"Prone on my couch I lack much. I am content. You are a good girl, Margaret."

"Oh, father!" She tripped from the room in a warmth of satisfaction.

The rough head of Bildad the Shuite came round the door; spoke "Good night."

"Approach," said Job. Bildad's legs came over the mat. "You seek your room? But not your couch?"

"I'm going to bed, if that's what you mean," George told him.

Mr. Marrapit groaned. "Spurn it. Shun sloth. In the midnight oil set the wick of knowledge. Burn it, trim it, tend it."

George withdrew to his room; set the midnight pipe in his mouth; leaning from his window sped his thoughts to Battersea.



V.

One member of the house remained to be sent to sleep. Mrs. Major put a soft knuckle to the door; came at the call; whispered "I thought I might disturb you."

"You never disturb me, Mrs. Major."

A little squeak sprung from the nutter in the masterly woman's heart.

"You sigh, Mrs. Major?"

"Oh, Mr. Marrapit, I can't bear to see you lying there. The"—she paused against an effort, then took the aspirate in a masterly rush— "the house is not the same without you."

"Your sympathy is very consoling to me, Mrs. Major."

"Oh, Mr. Marrapit!" She plunged a shaft that should try him: "I wish I had the right to give you more."

"Your position in this house gives you free access to me, Mrs. Major. Regard your place as one of my own circle. Do not let deference stifle intercourse."

The masterly woman hove a superb sigh. "If you knew how I feel your kindness, Mr. Marrapit. Truly, as I say to myself every night, fair is my lot and goodly is my—" Icy dismay took her. Was the missing word "hermitage" or "heritage"? With masterly decision she filled the blank with a telling choke; keyed her voice to a brilliant suggestion of brightness struggling with tears: "The sweetling cats are safely sleeping. I have come straight from them. Ah, how they miss you! How well they know you suffer!"

"They do?" A tremble of pleasure was in Mr. Marrapit's voice.

"They does—do." Mrs. Major recited their day, gave their menu. "I must not tarry," she concluded; "you need rest. Good night, Mr. Marrapit. Good night."

"Good night, Mrs. Major."

Mr. Marrapit put out his candle.



VI.

And now in every room, save one, Sleep drew her velvet fingers down recumbent forms; pressed eyelids with her languorous kiss; upon her warm breast pillowed willing heads; about her bedfellows drew her Circe arms.

Mrs. Major's room was that single exception, and it is that masterly woman's apartment we now shall penetrate.

Hurrying to semi-toilet; again assuring herself that the key was turned; peering a last time for lurking ravishers beneath the bed, Mrs. Major then fumbled with keys before her box—threw up the lid.

Down through a pile of garments plunged her arm. Her searching fingers closed about her quest and a very beautiful smile softened her face—a smile of quiet confidence and of trust.

In greater degree than men, women have this power of taking strength from the mere contact of an inanimate object. A girl will smile all through her sleep because, hand beneath pillow, her fingers are about a photograph or letter; no need, as with Mrs. Major there was no need, even to see the thing that thus inspires. The pretty hand will delve to recesses of a drawer, and the thrill that brings the smile will run up from, it may be, a Bible, a diary, or a packet of letters touched. Dependent since Eden, woman is more emotionally responsive to aught that gives aid than is man; for man is accustomed to battle for his prizes, not to receive them.

Mrs. Major drew up, that smile still upon her face, and the moon through uncurtained window gave light upon the little joy she fetched from the depths of her trunk.

"Old Tom Gin."

The neck of Old Tom's bottle clinked against a glass; Old Tom gurgled generously; passed away through the steady smile he had inspired.

* * * * *

Mrs. Major set a carafe of water upon a little table; partnered it with Old Tom; reclined beside the pair on a comfortable seat; closed her eyes.

At intervals, as the hand crept between eleven and twelve of the clock, she would open them; when she did so diluted Old Tom in the glass fell lower, full-bodied Old Tom in the bottle marched steadily behind.

The further Old Tom crept downwards from the neck of his captivity, with the greater circumspection did Mrs. Major open her eyes. Considerable practice had told this masterly woman that Old Tom must be commanded with a steady will: else he took liberties. Eyes suddenly opened annoyed Old Tom, and he would set the furniture ambulating round the room in a manner at once indecorous in stable objects and calculated to bewilder the observer. Therefore, upon setting down her glass, this purposeful woman would squarely fix the bureau that stood opposite her, would for a moment keep her gaze upon it with a sternness that forbade movement, then gently would close her eyes. When Old Tom must be again interviewed she would lift the merest corner of an eyelid; catch through it the merest fraction of the bureau; determine from the behaviour of this portion the stability of the whole.

Thus if the corner she sighted showed indecorous propensities—as, swelling and receding, fluttering in some ghostly breeze, or altogether disappearing from view,—she would drop her lid and wait till she might catch it more seemly. This effected, she would work from that fixed point, inch by inch, until the whole bureau was revealed—swaying a little, perhaps, but presently quiescent.

When, and not until, it was firmly anchored she would slowly start her eye in review around the other objects of her apartment. If the wash- stand had tendency to polka with the bed, or the wardrobe unnaturally to stretch up its head through the ceiling, Mrs. Major would march her gaze steadily back to the bureau, there to take fresh strength and start again. When all was orderly—then Old Tom.

Masterly in all things, this woman was most masterly in her cups.



VII.

Into Mr. Marrapit's dreams there came a whistle.

He pushed at Sleep; she crooned to him and he snuggled against her.

Upon his brain there rapped a harsh Wow!

He wriggled from his bedfellow; she put an arm about him, drew him to her.

Now there succeeded a steady wash of sound—rising, falling, murmuring persistent against his senses.

He turned his back upon Sleep. She crooned; he wriggled from her. Seductively she followed; he kicked a leg and jarred her, threw an arm and hurt her. Disgusted, she slipped from bed and left him, leaving a chilly space where she had warmly lain.

Mr. Marrapit shivered; felt for Sleep; found her gone; with a start sat upright.

The breakwater gone, that wash of sound which had lapped around his senses rushed in upon them. Lingering traces of the touch of Sleep still offered resistance—a droning hum. The wash surged over, poured about him—VOICES!

Mr. Marrapit violently cleared his throat. The voices continued. Violently again. They still continued. Tremendously a third time. They yet continued. From this he argued that they could not be very close to his door. Intently he listened, then located them—they came from the garden. He felt for the bell-push that carried to Mr. Fletcher's room; put his thumb upon it; steadily pressed.

Sleep toyed no tricks in Mr. Fletcher's bed. Like some wanton mistress discovered in the very act of betrayal, she at the first tearing clamour of the electric bell bounded from the sheets, scuttled from the room.

"Rapine!" cried Mr. Fletcher; plunged his head beneath the bedclothes and wrestled in prayer.

The strident gong faltered not nor failed. Steady and penetrating it dinned its hideous call. Mr. Fletcher waited for screams. None came. He pushed the sheet between his chattering teeth, listened for cudgelling and heavy falls. None came. That bell had single possession of the night. The possibility that only patrolling was required of him nerved him to draw from his concealment. He lit a candle; into trousers pushed his quivering legs; upon tottering limbs passed up the stairs to Mr. Marrapit's room.

"Judas!" Mr. Marrapit greeted him.

Mr. Fletcher sighed relief: "I thought it was rapine."

"You have betrayed your trust. You are Iscariot."

"I come when you rung."

"Silence. I have heard voices."

"God help us," Mr. Fletcher piously groaned; the candle in his shaking hand showered wax.

"Blasphemer! He will not help the craven. Gird yourself."

"I'll call Mr. George."

"Refrain. I will attend to that. Gird yourself. Take the musket from the hall. It is loaded. Patrol!"

"I don't want the musket."

"Be not overbold. Outside you may be at their mercy."

"Outside!"

"Assuredly."

"Me patrol outside!"

"That is your task. Forward!"

By now Mr. Marrapit had risen; swathed himself in a dressing-gown. Sternly he addressed Mr. Fletcher: "As you this night quit yourself so will I consider the question of your dismissal. If blood is spilt this night it will be upon your head."

Mr. Fletcher trembled. "That's just it. It's 'ard—damn 'ard—"

"Forward, Iscariot." Mr. Marrapit drove Judas before him; in the hall took down the gun and pressed it into the shaking hands. He drew the bolts, impelled Iscariot outward, and essayed to close the door.

Mr. Fletcher clutched the handle. Mr. Marrapit pushed; hissed through the crack: "Away! Search every nook. Penetrate each fastness. Use stealth. Track, trace, follow!"

Discarding entreaty, Mr. Fletcher put hoarse protest through the slit of aperture that remained: "I should like to ast if I was engaged for this, Mr. Marrapit," he panted. "I'm a gardener, I am—"

"I recognise that. To your department. With your life forefend it."

Mr. Marrapit fetched the door against the lintel; in the brief moment he could hold it close slid the lock.



VIII.

No tremor of fear or of excitement ruffled this remarkable man. Calm in the breezes of life he was calm also in its tempests. This is a natural corollary. As a man faces the smaller matters of his life so he will face its crises. Each smallest act accomplished imprints its stamp upon the pliable mass we call character; our manner of handling each tiniest common-place of our routine helps mould its form; each fleeting thought helps shape the mould.

The process is involuntary and we are not aware of its working. Character is not made by tremendous thumps, but by the constant patterings of minutest touches. The athlete does not build his strength by enormous exertions, but by consistent and gentle training. Huge strains at spasmodic intervals, separated by periods in which he lies fallow in sloth, add nothing to his capacity for endurance; it is by the tally of each minute of his preparation that you may read how he will acquit himself against the test. Thus also with the shaping of character, and thus was Mr. Marrapit, collected in minor affairs, mighty in this crisis.



IX.

Turning from the door he marched steadily across the hall towards the stairs to arouse George.

At the lowermost step a movement on the landing above made him pause. He was to be spared the trouble. Placing the candle upon a table he looked up. He spoke. "George!"

"Wash it?" said a voice. "Wash it?"

"Wash nothing," Mr. Marrapit commanded. "Who is this?"

The answer, starting low, ascended a shrill scale: "Wash it? Wash it? Wash it?"

"Silence!" Mr. Marrapit answered. "Descend!"

He craned upwards. The curl-papered head of Mrs. Major poked at him over the banisters.

"Darling," breathed Mrs. Major. "Darling—um!"

"Mrs. Major! What is this?"

"Thash what I want to know," said Mrs. Major coquettishly. "Wash it? Wash ish it?"

"You are distraught, Mrs. Major. Have no fear. To your room."

The curl-papered head waggled. Mrs. Major beamed. "Darling. Darling— um!"

"Exercise control," Mr. Marrapit told her. "Banish apprehension. There are thieves; but we are alert."

The head withdrew. Mrs. Major gave a tiny scream: "Thieves!" She took a brisk little run down the short flight which gave from where she stood; flattened against the wall that checked her impulse; pressed carefully away from it; stood at the head of the stairs facing Mr. Marrapit.

He gazed up. "I fear you have been walking in your sleep, Mrs. Major."

Mrs. Major did not reply. She pointed a slippered toe at the stair below her; swayed on one leg; dropped to the toe; steadied; beamed at Mr. Marrapit; and in a high treble coquettishly announced, "One!"

Mr. Marrapit frowned: "Retire, Mrs. Major."

Mrs. Major plumped another step, beamed again: "Two!"

"You dream. Retire."

Mrs. Major daintily lifted her skirt; poised again. The projected slipper swayed a dangerous circle. Mrs. Major alarmingly rocked. That infamous Old Tom presented three sets of banisters for her support; she clutched at one; it failed her; "Three four five six seven eight nine ten—darling!" she cried; at breakneck speed plunged downwards, and with the "Darling!" flung her arms about Mr. Marrapit's neck.

Back before the shock, staggering beneath the weight, Mr. Marrapit went with digging heels. They could not match the pace of that swift blow upon his chest. Its backward speed outstripped them. With shattering thud he plumped heavily to his full length upon the floor; Mrs. Major pressed him to earth.

But that shock was a whack on the head for Old Tom that temporarily quieted him. "What has happened?" Mrs. Major asked, clinging tightly.

Mr. Marrapit gasped: "Release my neck. Remove your arms."

"Where are we?"

"You are upon my chest. I am prone beneath you. Release!"

"It's all dark," Mrs. Major cried; gripped firmer.

"It is not dark. I implore movement. Our juxtaposition unnaturally compromises us. It is abhorrent."

Mrs. Major opened the eyes she had tightly closed during that staggering journey and that shattering fall. She loosed her clutch; got to her knees; thence tottered to a chair. That infamous Old Tom raised his head again; tickled her brain with misty fingers.

Mr. Marrapit painfully rose. He put a sympathetic hand upon the seat of his injury; with the other took up the candle. He regarded Mrs. Major; suspiciously sniffed the air, pregnant with strange fumes; again regarded his late burden.

Upon her face that infamous Old Tom set a beaming smile,

"Follow me, Mrs. Major," Mr. Marrapit commanded; turned for the dining-room; from its interior faced about upon her.

With rare dignity the masterly woman slowly arose; martially she poised against the hat-rack; with stately mien marched steadily towards him.

Temporarily she had the grip of Old Tom—was well aware, at least, of his designs upon her purity, and superbly she combated him.

With proud and queenly air she drew on—Mr. Marrapit felt that the swift suspicion which had taken him had misjudged her.

Mrs. Major reached the mat. Old Tom gave a playful little twitch of her legs, and she jostled the doorpost.

With old-world courtesy she bowed apology to the post. "Beg pardon," she graciously murmured; stood swaying.



X.

Step by step with her as she had crossed the hall, Mr. Fletcher, recovering from the coward fear in which he shivered outside the door, had crept forward along the path around the house. As Mrs. Major stood swaying upon the threshold of the dining-room he reached the angle; peered round it; in horror sighted Bill's figure pendant from Margaret's window.

Thrice the bell-mouth of his gun described a shivering circle; tightly he squeezed his eyelids—pressed the trigger.

BANG!

Mr. Marrapit bounded six inches—hardly reached the earth again when, with a startled scream, Mrs. Major was upon him, again her arms about his neck.

And now shriek pursued shriek, tearing upwards through her throat. Old Tom had loosed the ends of all her nerves. Like bolting rabbit in young corn the tearing discharge of that gun went madly through them, and lacerated she gave tongue.

Stifled by the bony shoulder that pressed against his face, Mr. Marrapit went black. He jerked his head free, put up his face, and giving cry for cry, shrilled, "George! George! George!"

The din reached George where from his window he leaned, crying on Abiram in the man-hunt across the garden. He drew in his head, bounded down the stairs. Over Mrs. Major's back, bent inwards from the toes to the rock about which she clung, Mr. Marrapit's empurpled face stared at him.

Upon George's countenance the sight struck a great grin; his legs it struck to dead halt.

Mrs. Major's shrieks died to moans.

"Action!" Mr. Marrapit gasped. "Remove this creature!"

George put a hand upon her back. It shot a fresh shriek from her; she clung closer.

"Pantaloon!" Mr. Marrapit strained. "Crush that grin! Action! Remove this woman! She throttles me! The pressure is insupportable. I am Sinbad."

George again laid hands. Again Mrs. Major shrieked; tighter clung.

Mr. Marrapit, blacker, cried, "Zany!"

"Well, what the devil can I do?" George asked, hopping about the pair; Mrs. Major's back as responsive to his touch as the keys of a piano to idle fingers.

"You run to and fro and grin like a dog," Mr. Marrapit told him. "Each time you touch her she screams, grips me closer. I shall be throttled. Use discretion. Add to mine your assurance of her safety. She is not herself."

George chuckled. "She's not. She's tight as a drum."

"Liar!" moaned Mrs. Major.

"Intoxicated?" Mr. Marrapit asked.

"Blind."

Sharp words will move where entreaty cannot stir.

Mrs. Major relaxed her hold; spun round. "Monster" and "Perjurer" rushed headlong to her lips. "Ponsger!" she cried; tottered back against the sofa; was struck by it at the bend of her knees; collapsed upon it. Her head sunk sideways; she closed her eyes.

"You can see for yourself," George said.

Mr. Marrapit sniffed: "My nose corroborates."

"Ponsger!" the prone figure wailed.

Mr. Marrapit started: "Mrs. Major!"

She opened her eyes: "Call me Lucy. Darling-um!" She began to snore.

"Abhorrent!" Mr. Marrapit pronounced.

Whisperings without made him step to the door. White figures were upon the stairs. "To your beds!" he cried.

"Oh, whatever is it, sir?" Mrs. Armitage panted.

"Away! You outrage decency." Mr. Marrapit set a foot upon the stairs. The affrighted figures fled before him.

George, when his uncle returned, was peering through the blind. "Who the devil loosed off that gun? It is immaterial. All events are buried beneath this abhorrent incident. The roof of my peace has crashed about me." Mr. Marrapit regarded the prone figure. "Her inspirations grate upon me; her exhalations poison the air. Rouse her. Thrust her to her room."

"You'll never wake her now till she's slept it off."

"Let us then essay to carry her. She cannot remain here. My shame shall not be revealed, nor hers uncovered."

George began: "To-morrow—"

"To-morrow I speed her from my gates. My beloved cats have been in the care of this swinish form. They have been in jeopardy. I tremble at their escape. To-morrow she departs."

A sudden tremendous idea swept over George, engulfing speech.

With no word he moved to the sofa; grasped the prone figure; put it upon its weak legs. They gave beneath it. "You must take her feet," he said.

Averting his gaze, Mr. Marrapit took the legs that Old Tom had devitalised. The procession moved out; staggered up the stairs.

Heavy was the burden; bursting with vulgar laughter was George; but that huge idea that suddenly had come to him swelled his muscles, lent him strength.

He heaved the form upon the bed.

On the dressing-table a candle burned. By its light Mr. Marrapit discovered Old Tom's bottle, two fingers of the villain yet remaining.

He beat his breast. "Extinguish that light. I to my room. Seek Fletcher. He patrols the garden for malefactors. In the morning I will see you. Before this disaster my chill is sped. You are of my flesh. Cleave unto me. In our bosoms let this abhorrent sore be buried. Seek Fletcher."

The distraught man tottered to his room.



XI.

George went slowly down the stairs, bathing in the delicious thrills of unfolding the wrappings from about his great idea. He had yet had time but to feel its shape and hug it as a child will feel and hug a doll packed in paper. Now he stripped the coverings, and his pulses thumped as he saw how fine was it. Almost unconscious to his actions he unbarred the door; stepped into the thin light; was not aroused until, treading upon Mr. Fletcher's musket, his idea was suddenly jolted from him.

Here the gun that gave the echoes; where the hand that started it?

A hoarse cry came to him: "Mr. George! Mr. George!"

He looked along the sound. Above a hedge below the lawn an apple-tree raised its branches. Within them he could espy a dark mass that as he approached took form. Mr. Fletcher.

The grass hushed George's footsteps. Rounding the hedge he came upon the little drama that gave that note of dread to Mr. Fletcher's calls.

Beneath the gardener's armpits one branch of the apple-tree passed; behind his knees another. Between them hung his heavy seat. Whitely a square of it peered downwards; melancholy upon the sward lay the lid of corduroy that should have warmed the space. For ten paces outwards from the tree-trunk there stretched a pitted path. Abiram, as George came, turned at this path's extremity; set his sloe eye upon the dull white patch in Mr. Fletcher's stern; hurled forward up the track; sprang and snapped jaws an inch below the mark as Mr. Fletcher mightily heaved.

A lesser dog would have yapped bafflement, fruitlessly scratched upwards from hind legs. Abiram was perfect dog of the one breed of dog that is in all things perfect. Silently he plodded back; turned; ran; leapt again. Again Mr. Fletcher heaved, and again the fine jaws snapped an inch beneath the pallid square of flesh.

As once more uncomplaining he turned, Abiram sighted George; ruffled. George spoke his name. Abiram wagged that short tail that marked his Champion Victor Wild blood, shook the skull that spoke to the same mighty strain.

This dog expected in his human friends that same devotion to duty which is the governing trait of his breed. His shake implied, "No time for social niceties, sir. I have a job in hand."

"Call 'im off, Mr. George," Mr. Fletcher implored. "Call 'im—ur!"— he heaved upward as Abiram again sprang—"off," he concluded, sinking once more as the bull-terrier trotted up the little path.

It was a fascinating scene. "You're quite safe," George told him.

"Safe! I'm tired! I can't keep on risin' and fallin' ail night. It's 'ard—damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a—ur!" He heaved again.

George told him: "You do it awfully well, though; so neat."

"Call 'im off," Mr. Fletcher moaned. "He'll have me in a minute. He's 'ad a bit off of me calf; he's 'ad a piece out of me trousers. He'll go on. He's a methodical dog—ur!"

George took a step; caught Abiram's collar. "How on earth did you get up there?"

"Jumped."

"Jumped! You couldn't jump up there!"

Mr. Fletcher took a look to see that Abiram was securely held; then started to wriggle to a pose of greater comfort. "I'd jump a house with that 'orror after me," he said bitterly. By intricate squirmings he laid a hand upon the cold patch of flesh that gazed starkly downwards from his stern. "If I ain't got hydrophobia I've got frost- bite," he moaned. "Cruel draught I've had through this 'ole. Take 'im off, Mr. George."

George was scarcely listening. His thoughts had returned to the delicious task of fingering his great idea.

"Take 'im off, Mr. George," Mr. Fletcher implored.

George passed a handkerchief under Abiram's collar; tugged for the gate; there dispatched the dog down the road.

Abiram shook his head; trotted with dejected stern. A job had been left unfinished.



XII.

Hallooing safety to the apple-tree, too preoccupied to inquire further into the reason for the gun and the presence of Bill's dog, George turned for the house.

Awakening birds carolled his presence. They hymned the adventures of the day that Dawn, her handmaiden, came speeding, silver-footed, perfume-bearing, fresh from her dewy bath, to herald.

George put up an answering pipe. For him also the day was adventure- packed and must lustily be hymned. Entering Mr. Marrapit's study he drew the blinds; upon a telegraph form set Mary's name and her address; pondered; then to these words compressed his great idea:

"Go agency this morning. Get name on books. Meet you there. Think can get you situation here. George."

"Immediately the office opens," said George; trod up to his room.



CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Marrapit Takes A Nice Warm Bath.



I.

As Mr. Marrapit had said, the disaster of the night had sped his complaint.

He appeared at breakfast. No word was spoken. He ate nothing.

Once only gave he sign of interest. Midway through the meal muffled sounds came to the breakfast party. Scufflings in the hall struck an attentive light in Mr. Marrapit's eyes; slam of the front door jerked him in his seat; wheels, hoofs along the drive drew his gaze to the window. A cab rolled past—a melancholy horse; a stout driver, legs set over a corded box; a black figure, bolt upright, handkerchief to eyes.

The vision passed. Mr. Marrapit gazed upwards; his thin lips moved.

Vulgar curiosity shall not tempt us to pry into the demeanour with which, an hour earlier, this man had borne himself in the study with Mrs. Major. Of that unhappy woman's moans, of her explanations, of the tears that poured from her eyes—bloodshot in a head most devilishly racked by Old Tom—we shall not speak.

Margaret stretched her hand for more bread. Despite the moving scenes in which during the night she had travelled with her Bill, her appetite was nothing affected. With her meals her sentimentality was upon the friendliest terms. This girl was most gnawed by hunger when by emotion she was most torn.

She stretched for a third slice.

Mr. Marrapit cleared his throat. The sound shot her. She caught his eye and the glance pierced her. Her outstretched hand dropped upon the cloth, toyed with crumbs.

Mr. Marrapit said: "I perceive you are finished?"

Margaret murmured: "Yes." Her voice had a tremulous note. It is a bitter thing to lose a slice of bread-and-butter for which the whole system imperatively calls.

"Withdraw," Mr. Marrapit commanded.

She put a lingering glance upon the loaf; wanly glided from the room.



II.

As she closed the door George prepared for his great idea. He drank deeply of a cup of tea; drew down his cuffs; pondered them. They were covered in pencilled notes, evolved by desperate work all that morning, to aid him when the hour was at hand.

He absorbed Note I; spoke: "I am afraid last night's events very much distressed you, sir—"

"They are interred. Do not resurrect them."

George hurried to Note 2. "My sympathies with you—"

"Let the dead bury the dead. Mourn not the past."

George skipped to Note 3. "What I am concerned about is the cats."

"You are?"

"Oh, sir, indeed I am. I am not demonstrative. Perhaps you have not guessed my fondness for the cats?"

"I have not."

"Believe me, it is a deep affection. When I saw that unhappy woman tigh—under the influence of spirits, what was my first thought?"

"Supply the answer."

George took another glimpse at Note 3. "What was my first thought?" he repeated. "Was it distress at sight of a woman so forgetful of her modesty? No. Was it sympathy for the cruel deception that had been practised upon you? Forgive me, sir, it was not." (He glanced at his notes.) "What, then?"

He paused brightly.

"It is your conundrum," said Mr. Marrapit. "Solve it."

George raised an impressive hand. "What, then? It was the thought of the risks that the cats I so loved had run whilst beneath the care of this woman."

Mr. Marrapit's groan inspirited George. He was on the right track. He took Note 4. "I asked myself, Who is responsible for the jeopardy in which these creatures have been placed? Heaven knows, I said, what they may not have suffered. This woman may have neglected their food, she may have neglected their comforts. In a drunken fit she might have poisoned them, beat them, set furious dogs upon them."

Mr. Marrapit writhed in anguish.

George acted as Note 4 bade him. He dropped his voice. "Let us trust, sir," he said, "that none of these things has taken place."

"Amen," Mr. Marrapit murmured. "Amen."

George's voice took a sterner note. "But, I asked myself, Who is responsible for those horrors that might have been, that may have been?"

Mr. Marrapit dropped his head upon his hands. He murmured: "I am. Peccavi."

George rose in noble calm. He read Note 5; gave it with masterly effect: "No, sir. I am."

"You!"

"I! I have not slept since I leftyou, sir. I have paced my room and" (he read a masterly note) "remorse has paced with me, step by step, hour by hour. Did I help my uncle, I asked myself, when he was selecting this Mrs. Major? No. Was I by his right hand to counsel and advise him? No. Has not my training at hospital, my intercourse with ten thousand patients, taught me to read faces like an open book? It has. Should not I then have been by his side to help him when he selected a woman for the post of caring for our-forgive me, sir, I said 'our'—caring for our cats? I should. I asked myself how I could make amends. Only by begging my uncle's forgiveness for my indifference and by imploring him to let me help him in the choice of the next woman he selects."

A masterly pause he followed with an appeal sent forth in tones of rare beauty: "Oh, sir, I do beg your forgiveness; I do implore you let me make amends by helping you in your next choice."

Mr. Marrapit wiped moist eyes. "I had not suspected in you this profundity of feeling."

George said brokenly: "I have given you no reason."

Mr. Marrapit replied on a grim tone: "Assuredly you have not."

George glanced at Note 6; fled from the danger zone.

"Where I fear the mistake was made in Mrs. Major," he hurried, "was that she was not a perfect lady. Our—forgive me for saying 'our'—our cats are refined cats, cats of gentle birth, of inherent delicacy. Their attendant should be of like breeding. She should be refined, her birth should be gentle, her feelings delicate. She should be a lady."

"You are right," Mr. Marrapit said. "As sea calleth to sea, as like calleth to like, so would an ebb and flow of sympathy be set in motion between my cats and an attendant delicately born. Is that your meaning?"

George murmured in admiration: "In beautiful words that is my meaning." He paused. Now the bolt was to be shot, and he nerved himself against the strain. He fired: "I have a suggestion."

"Propound."

No further need for notes. George pushed back his cuffs; gulped the agitation that swelled dry and suffocating in his mouth. "This is my suggestion. Because I have had experience in the reading of faces; because I wish to make recompense for my share in the catastrophe of Mrs. Major's presence; because—"

"You are drowning beneath reasons. Cease bubbling. Strike to the surface."

George had not been drowning. He had been creeping gingerly from stepping-stone to stepping-stone. The endeavour had been to come as close as possible to the big rock upon which he intended to spring. The less the distance of the leap the more remote the chance of slipping down the rock and being whirled off in swift water. It is a method of progression by which, in the race of existence, many lives are lost. The timid will hobble from stone to stone, landing at each forward point more and yet more shaky in the knees. The torrent roars about them. Sick they grow and giddy; stepping-stones are green and slimy; the effort of balancing cannot be unduly prolonged.

Ere ever they feel themselves ready for the leap they slip, go whirling and drowning downstream past the stepping-stones that are called Infirmity of Purpose. Or they may creep close enough the rock, only to find they have delayed over their hobbling progression until the rock is already so crowded by others who have been bolder over the stones as to show no foothold remaining. They leap and fall back.

We are all gifted with strength sufficient for that spring; but disaster awaits him who scatters his energies in a hundred hesitating little scrambles.

Now George sprang; poised upon that last "because."

"And because—I wish—" He sprang—"Therefore I suggest that I should go to town to-day and search every agency until I find you a lady I think suitable."

The thud of his landing knocked the breath out of him. In terror he lay lest Mr. Marrapit's answering words should have the form of desperate fellows who would hurl him from his hold, throw him back.

"I agree," Mr. Marrapit said.

George was drawn to his feet. He could have whooped for joy.

"I agree. I have misjudged you. In this matter I lay my trust in you. Take it, tend it, nurse it; cherish it so that it may not be returned to me cold and dead. Speed forth."

"Have I a free hand?" George asked.

"Emphatically no. Every effort must be made to keep down expenses. Here are two shillings. Render account. As to salary—"

George burst out: "Oh, she'll come for anything."

Mr. Marrapit started. "She? Whom?"

George threw a blanket to hide the hideous blunder. "Told of such a home as this is," he explained, "a true lady would come for anything."

The blunder sank, covered. "I earnestly pray that may be so," Mr. Marrapit said. "I doubt. Rapacity and greed stalk the land. Mrs. Major had five-and-twenty pounds per annum. I will not go above that figure."

George told him: "Rely upon me. But, by a free hand I meant a free hand as to engaging what I may think a suitable person."

"Emphatically no. You are the lower court. Sift sheep from goats. Send sheep here to me. I am the tribunal. I will finally select."

The refusal placed a last obstacle in the path of George's scheme, but he did not demur. Primarily he dared not. To demur might raise again that blunder he had let escape when he had said, "She'll come for anything"; this time it might rage around and not be captured. All might be wrecked. Secondly he felt there to be no great need for protest. The confidence of having won thus far gave him courage against this final difficulty.

"Trust me, sir," he said.

Very soberly he paced from the room; gently closed the door; with the tread of one bearing a full heart heavily moved up the stairs.

He reached his room; ripped off sobriety. "Oh, Mary!" he exultantly cried, "if I can get you down here, old girl!"

Mr. Marrapit, meanwhile, stepped to the room where his cats lived; lovingly toyed with his pets; took the Rose of Sharon a walk in the garden. He was in pleasant mood. Great had been the distress of the night, but this man had enjoyed a luxurious warm bath—in crocodile's tears.



CHAPTER V.

Miss Porter Swallows A Particularly Large Sweet.



I.

Mary in the little Battersea lodgings was at breakfast when her George's telegram arrived. She puckered over its mystery; shaped events this way and that, but could make of them no keyhole that the message would fit and unlock.

She flew among the higher improbabilities: George, she conjectured, had misrepresented this stony-hearted uncle; last night had told all to Mr. Marrapit, and Mr. Marrapit had warmed to her and bade him fetch her to Herons' Holt. She ripped George's description of his uncle from about the old man; dressed Mr. Marrapit in snowy locks and a benign smile; pictured him coming down the steps with outstretched hand to greet her. She heard him say, "My daughter"; she saw him draw George to her, lock their hands; she heard him murmur, "Bless you, my children."

This was a romantic young woman. A poached egg was allowed to grow cold as she trembled over her delectable fancies.

But a glance at the telegram pulled her from these delicious flights; bumped her to earth. "Think can get you situation here." "Situation" drove the fatherly air from Mr. Marrapit; once more rehabilitated him as her George presented him—grim and masterly.

Further conjecture altogether drove Mr. Marrapit from the picture. What situation could be offered her in the Marrapit household? Why should "here" mean Herons' Holt? It must mean at a house in the district.

Upon the magic carpet of this new thought my Mary was whirled again in an imaged paradise. She would be near her George.

High in these clouds she ran to her bedroom for her hat; but with it there descended upon her head a new thought that again sent her toppling earthwards. Characterless, and worse than characterless, how was she to get any such delightful post? My Mary started up the street for the Agency, blinking tears.

At Battersea Bridge a new thought came sweeping. She clutched on to it; held it fast. Into her tread it put a spring; to her chin gave a brave tilt. If everything failed, if of the telegram nothing came, why, at least she had the telegram!—was making for the Agency under a direct command from her George. The thought swelled her with confidence and comfort. How warm a thing it was to feel that she did not face the world alone! Her George's arm was striking for her, her George's hand was pointing a terse command. "Go to Agency." She was obeying him; she belonged to him.



II.

Mary had intended to wait outside the Agency until her George should arrive and explain his mysterious message. But she was scarcely at the building when Miss Ram, also arriving, accosted her—took her upstairs. Miss Ram quite naturally regarded the meeting as evidence that Mary had come for help. Mary, in a flutter as to George's intentions, could but meekly follow.

In the room marked "Private," settled at her table, Miss Ram icily opened the interview. "I have heard from Mrs. Chater. I did not expect to see you again."

Mary began: "I don't know what you have heard—"

Miss Ram stretched for a letter.

"Oh, I don't wish to," Mary cried; put out a hand that stayed the action. "To hear all she says would again begin it all. It would be like her voice. It would be like being with her again. Please, please, Miss Ram, don't tell me."

"You have your own version?"

"I have the truth." Mary pointed at the letter-file. "The truth isn't there. Mrs. Chater isn't capable of the truth. She cannot even recognise the truth when she hears it."

In yet more freezing tones Miss Ram replied: "She is an old and valued client."

"You only know her in this office," Mary told her. "You don't know her in her home."

"I have suited her with other young ladies. I have heard of her from them."

"And they have spoken well of her?"

"Discounting the prejudice of a late employee, they have spoken well."

"Was her son there with them?"

"They have not told me so."

"Ah!" said Mary; sat back in her chair.

"Then your version is about the son?"

Mary nodded. Recollection put a silly lump in her throat.

Miss Ram said: "Miss Humfray, when I received that letter from Mrs. Chater, I said I would have no more to do with you. I told Miss Porter I would not see you. Why, out of all my ladies, do you come back to me characterless from your situations? I will listen to your story. Make it very brief. Don't exaggerate. I have sat in this chair for seventeen years. I can distinguish in a minute between facts and spleen. You desire to tell your version?"

"I must," Mary said. "What I'd like to do would be to get up and say, 'If you doubt me, I'll not trouble to convince you.' I'd like to walk out and leave you and face anything rather than 'explain.' Why should I 'explain' to anybody? But I'm not going to walk out. I haven't the pluck. I know what it is like to be alone out there." She gave a little choke. "I've learnt that much, anyway." She went on. "I'll just tell you, that's all. I don't want your sympathy; I only want your sense of justice."

"I like your spirit," Miss Ram said. It was a quality she rarely found in her applicants. "Go on."

Then Mary told. She phrased bluntly. Her recital was after the manner of the fireworks called "Roman candles." These, when lit, pour out fire and smoke in a rather weak-kneed dribble. They must be held tightly. When tensely enough constricted, of fire and smoke there is little, but at intervals out there pops an exceedingly luminous ball of flame.

My Mary kept the pressure of pride upon her throat. There was no dribble of emotion. Only the facts popped out—hard and dry, and to Miss Ram intensely illuminative. Mary did not mention George's name. She concluded her narrative with jerky facts relative to the scene in the Park. "Then I ran away," she said, "and a friend of mine came up. He had seen. And he thrashed him. When I got back to Mrs. Chater's her son had arrived—battered. He told his mother that he had seen me with a man and had interfered. That the man assaulted him. That's all."

"The miserable hound!" pronounced Miss Ram with extraordinary ferocity.

From a drawer in her desk she took a manuscript book, bound in limp leather, tied with blue ribbon. Herein were contained the remarkable thoughts which from time to time had come to this woman during her seventeen years' occupancy of the chair in which she sat. Upon the flyleaf was inscribed "Aphorisms: by Eugenie Ram." It was her intent to publish this darling work when beneath each letter of the alphabet twelve aphorisms were written.

"The miserable hound!" cried she, when the full tale of Mr. Bob Chater's vileness was told; drew "Aphorisms" towards her and wrote in hot blood.

Then looked at Mary. "L," she read, "L. Lust. Lust is the sound meat of natural instinct gone to carrion. Men eat meat, wolves eat carrion. Some men are wolf-men—Hand me the dictionary, Miss Humfray. Two r's in carrion. I thought so. Thank you."

She replaced "Aphorisms." "My dear, I will do what I can for you," she told Mary. "I do believe you. Go into the interview room. I hear a step."



III.

That step was George's. Abashed in this home of women he shuffled uneasily in the passage, then put a hesitating knuckle upon "Enquiries."

From within a violent movement was followed by a strange guttural sound. George entered.

With scarlet face and watery eyes, Miss Porter—the stout young woman who presided over this department, and whose habit it was to suck sweets the better to beguile the tedium of her duties—gazed at him; made guttural sounds. The start of George's knock had caused this girl to swallow a particularly large sweet, and its downward passage was inflicting upon her considerable pain.

Her face was an alarming sight. "I'm afraid—" George began.

"Pardon!" gasped Miss Porter, driving the sweet with a tremendous swallow. "Pardon!"

"Not at all," George pleasantly said. "Not at all. I called with reference to a lady-help."

The grinding sweet forbade the pleasant dalliance

Miss Porter could have wished with this handsome young man. In a brave spasm (this girl was in great suffering), "I will tell the Principal," she said; trod heavily to Miss Ram's door.

Fate is an abominable trickster; loves to tease us. With one hand it gave Miss Porter a delectable male; with the other prevented her enjoying him. Furthermore, it prematurely deprived her of a fine sweet.

Reappearing and holding the door ajar: "Miss Ram will see you," she murmured. Tears were in this girl's eyes; the bolted sweet was still paining her very much indeed.

IV.

In two clever bows Miss Ram without a word greeted George; indicated a chair.

George sat down. "I want," he began—"that is, my uncle wants, a lady-help—"

"Name, please," rapped Miss Ram, opening the ledger.

George gave it; stretched a leg to indicate a confidence he did not feel; pitched his voice to aid the presentment. "When I say lady-help—"

"Address, please," said Miss Ram with a pistol-snap.

George withdrew the signs of confidence with a jerk. He gave the information. Then waited Miss Ram to give him a lead. He had twice been shot; was in no desire again to expose his person.

Miss Ram fixed her small black eyes upon him. She said nothing. The intrusion of a young man into matters essentially domestic she strongly disapproved. Under "D" in "Aphorisms" this woman had a trenchant note touching this matter. "D. Domesticity. Domesticity," said this note, "is the offspring of all the womanly virtues. The virtues impregnate the woman, and domesticity is the resultant child. Absence of a single womanly trait aborts or debilitates the offspring. Men have nothing whatever to do with it, and nothing is more abominable than a man who meddles with domestic matters."

The rays of Miss Ram's disconcerting eye pushed George steadily backwards from the rock of such small confidence as remained to him. Assailed by the inquiring bows with which she now interrogated his further purpose, he slipped from it, plunged wildly into the sea of what he required, and for five minutes beat this way and that, hurling the splash of broken sentences at Miss Ram's unbending countenance.

Beginning a description of Mr. Marrapit's household, he floundered thence to a description of the required lady's duties; abandoning that unfinished, splashed to a description of the manner of person for whom he sought.

It was his object to paint a character and appearance as near to his Mary's as he could master; to induce Miss Ram to suggest her as likely candidate for the post. He could not introduce his Mary to his uncle unless she came under the auspices of some recognised institution.

So he floundered on.

Miss Ram did not move. His struggles grew less; he caught at haphazard words; flung them desperately; at last relapsed; sat sweating.

Miss Ram poked him with a questioning bow. He did not stir.

With a further bow she accepted his defeat; handed him a pink paper. "Now, kindly fill up this form. State precisely what you require. Write clearly, please."

George obeyed. Miss Ram studied the answers to her printed interrogations; opened her ledger. "I have several suitable ladies." She started to read a list. "Miss Minna Gregor; aged 25; daughter of the late Humphrey Gregor, stockbroker; three years' character from Mrs. Mountsaffron of Charles Street, to whom she was lady-help and from whom an excellent reference may be obtained."

"Too old," said George.

Miss Ram frowned; returned to the ledger. "Miss Ellen Hay; aged 20; daughter of Lieutenant Hay, late R.N. For two years with Mrs. Hoyle- Hoyle of Knightsbridge."

George squeaked, "Too young." He had not anticipated this ordeal.

Miss Ram read on. At the fifteenth name George was in desperate agitation. His list of objections was exhausted. Each protest had narrowed his field.

"This is the last upon my books," Miss Ram severely told him. "She fills all your requirements. None of your objections applies. You will certainly engage her."

"I feel sure I shall," George brightly said. If this was the last name it must be Mary.

"I am glad to hear that," Miss Ram announced. "You are hard to please. This is a most admirable young woman."

George leaned forward with an expectant smile. Miss Ram read: "Miss Rosa Brump—"

George's smile died. An "Eh?" was startled out of him.

"Brump," said Miss Ram testily. "Brump. B-r-u-m-p, Brump."

George said "Oh!"; ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

Miss Ram read on, emphasising the Brumps with the suggestion of a ball bouncing from rock to rock:

"Miss Rosa Brump; aged 21; daughter of the late Selwyn Agburn Brump, barrister-at-law. Companion to Miss Victoria Shuttle of Shuttle Hall, Shuttle, Lines, until that lady's death. The late Miss Shuttle dying suddenly, Miss Brump has no reference from her. What that reference would have been, however, is clearly evidenced by the fact that in her will Miss Shuttle bequeathed 'to my faithful companion Rosa Brump,' her terra-cotta bust of the late Loomis Shuttle, Esq., J.P., inventor of the Shuttle liquid manure."

Miss Ram wagged a finger at George. "That speaks for itself," she said.

George did not answer. He was in a confusion of fear. This terrible woman would force Miss Brump upon him. He was powerless in her hands. He was in chains.

"Does it not?" poked Miss Ram.

"Rather," said George. "Oh, rather."

"Very good. I congratulate your uncle upon obtaining this estimable young woman. She should call here in a few minutes. You can then make final arrangements. Meanwhile, this form—"

George hurled himself free from this hypnotic panic. Anything must be done to shake off this intolerable Brump.

"One moment," he said. "I had forgotten—"

"Well?"

"What colour is Miss Brump's hair?"

"Her what?"

"Hair. Her hair."

"How extraordinary! Brown."

George effected an admirable start. He echoed: "Brown? Oh, not brown?"

"Certainly. Brown."

George mournfully shook his head. "Oh, dear! How unfortunate! I'm afraid Miss Brump will not suit, Miss Ram. My uncle—extraordinary foible—has a violent objection to brown hair. He will not have it in the house."

"Unheard of!" Miss Ram snapped. "Unheard of!"

George rubbed together his sweating palms; blundered on. "None the less a fact," he said impressively. He dropped his voice. "It is a very sad story. He had fifteen brothers—"

"Fifteen!"

"I assure you, yes. All were black-haired except one, who was brown— the first brown-haired child in the history of the house. 'Bantam' they used to call him when they were girls and boys together— 'Bantam.'"

"Girls! You said brothers!"

"Ah, yes. Girls as well. Twelve, twelve girls."

"Twelve girls and fifteen boys!"

"I assure you, yes. A record. As I was saying, the brown-haired child, he took to drink. It is most painful. Died in a madhouse. My uncle, head of the family, reeled beneath the stigma—reeled. Vowed from that day that he would never let a brown-haired person cross his threshold."

George wiped his streaming face; sat back with a sigh. Miss Brump was buried.

Miss Ram's next words caused him to start in his seat.

"But your hair is brown."

My contemptible George, all his lies now rushing furious upon him, put his hand to his head; withdrawing it, gazed at the palm with the air of one looking for a stain.

"How about that?" rapped Miss Ram.

George gave a wan smile. "It is my misfortune," he said simply—"my little cross. We all have our burdens in this life, Miss Ram. Pardon me if I do not care to dwell upon mine."

With a bow Miss Ram indicated sympathy; decorously closed the subject.

George gave a little sigh. With a simulation of brightness he proceeded: "You are sure you have no other lady?"

"I have one," said Miss Ram. "She would not suit."

"May I be allowed to judge?"

Miss Ram turned to the ledger. "'Miss Mary Humfray.'"

George started. "It is nothing," he explained. "One of those shivers; that is all."

Miss Ram bowed. "'Miss Mary Humfray; aged 21; only child of the late Colonel Humfray, Indian Army; references from former employer not good, but with extenuating circumstances.'"

"I think she might suit," George said. "She—she—" he groped wildly —"she is the daughter of a colonel."

"So were four others."

George wiped his brow. "The—the only daughter."

"You consider that a merit?"

"My uncle would. He has curious ideas. He is himself an only child."

Miss Ram stared. George had the prescience of trouble, but could not find it. "Oh, yes," he said, "oh, yes."

"Fifteen brothers and twelve sis—"

George saw the gaping pit; sprang from it. "Has an only child," he corrected. "Has, not is."

Miss Ram glared, continued: "What of the absence of character?"

"I imagine the fact of being an only child would override that. You said there were extenuating circumstances?"

"There are. I personally would speak for the young lady."

Excitement put George upon his feet. "I thank you very much, Miss Ram. I feel that this lady will suit."

"You have asked nothing about her. With the others you were unusually particular."

"I act greatly by instinct. It is a family trait. Something seems to assure me in this case."

Miss Ram gazed searchingly at George; answered him upon an interested note. "Indeed!" she spoke. "Remarkable. Pray pardon me." She drew "Aphorisms" from its drawer; hesitated a moment; with flowing pen wrote beneath "I."

She turned towards George. "Pray pardon me," she repeated. "What you tell me of acting by instinct greatly interests me as a student of character. In this little volume here I—allow me." She emphasised with a quill-pen. "I. Instinct. Instinct is the Almighty's rudder with which He steers our frail barques upon the tempestuous sea of life at moments when otherwise we should be quite at a loss. Some of us answer quickly to this mysterious helm and for example something seems to tell them in the middle of the night that the house is on fire, and they get up and find it is. Let those who don't answer quickly beware!"

"That's awfully well put," said George. "Awfully well."

For the first time Miss Ram smiled. "You would wish to interview the young lady?" she asked. "Fortunately she is present. Kindly step to the Interview Room."

She led the way. With thundering pulses George followed. His Mary rose. Miss Ram introduced them.

George rolled his tongue in a dry mouth; passed it over dry lips. He had no words.

"Have you no questions?" Miss Ram asked severely.

For a third time since he had entered this building, panic broke damply upon George's brow. He blew his nose; in a very faint voice asked: "Your age is twenty-one?"

Upon an agitated squeak his Mary told him: "Yes."

"Ah!" In desperation he paused: caught Miss Ram's awful eye; was goaded to fresh plunge. "Ah, one-and-twenty?"

In a tiny squeak Mary replied: "Yes."

He shuffled in desperation. "When will you be twenty-two?"

"In February."

"Ah! February." This was awful. "February."

Miss Ram's eye stabbed him again.

"February. Then you must be twenty-one now?"

"Tch-tch!" sounded Miss Ram.

"Twenty-one," George stammered. "Twenty-one—"

From the other room at that moment Miss Porter called.

"I am required," said Miss Ram, "elsewhere. I will return in a moment." She passed out; closed the door.



V.

"My darling!" cried George.

"Georgie!"

They embraced.

He held her to him; kissed the soft gold hair.

On a movement in the next room his Mary wriggled free. "Tell me."

"By Gad, it's been awful! Did you hear me in that room?"

She nodded, laughing at him. He kissed the smiles.

"Oh, do be careful! Let go, George; let go. I couldn't hear what you said. But you were hours—hours."

"Years," said George. "Years. Aeons of time. I have aged considerably. I thought it would never end. It was appalling."

She clasped her pretty hands. "But tell me, George. Do tell me. I don't understand anything. What has happened?"

"Give me time," George told her. "I am not the same George. The light- hearted George of yore is dead under Miss Ram's chair. I am old and seamed with care."

"George, do, do tell me! Don't fool."

"I'm not fooling. I can't fool. You don't realise what I have been through. You have no heart. I can't fool. When I was a child I thought as a child; I did childish things. But now that I have been through Miss Ram's hands my bright boyhood is sapped. I am old and stricken in years."

"Oh, Georgie, do, do tell me!"

This ridiculous George gave a boyish laugh; clasped his Mary again; squeezed her to him till she gasped. "I've got you, Mary!" he said. He kissed the gold hair. "I've got you. I'm going to see you every day. You're coming down to live at Herons' Holt."

Then he told her.



VI.

Miss Ram returned; directed at George a bow that Was one huge note of interrogation.

"Quite satisfactory," George replied. "I am sure my uncle will agree."

"There is, of course," objected Miss Ram, "the unfortunate matter of references."

George took a frank air. "Miss Ram, I am quite willing to take your personal assurances on that matter. On behalf of my uncle I accept them."

"I will send a written statement of the matter," said Miss Ram. Her air was dogged.

"I most solemnly assure you that is unnecessary."

Miss Ram killed him with a bow. "It is my custom. I have the reputation of seventeen years to sustain."

George quailed.

"Your uncle," Miss Ram exclaimed, "will also wish to see Miss Humfray. She shall go this afternoon."

"Not this afternoon," George told her. "No. To-morrow. He could not see her to-day."

"Very well. To-morrow. To-night I will write the references to him. Kindly pay the fee to Miss Porter in the office. Good morning!"

She pushed him off with a stabbing bow. He fled.



VII.

In that delectable interview during Miss Ram's absence George had arranged with his Mary that this was a day to be celebrated. She should not proceed instantly to be weighed by Mr. Marrapit; let that ordeal be given to the morrow. This splendid day should splendidly end; tremendous gaiety should with a golden clasp fasten the golden hours of the morning. In the afternoon he had a lecture and clinical demonstrations. Like a horse he would work till half-past six. At seven he would meet his Mary in Sloane Square.

So it was. At that hour George from the top of his 'bus spied his Mary upon the little island in the Square. He sprang down and his first action was to show a fat and heavy sovereign, pregnant with delights, lying in his palm.

"Borrowed," said George. "One pound sterling. Twenty shillings net. And every penny of it is going to fly."

He called a hansom, and they smoothly rolled to Earl's Court.

When sovereigns are rare possessions, how commanding an air the feel of one imparts! Mary watched her George with pride. How masterful was he! How deferential the head waiter at the restaurant in the Exhibition became! The man was putting them off with an inner table. Her George by a look and a word had him in a minute to right-abouts, and one of the coveted tables upon the verandah was theirs. Waiters flocked about. With such an air did George command the cheapest wine upon the list that the waiter, whose lip ordinarily would have curled at such an order, hastened to its execution with dignity of task, deference of service.

They ate robustly through the menu: faltered not nor checked at a single dish. They passed remarks upon their neighbours. At intervals George would say, "Isn't this fine, Mary?"; or his Mary would say, "Oh, Georgie, isn't this splendid?" And the other would answer, "Rather!"

A meal and a conversation to make your proper lovers shudder! There was no nibbling at and toying with food; there was no drinking and feasting from the light of one another's eyes. When George felt thirsty he would put his nose in the cheap claret and keep it there till mightily refreshed; such hungry yearnings as his Mary felt she satisfied with knife and fork. These were very simple children and exceedingly healthy.

But while his Mary's tongue ached with a cold, cold ice, George was in the pangs of mental arithmetic. As the bill stood, that pregnant sovereign had given birth to all the delights of which it was capable; was shattered and utterly wrecked in child-bed.

A waiter came bustling. There was just time. George leant across. "Mary, when I ask you if you'll have coffee, say you prefer it outside—it's cheaper there."

"Coffee, sir?"

"Special coffee," George ordered nonchalantly. "Yes, two. One moment. Would you rather have your coffee outside near the band, Mary?"

His Mary was splendid. She looked around the room, she looked into the cool night—and there her eye longer lingered. "It's cooler outside," she said. "I think it would be nicer outside, if you don't mind."

"All right."

"Sure you don't mind?"

"Oh, no; no, not a bit. Bill, waiter."

The waiter bowed low over his munificent tip; dropped it into a jingling pocket. George gathered his miserable change; slid it silently to where it lay companionless; with his Mary passed into the warm night.

In the Empress Gardens they found a hidden table; here sipped coffee, and here were most dreadfully common. Mary's hand crept into her George's; they spoke little. The warm night breeze gently kissed their faces; the band stirred deepest depths; they set their eyes upon the velvety darkness that lay beyond the lights, and there pictured one another in a delectable future. Mary saw a very wonderful George; now and then glimpsed a very happy little Mary in a wonderful home. George also saw a happy little Mary in a wonderful home, but he more clearly followed a very wonderful George, magnificently accomplishing the mighty things that made the little Mary happy.

* * * * *

George kissed his Mary upon the doorstep of the Battersea lodgings; caught the last train to Paltley Hill; and as he walked home from the station the scented hedges murmured to him with his Mary's voice.



CHAPTER VI.

The Girl Comes Near The Lugger.



I.

At breakfast upon the following day George set forth the result of his labours; with urgent eloquence extolled the virtues of this Miss Humfray.

Before Mr. Marrapit's plate lay an open envelope; upon the back George could read the inscription "Norfolk Street Agency for Distressed Gentlewomen."

What had Miss Ram said of his Mary? The thought that she had written a reference which at the last moment would dash into dust this mighty scheme, was as a twisting knife in George's vitals. Every time that Mr. Marrapit stretched his hand for the letter the agitated young man upon a fresh impulse would dash into defiant eulogy of his darling; and so impetuous was the rush of his desperate words that at the beat of every new wave Mr. Marrapit would withdraw his startled hand from the letter; frown at George across the coffee-pot.

At last: "Sufficient," he announced. "Curb zeal. Mount discretion. Satisfy the demands of appetite. You have not touched food. Tasks he before you. Do not starve the brain. I am tired of your eulogies of this person. For twenty-one minutes you have been hurling advertisements at me. I am a hoarding."

The bill-sticker pushed a piece of bacon into a dry mouth; sat with goggling eyes.

The hoarding continued: "I have here this person's reference. It is good."

"Down shot the piece of bacon; convulsively bolted like Miss Porter's sweet.

"Good!" cried George.

"I said good. For faulty articulation I apologise."

"I know, I heard. I meant that I am pleased."

"Strive to express the meaning. The person arrives for inspection at mid-day. For your assistance I tender thanks. The incident is now closed. Do you labour at hospital to-day?"

George had determined to be at the fount of news. In town, uncertain, he could have applied himself to nothing. He said:

"No, here; I work here to-day."

"To your tasks," commanded Mr. Marrapit.



II.

George went to his room, but his tasks through that morning lay neglected.

Impossible to work. He was in a position at which at one time or another most of us are placed. He was upon one end of a balanced see- saw, and he was blindfolded so that it was impossible to see what might happen upon the other extremity. Suddenly he might be swung up to highest delight; suddenly he might be dashed earthwards to hit ground with a jarring thud. The one eventuality or the other was certain; but he must sit blindfold and helpless—unable to affect the balance by an ounce. Here is the position in which all of us are made cowards. Bring the soldier into action, and his blood will run hot enough to make him intoxicated and insensible to fear; hold him in reserve, and courage will begin to ooze. Give us daylight in which we may see aught that threatens us, and likely enough we shall have desperate courage sufficient to rush in and grapple; it is in the darkness that uncertainty sets teeth chattering. More prayers are said, and with more devotion, at night than in the morning. We creep and crawl and squirm to heaven when the uncertainty of the night has to be faced; but we can get along well enough, thank you, when we spring out of bed with the courage of morning.

George could not work until he knew whether he was to be swung high or thrown low. He paced his room; glimpsed his watch; tremendously smoked—and groaned aloud as, at every turn, he would receive the buffets of recollection of some important point upon which he had omitted to school his Mary.

In those desperate moments he decided finally that Margaret should not be told that Mary and he were so much more than strangers. Supposing all went well, and his Mary came to Herons' Holt, her safety and his would certainly be imperilled by giving the key of their secret to his cousin. It was a hard resolve. About the beautiful romance of the thing Margaret's nature would have crooned as a mother over her suckling. She would have mothered it, cherished it, given them a hundred opportunities of exchanging for clasps and whispers the chilly demeanour they must bear one to another. But the pleasure must be foregone. My George had the astonishing sense to know that the animal instinct in Margaret's nature would outride the romance. Twice the countless years that separate us from the gathering of our first instincts may pass, and this the strongest of them—the abhorrence of secrecy-will never be uprooted. When all life was a ferocious struggle for life, secrecy—and it would have been the secret of a store of food—was inimical to the existence of the pack: it was opposed to the first of the slowly forming laws of nature. There must be equality of opportunity that all might equally be tested. Thus it was that a secret hoard of food, when come upon, instantly was noised abroad by the discoverer, and its possessor torn to death; and thus it is to-day that a secret once beyond the persons immediately concerned is carried from mouth to mouth till the world has it, and its first possessors take the violence of discovery.

For a reason that was almost similar George negatived the impulse which bade him meet his Mary at the station, walk with her to the house, and leave her before the gates. For, supposing again that she were accepted and came to Herons' Holt, this suspicious meeting would come flying to Mr. Marrapit upon the breezes that whirl in and out of every cranny and nook in small communities. Towns are blind and deaf; villages have peeping eyes, straining ears, loose mouths, that pry and listen and whisper.

Almost upon the hour of twelve there came to the agitated young man's ears a ring that could be none other than hers.

He tip-toed to the banisters; peered below. His Mary was ushered in.

While she stood behind the maid who tapped on Mr. Marrapit's door, she glanced up. George had a glimpse of her face; waved encouragement from the stairhead.

The maid stood aside. His Mary passed in to the ogre's den.



III.

Clad in a dressing-gown, Mr. Marrapit was standing against the fireplace. My trembling Mary settled just clear of the closing door; took his gaze. He put his eye upon her face; slowly travelled it down her person; rested it upon her little shoes; again brought it up; again carried it down; this time left it at her feet.

The gaze seemed to burn her stockings. She shuffled; little squirms of fright nudged her. She glanced at her feet, fearful of some hideous hole in her shoes.

"I am—" she jerked.

Then Mr. Marrapit spoke: "I see you are. Discontinue."

The command was shot at her. Trembling against the shock she could only murmur: "Discontinue?"

"Assuredly. Discontinue. Refrain. Adjust."

"Discontinue...?" With difficulty she articulated the word, then put after it on a little squeak: "... What?"

"It," rapped Mr. Marrapit.

"I am afraid—"

"I quake in terror."

"I don't understand."

"Pah!" Mr. Marrapit exclaimed. "You said 'I am.' Were you not about to say 'I am standing on the polished boards'?"

"No."

"I believed that was in your mind. Let it now enter your mind. You are on the polished boards. You have high heels. I quake in terror lest they have left scratch or blemish. Adjust your position."

Mary stepped to the carpet. She was dumb before this man.

Mr. Marrapit bent above the polished flooring where she had stood. "There is no scratch," he announced, "neither is there any blemish." He resumed his post against the fireplace and again regarded her: "You are young."

"I am older really."

"Elucidate that."

"I mean—I am not inexperienced."

"Why say one thing and mean another? Beware the habit. It is perilous."

"Indeed it is not my habit."

"It is your recreation, then. Do not indulge it. Continue."

"I am young, but I have had experience. I think if you were to engage me I would give you satisfaction."

"Adduce grounds."

"I would try in every way to do as you required. I understand I am to look after cats."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Abandon that impression. I have not said so."

"No, I mean if you engage me."

"Again you say one thing and mean another. I am suspicious. It is a habit."

"Oh, indeed it is not."

"Then if a recreation, a recreation to which you are devoted. You romp in it. Twice within a minute you have gambolled."

My Mary blinked tears. Since rising that morning, her nerves had been upon the stretch against this interview. She had schooled herself against all possibilities so as to win into the house of her dear George, yet at every moment she seemed to fall further from success.

"You ca-catch me up so," she trembled.

Mr. Marrapit expanded upwards. "Catch you up! A horrible accusation. The table is between us."

"You mis-misunderstand me." She silenced a little sniff with a dab of her handkerchief. She looked very pretty. Mr. Marrapit placed beside her the mental image of Mrs. Major; and at every point she had the prize. He liked the soft gold hair; he liked the forlorn little face it enframed; he liked the slim little form. His cats, he suspected, would appreciate those nice little hands; he judged her to have nice firm legs against which his cats could rub. Mrs. Major's, he apprehended, would have been bony; not legs, but shanks.

Mary made another dab at her now red little nose. The silence increased her silly fright. "You mis-misunderstand me," she repeated.

With less asperity Mr. Marrapit told her: "I cannot accept the blame. You wrap your meanings. I plunge and grope after them. Eluding me, I am compelled to believe them wilfully thrown. Strive to let your yea be yea and your nay nay. With circumspection proceed."

Mary gathered her emotion with a final little sniff. "I like ca-cats."

"I implore you not to accuse me of misunderstanding you. A question is essential. You do not always pronounce 'cats' in two syllables?"

"Oh, no."

"Satisfactory. You said 'ca-cats.' Doubtless under stress of emotion. Proceed."

Mary sniffed; proceeded. "I like ca-cats—cats. If you were to engage me I am sure your cats would take to me."

"I admit the possibility. I like your appearance. I like your voice. Had you knowledge of the acute supersensitiveness of my cats you would understand that they will appreciate those points. I do not require in you veterinary knowledge; I require sympathetic traits. I do not engage you to nurse my cats—though, should mischance befall, that would come within your duties,—but to be their companion, their friend. You are a lady; themselves ancestral they will appreciate that. I understand you are an orphan; there also a bond links you with them. All cats are orphans. It is the sole unfortunate trait of their characters that they are prone to forget their offspring. In so far as it is possible to correct this failing amongst my own cats, I have done my best. Amongst them the sanctity of the marriage tie is strictly observed. The word stud is peculiarly abhorrent to me. Polygamy is odious. There is a final point. Pray seat yourself."

Mary took a chair. Mr. Marrapit, standing before her, gazed down upon her. From her left he gazed, then from her right. He returned to the fireplace.

"It is satisfactory," he said. "You have a nice lap. That is of first importance. The question of wages has been settled. Arrive to-morrow. You are engaged."



BOOK V.

Of Mr. Marrapit upon the Rack: of George in Torment.



CHAPTER I.

Prosiness Upon Events: So Uneventful That It Should Be Skipped.

If we write that Mary's first month at Herons' Holt was uneventful, we use the term as a figure of speech that must be taken in its accepted sense; not read literally. For it is impossible that life, in whatever conditions, can be eventless. The dullest life is often with events the most crowded. In dulness we are thrown back upon our inner selves, and that inner self is of a construction so sensitive that each lightest thought is an event that leaves an impression.

In action, in gaiety, in intercourse we put out an unnatural self to brunt the beat of events. We are upon our guard. There are eyes watching us, and from their gaze we by instinct fend our inner self just as by instinct we fend our nakedness.

Overmuch crowded with such events, the inner self is prone to shrivel, to fade beneath lack of nutriment; and it may happen that in time the unnatural self will take its place, will become our very self.

That is gravely to our disadvantage. Overmuch in action, the man of affairs may win the admiration of a surface-seeing world; may capture the benefits of strong purpose, of wealth, and of position. But he is in danger of utterly losing the fruits that only by the inner, the original, and true self can be garnered.

Life presents for our pursuit two sets of treasures. The one may be had by the labours of the hands; the other by exercise of the intellect—the true self. And at once this may be said: that the treasures heaped by the hands soil the hands, and the stain sinks deep. The stain enters the blood and, thence oozing, pigments every part of the being—the face, the voice, the mind, the thoughts. For we cannot labour overlong in the fields without besweating the brow; and certainly we cannot ceaselessly toil after the material treasures of life without gathering the traces of that labour upon our souls. It stains, and the stain is ugly.

Coming to treasures stored by exercise of the intellect, the true self, these also put their mark upon the possessor; but the action is different and the results are different. Here the pigment that colours the life does not come from without but distils from within. Man does not stoop to rend these treasures from the earth; he rises to them. They do not bow; they uplift. They are not wrenched in trampling struggle from the sties where men battle for the troughs; they are absorbed from the truths of life that are as breezes upon the little hills. They are in the face of Nature and in Nature's heart; they are in the written thoughts of men whose thoughts rushed upward like flames, not dropped like plummet-stones—soared after truth and struck it to our understanding, not made soundings for earthy possessions showing how these might be gained.

Yet it is not to be urged that the quest of material treasures is to be despised, or that life properly lived is life solely dreaming among truths. The writer who made the story of the Israelites sickening of manna, wrapped in legend the precept that man to live must work for life. We are not living if we are not working. We cannot have strength but we win meat to make strength.

No; my protest is against the heaping of material treasure to the neglect of treasure stored by the true self. Material treasure is not ours. We but have the enjoyment of it while we can defend it from the forces that constantly threaten it. Misfortune, sorrow, sickness— these are ever in leash against us; may at any moment be slipped. Misfortune may whirl our material treasures from us; sorrow or sickness may canker them, turn them to ashes in the mouth. They are not ours; we hold them upon sufferance. But the treasures of the intellect, the gift of being upon nodding terms with truth, these are treasures that are our impregnable own. Nothing can filch them, nothing canker them: they are our own—imperishable, inexhaustible; never wanting when called upon; balm to heal the blows of adversity, specific against all things malign. Cultivate the perception of beauty, the knowledge of truth; learn to distinguish between the realities of life and the dross of life; and you have a great shield of fortitude of which certainly man cannot rob you, and against which sickness, sorrow, or misfortune may strike tremendous blows without so much as bruising the real you.

And it is in the life that is called uneventful that there is the most opportunity for storing these treasures of the intellect. Perhaps there is also the greater necessity. In the dull round of things we are thrown in upon ourselves, and by every lightest thought and deed either are strengthening that inner self or are sapping it. Either we are reading the thoughts of men whose thoughts heap a priceless store within us, or we are reading that which—though we are unaware— vitiates and puts further and further beyond our grasp the truths of life; either we are watching our lives and schooling them to feed upon thoughts and deeds that will uplift them, or we are neglecting them, and allowing them to browse where they will upon the rank weeds of petty spites, petty jealousies, petty gossipings and petty deeds. In action we may have no time to waste over this poisonous herbage; but in dulness most certainly we do have the temptation—and as we resist or succumb so shall we conduct ourselves when the larger events of life call us into the lists.



CHAPTER II

Margaret Fishes; Mary Prays.



I.

Mary's first month at Herons' Holt was uneventful: need not be recorded. We are following the passage of the love 'twixt her and George; and within the radius of Mr. Marrapit's eye love durst not creep. She saw little of her George. They were most carefully circumspect in their attitude one to another, and conscience made their circumspection trebly stiff. There are politenesses to be observed between the inmates of a house, but my Mary and my George, in terror lest even these should be misconstrued, studiously neglected them.

The aloofness troubled Margaret. This girl wrapped her sentiment about Mary; delighting in one who, so pretty, so young, so gentle-voiced, must face life in an alien home. The girls came naturally together, and it was not long before Margaret bubbled out her vocation.

The talk was upon books. Margaret turned away her head; said in the voice of one hurrying over a commonplace: "I write, you know."

She tingled for the "Do you?" from her companion, but it did not come, and this was very disappointing.

She stole a glance at Mary, sitting with a far-away expression in her eyes (the ridiculous girl had heard an engine whistle; knew it to be the train that was taking her George to London). Margaret stole a glance at Mary; repeated louder: "I write, you know."

It fetched the delicious response. Mary started: "Do you?"

Margaret said hurriedly: "Oh, nothing worth speaking of."

Mary said: "Oh!"; gave her thoughts again to the train.

It was wretched of her. "Poems," said Margaret, and stressed the word "Poems."

Mary came flying back from the train. "Oh, how interesting that is!"

At once Margaret drew away. "Oh, it is nothing," she said, "nothing." She put her eyes upon the far clouds; breathed "Nothing" in a long sigh.

From this it was not a far step to reading, with terrible reluctance, her poems to Mary; nor from this again was it other than an obvious step to telling of Bill. Her pretty verses were so clearly written at some heart which throbbed responsive, that Mary must needs put the question. It came after a full hour's reading—the poet sitting upon her bed in a litter of manuscripts, Mary in a low chair before her.

In a tremulous voice the poet concluded the refrain of an exquisite verse:

"Beat for beat, your heart, my darling, Beats with mine. Skylarks carol, quick responsive, Love divine."

The poet gave a little gulp; laid down her paper.

Mary also gulped. From both their pretty persons emotion welled in a great flood that filled the room.

"I'm sure that is written to somebody," Mary breathed.

Margaret nodded. This girl was too ravished with the grip of the thing to be capable of words.

Mary implored: "Oh, do tell me!"

Then Margaret told the story of Bill—with intimate details and in the beautiful phrases of the poet mind she told it, and the flooding emotion piled upwards to the very roof.

Love has rightly been pictured as a naked babe. Men together will examine a baby—if they must—with a bashful diffidence that pulls down the clothes each time the infant kicks; women dote upon each inch of its chubby person. And so with love. Men will discuss their love— if they must—with the most prudish decorum; women undress it.

It becomes essential, therefore, that what Margaret said to Mary must not be discovered.

When she had ceased she put out a hand for the price of her confidence: "And have you—are you—I know practically nothing about you, Mary, dear. Do tell me, are you in love?"

Bang went the gates of Mary's emotion. Here was awful danger. She laughed. "Oh, I've no time to fall in love, have I?"

Margaret sighed her sympathy; then gazed at Mary.

Mary read the gaze aright. These were women, and they read one another by knowledge of sex. Mary knew Margaret's gaze to be that of an archer sighting at his mark, estimating the chances of a hit. She saw the arrow that was to come speeding at her breast; gathered her emotions so that she should not flinch at the wound.

Margaret twanged the bow-string. "No time to fall in love?" she murmured. She fitted the shaft; let fly. "Do you like George, dear?"

Mary stooped to her shoe-laces. Despite her preparations the arrow had pierced, and she hid her face to hide the blood.

"George?" said she, head to floor.

"Yes, George. Do you like George?"

My Mary sat up, brazen. "George? Oh, you mean your cousin? I daresay he's very nice. Practically I've never even spoken to him since I've been here."

"I know. Of course he's very busy just now. Do you think you would like him if you did know him?"

It was murderous work. Mary was beginning to quiver beneath the arrows; was in terror lest she should betray the secret. A desperate kick was necessary. She wildly searched for a foothold; found it; kicked:

"I'm sure I shouldn't like him."

The poet softly protested: "Oh why, Mary?"

"He's clean-shaven."

"And you don't like a—"

"I can't stand a—"

"But if he had a—"

"Oh, if he had a—Margaret, I hear Mr. Marrapit calling. I must fly." She fled.

Upon a sad little sigh the poet moved to her table; drew heliotrope paper towards her; wrote:

"Why are your hearts asunder, ye so fair?"

A thought came to her then, and she put her pen in her mouth; pursued the idea. That evening she walked to the gate and met George upon his return. After a few paces, "George," she asked, "do you like Mary?"

George was never taken aback. "Mary? Mary who?"

"Miss Humfray."

"Oh, is her name Mary?"

"Of course it is." Margaret slipped her arm through George's; gazed up at him. "Do you like her, George?"

"Like whom?"

"Why, Mary—Miss Humfray."

"Oh, I think she's a little better than Mrs. Major—in some ways. If that's what you mean."

Margaret sighed. Such mulish indifference was a dreadful thing to this girl. But she had set her heart on this romance.

"George, dear, I wish you would do something for me."

"Anything."

"How nice you are! Will you grow a moustache?"

She anxiously awaited the answer. George took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. He did not speak.

She asked him: "What is the matter?"

He said brokenly: "You know not what you ask. I cannot grow a moustache. It is my secret sorrow, my little cross. There is only one way. It is by pushing up the hairs from inside with the handle of a tooth-brush and tying a knot to prevent them slipping back. You have to do it every morning, and I somehow can never remember it."

Margaret slipped her arm free; without a word walked to the house.

She was hurt. This girl had the artistic temperament, and the artistic temperament feels things most dreadfully. It even feels being kept waiting for its meals.



II.

George followed the pained young woman into the house; set down in the hall the books he carried; left the house again; out through the gate, and so, whistling gaily along roads and lanes, came to the skirts of an outlying copse. By disused paths he twisted this way and that to approach, at length, a hut that once was cottage, whose dilapidated air advertised long neglect.

It was a week after Mary's arrival at Herons' Holt that, quite by chance, George had stumbled upon this hut. He had taken his books into the copse, had somehow lost his way in getting out, and through thick undergrowth had plumped suddenly upon the building. Curiosity had taken him within, shown him an outer and an inner room, and, in the second, a sight that had given him laughter; for he discovered there sundry empty bottles labelled "Old Tom," a glass, an envelope addressed to Mrs. Major. It was clear that in this deserted place— somehow chanced upon—the masterly woman had been wont, safe from disturbance, to meet the rascal who, taken to Herons' Holt on that famous night, had so villainously laid her by the heels.

Nothing more George had thought of the place until the morning of this day when, leaving for hospital, his Mary had effected a brief whispered moment to tell him that Mr. Marrapit had thought her looking pale, had told her to take a long walk that afternoon. Immediately George gave her directions for the hut; there he would meet her at five o'clock; there not the most prying eye could reach them.

Now he approached noiselessly; saw his pretty Mary, back towards him, just within the threshold of the open door. It was their first secluded meeting since she had come to Herons' Holt.

Upon tip-toe George squirmed up to her; hissed "I have thee, girl"; sprang on his terrified Mary; hugged her to him.

"The first moment together in Paltley Hill!" he cried. "The first holy kiss!"

His Mary wriggled. "George! You frightened me nearly out of my life. It's not holy. You're hurting me awfully."

"My child, it is holy. Trust in me."

"George, you are hurting."

"Scorn that. It is delicious!"

He let her from his arms; but he held her hands, and for a space, looking at one another, they did not speak. Despite he was in wild spirits, despite her roguishness, for a space they did not speak. His hands were below hers and about hers. The contact of their palms was the junction whence each literally could feel the other's spirit being received and pouring inwards. The metals were laid true, and without hitch or delay the delectable thrill came pouring; above, between their eyes, on wires invisible they signalled its safe arrival.

They broke upon a little laugh that was their utmost expression of the intoxication of this draught of love, just as a man parched with thirst will with a little sigh put down the glass that has touched him back to vigour. Dumb while they drank, their innate earthiness made them dumb before effort to express the spiritual heights to which they had been whirled. In that moment when, spirit mingling with spirit through the medium of what we call love, all our baseness is driven out of us, we are nearest heaven. But our vocabulary being only fitted for the needs about us, we have no words to express the elevation. Debase love and we can speak of it; let it rush upwards to its apotheosis and we must be dumb.

With a little laugh they broke.

"Going on all right, old girl?" George asked.

"Splendidly."

"Happy?"

She laughed and said: "I will give the proper answer to that. How can I be other than happy, oh, my love, when daily I see your angel form?"

"I forgot that. Yes, you're a lucky girl in that way—very, very lucky. Beware lest you do not sufficiently prize your treasure. Cherish it, tend it, love it."

"Oh, don't fool, George. Whenever we have two minutes together you waste them in playing the goat. Georgie, tell me—about your exam."

"To-morrow."

She was at once serious. "To-morrow?"

"To-morrow I thrust my angel form into the examination room. To-morrow my angel voice trills in the examiners' ears."

"I thought you had a paper first, before the viva?"

"Do not snap me up, girl. I speak in metaphors. To-morrow my angel hand glides my pen over the paper. On Thursday my angel tongue gives forth my wisdom with the sound of a tinkling cymbal."

"The paper to-morrow, the viva on Thursday?"

He bowed his angel head.

"George, don't, don't fool. Are you nervous? Will you pass?"

"I shall rush, I shall bound. I shall hurtle through like a great boulder."

"Georgie! Will you?"

He dropped his banter. "I believe I shall, old girl. I really think I shall. I've simply sweated my life out these weeks—all for you."

She patted his hand. "Dear old George! How I shall think of you! And then?"

"Then—why, then, we'll marry! Mary, I shall hear the result immediately after the viva. Then I shall rush back here and tackle old Marrapit at once. If he won't give me the money I think perhaps he'll lend it, and then we'll shoot off to Runnygate and take up that practice and live happily ever after."

With the brave ardour of youth they discussed the delectable picture; arranged the rooms they had never seen; planned the daily life of which they had not the smallest experience.

Twice in our lives we can play at Make-Believe—once when we are children, once when we are lovers. And these are the happiest times of our lives. We are not commoners then; we are emperors. We touch the sceptre and it is a magic wand. We rule the world, shaping it as we will, dropping from between our fingers all the stony obstacles that would interfere with its plasticity. Between childhood and love, and between love and death, the world rules us and bruises us. But in childhood, and again in love, we rule the world.

So they ruled their world.



III.

That night Mary prayed her George might pass his examination—a prayer to make us wise folk laugh. The idea of our conception of the Divinity deliberately thrusting into George's mind knowledge that he otherwise had not, the idea of the Divinity deliberately prompting the examiners to questions that George could answer—these are ludicrous to us in our wisdom. We have the superiority of my simple Mary in point of intelligence; well, let us hug that treasure and make the most of it. Because we miss the sense of confidence with which Mary got from her knees; passed into her dreams. With our fine intellects we should lie awake fretting such troubles. These simple, stupid Marys just hand the tangle on and sleep comforted. They call it Faith.

Yes, but isn't it grand to be of that fine, brave, intellectual, hard- headed, business-like stamp that trusts nothing it cannot see and prove? Rather!



CHAPTER III.

Barley Water For Mr. Marrapit.



I.

Up the drive George came bounding with huge strides. The fires of tremendous joy that roared within him impelled him to enormous energy.

Upon the journey from Waterloo to Paltley Hill he could with difficulty restrain himself from leaping upon the seat; bawling "I've passed! I've passed! I'm qualified!" He could not sit still. He fidgeted, wriggled; thrust his head first from one window, then from the other. Every foot of the line was well known to him. To each familiar landmark his spirit bellowed: "Greeting! When last you saw me I was coming up in a blue funk. Now! Oh, good God, now—" and he would draw in, stride the carriage, and thrust his head from the other window.

His four fellow-passengers regarded him with some apprehension. They detected signs of lunacy in the young man; kept a nervous eye cocked upon the alarm cord; at the first stopping place with one accord arose and fled. One, signing herself "Lady Shareholder," had her alarming experience in her daily-paper upon the following morning.

At his station George leapt for the platform a full minute before the train had stopped. Up the lanes he sent his bursting spirits flying in shrill whistlings and gay hummings; slashed stones with his stick; struck across the fields and took gates and stiles in great spread- eagled vaults.

So up the drive, stones still flying, whistlings still piping.



II.

Upon the lawn he espied Mr. Marrapit and his Mary. She, on a garden seat, was reading aloud from the Times; Mr. Marrapit, on a deep chair stretched to make lap for the Rose of Sharon, sat a little in advance of her.

George approached from Mr. Marrapit's flank; soft turf muffled his strides. The warm glow of kindliness towards all the world, which his success had stoked burning within him, put a foreign word upon his tongue. He sped it on a boisterous note:

"Uncle!" he cried. "Uncle, I've passed!"

Mary crushed the Times between her hands; bounded to her feet. "Oh!" she cried. "Hip! hur—!"

She bit the final exclamation; dropped to her seat. Mr. Marrapit had twisted his eye upon her.

"You are in pain?" he asked.

"No—oh, no."

"You have a pang in the hip?"

"Oh no—no."

"But you bounded. You cried 'hip'! Whose hip?"

"I was startled."

"Unsatisfactory. The brain, not the hip, is the seat of the emotion. Elucidate."

"I don't know why I said 'hip.' I was startled. Mr. George startled me."

"Me also he startled. I did not shout hip, thigh, leg nor knee. Control the tongue."

He turned to George. "Miss Humfray's extraordinary remark has projected this dilatory reception of your news. I beg you repeat it."

Sprayed upon between mortification and laughter at the manner of his greeting, George's enthusiasm was a little damped. But its flame was too fierce to be hurt by a shower. Now it roared again. "I've passed!" he cried. "I'm qualified!"

"I tender my felicitations. Accept them. Leave us, Miss Humfray. This is a mighty hour. Take the Rose. Give her cream. Let her with us rejoice."

Mary raised the cat. She faced about so that she directly shut Mr. Marrapit from his nephew; with her dancing eyes spoke her happiness to her George; passed down the lawn.