"Well, all this is what Father H. calls the 'Illuminative Way,' and I think I understand what he means. It came to a sort of point on All Souls' Eve at the monastery. I saw the whole thing then for a moment or two, and not only Purgatory. But I will write that down later. And Father H. tells me that I must begin to look forward to a new 'process'—what he calls the 'Way of Union.' I don't understand much what he means by that; I don't see that more could happen to me. I am absolutely and entirely happy; though I must say that there has seemed a sort of lull for the last day or two—ever since All Souls' Day, in fact. Perhaps something is going to happen. It's all right, anyhow. It seems very odd to me that all this kind of thing is perfectly well known to priests. I thought I was the first person who had ever felt quite like this.

"I must add one thing. Father H. asked me whether I didn't feel I had a vocation to the Religious Life; he told me that from everything he could see, I had, and that my coming to the monastery was simply providential.

"Well, I don't agree, and I have told him so. I haven't the least idea what is going to happen next; but I know, absolutely for certain, that I have got to go on with the Major and Gertie to East London. Gertie will have to be got away from the Major somehow, and until that is done I mustn't do anything else.

"I have written all this down as plainly as I can, because I promised Father H. I would."



PART III



CHAPTER I

Mrs. Partington was standing at the door of her house towards sunset, waiting for the children to come back from school.

Her house is situated in perhaps the least agreeable street—Turner Road—in perhaps the least agreeable district of East London—Hackney Wick. It is a disagreeable district because it isn't anything in particular. It has neither the tragic gayety of Whitechapel nor the comparative refinement of Clapton. It is a large, triangular piece of land, containing perhaps a square mile altogether, or rather more, approached from the south by the archway of the Great Eastern Railway, defined on one side by the line, and along its other two sides, partly by the river Lea—a grimy, depressed-looking stream—and partly by the Hackney Marshes—flat, dreary wastes of grass-grown land, useless as building ground and of value only for Saturday afternoon recreations of rabbit coursing and football. The dismalness of the place is beyond description at all times of the year. In winter it is bleak and chilly; in summer it is hot, fly-infested, and hideously and ironically reminiscent of real fields and real grass. The population is calculated to change completely about every three years, and I'm sure I am not surprised. It possesses two important blocks of buildings besides the schools—a large jam factory and the church and clergy-house of the Eton Mission.

Turner Road is perhaps the most hopeless of all the dozen and a half of streets. (It is marked black, by the way, in Mr. Booth's instructive map.) It is about a quarter of a mile long and perfectly straight. It is intersected at one point by another street, and is composed of tall dark houses, with flat fronts, perhaps six or seven stories in height. It is generally fairly silent and empty, and is inhabited by the most characteristic members of the Hackney Wick community—quiet, white-faced men, lean women, draggled and sharp-tongued, and countless over-intelligent children—all of the class that seldom remain long anywhere—all of the material out of which the real criminal is developed. No booths or stalls ever stand here; only, on Saturday nights, there is echoed here, as in a stone-lined pit, the cries and the wheel-noises from the busy thoroughfare a hundred yards away round the corner. The road, as a whole, bears an aspect of desperate and fierce dignity; there is never here the glimpse of a garden or of flowers, as in Mortimer Road, a stone's throw away. There is nothing whatever except the tall, flat houses, the pavements, the lampposts, the grimy thoroughfare and the silence. The sensation of the visitor is that anything might happen here, and that no one would be the wiser. There is an air of horrible discretion about these houses.

* * * * *

Mrs. Partington was—indeed is (for I went to see her not two months ago)—of a perfectly defined type. She must have been a handsome factory girl—dark, slender, and perfectly able to take care of herself, with thin, muscular arms, generally visible up to the elbow, hard hands, a quantity of rather untidy hair—with the tongue of a venomous orator and any amount of very inferior sentiment, patriotic and domestic. She has become a lean, middle-aged woman, very upright and very strong, without any sentiment at all, but with a great deal of very practical human experience to take its place. She has no illusions about either this world or the next; she has borne nine children, of which three survive; and her husband is almost uninterruptedly out of work. However, they are prosperous (for Turner Road), and have managed, so far, to keep their home together.

The sunset was framed in a glow of smoky glory at the end of the street down which Mrs. Partington was staring, resembling a rather angry search-light turned on from the gates of heaven. The street was still quiet; but already from the direction of the Board-school came thin and shrill cries as the swarm of children exploded in all directions. Mrs. Partington (she would have said) was waiting for her children—Jimmy, Maggie and 'Erb—and there were lying within upon the bare table three thick slices of bread and black jam; as a matter of fact, she was looking out for her lodgers, who should have arrived by midday.

Then she became aware that they were coming, even as she looked, advancing down the empty street en echelon. Two of them she knew well enough—they had lodged with her before; but the third was to be a stranger, and she was already interested in him—the Major had hinted at wonderful mysteries....

So she shaded her eyes against the cold glare and watched them carefully, with that same firm, resolute face with which she always looked out upon the world; and even as, presently, she exchanged that quick, silent nod of recognition with the Major and Gertie, still she watched the brown-faced, shabby young man who came last, carrying his bundle and walking a little lame.

"You're after your time," she said abruptly.

The Major began his explanations, but she cut them short and led the way into the house.

(II)

I find it very difficult to record accurately the impression that Frank made upon Mrs. Partington; but that the impression was deep and definite became perfectly clear to me from her conversation. He hardly spoke at all, she said, and before he got work at the jam factory he went out for long, lonely walks across the marshes. He and the Major slept together, it seemed, in one room, and Gertie, temporarily with the children and Mrs. Partington in another. (Mr. Partington, at this time, happened to be away on one of his long absences.) At meals Frank was always quiet and well-behaved, yet not ostentatiously. Mrs. Partington found no fault with him in that way. He would talk to the children a little before they went to school, and would meet them sometimes on their way back from school; and all three of them conceived for him an immense and indescribable adoration. All this, however, would be too long to set down in detail.

It seems to have been a certain air of pathos which Mrs. Partington herself cast around him, which affected her the most, and I imagine her feeling to have been largely motherly. There was, however, another element very obviously visible, which, in anyone but Mrs. Partington, I should call reverence.... She told me that she could not imagine why he was traveling with the Major and Gertie, so she at least understood something of the gulf between them.

So the first week crept by, bringing us up to the middle of December.

* * * * *

It was on the Friday night that Frank came back with the announcement that he was to go to work at the jam factory on Monday. There was a great pressure, of course, owing to the approach of Christmas, and Frank was to be given joint charge of a van. The work would last, it seemed, at any rate, for a week or two.

"You'll have to mind your language," said the Major jocosely. (He was sitting in the room where the cooking was done and where, by the way, the entire party, with the exception of the two men, slept; and, at this moment, had his feet on the low mantelshelf between the saucepan and Jimmy's cap.)

"Eh?" said Frank.

"No language allowed there," said the Major. "They're damn particular."

Frank put his cap down and took his seat on the bed.

"Where's Gertie?" he asked. ("Yes, come on, Jimmie.")

Jimmie crept up beside him, looking at him with big black, reverential eyes. Then he leaned against him with a quick smile and closed his eyes ecstatically. Frank put an arm round the boy to support him.

"Oh! Gertie's gone to see a friend," said the Major. "Did you want her?"

Frank said nothing, and Mrs. Partington looked from one to the other swiftly.

Mrs. Partington had gathered a little food for thought during the last few days. It had become perfectly evident to her that the girl was very much in love with this young man, and that while this young man either was, or affected to be, ignorant of it, the Major was not. Gertie had odd silences when Frank came into the room, or yet more odd volubilities, and Mrs. Partington was not quite sure of the Major's attitude. This officer and her husband had had dealings together in the past of a nature which I could not quite determine (indeed, the figure of Mr. Partington is still a complete mystery to me, and rather a formidable mystery); and I gather that Mrs. Partington had learned from her husband that the Major was not simply negligible. She knew him for a blackguard, but she seems to have been uncertain of what kind was this black-guardism—whether of the strong or the weak variety. She was just a little uncomfortable, therefore, as to the significance of Gertie; and had already wondered more than once whether or no she should say a motherly word to the young man.

* * * * *

There came a sound of footsteps up the street as Mrs. Partington ironed a collar of Jimmie's on the dining-room table, and laid down the iron as a tap fell on the door. The Major took out his pipe and began to fill it as she went out to see who was knocking.

"Oh! good evening, Mrs. Partington," sounded in a clear, high-bred voice from the street door. "May I come in for a minute or two? I heard you had lodgers, and I thought perhaps—"

"Well, sir, we're rather upside-down just now—and—"

"Oh! I won't disturb you more than a minute," came the other voice again. There were footsteps in the passage, and the next instant, past the unwilling hostess, there came a young, fresh-colored clergyman, carrying a silk hat, into the lamplight of the kitchen. Frank stood up instantly, and the Major went so far as to take down his feet. Then he, too, stood up.

"Good evening!" said the clergyman. "May I just come in for a minute or two? I heard you had come, and as it's in my district—May I sit down, Mrs. Partington?"

Mrs. Partington with sternly knit lips, swept a brown teapot, a stocking, a comb, a cup and a crumby plate off the single unoccupied chair, and set it a little forward near the fire. Clergymen were, to her mind, one of those mysterious dispensations of the world for which there was no adequate explanation at all—like policemen and men's gamblings and horse-races. There they were, and there was no more to be said. They were mildly useful for entertaining the children and taking them to Southend, and in cases of absolute despair they could be relied upon for soup-tickets or even half-crowns; but the big mysterious church, with its gilded screen, its curious dark glass, and its white little side-chapel, with the Morris hangings, the great clergy-house, the ladies, the parish magazine and all the rest of it—these were simply inexplicable. Above all inexplicable was the passion displayed for district-visiting—that strange impulse that drove four highly-cultivated young men in black frock-coats and high hats and ridiculous little collars during five afternoons in the week to knock at door after door all over the district and conduct well-mannered conversations with bored but polite mothers of families. It was one of the phenomena that had to be accepted. She supposed it stood for something beyond her perceptions.

"I thought I must come in and make your acquaintance," said the clergyman, nursing his hat and smiling at the company. (He, too, occasionally shared Mrs. Partington's wonder as to the object of all this; but he, too, submitted to it as part of the system.) "People come and go so quickly, you know—"

"Very pleased to see a clergyman," said the Major smoothly. "No objection to smoke, sir, I presume?" He indicated his pipe.

"Not at all," said the clergyman. "In fact, I smoke myself; and if Mrs. Partington will allow me—" He produced a small pink and gilded packet of Cinderellas. (I think he thought it brought him vaguely nearer the people to smoke Cinderellas.)

"Oh! no objection at all, sir," put in Mrs. Partington, still a little grimly. (She was still secretly resenting being called upon at half-past six. You were usually considered immune from this kind of thing after five o'clock.)

"So I thought I must just look in and catch you one evening," explained the clergyman once more, "and tell you that we're your friends here—the clergy, you know—and about the church and all that."

He was an extremely conscientious young man—this Mr. Parham-Carter—an old Etonian, of course, and now in his first curacy. It was all pretty bewildering to him, too, this great and splendid establishment, the glorious church by Bodley, with the Magnificat in Gothic lettering below the roof, the well-built and furnished clergy-house, the ladies' house, the zeal, the self-devotion, the parochial machinery, the Band of Hope, the men's and boys' clubs, and, above all, the furious district-visiting. Of course, it produced results, it kept up the standards of decency and civilization and ideals; it was a weight in the balances on the side of right and good living; the clubs kept men from the public-house to some extent, and made it possible for boys to grow up with some chance on their side. Yet he wondered, in fits of despondency, whether there were not something wrong somewhere.... But he accepted it: it was the approved method, and he himself was a learner, not a teacher.

"Very kind of you, sir," said the Major, replacing his feet on the mantelshelf. "And at what time are the services on Sunday?"

The clergyman jumped. He was not accustomed to that sort of question.

"I ..." he began.

"I'm a strong Churchman, sir," said the Major. "And even if I were not, one must set an example, you know. I may be narrow-minded, but I'm particular about all that sort of thing. I shall be with you on Sunday."

He nodded reassuringly at Mr. Parham-Carter.

"Well, we have morning prayer at ten-thirty next Sunday, and the Holy Eucharist at eleven—and, of course, at eight."

"No vestments, I hope?" said the Major sternly.

Mr. Parham-Carter faltered a little. Vestments were not in use, but to his regret.

"Well, we don't use vestments," he said, "but—"

The Major resumed his pipe with a satisfied air.

"That's all right," he said. "Now, I'm not bigoted—my friend here's a Roman Catholic, but—"

The clergyman looked up sharply, and for the first time became consciously conscious of the second man. Frank had sat back again on the bed, with Jimmie beside him, and was watching the little scene quietly and silently, and the clergyman met his eyes full. Some vague shock thrilled through him; Frank's clean-shaven brown face seemed somehow familiar—or was it something else?

Mr. Parham-Carter considered the point for a little while in silence, only half attending to the Major, who was now announcing his views on the Establishment and the Reformation settlement. Frank said nothing at all, and there grew on the clergyman a desire to hear his voice. He made an opportunity at last.

"Yes, I see," he said to the Major; "and you—I don't know your name?"

"Gregory, sir," said Frank. And again a little shock thrilled Mr. Parham-Carter. The voice was the kind of thing he had expected from that face.

* * * * *

It was about ten minutes later, that the clergyman thought it was time to go. He had the Major's positive promise to attend at least the evening service on the following Sunday—a promise he did not somehow very much appreciate—but he had made no progress with Frank. He shook hands all round very carefully, told Jimmie not to miss Sunday-school, and publicly commended Maggie for a recitation she had accomplished at the Band of Hope on the previous evening; and then went out, accompanied by Mrs. Partington, still silent, as far as the door. But as he actually went out, someone pushed by the woman and came out into the street.

"May I speak to you a minute?" said the strange young man, dropping the "sir." "I'll walk with you as far as the clergy-house if you'll let me."

* * * * *

When they were out of earshot of the house Frank began.

"You're Parham-Carter, aren't you?" he said. "Of Hales'."

The other nodded. (Things were beginning to resolve themselves in his mind.)

"Well, will you give me your word not to tell a soul I'm here, and I'll tell you who I am? You've forgotten me, I see. But I'm afraid you may remember. D'you see?"

"All right."

"I'm Guiseley, of Drew's. We were in the same division once—up to Rawlins. Do you remember?"

"Good Lord! But—"

"Yes, I know. But don't let's go into that. I've not done anything I shouldn't. That's not the reason I'm like this. It's just turned out so. And there's something else I want to talk to you about. When can I come and see you privately? I'm going to begin work to-morrow at the jam factory."

The other man clutched at his whirling faculties.

"To-night—at ten. Will that do?"

"All right. What am I to say—when I ring the bell, I mean?"

"Just ask for me. They'll show you straight up to my room."

"All right," said Frank, and was gone.

(III)

Mr. Parham-Carter's room in the clergy-house was of the regular type—very comfortable and pleasing to the eye, as it ought to be for a young man working under such circumstances; not really luxurious; pious and virile. The walls were a rosy distemper, very warm and sweet, and upon them, above the low oak book-cases, hung school and college groups, discreet sporting engravings, a glorious cathedral interior, and the Sistine Madonna over the mantelpiece. An oar hung all along one ceiling, painted on the blade with the arms of an Oxford college. There was a small prie-dieu, surmounted by a crucifix of Ober-Ammergau workmanship: there was a mahogany writing-table with a revolving chair set before it; there were a couple of deep padded arm-chairs, a pipe-rack, and a row of photographs—his mother in evening dress, a couple of sisters, with other well-bred-looking relations. Altogether, with the curtains drawn and the fire blazing, it was exactly the kind of room that such a wholesome young man ought to have in the East of London.

Frank was standing on the hearth-rug as Mr. Parham-Carter came in a minute or two after ten o'clock, bearing a small tray with a covered jug, two cups and a plate of cake.

"Good-evening again," said the clergyman. "Have some cocoa? I generally bring mine up here.... Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."

Frank said nothing. He sat down. He put his cap on the floor by his chair and leaned back. The other, with rather nervous movements, set a steaming cup by his side, and a small silver box of cigarettes, matches and an ash-tray. Then he sat down himself, took a long pull at his cocoa, and waited with a certain apprehensiveness.

"Who else is here?" asked Frank abruptly.

The other ran through the three names, with a short biography of each. Frank nodded, reassured at the end.

"That's all right," he said. "All before my time, I expect. They might come in, you know."

"Oh, no!" said the clergyman. "I told them not, and—"

"Well, let's come to business," said Frank. "It's about a girl. You saw that man to-day? You saw his sort, did you? Well, he's a bad hat. And he's got a girl going about with him who isn't his wife. I want to get her home again to her people."

"Yes?"

"Can you do anything? (Don't say you can if you can't, please....) She comes from Chiswick. I'll give you her address before I go. But I don't want it muddled, you know."

The clergyman swallowed in his throat. He had only been ordained eighteen months, and the extreme abruptness and reality of the situation took him a little aback.

"I can try," he said. "And I can put the ladies on to her. But, of course, I can't undertake—"

"Of course. But do you think there's a reasonable chance? If not, I'd better have another try myself."

"Have you tried, then?"

"Oh, yes, half a dozen times. A fortnight ago was the last, and I really thought—"

"But I don't understand. Are these people your friends, or what?"

"I've been traveling with them off and on since June. They belong to you, so far as they belong to anyone. I'm a Catholic, you know—"

"Really? But—"

"Convert. Last June. Don't let's argue, my dear chap. There isn't time."

Mr. Parham-Carter drew a breath.

There is no other phrase so adequate for describing his condition of mind as the old one concerning head and heels. There had rushed on him, not out of the blue, but, what was even more surprising, out of the very dingy sky of Hackney Wick (and Turner Road, at that!), this astonishing young man, keen-eyed, brown-faced, muscular, who had turned out to be a school-fellow of his own, and a school-fellow whose reputation, during the three hours since they had parted, he had swiftly remembered point by point—Guiseley of Drew's—the boy who had thrown off his coat in early school and displayed himself shirtless; who had stolen four out of the six birches on a certain winter morning, and had conversed affably with the Head in school yard with the ends of the birches sticking out below the skirts of his overcoat; who had been discovered on the fourth of June, with an air of reverential innocence, dressing the bronze statue of King Henry VI. in a surplice in honor of the day. And now here he was, and from his dress and the situation of his lodging-house to be reckoned among the worst of the loafing class, and yet talking, with an air of complete confidence and equality of a disreputable young woman—his companion—who was to be rescued from a yet more disreputable companion and restored to her parents in Chiswick.

And this was not all—for, as Mr. Parham-Carter informed me himself—there was being impressed upon him during this interview a very curious sensation, which he was hardly able, even after consideration, to put into words—a sensation concerning the personality and presence of this young man which he could only describe as making him feel "beastly queer."

* * * * *

It seems to have been about this point that he first perceived it clearly—distinguished it, that is to say, from the whole atmosphere of startling and suggesting mystery that surrounded him.

He looked at Frank in silence a moment or two....

There Guiseley sat—leaning back in the red leather chair, his cocoa still untouched. He was in a villainous suit that once, probably, had been dark blue. The jacket was buttoned up to his chin, and a grimy muffler surrounded his neck. His trousers were a great deal too short, and disclosed above a yellow sock, on the leg nearest to him, about four inches of dark-looking skin. His boots were heavy, patched, and entirely uncleaned, and the upper toe-cap of one of them gaped from the leather over the instep. His hands were deep in his pockets, as if even in this warm room, he felt the cold.

There was nothing remarkable there. It was the kind of figure presented by unsatisfactory candidates for the men's club. And yet there was about him this air, arresting and rather disconcerting....

It was a sort of electric serenity, if I understand Mr. Parham-Carter aright—a zone of perfectly still energy, like warmth or biting cold, as of a charged force: it was like a real person standing motionless in the middle of a picture. (Mr. Parham-Carter did not, of course, use such beautiful similes as these; he employed the kind of language customary to men who have received a public school and university education, half slang and half childishness; but he waved his hands at me and distorted his features, and conveyed, on the whole, the kind of impression I have just attempted to set down.)

Frank, then, seemed as much out of place in this perfectly correct and suitable little room as an Indian prince in Buckingham Palace; or, if you prefer it, an English nobleman (with spats) in Delhi. He was just entirely different from it all; he had nothing whatever to do with it; he was wholly out of place, not exactly as regarded his manner (for he was quite at his ease), but with regard to his significance. He was as a foreign symbol in a familiar language.

Its effect upon Mr. Parham-Carter was quite clear and strong. He instanced to me the fact that he said nothing to Frank about his soul: he honestly confessed that he scarcely even wished to press him to come to Evensong on Sunday. Of course, he did not like Frank's being a Roman Catholic; and his whole intellectual being informed him that it was because Frank had never really known the Church of England that he had left it. (Mr. Parham-Carter had himself learned the real nature of the Church of England at the Pusey House at Oxford.) But there are certain atmospheres in which the intellectual convictions are not very important, and this was one of them. So here the two young men sat and stared at one another, or, rather, Mr. Parham-Carter stared at Frank, and Frank looked at nothing in particular.

"You haven't drunk your cocoa," said the clergyman suddenly.

Frank turned abruptly, took up the cup and drank the contents straight off at one draught.

"And a cigarette?"

Frank took up a cigarette and put in his mouth.

"By the way," he said, taking it out again, "when'll you send your ladies round? The morning's best, when the rest of us are out of the way."

"All right."

"Well, I don't think there's anything else?"

"My dear chap," said the other, "I wish you'd tell me what it's all about—why you're in this sort of life, you know. I don't want to pry, but—"

Frank smiled suddenly and vividly.

"Oh, there's nothing to say. That's not the point. It's by my own choice practically. I assure you I haven't disgraced anybody."

"But your people—"

"Oh! they're all right. There's nothing the matter with them.... Look here! I really must be going."

He stood up, and something seemed to snap in the atmosphere as he did so.

"Besides, I've got to be at work early—"

"I say, what did you do then?"

"Do then? What do you mean?"

"When you stood up—Did you say anything?..."

Frank looked at him bewildered.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Mr. Parham-Carter did not quite know what he had meant himself. It was a sensation come and gone, in an instant, as Frank had moved ... a sensation which I suppose some people would call "psychical"—a sensation as if a shock had vibrated for one moment through every part of his own being, and of the pleasant little warm room where he was sitting. He looked at the other, dazed for a second or two, but there was nothing. Those two steady black eyes looked at him in a humorous kind of concern....

He stood up himself.

"It was nothing," he said. "I think I must be getting sleepy."

He put out his hand.

"Good-night," he said. "Oh! I'll come and see you as far as the gate."

Frank looked at him a second.

"I say," he said; "I suppose you've never thought of becoming a Catholic?"

"My dear chap—"

"No! Well, all right.... oh! don't bother to come to the gate."

"I'm coming. It may be locked."

* * * * *

Mr. Parham-Carter stood looking after Frank's figure even after it had passed along the dark shop fronts and was turning the corner towards Turner Road. Then it went under the lamplight, and disappeared.

It was a drizzling, cold night, and he himself was bareheaded; he felt the moisture run down his forehead, but it didn't seem to be happening to him. On his right rose up the big parish-hall where the entertainments were held, and beyond it, the east end of the great church, dark now and tenantless; and he felt the wet woodwork of the gate grasped in his fingers.

He did not quite know what was happening to him but everything seemed different. A hundred thoughts had passed through his mind during the last half hour. It had occurred to him that he ought to have asked Guiseley to come to the clergy-house and lodge there for a bit while things were talked over; that he ought, tactfully, to have offered to lend him money, to provide him with a new suit, to make suggestions as to proper employment instead of at the jam factory—all those proper, philanthropic and prudent suggestions that a really sensible clergyman would have made. And yet, somehow, not only had he not made them, but it was obvious and evident when he regarded them that they could not possibly be made. Guiseley (of Drew's) did not require them, he was on another line altogether.... And what was that line?

Mr. Parham-Carter leaned on the gate a full five minutes considering all this. But he arrived at no conclusion.



CHAPTER II

(I)

The Rector of Merefield was returning from a short pastoral visitation towards the close of an afternoon at the beginning of November. His method and aims were very characteristic of himself, since he was one of that numerous class of persons who, interiorly possessing their full share of proper pride, wear exteriorly an appearance of extreme and almost timid humility. The aims of his visiting were, though he was quite unaware of the fact, directed towards encouraging people to hold fast to their proper position in life (for this, after all, is only another name for one's duty towards one's neighbor), and his method was to engage in general conversation on local topics. There emerged, in this way, information as to the patient's habits and actions; it would thus transpire, for example, whether the patient had been to church or not, whether there were any quarrels, and, if so, who were the combatants and for what cause.

He had been fairly satisfied to-day; he had met with good excuses for the absence of two children from day-school, and of a young man from choir-practice; he had read a little Scripture to an old man, and had been edified by his comments upon it. It was not particularly supernatural, but, after all, the natural has its place, too, in life, and he had undoubtedly fulfilled to-day some of the duties for whose sake he occupied the position of Rector of Merefield, in a completely inoffensive manner. The things he hated most in the world were disturbances of any kind, abruptness and the unexpected, and he had a strong reputation in the village for being a man of peace.

It sounds a hard thing to say of so conscientious a man, but a properly preserved social order was perhaps to his mind the nearest approach to the establishment of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth. Each person held his proper position, including himself, and he no more expected others to be untrue to their station than he wished to be untrue to his own. There were, of course, two main divisions—those of gentle birth and those not of gentle birth, and these were as distinct as the sexes. But there were endless gradations in each respectively, and he himself regarded those with as much respect as those of the angelic hierarchy: the "Dominations" might, or might not be as "good" as the "Powers," but they were certainly different, by Divine decree. It would be a species of human blasphemy, therefore, for himself not to stand up in Lord Talgarth's presence, or for a laborer not to touch his hat to Miss Jenny. This is sometimes called snobbishness, but it is nothing of the kind. It is merely a marked form of Toryism.

It was a pleasant autumnal kind of afternoon, and he took off his hat as he turned up past the park gates to feel the cool air, as he was a little heated with his walk. He felt exceedingly content with all things: there were no troubles in the parish, he enjoyed excellent health, and he had just done his duty. He disliked pastoral visiting very deeply indeed; he was essentially a timid kind of man, but he made his rules and kept them, for he was essentially a conscientious man. He was so conscientious that he was probably quite unaware that he disliked this particular duty.

Just as he came opposite the gates—great iron-work affairs with ramping eagles and a Gothic lodge smothered in ivy—the man ran out and began to wheel them back, after a hasty salute to his pastor; and the Rector, turning, saw a sight that increased his complacency. It was just Jenny riding with Lord Talgarth, as he knew she was doing that afternoon.

They made a handsome, courtly kind of pair—a sort of "father and daughter" after some romantic artist or other. Lord Talgarth's heavy figure looked well-proportioned on horseback, and he sat his big black mare very tolerably indeed. And Jenny looked delicious on the white mare, herself in dark green. A groom followed twenty yards behind.

Lord Talgarth's big face nodded genially to the Rector and he made a kind of salute; he seemed in excellent dispositions; Jenny was a little flushed with exercise, and smiled at her father with a quiet, friendly dignity.

"Just taking her ladyship home," said the old man.... "Yes; charming day, isn't it?"

* * * * *

The Rector followed them, pleased at heart. Usually Jenny rode home alone with the groom to take back her mare to the stables. It was the first time, so far as he could remember, that Lord Talgarth had taken the trouble to escort her all the way home himself. It really was very pleasant indeed, and very creditable to Jenny's tact, that relations were so cordial.... And they were dining there to-morrow, too. The social order of Merefield seemed to be in an exceedingly sound condition.

(II)

Lord Talgarth, too, seemed to the lodge-keeper, as ten minutes later the gates rolled back again to welcome their lord, in an unusually genial temper (and, indeed, there was always about this old man as great a capacity for geniality on one side as for temper on the other; it is usually so with explosive characters). He even checked his horse and asked after "the missus" in so many words; although two days before a violent message had come down to complain of laxity in the gate-opening, owing to the missus' indisposition on an occasion when the official himself had been digging cabbages behind the Gothic lodge and the hoot of the motor had not been heard.

The missus, it seemed, was up and about again (indeed her husband caught a glimpse out of the tail of his eye of a pale face that glanced and withdrew again apprehensively above the muslin curtain beyond his lordship).

"That's all right," remarked Lord Talgarth heartily, and rode on.

The lodge-keeper exchanged a solemn wink with the groom half a minute later, and stood to watch the heavy figure ahead plunging about rather in the saddle as the big black mare set her feet upon the turf and viewed her stable afar off.

It was a fact that Lord Talgarth was pleased with himself and all the world to-day, for he kept it up even with the footman who slipped, and all but lost his balance, as he brought tea into the library.

"Hold up!" remarked the nobleman.

The footman smiled gently and weakly, after the manner of a dependent, and related the incident with caustic gusto to his fellows in the pantry.

After tea Lord Talgarth lay back in his chair and appeared to meditate, as was observed by the man who fetched out the tea-things and poked the fire; and he was still meditating, though now there was the aromatic smell of tobacco upon the air, when his own man came to tell him that it was time to dress.

It was indeed a perfect room for arm-chair meditations; there were tall book-shelves, mahogany writing-tables, each with its shaded electric lamp; the carpet was as deep as a summer lawn; and in the wide hearth logs consumed themselves in an almost deferential silence. There was every conceivable thing that could be wanted laid in its proper place. It was the kind of room in which it would seem that no scheme could miscarry and every wish must prevail; the objective physical world grouped itself so obediently to the human will that it was almost impossible to imagine a state of things in which it did not so. The great house was admirably ordered; there was no sound that there should not be—no hitches, no gaps or cracks anywhere; it moved like a well-oiled machine; the gong, sounded in the great hall, issued invitations rather than commands. All was leisurely, perfectly adapted and irreproachable.

* * * * *

It is always more difficult for people who live in such houses as these to behave well under adverse fortune than for those who live in houses where the Irish stew can be smelled at eleven o'clock in the morning, and where the doors do not shut properly, and the kitchen range goes wrong. Possibly something of this fact helped to explain the owner's extreme violence of temper on the occasion of his son's revolt. It was intolerable for a man all of whose other surroundings moved like clockwork, obedient to his whims, to be disobeyed flatly by one whose obedience should be his first duty—to find disorder and rebellion in the very mainspring of the whole machine.

Possibly, too, the little scheme that was maturing in Lord Talgarth's mind between tea and dinner that evening helped to restore his geniality; for, as soon as the thought was conceived, it became obvious that it could be carried through with success.

He observed: "Aha! it's time, is it?" to his man in a hearty kind of way, and hoisted himself out of his chair with unusual briskness.

(III)

He spent a long evening again in the library alone. Archie was away; and after dining alone with all the usual state, the old man commanded that coffee should be brought after him. The butler found him, five minutes later, kneeling before a tall case of drawers, trying various keys off his bunch, and when the man came to bring in whisky and clear away the coffee things he was in his deep chair, a table on either side of him piled with papers, and a drawer upon his knees.

"You can put this lot back," he remarked to the young footman, indicating a little pile of four drawers on the hearth-rug. He watched the man meditatively as he attempted to fit them into their places.

"Not that way, you fool! Haven't you got eyes?... The top one at the top!"

But he said it without bitterness—almost contemplatively. And, as the butler glanced round a moment or two later to see that all was in order, he saw his master once more beginning to read papers.

"Good-night," said Lord Talgarth.

"Good-night, my lord," said the butler.

There was a good deal of discussion that night in the men's wing as to the meaning of all this, and it was conducted with complete frankness. Mr. Merton, the butler, had retired to his own house in the stable-yard, and Mr. Clarkson, the valet, was in his lordship's dressing-room; so the men talked freely. It was agreed that only two explanations were possible for the unusual sweetness of temper: either Mr. Frank was to be reinstated, or his father was beginning to break up. Frank was extremely popular with servants always; and it was generally hoped that the former explanation was the true one. Possibly, however, both were required.

* * * * *

Mr. Clarkson too was greatly intrigue that night. He yawned about the dressing-room till an unusually late hour, for Lord Talgarth generally retired to rest between ten and half-past. To-night, however, it was twenty minutes to twelve before the man stood up suddenly from the sofa at the sound of a vibration in the passage outside. The old man came in briskly, bearing a bundle of papers in one hand and a bed-candle in the other, with the same twinkle of good temper in his eyes that he had carried all the evening.

"Give me the dispatch-box under the sofa," he said; "the one in the leather case."

This was done and the papers were laid in it, carefully, on the top. Mr. Clarkson noticed that they had a legal appearance, were long-shaped and inscribed in stiff lettering. Then the dispatch-box was reclosed and set on the writing-table which my lord used sometimes when he was unwell.

"Remind me to send for Mr. Manners to-morrow," he said. (This was the solicitor.)

* * * * *

Getting ready for bed that evening was almost of a sensational nature, and Mr. Clarkson had to keep all his wits about him to respond with sufficient agility to the sallies of his master. Usually it was all a very somber ceremony, with a good deal of groaning and snarling in asides. But to-night it was as cheerful as possible.

The mysteries of it all are too great for me to attempt to pierce them; but it is really incredible what a number of processes are necessary before an oldish man, who is something of a buck and something of an invalid, and altogether self-centered, is able to lay him down to rest. There are strange doses to be prepared and drunk, strange manipulations to be performed and very particular little ceremonies to be observed, each in its proper place. Each to-night was accompanied by some genial comment: the senna-pod distillation, that had been soaking since seven p.m. in hot water, was drunk almost with the air of a toast; the massaging of the ankles and toes (an exercise invented entirely by Lord Talgarth himself) might have been almost in preparation for a dance.

He stood up at last, an erect, stoutish figure, in quilted dressing-gown and pyjamas, before the fire, as his man put on his slippers for him, for the little procession into the next room.

"I think I'm better to-night, Clarkson," he said.

"Your lordship seems very well indeed, my lord," murmured that diplomat on the hearth-rug.

"How old do you think I am, Clarkson?"

Clarkson knew perfectly well, but it was better to make a deprecatory confused noise.

"Ah! well, we needn't reckon by years ... I feel young enough," observed the stately figure before the fire.

* * * * *

Then the procession was formed: the double doors were set back, the electric light switched on; Lord Talgarth passed through towards the great four-posted bed that stood out into the bedroom, and was in bed, with scarcely a groan, almost before the swift Mr. Clarkson could be at his side to help him in. He lay there, his ruddy face wonderfully handsome against the contrast of his gray hair and the white pillow, while Mr. Clarkson concluded the other and final ceremonies. A small table had to be wheeled to a certain position beside the bed, and the handle of the electric cord laid upon it in a particular place, between the book and the tray on which stood some other very special draught to be drunk in case of thirst.

"Call me a quarter of an hour earlier than usual," observed the face on the pillow. "I'll take a little stroll before breakfast."

"Yes, my lord."

"What did I tell you to remind me to do after breakfast?"

"Send for Mr. Manners, my lord."

"That's right. Good-night, Clarkson."

"Good-night, my lord."

* * * * *

There was the usual discreet glance round the room to see that all was in order; then the door into the dressing-room closed imperceptibly behind Mr. Clarkson's bent back.



CHAPTER III

(I)

Winter at Merefield Rectory is almost as delightful as summer, although in an entirely different way. The fact is that the Rectory has managed the perfect English compromise. In summer, with the windows and doors wide open, with the heavy radiant creepers, with the lawns lying about the house, with the warm air flowing over the smooth, polished floors and lifting the thin mats, with the endless whistle of bird song—then the place seems like a summer-house. And in winter, with the heavy carpets down, and the thick curtains, the very polished floors, so cool in summer, seem expressly designed to glimmer warmly with candle and fire-light; and the books seem to lean forward protectively and reassert themselves, and the low beamed ceilings to shelter and safeguard the interior comfort. The center of gravity is changed almost imperceptibly. In summer the place is a garden with a house in the middle; in winter a house surrounded by shrubberies.

The study in one way and the morning-room in another are the respective pivots of the house. The study is a little paneled room on the ground-floor, looking out upon the last of the line of old yews and the beginning of the lawn; the morning-room (once known as the school-room) is the only other paneled room in the house, on the first floor, looking out upon the front. And round these two rooms the two sections of the house-life tranquilly revolve. Here in one the Rector controls the affairs of the parish, writes his sermons, receives his men friends (not very many), and reads his books. There in the other Jenny orders the domestic life of the house, interviews the cook, and occupies herself with her own affairs. They are two rival, but perfectly friendly, camps.

* * * * *

Lately (I am speaking now of the beginning of November) there had not been quite so much communication between the two camps as usual, not so many informal negotiations. Jenny did not look in quite so often upon her father—for ten minutes after breakfast, for instance, or before lunch—and when he looked in on her he seemed to find her generally with rather a preoccupied air, often sitting before the wide-arched fireplace, with her hands behind her head, looking at the red logs.

He was an easy man, as has been seen, and did not greatly trouble his head about it: he knew enough of the world to recognize that an extremely beautiful girl like Jenny, living on the terms she did with the great house—and a house with men coming and going continually, to say nothing of lawn-tennis parties and balls elsewhere—cannot altogether escape complications. He was reasonable enough, too, to understand that a father is not always the best confidant, and he had supreme confidence in Jenny's common sense.

I suppose he had his dreams; he would scarcely have been human if he had not, and he was quite human. The throwing over of Frank had brought him mixed emotions, but he had not been consulted either at the beginning or the end of the engagement, and he acquiesced. Of Dick's affair he knew nothing at all.

That, then, was the situation when the bomb exploded. It exploded in this way.

He was sitting in his study one morning—to be accurate, it was the first Saturday in November, two days after the events of the last chapter—preparing to begin the composition of his sermon for the next day. They had dined up at the great house the night before quite quietly with Lord Talgarth and Archie, who had just come back.

He had selected his text with great care from the Gospel for the day, when the door suddenly opened and Jenny came in. This was very unusual on Saturday morning; it was an understood thing that he must be at his sermon; but his faint sense of annoyance was completely dispelled by his daughter's face. She was quite pale—not exactly as if she had received a shock, but as if she had made up her mind to something; there was no sign of tremor in her face; on the contrary, she looked extremely determined, but her eyes searched his as she stopped.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, father, but may I talk to you for a few minutes?"

She did not wait for his answer, but came straight in and sat down in his easy-chair. He laid his pen down and turned a little at his writing-table to face her.

"Certainly, dear. What is it? Nothing wrong?"

(He noticed she had a note in her hand.)

"No, nothing wrong...." She hesitated. "But it's rather important."

"Well?"

She glanced down at the note she carried. Then she looked up at him again.

"Father, I suppose you've thought of my marrying some day—in spite of Frank?"

"Eh?"

"Would you mind if I married a man older than myself—I mean a good deal older?"

He looked at her in silence. Two or three names passed before his mind, but he couldn't remember—

"Father, I'm in trouble. I really am. I didn't expect—"

Her voice faltered. He saw that she really found it difficult to speak. A little wave of tenderness rolled over his heart. It was unlike her to be so much moved. He got up and came round to her.

"What is it, dear? Tell me."

She remained perfectly motionless for an instant. Then she held out the note to him, and simultaneously stood up. As he took it, she went swiftly past him and out of the door. He heard the swish of her dress pass up the stairs, and then the closing of a door. But he hardly heeded it. He was reading the note she had given him. It was a short, perfectly formal offer of marriage to her from Lord Talgarth.

(II)

"Father, dear," said Jenny, "I want you to let me have my say straight out, will you?"

He bowed his head.

They were sitting, on the evening of the same day, over the tea-things in his study. He had not seen her alone for one moment since the morning. She had refused to open her door to him when he went up after reading the note: she had pleaded a headache at lunch, and she had been invisible all the afternoon. Then, as he came in about tea-time, she had descended upon him, rather pale, but perfectly herself, perfectly natural, and even rather high-spirited. She had informed him that tea would be laid in his study, as she wanted a long talk. She had poured out tea, talking all the time, refusing, it seemed, to meet his eyes. When she had finished, she had poured out his third cup, and then pushed her own low chair back so far that he could not see her face.

Then she had opened the engagement.

* * * * *

To say that the poor man had been taken aback would be a very poor way of describing his condition. The thing simply had never entered his head. He had dreamed, in wild moments, of Archie; he had certainly contemplated Dick; but Lord Talgarth himself, gouty and aged sixty-five!... And yet he had not been indignant. Indignation not only did not do with Jenny, but it was impossible. To be quite frank, the man was afraid of his daughter; he was aware that she would do ultimately as she wished, and not as he wished; and his extreme discomfort at the thought of this old man marrying his daughter was, since he was human, partly counter-balanced by the thought of who the old man was. Lastly, it must be remembered that Jenny was really a very sensible girl, and that her father was quite conscious of the fact.

Jenny settled herself once more in her chair and began.

* * * * *

"Father, dear, I want to be quite sensible about this. And I've been very foolish and silly about it all day. I can't imagine why I behaved as I did. There's nothing to go and mope about, that Lord Talgarth has been kind enough to do me this honor. Because it is an honor, you know, however you look at it, that anyone should ask one to be his wife.

"Well, I want to say what I have to say first, and then I want you to say exactly what you think. I've thought it all out, so I shan't be very long."

(He put down his cup noiselessly, as if in the presence of a sick person. He was anxious not to lose a word, or even an inflection).

"First of all, let's have all the things against it. He's an old man. We mustn't forget that for one minute. And that's a very strong argument indeed. Some people would think it final, but I think that's foolish....

"Secondly, it never entered my head for one instant." (Jenny said this quite deliberately, almost reverently.) "Of course I see now that he's hinted at it very often, but I never understood it at the time. I've always thought of him as a sort of—well—a sort of uncle. And that's another strong argument against it. If it was a right thing to do, oughtn't it to have occurred to me too? I'm not quite sure about that.

"Thirdly, it's unsuitable for several reasons. It'll make talk. Here have I been engaged to Frank for ages and broken it off. Can't you imagine how people will interpret that now? I suppose I oughtn't to mind what people say, but I'm afraid I do. Then I'm the Rector's daughter ... and I've been running in and out continually—dining with them, sitting with him alone. Can't you imagine what people—Lady Richard, for instance—will make of it?... I shall be an adventuress, and all the rest of it. That's not worth much as an argument, but it is a ... a consideration. One must look facts in the face and think of the future.

"Fourthly, Lord Talgarth probably won't live very long...." (Jenny paused, and then, with extraordinary impressiveness, continued).... "And that, of, course, is perhaps the strongest argument of all. If I could be of any real use to him—" She stopped again.

The Rector shifted a little in his chair.

It was impossible for him to conceal from himself any longer the fact that up to now he had really been expecting Jenny to accept the offer. But he was a little puzzled now at the admirable array of reasons she had advanced against that. She had put into words just the sensible view of which he himself had only had a confused apprehension; she had analyzed into all its component parts that general sense which one side of him had pushed before him all day—that the thing was really abominable. And this side of him at this time was uppermost. He drew a whistling breath.

"Well, my dear," he began, and the relief was very apparent in his voice. But Jenny interrupted.

"One minute, please, father! In fairness to—to everyone I must put the other side.... I suppose the main question is this, after all. Am I fond of him?—fond enough, that is, to marry him—because, of course, I'm fond of him; he's been so extraordinarily kind always.... I suppose that's really the only thing to be considered. If I were fond enough of him, I suppose all the arguments against count for nothing. Isn't that so?... Yes; I want you to say what you think."

He waited. Still he could make out nothing of her face, though he glanced across the tea-things once or twice.

"My dear, I don't know what to say. I—"

"Father, dear, I just want that from you. Do you think that any consideration at all ought to stand in the way, if I were—I don't say for one single moment that I am—but if I were—well, really fond of him? I'm sorry to have to speak so very plainly, but it's no good being silly."

He swallowed in his throat once or twice.

"If you really were fond of him—I think ... I think that, no consideration of the sort you have mentioned ought to ... to stand in your way."

"Thank you, father," said Jenny softly.

"When did you first think of it?"

Jenny paused.

"I think I knew he was going to ask me two days ago—the day you met us out riding, you know."

* * * * *

There was a long silence.

They had already discussed, when Frank's affair had been before them, all secondary details.

The Rector's sister was to have taken Jenny's place. There was nothing of that sort to talk about now. They were both just face to face with primary things, and they both knew it.

The Rector's mind worked like a mill—a mill whose machinery is running aimlessly. The wheels went round and round, but they effected nothing. He was completely ignorant as to what Jenny intended. He perceived—as in a series of little vignettes—a number of hypothetical events, on this side and that, but they drew to no conclusion in his mind. He was just waiting on his daughter's will.

* * * * *

Jenny broke the silence with a slow remark in another kind of voice.

"Father, dear, there's something else I must tell you. I didn't see any need to bother you with it before. It's this. Mr. Dick Guiseley proposed to me when he was here for the shooting."

She paused, but her father said nothing.

"I told him he must wait—that I didn't know for certain, but that I was almost certain. If he had pressed for an answer I should have said 'No.' Oddly enough, I was thinking only yesterday that it wasn't fair to keep him waiting any longer. Because ... because it's 'No' ... anyhow, now."

The Rector still could not speak. It was just one bewilderment. But apparently Jenny did not want any comments.

"That being so," she went on serenely, "my conscience is clear, anyhow. And I mustn't let what I think Mr. Dick might say or think affect me—any more than the other things. Must I?"

"... Jenny, what are you going to do? Tell me!"

"Father, dear," came the high astonished voice, "I don't know. I don't know at all. I must think. Did you think I'd made up my mind? Why! How could I? Of course I should say 'No' if I had to answer now."

"I—" began the Rector and stopped. He perceived that the situation could easily be complicated.

"I must just think about it quietly," went on the girl. "And I must write a note to say so.... Father ..."

He glanced in her direction.

"Father, about being fond of a man.... Need it be—well, as I was fond of Frank? I don't think Lord Talgarth could have expected that, could he? But if you—well—get on with a man very well, understand him—can stand up to him without annoying him ... and ... and care for him, really, I mean, in such a way that you like being with him very much, and look up to him very much in all kinds of ways—(I'm very sorry to have to talk like this, but whom am I to talk to, father dear?) Well, if I found I did care for Lord Talgarth like that—like a sort of daughter, or niece, and more than that too, would that—"

"I don't know," said the Rector, abruptly standing up. "I don't know; you mustn't ask me. You must settle all that yourself."

She looked up at him, startled, it seemed, by the change in his manner.

"Father, dear—" she began, with just the faintest touch of pathetic reproach in her voice. But he did not appear moved by it.

"You must settle," he said. "You have all the data. I haven't. I—"

He stepped towards the door.

"Tell me as soon as you have decided," he said, and went out.

(III)

The little brown dog called Lama, who in an earlier chapter once trotted across a lawn, and who had lately been promoted to sleeping upon Jenny's bed, awoke suddenly that night and growled a low breathy remonstrance. He had been abruptly kicked from beneath the bedclothes.

"Get off, you heavy little beast," said a voice in the darkness.

Lama settled himself again with a grunt, half of comfort, half of complaint.

"Get off!" came the voice again, and again his ribs were heaved at by a foot.

He considered it a moment or two, and even shifted nearer the wall, still blind with sleep; but the foot pursued him, and he awoke finally to the conviction that it would be more comfortable by the fire; there was a white sheepskin there, he reflected. As he finally reached the ground, a scratching was heard in the corner, and he was instantly alert, and the next moment had fitted his nose, like a kind of india-rubber pad, deep into a small mouse-hole in the wainscoting, and was breathing long noisy sighs down into the delicious and gamey-smelling darkness.

"Oh! be quiet!" came a voice from the bed.

Lama continued his investigations unmoved, and having decided, after one long final blow, that there was to be no sport, returned to the sheepskin with that brisk independent air that was so characteristic of him. He was completely awake now, and stood eyeing the bed a moment, with the possibility in his mind that his mistress was asleep again, and that by a very gentle leap—But a match was struck abruptly, and he lay down, looking, with that appearance of extreme wide-awakedness in his black eyes that animals always wear at night, at his restless mistress.

He could not quite understand what was the matter.

First she lit a candle, took a book from the small table by the bed and began to read resolutely. This continued till Lama's eyes began to blink at the candle flame, and then he was suddenly aware that the light was out and the book closed, and all fallen back again into the clear gray tones which men call darkness.

He put his head down on his paws, but his eyebrows rose now and again as he glanced at the bed.

Then the candle was lighted again after a certain space of time, but this time there was no book opened. Instead, his mistress took her arms out of bed, and clasped them behind her head, staring up at the ceiling....

This was tiresome, as the light was in his eyes, and his body was just inert enough with sleep to make movement something of an effort....

Little by little, however, his eyebrows came down, remained down, and his eyes closed....

He awoke again at a sound. The candle was still burning, but his mistress had rolled over on to her side and seemed to be talking gently to herself. Then she was over again on this side, and a minute later was out of bed, and walking to and fro noiselessly on the soft carpet.

He watched her with interest, his eyes only following her. He had never yet fully understood this mysterious change of aspect that took place every night—the white thin dress, the altered appearance of the head, and—most mysterious of all—the two white things that ought to be feet, but were no longer hard and black. He had licked one of them once tentatively, and had found that the effect was that it had curled up suddenly; there had been a sound as of pain overhead, and a swift slap had descended upon him.

He was observing these things now—to and fro, to and fro—and his eyes moved with them.

* * * * *

After a certain space of time the movement stopped. She was standing still near a carved desk—important because a mouse had once been described sitting beneath it; and she stood so long that his eyes began to blink once more. Then there was a rustle of paper being torn, and he was alert again in a moment. Perhaps paper would be thrown for him presently....

She came across to the hearth-rug, and he was up, watching her hands, while his own short tail flickered three or four times in invitation. But it was no good: the ball was crumpled up and thrown on to the red logs. There was a "whup" from the fire and a flame shot up. He looked at this carefully with his head on one side, and again lay down to watch it. His mistress was standing quite still, watching it with him.

Then, as the flame died down, she turned abruptly, went straight back to the bed, got into it, drew the clothes over her and blew the candle out.

* * * * *

After a few moments steady staring at the fire, he perceived that a part of the ball of paper had rolled out on to the stone hearth unburned. He looked at it for some while, wondering whether it was worth getting up for. Certainly the warmth was delicious and the sheepskin exquisitely soft.

There was no sound from the bed. A complete and absolute silence had succeeded to all the restlessness.

Finally he concluded that it was impossible to lie there any longer and watch such a crisp little roll of paper still untorn. He got up, stepped delicately on to the wide hearth, and pulled the paper towards him with a little scratching sound. There was a sigh from the bed, and he paused. Then he lifted it, stepped back to his warm place, lay down, and placing his paws firmly upon the paper, began to tear scraps out of it with his white teeth.

"Oh, be quiet!" came the weary voice from the bed.

He paused, considered; then he tore two more pieces. But it did not taste as it should; it was a little sticky, and too stiff. He stood up once more, turned round four times and lay down with a small grunt.

In the morning the maid who swept up the ashes swept up these fragments too. She noticed a wet scrap of a picture postcard, with the word "Selby" printed in the corner. Then she threw that piece, too, into the dustpan.



CHAPTER IV

(I)

Mrs. Partington and Gertie had many of those mysterious conversations that such women have, full of "he's" and "she's" and nods and becks and allusions and broken sentences, wholly unintelligible to the outsider, yet packed with interest to the talkers. The Major, Mr. Partington (still absent), and Frank were discussed continually and exhaustively; and, so far as the subjects themselves ranged, there was hardly an unimportant detail that did not come under notice, and hardly an important fact that did. Gertie officially passed, of course, as Mrs. Trustcott always.

A couple of mornings after Frank had begun his work at the jam factory, Mrs. Partington, who had stepped round the corner to talk with a friend for an hour or so, returned to find Gertie raging. She raged in her own way; she was as white as a sheet; she uttered ironical and unintelligible sentences, in which Frank's name appeared repeatedly, and it emerged presently that one of the Mission-ladies had been round minding other folks' business, and that Gertie would thank that lady to keep her airs and her advice to herself.

Now Mrs. Partington knew that Gertie was not the Major's wife, and Gertie knew that she knew it; and Mrs. Partington knew that Gertie knew that she knew it. Yet, officially, all was perfectly correct; Gertie wore a wedding-ring, and there never was the hint that she had not a right to it. It was impossible, therefore, for Mrs. Partington to observe out loud that she understood perfectly what the Mission-lady had been talking about. She said very little; she pressed her thin lips together and let Gertie alone. The conversations that morning were of the nature of disconnected monologues from Gertie with long silences between.

It was an afternoon of silent storm. The Major was away in the West End somewhere on mysterious affairs; the children were at school, and the two women went about, each knowing what was in the mind of the other, yet each resolved to keep up appearances.

At half-past five o'clock Frank abruptly came in for a cup of tea, and Mrs. Partington gave it him in silence. (Gertie could be heard moving about restlessly overhead.) She made one or two ordinary remarks, watching Frank when he was not looking. But Frank said very little. He sat up to the table; he drank two cups of tea out of the chipped enamel mug, and then he set to work on his kippered herring. At this point Mrs. Partington left the room, as if casually, and a minute later Gertie came downstairs.

* * * * *

She came in with an indescribable air of virtue, rather white in the face, with her small chin carefully thrust out and her eyelids drooping. It was a pose she was accustomed to admire in high-minded and aristocratic barmaids. Frank nodded at her and uttered a syllable or two of greeting.

She said nothing; she went round to the window, carrying a white cotton blouse she had been washing upstairs, and hung it on the clothes-line that ran inside the window. Then, still affecting to be busy with it, she fired her first shot, with her back to him.

"I'll thank you to let my business alone...."

(Frank put another piece of herring into his mouth.)

"... And not to send round any more of your nasty cats," added Gertie after a pause.

There was silence from Frank.

"Well?" snapped Gertie.

"How dare you talk like that!" said Frank, perfectly quietly.

He spoke so low that Gertie mistook his attitude, and, leaning her hands on the table, she poured out the torrent that had been gathering within her ever since the Mission-lady had left her at eleven o'clock that morning. The lady had not been tactful; she was quite new to the work, and quite fresh from a women's college, and she had said a great deal more than she ought, with an earnest smile upon her face that she had thought conciliatory and persuasive. Gertie dealt with her faithfully now; she sketched her character as she believed it to be; she traced her motives and her attitude to life with an extraordinary wealth of detail; she threw in descriptive passages of her personal appearance, and she stated, with extreme frankness, her opinion of such persons as she had thought friendly, but now discovered to be hypocritical parsons in disguise. Unhappily I have not the skill to transcribe her speech in full, and there are other reasons, too, why her actual words are best unreported: they were extremely picturesque.

Frank ate on quietly till he had finished his herring; then he drank his last cup of tea, and turned a little in his chair towards the fire. He glanced at the clock, perceiving that he had still ten minutes, just as Gertie ended and stood back shaking and pale-eyed.

"Is that all?" he asked.

It seemed it was not all, and Gertie began again, this time on a slightly higher note, and with a little color in her face. Frank waited, quite simply and without ostentation. She finished.

After a moment's pause Frank answered.

"I don't know what you want," he said. "I talked to you myself, and you wouldn't listen. So I thought perhaps another woman would do it better—"

"I did listen—"

"I beg your pardon," said Frank instantly. "I was wrong. You did listen, and very patiently. I meant that you wouldn't do what I said. And so I thought—"

Gertie burst out again, against cats and sneaking hypocrites, but there was not quite the same venom in her manner.

"Very good," said Frank. "Then I won't make the mistake again. I am very sorry—not in the least for having interfered, you understand, but for not having tried again myself." (He took up his cap.) "You'll soon give in, Gertie, you know. Don't you think so yourself?"

Gertie looked at him in silence.

"You understand, naturally, why I can't talk to you while the Major's here. But the next time I have a chance—"

The unlatched door was pushed open and the Major came in.

(II)

There was an uncomfortable little pause for a moment. It is extremely doubtful, even now, exactly how much the Major heard; but he must have heard something, and to a man of his mind the situation that he found must have looked extremely suspicious. Gertie, flushed now, with emotion very plainly visible in her bright eyes, was standing looking at Frank, who, it appeared, was a little disconcerted. It would have been almost miraculous if the Major had not been convinced that he had interrupted a little private love-making.

It is rather hard to analyze the Major's attitude towards Gertie; but what is certain is that the idea of anyone else making love to her was simply intolerable. Certainly he did not treat her with any great chivalry; he made her carry the heavier bundles on the tramp; he behaved to her with considerable disrespect; he discussed her freely with his friends on convivial occasions. But she was his property—his and no one else's. He had had his suspicions before; he had come in quietly just now on purpose, and he had found himself confronted by this very peculiar little scene.

He looked at them both in silence. Then his lips sneered like a dog's.

"Pardon me," he said, with extreme politeness. "I appear to be interrupting a private conversation."

No one said anything. Frank leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece.

"It was private, then?" continued the Major with all the poisonous courtesy at his command.

"Yes; it was private," said Frank shortly.

The Major put his bowler hat carefully upon the table.

"Gertie, my dear," he said. "Will you be good enough to leave us for an instant? I regret having to trouble you."

Gertie breathed rather rapidly for a moment or two. She was not altogether displeased. She understood perfectly, and it seemed to her rather pleasant that two men should get into this kind of situation over her. She was aware that trouble would come to herself later, probably in the form of personal chastisement, but to the particular kind of feminine temperament that she possessed even a beating was not wholly painful, and the cheap kind of drama in which she found herself was wholly attractive. After an instant's pause, she cast towards Frank what she believed to be a "proud" glance and marched out.

"If you've got much to say," said Frank rapidly, as the door closed, "you'd better keep it for this evening. I've got to go in ... in two minutes."

"Two minutes will be ample," said the Major softly.

Frank waited.

"When I find a friend," went on the other, "engaged in an apparently exciting kind of conversation, which he informs me is private, with one who is in the position of my wife—particularly when I catch a sentence or two obviously not intended for my ears—I do not ask what was the subject of the conversation, but I—"

"My dear man," said Frank, "do put it more simply."

The Major was caught, so to speak, full in the wind. His face twitched with anger.

Then he flung an oath at Frank.

"If I catch you at it again," he said, "there'll be trouble. God damn you!"

"That is as it may be," said Frank.

The Major had had just one drink too much, and he was in the kind of expansive mood that changes very rapidly.

"Can you tell me you were not trying to take her from me?" he cried, almost with pathos in his voice.

This was, of course, exactly what Frank had been trying to do.

"You can't deny it!... Then I tell you this, Mr. Frankie"—the Major sprang up—"one word more from you to her on that subject ... and ... and you'll know it. D'you understand me?"

He thrust his face forward almost into Frank's.

It was an unpleasant face at most times, but it was really dangerous now. His lips lay back, and the peculiar hot smell of spirit breathed into Frank's nostrils. Frank turned and looked into his eyes.

"I understand you perfectly," he said. "There's no need to say any more. And now, if you'll forgive me, I must get back to my work."

He took up his cap and went out.

* * * * *

The Major, as has been said, had had one glass too much, and he had, accordingly, put into words what, even in his most suspicious moments, he had intended to keep to himself. It might be said, too, that he had put into words what he did not really think. But the Major was, like everyone else, for good or evil, a complex character, and found it perfectly possible both to believe and disbelieve the same idea simultaneously. It depended in what stratum the center of gravity happened to be temporarily suspended. One large part of the Major knew perfectly well, therefore, that any jealousy of Frank was simply ridiculous—the thing was simply alien; and another part, not so large, but ten times more concentrated, judged Frank by the standards by which the Major (qua blackguard) conducted his life. For people who lived usually in that stratum, making love to Gertie, under such circumstances, would have been an eminently natural thing to do, and, just now, the Major chose to place Frank amongst them.

The Major himself was completely unaware of these psychological distinctions, and, as he sat, sunk in his chair, brooding, before stepping out to attend to Gertie, he was entirely convinced that his suspicions were justified. It seemed to him now that numberless little details out of the past fitted, with the smoothness of an adjusted puzzle, into the framework of his thought.

There was, first, the very remarkable fact that Frank, in spite of opportunities to better himself, had remained in their company. At Barham, at Doctor Whitty's, at the monastery, obvious chances had offered themselves and he had not taken them. Then there were the small acts of courtesy, the bearing of Gertie's bundles two or three times. Finally, there was a certain change in Gertie's manner—a certain silent peevishness towards himself, a curious air that fell on her now and then as she spoke to Frank or looked at him.

And so forth. It was an extraordinarily convincing case, clinched now by the little scene that he had just interrupted. And the very irregularity of his own relations with Gertie helped to poison the situation with an astonishingly strong venom.

Of course, there were other considerations, or, rather, there was one—that Frank, obviously, was not the kind of man to be attracted by the kind of woman that Gertie was—a consideration made up, however, of infinitely slighter indications. But this counted for nothing. It seemed unsubstantial and shadowy. There were solid, definable arguments on the one side; there was a vague general impression on the other....

So the Major sat and stared at the fire, with the candle-light falling on his sunken cheeks and the bristle on his chin—a poor fallen kind of figure, yet still holding the shadow of a shadow of an ideal that might yet make him dangerous.

Presently he got up with a sudden movement and went in search of Gertie.

(III)

There are no free libraries in Hackney Wick; the munificences of Mr. Carnegie have not yet penetrated to that district (and, indeed, the thought of a library of any kind in Hackney Wick is a little incongruous). But there is one in Homerton, and during the dinner-hour on the following day Frank went up the steps of it, pushed open the swing-doors, and found his way to some kind of a writing-room, where he obtained a sheet of paper, an envelope and a penny stamp, and sat down to write a letter.

The picture that I have in my mind of Frank at this present time may possibly be a little incorrect in one or two details, but I am quite clear about its main outlines, and it is extremely vivid on the whole. I see him going in, quietly and unostentatiously—quite at his ease, yet a very unusual figure in such surroundings. I hear an old gentleman sniff and move his chair a little as this person in an exceedingly shabby blue suit with the collar turned up, with a muffler round his neck and large, bulging boots on his feet, comes and sits beside him. I perceive an earnest young lady, probably a typist in search of extra culture, look at him long and vacantly from over her copy of Emerson, and can almost see her mind gradually collecting conclusions about him. The attendant, too, as he asks for his paper, eyes him shrewdly and suspiciously, and waits till the three halfpence are actually handed across under the brass wire partition before giving him the penny stamp. These circumstances may be incorrect, but I am absolutely clear as to Frank's own attitude of mind. Honestly, he no longer minds in the very least how people behave to him; he has got through all that kind of thing long ago; he is not at all to be commiserated; it appears to him only of importance to get the paper and to be able to write and post his letter without interruption. For Frank has got on to that plane—(I know no other word to use, though I dislike this one)—when these other things simply do not matter. We all touch that plane sometimes, generally under circumstances of a strong mental excitement, whether of pleasure or pain, or even annoyance. A man with violent toothache, or who has just become engaged to be married, really does not care what people think of him. But Frank, for the present at least, has got here altogether, though for quite different reasons. The letter he wrote on this occasion is, at present, in my possession. It runs as follows. It is very short and business-like:

"DEAR JACK,

"I want to tell you where I am—or, rather, where I can be got at in case of need. I am down in East London for the present, and one of the curates here knows where I'm living. (He was at Eton with me.) His address is: The Rev. E. Parham-Carter, The Eton Mission, Hackney Wick, London, N.E.

"The reason I'm writing is this: You remember Major Trustcott and Gertie, don't you? Well, I haven't succeeded in getting Gertie back to her people yet, and the worst of it is that the Major knows that there's something up, and, of course, puts the worst possible construction upon it. Parham-Carter knows all about it, too—I've just left a note on him, with instructions. Now I don't quite know what'll happen, but in case anything does happen which prevents my going on at Gertie, I want you to come and do what you can. Parham-Carter will write to you if necessary.

"That's one thing; and the next is this: I'd rather like to have some news about my people, and for them to know (if they want to know—I leave that to you) that I'm getting on all right. I haven't heard a word about them since August. I know nothing particular can have happened, because I always look at the papers—but I should like to know what's going on generally.

"I think that's about all. I am getting on excellently myself, and hope you are. I am afraid there's no chance of my coming to you for Christmas. I suppose you'll be home again by now.

"Ever yours, "F.G."

"P.S.—Of course you'll keep all this private—as well as where I'm living."

Now this letter seems to me rather interesting from a psychological point of view. It is extremely business-like, but perfectly unpractical. Frank states what he wants, but he wants an absurd impossibility. I like Jack Kirkby very much, but I cannot picture him as likely to be successful in helping to restore a strayed girl to her people. I suppose Frank's only excuse is that he did not know whom else to write to.

It is rather interesting, too, to notice his desire to know what is going on at his home; it seems as if he must have had, some faint inkling that something important was about to happen, and this is interesting in view of what now followed immediately.

He directed his letter, stamped it, and posted it in the library post-box in the vestibule. Then, cap in hand, he pushed open the swing-doors and ran straight into Mr. Parham-Carter.

"Hullo!" said that clergyman—and went a little white.

"Hullo!" said Frank; and then: "What's the matter?"

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going back to the jam factory."

"May I walk with you?"

"Certainly, if you don't mind my eating as I go along."

The clergyman turned with him and went beside him in silence, as Frank, drawing out of his side-pocket a large hunch of bread and cheese, wrapped up in the advertisement sheet of the Daily Mail, began to fill his mouth.

"I want to know if you've had any news from home."

Frank turned to him slightly.

"No," he said sharply, after a pause.

Mr. Parham-Carter licked his lips.

"Well—no, it isn't bad news; but I wondered whether—"

"What is it?"

"Your governor's married again. It happened yesterday. I thought perhaps you didn't know."

There was dead silence for an instant.

"No, I didn't know," said Frank. "Who's he married?"

"Somebody I never heard of. I wondered whether you knew her."

"What's her name?"

"Wait a second," said the other, plunging under his greatcoat to get at his waistcoat pocket. "I've got the paragraph here. I cut it out of the Morning Post. I only saw it half an hour ago. I was coming round to you this evening."

He produced a slip of printed paper. Frank stood still a moment, leaning against some area-railings—they were in the distinguished quarter of Victoria Park Road—and read the paragraph through. The clergyman watched him curiously. It seemed to him a very remarkable situation that he should be standing here in Victoria Park Road, giving information to a son as to his father's marriage. He wondered, but only secondarily, what effect it would have upon Frank.

Frank gave him the paper back without a tremor.

"Thanks very much," he said. "No; I didn't know."

They continued to walk.

"D'you know her at all?"

"Yes, I know her. She's the Rector's daughter, you know."

"What! At Merefield? Then you must know her quite well."

"Oh! yes," said Frank, "I know her quite well."

Again there was silence. Then the other burst out:

"Look here—I wish you'd let me do something. It seems to me perfectly ghastly—"

"My dear man," said Frank. "Indeed you can't do anything.... You got my note, didn't you?"

The clergyman nodded.

"It's just in case I'm ill, or anything, you know. Jack's a great friend of mine. And it's just as well that some friend of mine should be able to find out where I am. I've just written to him myself, as I said in my note. But you mustn't give him my address unless in case of real need."

"All right. But are you sure—"

"I'm perfectly sure.... Oh! by the way, that lady you sent round did no good. I expect she told you?"

"Yes; she said she'd never come across such a difficult case."

"Well, I shall have to try again myself.... I must turn off here. Good luck!"

(IV)

Gertie was sitting alone in the kitchen about nine o'clock that night—alone, that is to say, except for the sleeping 'Erb, who, in a cot at the foot of his mother's bed, was almost invisible under a pile of clothes, and completely negligible as a witness. Mrs. Partington, with the other two children, was paying a prolonged visit in Mortimer Road, and the Major, ignorant of this fact, was talking big in the bar of the "Queen's Arms" opposite the Men's Club of the Eton Mission.

Gertie was enjoying herself just now, on the whole. It is true that she had received some chastisement yesterday from the Major; but she had the kind of nature that preferred almost any sensation to none. And, indeed, the situation was full of emotion. It was extraordinarily pleasant to her to occupy such a position between two men—and, above all, two "gentlemen." Her attitude towards the Major was of the most simple and primitive kind; he was her man, who bullied her, despised her, dragged her about the country, and she never for one instant forgot that he had once been an officer in the army. Even his blows (which, to tell the truth, were not very frequent, and were always administered in a judicial kind of way) bore with them a certain stamp of brilliance; she possessed a very pathetic capacity for snobbishness. Frank, on the other side, was no less exciting. She regarded him as a good young man, almost romantic, indeed, in his goodness—a kind of Sir Galahad; and he, whatever his motive (and she was sometimes terribly puzzled about his motives), at any rate, stood in a sort of rivalry to the Major; and it was she who was the cause of contention. She loved to feel herself pulled this way and that by two such figures, to be quarreled over by such very strong and opposite types. It was a vague sensation to her, but very vivid and attractive; and although just now she believed herself to be thoroughly miserable, I have no doubt whatever that she was enjoying it all immensely. She was very feminine indeed, and the little scene of last night had brought matters to an almost exquisite point. She was crying a little now, gently, to herself.

* * * * *

The door opened. Frank came in, put down his cap, and took his seat on the bench by the fire.

"All out?" he asked.

Gertie nodded, and made a little broken sound.

"Very good," said Frank. "Then I'm going to talk to you."

Gertie wiped away a few more tears, and settled herself down for a little morbid pleasure. It was delightful to her to be found crying over the fire. Frank, at any rate, would appreciate that.

"Now," said Frank, "you've got the choice once more, and I'm going to put it plainly. If you don't do what I want this time, I shall have to see whether somebody else can't persuade you."

She glanced up, a little startled.

"Look here," said Frank. "I'm not going to take any more trouble myself over this affair. You were a good deal upset yesterday when the lady came round, and you'll be more upset yet before the thing's over. I shan't talk to you myself any more: you don't seem to care a hang what I say; in fact, I'm thinking of moving my lodgings after Christmas. So now you've got your choice."

He paused.

"On the one side you've got the Major; well, you know him; you know the way he treats you. But that's not the reason why I want you to leave him. I want you to leave him because I think that down at the bottom you've got the makings of a good woman—"

"I haven't," cried Gertie passionately.

"Well, I think you have. You're very patient, and you're very industrious, and because you care for this man you'll do simply anything in the world for him. Well, that's splendid. That shows you've got grit. But have you ever thought what it'll all be like in five years from now?"

"I shall be dead," wailed Gertie. "I wish I was dead now."

Frank paused.

"And when you're dead—?" he said slowly.

There was an instant's silence. Then Frank took up his discourse again. (So far he had done exactly what he had wanted. He had dropped two tiny ideas on her heart once more—hope and fear.)

"Now I've something to tell you. Do you remember the last time I talked to you? Well, I've been thinking what was the best thing to do, and a few days ago I saw my chance and took it. You've got a little prayer-book down at the bottom of your bundle, haven't you? Well, I got at that (you never let anyone see it, you know), and I looked through it. I looked through all your things. Did you know your address was written in it? I wasn't sure it was your address, you know, until—"

Gertie sat up, white with passion.

"You looked at my things?"

Frank looked her straight in the face.

"Don't talk to me like that," he said. "Wait till I've done.... Well, I wrote to the address, and I got an answer; then I wrote again, and I got another answer and a letter for you. It came this morning, to the post-office where I got it."

Gertie looked at him, still white, with her lips parted.

"Give me the letter," she whispered.

"As soon as I've done talking," said Frank serenely. "You've got to listen to me first. I knew what you'd say: you'd say that your people wouldn't have you back. And I knew perfectly well from the little things you'd said about them that they would. But I wrote to make sure....

"Gertie, d'you know that they're breaking their hearts for you?... that there's nothing, in the whole world they want so much as that you should come back?..."