forget-me-nots.\n\nHe passed the mailcart and crossed the bridge; then he reached the\nwoods and left the road. He wanted a quiet place in which to think;\nhe had brought with him, in his knapsack, bread and cheese and\napples,\u2015\u2015enough food for two days. He walked down a turf path, climbed\na gate, walked through two straight pine avenues, and gained the \u201copen\nforest,\u201d a great silent glade solemn and wonderful in the breathless\nwaiting of dawn. Here companies of rabbits were feeding; here were huge\nspring-flushed oaks, twisted thorns, delicate birches glowing with the\nmarvel of young leafage. Here too was gorse ablaze with the fire of\nGod, and on the top-most twig of a larch, outlined against the sky, was\na thrush, a-quiver with a passion of song, telling a marvellous secret\nof the heart of things, as only those can tell who do not understand\nthe uttermost meaning of their speech.\n\nHe had walked through the place looking at nothing until now; he had an\nimportant decision to make. But now he stopped as though a great hand\nhad gripped him, and he stared at the bird with his eyes half-shut.\nIt was so clear; he could see the little feathers a-tremble at its\nquivering throat, as the notes bubbled up like drops of bright water\nfrom a well of joy.\n\nHe stared and listened till the thrush flew away.\n\nHe came to a little grove of holly trees; and there, on the round\ncircle of oozing wood where a great apple tree had been felled, he lay\ndown and ate some bread and an apple. Then he went to sleep, and when\nhe woke it was noon; the glade was a marvel of dappled shade and shine.\n\nThere was a blue tit swinging on the holly bough above him; and a fox\nwas trotting demurely through the fern a few yards away. It was all\nsacredly, wonderfully still. The place taught nothing; said nothing;\nit was itself\u2015\u2015it was what it was. That was all.\n\nHe heard a quick patter of rain; and the leaves shone with diamonds; he\nwatched them a-glitter in the sun, when it shone forth again. A drove\nof shaggy cream-coloured cattle came by, crashing through the tangle,\nand passing the little grove of hollies, all a-shine in the sun, where\nhe lay.\n\nWhen they passed he rose and wandered down a turf alley till the\npines hid the wide stretch of the open forest; then he lay with\nhis face hidden on the great cushions of the moss; and listened\nhalf-unconsciously to the silence\u2015\u2015the wonderful sounding silence\u2015\u2015of\nthe wood.\n\nThere was a big beech tree near; it blazed with the green fire of\nspring; at its foot were the shining sticky brown sheaths that once\nshielded the young leaves. The oaks were pink, they were as rosy as the\ndawn sky when he reached the forest. From the wood\u2015\u2015only he was too\ntired to rise and seek them\u2015\u2015he could smell some late primroses yet\nlingering on the sweet wet earth, from which the young grass sprang.\nHe heard a wood-pigeon\u2019s slow, sleepy note a-purr from a little grove\nof larches. Presently, with a strong beat of blue-grey wings the bird\nflew between him and the sky. Then a jay swung silently from the pines\nand perched on a bough above him; the conscienceless bird chuckled and\npreened his feathers; a tiny blue black-barred wonder fluttered down on\nthe man\u2019s chest.\n\nLying so, he could see the stiff, straight stems of the uncurling\nbracken, quite differently from the fashion in which they are seen\nwhen they are looked at from above; they stood rank by rank, straight,\nstiff, and green, with their little brown cowled heads bent like monks\nin prayer.\n\nThere was a much bigger life than his unfolding its affairs there\nin the wood; and it made no turmoil or fuss about it; it lived and\nreasoned not; it kept the commandments because it was not aware they\nwere apart from itself. And what were the commandments of the wood?\nCertainly they were kept, whatever they were, for the place was full of\nbeauty and of rest.\n\nThe shadows grew long; it was time to eat some bread and cheese; he ate\nsome, and drank from a little stream. It struck him he had not been\nthinking of the things he came there to think about; but after all he\nshould probably accept the offer, and he was very tired. He had not\nrealised before how much he was over-worked. To-morrow he would think.\nIn the meantime he would walk through the darkening pine avenue, and\nsee the dusk, like a purple-robed giant, stalk over the land.\n\nHe walked on and on; the pine walks were unending. Each walk was cut\nand crossed by another vista of mystery; and always there was some hint\nof wonders veiling unseen marvels. Sometimes a milky-white bush of\nblackthorn; sometimes a little stream; sometimes a circle of great dead\noaks like frosted silver, all ringed about by frost-bleached grass,\nthrough which the new green blades were pushing, and walled by dark\npines touched by the little sticky buds of spring growth. Sometimes\nthere was a pool of water shimmering in the shadow of the trees, set\nabout with rose-pink blossoming bog-myrtle, and white bog-cotton, and\nwonderful little flat leaves shining like emeralds.\n\nBut at last he reached the gate. Beyond the gate was a stretch of\ngreen heather; and thereon forest ponies feeding, and cows with\nsleepily tolling bells. On it, too, great raised mounds; bracken and\nheather-clothed barrows where rabbits burrowed in the grave of some\nlong-dead fighter. To the right was a curved line of woods that seemed\nto be made of dusky red and green jewels. Before him was the island\nglowing like sapphire; in the foreground on the open barren heath was\na little dark wind-twisted pine clear-cut against the sky; and the sky\nablaze with the colour that is the parting blessing of the Lord of\nLight.\n\nIt was a pale sky of dream-blue; in the west it shone with crimson and\norange flame, fading into green like a breath of some secret mystery\nof tenderness, and pinks like a dream of the love of God; and a violet\nso faint, pure, and holy that the heart quivered at the sight of it.\nColour that speaks the tongue of the gods when thought falls dead and\nthe sound of speech is mere hollowness.\n\nWhen the colour faded big purple clouds began to drift up over the pale\nyellow sky until it was all a wonderful thick purple-blue darkness in\nwhich sounds were both clear and muffled; faraway sounds were clear,\nand sounds close at hand were muffled and eerie; pale milk-grey lights\nbegan to slide through the darkness.\n\nThere were no stars; only the warm, dark, sweet-smelling half-silence.\nHe could not see a yard before his face, and yet he felt the darkness\nwas a big, far-reaching space about him.\n\nThere was a dry ditch among the pines; it was full of yellow-brown\npine-needles. He lay down there and heard the noises of the night; the\nsnapping of twigs, the rustle of little night-prowling beasts. Once a\nbadger stole by; once a night-bird shrieked; the owls called hoo-hoo\nin the branches. Once there echoed a cry of pain and fear through the\nwood, the death-shriek of some tiny citizen. Once a night-jar purred in\nthe tree above his head; and once the magic of the nightingale trembled\nthrough the warm dark air in a limpid river of sound.\n\nAt last he slept; and he woke to a wild rush of rain. The wood was full\nof a pale cool light; the pine-needles dripped; he heard the gurgle of\na hurry of water in the ditch beyond the gate. He got up; the livid\ngreenish-purple clouds were rushing across the sky; the island was\nveiled in a white mist of rain; the forest ponies galloped for some\nscant shelter; some of the herd turned disconsolate noses from the\nrush of waters; some squealed and kicked and bit at each other; others\nendured in meekness. A big ants\u2019 nest near the gate was flooded; pools\nstood in the heather; and a heap of cream-white foam swirled on the\nbrown water in the ditch.\n\nLight wisps of cloud fled across the background of livid green-purple.\nHe stood under shelter of the trees and watched the storm.\n\nIt passed; the clouds flew seawards; the sky grew a pale even grey;\nthen a cool, soft wind began to blow. The east grew faint pink, then\nyellow-grey; then a long line of light quivered over the heather. The\nnew day had come. The birds were stirring and singing; the rabbits\nhopped out to feed; a stoat darted across the track; and the clang of a\ncow-bell echoed across the moor.\n\nHe found the slowly moving stream he crossed yesterday; there he\nbathed; then he ate some of the food he had brought with him. Finally\nhe walked down a path of silver-grey sand, skirting a wood of oaks.\n\nIt waxed very warm and still; there were no clouds; the air shimmered\nover the heather; white and little brown butterflies skipped over it;\nthe island was veiled in a soft white haze with violet shadows in it.\nSnakes slid out into the open to sun themselves; the air was full of\nslanting gleams of gossamer and little drifting lives of insects that\nlived a day and never knew the night.\n\nHe sat among the pines and saw the brown lizards and the squirrels and\nwatched the golden lights flit over the dry pine-needles; the boles of\nthe trees shone red, and in among the far-off oaks was a mist of pale\ngreen.\n\nIn the afternoon he walked through the oak wood over dry leaves of last\nyear, and cushions of bright emerald moss, set with scarlet, purple,\nand orange fungi.\n\nAt sunset he stood by a little clearing; it was near a ranger\u2019s\ncottage. He could smell woodsmoke and see its swaying blue column rise\nabove the thatched roof covered with stonecrop and little ferns. Here\nwere rows of hives where lived the bees whose soft organ-like drone he\nhad heard mingling with the \u2019cellos of the pines.\n\nThe sky was less brilliant than it had been the night before; it was\nbluish-white and the long slender clouds on the horizon were violet and\npink. The sky grew paler and more pale; the silver of the evening star\nglimmered out, a tiny point of light. The pines were very dark; they\nlooked black against the sky; a bat flickered over them.\n\nHe walked over the moor to the shore; he saw the ghost-white of the\nfoam, and heard the rush and draw of the tide on the smooth pebbles.\nThe moon was up when he walked back.\n\nThis night he did not try to sleep; not because he was worried and\nthoughtful; he had not thought all day, and he did not think all\nnight. It was very still and cloudless, and the moon was full; when\nit set the sky was solemnest blue; the stars and the white fire made\nthe mystery of space more wonderful. It was one of those nights which\nare living symbols of largest patience; of breadth that includes\nall things, of silence whose root is the wisdom that knows; of that\nmighty indifference that is indifferent because of its tenderness\nrather than its coldness. A night sky that was a symbol of a Holy\nCatholic Church of the entire universe; not tolerant\u2015\u2015because, after\nall, tolerance is a little, narrow, patronising invention of man\u2019s\naggressive superiority. That which is all-inclusive is not tolerant; it\nis omnipotent, omniscient, Alpha and Omega; the first but also the last.\n\nHe did not think of these things; he never mused on such matters; he\ndid not think at all that night nor notice anything particularly. He\nsat under the sky, his hands clasping his knees; he was not sleepy,\nbecause to be out of doors two days and nights after a life spent\nchiefly within walls is apt quite naturally to cause wakefulness.\n\nHe saw three shooting stars slide through the blue heart of the night.\nAt dawn he saw a fox, a vixen, and four little furry creatures with\nsharp, bright eyes; they played together and rolled in the heather\nwithout fear of man. He began wandering through the wood looking for\nbirds\u2019 nests; he found four before the sun rose.\n\nWhen it rose he began to walk back, for the forty-eight hours\u2019 holiday\nfrom the world-compelling pamphlet was ended.\n\nHe reached the house at seven o\u2019clock; had a bath, dressed himself,\nate a moderate breakfast, and began to open and arrange his employer\u2019s\nletters. That was at 8.30.\n\nAt nine o\u2019clock his employer\u2019s guest on his way to breakfast looked\ninto the library. He nodded, came in, and shut the door.\n\n\u201cGood morning, Dexter,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019ve got back, I see. I suppose I\nknow your answer?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I believe you don\u2019t; for I think I\u2019ll go on here.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t mean that?\u201d\n\n\u201cI do.\u201d\n\n\u201cAfraid?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cMoral scruples?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat then?\u201d\n\nThe other hesitated, because he really did not know the answer. At last\nhe said:\n\n\u201cI have my Sundays free. And I think I should miss the forest if I went\naway. I haven\u2019t any other reason\u2015\u2015that I know of.\u201d\n\n\n                L\u2019ENVOI\n\n    Power of the wave and the light,\n    Power of the wind and the dawn,\n    Fanned by the strength of thy breath\n            Man\u2019s soul is born.\n\n    Power of the song of the lark,\n    Power of the gold of the corn,\n    By perfume and silence and speech\n            Man\u2019s soul is born.\n\n    Power of the whispering rain,\n    Power of the day when it dies,\n    By magic of sunset and dusk\n            Man\u2019s soul doth rise!\n\n    Power of the stars and the night,\n    When singing and sighing shall cease\n    By the unknown span of thy rest\n            Man\u2019s soul knows peace!\n\n\n\n\n                       THE BREATH UPON THE SLAIN\n\n    Shall these bones live? God knows.\n    The prophet saw such clothed with flesh and skin.\n    A wind blew on them, and Life entered in;\n                  They shook and rose.\n    Shorten the time, O Lord! Blot out their sin!\n                  Let Life begin!\n                               CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.\n\n\nThe wind was blowing through the heather, singing softly from the\ndistant sea. The tiny tinkling sound of the purple bells was like faint\nmusic of faery.\n\nThey lay on an ancient barrow\u2015\u2015three men on a summer holiday by the\nsouthern sea.\n\nOne was a thin, nervous-looking man, who knew much of the purlieus of\nthe \u201cprimrose path,\u201d wherein he strayed to gather up its wreckage and\nmend it if he might, by the power of a God in whom he said he did not\nbelieve.\n\nThe second was an ascetic, devout, and hard-working priest of the\nAnglican Church.\n\nThe third was a man still young, but looking even younger than his\nyears. Dennis Barra was his name; a man with a smooth, boyish face,\nstrange yellow-grey eyes, and thick hair streaked a little with grey;\nit gave the effect of dark hair lightly powdered, and added to the lack\nof modernity about the face. It was not a modern face; it had delicate\nirregular features, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth; the face looked\ncuriously luminous in the strong sunlight.\n\nThe first man\u2015\u2015Ralph Ingram\u2015\u2015was speaking.\n\n\u201cNo, Cardew,\u201d he said to the priest, \u201cI tell you if I did not hold to\nthat belief I should go mad. If it be not thus, the world is based on\ninjustice. If we climb a ladder rung by rung, if we work out the result\nof our deeds\u2015\u2015that\u2019s just. But no other theory is. What! a man murders\nand wipes out all his past by \u2018grace at the last,\u2019 \u2018forgiveness of\nsins\u2019 and \u2018faith\u2019 which his victim never had.\n\n\u201cYou speak of these things as though they were outer contracts or a\nmental attitude,\u201d said the priest, \u201cwhereas they are real spiritual\nforces, definite powers of the unseen. I do not see that you can\nparcel out guilt thus, according to your system. If life be as you\nsay it is, the fine threads of cause and effect, of will, speech,\nthought, impulse, action, are endless. It appears to me that by pushing\n\u2018causes\u2019 so far back, you have complicated everything so hopelessly\nthat you need some universal solvent to melt the bonds. If you accept\nAdam as collective man rather than as an individual ancestor, then\nMan\u2015\u2015collective, heavenly man\u2015\u2015has chosen his own lot; he has chosen\nhis fall. His true life is elsewhere; in some mysterious Eden of the\nspirit he views all our inequalities with a wider view. Our misfortunes\nmay be his opportunity; and our happiness his slough of despond. The\nview of man spiritual and man carnal may be diametrically opposed. His\njustice may be your injustice.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell! I should as soon believe in the sea-serpent as in the doctrine\nof regeneration, grace, and faith.\u201d\n\nAt this point Dennis Barra laughed.\n\n\u201cAre you laughing at Ingram or at me?\u201d said the priest.\n\n\u201cI was laughing because I believe I once saw a sea-serpent off the\ncoast of Scotland, and I would say so if I were not afraid of Ingram.\nAnd I was also laughing because I thought you didn\u2019t see that your\nviews fit and where they fit. Ingram believes in the law which governed\nthe past and governs the majority in the present; you believe in a\npossibility of the present\u2015\u2015the certain law of the future.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy do you say that?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell! because it struck me it was true! And regeneration is a\npossibility, regeneration of body and soul; and grace is a fact, and\nthe swift transmutation of the sinner into the saint I believe to be\npossible.\u201d\n\n\u201cAre these things facts? I don\u2019t believe they are.\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you believe me if I tell you a story?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you vouch for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI do vouch for it. I know it\u2019s true. There was a man once who had\njust come out of prison. He deserved his punishment. His friends cut\nhim\u2015\u2015quite justly; and he did not greatly care, save that he was angry.\nHe had some means; he was not in want; he was independent both of work\nand friends. He drank a little when he came out of prison, not much. He\nwould drink for a day or two, and then keep sober for a week. In the\nplace where he was, a mission was being held; and with no great result.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey needed you there, Barra!\u201d\n\nThe young man smiled.\n\n\u201cThe people were indifferent. Something was lacking. The mission was\nto last a week. The clergy paraded the streets each night with a cross\nand the choir and banners. On the third night the man of whom I speak\njoined the procession and entered the church. It was a gloomy church;\nthe singing was bad; the preacher had little power. There was nothing\nto stir the emotions. It was dull; the man was just sitting there,\nbored. He was thinking he would go out, when something\u2015\u2015Something, I\nsay\u2015\u2015Some one\u2015\u2015stood beside him. He saw no one, but some one was there;\nand that some one laid a hand upon his head. What that touch did to\nhim he did not know; he never knew. It revolutionised him mentally,\nmorally, yes, and bodily. There came to that man a bodily change, as\nthough he was fused and re-made in a crucible of the spirit,\u2015\u2015a cup\nof the Holy Graal. The only words which were clear to him were: \u2018The\nFire of the Sacred Heart, the Fire of the Heart of the Ascended.\u2019 They\nwere not spoken, but he knew they were there. And he knew too, that he,\nthe drunkard, the criminal, the man fresh from gaol, must speak to the\npeople. It was not a case of what spiritualists call \u2018control.\u2019 No;\nbut God had laid a measure of His power in the trembling hands of that\nsinner, and said to him: \u2018Own thy sins in humbleness, and then\u2015\u2015not\nthyself but Myself; give Me to my children!\u2019\n\n\u201cHe stood up and walked to the pulpit steps; the preacher was just\ncoming down and he laid his hand on his arm and said: \u2018Let me speak to\nthem.\u2019\n\n\u201cIt seems little less than a miracle; for it was a church of the\nEstablished Church in England and he an unknown layman. But the\npreacher let him stand on the altar steps and speak. He told them very\nquietly and briefly who he was, and what was his character, and that he\nwas sorry; and then he spoke.\n\n\u201cHe had not spoken for three minutes before the women were sobbing, and\nthe men were white as ashes, and many of them shaking like reeds in a\nwind. There was a great \u2018revival,\u2019 and people laid themselves, body,\nsoul, and spirit, at the Feet of God.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt must have been such a power as I have known you wield over people,\nBarra.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was the Fire of the Lord that had struck one man, and he passed it\non. Of course some went back; but others didn\u2019t, and their lives were\nchanged. But what I want to make you see is that what happened to that\nman could happen to all men; and his sins and his past were made naught\nwhen God\u2019s Hand touched him. It didn\u2019t matter so much that he didn\u2019t\nknow how it was done. It was done. That is a living Power that could\nwork in the world at any minute if the time was ripe; and if and when\nit does we shall have a new heaven and a new earth.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt seems to me hard that this fellow\u2019s sins and past were blotted\nout, and not those of the other poor wretches. Why should he escape\nsuffering he had earned by the touch of a hand on his head? You say he\ndeserved what he got. I daresay he deserved much more. Most likely he\nwas a scoundrel who deserved the cat.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery likely he did. He never thought anything else. He always admitted\nhis sins. But don\u2019t mistake. I never said he escaped suffering. The\nsins of the other poor wretches were blotted out _in him_ for the time\nbeing only, of course. They swept into him like a tide of foulness\nand anguish, and the Fire burned them. They were its fuel; so that it\nswept out in a fuller flood and touched the people with its power and\ncleansed them. Escaped suffering! People who feel the burden of their\nown sins and sorrows to be too much to bear, little realise what it\nmeans to feel other people\u2019s as well. Do you know there are simple,\nunlearned, unknown women, secluded from the world, who _pray_ the\ntemptations of the strong (the \u2018vibrations\u2019 or \u2018magnetisms,\u2019 to use\nthe popular shibboleth) into their own bodily frames, and then endure\ntheir anguish to ease others\u2019 burdens? They _endure_ them, I say;\nthey offer them to be transmuted in their own bodies and souls by the\nspiritual force they call the Blood of Christ; and that Force flows out\nfrom them to the people for whom they pray. That is true, possible,\na fact. Many a time, maybe, have those very people laughed at their\ninactive lives, simple faith, superstitious creeds, and all the rest\nof it. They\u2019d be wallowing deep in mud, many of those strong ones, if\nit were not for that very superstitious creed that prompts the women\u2019s\nprayers. That is the real meaning of the Cross to these women; that is\nthe vital, poignant meaning to them of being crucified with Christ.\u201d\n\nThe wind muttered in the heather, and the corncrake called from a\ndistant field. The speaker\u2019s voice deepened a little; but it was quite\nsteady, there was in it neither emotion nor excitement.\n\nThe priest raised himself a little on his elbow and looked at him\nthoughtfully. He did not speak.\n\n\u201cBarra,\u201d said Ralph Ingram, \u201cdo you _know_ this story of your inspired\ncriminal to be true?\u201d\n\n\u201cI know it to be true,\u201d said Dennis Barra, quietly, \u201cI know it, because\nI was the man!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                            THE GLAMOUR-LAND\n\n    He follows on for ever, when all your chase is done,\n    He follows after shadows, the King of Ireland\u2019s son.\n                                                   \u2015\u2015\u2015\u2015(?)\n\n\nIn the late autumn snow had fallen; it lay unmelted on the highest of\nthe hills; it often lay there when on lower ground not even a light\nfrost crisped the earth. But now it was very cold, and the trees were\nglittering with hoar-frost and delicate spikes of ice. The sea ran\nfar inland and made a salt-water lake, almost land-locked. Blue was\nthe key-colour of the place. The sky glowed blue and cloudless; the\nsmooth water was gentian blue; seawards there was a huge bar of sand\nand shingle, heaped high, and running almost the whole way across the\narm of the inrushing sea; therefore whether the tide was high or low\nthe waves broke and leaped and swirled on it, so that the sea looked\nlike a great lake, land-locked on three sides, and bounded on the\nfourth by a tossing, spouting, milk-white cataract of foam, as the\ngreat breakers raged and tumbled over the bar of sand. There were no\nvague tones nor shadowy outlines; the blue and white were vivid,\nbrilliant. Blue sea\u2015\u2015blue sky\u2015\u2015blue shadows on the white hills; white\nsnow, white frost on leafless boughs, white foam aglitter in the sun.\nBlue\u2015\u2015blue\u2015\u2015blue\u2015\u2015and unspeakably blue the shining wells of the sky,\ninto which one might send one\u2019s thought forth in quest of Truth, and\nreturn anon bewildered and without booty, for the whole Truth was never\nyet gleaned from without nor yet from another man. White were the\nsea-gulls feeding on the foreshore; only a little seaweed-plastered\njetty was rich brown and amber yellow; crouched at the foot of the\njetty sheltered from the keen wind were some children who added a touch\nor two of red to the picture, for one of the girls wore a crimson coat\nand one of the boys a scarlet woollen cap.\n\nThese children were telling stories, and it was the red-capped boy\u2019s\nturn. He was not a very popular teller of tales; yet he gripped his\nhearers because he wove the stories of the things which he knew in his\nheart, and not of the things he had heard.\n\nNow the other boys told of pirates and brigands, whether they had\npractical experience of them or not; for which reason one only of their\nnumber knew what he was talking about; he afterwards became a great\nwriter, for he drew upon the bank of knowledge, though how he came\nby the knowledge he could not tell. His swashbucklers and sea-wolves\nbreathed the breath of life; and people who spent their time in wearily\nwrestling with office work and household accounts found them very\nrefreshing company.\n\nRedcap stood in the middle of the circle; the frosty wind fluttered\nhis flaxen curls beneath his scarlet headgear. He was telling tales\nof Glamour-Land, the customs of which country he knew well; the\ngroup listened. The boys were not wholly absorbed; the girls who\nare generally quick to hear the Songs of the Glamour were the more\ninterested. When the speaker ended his tale the girl in the crimson\ncoat drew a long breath and gave her verdict \u201cLovely.\u201d The tale-teller\ndid not heed her; he was one of those people who care nothing for the\nbreath of fame and praise. He who understood pirates so well nodded\napprovingly. Throughout his life this boy knew good work when he saw\nit, because his own was so good. One of the boys offered criticism.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s all beastly rot,\u201d he said with the simple directness of boyhood.\n\u201cThere isn\u2019t any such place.\u201d\n\nRedcap crushed him with swift scorn.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s all you know about it,\u201d he said. \u201cThat place I tell you\nabout is real, and this place isn\u2019t; this place\u201d\u2015\u2015he waved his arms\npatronisingly at the sky and sea\u2015\u2015\u201cis an evil enchantment of the\nBlack Witch; one of these days the Wise Queen will snuff her and her\nenchantment out\u2015\u2015puff! like that!\u201d\n\nHe snapped his fingers; the listeners looked uneasy and momentarily\ndoubted the stability of the earth.\n\nThe boy who had criticised repeated his former remark: \u201cIt\u2019s all rot.\u201d\nInwardly he hoped the Wise Queen would not snuff out the enchantment\nbefore tea time; for he knew there were hot cakes, and he could not\nhonestly view them as evil enchantments. But where did the red-capped\nboy get his ideas about the relative reality of the seen and unseen?\n\nEight years after, that boy\u2019s father died; his mother married again,\nand thereafter great trouble and poverty fell upon a family that had\nhitherto been happy and prosperous. This boy, then a lad of eighteen,\ngiven to great dreams and visions of the Glamour-Land, was torn away\nfrom all he loved and hoped for and dreamed of; he was sent to work at\ndull drudgery for a weekly pittance in a house of business in London.\nThere, sick for the sights and sounds of Glamour-Land, he nearly broke\ndown both mentally and physically. He was poor, friendless, proud,\nand unsociable; but that was nothing. If he could have had one daily\nglimpse of the Glamour Country, one note of its songs, he could have\nborne the rest. He fenced himself about with a wall of practical\ncheeriness and hard-headed common-sense and lived inside it in a hell\nof his own. In a narrow black street the child of the blue land, of\nsea, and wide distances lived and suffered for five dreadful years;\nthen he chanced to find a room over some offices which looked upon the\nriver, and suffered a little less. He began to earn more money; he was\npromoted. He did his work very well; he was to be depended upon; he was\nsteady, alert, and \u201con the spot,\u201d said his employers. He was thoroughly\npractical. Once some reference was made to his prospects by a man who\nwas his superior in the business house where he was employed. This man\ntold him he was bound to get on; it was \u201crare to see a young fellow so\nsteady, and with his heart in his business.\u201d The young man (he was then\ntwenty-three) laughed a little laugh that was as chill and dreary as\nthe wuther of the north wind in frozen rushes by a bleak ice-coated\nmountain tarn.\n\n\u201cWhen you don\u2019t care for anything you have to do, one thing comes as\neasy as another,\u201d he said. \u201cBesides you can \u2018give your mind\u2019 to heaps\nof things. If you like a piece of work it is hard to pull away from\nit to something else; but if one is much like another to you, and all\nequally dull, then, if you\u2019ve a decent amount of self-control you can\ndo them all fairly effectively.\u201d\n\nWhile his superior was trying to understand his extraordinary\nsentiments, he said \u201cGood-night, sir,\u201d and went out. He walked back to\nhis room.\n\nThis befell just before he found the room overlooking the river; it was\na sultry, ill-smelling summer night; the straight line of the houses\nrose before him in their terrible hideousness. There was a little\nchurch in the street in which they sang anthems. A choir practice was\ngoing on. He could hear the voices plainly:\n\n\u201cBy the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when we remembered\nthee, O Zion. If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget\nher cunning.\u201d\n\nThe man hid his face in his hands and sighed; his heart was sick with\ngreat longing and intolerable weariness.\n\n\u201cGod!\u201d he said. \u201cLet me go mad with memory rather than forget.\u201d\n\nYet after all it seemed undesirable to go mad, therefore he rose and\nwent to a little cheap club; the members were many of them \u201cthoughtful\npeople\u201d with \u201cviews\u201d; most of their views were theoretically partly\ntrue, and practically partly false and wholly impossible to carry out;\nit was not always possible to put one\u2019s finger on the flaw in them.\nThe members of that club talked a great deal; a man was talking very\nearnestly when he who desired to remember entered there. He was a\nreformer, and willing to make any personal sacrifice to further his\nregenerative views. He said:\n\n\u201cA wider charity is what men need. That is the root of the matter.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing has been so fruitful a cause of pauperisation,\u201d said a\nred-haired man who was listening for the sole purpose of disagreeing\nwith him. This man was the type of person who can never extend his\nviews beyond the meaning which he has decided to apply to a word.\n\n\u201cI do not mean Charity in that sense. I mean rather Love, which I have\nheard is Wisdom in activity, that which perceives a common basis of\nlife. This is Wisdom, this is Love, this is Charity.\u201d\n\n\u201cStatistics prove,\u201d began the man, who while the other spoke had been\nthinking of his own views as to the meaning of charity.\n\n\u201cStatistics have no more to do with Charity than they have with Truth.\nThey are the worst form of lying extant. Charity, in my sense, is the\ndeepest of all wisdom. Faith, Hope, Charity, these three\u2015\u2015and the\ngreatest of these is Charity.\u201d\n\nThen another voice uplifted itself.\n\n\u201cI think St. Paul was wrong there,\u201d it said. \u201cThe greatest of these is\nFaith.\u201d\n\nIt was the young man from the north.\n\n\u201cFaith! What do you mean by faith?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe sense of the unseen, and the trust in it,\u201d said he who used to\ntell the stories of the Glamour-Land. \u201cThe man who never loses the\nsense of that which he does not see, can move the world. All the force\nside of nature is allied with him. It is the unseen that is the motive\npower everywhere. The man who in an east-end slum, a city office, a\nfactory, a gambling hell, a music hall, or in the trivial round of\nsociety can realise that, has allied himself with the sun and the sea,\nwith the wind and the light, with the Power that lies behind all and\ncauses the whole to be.\u201d\n\nHaving thus spoken he wandered out as he had wandered in.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s a queer young fellow,\u201d said the red-haired man, \u201cI think he\u2019s\ncracked.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said one of the listeners, \u201cI think not. He\u2019s a practical chap;\nquiet, solid, steady-going fellow, and no fool. A good man of business\ntoo. I\u2019ve never seen him taken like that before.\u201d\n\nHe spoke as though he was the victim of some malady. If this was\nthe case it did not assert itself again. The man worked on steadily\nand rose in the estimation of his employers, who were very sober,\nbusiness-like people. When he had been nearly twenty years in London he\nmet the boy who told the pirate stories by the blue sea. The boy was\nnow a man and he told his stories to a wider public; he was married to\nthe girl who wore the crimson coat. He recognised his former brother\nof the craft, and was very kind and glad to see him; he asked him to\nhis house and insisted on his coming there. He saw, what no one in his\nguest\u2019s world saw, that such prosperity as was his was not the full\nmeasure of that which the promise of his youth once seemed to deserve.\nHe asked him why he had toiled in a London office; why he had ceased to\ntell the tales of Glamour-Land, of the Wise Queen, and the Black Witch.\nThe other was silent awhile. At last he said: \u201cI couldn\u2019t. That part of\nme is dead, and buried by the sea up yonder.\u201d\n\nHis host said no more at the time; he referred to it once again, very\ncarefully and tactfully.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said his guest. \u201cI told you I couldn\u2019t. First, because my mind\nis like a hollow pipe, for other people\u2019s thoughts to blow through.\nSecondly, because I don\u2019t properly know any of the things I used to\nknow when I was young.\u201d\n\nHe talked a while longer; then he rose, said good-bye, and never\nreturned to that house again. He went back to the room which overlooked\nthe river; for fifteen years he had lived therein. He sat by the window\nand muttered to himself:\n\n\u201cThey that wasted us required of us mirth; saying: Sing us one of the\nsongs of Zion.\u201d\n\nIt was the hour between light and darkness; the river was clear silvery\ngreyish blue, and the light struck down into it like daggers of\nquivering pallid fire; the bridge showed threadlike arches of vague\ndarkness through the blue mist; little busy tugs sped up the water-way,\ndragging long, thin, black barges; a big waggon piled high with\ngleaming yellow straw creaked along the bank, coming townwards from the\ncountry. There was the half-light that brings out a thousand shifting\ntints; lights began to dot the shore and the boats lying at anchor.\n\nOn a sudden the scent of wild thyme smote through the room; there was\na hill near his old home that was carpeted with it in summer time; and\nbehold the Glamour-Land he had not seen for twenty years lay below him,\nin the very heart of the city. It was perhaps the shadowy silver-blue\nthat opened the way; faint vague blue, unlike the gentian glow of the\nsea-lake, yet reminiscent of it. The room was palpably full of the\nperfume of wild thyme. The man rose. For ten years he had hungered for\nthe beauty of his old home, and there had been no money to take him\nthere, nor welcome for him had he journeyed thither. For ten years the\nmoney had been there and a temperate welcome to boot, but the desire\nlay, half-dead, numbed with over-long thwarting, weariness, and pain.\nNow he suddenly realised he could go back if he would. The next day he\nasked for and obtained a holiday and started northwards.\n\nIt was evening when he arrived; he went to a little inn, and after\ndinner he walked to the jetty and stood upon it looking at the water\nleaping on the bar, and the glowing line of the sun-bathed hills. He\nlooked and he looked and he looked, and behold! there was nothing\nthere which he desired. The hunger of twenty years was for something\nwhich this beauty recalled to him\u2015\u2015nothing more. The Glamour-Land was\nnot here. The purple of the darkening sea, the tossing of the water,\nfoaming ghost-white on the great bar, the clear golden light of the\nhills, woke in him only a great hunger for that of which they made him\nthink; for which they caused him to long; and of what he thought, for\nwhat he longed he did not know. It eluded him; it fled before him like\na flickering elf-flame, never to be grasped or known.\n\n\u201cHow can we sing the Lord\u2019s Song in a strange land?\u201d\n\nHe said the words aloud; as a stranger in that country in which he had\nbeen born and reared. The next day he went back to London to the room\nthat overlooked the river. He sat alone; he was alone in the house; the\noffices below were closed; the place was quiet; the roar of London\nsounded distant, it was like the far-off breaking of the waves on\nthe bar; the river water was lapping against the walls that pent it\nin. As he walked homewards he had crossed the bridge, and stopped to\nbuy watercress of an old man. This old man was one who, through the\nignorance which is the heritage of every man, had, in an hour of that\nmadness which we call sin, become outcast from the rank wherein he was\nborn; now, ill, old, and very poor, he sold watercress, groundsel, and\npencils on the bridge by day and slept in a common lodging-house by\nnight. This man was the one soul on earth to whom he who once told the\ntales of Glamour-Land ever spoke of the longing that consumed him. This\nold man also had a hopeless longing of his own; he desired one hour\nback of the seventy years that lay behind him; one hour to fashion as\nhe chose, one hour which had darkened and made a hell of forty years.\nThe man from the north stopped and bought cress of him. As he took the\ncress he spoke. \u201cI used to think I longed for my old home,\u201d he said. \u201cI\nwent back there yesterday after twenty years.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you find?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe country I seek is not there,\u201d answered the other; his voice\nsounded tired, as though with much journeying of soul and body.\n\n\u201cAh! you\u2019d better not have gone. It is better to believe there is\nsomething which would make you content if you had it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019d rather know the truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are young still,\u201d said the pencil-seller. \u201cIf I believed I were\nyoung and strong, loved and honoured, I should believe a lie. But I\nshould prefer to believe it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is probably just as true as your present beliefs about yourself,\nwhatever they may be. Don\u2019t you think so?\u201d\n\nHe walked on. Now the cress lay on the table and withered; he sat by\nthe window and listened to the lapping of the tide. For twenty years he\nbelieved he knew what he desired, if he had been free to seek it; now\nhe knew otherwise. He did not know where Glamour-Land was, and yet\u2015\u2015\u201cIf\nI forget thee, O Jerusalem,\u201d he murmured, \u201cmay my right hand forget her\ncunning.\u201d\n\nInto the silence of his soul there broke many voices speaking as one\nvoice and they spoke after this manner:\n\n\u201cWhen we who guard the Songs of the Glamour will that they shall be\nsung, they are sung. They ring through the world, though none know\nwhence they sound, nor the manner of their sounding. Some say they come\nfrom here, and some from there. And it is nothing to us whether our\nsingers be kings or slaves, saints or sinners, fools or sages, men or\nwomen, for it is we who sing through their lips, and it is the world\nthat hears when the time is ripe. We have before this day caused those\nwho were blind, and dumb, and deaf to sing the songs of the Glamour,\nand some of these never knew they sang. Moreover, you have sung them\nhere in the city\u2019s heart for twenty years and more, while you thought\nyour lips were mute and your heart hungry with desire of Glamour-Land.\nAnd because you had nothing for which you longed, you learned to look\nfor nothing your hands could grasp, but to hold all things readily and\nloose them easily at the appointed hour. Wherefore we, who know how it\nis with a man\u2019s soul, drew from you the common desires of men as pith\nis drawn by a shepherd boy from a reed when he would pipe therewith;\nthereafter we fashioned these your body and soul into a pipe whereon we\nmight pipe the Songs of the Glamour, and the world has heard them. You\nfelt their notes ring through your soul, while your ears were deaf,\nstrain them as you would.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I?\u201d he asked, \u201cam I nothing?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing,\u201d they made answer, \u201cnothing\u2015\u2015or all that is.\u201d\n\nWhereat he fell to musing on their words, until the lapping water, the\nroaring city, and the beating of the heart within his body, seemed\nalike to be but the pulsing of a life that swept outward from the\nUnknown God of the Worlds.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration:\n                      THE\n                        TEMPLE PRESS LETCHWORTH\n                                           ENGLAND]\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Note:\n\nWords and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like\nthis_. Final stops missing at the end of sentences were added. Words\nmay have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in\nthe text. These have been left unchanged. Obsolete and alternative\nspellings were left unchanged. At the end of line 3344, the word \n\u201cthat\u201d may have been omitted from the text, \u201c... once told [that] the\ntales of ...\u201d","title":"The willow weaver, and seven other tales","tradition":"ritual-magic","translated_text":null,"word_count":30363}