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diff --git a/old/62758-8.txt b/old/62758-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 434fc34..0000000 --- a/old/62758-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12480 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Clean Heart, by A. S. M. Hutchinson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Clean Heart - -Author: A. S. M. Hutchinson - -Illustrator: R. M. Crosby - -Release Date: July 25, 2020 [EBook #62758] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLEAN HEART *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines - - - - - - - - - -[Frontispiece: There was about this unusual gentleman that which -doubly attracted Mr. Wriford. FRONTISPIECE. _See page 59._] - - - - - THE CLEAN - HEART - - - BY - - A. S. M. HUTCHINSON - - AUTHOR OF "THE HAPPY WARRIOR," ETC. - - - - WITH FRONTISPIECE BY - R. M. CROSBY - - - - BOSTON - LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY - 1914 - - - - - - _Copyright, 1914,_ - By A. S. M. HUTCHINSON. - - _All rights reserved_ - - - Published, September, 1914 - - - THE COLONIAL PRESS - C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A. - - - - - - Create in me a clean heart, O God: and renew a right - spirit within me. - The sacrifice of God is a broken spirit: a broken and - a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise. - PSALM LI. - - - - - -CONTENTS - - -BOOK ONE - -_ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES_ - -CHAPTER - - I. Mr. Wriford - II. Young Wriford - III. Figure of Wriford - IV. One Runs: One Follows - V. One is Met - VI. Fighting It: Telling It - VII. Hearing It - - -BOOK TWO - -_ONE OF THE JOLLY ONES_ - - I. Intentions, Before having his hair cut, of a Wagoner - II. Passionate Attachment to Liver of a Wagoner - III. Disturbed Equipoise of a Counterbalancing Machine - IV. First Person Singular - V. Intentions, in his Nightshirt, of a Farmer - VI. Rise and Fall of Interest in a Farmer - VII. Profound Attachment to his Farm of a Farmer - VIII. First Person Extraordinary - - -BOOK THREE - -_ONE OF THE FRIGHTENED ONES_ - - I. Body Work - II. Cross Work - III. Water that Takes your Breath - IV. Water that Swells and Sucks - V. Water that Breaks and Roars - - -BOOK FOUR - -_ONE OF THE OLDEST ONES_ - - I. Kindness without Gratitude - II. Questions without Answers - III. Crackjaw Name for Mr. Wriford - IV. Clurk for Mr. Master - V. Maintop Hail for the Captain - - -BOOK FIVE - -_ONE OF THE BRIGHT ONES_ - - I. In a Field - II. In a Parlour - III. Trial of Mr. Wriford - IV. Martyrdom of Master Cupper - V. Essie's Idea of It - VI. The Vacant Corner - VII. Essie - VIII. Our Essie - IX. Not to Deceive Her - X. The Dream - XI. The Business - XII. The Seeing - XIII. Prayer of Mr. Wriford - XIV. Pilgrimage - - - - - -THE CLEAN HEART - - - -BOOK ONE - -ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES - - - -CHAPTER I - -MR. WRIFORD - -I - -Her hands were firm and cool, and his were trembling, trembling; but -her eyes were laughing, laughing, and his own eyes burned. - -Mr. Wriford had caught at her hands. For a brief moment, as one in -great agony almost swoons in ecstasy of relief at sudden cessation of -the pain, he had felt his brain swing, then float, in most exquisite -calm at the peace, at the strength their firm, cool touch -communicated to him. Then Mr. Wriford saw the laughing lightness in -her eyes, and felt his own--whose dull, aching burn had for that -instant been slaked--burn, burn anew; and felt beat up his brain that -dreadful rush of blood that often in these days terrified him; and -felt that lift and surge through all his pulses that sometimes reeled -him on his feet; and knew that baffling lapse of thought which always -followed, as though the surge were in fact a tide of affairs that -flung him high and dry and left him out of action to pick his way -back--to grope back to the thread of purpose, to the train of -thought, that had been snapped--if he could! - -Mr. Wriford knew that the day was coming when he could not. Every -time when, in the midst of ideas, of speech, of action, the surge -swept him adrift and stranded him vacant and bewildered, the effort -to get back was appreciably harder--the interval appreciably of -greater length. The thing to do was to hang on--hang on like death -while the tide surged up your brain. That sometimes left you with a -recollection--a clue--that helped you back more quickly. - -Mr. Wriford hung on. - -The surge took him, swept him, left him. He was with Brida in -Brida's jolly little flat in Knightsbridge, holding her hands. It -was a longish time since he had been to see her. She had come into -the room gay as ever-- - -Mr. Wriford got suddenly back to the point whence he had been -suddenly cut adrift; remembered the surge, realised the lapse, -recalled how he had caught at her hands, how they had soothed him, -how, like a mock, he had seen the laughter in her eyes. Mr. Wriford -threw back her hands at her with a violent motion, and went back a -step, not meaning to, and knew again the frequent desire in moments -of stress such as had just passed, and in moments of recovery such as -he now was in, to shout out very loudly a jumble of cries of despair, -as often he cried them at night, or inwardly when not alone. "O God! -Oh, I say! I say! I say! Oh, this can't go on! Oh, this must -end--this must end! Oh, I say! I say!" but mastered the desire and -effected instead a confusion of sentences ending with "then." - -A very great effort was required. Mastery of such impulses had been -undermined these ten years, slipping from him these five, altogether -leaving him in recent months. To give way, and to release in -clamorous cries the tumult that consumed him, would ease him, he felt -sure; but it would create a scene and have him stared at and laughed -at, he knew. That stopped him. Fear of the betrayal of his state, -that day and night he dreaded, once again saved him; and therefore in -place of the loud cries, Mr. Wriford--thirty, not bad-looking, -clever, successful, held to be "one of the lucky ones"--substituted -heavily: "Well then! All right then! It's no good then! Very well -then!" - -She was a trifle surprised by the violent action with which he -released her hands. But she knew his moods (not their depth) and had -no comment to make on his roughness. "Oh, Phil," she cried, and her -tone matched her face in its mingling of gay banter and of -tenderness, "Oh, Phil, don't twist up your forehead so--frowning like -that. Phil, don't!" And when he made no answer but with working -face just stood there before her, she went on: "You know that I hate -to see you frowning so horribly. And I don't see why you should come -and do it in my flat; I'm blessed if I do!" - -He did not respond to the gay little laugh with which she poked her -words at him. He had come to her for the rest, for the comfort, he -had felt in that brief moment when he first caught at her hands. -Instead, the laughter in her eyes informed him that here, here also, -was not to be found what day and night he sought. The interview must -be ended, and he must get away. He was in these days always -fidgeting to end a conversation, however eagerly he had begun it. - -It must be ended--conventionally. - -"Well, I'm busy," he said. "I must be going." - -"Now, Phil!" she exclaimed, and there was in her voice just a trace -of pleading. "Now, Phil, don't be in one of your moods! It's not -kind after all the ages I've never seen you." A settee was near her, -and she sat down and indicated the place beside her. "Going! Why, -you've scarcely come! Tell me what you've been doing. Months since -you've been near me! Of course, I've heard about you. I'm always -hearing your name or seeing it in the papers. Clever little beast, -Phil! I hear people talking about _The Week Reviewed_, or about your -books; and I say: 'Oh, I know the editor well'; or 'He's a friend of -mine--Philip Wriford,' and I feel rather bucked when they exclaim and -want to know what you're like. You must be making pots of money, -Phil, old boy." - -He remained standing, making no motion to accept the place beside -her. "I'm making what I should have thought would be a good lot -once," he said; and he added: "You ought to have married me, -Brida--when you had the chance." - -Just the faintest shadow flickered across her face. But she replied -with a little wriggle and a little laugh indicative of a shuddering -at her escape. "It would have been too awful," she said. "You, with -your moods! You're getting worse, Phil, you are really!" - -He had seen the shadow. Had it stayed, he had crossed to her, caught -her hands again, cried: "O Brida, Brida!" and in that shadow's -tenderness have found the balm which in these days he craved for, -craved for, craved for. He saw it pass and took instead the mock of -her light tone and words. "Worse--yes, I know I'm worse," he said -violently. "You don't know how bad--nor any one." - -"Tell me, old boy." - -"There's nothing to tell." - -"You're working too hard, Phil." - -"I'm sick of hearing that. That's all rubbish." - -"Poor old boy!" - -She saw his face work again; but "It's our press night," was all he -said. "We go to press to-night. I've the House of Commons' debate -to read and an article to write--two articles. I must go, Brida." - -She told him: "Well, you won't get the debate yet. It's much too -early. Do sit down, Phil. Here, by my side, and talk, Phil, do!" - -He shook his head and took up his hat; and she could see how his hand -that held it trembled. He was at the door with no more than -"Good-bye" when she sprang to her feet and called him back: "At least -shake hands, rude beast!" and when he gave his hand, she held it. -"What's up, old boy?" - -He drew his hand away. "Nothing, Brida." - -"Just now--when you first came--what did you mean by saying: 'All -right then--it's no good then.' What did you mean by that, Phil?" - -His face, while she waited his reply, was working as though it -mirrored clumsy working of his brain. His words, when he found -speech, were blurred and spasmodic, as though his brain that threw -them up were a machine gone askew and leaking under intense internal -stress, where it should have delivered in an amiable flow. "Why, I -meant that it's no good," he said, "no good looking for what I can't -find. I don't know what it is, even. Brida, I don't even know what -it is that I want. Peace--rest--happiness--getting back to what I -used to be. I don't know. I can't explain. I can't even explain to -myself--" - -"Why, old boy?" - -"I can do it at night. Sometimes I can get near it at night. -Sometimes I lie awake at night and call myself all the vile, vile -names I can think of. Go through the alphabet and find a name for -what I am with every letter. But at the back of it--at the back of -it there's still--still a reservation, still an excuse for myself. I -want to tell some one. I want to find some one to tell it all to--to -say 'I'm This and That and This and That, and Oh! for God Almighty's -sake help me--help me--'" - -She knew his moods, and of their depth more at this interview than -ever before, and yet still in no wise fathomed them. He stopped, -twisted in mind and in face with his efforts, and she (his moods -unplumbed) laughed, thinking to rally him, and said: "Why, no, it's -no good calling yourself names to me, Phil." - -He broke out more savagely than he had yet spoken, and he had been -violent enough: - -"That's what I'm telling you. No good--no good! You'd laugh. -You're laughing now. Everybody laughs. I'm lucky!--so -successful!--so happy!--no cares!--no ties!--no troubles! Other -people have bad times!--others are ill!--breakdowns and God knows -what, and responsibilities, and burdens, and misfortunes! but -me!--I've all the luck--I've everything!--" - -When she could stop him, she said: "I don't laugh at you, Phil. -That's not fair." - -"You always do. I thought I'd come to you to-day to see. I always -come to you hoping. But I always go away knowing I'm a fool to have -troubled. Well, I won't come again. I always say that to myself. -Now I've said it to you. Now it's fixed. I won't come back again. -It's done--it's over!" - -She put out her hand and touched his. "Now, Phil!" - -But he shook off her touch. "You don't understand me. That's what -it comes to." - -"Phil!" - -"No one does. You least of all." - -"Phil, you're ill, old boy." - -"Well, laugh over that!" cried Mr. Wriford and turned with a -shuffling movement of his feet; and she saw him blunder against the -door-post as though he had not noticed it; and stood listening white -he went heavily down the stairs; and heard him fumble with the latch -below and slam the outer door behind him. - - - -II - -Now you shall picture this Mr. Wriford--thirty, youthful of face, not -bad-looking, clever, successful, one of the lucky ones--walking back -from Brida's little flat in Knightsbridge to the office of _The Week -Reviewed_ off Fleet Street, and as he walked, rehearsing every -passage of his own contribution to the interview that had just -passed, and as he rehearsed them, abusing himself in every line of -it. It was not where he had been rude or unkind to Brida that gave -him distress. There, on the contrary, he found brief gleams of -satisfaction. There he had held his own. It was where he had made a -fool of himself and exposed himself that gnawed him. It was where -she had laughed at him that he was stung. He made an effort to -distract his thoughts, to fix them on the work to which he was -proceeding, to attach them anywhere ("Anywhere, anywhere, any -infernal where!" cried Mr. Wriford to himself). Useless. They -rushed back. "From here to that pillar-box," cried Mr. Wriford -inwardly, "I'll fix on what I'm going to write in my first leader." -He was not ten steps in the direction when he was writhing again at -having made a fool of himself with Brida. It was always so in these -days. "I never exchange words with a soul," cried Mr. Wriford, "not -even with a cab-driver--" He was switched off on the word to -recollection of a fare-dispute with a cab-driver on the previous day. -He was plunged back into the humiliation he had suffered himself to -endure by not taking a strong line with the man. It had occupied -him, gnawing, gnawing at him right up to this afternoon with Brida, -when new mortification, new example of having been a weak fool, of -having been worsted in an encounter, had come to take its place. - -So there was Mr. Wriford--one of the lucky ones--back with this old -gnawing again; and, realising the swift transition from one to the -other, able to complete his broken sentence with a bitter laugh at -himself for the instance that had come to illustrate it. - -"I never exchange a word with a soul, not even with a cab-driver," -cried Mr. Wriford, "but I show what a weak fool I am, and then brood -over it, brood over it, until the next thing comes along to take its -place!" Whereupon, and with which, another next thing came -immediately in further proof and in further assault upon the thin -film of Mr. Wriford's self-possession that was in these days left to -him. In form, this came, of a cyclist carrying a bundle of -newspapers upon his back and travelling at the hazard and speed and -with the dexterity that belong to his calling. Mr. Wriford stepped -off the pavement to cross the road, stepped in front of this -gentleman, caused him to execute a prodigious swerve to avoid -collision, ejaculated very genuinely a "Sorry--I'm awfully sorry," -and was addressed in raucous bawl of obscene abuse that added new -terms to the names which, as he had told Brida, he often lay awake at -night and called himself. - -Mr. Wriford gained the other side of the road badly jarred as to his -nerves but conscious only of this fresh outrage to his sensibilities. -Was it that he looked a fool that he was treated with such contempt? -Yes, that was it! Would that coarse brute have dared abuse in that -way a man who looked as if he could hold his own? No, not he! Would -a man who was a man and not a soft, contemptible beast have cried -"Sorry. I'm awfully sorry"? No, no! A man who was a man had damned -the fellow's eyes, shouted him down, threatened him for his -blundering carelessness. He was hateful. He was vile. Now -this--now this indignity, this new exhibition of his weakness, was -going to rankle, gnaw him, gnaw him. There surged over Mr. Wriford -again, standing on the kerb, the desire to wave his arms and cry -aloud, as he had desired to wave and cry with Brida a few minutes -before: "Oh! I say! I say! I say! This can't go on! This can't -go on! This has got to stop! This has got to stop!" Habit checked -the impulse. People were passing. People were staring at him. They -had seen the incident, perhaps. They had witnessed his humiliation -and were laughing at him. There was wrung out of Mr. Wriford's lips -a bitter cry, a groan, that was articulate sound of his inward agony -at himself. He turned in his own direction and began a swift walk -that was the slowest pace to which habit could control the desire -that consumed him to run, to run--by running to escape his thoughts, -by running to shake off the inward mocking that mocked him as though -with mocking all the street resounded. It appeared indeed to Mr. -Wriford, as often in these days it appeared, that passers-by looked -at him longer than commonly one meets a casual glance, and had in -their eyes a grin as though they knew him for what he was and needs -must grin at the sight of it. Mr. Wriford often turned to look after -such folk to see if they were turned to laugh at him. He had not now -gone a dozen furious paces, yet twice had wavered beneath glances -directed at him, when there greeted him cheerily with "Hullo, -Wriford! How goes it?" a healthy-looking gentleman who stopped -before him and caused him to halt. - - - -III - -Mr. Wriford, desperate to be alone and to run, to run, said: "Hullo, -I'm late getting to the office. I'm in a tearing hurry," and stared -at the man, aware of another frequent symptom of these days: he could -not recollect his name! He knew the man well. Scarcely a day passed -but Mr. Wriford saw him. This was the literary editor of _The -Intelligence_, the great daily newspaper with which _The Week -Reviewed_ was connected and in whose office it was housed. A nice -man, and of congenial tastes; but a man whom at that moment Mr. -Wriford felt himself hating venomously, and while he struggled, -struggled for his name, experienced the conscious wish that the man -might fall down dead and so let him be free, and so close those eyes -of his that seemed to Mr. Wriford to be looking right inside him and -to be grinning at what they saw. And Mr. Wriford found himself gone -miles adrift among pictures of the scenes that would occur if the man -did suddenly drop dead; found himself shaping the sentences that he -would speak to the policeman who would come up, shaping the words -with which, as he supposed would be his duty, he would go and break -the news to the man's wife, whom he knew well, and whose shocked -grief he found himself picturing--but whose name! Mr. Wriford came -back to the original horror, to the fact of standing before this -familiar--daily familiar--friend and having not the remotest -glimmering of what his name might be.... - -"I'm off to-morrow for a month's holiday," the man was saying. "A -rest cure. I've been needing it, my doctor says. You're looking -fit, Wriford." - -Habit helped Mr. Wriford to work up a smile. Just what he had been -saying to Brida: "I'm so lucky! Other people have bad times!--others -are ill!--breakdowns and God knows what!--but me!--I've all the -luck!" Mr. Wriford worked up a smile. "Oh, good Lord, yes. I'm -always fit. Sorry you're bad." What was his name?--his name! his -name! - -And the man went on: "You are so!--lucky beggar! When's your new -book coming out? What, must you cut? Well, I'll see you again -before I go. I'm looking in at the office to-night. I've left you a -revised proof of that article of mine. That was a good suggestion of -yours. One of the bright ones, you! So long!" - -Mr. Wriford--one of the bright ones--shook hands with him; and knew -as he did so, and from the man's slight surprise, that it was a -stupid thing to do with a man he met every day of his life; and -leaving him, became for some moments occupied with this new example -of his stupidity; and then back to the distress that he could not, -could not recollect his name; and furiously, then, to the agony of -the cyclist humiliation; and in all the chaos of it got to a quiet -street, and, hurrying at frantic pace, frantically at last did cry -aloud: "Oh, I say! I say! I say! I say! This can't go on. This -has got to stop! This has got to stop!" and found himself somehow -arrived at the vast building of _The Intelligence_, and at the sight -by habit called upon himself and steadied himself to enter. - - - -IV - -Called upon himself.... Steadied himself.... He would encounter -here men whom he knew.... He must not let them see.... Called upon -himself and passed up the stairs towards the landing that held the -offices of his paper. There was a lift, but he did not use it. It -would have entailed exchange of greeting with the lift-boy, and in -these days Mr. Wriford had come to the pitch of shrinking from even -the amount of conversation which that would have entailed. For the -same reason he paused a full three minutes on his landing before -turning along the corridor that approached his office. There were -bantering voices which he recognised for those of friends, and he -waited till the group dispersed and doors slammed. He hated meeting -people, shrank from eyes that looked, not at him, but, as he felt, -into him, and, as he believed, had a grin in the tail of them. - -Doors slammed. Silence in the corridor. Mr. Wriford went swiftly to -his room. The table was littered with proofs and letters. Mr. -Wriford sat down heavily in his chair and took up the office -telephone. There was one thing to straighten up before he got to -work, and he spoke to the voice that answered him: "Do you know if -the literary editor is in his room? The literary editor--Mr.--Mr.--?" - -"Mr. Haig, sir," said the voice. "No, sir, Mr. Haig won't be back -till late. He left word that he'd put his proof on your table, sir." - -"Thanks," said Mr. Wriford. "Get through to the sub-editors' room -and ask Mr. Hatchard if I may have the Commons' debate report." - -Then Mr. Wriford put down the telephone and leaned his head on his -hands. "Haig! Of course that was his name! Oh, I say! I say! I -say!" - - - - -CHAPTER II - -YOUNG WRIFORD - -I - -Come back with Mr. Wriford a little. Come back with him a little to -scenes where often his mind, not wanders, but hunts--hunts -desperately, as hunts for safety, running in panic to and fro, one -trapped by the sea on whom the tide advances. There are nights--not -occasional nights, but night after night, night after night--when Mr. -Wriford cannot sleep and when, in madness against the sleep that will -not come, he visions sleep as some actual presence that is in his -room mocking him, and springs from his bed to grapple it and seize it -and drag it to his pillow. There is a moment then--or longer, he -does not know how long--of dreadful loss of identity, in which in the -darkness Mr. Wriford flounders and smashes about his room, thinking -he wrestles with sleep: and then he realises, and trembling gets back -to bed, and cries aloud to know how in God's name to get out of this -pass to which he has come, and how in pity's name he has come to it. - -Come back with him a little. Look how his life as he hunts through -it falls into periods. Look how these bring him from Young Wriford -that he was--Young Wriford fresh, ardent, keen, happy, to whom across -the years he stretches trembling hands--to this Mr. Wriford, one of -the lucky ones, that he has become. - - - -II - -Here is Young Wriford of ten years before who has just taken the -tremendous plunge into what he calls literature. Here he is, just -battling ardently with its fearful hopes and hazards when there comes -to him news of Bill and Freda, his brother and sister-in-law, killed -by sudden accident in Canada where with their children and Alice, -Freda's elder sister, they had made their home. Here he is at the -Liverpool docks, meeting Alice and the three little boys to take them -to her mother's house in Surbiton. He is the only surviving near -relative of Bill's family, and here he is, for old Bill's sake, with -every impulse concentrated on playing the game by old Bill's poor -little kids and by Alice who, unhappy at home, has always lived with -them and been their "deputy-mother," and is now, as she says, their -own mother: here is Alice, with Harold aged nine, Dicky aged eight, -and Freddie aged seven; Alice, who dreads coming to her home, who -tells Young Wriford in the train: - -"I'm not crying for Freda and Bill. I can't--I simply can't realise -that even yet. It's not them, Philip. It's the future I'm thinking -of. Phil, what's going to happen to my darlings? They've got -nothing--nothing. Father's got four hundred a year--less; and I -dread that. I tell you I dread meeting mother and father more than -anything. Mother means to be kind--it's kind of her to take the -children for Freda's sake; but you know what she is and what father -is. And I've nothing--nothing!" - -Young Wriford knows well enough what Mrs. Filmer is. Dragon Mrs. -Filmer he has privately called her to old Bill when writing of duty -calls paid to the stuffy little house at Surbiton, where the Dragon -dragons it over her establishment and over Mr. Filmer, who has -"retired" from business and who calls himself an "inventor." Young -Wriford knows, and he has thought it all out, and he has had an -amazing piece of success only a fortnight before, and he answers -Alice bravely: "Look here, old girl, I've simply colossal news for -you. You've not got to worry about all that a damn--sorry, Alice, -but not a damn, really. You know I've chucked the office and gone in -for literature? Well, what do you think? Whatever do you think? -I'm dashed if I haven't got a place on the staff of Gamber's! -Gamber's, mind you! You know--_Gamber's Magazine_ and _Gamber's -Weekly_ and slats of other papers. They'd been accepting stuff of -mine, and they wrote and asked me to call, and--well, I'm on the -staff! I've got a roll-top desk of my own and no end of an important -position and--what do you think?--three guineas a week! Well, this -is how it stands; I've figured it all out. I can live like a prince -on twenty-five bob a week, and you're going to have the other one -pound eighteen. No, it's no good saying you won't. You've got to. -Good Lord, it's for old Bill I'm doing it. Well, look at that now! -Nothing! Why, you can tell Mrs. Filmer you've got practically a -hundred a year! Ninety-eight pounds sixteen. That's not bad, is it? -and twice as much before long. I tell you I'm going to make a -fortune at this. I simply love the work, you know. No, don't call -it generous, old girl, or any rot like that. It's not generous. I -don't want the money. I mean, I don't care for anything except the -work. There, now you feel better, don't you? It's fixed. I tell -you it's fixed." - - - -III - -Here is Young Wriford with this fixed, and with it working, as he -believes, splendidly. Here he is living in a bed-sitting-room at -Battersea, and revelling day and night and always in the thrill of -being what he calls a literary man, and in the pride and glory of -being on the staff at Gamber's. He loves the work. He cares for -nothing else but the work. That is why the shrewd men at Gamber's -spotted him and brought him in and shoved him into Gamber's machine; -and that is why he never breaks or crumples but springs and comes -again when the hammers, the furnaces, and the grindstones of Gamber's -machine work him and rattle him and mould him. - -A Mr. Occshott controls Gamber's machine. Mr. Occshott in appearance -and in tastes is much more like a cricket professional than Young -Wriford's early ideas of an editor. Literary young men on Gamber's -staff call Mr. Occshott a soulless ox and rave aloud against him, and -being found worthless by him, are flung raving out of Gamber's -machine, which he relentlessly drives. In Young Wriford, Mr. -Occshott tells himself that he has found a real red-hot 'un, and for -the ultimate benefit of Gamber's he puts the red-hot 'un through the -machine at all its fiercest; sighs and groans at Young Wriford, and -checks him here and checks him there, and badgers him and drives him -all the time--slashes his manuscripts to pieces; comes down with -contemptuous blue pencil and a cutting sneer whenever in them Young -Wriford gets away from facts and tries a flight of fancy; hunts for -missed errors through proofs that Young Wriford has read, and finds -them and sends for Young Wriford, and asks if it is his eyesight or -his education that is at fault, and if it is of the faintest use to -hope that he can ever be trusted to pass a proof for himself; puts -Young Wriford on to "making-up" pages of Gamber's illustrated -periodicals for press, and pulls them all to pieces after they are -done, and sends Young Wriford himself to face the infuriated printer -and to suffer dismay and mortification in all his soul as he hears -the printer say: "Well, that's the limit! Take my oath, that's the -limit! 'Bout time, Mr. Wriford, you give my compliments to Mr. -Occshott and tell him I wish to God Almighty he'd put any gentleman -on to make up the pages except you. It's waste labour--it's sheer -waste labour--doing anything you tell us. Take my oath it is." - -Young Wriford assures himself that he hates Mr. Occshott, but -steadily learns, steadily benefits; finds that he really likes Mr. -Occshott and is liked by him; steadily, ardently sticks to it--earns -his reward. - -"Well, there it is," says Mr. Occshott one day, throwing aside the -manuscript over which Young Wriford had taken infinite pains only to -have it horribly mangled. "There it is. Have another shot at it, -Wriford. And, by the way, you're not doing badly--not badly. You're -awfully careless, you know, but I think you're picking it up. We're -starting a new magazine, a kind of popular monthly review, and I'm -going to put you in nominal charge of it--charge of the make-up and -seeing to press and all that. And your salary--you've been here six -months, haven't you? Three guineas, you're getting? Well, it'll be -four now. Make a real effort with this new idea, Wriford. I'll tell -you more about it to-morrow. A real effort--you really must, you -know. Well, there it is." - - - -IV - -Here is Young Wriford not quite so youthful as a few months before. -He has lost his keen interest in games and recreation. He thinks -nothing but work, breathes nothing but work; most significant symptom -of all, sometimes dreams work or lies awake at night a little because -his mind is occupied with work. That in itself, though, is nothing: -he likes it, he relishes every moment of it. What accounts more -directly for the slight loss of youthfulness, what increasingly -interferes with his relish of his work, is what comes up from the -Filmer household at Surbiton in form of frequent letters from Alice; -is what greets him there when he fulfils Alice's entreaties by giving -up his every week-end to spending it as Dragon Mrs. Filmer's guest. - -The letters begin to worry him, to get on his nerves, to give him for -some reason that he cannot quite determine a harassing feeling of -self-reproach. They are inordinately long; they consist from -beginning to end of a recital of passages-at-arms between Alice and -her parents; they seem to hint, when in replies to them he tries to -reason away the troubles, that it is all very well for Young Wriford, -who is out of it all and free and comfortable and happy, but that if -he were here--! - -"Well, but what more can I do than I am doing?" Young Wriford cries -aloud to himself on receipt of such a letter; and thenceforward that -question and alternate fits of impatience and of self-reproach over -it, and letters expressive first of one frame of mind and then, in -remorse, of the other--thenceforward these occupy more and more of -his thoughts, and more and more mix with his work and disturb his -peace of mind. Why is all this put upon him? Why can't he be left -alone? - - - -V - -Here is Young Wriford in love. She is eighteen. Her name is Brida. -She is working for the stage at a school of dramatic art quite close -to Gamber's. He gets to know her through a friend at Gamber's whose -sister is also at the school. Young Wriford and Brida happen to -lunch every day--meeting without arrangement--at the same tea-shop -off the Strand. She leaves her school at the same hour he leaves -Gamber's in the evening, and they happen to meet every -evening--without arrangement--and he walks home with her across St. -James's Park to a Belgravia flat where she lives with her married -sister. Young Wriford thinks of her face, day and night, as like a -flower--radiant and fresh and fragrant as a flower at dawn; and of -her spirit as a flower--gay as a posy, fragrant as apple-blossom, -fresh as a rose, a rose! - -And so one Friday evening as they cross the Park together, when -suddenly she challenges his unusual silence with: "I say, you're -jolly glum to-night," he replies with a plump: "I'm going to call you -Brida." - -"Oh, goodness!" says Brida and begins to walk very fast. - -"Do you mind?" - -She shakes her head. - -"Don't let's hurry. Stop here a moment." - -It is dusk. It is October. There is no one near them. He begins to -speak. His eyes tell her what he can scarcely say: her eyes and that -which tides in deepest colour across her face inform him what her -answer is. He takes her in his arms. He tells her: "I love you, -darling. Brida, I love you." She whispers: "Phil!" - -He goes home exalted in his every pulse by what he has drunk from her -lips: plumed, armed, caparisoned by that ethereal draught for any -marvels, challenging the future to bring out its costliest, -mightiest, bravest, best--he'd have it, he'd wrest it for his sweet, -his darling! He goes home--and there is Alice waiting for him. -Can't he, oh, can't he come down to Surbiton to-night, Friday, -instead of waiting till to-morrow? She simply cannot bear it down -there without him. It's all right when he is there. When she's -alone with her mother, her mother goes on and on and on about the -expenses, and about the children, and seems to throw the blame on -Bill, and she answers back, and her father joins in, and there they -are--at it! There's been a worse scene than ever to-day. She can't -face meeting them at supper without Phil. "Phil, you'll come, won't -you?" - -Here is Young Wriford twisting his hands and twisting his brows, as -often in later years he comes to twist them. He had planned to spend -all to-morrow and Sunday with Brida--not go to Surbiton at all this -week-end. Now he must go to-night. Why? Why on earth should this -kind of thing be put on him? He tries to explain to Alice that he -cannot come--either to-day or to-morrow. She cries. He lets her cry -and lets her go--doing his best to make her think him not wilfully -unkind. Here he is left alone in torment of self-reproach and of -anger at the position he is placed in. Here he is with the -self-reproach mastering him, and writing excuses to Brida, and -hurrying to catch a train that will get him down to Surbiton in time -for supper. Here is Dragon Mrs. Filmer greeting him with: "Well, -this is unexpected! You couldn't of course have sent a line saying -you were coming to-night instead of to-morrow! Oh, no, I mustn't -expect that! My convenience goes for nothing in my own house -nowadays. I call it rather hard on me." Here is Mr. Filmer, with -his face exactly like a sheep, who replies at supper when Young -Wriford lets out that he has been to a theatre-gallery during the -week: "Well, I must say some people are very lucky to be able to -afford such things. I'm afraid they don't come our way. We have a -good many mouths to feed in this household, haven't we, Alice, h'm, -ha?" - -Here is Young Wriford in bed, pitying himself, reproaching himself, -thinking of Brida, thinking of the Filmers, thinking of old Bill, -thinking of Alice, thinking of his work ... pitying himself; hating -himself for doing it; in a tangle; in a torment.... - - - -VI - -Here is Young Wriford beginning to chafe at Gamber's. Here he is -beginning to find himself--wanting to do better work than the heavy -hand of Mr. Occshott will admit to the popular pages of Gamber -periodicals; and beginning to lose himself--feeling the effect of -many different strains; growing what Brida calls "nervy"; slowly -changing from ardent Young Wriford to "nervy" Mr. Wriford. - -The different strains all clash. There is no rest between them nor -relief in any one of them. They all involve "scenes"--scenes with -Brida, who has left the dramatic school and is on the London stage, -who thinks that if Young Wriford really cared tuppence about her he -would give up an occasional Sunday to her--but no, he spends them all -at Surbiton and when he does come near her is "nervy" and seems to -expect her to be sentimental and sorry for him; scenes with the -Filmers and even with Alice because now when he comes down to them he -doesn't, as they tell him, "seem to think of their dull lives" but -wants to shut himself up and work at the novel or whatever it is that -he is writing; scenes with Mr. Occshott when he brings Mr. Occshott -the "better work" that he tries to do during the week-ends and at -night and is told that he is wasting his time doing that sort of -thing. - -Is he wasting his time? Yes, he is wasting it at Gamber's, he tells -himself. He can do better work. He wants to do better work. No -scope for it at Gamber's, and one day he has it out with Mr. -Occshott. Mr. Occshott hands back to him, kindly but rather vexedly, -a series of short stories which is of the "better work" he feels he -can do. Young Wriford sends the stories to a rival magazine of -considerably higher standard than Gamber's, purposely putting upon -them what seems to him an outrageous price. They are accepted. - -That settles it. Young Wriford goes to Mr. Occshott. "I'm sorry, -sir--awfully sorry. I've been very happy here. You've been awfully -good to me. But I want to do bet--other work. I'm going to resign." - -Mr. Occshott is extraordinarily kind. Young Wriford finds himself -quite affected by all that Mr. Occshott says. Mr. Occshott is not -going to let Gamber's lose Young Wriford at any price. "Is it -money?" he asks at last. - -"Yes, it's money--partly," Young Wriford tells him. "But I don't -want you to think I'm trying to bounce a rise out of you." - -"My dear chap, of course I don't think so," says Mr. Occshott. -"You're getting five pounds a week. What's your idea?" - -"I think I ought to be making four hundred a year," says Wriford. - -"So do I," says Mr. Occshott and laughs. "All right. You are. Is -that all right?" - -Young Wriford is overwhelmed. He had never expected this. He -hesitates. He almost agrees. But it is only, as he had said, -"partly" a question of money. It is the better work that really he -wants. It is the constant chafing against the Gamber limitations -that really actuates him. He knows what it will be if he stays on. -He is quite confident of himself if he resists this temptation and -leaves. He says: "No. It's awfully good of you--awfully good. But -it's not only the question of money"; and then he fires at Mr. -Occshott a bombshell which blows Mr. Occshott to blazes. - -"I'm writing a novel," says Young Wriford. - -"Oh, my God!" says Mr. Occshott and covers his face with his hands. - -There is no room in any well-regulated popular periodical office for -a young man who is writing a novel. It is over. It is done. -Good-bye to Gamber's! - - - -VII - -And immediately the catastrophe, the crash; the springing upon Young -Wriford of that which finally and definitely is to catch him and hunt -him and drive him from the Young Wriford that he is to the Mr. -Wriford that he is to be; the scene that follows when he tells Alice -and the Filmers what he has done. - -He tells them enthusiastically. In this moment of his first release -from Gamber's to pursue the better work that he has planned, he -forgets the depression that always settles upon him in the Surbiton -establishment, and speaks out of the ardour and zest of successes -soon to be won that, apart from the joy of telling it all to some -one, makes him more than ever grudge this weekend visit when work is -impossible. He finishes and then for the first time notices the look -upon the faces of his listeners. He finishes, and there is silence, -and he stares from one to the other and has sudden foreboding at what -he sees but no foreboding of that which comes to pass. - -Alice is first to speak. "Oh, Phil," says Alice--trembling voice and -trembling lips. "Oh, Phil! Left Gamber's!" - -Then Mr. Filmer. "Well, really!" says Mr. Filmer. "Well, -really--h'm, ha!" - -Then Mrs. Filmer. "This I did not expect. This I refuse to believe. -Left Gamber's! I cannot believe anything so hard on me as that. I -cannot." - -Young Wriford manages to say: "Well, why not?" and at once there is -released upon him by Mr. and Mrs. Filmer the torrent that seems to -him to last for hours and hours. - -Why not! Is he aware that they were awaiting his arrival this very -week-end to tell him what it had become useless to suppose he would -ever see for himself? Why not! Does he realise that the expenses of -feeding and clothing and above all of educating Bill's children are -increasing beyond endurance month by month as they grow up? Why not! -Has he ever taken the trouble to look at the boys' clothes, at their -boots, and to realise how his brother's children have to be dressed -in rags while he lives in luxury in London? Has he ever taken the -trouble to do that? Perhaps his lordship who can afford to throw up -a good position will condescend to do so now; and Mrs. Filmer takes -breath from her raving and rushes to the door and bawls up the -stairs: "Harold! Fred! Dicky! Come and show your clothes to your -kind uncle! Come and hear what your kind uncle has done! Harold! -Freddie--!" - -Young Wriford, seated at the table, his head in his hands: "Oh, -don't! Oh, for God's sake, don't!" - -"Don't!" cries Mrs. Filmer. "No, don't let you be troubled by it! -It's what our poor devoted Alice has to see day after day. It's what -Mr. Filmer and I have to screw ourselves to death to try to prevent." - -"And their schooling," says Mr. Filmer. "And their schooling, h'm, -ha." - -Schooling! This settles their schooling, Mrs. Filmer cries. They'll -have to leave their day-schools now. He'll have the pleasure of -seeing his brother's children attending the board-school. Three -miserable guineas a week he's been contributing to the expenses, and -was to be told to-day it was insufficient, and here he is with the -news that he has left Gamber's! Here he is-- - -"Good God!" cries Young Wriford. "Good God, why didn't you tell me -all this before?" and then, as at this the storm breaks upon him -again, gets to his feet and cries distractedly: "Stop it! Stop it!" -and then breaks down and says: "I'm sorry--I'm sorry. I didn't mean -that. It's come all of a blow at me, all this. I never knew. I -never dreamt it. It'll be all right. If you'll let me alone, I -swear it'll be all right. The three guineas won't stop. I've -arranged to do two weekly articles for Gamber's for three guineas on -purpose to keep Alice going. I can get other work. There's other -work I've heard of--only I wanted to do better--of course that -doesn't matter now. Look here, if the worst comes to the worst, I'll -go back to Gamber's. They'll take me back if I promise to give up -the work I want to do. I'm sorry. I never realised. I never -thought about all that. I'm sorry." - -He is sorry. That, both now and for the years that are to come, is -his chief thought--his daily, desperate anxiety: sorry to think how -he has let his selfish ideas of better work, his thoughts of marrying -Brida, blind him to his duty to devoted Alice and to old Bill's kids. -Think of her life here! Think of those poor little beggars growing -up and the education they ought to have, the careers old Bill would -have wished them to enter! He is so sorry that only for one sharp -moment does he cry out in utter dread at the proposal which now Mrs. -Filmer, a little mollified, fixes upon him. - -"In any case," says Mrs. Filmer, "whatever you manage to do or decide -to do, you'd better come and live here. You can live far more -cheaply here than letting a London landlady have part of your income." - -Only for one sharp moment he protests. "I couldn't!" Young Wriford -cries. "I couldn't work here. I simply couldn't." - -"You can have a nice table put in your bedroom," says Mrs. Filmer. -"If you're really sorry, if you really intend to do your duty by your -brother's children--" - -"All right," says Young Wriford. "It's very kind of you. All right." - - - -VIII - -He does not return to Gamber's. He is one of the lucky ones. The -great daily newspaper, the _Intelligence_, has a particular fame for -its column of leaderettes and latterly is forever throwing out those -who write them in search of one who shall restore them to their old -reputation (recently a little clouded). Young Wriford puts in for -the post and gets it and holds it and soon couples with it much work -on the literary side of the paper. There is a change in the -proprietorship of the penny evening paper, the _Piccadilly Gazette_, -bringing in one who turns the paper upside down to fill it with new -features. Young Wriford puts in specimens of a column of facetious -humour--"Hit or Miss"--and it is established forthwith, and every -morning he is early at the _Piccadilly Gazette_ office to produce it. - -Thus within a very few weeks of leaving Gamber's and of coming to -live at Surbiton, he is earning more than twice as much as he had -relinquished--proving himself most manifestly one of the lucky ones, -and earning the money and the reputation at cost to himself of which -only himself is aware. - -He is from the house at seven each morning to reach the _Piccadilly -Gazette_ by eight, hunting through the newspapers as the train takes -him up for paragraphs wherewith to be funny in "Hit or Miss." There -are days, and gradually they become more frequent, when nothing funny -will come to his mind; when his mind is hopelessly tired; when his -column is flogged out amid furious protests, and expostulations -informing him that he is keeping the whole damned paper waiting; when -he leaves the office badly shaken, cursing it, hating it, dreading -that this day's work will earn him dismissal from it, and hurries -back to the "nice table" in his bedroom at Surbiton, there -desperately to attack the two weekly articles for Gamber's, the -book-reviewing for the _Intelligence_ and the work upon his novel: -that "better work," opportunity for which had caused him to leave Mr. -Occshott and now is immeasurably harder to find. - -He gets into the habit of trying to enter the house noiselessly and -noiselessly to get to his room. He comes back to the house trying to -forget his misgiving about his "Hit or Miss" column and to force his -mind to concentrate on the work he now has to do: above all, trying -to avoid meeting any one in the house, which means, if he succeeds, -avoiding "a scene" caused by his overwrought nerves. He never does -succeed. There is always a scene. It is either irritation with -Alice or with one of the boys who delay him or interrupt him, and -then regret and remorse at having shown his temper; or it is a scene -of wilder nature with Dragon Mrs. Filmer or with Mr. Filmer. -Whatever the scene, the result is the same--inability for an hour, -for two hours, for all the morning, properly to concentrate upon his -work. - -It will be perhaps the matter of his room. The servant is making the -bed, or it isn't made, and he knows he will be interrupted directly -he starts. - -Pounce comes Dragon Mrs. Filmer. - -"Well, goodness knows I leave the house early enough," says Young -Wriford. - -"Goodness knows you do," says Mrs. Filmer. "Breakfast at half-past -six!" - -"I never get it." - -"You're never down for it." - -Young Wriford, face all twisted: "Oh, what's the good! We're not -talking about that. It's about my room." - -Mrs. Filmer, lips compressed: "Certainly it's about your room, and -perhaps you'll tell me how the servants--" - -Young Wriford: "All I'm saying is that I don't see why my room -shouldn't be done first." - -Mr. Filmer (attracted to the battle): "I'm sure if as much were done -for me as is done for you in this establishment--h'm, ha." - -Alice (come to the rescue): "You know, Philip, you said you thought -you wouldn't get back till lunch this morning." - -Young Wriford, staring at them all, feeling incoherent, furious -ravings working within him, with a despairing gesture: "Oh, all -right, all right, _all right_! I'm sorry. Don't go on about it. -Just let me alone. I'm all behindhand. I'm--" - -In this mood he begins his work. This is the mood that has to be -fought down before any of the work can be successfully done. Often a -day will reward him virtually nothing. He is always behindhand, -always trying to catch up. At six he rushes from the house to get to -the _Intelligence_ office. He is rarely back again to bed by one -o'clock: from the house again at seven. - - - -IX - -Now the thing has Young Wriford and rushes him: now grips him and -drives him, now marks him and drops him as he takes it. Now the -years run. Now to the last drop the Young Wriford is squeezed out of -him: Mr. Wriford now. Now men name him for one of the lucky ones. -Now, as he lies awake at night, and as he trembles as he walks by -day, he hates himself and pities himself and dreads himself. - -Now the years run--flash by Mr. Wriford--bringing him much and losing -him all; flash and are gone. Now he might leave the Filmer household -and live again by himself. But there is no leaving it, once he is of -it. Alice wants him, and he tells himself it is his duty to stay by -her. His money is wanted, and there never leaves him the dread of -suddenly losing his work and bringing them all to poverty. Now he -gives up other work and is of the _Intelligence_ alone, handsomely -paid, one of the lucky ones. It gives him no satisfaction. It would -have thrilled Young Wriford, but Young Wriford is dead. Now there is -no pinching in the Surbiton establishment, decided comfort rather. -The boys are put to good schools and shaped for good careers. The -establishment itself is moved to larger and pleasanter accommodation. -Alice is grateful, the boys are happy, even the Filmers are grateful. -That Young Wriford who sat in the train with Alice coming down from -Liverpool eight years before and planned so enthusiastically and -schemed so generously would have been happy, proud, delighted to have -done it all. But that Young Wriford is dead. Mr. Wriford spends -nothing on himself because he wants nothing--interests, tastes other -than work, are coffined in Young Wriford's grave. Mr. Wriford just -produces the money and begs--nervily as ever, nay, more nervily than -before--to be let alone to work; he is always behindhand. - -Now the novel is at last written and is published and flames into -success. Imagine Young Wriford's amazed delight! But Young Wriford -is dead. Mr. Wriford, one of the lucky ones, lucky in this as in all -the rest, contracts handsomely for others and at once is in the rush -of fulfilling a contract; that is all. - -Now Alice is taken sick--mortally sick. Lingers a long while, wants -Mr. Wriford badly to sit with her and wants him always, is only upset -by her mother. Young Wriford would have nursed her and wept for her. -Mr. Wriford nurses her very devotedly, as she says, but in long hours -grudged from his work, as he knows. And has no tears. What, are -even tears buried with Young Wriford? Mr. Wriford believes they are -and hates himself anew and thousandfold that he has no sympathy, and -often in remorse rushes home from the nightly fight with the -_Intelligence_ to go to Alice's bedside and make amends--not for -active neglects, for there have been none--but for the secret dryness -of his heart while he is with her and his thoughts are with his work. -These are stirrings of Young Wriford, but of what avail stirrings -within the tomb? - -Alice dies. Here is Mr. Wriford by her death caught anew and caught -worse in the meshes that entangle him. Remorse oppresses him at -every thought of neglect of her and unkindness to her through these -years. It can only be assuaged by new devotion to her boys and to -her parents, much changed and stricken by her loss. He might leave -this household now. He feels it is his duty to remain in it. They -want him. - -The thing goes on--swifter, fiercer, dizzier, and more dizzily yet. -No one notices it. He's young, that's all they notice, not yet -thirty, very youthful in the face, one of the lucky ones: that's all -they notice. It goes on. He hides it, has to hide it. Can't bear -that any of its baser manifestations--nerves, nervousness, -shrinking--should be noticed. This is the stage of shunning -people--of avoiding people's eyes that look, not at him, but into him -and laugh at him. It goes on. He surprises himself by the work he -does--always believes that this which has brought him merit, that -which has named him one of the lucky ones anew, never can be equalled -again; yet somehow is equalled; yet ever, as looking back he -believes, at cost of greater effort, with touch less sure. This is -the stage of beginning to expect that one day there will be an end, -an explosion, all the fabric of his life and his success cant on its -rotten foundations and come crashing. - -Now the years run. The _Intelligence_ people conceive _The Week -Reviewed_: Mr. Wriford forms it, executes it, launches it, carries it -to success, and the more energy he devotes to it the less has to -resist the crumbling of his foundations. One of the lucky ones--one -that has reached the stage of conscious effort to perform a task, -drives himself through it, finishes it trembling, and only wants to -get away from everybody to hide how he trembles, and only wants to -get to bed where it is dark and quiet, and only lies there turning -from tangle to tangle of his preoccupations, counting the hours that -refuse him sleep, crying to himself as he has been heard to cry: "Oh, -I say, I say, I say! This can't go on! This must end! This must -end!" - -Thus, thus with Mr. Wriford, and worse and worse, and worse and -worse. Thus through the years and thus arrived where first we found -him. Behold him now, ten years from when Young Wriford, just twenty, -met Alice and the children at Liverpool and ardently and eagerly and -fearlessly planned his tremendous plans. That boy is dead. Return -to him, little over thirty, everywhere successful, one of the lucky -ones, that is come out of the grave where Young Wriford lies. Worse -and worse! There is nothing he touches but brings him success; there -is no one he meets or who speaks of him but envies him; and -successful, lucky, it is only by throwing himself desperately into -his work that he can forget the intolerable misery that presses upon -him, the desire to wave his arms and scream aloud: "You call me -lucky! Oh, my God! Oh, can't anybody see I'm going out of my mind -with all this? Oh, isn't there anybody who can understand me and -help me? Oh, I say, I say, I say, this can't go on. This must stop. -This must end." - - - -X - -You see, he can't get out of it. In these years his unceasing work, -his harassing work, his fears of it breaking down and bringing all -who are dependent upon him to misery, and all his distresses of mind -between the one and the other--all this has killed outlets by which -now he might escape from it and has chained him hand and foot and -heart and mind in the midst of it. His nephews leave him one by one -to go out into the world, successfully equipped and started by his -efforts. He is always promising himself, as first Harold goes, and -then Fred and then Dick, who has chosen for the Army and enters -Sandhurst, that now he will be able to change his mode of life and -seek the rest and peace he craves for. He never does. He never can. - -He never can. There is always a point in his work on his paper or -with his books first to be reached: and when it is reached, there is -always another. Now, surely, with Dick soon going out to India, he -might leave the Filmers. They are comfortably circumstanced on their -own means; the house is his and costs them nothing. Surely now, he -tells himself, he might break away and leave them: but he cries to -himself that for this reason and for that he cannot--yet: and he -cries to himself that if he could, he knows not how he could. -Everything in life that might have attracted him is buried ten years' -deep in Young Wriford's grave. Brida could rescue him, he believes, -and he tries Brida on that afternoon which has been seen: ah, like -all the rest, she laughs at him--one of the lucky ones! - -He is chained to himself, to that poor, shrinking, hideous devil of a -Mr. Wriford that he has been made: and this is the period of furious -hatred of that self, of burying himself in his work to avoid it, of -sitting and staring before him and imagining he sees it, of -threatening it aloud with cries of: "Curse you! Curse you!" of -scheming to lay violent hands upon it. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -FIGURE OF WRIFORD - -I - -There comes that day when Mr. Wriford went to Brida in desperate -search of some one who should understand him and give him peace. It -is a week after Dick has been shipped to join his regiment in India, -and after a week alone with the Filmers, and of knowing not, even now -that his responsibilities are finally ended, how to get out of it -all--yet. It was his press-night with _The Week Reviewed_, as he had -told Brida, and Mr. Wriford, with two articles to write, called upon -himself for the effort to write them and to get his paper away by -midnight--the weekly effort to "pull through"--and somehow made it. - -Press-nights nowadays were one long, desperate grip upon himself to -keep himself going until, far distant in the night and through a -hundred stresses of his brain, the goal of "pulled through" should be -reached. A hundred stresses! He always told himself, as the -contingencies of the night heaped before him, that this time he would -shirk this one, delegate that one to a subordinate. He never did. -Fleet Street said of _The Week Reviewed_--a new thing in -journalism--that Mr. Wriford was "IT." Unique among -politico-literary weeklies in that it went to press in one piece in -one day, and thus from first page to last presented a balance of -contents based upon the affairs of the immediate moment, unique in -that it was illustrated, in that it had at its command all the -resources of the _Intelligence_, in that its price was -two-pence--unique in all this, it was said by those who knew that -_The Week Reviewed's_ very great success was more directly due to the -fact that it was saturated and polished in every article, every -headline, every caption, by Mr. Wriford's touch. He would never -admit how much of it he actually wrote himself; it only was known to -all who had a hand in the making of it that nothing of which they had -knowledge went into the paper precisely in the form in which it first -came beneath Mr. Wriford's consideration. Sometimes, in the case of -articles written by outside contributors of standing, members of his -staff would remonstrate with him in some apprehension at this -mangling of a well-known writer's work. - -"Well, what does it matter whom he is?" Mr. Wriford would cry. "I -don't mind people thinking things in the paper are rotten, if I've -passed them and thought them good. But I'm damned if I let things go -in that I know are rotten, just because they're written by some big -man. I don't mind my own judgment being blamed. But I'm not going -to hear criticism of anything in my paper and know that I made the -same criticism myself but let it go. Satisfy yourself! That's the -only rule to go by." - -Therefore on this press-night as on every press-night--but somehow -with worse effect this night than any--behold Mr. Wriford _satisfying -himself_, and in the process whirling along towards the state that -finds him sick and dizzy and trembling when at last the paper has -gone to press and once more he has pulled through. Behold him -shrinking lower in his chair as the night proceeds, smoking -cigarettes in the way of six or seven puffs at each, then giddiness, -and then hurling it from him with an exclamation, and then the -craving for another if another line is to be written, and then the -same process again; stopping in his work in the midst of a sentence, -in the midst of a word, to examine a page sent down from the -composing-room; twisting himself over it to _satisfy himself_ with -it; rushing up-stairs with it to where, amid heat and atmosphere that -are vile and intolerable to him, the linotype machines are rattling -with din that is maddening to him, to _satisfy himself_ that the page -has not been rushed to the foundry without his emendations; there, a -hundred times, sharp argument that is infuriating to him with -head-printer and machine-manager who battle with time and are always -behind time because advertisements and blocks are late, and now, as -they say, he must needs come and pull a page to pieces; down to his -room again, and more and worse interruptions that a thousand times he -tells himself he is a fool not to leave in other hands and yet will -attend to to _satisfy himself_; time wasted with superior members of -his staff who come to write the final leaders on the last of the -night's news and who are affected by no thought of need for haste but -must wait and gossip till this comes from Reuter's or that from _The -Intelligence's_ own correspondent; time wasted over the line they -think should be taken and the line to which Mr. Wriford, to _satisfy -himself_, must induce them. Sometimes, thus occupied with one of -these men, Mr. Wriford--a part of his mind striving to concentrate on -the article he was himself in the midst of writing, part -concentrating on the page that lay before him waiting to be examined, -part on the jump in expectation of a frantic printer's boy rushing in -for the page at any moment, and the whole striving to force itself -from these distractions and fix on the subject under -discussion--sometimes in these tumults Mr. Wriford would have the -impulse to let the man go and write what he would and be damned to -him, or the page go as it stood and be damned to it, or his own -article be cancelled and something--anything to fill--take its place. -But that would not be _satisfying himself_, and that would be present -relief at the cost of future dissatisfaction, and somehow Mr. Wriford -would make the necessary separate efforts--somehow pull through. - - - -II - -Somehow pull through! In the midst of the worst nights, Mr. Wriford -would strive to steady himself by looking at the clock and assuring -himself that in three hours--two hours--one hour--by some miracle the -tangle would straighten itself, and he would have pulled through and -the paper be gone to press, as he had pulled through and the paper -been got away before. So it would be to-night--but to-night! "If I -dropped dead," said Mr. Wriford to himself, standing in his room on -return from a rush up-stairs to the composing-room, and striving to -remember in which of his tasks he had been interrupted, "if I dropped -dead here where I am and left it all unfinished, we should get to -press just the same somehow. Well, let me, for God's sake, fix on -that and go leisurely and steadily as if it didn't matter. I shall -go mad else; I shall go mad." But in a moment he was caught up in -the storm again and _satisfying himself_--and somehow pulling -through. At shortly before midnight he was rushing up-stairs with -the last page of his own article, and remaining then in the -composing-room that sickened him and dazed him, himself to make up -the last two forms--correcting proofs on wet paper that would not -show the corrections and maddened him; turning aside to cut down -articles to fit columns; turning aside to scribble new titles or to -shout them to the compositors who stood waiting to set them; turning -aside to use tact with the publisher's assistant who was up in -distraction to know what time they were ever likely to get the -machines going; turning aside to send a messenger to ask if that last -block was ever coming; calculating all the time against the clock to -the last fraction of a second how much longer he could delay--forever -turning aside, forever calculating; deciding at last that the late -block must not be waited for; peering in the galley racks to decide -what should fill the space that had been left for it; selecting an -article and cutting it to fit; at highest effort of concentration -scanning the pages that at last were in proof--then to the printer: -"All right; let her go!" Pulled through! And the heavy mallets -flattening down the type no more than echoes of the smashing pulses -in his brain.... - -Pulled through! dizzily down-stairs. Pulled through! and too sick, -too spent, too nerveless, to exchange words with those of his staff -who had been up-stairs with him and were come down, thanking heaven -it was over. Pulled through! and too spent, too finished, to clear -up the litter of his room as he had intended--capable only of -dropping into his chair and then, realising his state, of calling -upon himself in actual whispers: "Wriford! Wriford! Wriford!" but -no responding energy. - - - -III - -He began to think of going home and began to think of the task of -taking down his coat from behind the door and of the task of getting -into it. He began to think of the paper that had just gone to press -and began in his mind to go slowly through it from the first page, -enumerating the title of each article and of each picture. Somewhere -after half-a-dozen pages he would lose the thread and find himself -miles away, occupied with some other matter; then he would start -again. - -It was towards one o'clock when he realised that if he did not move, -he would miss a good train at Waterloo and have a long wait before -the next. He decided against the effort of taking down and getting -into his coat. He took up his hat and stick and left the building by -the trade entrance at the back, meeting no one. He followed his -usual habit of walking to Waterloo along the Embankment, and it was -nothing new to him--for a press-night--that occasionally he found he -could not keep a straight course on the pavement. Too many -cigarettes, he thought. He crossed to the river side, and when he -was a little way from Waterloo Bridge, a more violent swerve of his -unsteady legs scraped him roughly against the wall. He had no -control then, even over his limbs! and at that realisation he -stopped and laid his hands on the wall and looked across the river -and cried to himself that frequent cry of these days: "Wriford! -Wriford! Wriford!" - -The wall was rough to his hands, and that produced the thought of how -soft his hands were--how contemptibly soft he was all over and all -through. "Wriford! Wriford! Wriford!" cried Mr. Wriford to himself -and had a great surge through all his pulses that seemed--as -frequently in these days but now more violently, more completely than -ever before--to wash him asunder from himself, so that he was two -persons: one within his body that was the Wriford he knew and hated, -the other that was himself, his own, real self, and that cried to his -vile, his hateful body: "Wriford! Wriford! Wriford!" - -Intolerable--past enduring! Mr. Wriford jumped upwards, suspending -his weight on his arms on the wall, and by the action was -dispossessed of other thought than sudden recollection of exercises -on the horizontal bar at school; seemed to be in the gymnasium, and -saw the faces of forgotten school-fellows who were in his gym set -waiting their turn. Then the Embankment again and realisation. -Should he drop back to the pavement? "Wriford! Wriford! Wriford!" -He mastered that vile, damned, craven body and threw up his right leg -and scrambled and pitched himself forward; was conscious of striking -his thigh violently against the wall, and at the pain and as he fell, -thought: "Ha, that's one for you, damn you! I've got you this time! -Got you!" And then was in the river, and then instinctively -swimming, and then "Drown, damn you! Drown!" cried Mr. Wriford and -stopped the action of his arms, and went down swallowing and -struggling, and came up struggling and choking, and instinctively -struck out again. - -Shouts and running feet on the Embankment. "Drown, damn you! Drown, -drown!" cried Mr. Wriford; went down again, came up facing the wall, -and in the lamplight and in the tumult of his senses, saw quite -clearly a bedraggled-looking individual peering down at him and quite -clearly heard him call: "Nah, then. Nah, then. Wot yer up to dahn -there?" - -Shouts and running feet on the police pier not thirty yards away; -sounds of feet in a boat; and then to Mr. Wriford's whirling, -smashing intelligence, the sight of a boat--and what that meant. - -Mr. Wriford thrust his hands that he could not stop from swimming -into the tops of his trousers and twisted his wrists about his -braces. "Drown, damn you! Drown!" cried Mr. Wriford, and the -whirling, smashing scenes and noises lost coherence and only whirled -and smashed, and then a hand was clutching him, and coherence -returned, and Mr. Wriford screamed: "Let me go! Let me go!" and -freed an arm from the entanglement of his braces and dashed it into -the face bending over him and with his fist struck the face hard. - -"Shove him under," said the man at the oars. "Shove him under. -He'll 'ave us over else...." - -Mr. Wriford was lying in the boat. "Let me go," cried Mr. Wriford. -"Let me go. You're hurting me." - -"You've hurt me, you pleader," said the man, but relaxed the knuckles -that were digging into Mr. Wriford's neck. - -Mr. Wriford moaned: "Well, why couldn't you let me drown? Why, in -God's name, couldn't you let me drown?" - -"Not arf grateful, you beggars ain't," said the man; and presently -Mr. Wriford found himself pulled up from the bottom of the boat and -handed out on to the police landing-stage to a constable with: "'Old -'im fast, Three-Four-One. Suicide, he is. 'Old 'im fast." - -Three-Four-One responded with heavy hand ... conversation.... Mr. -Wriford standing dripping, sick, cold, beyond thought, presently -walking across the Embankment and up a street leading to the Strand -in Three-Four-One's strong grasp. - -"Where are you taking me?" said Mr. Wriford. - -"Bow Street," said Three-Four-One. - -"Let me go!" sobbed Mr. Wriford. - -"Not arf," said Three-Four-One. - -Then a police whistle, shouts, running feet. Round the corner two -men racing at top speed into Mr. Wriford and Three-Four-One, and Mr. -Wriford and Three-Four-One sent spinning. All to earth, and the two -runners atop, and a pursuing constable, unable to stop, upon the four -of them. Blows, oaths, struggles. - -Mr. Wriford rolled free of the pack and got to his feet, viewed a -moment the struggle in progress before him, then turned down the -side-street whence the pursuit had come, and ran; doubled up to the -Strand and across the Strand and ran and ran and ran; glanced over -his shoulder and saw one running, not after him, but with him--wet as -himself and very like himself. "What do you want?" gasped Mr. -Wriford. The figure made no reply but steadily ran with Mr. Wriford, -and Mr. Wriford recognised him and stopped. "You're Wriford, aren't -you?" cried Mr. Wriford, and in sudden paroxysm screamed: "Why didn't -you drown? Why didn't you drown when I tried to drown you, curse -you?" and in paroxysm of hate struck the man across his face. He -felt his own face struck but felt hurt no more than when he had -bruised his thigh in leaping from the Embankment wall. "Come on, -then!" cried Mr. Wriford. "Come on, then, if you can! I'll make you -sorry for it, Wriford. Come on, then!" - -And Mr. Wriford turned again, and with the figure steadily beside -him, ran and ran and ran and ran and ran. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -ONE RUNS: ONE FOLLOWS - -I - -Most dreadful pains of distressed breathing, of bursting heart and of -throbbing head, afflicted Mr. Wriford as he ran. He laboured on -despite them. He forgot, too, that he had started running to escape -arrest and had run on--across the Strand, up Kingsway, through -Russell Square, across the Euston road and still on--in terror of -pursuit. All that possessed him now was fear and hatred of the one -that ran steadily at his elbow, whom constantly he looked at across -his shoulder and then would try to run faster, whom presently he -faced, halting in his run and at first unable to speak for the -agonies of his exertions. - -Then Mr. Wriford said gaspingly: "Look here--you're not to follow me. -Do you understand?" and then cried, with sobbing breaths: "Go away! -Go away, I tell you!" - -In the rays that came from an electric-light standard near which they -stood, Figure of Wriford seemed only to grin in mock of these -commands. - -Mr. Wriford waited to recover more regular breathing. Then he said -fiercely: "Look here! Look across the road. There's a policeman -there watching us. D'you see him? Well, are you going to leave me, -or am I going to give you in charge? Now, then!" - -Figure of Wriford only looked mockingly at him; and first there came -to Mr. Wriford a raging impulse to strike him again, and then the -knowledge that the policeman was watching; and then Mr. Wriford -stepped swiftly across the road to carry out his threat; and then, as -he approached the policeman, had a sudden realisation of the -spectacle he must present--clothes dripping, hat gone, collar ripped -away--and for fear of creating a scene, changed his intention. But -his first impulse had brought him right up to the policeman. He must -say something. He knew he was in the direction of Camden Town. He -said nervously, trying to control his laboured breathing: "Can you -tell us the way to Camden Town, please?" - - - -II - -This chanced to be a constable much used to the oddities of London -life and, by many years of senior officer bullying and magisterial -correction, cautious of interference with the public unless supported -by direct Act of Parliament. He awaited with complete unconcern the -bedraggled figure whose antics he had watched across the road, and in -reply to Mr. Wriford's hesitating: "We want to get to Camden Town. -Can you tell us the way, please," remarked over Mr. Wriford's head -and without bending his own: "Well, you've got what you want. It's -all round you," and added, indulging the humour for which he had some -reputation: "That's a bit of it you're holding down with your feet." - -Mr. Wriford looked at Figure of Wriford standing by his side. He -looked so long with hating eyes, and was so long occupied with the -struggle to brave fear of a scene and give the man in charge for -following him, that he felt some further explanation was due to the -policeman before he could move away. - -"Thanks," said Mr. Wriford. "Thank you, we rather thought we'd lost -our way." - -The policeman unbent a little and exercised his humour afresh. -"Well, we've found it right enough," said he. "What are us, by any -chance? King of Proosia or Imperial Hemperor of Wot O She Bumps?" - -The constable's facetiousness was of a part with those slights to his -dignity from inferiors which always caused Mr. Wriford insufferable -humiliation. It angered him and gave him courage. "Take that man in -charge," cried Mr. Wriford sharply. "He's following me. I'm afraid -of him. Take him in charge." - -"What man?" said the constable. "Don't talk so stupid. There's no -man there." - -"That man," cried Mr. Wriford. "Are you drunk or what? Where's your -Inspector?" - -The constable, roused by this behaviour: "My Inspector's where you'll -be pretty sharp, if I have much more of it--at the station! Now, -then! Coming to me with your us-es and your we-es! 'Op off out of -it, d'ye see? 'Op it an' quick." - -Mr. Wriford stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment and then -screamed out: "I tell you that man's following me. What's he -following me for? He's followed me miles. I'm afraid of him. Send -him off. Send him away." - -The constable tucked his gloves in his belt and caught Mr. Wriford -strongly by the shoulder. "Now, look here," said the constable, -"there's no man there, and if you go on with your nonsense, you're -Found Wandering whilst of Unsound Mind, that's what you are. You're -asking for it, that's what you're doing, and in less than a minute -you'll get it, if you ain't careful. Why don't you behave sensible? -What's the matter with you? Now, then, are you going to 'op it -quiet, or am I going to take you along?" - -All manner of confusing ideas whirled in Mr. Wriford's brain while -the constable thus addressed him. How, if he went to the Police -Station, was he going to explain who this man was that was following -him? The man was himself--that hated Wriford. Then who was he? -Very bewildering. Very difficult to explain. Best get out of this -and somehow give the man the slip. He addressed the constable -quietly and with a catch at his breath: "All right. It's all right. -Never mind." - -The constable released him. "Now do you know where you live?" - -"Yes, I know; oh, I know," Mr. Wriford said. - -"Got some one to look after you, waiting up for you?" - -"Yes--yes." - -"Goin' to 'op it quiet?" - -"Yes--yes. It's all right." - -"Not goin' to give nobody in charge?" - -Mr. Wriford stood away and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. -He said miserably: "No, it's all right. Only a bit of a quarrel. -It's nothing. We'll go on. We're all right." - -"Well, let me see you 'op it," said the policeman. - -"All right," said Mr. Wriford. "All right," and he walked on, still -just catching his breath a little, and puzzling, and watching out of -the corner of his eyes Figure of Wriford who came on beside him. - - - -III - -He walked on through Camden Town and through Kentish Town, Figure of -Wriford at his elbow. Sometimes he would glance at Figure of Wriford -and then would begin to run. Figure of Wriford ran with him. -Sometimes he would stop and stand still. Figure of Wriford also -stopped, halting a little behind him. Once as he looked back at -Figure of Wriford, he saw a newspaper cart overtaking them, piled -high with morning papers, driving fast. Mr. Wriford stepped off the -pavement and began to cross the road. He judged very exactly the -distance at which Figure of Wriford followed him. When Figure of -Wriford was right in the cart's way, and he a pace or two beyond it, -he suddenly turned back and rushed for the pavement again. - -"Now you're done for!" he shouted in Figure of Wriford's face; but it -was himself that the shaft struck a glancing blow, staggering him to -the path as the horse was wrenched aside; and he was dizzied and -scarcely heard the shouts of abuse cursed at him by the driver, as -the cart went on and he was left groaning at the violent hurt and -shock he had suffered, Figure of Wriford beside him. - - - -IV - -Mr. Wriford walked on and on, planning schemes of escape as he -walked, and presently thought of one. He was by now at Highgate -Archway, and following the way he had pursued, came upon the road -that runs through Finchley to Barnet and so in a great highway to the -country beyond. Now early morning and early morning's solitude had -given place to the warmth and opening activities of five -o'clock--labourers passed to their work, occasional tram-cars, -scraping on their overhead wires, came from Barnet or ran towards it. -Mr. Wriford was glad of the sun. His running until he met the -policeman had overcome the chill of his immersion in the river. -Since then, he had felt his soaked clothing clinging about him, and -his teeth chattered and he shivered, very cold. His exertions had -run the water off him. Now the strong sun began to dry him. -Gradually, as he went on, the shivering ceased to mingle with his -breathing and only came to shake him in spasmodic convulsions, very -violent. But his breathing remained in catching sobs, and that was -because of his fear and hate of the one that trod at his elbow, and -of effort and resolution on the plan that should escape him. - -He began, as he approached the signs that indicated halting-stations -for the tram-cars, to hurry past them, and when he was beyond a post, -to dally and look behind him for an overtaking car. Several he -allowed to pass. They were travelling too slowly for his purpose, -and Figure of Wriford was watching him very closely. He came -presently to a point where the road began to descend gently in a long -and straight decline. - -Here cars passed very swiftly, and as one came speeding while he was -between halting-stations, Mr. Wriford bound up his purpose and -launched it. The car whizzed up to them; Mr. Wriford, looking -unconcernedly ahead, let it almost pass him, then he struck a savage -blow at Figure of Wriford and made a sudden and a wild dash to -scramble aboard. The pole on the conductor's platform was torn -through his hands that clutched at it; he grasped desperately at the -back rail, stumbled, was dragged, clung on, got a foot on the step, -almost fell, grabbed at the pole, drew himself aboard, and threw -himself against the conductor who had rushed down from the top and, -with one hand clutched at Mr. Wriford, with the other was about to -ring the bell. - -Mr. Wriford's onset threw him violently against the door, and Mr. -Wriford, collapsed against him, cried: "Don't ring! Don't stop!" and -then turned and at what he saw, screamed: "Don't let that man get on! -Don't let him! Throw him off! Throw him off! I tell you, throw -him--" But the conductor, very angry, shaken in the nerves and -bruised against the door, hustled Mr. Wriford within the car, and Mr. -Wriford saw Figure of Wriford following on the heels of their -scuffle; collapsed upon a seat and saw Figure of Wriford take a place -opposite him; began to moan softly to himself and could not pay any -attention to the conductor's abuse. - -"Serve you right," said the conductor very heatedly, "if you'd broke -your neck. Jumpin' on my car like that. Serve you to rights if -you'd broke your neck. Nice thing for me if you had, I reckon. I -reckon it's your sort what gets us poor chaps into trouble." He held -on to an overhead strap, swayed indignantly above Mr. Wriford, and -obtaining no satisfaction from him--sitting there very dejectedly, -twisting his hands together, little moans escaping him, tears -standing in his eyes--directed his remarks towards the single other -passenger in the car, who was a very stout workman and who, -responding with a refrain of: "Ah. That's right," induced the -conductor to reiterate his charge in order to earn a full measure of -the comfort which "Ah. That's right" evidently gave him. - -"Serve you right if you'd broke your neck," declared the conductor. - -"Ah. That's right," agreed the stout workman. - -"Your sort what gets us chaps into trouble, I reckon." - -"Ah. That's right," the stout workman affirmed. - -"Nice thing for me an' my mate," declared the conductor, "to go -before the Coroner. Lose a day's work and not 'arf lucky if we get -off with that." - -"Ah. That's right," said the stout workman and spat on the floor and -rubbed it in with a stout boot, and as if intellectually enlivened by -this discharge, varied his agreement to: "That's right, that is. Ah." - -"Serve you right--" began the conductor again, and Mr. Wriford, acted -upon by his persistence, said wearily: "Well, never mind. Never -mind. I'm all right now." - -"Well, I reckon you didn't ought to be," declared the conductor. -"Not if I hadn't come down them steps pretty sharp, you didn't ought." - -The stout workman: "Ah. That's right." - -Now the conductor suddenly produced his tickets and sharply demanded -of Mr. Wriford: "Penny one? Reckon you ought to pay double, you -ought." - -Mr. Wriford as suddenly roused himself, looked across at Figure of -Wriford seated opposite, and as sharply replied: "I'm not going to -pay for him! I won't pay for him, mind you!" - -The conductor followed the direction of Mr. Wriford's eyes, looked -thence towards the stout workman, and then turned upon Mr. Wriford -with: "Pay for yourself. That's what you've got to do." - -"Ah. That's right," agreed the workman. - -Mr. Wriford, breathing very hard, paid a penny, and receiving his -ticket, watched the conductor very feverishly while he said: "Takes -you to Barnet," and while at last he turned away and stood against -the entrance. Then Mr. Wriford pointed to where Figure of Wriford -sat and cried: "Where's that man's ticket?" - -The conductor looked at the stout workman and tapped himself twice -upon the forehead. - -"Ah. That's right," said the stout workman; and thus supported, the -conductor, no less a humourist than the policeman of an hour before, -informed Mr. Wriford, with a wink at the stout workman: "He don't -want no ticket." - -Mr. Wriford appealed miserably: "Oh, why not? Why not?" - -"He rides free," said the conductor. "That's what he does," and -while the stout workman agreed to this with his usual formula, Mr. -Wriford rocked himself to and fro in his corner and said: "Oh, why -did you let him on? Why did you let him on? I asked you not to. -Oh, I asked you." - -This caused much amusement to the conductor and the stout workman, -and at Barnet the conductor very successfully launched two shafts of -wit which he had elaborated with much care. As Mr. Wriford alighted, -"Wait for your friend," the conductor said, and as Mr. Wriford paused -with twisting face and then set off up the road, turned for the stout -workman's appreciation and discharged his second brand. "Reckon he -ought to ha' bin on a 'Anwell[1] car," said the conductor. - - -[1] Hanwell is the great lunatic asylum of London. - - -"Ah. That's right," said the stout workman. - - - -V - -Mr. Wriford passed through Barnet and walked on to the open country -beyond, and still on and on throughout the day. He halted neither -for rest nor refreshment. Night came, and still he walked. He had -no thought of sleep, but sleep stole upon his limbs. He stumbled on -a grassy roadside, fell, did not rise again, and slept. The hours -marched and brought him to new day. He awoke, looked at Figure of -Wriford who sat wide-eyed beside him, said "Oh--oh!" and walking all -day long, said no other word. - -Dusk of the second evening stole across the fields and massed ahead -of him. Mr. Wriford's progression was now no more than a laboured -dragging of one foot and a slow placing it before the other. He came -at this gait over the brow of a hill, and it revealed to him one at -whose arresting appearance and at whose greeting Mr. Wriford for the -first time stopped of his own will and stood and stared, swaying upon -his feet. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -ONE IS MET - -This was a somewhat tattered gentleman, very tall, seated comfortably -against the hedge, long legs stretched before him, one terminating in -a brown boot of good shape, the other in a black, through which a toe -protruded. This gentleman was shaped from the waist upwards like a -pear, in that his girth was considerable, his shoulders very narrow, -and his head and face like a little round ball. He ate, as he -reclined there, from a large piece of bread in one hand and a portion -of cold sausage in the other; and he appeared to be no little -incommoded as he did so, and as Mr. Wriford watched him, by a -distressing affliction of the hiccoughs which, as they rent him, he -pronounced _hup!_ - -"_Hup!_" said this gentleman with his mouth full; and then again -"_hup!_" He then cleared his mouth, and regarding Mr. Wriford with a -jolly smile, upraised the sausage in greeting and trolled forth in a -very deep voice and in the familiar chant: - -"'O all ye tired strangers of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise Him -and magnify Him for ever'--_hup!_ - -"But you can't do that," continued the pear-shaped gentleman, "when -the famine has you in the vitals and the soreness in the legs, as it -has you, unless you've practised it as much as I have. Then it is -both food and rest. In this wise-- - -"_Hup!_--O all ye hungry of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him -and _hup_-nify Him for ever. - -"Hunger, I assure you," said the pear-shaped gentleman, "flee-eth -before that shout as the wild goat before the hunter. Hunger or any -ill. I have known every ill and defeated them all. Selah!" - -There was about this unusual gentleman that which doubly attracted -Mr. Wriford. The Mr. Wriford of a very few days ago, who avoided -eyes, who shrank from strangers, would hurriedly and self-consciously -have passed him by. The Mr. Wriford with whom Figure of Wriford -walked was attracted by the pear-shaped gentleman's careless -happiness and attracted much more by his last words. He came a slow -step nearer the pear-shaped gentleman, looked at Figure of Wriford, -and from him with eyes that signalled secrecy to the pear-shaped -gentleman, and in a low voice demanded: "You have known every ill? -Have you ever been followed?" - -The pear-shaped gentleman stared curiously at Mr. Wriford for a -moment. Then he said: "Not so much followed, which implies interest -or curiosity, as chased--which betokens vengeance or heat. With me -that is a common lot. By dogs often and frequently bitten of them. -By farmers a score time and twice assaulted. By--" - -"Have you ever been followed by yourself?" Mr. Wriford interrupted -him. - -The pear-shaped gentleman inclined his head to one side and examined -Mr. Wriford more curiously than before. "Have you come far?" he -inquired. - -"From Barnet," said Mr. Wriford. - -"Spare us!" said the pear-shaped gentleman with much piety. "Long on -the road?" - -Mr. Wriford looked at Figure of Wriford, and for the first time since -the event on the Embankment cast his mind back along their -companionship. It seemed immensely long ago; and at the thought of -it, there overcame Mr. Wriford a full and a sudden sense of his -misery that somehow unmanned him the more by virtue of this, the -first sympathetic soul he had met since he had fled--since, as -somehow it seemed to him, very long before his flight. He said, with -a break in his voice and his voice very weak: "I don't know how long -we've been. We've been a long time." - -The pear-shaped gentleman inclined his head with a jerk to the -opposite side and took a long gaze at Mr. Wriford from that position. -He then said: "How many of you?" - -Mr. Wriford, a little surprise in his tone: "Why, just we two." - -"Hup!" said the pear-shaped gentleman, said it with the violence of -one caught unawares and considerably startled, and then, recovering -himself, directed upon Mr. Wriford the same jolly smile with which he -had first greeted him, and again upraising the sausage, trolled forth -very deeply: - -"O all ye loonies of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and -magnify Him for ever." - -The pear-shaped gentleman then jumped to his feet with an agility -very conspicuous in one of his girth, and of considerable purpose, in -that he had no sooner obtained his balance on his feet than Mr. -Wriford lost his balance upon his feet, swayed towards the arms -outstretched to him, was assisted to the hedgeside, and there -collapsed with a groan of very great fatigue. - -The pear-shaped gentleman on his knees, busying himself with a long -bottle and a tin can taken from the grass, with a clasp knife, the -cold sausage, and the portion of bread: "I will have that groan into -a shout of praise before I am an hour nearer the grave or I am no -man. Furthermore," continued the pear-shaped gentleman, filling the -can very generously and assisting it very gently to Mr. Wriford's -lips, "furthermore, I will have no man groan other than myself, who -groaneth often and with full cause. Your groan and your countenance -betokeneth much misery, and I will not be bested by any man either in -misery or in any other thing. I will run you, jump you, wrestle you, -drink you, eat you, whistle you, sing you, dance you--I will take you -or any man at any challenge; and this I will do with you or any man -for--win or lose--three fingers of whisky, the which, _hup!_ is at -once my curse and my sole delight. Selah!" - -As he delivered himself of these remarkable sentiments, the -pear-shaped gentleman cut from the sausage and the bread the portions -to which his teeth had attended, conveyed these to his own mouth, -which again became as full as when Mr. Wriford had first seen it, and -pressed the remainders upon Mr. Wriford with a cordiality much aided -by his jolly speech and by the tin can of whisky which now ran very -warmly through Mr. Wriford's veins. These combinations, indeed, and -the sight and then the taste of food awakened very ferociously in Mr. -Wriford the hunger which had now for two days been gathering within -him. He ate hungrily, and, in proportion as his faintness became -satisfied, something of an irresponsible light-headedness came to -him; he began to give little spurts of laughter at the whimsicality -of the pear-shaped gentleman and for the first time to forget the -presence of Figure of Wriford; he accepted with no more reluctance -than the same nervous humour a final absurdity which, as night closed -about them, and as his meal was finished, the pear-shaped gentleman -pressed upon him. - -"I can hardly keep awake," said Mr. Wriford and lay back against the -hedge. - -The pear-shaped gentleman answered him from the darkness: "Well, this -is where we sleep--a softer couch than any of your beds, and I have -experienced every sort. The painful eructations which, to my great -though lawful punishment, my proneness for the whisky puts upon me, -are now, _hup!_ almost abated, and I, too, incline to slumber." - -Mr. Wriford said sleepily: "You've been awfully kind." - -"I have conceived a fancy for you," said the pear-shaped gentleman. -"I like your face, boy. I call you boy because you are youthful, and -I am older than you: in sin, curse me, as old as any man. I also -call you loony, which it appears to me you are, and for which I like -you none the worse. As an offset to the liberty, you shall call me -by any term you please." - -Mr. Wriford scarcely heard him. "Well, I'd like to know your name," -said he. - -"Puddlebox," said the pear-shaped gentleman; and to Mr. Wriford's -little spurt of sleepy laughter replied: "A name that I claim to be -all my own, for I will not be beat at a name, nor at any thing, as I -have told you, by any man." - -To this there was but a dreamy sigh from Mr. Wriford, and Mr. -Puddlebox inquired of him: "Sleepy?" - -"Dog-tired," said Mr. Wriford. - -"Happy?" - -"I'm all right," said Mr. Wriford. - -"Well, then, you are much better, loony," said Mr. Puddlebox. He -then put out a hand in the darkness, and touching Mr. Wriford's ribs, -obtained his fuller attention. "You are much better," repeated Mr. -Puddlebox, "and if you will give me your interest for a last moment, -we will continue in praise the cure which we have begun very -satisfactorily in good whisky, cold sausage, and new bread. A -nightly custom of mine which I suit according to the circumstances -and in which, being suited to you, you shall now accompany me." - -"Well?" said Mr. Wriford, aroused, and laughed again in light-hearted -content. "Well?" - -"Well," said Mr. Puddlebox, "thusly," and trolled forth very deeply -into the darkness: - -"O all ye loonies of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and -magnify Him for ever." - -"Now you," said Mr. Puddlebox. - -Mr. Wriford protested with nervous laughter: "It's too ridiculous!" - -"It's wonderfully comforting," said Mr. Puddlebox; and Mr. Wriford -laughed again and in a voice that contrasted very thinly with the -volume of Mr. Puddlebox's gave forth as requested: - -"O all ye loonies of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and -magnify Him for ever." - -"Scarcely body enough," adjudged Mr. Puddlebox, "but that will come -with appreciation of its value. Now one other, and this time -touching that friend of yours whom I name Spook. We have starved him -to his great undoing, for you have fed while he has hungered, and his -bowels are already weakened upon you. We will now further discomfort -him with praise. This time together--O all ye Spooks. Now, then." - -"It's absurd," said Mr. Wriford. "It's too ridiculous"; but in the -midst of his laughter at it had a sudden return to Figure of Wriford -who was the subject of it and cried out: "Oh, what shall I do? Oh, -what shall I do?" - -"Why, there you go!" cried Mr. Puddlebox. "There's the necessity of -it. Fight against him, boy. Let him not beat you, nor any such. -Quick now--O all ye--" - -And Mr. Wriford groaned, then laughed in a nervous little spurt, then -groaned again, then weakly quavered while Mr. Puddlebox strongly -belled: - -"O all ye spooks of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and -magnify Him for ever." - -"Feel better?" questioned Mr. Puddlebox. - -In the darkness only some stifled sounds answered him. - -"Crying, loony?" - -Only those sounds. - -Mr. Puddlebox put out a large hand, felt for Mr. Wriford's hands and -clasped it upon them. "Hold my hand, boy." - -Sleep came to them. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -FIGHTING IT: TELLING IT - -This was a large, fat, kindly and protective hand in whose comfort -Mr. Wriford slept, beneath which he awoke, and whose aid he was often -to enjoy in immediate days to come. Yet its influence over him was -by no means always apparent. Increasing acquaintance with Mr. -Puddlebox was needed for its development, and this had illustration -in the manner of his first sleep by Mr. Puddlebox's side. - -Thus at first Mr. Wriford, clutching like a child at the hand which -came to him in the darkness, and no little operated upon by intense -fatigue, by the whisky, and by the meal of cold sausage and bread, -slept for some hours very soundly and without dreams. Next his state -became troubled. His mind grew active while yet his body slept. -Very disturbing visions were presented to him, and beneath them he -often moaned. They rode him hard, and ridden by them he began to -find his unaccustomed couch first comfortless and then distressing. -A continuous, tremendous, and rasping sound began to mingle with and -to be employed by his visions. He sat up suddenly, threw off Mr. -Puddlebox's hand in bewildered fear of it, then saw that the enormous -raspings proceeded from Mr. Puddlebox's nose and open mouth, and then -remembered, and then saw Figure of Wriford seated before him. - -Mr. Wriford caught terribly at his breath and with the action drew up -his knees. He placed his elbows on them and covered his face with -his hands. He pressed his fingers together, but through their very -flesh he yet could see Figure of Wriford quite plainly, grinning at -him. Hatred and fear gathered in Mr. Wriford amain. With them he -drew up all the fibres of his body, drew his heels closer beneath -him, prepared to spring fiercely at the intolerable presence, then -suddenly threw his hands from him and at the other's throat, and -cried aloud and sprung. - -He struggled. He fought. Figure of Wriford was screaming at him, -and in that din, and in the din of bursting blood within his brain, -he heard Mr. Puddlebox also shouting at him strangely. "Glumph him, -boy," Mr. Puddlebox shouted. "Glumph him, glumph him!" And there -was Mr. Puddlebox hopping bulkily about him as he fought and -struggled and staggered, and desperately sickened, and desperately -strove to keep his feet. - -"Help me!" choked Mr. Wriford. "Help me! Help me! Kill him! Kill! -Kill!" - -"Kill yourself!" came Mr. Puddlebox's voice. "You're killing -yourself! You're killing yourself! Why, what the devil? You're -fighting yourself, boy. You're fighting yourself. Loose him, boy! -Loose him! You've got him beat! Loose him now, loose him--_Ooop!_" - -This bitter cry of "_Ooop!_" unheeded by Mr. Wriford, was shot out of -agony to Mr. Puddlebox's black-booted foot, upon the emerging toes of -which Mr. Wriford's heel came with grinding force. "_Ooop!_" bawled -Mr. Puddlebox and hopped away upon the shapely brown boot, the other -foot clutched in his hands, and then _"Ooop!_" again--"_Ooop! Erp! -Blink!_" For there crashed upon his nose a smashing fist of Mr. -Wriford's arm, and down he went, blood streaming, and Mr. Wriford -atop of him, and Mr. Wriford's head with stunning force against a -telegraph pole, thence to an ugly stone. - -Stillness then of movement; and of sounds only immense gurgling and -snuffling from Mr. Puddlebox, lamentably engaged upon his battered -nose. - -Mr. Wriford sat up. He pressed a hand to his head and presently, his -chest heaving, spoke with sobbing breaths. "You might have helped -me," he sobbed. "You might have helped me." - -From above his dripping nose, Mr. Puddlebox regarded him dolorously. -He had no speech. - -"You might have helped me," Mr. Wriford moaned. - -"Glug," said Mr. Puddlebox thickly. "Glug. Blink!" - -"When you saw me--" Mr. Wriford cried. - -"Glug," said Mr. Puddlebox. "Blink! Helped you!" he then cried. -"Why, look what the devil I have helped you! Glug. If I have bled a -pint, I have bled a quart, and at this flood I shall ungallon myself -to death. Glug. Blink. Why, I was no less than a fool ever to come -near you. Might have helped you! Glug!" - -Mr. Wriford's common politeness came to him. With some apology in -his tone, "I don't know how you got that," he said. "I only--" - -Mr. Puddlebox, very woefully from behind a blood-red cloth: "I don't -know how I shall ever get over it." But he was by now a little -better of it, the flow somewhat staunched, and he said with a -vexation that he justified by glances at the soaking cloth between -dabs of it at his nose: "Why, I helped you in all I could. You -fought like four devils. I was in the very heart of it. - -"I heard you," said Mr. Wriford, "shouting 'Glumph him!' or some such -word. It was no help to--" - -Mr. Puddlebox returned crossly. "Glumph him! Certainly I--glug. -Blink! There it is off again. Glug. Certainly I shouted glumph -him. A glumph is a fat hit--a hit without art or science, and the -only sort of which I am capable, or you, either, as I saw at a -glance. Glug." - -"I was fighting," said Mr. Wriford. "I was being killed, and you--" - -"Why, I was being killed also," returned Mr. Puddlebox. "Look at my -foot. Look at my nose. Fighting! Why, there never was such -senseless fighting--never. Glug. Blink! Why, beyond that you -fought with me whenever I came near you, who to the devil do you -think you were fighting with?" - -Mr. Wriford looked at him with very troubled eyes. After a little -while, "Why, tell me whom," he said. "I want to know." His voice -ran up and he cried: "It's not right! I want to know." - -"Why, loony," said Mr. Puddlebox kindly, suddenly losing his heat and -his vexation, "why, loony, you were fighting yourself." - -"Yes," Mr. Wriford answered him hopelessly. "Yes. That's it. -Myself that follows me," and he moaned and wrung his hands, rocking -himself where he sat. - -Mr. Puddlebox supported his nose with his blood-red cloth and waddled -to Mr. Wriford on his knees. He sat himself on his heels and wagged -a grave finger before Mr. Wriford's face. "Now look here, boy," said -Mr. Puddlebox. "When I say you, I mean you--that you," and he dug -the finger at Mr. Wriford's chest. "When I say fought yourself, I -mean your own hands--those hands, at your own throat--that throat." - -Mr. Puddlebox spoke so impressively, looking so strongly and yet so -kindly at Mr. Wriford, that great wonder and trouble came into Mr. -Wriford's eyes, and he put his fingers to his throat, that was red -and scarred and tender, and said wonderingly, doubtfully, pitifully: -"Do you mean that I did this to myself--with my own hands?" - -"Why, certainly I do," returned Mr. Puddlebox, "and with your own -hands this to my nose. Why, I awoke with a kick that you gave me, -and there you were, dancing over there with sometimes your hands -squeezing the life out of yourself, black in the face, and your eyes -like to drop out, and sometimes your hands smashing at nothing except -when they smashed me, and screaming at the top of your voice, and -your feet staggering and plunging--why, you were like to have torn -yourself to bits, but that you fell, and the pole here knocked sense -into you. Like this you had yourself," and Mr. Puddlebox took his -throat in his hands in illustration, "and shook yourself so," and -shook his head violently and ended "Glug. Curse me. I've started it -again. Glug," and mopped his nose anew. - -Mr. Wriford said in horror, more to himself than aloud: "Why, that's -madness!" - -"Why--glug, blink!" said Mr. Puddlebox. "Why, that's what it will be -if you let it run, boy. That's what will be, if you are by yourself, -which you shall not be, for I like your face, and I will teach you to -glumph it out of you. This is a spook that you think you see, and -that is why I call you loony, and it is no more a real thing than the -several things I see when the whisky is in me, as I have taught -myself--glug, I shall bleed to death--as I have taught myself to -know, and as I shall teach you. Wherefore we are henceforward -comrades, for you are not fit to take care of yourself till this -thing is out of you. We shall now breakfast," continued Mr. -Puddlebox, beginning with one hand, the other kept very gingerly to -his nose, to feel towards his bundle on the grass, "and you shall -tell me who you are, and why you are spooked, first unspooking -yourself, as last night, with praise. Come now, we will have them -both together--O ye loonies and spooks--" - -"I won't!" said Mr. Wriford. He sat with his hands to his chin, his -knees drawn up, wrestling in a fevered mind with what facts came out -of Mr. Puddlebox's jargon. "I won't!" - -"It is very comforting," said Mr. Puddlebox, not at all offended. -"Try breakfast first, then." - -"Oh, let me alone," cried Mr. Wriford. "I don't want breakfast." - -"I do," returned Mr. Puddlebox. "The more so that I have lost vast -blood. There is enough whisky here to invigorate me, yet, under -Providence, not to plague me with the hiccoughs. Also good cold -bacon. Come, boy, cold bacon." - -"I don't want it," Mr. Wriford said. - -"More for me," said Mr. Puddlebox, "and I want much. While I eat, -you shall tell me how you come to be loony, and I will then tell you -how I come to be what I am. And I will tell a better story than you -or than any man. Come now!" - -An immense bite of the cold bacon then went to Mr. Puddlebox's mouth, -and Mr. Wriford, looking up, found himself so jovially and -affectionately beamed upon through the bite, that he suddenly turned -towards Mr. Puddlebox and said: "I'll tell you. I'd like to tell -you. You've been very kind to me. I've never said thank you. I'm -ill. I don't know what I am." - -Gratified sounds from Mr. Puddlebox's distended mouth--inarticulate -for the cold bacon that impeded them, but sufficiently interpreted by -quick nods of the funny little round head and by smiles. - -"It's very strange to me," said Mr. Wriford in a low voice, "to be -sitting here like this and talking to you. I don't know how I do it. -A little while ago I was in London, and I couldn't have done it then. -I never spoke to anybody that I could help--I remember that. I say I -can remember that, because there are a lot of things I can't -remember. I've been like that a long time. I've never told anybody -before. I don't know how I tell you now--I said that just now, -didn't I?" and Mr. Wriford stopped and looked at Mr. Puddlebox in a -puzzled way. - -Mr. Puddlebox, cheeks much distended, first shook his head very -vigorously and then as vigorously nodded it. This thoughtfully left -it to Mr. Wriford to choose whichever distressed him less, and he -said: "In the middle of thinking of a thing it goes." There was a -rather pitiful note in Mr. Wriford's voice, and he sat dejectedly in -silence. When next he spoke, he shook himself, and as though the -action shook off his former mood, he said excitedly, bending forward -towards Mr. Puddlebox: "Look here, I've never done things! I've been -shut up. I've had things to look after. I've never been able to -rest. I've never been able to be quiet. There's always been -something else. There's always been something all round me, like -walls--oh, like walls! Always getting closer. I've never been able -to stop. No peace. There's always been some trouble--something to -think about that grinds me up, and in the middle of it something -else. There's always been something hunting me. Always something, -and always something else waiting behind that. Like walls, closer -and closer. I never could get away. I tell you, every one I ever -met had something for me that kept me. I wanted to scream at them to -let me alone. I never could get away. I was shut up. I'm a writer. -I write newspapers and books. People know me--people who write. I -hate them all. I've often looked at people and hated everybody. -They look at me and see what I am and laugh at me. They know I'm -frightened of them. I'm frightened because I've been shut up, and -that's made me different from other people. I'm a writer. I've made -much more money than I want. I've looked at people in trains and -places and known I could have bought them all up ten times over. And -the money's never been any use to me--not when you're shut up, not -when there's always something else, not when you're always trembling. -I never can make people understand. They don't know I'm shut up. -They don't see that there's always something else. They think--" - -Mr. Wriford stopped and looked again in a puzzled way at Mr. -Puddlebox and then said apologetically: "I don't know how I've come -here. I don't understand it just at present. I'll think of it in a -minute;" and then broke out suddenly and very fiercely: "But I tell -you, although you say it isn't, and God only knows why you should -interfere or what it's got to do with you, I tell you that I've had -myself walking with me and want to kill it. And I will kill it! -It's done things to me. It's kept me down. I hate it. It's been me -for a long time. But it isn't me! I'm different. I can look back -when you never knew me, and God knows how different I've been--young -and happy! I want to die. If you want to know, though what the -devil it's got to do with--I want to die, die, die! I want to get -out of it all. Yes, now I remember. That's it. I want to get out -of it all. Everything's all round me, close to me. I can scarcely -breathe. I want to get out of it. I've been in it long enough. I -want to smash it all up. Smash it with my hands to blazes. My -name's Wriford. If you don't believe it, you can ask any one in -London who knows about newspapers and books, and they'll tell you. -I'm Wriford, and I want to get out of it all. I want to kill myself -and get away alone. I won't have myself with me any longer! Damn -him, he's a vile devil, and he isn't me at all. I'm Wriford! Good -Lord, before I began all this, I used to be-- He's a vile, cowardly -devil. I want to get away from him and get away by myself. I want -to smash it all up. With my hands I want to smash it and get away -alone--alone;" and then Mr. Wriford stopped with chest heaving and -with burning eyes, and then tore open his coat and then his shirt, as -though his body burned and he would have the air upon it. - -All this time Mr. Puddlebox had been champing steadily with mouth -prodigiously filled. Now he washed down last fragments of cold bacon -with last dregs of good whisky and, with no sort of comment upon Mr. -Wriford's story or condition, announced: "Now I will tell you my -story. That's fair. Then we shall know each other as comrades -should; which, as I have said, we are to be henceforward and until I -have unspooked you. Furthermore, as I also said, I will tell a -better story than you--yes, or than any man, for I will take you or -any man at any thing and give best to none. Selah." - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -HEARING IT - -"My name is Puddlebox," said Mr. Puddlebox. He settled his back -comfortably against the hedge and looked with a very bright eye at -Mr. Wriford, who sat bowed before him and who at this beginning, and -catching Mr. Puddlebox's merry look, shook himself impatiently and -averted his eyes, that were pained and troubled, to the ground, as -though he would hear nothing of it and wished to be wrapped in his -own concerns. - -Not at all discouraged, "My name is Puddlebox," Mr. Puddlebox -continued. "I was born many highly virtuous years ago in the ancient -town of Hitchin, which lies not far from us as we sit. My father was -an ironmonger, of good business and held in high esteem by all who -knew him. My mother was an ironer, and love, which, as I have -marked, will make use of any bond, perhaps attracted these two by -medium of the iron upon which each depended for livelihood. My -mother sang in the choir of her chapel, and my father, who sometimes -preached there, has told me that she presented a very holy and -beautiful picture as the sun streamed through the window and fell -upon her while she hymned. Here again," continued Mr. Puddlebox, -"the ingenuity of love is to be observed, for this same sunlight, -though it adorned my mother, also incommoded her, and my father, in -his capacity as ironmonger, was called upon to fit a blind for her -greater convenience. This led to their acquaintance and, in process -of lawful time, to me whom they named Eric. Little Eric. Five -followed me. I was the eldest, and the most dutiful, of six. -Offspring of God-fearing parents, I was brought up in the paths of -diligence and rectitude--trained in the way I should go and from my -earliest years pursued that way without giving my parents one single -moment's heart-burning or doubt. I was, and I have ever been, a -little ray of sunshine in their lives." - -"You're a tramp, aren't you?" said Mr. Wriford. - -On the previous evening Mr. Puddlebox had induced in Mr. Wriford a -mood in which his griefs had disappeared before little spurts of -involuntary laughter. The same, arising out of Mr. Puddlebox's -whimsical narration of his grotesque story, threatened him now, and -he resisted it. He resisted it as a vexed child, made to laugh -despite himself, seeks by cross yet half-laughing rejoinders to -preserve his ill-humour and not be wheedled out of it. - -"You're a tramp, aren't you?" said Mr. Wriford; but Mr. Puddlebox, -with no notice of the interruption, continued: "A little ray of -sunshine. My dear parents in time sent me to school. Here, by my -diligence and aptitude, I brought at once great shame upon my elder -classmates and great pride to the little parlour behind the -ironmonger's shop. It became furnished, that pleasant parlour, with -my prize-books, and decorated with my medals and certificates of -punctuality and good conduct. As I grew older, so the ray of -sunshine which I effulged waxed brighter and warmer. My father, -encouraged and advised by my teachers, offered me the choice of many -lucrative and gentlemanly professions. It was suggested that I -should embrace a few of the many scholarships that were at the easy -command of my abilities and my industry, proceed to the University, -and become pedagogue, pastor, or lawyer. I well remember, and I -remember it with pride and happiness, the grateful mingling of my -parents' tears when I announced that I spurned these attractions, -desiring only to be apprenticed to my dear father's business, -perpetuate the grand old name of Puddlebox, ironmonger, Hitchin, and -become the prop and comfort of the evening of my parents' years. - -"This was the time," proceeded Mr. Puddlebox, "when, in common with -all youth, I was subjected to the temptations of gross and idle -companions. As I had shamed my classmates at school, so I shamed my -would-be betrayers in the street. They called me to the pleasures of -the public-house. I pointed to the blue-ribbon badge of my pledges -against intoxicating liquors. They enticed me to ribaldry, to -card-playing, to laughter with dangerous women. I openly rebuked -them and besought them for their own good instead to sit with me of -an evening, while I read aloud from devotional works to my dear -parents. My spare time I devoted to my Sunday-school class, to the -instruction of my younger brothers and sisters, and to profitable -reading. My recreation took the form of adorning our chapel with the -arts of turnery and joinery which I had learnt together with that of -pure ironmongery." - -All this was more and more punctuated with spurts of laughter from -Mr. Wriford, and now, laughing openly, "Well, when did all this -stop?" he said. - -"It never stopped," returned Mr. Puddlebox. "A calamitous incident -diverted it to another train; that is all. Five sovereigns, nine -shillings, and fourpence were one day found to be missing from the -till. It was in the till when the shop was shut at seven o'clock one -Saturday night, and it was out of the till when my father went to -transfer it to the cash-box at eight o'clock. We kept no servant. -No stranger had entered the house. The theft lay with one of my -brothers and sisters. My father's passion was terrible to witness. -That a child of his should rob his own father produced in him a -paroxysm of wrath such as even I, well knowing his sternly religious -nature, did not believe him capable of. With shaking voice he -demanded of my brothers and sisters severally and collectively who -had brought this shame upon him. All denied it. I was in an -adjoining room--as horrified and as trembling as my father. I knew -the culprit. I had seen a Puddlebox--a Puddlebox!--with his hand in -his father's till. My long discipline in virtue and in filial and -fraternal devotion told me at once what I must do. I must shield the -culprit; I must take the blame upon myself." - -"Why?" said Mr. Wriford. - -"I did not hesitate a moment," said Mr. Puddlebox, disregarding the -question. "Breathing a rapid prayer for my dear ones' protection and -for the forgiveness of the culprit, I turned instantly and fled from -the house. I have never seen my parents since. I have never again -revisited the ancestral home of the Puddleboxes. Yet am I content -and would not have it otherwise, for I am happy in the knowledge that -I have saved the culprit. Since then, I have devoted my life over a -wider area to the good works which formerly I practised within the -municipal boundaries of beloved Hitchin. I tour the countryside in a -series of carefully planned ambits, seeking, by ministration to the -sick and needy, to shed light and happiness wherever I go, supporting -myself by those habits of diligence and sobriety which became rooted -in me in my childhood's years. You say your name is Wriford, and -that you are of repute in London. My name is Puddlebox, and I am -known, respected, and welcomed in a hundred villages, boroughs, and -urban districts. Now that is my story," concluded Mr. Puddlebox, -"and I challenge you to say that yours is a better." - -Mr. Wriford was by this time completely won out of the fierce and -tumultuous thoughts that had possessed him when Mr. Puddlebox began. -His little spurts of involuntary laughter had become more frequent -and more openly daring as Mr. Puddlebox proceeded, and now, quite -given over to a nervously light-headed state such as may be produced -in one by incessant tickling, he laughed outright and declared: "I -don't believe a word of it!" - -"Well," said Mr. Puddlebox, merrier than ever in the eye, and -speaking with a curious note of triumph as though this were precisely -what he had been aiming at, "Well, I don't believe a word of yours!" - -"Mine's true," cried Mr. Wriford, quick and sharp, and got -indignantly to his feet. Habit of thought of the kind that had -helped work his destruction in him jumped at him at this, as he took -it, flat insult to his face, and in the old way set him surging in -head and heart at the slight to his dignity. "Mine's true!" he cried -and looked down hotly at Mr. Puddlebox. - -"And mine's as true," said Mr. Puddlebox equably and giving him only -the same merry eye. - -Mr. Wriford, heaving: "Why, you said yourself--only last night--that -whisky was your curse. You've told me a lot of rubbish; you couldn't -have meant it for anything else. I've told you facts. What don't -you believe?" - -"I don't believe any of it," said Mr. Puddlebox, and at Mr. Wriford's -start and choke, added quickly: "as you tell it." - -One of those sudden blanks, one of those sudden snappings of the -train of thought--_click!_ like an actual snapping in the brain--came -to Mr. Wriford. One of those floodings about his mind of immense and -whirling darkness in which desperately his mental eye sought to peer, -and desperately his mental hands to grope. He tried to remember what -it was that he had told Mr. Puddlebox. He tried to search back among -recent moments that he could remember--or thought he remembered--for -words he must have spoken but could not recollect. His indignation -at Mr. Puddlebox's refusal to believe him disappeared before this -anguish and the trembling that it gave. He made an effort to hold -his own, not to betray himself, and with it cried indignantly: "Well, -what did I say?" then, unable to sustain it, abandoned himself to the -misery and the helplessness, and used again the same words, but -pitiably. "Well, what did I say?" Mr. Wriford asked and caught his -breath in a sob. - -Mr. Puddlebox put that large, soft, fat, kindly and protective hand -against Mr. Wriford's leg that stood over him and pulled on the -trouser. "Now, look here, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox very soothingly, -"sit here by me, and I will tell you what you said, and we will put -this to the rights of it." - -Very dejectedly Mr. Wriford sat down; very protectively Mr. Puddlebox -put the large hand on his knee and patted it. "Now, look here, my -loony," said Mr. Puddlebox, "I'll tell you what you said, and what I -mean by saying I don't believe a word of it as you tell it. What I -mean, my loony, is that there's one thing the same in your story and -in mine, and it is the same in every story that I hear from folks -along the road, and I challenge you or any man to hear as many as I -have heard. It is that we've both been glumphed, boy. We've both -led beautiful, virtuous lives and ought to be angels with beautiful -wings--'stead of which, here we are: glumphed; folks have got up and -given us fat hits and glumphed us. - -"Well, there's two ways," continued Mr. Puddlebox with great good -humour, "there's two ways of telling a glumphed story, my loony: the -way of the glumphed, which I have told to you, and the way of the -glumpher, which I now shall tell you. Take my story first, boy. -Glumphed, which is me, tells you of a child and a boy and a youth -which was the pride and the comfort and the support of his parents; -glumphers, which is they, would tell you I was their shame and their -despair. Glumphed: diligent, shaming his classmates, adorning the -parlour with prize-books; glumphers: never learning but beneath the -strap, idle, disobedient. Glumphed: spurning companions who would -entice him; glumphers: leading companions astray. Glumphed: putting -away nobler callings and desirous only to serve his father in the -shop; glumphers: wasting his parents' savings that would educate him -for the ministry, and of the shop sick and ashamed. Glumphed: -reading devotional books to his mother; glumphers: breaking her -heart. Glumphed: knowing the culprit who robbed his father and -fleeing to save him; glumphers: himself the thief and running away -from home. Glumphed: journeying the countryside in good works and -everywhere respected; glumphers: a tramp and a vagabond, plagued with -whisky and everywhere known to the police. - -"There's a difference for you, boy," concluded Mr. Puddlebox; and he -had recited it all so comically as once again to bring Mr. Wriford -out of dejection and set him to the mood of little spurts of -laughter. "Glumphed," Mr. Puddlebox had said, raising one fat hand -to represent that individual and speaking for him in a very high -squeak; and then "glumphers" with the other fat hand brought forward -and his voice a very sepulchral bass. Now he turned his merry eyes -full upon Mr. Wriford: and Mr. Wriford met them laughingly and -laughed aloud. - -"I see what you're driving at," Mr. Wriford laughed; "but it doesn't -apply to me, you know. You don't suppose I've--er--robbed tills, -or--well--done your kind of thing, do you?" - -"I don't know what you've done," said Mr. Puddlebox. "But this I do -know, that your story is the same as my story, and the same as -everybody's story, in this way that you've never done anything wrong -in your life, and that all your troubles are what other -folks--glumphers--have done to you. Well, whoa, my loony, whoa!" -cried Mr. Puddlebox, observing protest and indignation blackening -again on Mr. Wriford's face. "The difference in your case is that -what you've done and think you haven't done has spooked you, boy, and -now I will tell you how you are spooked; and how I will unspook you. -You think too much about yourself, boy. That's what is spooking you. -You think about yourself until you've come to see yourself and to be -followed by yourself. Well, you've got to get away from yourself. -That's what you want, boy--you know that?" - -"Yes, I'm followed," Mr. Wriford cried. He clutched at Mr. -Puddlebox's last words; and, at the understanding that seemed to be -in them, forgot all else that had been said and cried entreatingly: -"I'm followed, followed!" - -"I will shake him off," said Mr. Puddlebox. "You want to get away?" - -"I must!" said Mr. Wriford. "I must!" - -"And you don't mind what happens to you?" - -"I don't mind anything." - -"Why, then, cheer up," cried Mr. Puddlebox with a sudden infectious -burst of spirits, "for I don't, either; and so there are two of us, -and the world is full of fun for those who mind nothing. I will -teach you to sing, and I will teach you to find in everything measure -for my song, which is of praise and which is: - -"O ye world of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify -Him for ever. - -"Up, my loony, and I will teach you to forget yourself, which is what -is the matter with you and with most of us." - -Mr. Puddlebox with these words got very nimbly to his feet, and there -took Mr. Wriford a sudden infection of Mr. Puddlebox's spirits, which -made him also jump up and stand with this jolly and pear-shaped -figure who minded nothing, and look at him and laugh in irresponsible -glee. Mr. Puddlebox wore a very long and very large tail-coat, in -the pockets of which he now began to stuff his empty bottle, a spare -boot, what appeared to be a shirt in which other articles were -rolled, and sundry other packets which he picked up from the grass -about him. Upon his head he wore a hard felt hat whose rim was gone, -so that it sat upon him like an inverted basin; and about his -considerable waist he now proceeded to wind a great length of string. -He presented, when his preparations were done, so completely odd and -so jolly a figure that Mr. Wriford laughed aloud again and felt run -through him a surge of reckless irresponsibility; and Mr. Puddlebox -laughed in return, loud and long, and looking down the hill observed: -"We will now leave this place of blood and wounds and almost of -unseemly quarrel. Ascending towards us I observe a wagon, stoutly -horsed. We will attach ourselves to the back of it and place -ourselves entirely at its disposal; first greeting the wagoner in -song, for the very juice of life is to be extracted by finding matter -for praise in all things. Now, then, when he reaches us--'O ye -wagoners--'" - -The wagon reached them. Piled high with sacks, it was drawn by three -straining horses and driven by a very burly gentleman who sat on a -seat above his team and midway up the sacks and scowled very blackly -at the pair who awaited him and who, as he drew abreast, gave him, -Mr. Puddlebox with immense volume and Mr. Wriford with gleeful -irresponsibility: - -"O ye wagoners of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify -Him for ever!" - -The wagoner's reply was to spit upon the ground for the singers' -benefit and very brutally to lash his team for his own. The horses -strained into a frightened and ungainly plunging, and the wagon -lumbered ahead. Mr. Puddlebox plunged after it, and Mr. Wriford, -with light-headed squirms of laughter, after Mr. Puddlebox. The -tail-board of the wagon was not high above the road. In a very short -space Mr. Wriford was seated upon it and then clutching and hauling -in assistance of the prodigious bounds and scrambles with which, at -last, Mr. Puddlebox also effected the climb. - -And so away, with dangling legs. - - - - -BOOK TWO - -ONE OF THE JOLLY ONES - - - -CHAPTER I - -INTENTIONS, BEFORE HAVING HIS HAIR CUT, OF A WAGONER - -In this company, and with this highly appropriate beginning of legs -dangling carelessly above the dusty highroad from a stolen seat on -the tail-board of a wagon, there began to befall Mr. Wriford many -adventures which, peculiar and unusual for any man, were, for one of -Mr. Wriford's station in life and of his character and antecedents, -in the highest degree extraordinary. His dangling legs--and the fact -that he swung them as they dangled--were, indeed, emblematic of the -frame of mind which took him into these adventures and which--save -when the old torments clutched him and held him--carried him through -each and very irresponsibly into the next. Through all the later -years of his former life he had very much cared what happened to him -and what people thought of him when they looked at him. He was -filled now with a spirit of not caring at all. It was more than a -reckless spirit; it was a conscious spirit. He had often, in the -days of his torment, cried aloud that he wished he might die. He -told himself now that he did not mind if he did die, and did not mind -if he was hurt or what suffering befell him. Through all the later -years of his former life he often had cried aloud, his brain most -dreadfully surging, his panic desire to get out of it all. He told -himself that he now was out of it all. He had been frantic to be -free; he now was free. A very giddiness of freedom possessed him and -caused him, at the dizziness of it, to laugh aloud. A very -intoxication of irresponsibility filled him and caused in him a -fierce lust to exercise it in feats of maddest folly. He only wanted -to laugh, as before he very often had wanted to cry or scream. He -only wanted to perform wild, senseless pranks, as before he only had -desired to be shut away from people--by himself, alone, in the dark. -All this increased with every day of the early days in Mr. -Puddlebox's company. Now, as he sat beside Mr. Puddlebox on the -tail-board of the wagon, and swung his legs and often laughed aloud, -he sometimes reflected upon where the wagon was taking them and what -would happen, and at the thought that he did not care whither or -what, laughed again; and more than once looked at Mr. Puddlebox, -blowing and puffing in exhaustion beside him, and scarcely could -control an impulse to push him off the tail-board and laugh to see -him clutch and expostulate and fall; and once struck his fist against -the revolving wheel beside him and laughed aloud to feel the pain and -to see his bruised and dusty knuckles. - -"Loony," said Mr. Puddlebox, catching the gleaming eyes that were -turned upon him in mischievous thought to push him off, "Loony, -you're getting unspooked already." - -"It's very jolly," said Mr. Wriford, and laughed. "I like this." - -"You shall learn to like everything," said Mr. Puddlebox, "and so to -be jolly always." - -"How do you live?" inquired Mr. Wriford. - -"Why," said Mr. Puddlebox, "by liking everything, for that is the -only way to live. Sun, snow; rain, storm; heat, cold; hunger, -fullness; fatigue, rest; pain, pleasure; I take all as they come and -welcome each by turn or all together. They come from the Lord, boy, -and that is how I take them, love them, and return them to the Lord -again in form of praise. Selah." - -"Dash it," said Mr. Wriford, "you might be a Salvationist, you know." - -"Curse me," returned Mr. Puddlebox very cheerfully, "I am nothing of -the sort. Would that I were. I will tell you what I am, boy. I am -the most miserable sinner that any man could be, and I am the most -miserable in this--that I know where mercy comes from, which most -poor sinners do not and therefore am less miserable than I. I have -outraged my parents, and I outrage heaven in every breath I draw, -particularly when, as, curse me, too often it is, my breath is -whisky-ladened: which thing is abominable to the nose of godliness -and very comfortable to my own. I know where mercy comes, loony, on -the one hand because I was trained for the ministry, and on the other -because I see it daily with my eyes. I know where mercy comes, yet I -never can encompass it, for my flesh is ghastly weak and ghastly vile -and, curse me, I have worn it thus so long that I prefer it so. But -if I cannot encompass mercy, boy, I can return thanks for it; and if -it comes in form of scourge--cold, hunger, pain, they are the three -that fright me most--why, I deserve it the more surely and return it -in praise the more lustily. That is how I live." - -Many days hence it was to befall Mr. Wriford--in very bitter lesson, -in hour of deepest anguish--to know a certain beauty in this odd -testament of faith. - -Just now, of his dizzy mood and of the teller's merry eye as he told -it, little more than its whimsicality touched him; and when it was -done, "Well, but that doesn't feed you," he said. "In that -way--feeding and clothing and the rest of it--how do you live in that -way?" - -"Why, much in the same," returned Mr. Puddlebox. "Taking what comes, -and if need be, which it is my constant prayer it need not, turning -my hand to work, of which there is plenty. There is bread and -raiment in every house, some for asking, some for working, and always -some to get rid of me when I begin to work. What there is not in -every house, boy, is whisky, and it is for that my brow has to sweat -when, as now, my bottle is empty. But there are," continued Mr. -Puddlebox, beginning to wriggle in his seat and draw up his legs with -the evident intention of standing upon them, "there are, happily, or, -curse me, unhappily, other ways of getting whisky; and the first is -never to lose an opportunity of looking for it." - -Mr. Puddlebox's feet were now upon the tail-board and he was -clutching at the sacks, in great exertion to stand upright. - -"What now?" inquired Mr. Wriford, beginning to laugh again. - -"Why, to look for it," said Mr. Puddlebox. "In every new and likely -place I always look for whisky. If none, I sing very heartily 'O ye -disappointments' and am the better both for the praise and for the -fact there is none. If some, I am both grateful and, curse me, -happy. The top of these sacks is a new place, my loony, and a very -likely. Our kind coachman, as I observed, wore no coat and had no -bundle, nor were these beside him. They are likely on top." - -"I'll come with you," said Mr. Wriford. "It's a devil of a climb." - -"It's a devil of a prize," responded Mr. Puddlebox, "if it's there." - -It proved to be both the one and the other. The sacks, stacked in -ridges, provided steps of a sort, but each was of prodigious height, -of very brief foothold, and the sacks so tightly stuffed as to afford -but a scraping, digging hold for the fingers. When to these -difficulties was added the swaying of the whole as the wagon jolted -along, there was caused on the part of the climbers much panic -clutching at each other, at the ropes which bound the sacks, and at -the sacks themselves, together with much blowing and sounds of fear -from Mr. Puddlebox, vastly incommoded by his bulging coattails, and -much hysterical mirth from Mr. Wriford, incommoded no little by -laughter at the absurdity of the escapade and at imagination of the -grotesque spectacle they must present as they swarmed. - -He was first to reach the summit. "By Jove, there's a coat here, -anyway!" he cried. - -Mr. Puddlebox bulged up and plunged forward on his face with a last -convulsive scramble. "And, by my sins, a bottle!" cried Mr. -Puddlebox, drawing the coat aside. "Beer, I fear me--a filling and -unsatisfactory drink." He drew the cork and applied his nose. -"Whisky!" and applied his mouth. - -"Good Lord!" cried Mr. Wriford, astonished at a thought that came to -him with the length of Mr. Puddlebox's drink. "Man alive! Do you -drink it neat?" - -"_Hup!_ Curse me," said Mr. Puddlebox, "I do. It takes less room. -_Hup!_ This is the most infernal torment, this hupping. I must, but -I never can, drink more, _hup!_ slowly. As a rule," continued Mr. -Puddlebox, balancing on his knees and fumbling in his coattail -pockets, "as a rule I never rob a man of his bottle. If a man has a -bottle, he has an encouragement towards thrift and sobriety. It is a -persuasion to put his whisky there instead of at one draught into his -mouth. For the moment I must suspend the by-law. I cannot decant -this gentleman's whisky into my own bottle, for our carriage shakes -and would cause loss. And I cannot exchange for this bottle my own, -for to mine I am deeply attached. Therefore--" Mr. Puddlebox -fumbled the bottle into his pocket, appeared to find some difficulty -in accommodating it, produced it again and took another drink from it -and, as if this had indeed diminished its bulk, this time slid it -home, where Mr. Wriford heard it clink a greeting with its empty -fellow. "Therefore," said Mr. Puddlebox--"_hup!_" - -"Well, mind they don't break," said Mr. Wriford. "Let's have a look -where we're getting to," and he squirmed himself on elbows and knees -towards the front of the sacks and stretched out, face downwards. - -"I never yet," said Mr. Puddlebox proudly, "committed the crime of -breaking a bottle." From his knees he took an observation down the -road ahead of him, announced: "We are getting towards the pretty -hamlet of Ditchenhanger," and coming forward lay full length by Mr. -Wriford's side. - -This position brought their heads, overhanging the sacks, immediately -above the wagoner seated a long arm's length below them, his horses -walking, the reins slack in his hands and himself, to all -appearances, in something of a doze. A very large man, as Mr. -Wriford had previously noticed, with prodigious arms, bare to the -elbow; and at his unconsciousness of their presence, hanging -immediately above him, and at his sullen face and the rage upon it if -he knew, Mr. Wriford was moved to silent squirms of laughter, and -turned a laughing face to Mr. Puddlebox's, suspended over the sacks -beside him. - -"_Hup!_" said Mr. Puddlebox with shattering violence. - -The wagoner started not less violently, looked about him with -jerking, savage head, while Mr. Wriford held his breath and dared not -move, uttered an oath of extraordinarily unsavoury character, grabbed -at his whip, and lashed with all the force of his arm at his horses. - -The nature of their response exercised a very obvious result upon the -wagon. It suffered a jerk that caused from Mr. Wriford a frantic -clutch at the sacks and from Mr. Puddlebox a double explosion that -cost him (as he afterwards narrated) very considerable pain. - -"_Huppup!_" said Mr. Puddlebox. "Blink! Hup!" and with this his -pudding-bowl hat detached itself from his head and dropped lightly -into the wagoner's lap. That gentleman immediately produced another -oath, compared with which his earlier effort was as a sweet smelling -rose at dewy morn, drew up his unfortunate team even more violently -than he had urged them forward, with very loud bellows bounded to the -road and, whip in hand, completed a very rapid circuit of his wagon, -bawling the while a catalogue of astoundingly blood-curdling -intentions which he proposed to wreak upon somebody before, as he -phrased it, he had his blinking hair cut. - -His passengers, considerably alarmed at these proceedings, withdrew -to the exact centre of the sacks and there reflected, each in the -other's face, his own dismay. - -"Now you've done it, you silly ass," said Mr. Wriford. - -"It's not over yet," said Mr. Puddlebox. "I'm afraid this is going -to be very rough." - - - - -CHAPTER II - -PASSIONATE ATTACHMENT TO LIVER OF A WAGONER - -"You're up there, ain't yer?" demanded the wagoner, arrived at the -other side of the wagon and bawling from the road. "You're up there, -aren't yer? I've got you, my beauty! I'll cut your liver out for -yer before I have my blinkin' hair cut! I've got you, my beauty! -You're up there, aren't yer?" - -Mr. Puddlebox poked his head very timidly over the side, looked down -upon their questioner, and remarked in a small thin voice: -"Yes--hup!" He then drew back very hastily, for at sight of him the -wagoner with a very loud bellow rushed forward and smote upward with -his whip in a manner fully calculated, to the minds of his -passengers, to cut up a sack or lay open a liver with equal -precision. "Come down off out of it!" bellowed this passionate -gentleman, flogging upward with appalling whistle and thud of his -lash. "Come down off out of it. I'll cut your liver out, my beauty! -I'll cut your coat off your back, before I have my blinkin' hair cut." - -Perceiving that the angry lash fell safely short of its aim, Mr. -Puddlebox again protruded his head. - -"Now are you coming down," demanded the flaming wagoner, "or am I -coming up for you?" - -"I should like to explain--" began Mr. Puddlebox. - -"I'll explain you!" roared the wagoner. "I'll explain you, my -beauty! Are you coming down off out of it?" - -"What are you going to do if I do come?" inquired Mr. Puddlebox. - -The carter, in a voice whose violence seemed likely to throttle him, -announced as his intention that he proposed to cut out Mr. -Puddlebox's liver with his whip and then, having extracted it, to -dance upon it. - -"Well, I won't come," said Mr. Puddlebox. "In that case, I think -I'll stay here," he said, and said it with a nervous little giggle -that shot out of the wagoner an inarticulate bellow of fury and a -half-dozen of terrific blows towards Mr. Puddlebox's anxious face. - -"Come down off out of it!" bellowed the carter. "I'll cut your liver -out before I have my blinkin' hair cut, my beauty." - -The same nervous giggle again escaped the unfortunate beauty whose -liver was thus passionately demanded. "But your hair doesn't want -cutting," said Mr. Puddlebox, "really--_hup!_" - -"You fool!" Mr. Wriford cried. "You utter fool!" and in dramatic -illustration of Mr. Puddlebox's folly, the wagon began to shake with -the violence of the wagoner's ascent of it, and there preceded the -ascent, increasing in horror as it approached, an eruption of -astoundingly distressing oaths mingled in the most blood-curdling way -with references to liver and other organs which were to be subjected -at one and the same time to step-dances and to a ferocious orgy of -surgical and cannibalistic practices. - -Mr. Wriford was frightened. There went out of him the reckless glee -in mad adventure that had possessed him on the wagon till now. There -returned to him, dreadfully as if a hand within him were tugging at -his vitals, twirling in his brain, drumming in his heart, the coward -fear that well of old he knew. - -"Down!" cried Mr. Puddlebox. "Down behind, loony! quick!" and began -to scramble backwards. - -There came to Mr. Wriford some odd experiences. He looked at Mr. -Puddlebox and saw in the little round face where usually was -merriment, alarm, white and sickly. Then saw Mr. Puddlebox's eyes -search his own, and waver, and then fill with some purpose. Then was -pulled and pushed backward by Mr. Puddlebox. Then both were hanging, -half over the sacks, half on top. Then over the front of the wagon -before them appeared the wagoner's cap and a vast arm clutching the -whip. Then Mr. Puddlebox scrambled forward a yard, placing himself -between Mr. Wriford and the approaching fury. "Down you go, loony; -he's not seen you. Hide yourself, boy." Then Mr. Puddlebox's elbow -and then his knee at Mr. Wriford's chest, and Mr. Wriford was -slithered down the sacks and fallen in the road. - -Now from above, and before yet Mr. Wriford could get to his feet, -very quick things. Baleful howl from the flaming wagoner standing on -his driver's seat and towering there in omnipotent command of the -wagon-top. Appalling whistle-_wup_ of the whip in his mighty and -ferocious hand. Pitiful yelps from Mr. Puddlebox, head and shoulders -exposed, baggy stern, surmounted by the bulging pockets, suspended -above Mr. Wriford in the road and wriggling this way and that as the -whip fell. Baleful howl from the flaming wagoner and the -whistle-_wup!_ at each loudest word of it: "Now, my beauty, I've GOT -yer!" - -Pitiful yelp from Mr. Puddlebox: "Yowp! Hup!" - -"Now I'll CUT your liver out for yer."--"Yeep! Hup!" - -"Before I have my BLINKIN' 'air cut."--"Yowp!" - -"Now I'll CUT your liver out, my beauty."--"_Yowp! Yeep! Hup!_ -Hell!" - -Beneath the blows and the convulsive wrigglings they caused, Mr. -Puddlebox's stern slipped lower down the sacks. Mr. Wriford -scrambled to his feet from where he was fallen to the road. He was -utterly terrified. He turned to run. He stopped, and a cry of new -fear escaped him. Figure of Wriford stood there. - -Mr. Wriford put a hand before his eyes and went a few steps to the -side of the wagon and stopped again, irresolute. - -There came from above again that bellow, again whistle-_wup!_ of the -whip, again from Mr. Puddlebox in agonized response: "Yowp! Hup!" - -Mr. Wriford cried aloud: "Oh, why doesn't he drop down?" - -It seemed to him that Figure of Wriford turned upon him with flaming -eyes and grinding teeth and for the first time spoke to him: "Why, to -give you time to get away and hide--to save you, you filthy coward!" - -Mr. Wriford cried: "Oh--oh!" - -And at once a dramatic change of scene. In one sudden and tremendous -bound the flaming wagoner hurled himself from the seat to the road, -rushed bawling around his wagon on the opposite side from where Mr. -Wriford trembled, came full beneath the hanging stern of Mr. -Puddlebox, and discharged upon it a cut of his whip that made pretty -caresses of his former efforts. "Now I've got you, my beauty!" - -With a loud and exceeding bitter cry, the beauty released his hold. -As thunders the mountain avalanche, so thundered he. As falls the -stricken oak so, avalanched, the flaming wagoner fell beneath him. - -There was a very loud crash of breaking bottles, and immediately upon -the hot summer air a pungent reek of whisky. There were enormous -convulsions of Mr. Puddlebox and the wagoner entwined in one great -writhing double monster prone in the roadway, and from them a -tremendous cloud of dust. There were thuds, oaths, _yawps_, _yeeps_, -bellows, and with them the pleasant music of broken bottles jangling. -The double monster came to its four knees and writhed there; very -laboriously--as if it were a rheumatic giant--writhed to its four -legs and there stood and writhed amain; divided suddenly, and there -was an appalling wallop from one to the other, and Mr. Puddlebox went -reeling, musically jangling, and the flaming wagoner, carried round -by the wallop's impetus, came staggering sideways a pace towards Mr. -Wriford. - -Mr. Wriford put down his head and shut his eyes and rushed at him. -Mr. Wriford, as he rushed, saw Figure of Wriford disappear as if -swallowed. Mr. Wriford caught his foot in the wheel, was discharged -like a butting ram at the backs of the flaming wagoner's knees, -clutched, wrenched, was down with the bawling wagoner beating at his -head, and then, clutching and struggling, was overturned beneath him. -Mr. Wriford heard a yell, first of warning, then of triumph, from Mr. -Puddlebox: "Keep out of it, loony! Well done, boy! Well done! -Glumph him, boy! Glumph him!" There was a terrible run and kick -from Mr. Puddlebox, and a terrible jerk and cry from the flaming -wagoner, and in the next moment Mr. Wriford was on his feet and -taking share, his eyes mostly shut, in a whirlwind, three-sided -battle that spun up the road and down the road and across the road, -and in which sometimes Mr. Wriford hit Mr. Puddlebox, and sometimes -Mr. Puddlebox hit Mr. Wriford, and sometimes both hit the wagoner and -sometimes by him were hit--a whirlwind, three-sided battle, in which, -in short, by common intent of the three, the thing to do was simply -to _hit_ and to roar. Six arms whirling enormous thumps; six legs -lashing tremendous kicks; the air and three bodies receiving them; -one mouth bawling curses of the very pit of obscenity; another -howling: "Glumph him, boy! Glumph him!" Mr. Wriford's mouth -laughing with fierce, exultant, hysterical glee. - -The sudden rush that had rid Mr. Wriford of Figure of Wriford had -returned him, and returned him with recklessness a hundredfold, to -the mood, reckless of what happened to him, that had first embarked -him on the wagon. And more than that. Out of the clutch of -cowardice and lusting into the lust of action! When swinging his -legs over the tail-board of the wagon, he had but gleefully thought -of how now he was free, of caring nothing what happened to him, of -gleefully throwing himself into any mad adventure. He had but -thought of it; now he was in it! in it! in it! and in it! became the -slogan of his fighting as he fought. "In it!" and a blind whirling -wallop at the flaming wagoner's flaming face. "In it!" and colliding -heavily with one of Mr. Puddlebox's glumphing rushes, and laughing -aloud. "In it!" and spun staggering with a thump of one of the -wagoner's whirling sledge-hammers, and staggering but to come with a -fierce glee "In it! In it!" once again. Out of the clutch of -cowardice that had him a moment before--cowardice bested for the -first time in all these years of its nightmare sovereignty: and at -that thought "In it! in it! in it!" with fierce and fiercer lust and -fierce and fiercer and fiercest exultation. "In it!" Ah! - - -This extraordinary battle--extraordinary for a shrinking, -gentlemanly, refined, well-dressed, comfortably housed, -afternoon-tea-drinking Londoner--raged, if it had any order at all, -about the towering person of the liver-cutting wagoner, and now went -bawling to its end. - -For this gentleman would no sooner get the liver of one antagonist in -his fiery clutches than the other would come at him like a runaway -horse and require attention that resulted in the escape of the first. -And now a liver, heavily embedded in the bulky waist of Mr. -Puddlebox, came at him head down with a force and with a fortune of -aim that not even a stouter man than the wagoner could have withstood. - -A very terrible buffet had just been inflicted upon Mr. Puddlebox. A -sledge-hammer wallop from the wagoner had caught him in the throat -("_Ooop!_") and remained there, squeezing ("_Arrp!_"). The other -hand had then clawed him like a tiger's bite in close proximity to -his coveted liver ("_Arrp! Ooop!_"); and the two hands had finally -hurled him ten feet away to end in a most shattering fall ("UMP!"). -This manoeuvre was carried out by the flaming wagoner from the side -of the ditch to which repeated rushes had driven him, and now he -turned and directed a stupendous kick at Mr. Wriford, who came -fiercely on his left. Mr. Wriford twisted; the immense boot but -scraped him. - -Then Mr. Puddlebox--the flaming wagoner on one leg, vitally exposed. - -Mr. Puddlebox, head down, eyes shut, arms stretched behind him, -hymned on to victory by the music of the broken bottles in his -coat-tails, bounding across the road at the highest speed of which he -was capable and into the liver-cutting gentleman's own liver and wind -with stunning and irresistible force and rich clash of jangling glass. - -Prone into the ditch the liver-cutting gentleman and there -lay--advertising his presence only by those distressing groans which -are at once the symptom of a winding and the only sound of which a -winded is capable. - -Mr. Puddlebox, also in the ditch, separated himself from the stricken -mass and, stepping upon it, emerged upon the victorious battle-field -rubbing his head. - -A very loud, panting "Hurrah!" from Mr. Wriford; but before further -felicitations could be exchanged, attention was demanded by a fourth -party to the scene, who had been approaching unobserved for some -time, and who now arrived and announced himself with: "Now then--hur!" - - - - -CHAPTER III - -DISTURBED EQUIPOISE OF A COUNTERBALANCING MACHINE - -This was a sergeant of police, short, red, hot, neckless, filled with -a seeming excess of bile, or of self-importance, which he must needs -correct or affirm--according as it was the one or the other--with a -_hur!_ at the end of each sentence, and balanced by prodigious -development in the rear against the remarkable fullness beneath his -tunic in the front, which he carried rather as though it were a drum -or some other detachable article that must be conducted with care. - -Mr. Wriford was a little tickled at this gentleman's appearance and, -of the reckless mood that had him--panting, flaming, bruised, -exulting--was not at all inclined to be hectored in the way that the -_hur!_ seemed to suggest was the sergeant's custom. Trained, -however, to the Londoner's proper respect for a policeman, he -answered, still panting: "There's been a bit of a fight." - -"Saw that--hur!" said the sergeant. "Three of you when I come along. -Where's the other--hur!" - -"In the ditch," said Mr. Wriford. "Can't you hear him?" - -The sergeant carried his drum carefully to the sound of the winded -groans and, lowering it so far as he was able, peered over its -circumference at the prostrate wagoner. In this position his -posterior development, called upon to exercise its counterbalancing -effect in the highest degree, displayed itself to immense advantage, -and Mr. Wriford eyed it with a twitching of his face that spoke of a -sudden freakish thought. - -The sergeant readjusted his drum and turned upon him: "Who's done -this? Hur!" - -"Been a fight, I tell you," said Mr. Wriford, and laughed at the idea -that had been in his mind and at the look it would have caused on the -sergeant's face if he had executed it. - -The sergeant drew in a breath that raised the drum in a motion that -spelt rufflement. "Don't want you to tell me nothing but what you're -asked," he said. "Man lying here hurt. Case of assault--hur!" He -moved the drum slowly in the direction of Mr. Puddlebox and this time -"hured" before he spoke. "Hur! Thought I knew you as I come along. -Seen you afore--in the dock,--ain't I?" - -"I've been in so many," said Mr. Puddlebox amicably, wiping his face -from which the sweat streamed, "that if I've omitted yours, you must -put it down to oversight, not unfriendliness." - -"None o' that!" returned the sergeant. "No sauce. I know yer. -Charged with assault, both of yer, an' anything said used evidence -against yer. Hur! Who's this man down here?" - -"Look and see if you know him," Mr. Wriford suggested. "I don't." - -The drum was again advanced to the ditch, and the counterbalancing -operation again very carefully put into process. Mr. Wriford's eyes -danced with the wild idea that possessed him. To cap this tremendous -hullabaloo in which he had been in it! in it! in it! To fly the -wildest flight of all! To overturn, with a walloping kick, a -policeman! - -He drew near to Mr. Puddlebox and pulled his sleeve to attract his -attention. - -"Why, that's George!" said the sergeant, midway in operation of his -counterbalancing machine. "That's old George Huggs--hur!" - -"Can't be!" said Mr. Wriford and pulled Mr. Puddlebox's sleeve, and -pointed first at the tremendous uniformed stern gingerly lowering the -tunic-ed drum, then at his own foot, then down the road. - -"Can't be!" returned the sergeant. "What yer mean, can't be! That's -Miller Derrybill's George Huggs. George! George, you've got to come -out and prosecute. George, I say--hur!" - -Mr. Puddlebox, realizing the meaning of Mr. Wriford's pantomime, -puffed out his cheeks with laughter bursting to be free and nodded. -Mr. Wriford took one quick step and poised his foot at the tremendous -target. - -"George!" said the sergeant. "George Huggs! Hur!" - -"Whoop!" said Mr. Wriford, and lashed. - -The counterbalancing machine, not specified for this manner of usage, -overturned with the slow and awful movement of a somersaulting -elephant. One agonized scream from its owner, one dreadful bellow -from George Huggs as the enormous sergeant plunged head foremost upon -him--Mr. Wriford and Mr. Puddlebox, shouts of laughter handicapping -their progress but impossible of control, at full speed down the road. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -FIRST PERSON SINGULAR - -I - -Close of this day found the two in the outlying barn of a farm to -which, as night fell, Mr. Puddlebox had led the way. There had -intervened between it and the glorious battle-field an imperial -midday banquet at an inn provided by Mr. Wriford, who found sixteen -shillings in his pocket and had expended upon the meal four, upon -sundries for further repasts one, and upon a bottle of whisky to -replace the music in Mr. Puddlebox's coat-tail three and six. Thence -a long amble to put much countryside between themselves and the -mighty gentlemen left in the ditch, and so luxuriously to bed upon -delicious hay, three parts of the whisky in the bottle, the other -quarter comfortably packed into Mr. Puddlebox. - -Through the banquet and through the day there had been bursts of -laughter, started by one and immediately chorused by the other, at -recollections of the stupendous struggle and the stupendous kick; -also, prompted by Mr. Wriford, reiterated conversation upon a -particular aspect of the affair. - -"I did my share?" Mr. Wriford would eagerly inquire. - -"Loony, you did two men's share," Mr. Puddlebox would reply. "And -your kick of the policeman was another two men's--four men's share, -boy. I didn't want you in it, loony. You're not fit for such, I -thought. But you glumphed 'em, boy! You glumphed 'em like six men! -Loony, you're unspooking--you're unspooking double quick!" - -Mr. Wriford thrilled at that and laughed aloud and swung his arms in -glee, and through the advancing night, lying warmly in the hay by Mr. -Puddlebox's side, continued to feast upon it and to chuckle over it; -and while he feasted and chuckled very often said to himself: "And -that's the way to get rid of myself following me. When I was -frightened by the wagon, he came. When I was walloping and smashing, -he went and hasn't come back. Very well. Now I know." - - - -II - -Mr. Wriford enjoyed some hours of dreamless sleep. He awoke, and on -the hay and in the darkness lay awake and thought. - -"Well, this is a very funny state of affairs," Mr. Wriford thought. -"Except that I'm in a barn and shall get locked up for a tramp if I'm -caught, or at least into a devil of a row with the farmer if he -catches me, I'm dashed if I know where I am. I've stolen a ride on a -wagon, and I've had a most extraordinary fight in the road with the -chap who was driving it. My eyes were shut half the time. I wonder -I wasn't killed. I must have got some fearful smashes. I suppose I -didn't feel them--you don't when your blood's up. I belted him a few -stiff 'uns, though; by gad, I did! I don't know how I had the pluck. -I wonder what's the matter with me--I mean to say, me! fighting a -chap like that. And then I kicked a policeman. Good Lord, you -know--that's about the most appalling thing a man can do! Kicked him -bang over--heels over head! By gad, he did go a buster, though!" -And at recollection of the buster that the police sergeant went, Mr. -Wriford began to laugh and laughed quietly for a good while. - -Then he began to think again. "I chucked myself into the river," Mr. -Wriford thought. "I'd forgotten that. I've not thought about it -since I did it. Good Lord, that was a thing to do! I didn't mean -to. One moment I was walking along the Embankment, and the next I -was falling in. I wonder what I did in between--how I got up, how I -got in. I wanted to die. Yes, I tried to drown and die. I suppose -I'm not dead? No, I can't possibly be dead. Everything's funny -enough to be another world, but I take my oath I'm not dead. This -chap Puddlebox--which can't possibly be his real name--thinks I'm -mad. But I'm absolutely not mad. I may be dead--I know I'm not, -though; at least I'm pretty sure I'm not--but I'm dashed if I'm mad. -I've been too near madness--God knows--not to know it when I see it. -Those sort of rushes-up in my head--I might have gone mad any time -with one of those. Well, they're gone. I'll never have another; I -feel absolutely sure of that. My head feels empty--feels as though -it was a different part of me, like I've known my foot feel when it's -gone to sleep and I can touch it without feeling it. Before, my head -used to feel full, cram full. That's the only difference and that's -not mad: it's just the reverse, if anything. What about seeing -myself? Who am I then? I mean to say, am I the one I can see or the -one I think I am? Well, the thing is, is there any one there when I -see him or is it only imagination, only a delusion? If it's a -delusion, then it's madness and I'm mad. Well, the very fact that I -know that, proves it isn't a delusion and proves I'm absolutely sane; -the very fact that I can lie here and argue about it and that I can't -see it now because it isn't here, and can see it sometimes because it -is there--that very fact proves I'm not mad. I think I know what it -is. It's the same sort of thing as I remember once or twice years -ago, when I first came to London and had a night out with some men -and got a bit tipsy. I remember then sort of seeing myself--sort of -trying to pull myself together and realise who I really was; and -while I was trying, I could see myself playing the fool and -staggering about and making an ass of myself. It was the drink that -did that--that kind of separated me into two. Now I've done the same -thing by trying to drown myself and nearly succeeding and by coming -into this extraordinary state of affairs after living in a groove so -long. Part of me is still in that old life and gets the upper hand -of me sometimes, just as the drink used to. I've only got to realise -that I've done with all that, and I've only got to smash about and -not care what happens to me, and I'm all right. - -"And I have done with it," cried Mr. Wriford aloud and fiercely, and -sitting up and continuing to speak very quickly. "I have done with -it! All these years I've been shut up and never enjoyed myself like -other men. I've given up my life to others and got mixed up in their -troubles and never been able to live for myself. Now I'm going to -begin life all over again. I'm not going to care for anybody. I'm -just going to let myself--go! I'm not going to care what happens. -I'm not going to think of other people's feelings. I'm not going to -be polite or care a damn what anybody thinks. If I get hurt, I'm -just going to be hurt and not care. If I want to do what would have -seemed wrong in the old days, I'm just going to do it and not care. -I've cared too much! that's what's been wrong with me. Now I'm not -going to care for anything or anybody. This chap Puddlebox said that -what was wrong with me was that I thought too much about myself. I -remember Brida telling me the same thing once. That's just exactly -what it's not. All my life I've thought too much about other people. -That's been the trouble. Done! Whoop, my boy, it's done! There's -not going to be anybody in the world for myself except me--yes, and -not even me. I'm going to be outside it all and just look on--and -this me lying here can do what it likes, anything it likes. Hurt -itself, starve itself, chuck itself down--that's one of the things I -want to do: to get up somewhere and chuck myself down _smash!_ and -see what happens and laugh at it, whatever it is. I'm simply not -going to care. I belong to myself--or rather myself belongs to me, -and I'm going to do what I like with it--just exactly what I like. -Puddlebox!" - -Mr. Wriford turned to the recumbent form beside him to nudge it into -wakefulness, but found it already awake. The gleam of Mr. -Puddlebox's open eyes was to be seen in the darkness, and Mr. -Puddlebox said: "Loony, how many of you are here this morning?" - -"There's only me," said Mr. Wriford. "I'm not going to care--" - -"You're spooked again, loony," Mr. Puddlebox interrupted him. "I've -been listening to you talking." - -"Well, you can listen to this," said Mr. Wriford. "I'm not going to -care a damn what happens to me or care a hang for anybody--you or -anybody." - -"Very well," said Mr. Puddlebox. "That's settled." - -"So it is," said Mr. Wriford, "and I tell you what I'm going to do -first." - -Sufficient of morning was by now stealing through cracks and crevices -of the barn to radiate its gloom. Two great doors admitted to the -interior. Between them ran a gangway of bricked floor with hay -stacked upwards to the roof on either hand. Mr. Wriford could almost -touch the roof where now he stood up, his feet sinking in the hay, -and could see the top of the ladder by which overnight they had -climbed to their bed. "What I'm going to do first," said Mr. -Wriford, pointing to the gangway beneath them, "is to jump down there -and see what happens." - -"Well, I'll tell you what you are going to do last," returned Mr. -Puddlebox, "and that also is jump down there, because you'll break -your neck and that'll be the end of you, boy." - -"I'm going to see," said Mr. Wriford. "Smash! That's just what I -want to see." - -"Half a minute," said Mr. Puddlebox and caught Mr. Wriford's coat. -"Just a moment, my loony, for there's some one else wants to see -also. There's some one coming in." - - - - -CHAPTER V - -INTENTIONS, IN HIS NIGHTSHIRT, OF A FARMER - -It was symptomatic of Mr. Wriford's state in these days that any -interruption at once diverted him from his immediate purpose and -turned him eagerly to whatever new excitement offered. So now, and -here was an excitement that promised richly. Perched up there in the -darkness and with the guilty knowledge of being a trespasser, it was -a very tingling thing to hear the sounds to which Mr. Puddlebox had -called attention and, peering towards the door from which they came, -to speculate into what alarms they should develop. This was speedily -discovered. The sounds proceeded from the door opposite to that by -which entry had been made overnight, and from fumbling passed into a -jingling of keys, a turning of the lock, and so gave admittance to a -gleam of yellow light that immediately was followed by a man bearing -a lantern swinging from his left hand and in his right a bunch of -keys. - -This was a curious gentleman who now performed curious actions. -First he peered about him, holding the lantern aloft, and this -disclosed him to be short and very ugly, having beneath a black -growth on his upper lip yellow teeth that protruded and came down -upon his lower. This gentleman was hatless and in a shirt without -collar lumped so bulgingly into the top of his trousers as to present -the idea that it was very long. Indeed, as he turned about, the -lantern at arm's length above his head, it became clear to those who -watched that this was his nightshirt that he wore. Next he set down -the lantern, locked the door by which he had entered, placed across -it an iron bar which fell into a bracket on either side, took up his -light again, and proceeded along the gangway. - -All this he did very stealthily--turning the key so that the lock -could scarcely be heard as it responded, fitting his iron bar, first -with great attention on the one side and then on the other, and then -walking forward on his toes with manifest straining after secrecy. A -rat scurried in the straw behind him, and he twisted round towards it -as though terribly startled, with a quick hiss of his breath and with -his hand that held the keys clapped swiftly to his heart. - -Now he came beneath the stack upon which our two trespassers watched -and wondered, and there remained for a space lost from view. There -was to be heard a clinking as though he operated with his lantern, -and with it a shuffling as though he disturbed the straw. Next he -suddenly went very swiftly to the further door, passed through it in -haste, and could be heard locking it from the outside, then wrenching -at the key as though in a great hurry to be gone, then gone. - -"That's funny," said Mr. Wriford. "Was he looking for something?" - -"He was precious secret about it," said Mr. Puddlebox. - -"Damn it," cried Mr. Wriford, "he's left his lamp behind. You can -see the gleam." - -Mr. Puddlebox, like curious hound that investigates the breeze, sat -with chin up and with twitching nose; then sprang to his feet. -"Curse it," cried Mr. Puddlebox, "he's set the place afire! Skip, -loony, skip, or we're trapped!" and Mr. Puddlebox hurled himself -towards the ladder, reversed himself upon it, missed a rung in his -haste, and with a very loud cry disappeared with great swiftness, and -with a very loud bump crashed with great force to the ground. - -Mr. Wriford followed. Mr. Wriford, with no very clear comprehension -of what was toward, but very eager, also slipped, also slithered, and -also crashed. - -"Hell!" cried Mr. Puddlebox. "Blink! Get _off_ me, loony!" - -Mr. Wriford was raised and rolled as by convulsion of a mountain -beneath him. As he rolled, he had a glimpse of the lantern embedded -in a nest of straw, its smoky flame naked of chimney, and from the -flame towards the straw a strip of cloth with a little red smoulder -midway upon it. As he sat up, the smoulder flared to a little puff -of flame, ran swiftly down the cloth, flared again in the straw, then -was eclipsed beneath the mighty Puddlebox, bounded forward from hands -and knees upon it. - -"The lamp, boy!" bellowed Mr. Puddlebox. - -Mr. Wriford dashed at the lamp, bestowed upon it all the breath he -could summon, and flattened himself beside Mr. Puddlebox upon a -spread of flame that, as he blew, ran from lantern to straw. - -"Good boy!" said Mr. Puddlebox. "That was quick," and himself at -once did something quicker. Very cautiously first he raised his body -upon his hands and knees, squinted beneath it, then dropped it again -with immense swiftness and wriggled it violently into the straw. -"I'm still burning down here," cried Mr. Puddlebox, and turned a face -of much woe and concern towards Mr. Wriford, and inquired: "How's -yours, loony?" - -Mr. Wriford went through the first, or cautious, portion of Mr. -Puddlebox's performance and announced: "Mine's out. Get up and let's -have a look." - -"Why," said Mr. Puddlebox irritably, "how to the devil can I get up? -If I get up it will burst out, and if I lie here I shall be slowly -roasted alive. This is the most devil of a predicament that ever a -man was in, and I will challenge any man to be in a worse. -_Unch_--my stomach is already like a pot on the fire. Ooch! Blink." - -"Well, the fire's simply gaining while you lie there," cried Mr. -Wriford. "I can smell it. It's simply gaining, you ass." - -"Ass!" cried Mr. Puddlebox. "Ass! I tell you it is you will look an -ass and a roast ass if I move. I can get no weight on it to crush it -like this. Unch! What I am going to do is to turn over and press it -down, moreover I can bear roasting better on that other side of me. -Now be ready to give me a hand if the flames burst, and be ready to -run, loony--up the ladder and try the roof." - -Mr. Puddlebox then raised his chest upon his arms, made a face of -great agony as the released pressure caused his stomach to feel the -heat more fiercely, then with a stupendous convulsion hurled himself -about and gave first a very loud cry as the new quarter of his person -took the fire and then many wriggles and a succession of groans as -with great courage he pressed his seat down upon the smouldering -embers. Lower he wriggled, still groaning. "Ah," groaned Mr. -Puddlebox. "Arp. Ooop. Erp. Blink. Eep. Erps. Ooop. Hell!" -He then felt about him with his hands, and with the fingers of one -finding what he sought and finding it uncommonly hot, brought his -fingers to his mouth with a bitter yelp; fumbled again most -cautiously, wriggled yet more determinedly, groaned anew, yet at -longer intervals, and presently, a beaming smile overspreading his -countenance, raised an arm aloft and announced triumphantly: "Out!" - -"Out!" repeated Mr. Puddlebox, rising and beating smoulder from his -waistcoat with one hand and from his trousers with the other. - -"You were devilish plucky," said Mr. Wriford. "I can't help laughing -now it's over, you know. But it was a narrow squeak. You were quick -getting down, and you saved both our lives by hanging on like that." - -"Why, you were quick, too, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox. "You were quick -after me as a flash--and plucky. I'd not have done it alone. You're -coming on, boy; you're coming on. You're unspooking every minute." - -"I did nothing," said Mr. Wriford. But he was secretly glad at the -praise, and this, joined to his earlier determination to care nothing -for anybody nor for what happened to him, spurred him to give eager -aid to what Mr. Puddlebox now proposed. - -"I am parboiled in front," said Mr. Puddlebox, finishing his beating -of himself, "and I am underdone behind; but the fire is out, and now -it is for us to get out. Loony, that was a damned, cold-blooded -villain that came here to burn us, and a damned ugly villain as ever -I saw, and I will challenge any man to show me an uglier. There is a -lesson to be taught him, my loony, and there is compensation to be -paid by him; and this he shall be taught and shall pay before I am an -hour older in sin." - -With this Mr. Puddlebox marched very determinedly up the ladder which -he had descended very abruptly, and preceded Mr. Wriford across the -top of the hay to the point where this was nearest met by the sloping -roof. "It's all very fine," doubted Mr. Wriford, addressing the -determined back as they made their way, "it's all very fine, -Puddlebox, but mind you we look like getting ourselves in a devil of -a fix if we go messing round this chap, whoever he is. He's probably -the farmer. If he is it looks as if he wanted to fire his barn to -get the insurance; and it'll be an easy thing for him, and a jolly -good thing, to shove the blame on us. That's what I think." - -"Loony," returned Mr. Puddlebox, arrived under the roof and facing -him, "you think too much, and that's just what's the matter with you, -as I've told you before. To begin with, his barn has not been burnt, -and that's just where we've got him. We are heroes, my loony, and I -am a burnt hero, and some one's got to pay for it." - -Mr. Wriford's reply to this was first a look of sharp despair upon -his face and then to raise his fists and drum them fiercely upon his -head. - -"Why, boy! boy!" cried Mr. Puddlebox and caught Mr. Wriford's hands -and held them. "Why, what to the devil is that for?" - -"That's for what I was doing!" cried Mr. Wriford. "That's because I -stopped to think. I'm never going to think any more, and I'm never -going to stop any more. And if I catch myself stopping or thinking I -shall kill myself if need be!" - -"Well, why to the devil," said Mr. Puddlebox very quickly, "do you -stop to beat yourself instead of doing what I tell you? Where -there's a little hole, my loony, there's easy work to make a big one. -Here's plenty of little holes in these old tiles of this roof. Up on -my shoulders, loony, and get to work on them." - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -RISE AND FALL OF INTEREST IN A FARMER - -Symptomatic again of Mr. Wriford's condition that his storm was gone -as quickly as it came. Now filled him only the adventure of breaking -out; and he was no sooner, with much laughter, straddled upon Mr. -Puddlebox's shoulders and pulling at the tiles, than with smallest -effort the little holes in the weather-worn roofing became the large -one that Mr. Puddlebox had promised. - -"Whoa!" cried Mr. Puddlebox, plunging in the yielding hay beneath Mr. -Wriford's weight. - -"Whoa!" echoed Mr. Wriford, and to check the staggering grabbed at -the crumbling tiles. - -"Blink!" cried Mr. Puddlebox and collapsed. "Curse me, is the roof -come in on us?" - -Mr. Wriford extricated himself and stood away, rubbing his head that -had received tiles like discharge of thunderbolts. "A pretty good -chunk of it has," said Mr. Wriford. "There's your hole right enough." - -This was indeed a great rent capable of accommodating their purpose -and more; and Mr. Puddlebox, whose head also needed rubbing, now -arose and examined it with his customary cheerfulness. "That's a -fine hole, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox, "and a clever one also, for here -to this side of it runs a beam which, if it will support us, will -have us out, and if it will not, will fetch the whole roof down and -have us out that way. Jump for the beam, boy, while I lift you." - -Mr. Puddlebox's hands on either side of Mr. Wriford's hips, jumping -him, and then at his legs, shoving him, enabled Mr. Wriford with -small exertion soon to be straddled along the roof, and then with -very enormous exertion to engage in the prodigious task of dragging -Mr. Puddlebox after him. When this was accomplished so far as that -Mr. Puddlebox's arms, head and chest were upon the beam and the -remainder of his body suspended from it, "It's devilish steep up -here," grunted Mr. Wriford, flat on his face, hauling amain on the -slack of Mr. Puddlebox's trousers, and not at all at his strongest by -reason of much laughter at Mr. Puddlebox's groans and strainings; -"it's devilish steep and nothing to hold on to. Look out how you -come or you'll have us both over and break our necks." - -"Well, when to the devil shall I come?" groaned Mr. Puddlebox. "This -is the very devil of a pain to have my stomach in; and I challenge -any man to have his stomach in a worse. I must drop down again or I -am like to be cut in halves." - -"I'll never get you up again if you do," Mr. Wriford told him. "I've -got your trousers tight to heave you if you'll swing. Swing your -legs sideways, and when I say 'Three' swing them up on the beam as -high as you can." - -The counting of One and Two set Mr. Puddlebox's legs, aided by Mr. -Wriford's hands on his stern, swinging like a vast pendulum. "Hard -as you can as you come back," called Mr. Wriford, "and hang on like -death when you're up--THREE!" - -With a most tremendous swing the boots of the pendulum reached the -roof and clawed a foothold. Between heels and one shoulder its -powerful stern depended ponderously above the hay. "Heave yourself!" -shouted Mr. Wriford, hauling on the trousers. "Roll yourself! Heave -yourself!" Mr. Puddlebox heaved enormously, rolled tremendously, -and, like the counterbalancing machine of the police sergeant, up -came his stern, and prodigiously over. - -"Look out!" cried Mr. Wriford. "Look out! Let go, you ass!" - -"Blink!" cried Mr. Puddlebox, flat and rolling on the steep pitch of -the roof. "Blink! We're killed!" clutched anew at Mr. Wriford, tore -him from his moorings, and, knotted with him in panic-stricken -embrace, whirled away to take the plunge and then the drop. - -The strawyard in which the barn stood was fortunately well bedded in -straw about the walls of the building. When, with tremendous thump, -with the familiar sound of smashing glass and familiar scent of -whisky upon the morning air, the two had come to rest and had -discovered themselves unbroken--"Why the dickens didn't you let go of -me?" Mr. Wriford demanded. "I could have hung on with one hand and -held you." - -Mr. Puddlebox sat up with his jolly smile and glancing at the height -of their descent gave with much fervour: - -"O ye falls of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify -Him for ever!" - -Mr. Wriford jumped up and waved his arms and laughed aloud and then -cried: "That was all right. Now I'm not caring! Now I'm living!" - -"Why, look you, my loony," said Mr. Puddlebox, beaming upon him with -immense delight, "look you, that was very much all right; and that is -why I return praise for it. We might have been killed in falling -from there, but most certainly we are not killed; and if we had not -fallen we should still be up there, and how I should have found heart -to make such a devil of a leap I am not at all aware. Here we are -down and nothing the worse save for this disaster that, curse me, my -whisky is gone again. Thus there is cause for praise in everything, -as I have told you, and in this fall such mighty good cause as I -shall challenge you or any man to look at that roof and deny. Now," -continued Mr. Puddlebox, getting to his feet, "do you beat your head -again, boy, or do we proceed to the farmhouse?" - -Mr. Wriford said seriously, "No, I'm damned if I beat my head now, -because that time I didn't stop and didn't think except just for a -second when we were falling, and then I couldn't stop even if I'd -wanted to. No, I'm damned if I beat my head this time." - -"What it is," said Mr. Puddlebox, emptying his tail-pocket of the -broken whisky bottle, and proceeding with Mr. Wriford towards the -farmhouse, "what it is, is that you are damned if you do beat your -head--that is, you are spooked, loony, which is the same thing." - -Mr. Wriford paid no apparent attention to this, but his glee at -believing that, as he had said, he now was not caring and now was -living, gave an excited fierceness to his share in their immediate -behaviour, which now became very extraordinary. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -PROFOUND ATTACHMENT TO HIS FARM OF A FARMER - -I - -The front door of the farmhouse, embowered in a porch, was found to -be on the side further from the strawyard. A fine knocker, very -massive, hung upon the door, and this Mr. Puddlebox now seized and -operated very loudly, with effect of noise which, echoing through the -silent house and through the still air of early morning, would in -former circumstances have utterly horrified Mr. Wriford and have put -him to panic-stricken flight in very natural apprehension of what it -would bring forth. Now, however, it had no other effect upon him -than first to make him give a nervous gasp and nervous laugh of -nervous glee, and next himself to seize the knocker and put into it -all the determination of those old days forever ended and these new -days of freedom in which he cared for nothing and for nobody now -begun. - -Fiercely Mr. Wriford knocked until his arm was tired and then flung -down the knocker with a last crash and turned on Mr. Puddlebox a -flushed face and eyes that gleamed. "I don't care a damn what -happens!" he cried. - -"My word," said Mr. Puddlebox, gazing at him, "something is like to -happen now after all that din. You've got hold of yourself this -time, boy." - -Mr. Wriford laughed recklessly. "I'll show you," he cried, "I'll -show you this time!" and took up the knocker again. - -But something was shown without his further effort. His hand was -scarcely put to the knocker, when a casement window grated above the -porch in which they stood, and a very harsh voice cried: "What's up? -Who's that? What's the matter there?" and then with a change of -tone: "What's that light in the sky? Is there a fire?" - -Mr. Wriford, his new fierceness of not caring, of letting himself go, -fierce upon him, was for rushing out of the porch to look up at the -window and face this inquiry, but Mr. Puddlebox a moment restrained -him. "That's our old villain for sure," Mr. Puddlebox whispered. -"There's no ghost of light in the sky that fire would make; but he's -prepared for one, and that proves him the old villain that he is." - -"Now, then!" rasped the voice. "Who are you down there? What's up? -What's that light in the sky?" - -Out from the porch charged Mr. Wriford, Mr. Puddlebox with a hand on -his arm bidding him: "Go warily, boy; leave this to me." - -So they faced the window, and there, sure enough, framed within it, -was displayed the gentleman that had been seen with the lantern, with -the black scrub upon his upper lip, and with the yellow teeth -protruded beneath it. - -"That light is the moon," Mr. Puddlebox informed him pleasantly. -"Luna, the dear old moon. Queen-Empress of the skies." - -"The moon!" shouted the yellow-toothed gentleman. "The moon! Who -the devil are you, and what's your business?" - -Mr. Puddlebox responded stoutly to this rough address. "Why, what to -the devil else should it be but the moon? Is it something else -you're looking for--?" - -The yellow-toothed gentleman interrupted him by leaning out to his -waist from the window and bellowing: "Something else! Come, what the -devil's up and what's your business, or I'll rouse the house and set -about the pair of 'ee." - -Then Mr. Wriford, no longer to be restrained. Mr. Wriford, fierce to -indulge his resolution not to care for anybody and shaking with the -excitement of it. Mr. Wriford, to Mr. Puddlebox's much astonishment, -in huge and ferocious bawl: "What's up!" bawled Mr. Wriford, hopping -about in reckless ecstasy of fierceness. "What's up! Why, you know -jolly well what's up, you beastly old villain. Tried to set your -barn afire, you ugly-faced old scoundrel! I saw you! I was in -there! I saw you with your lamp! Come down, you rotten-toothed old -fiend! Come down and have your face smashed, you miserable old -sinner!" - -The gentleman thus opprobriously addressed disappeared with great -swiftness, and immediately could be heard thumping down-stairs with -sounds that betokened bare feet. - -"That's done it," said Mr. Wriford, wiping his face which was very -hot, and placed himself before the porch to await the expected -arrival. - -"My goodness, it has," said Mr. Puddlebox. "You've let yourself go -this time, boy. And what the devil is going to happen next-- - -"I'll show you," cried Mr. Wriford and, as the key turned in the lock -and the door opened, proceeded to the demonstration thus promised -with a fierceness of action even more astonishing than his earlier -outburst of words. - -The door was no sooner opened to reveal the yellow-toothed gentleman -in his nightshirt and bare feet, than Mr. Wriford rushed upon him, -seized him by his flowing garment, and dragged him forth into the -yard. Mr. Wriford then revolved very swiftly, causing the -yellow-toothed gentleman, who had the wider ambit to perform, to -revolve more swiftly yet, and this on naked feet that made him -complain very loudly and bound very highly when they lighted upon a -stone, spun him in these dizzy circles down the yard, and after a -final maze at final speed released him with the result that the -yellow-toothed gentleman first performed a giddy whirl entirely on -his own account, then the half of another on his heels and in mortal -danger of overbalancing, and then, with the best intentions in the -world to complete this circuit, was checked by waltzing into his -duck-pond, wherein with a very loud shriek he disappeared. - -Mr. Wriford again wiped his face, which was now much hotter than -before, and with a cry of "Come on!" to Mr. Puddlebox, who was -staring in amazement towards the pond and its struggling occupant, -made a run to the house. Mr. Puddlebox joined him within the door, -and Mr. Wriford then locked the door behind them, and looking very -elatedly at Mr. Puddlebox, inquired of him triumphantly: "Well, what -about that?" - -"Loony," said Mr. Puddlebox, "I never saw the like of it. It's a -licker." - -"So it is!" cried Mr. Wriford. "I fairly buzzed him, didn't I? You -needn't whisper. There's no one here but ourselves, I'm pretty sure. -I'm pretty sure that chap's managed to get the place to himself so -that he could make no mistake about getting his barn burnt down. -Anyway, I'm going to see, and I don't care a dash if there is." And -by way of seeing, Mr. Wriford put up his head and shouted: "Hulloa! -Hulloa, is there anybody in here?" - -"Hulloa!" echoed Mr. Puddlebox, subscribing with great glee to Mr. -Wriford's excitement. - -"Hulloa!" cried Mr. Wriford in a very loud voice. "If anybody wants -a hit in the eye come along down and ask for it!" - -To this engaging invitation there was from within the house no -answer; but from without, against the door, a very loud thud which -was the yellow-toothed gentleman hurling himself against it, and then -his fists beating against it and his voice crying: "Let me in! Let -me in, won't you!" - -"No, I won't!" called Mr. Wriford, and answered the banging with -lusty and defiant kicks. "Get back to your pond or I'll come and -throw you there." - -"I'm cold," cried the yellow-toothed gentleman, changing his voice to -one of entreaty. "Look here, I want to talk to you." - -"Go and light your barn again and warm yourself," shouted Mr. -Puddlebox; but the laughter with which he shouted it was suddenly -checked, for the yellow-toothed gentleman was heard to call: "Hullo! -Hi! Jo! Quick, Jo! Come along quick!" - -"Boy," said Mr. Puddlebox, "we ought to have got away from this while -he was in the pond. What to the devil's going to happen now?" - -"Listen," said Mr. Wriford; but they had scarcely listened a minute -before there happened a sound of breaking glass in an adjoining room. -"They're getting in through a window," cried Mr. Wriford. "We must -keep them out." - -Several doors led from the spacious old hall in which they stood, and -Mr. Puddlebox, choosing one, chose the wrong one, for here was an -apartment whose window stood intact and beyond which the sounds of -entry could still be heard. A further door in this room that might -have led to them was found to be locked and without key. Mr. -Puddlebox and Mr. Wriford charged back to the hall, down the hall -alongside this room, through a door which led to a passage behind it, -and thence through another door which revealed one gentleman in his -nightshirt, yellow and black with mire from head to foot, who was -reaching down a wide-mouthed gun from the wall, and another gentleman -in corduroys, having a bucolic countenance which was very white, who -in the act of entry had one leg on the floor and the other through -the window. - - - -II - -"If they've got in we'll run for it," Mr. Puddlebox had said as they -came down the passage. But the room was entered so impetuously that -the only running done was, perforce, into it, and at that with a -stumbling rush on the part of Mr. Puddlebox into the back of the -nightshirt and the collapse of Mr. Wriford over Mr. Puddlebox's heels -upon him. Mr. Puddlebox encircled the nightshirt about its waist -with his arms; the nightshirt, gun in hand, staggered towards the -corduroy and with the gun swept its supporting leg from under it; the -gun discharged itself through its bell-shaped mouth with an appalling -explosion; the corduroy with a loud shriek to the effect that he was -dead fell upon the head of the nightshirt; and there was immediately -a tumult of four bodies with sixteen whirling legs and arms, no party -to which had any clear perception as to the limbs that belonged to -himself, or any other strategy of campaign than to claw and thump at -whatever portion of whoever's body offered itself for the process. -There were, with all this, cries of very many kinds and much -obscenity of meaning, changing thrice to a universal bellow of horror -as first a table and its contents discharged itself upon the mass, -then a dresser with an artillery of plates and dishes, and finally a -grandfather clock which, descending sideways along the wall, swept -with it a comprehensive array of mural decorations. - -Assortment of arms and legs was at length begun out of all this -welter by the corduroyed gentleman who, finding himself not dead as -he had believed, but in great danger of reaching that state in some -very horrible form, found also his own hands and knees and upon them -crawled away very rapidly towards an adjoining room whose door stood -invitingly open. There were fastened to his legs as he did so a pair -of hands whose owner he first drew after him, then dislodged by, on -the threshold of the open door, beating at them with a broken plate, -and having done so, sprung upright to make for safety. The owner of -the hands however sprung with him, attached them--and it was Mr. -Wriford--to his throat, and thrust him backwards into the adjoining -room and into the midst of several shallow pans of milk with which -the floor of this room was set. - -This apartment was, in fact, the dairy; and here, while thunder and -crashing proceeded from the other room in which Mr. Puddlebox and the -nightshirt weltered, extraordinary contortions to the tune of great -splashing and tin-pan crashing were forced upon the corduroyed -gentleman by Mr. Wriford's hands at his throat. Broad shelves -encircled this room, and first the corduroyed gentleman was bent -backwards over the lowest of these until the back of his head adhered -to some pounds of butter, then whirled about and bent sideways until -in some peril of meeting his end by suffocation in cream, then -inclined to the other side until a basket of eggs were no longer at -their highest market value, and finally hurled from Mr. Wriford to go -full length and with a large white splash into what pans of milk -remained in position on the floor. - -Mr. Wriford, with a loud "Ha!" of triumph, and feeling, though -greatly bruised in the first portion of the fight and much besmeared -with dairy-produce in the second, much more of a man than he had ever -felt before, then dashed through the door and locked it upon the -corduroy's struggles to free himself from death in a milky grave, and -then prepared to give fierce assistance to the drier but as deadly -fray still waging between Mr. Puddlebox and the nightshirt. - -Upon the welter of crockery and other debris here to view, these -combatants appeared to be practising for a combined rolling match, or -to be engaged in rolling the litter into a smooth and equable -surface. Locked very closely together by their arms, and with equal -intensity by their legs, they rolled first to one end of the room or -to a piece of overturned furniture and then, as if by common consent, -back again to the other end or to another obstacle. This they -performed with immense swiftness and with no vocal sounds save very -distressed breathing as they rolled and very loud and simultaneous -_Ur!_ as they checked at the end of a roll and started back for the -next. - -As Mr. Wriford watched, himself breathing immensely after his own -exertions yet laughing excitedly at what he saw, he was given -opportunity of taking part by the rollers introducing a new diversion -into their exercise. This was provided by the grandfather clock, -which, embedded in the debris like a partly submerged coffin, now -obstructed their progress. A common spirit of splendid determination -not to be stopped by it appeared simultaneously to animate them. -With one very loud _Ur!_ they came against it; with a secondhand a -third and each time a louder _Ur!_ charged it again and again; with a -fourth _Ur!_ magnificently mounted it; and with a fifth, the debris -on this side being lower, plunged down from it. The shock in some -degree relaxed their embrace one with the other. From their locked -forms a pair of naked legs upshot. Mr. Wriford jumped for the -ankles, clutched them amain, and with the information "I've got his -legs!" and with its effect, encouraged Mr. Puddlebox to a mighty -effort, whereby at length he broke free from the other's grasp, sat -upright upon the nightshirt's chest, and then, securing its arms, -faced about towards Mr. Wriford, and seated himself upon the -nightshirt's forehead. - -"Where's yours?" said Mr. Puddlebox, when he had collected sufficient -breath for the question. - -"Locked up in there," said Mr. Wriford, nodding his head towards the -dairy. - -"Loony," said Mr. Puddlebox, "this has been the most devil of a thing -that ever any man has been in, and I challenge you or any man ever to -have been in a worse." - -"I'll have you in a worse," bawled the nightshirt. "I'll--" and as -though incapable of giving sufficient words to his intentions he -opened his mouth very widely and emitted from it a long and roaring -bellow. Into this cavern of his jaws Mr. Puddlebox, now kneeling on -the nightshirt's arms, dropped a cloth cap very conveniently -abandoned by the corduroy; and then, facing across the prostrate -form, Mr. Puddlebox and Mr. Wriford went into a hysteria of laughter -only checked at last by the nightshirt, successfully advantaging -himself of the weakening effect of their mirth, making a tremendous -struggle to overthrow them. - -"But, loony," said Mr. Puddlebox when the farmer was again mastered, -"we are best out of this, for such a battle I could by no means fight -again." - -"Well, I don't care," said Mr. Wriford. "I don't care a dash what -happens or who comes. Still, we'd better go. First we must tie this -chap up and then clean ourselves. My man's all right in there. -There's no window where he is--only a grating round the top. I'll -find something to fix this one with if you can hold his legs." - -This Mr. Puddlebox, by kneeling upon the nightshirt's arms and -stretching over them to his legs, was able to do, and Mr. Wriford, -voyaging the dishevelled room, gave presently a gleeful laugh and -presented himself before Mr. Puddlebox with a wooden box and with -information that made Mr. Puddlebox laugh also and the nightshirt, -unable to shout, to express his personal view in new and tremendous -struggles. - -"Nails," said Mr. Wriford, "and a hammer. We'll nail him down;" and -very methodically, working along each side of each extended arm, and -down each border of the nightshirt pulled taut across his person, -proceeded to attach the yellow-toothed gentleman to the floor more -literally and more closely than any occupier, unless similarly -fastened, can ever have been attached to his boyhood's home. - -"There!" said Mr. Wriford, stepping back and regarding his handiwork, -which was indeed very creditably performed, with conscionable -satisfaction. "There you are, my boy, as tight as a sardine lid, and -if you utter a sound you'll get one through your head as well." - -This, however, was a contingency which the nightshirt, thanks to the -cap in his mouth, was in no great danger of arousing, and leaving him -to enjoy the flavour of his gag and his unique metallic bordering, -which from the hue of his countenance and the flame of his eyes he -appeared indisposed to do, there now followed on the part of Mr. -Wriford and Mr. Puddlebox a very welcome and a highly necessary -adjustment of their toilets. It was performed by Mr. Puddlebox with -his mouth prodigiously distended with a meal collected from the -kitchen, and by Mr. Wriford, as he cooled, with astonished reflection -upon the extraordinary escapades which he had now added to his -exploits of the previous day. "Well, this is a most extraordinary -state of affairs for me," reflected Mr. Wriford, much as he had -reflected earlier in the morning. "Most extraordinary, I'm dashed if -it isn't! I've pretty well killed a chap and drowned him in milk; -and I've slung a chap into a pond and then nailed him down by his -nightshirt. Well, I'm doing things at last; and I don't care a dash -what happens; and I don't care a dash what comes next." - - - -III - -Now this cogitation took place in an upper room whither Mr. Wriford -had repaired in quest of soap and brushes, and what came next came at -once and came very quickly, being first reported by Mr. Puddlebox, -who at this point rushed up-stairs to announce as rapidly as his -distended mouth would permit: "Loony, there's a cart come up to the -door with four men in it--hulkers!" and next illustrated by a loud -knocking responsive to which there immediately arose from the -imprisoned corduroy a great shouting and from the gagged and -nailed-down nightshirt a muffled blaring as of a cow restrained from -its calf. - -Very much quicker than might be supposed, and while Mr. Puddlebox and -Mr. Wriford stared one upon the other in irresolute concern, these -sounds blended into an enormous hullabaloo below stairs which spoke -of the entry by the window of the new arrivals, of the release from -his gag of the nailed-down nightshirt and from his milky gaol of the -imprisoned corduroy, and finally of wild and threatening search which -now came pouring very alarmingly up the stairs. - -Mr. Wriford locked the door, Mr. Puddlebox opened the window, and -immediately their door was first rattled with cries of "Here they -are!" and then assailed by propulsion against it of very violent -bodies. - -The drop from the window was not one to be taken in cold blood. It -was taken, nevertheless, side by side and at hurtling speed by Mr. -Wriford and by Mr. Puddlebox through each half of the casement; and -this done, and the concussion recovered from, the farm surroundings -which divided them from the road were taken also at headlong bounds -accelerated when midway across by a loud crash and by ferocious -view-hulloas from the window. - -The boundary hedge was gained. There was presented to the fugitives -a roadside inn having before it, travel-stained, throbbing, and -unattended, a very handsome touring motor-car. There was urged upon -their resources as they jumped to the road the sight of two men -red-hot in their rear and, more alarmingly, three led by the milky -corduroy short-cutting towards their flank. - -"Blink!" gasped Mr. Puddlebox. "Blink! Hide!" and ran two -bewildered paces up the road and three distracted paces down it. - -"Hide where?" panted Mr. Wriford, his wits much shaken by his run, by -the close sight of the pursuit, and more than ever by Mr. Puddlebox -bumping into him as he turned in his first irresolution and colliding -with him again as he turned in his second. - -"Blink!--Here," cried Mr. Puddlebox, made a dash at the -motor-car--Mr. Wriford in bewildered confusion on his heels--opened -the door, and closing it behind them, crouched with Mr. Wriford on -the floor. - -"Run for it the opposite way as soon as they pass us," said Mr. -Puddlebox. "This is a very devil of a business, and I will -challenge--Here they come!" - -But, quicker than they, came also another, and he from the inn. This -was a young man in livery of a chauffeur, who emerged very hurriedly -wiping his mouth and telling the landlord who followed him: "My -gov'nor won't be half wild if I ain't there by two o'clock." With -which he jumped very nimbly to his wheel, released his clutch, and -with no more than a glance at the milky corduroy and his friends who -now came baying down the hedge, was in a moment bearing Mr. Puddlebox -and Mr. Wriford at immense speed towards wherever it was that his -impatient gov'nor awaited him. - -Mr. Wriford put his hands to his head and said, more to himself than -to Mr. Puddlebox: "Well, this is the most extraordinary--" - -Mr. Puddlebox settled his back against the seat, and cocking a very -merry eye at Mr. Wriford, chanted with enormous fervour: - -"O ye motors of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise Him and magnify -Him for ever." - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -FIRST PERSON EXTRAORDINARY - -"Well--" said Mr. Wriford to himself. - -There is to be added here, as bringing Mr. Wriford to this -exclamation, that at midday the chauffeur, having whirled through -rural England at great speed for some hours on end, again drew up at -a roadside inn no less isolated than that at which he had first -accommodated his passengers, and had no sooner repaired within than -Mr. Puddlebox, first protruding a cautious head and finding no soul -in sight, then led out the way through the further door and then up -the road until a friendly hedgeside invited them to rest and to the -various foods which Mr. Puddlebox had brought from the farm and now -produced from his pockets. - -Mr. Wriford ate in silence, and nothing that Mr. Puddlebox could say -could fetch him from his thoughts. "Well," thought Mr. Wriford, -"this is the most extraordinary state of affairs! A week ago I was -an editor in London and afraid of everything and everybody. Now I've -been in the river, and I've stolen a ride in a wagon, and I've had a -devil of a fight with a wagoner, and I've kicked a policeman head -over heels bang into a ditch, and I've nearly been burnt alive, and -I've broken out through the roof of a barn and fallen a frightful -buster off it, and I've slung a chap into a pond, and I've nearly -killed a chap and half-drowned him in milk, and I've nailed a man to -the floor by his nightshirt, and I've jumped out of a high window and -been chased for my life, and I've stolen a ride in a motor-car, and -where the devil I am now I haven't the remotest idea. Well, it's the -most extraordinary--!" - - - - -BOOK THREE - -ONE OF THE FRIGHTENED ONES - - - -CHAPTER I - -BODY WORK - -I - -It was in early May that Mr. Wriford cast himself into the river. -Declining Summer, sullied in her raiment by September's hand, slain -by October's, found him still in Mr. Puddlebox's company. But a -different Wriford from him whom that jolly gentleman had first met -upon the road from Barnet. In body a harder man, what of the open -life, the mad adventures, and of the casual work--all manual work--in -farm and field that supplied their necessaries when these ran short. -And harder man in soul. "You're a confirmed rascal, sir," addressed -him the chairman of a Bench of country magistrates before whom--and -not their first experience of such--he and Mr. Puddlebox once were -haled, their offence that they had been found sleeping in the -outbuildings of a rural parsonage. - -The rector, a gentleman, appearing unwillingly to prosecute, pleaded -for the prisoners. A trivial offence, he urged--a stormy night on -which he would gladly have given them shelter had they asked for it, -and he turned to the dock with: "Why did you not come and ask for it, -my friend?" - -"Why, there'd have been no fun in doing that!" said Mr. Wriford. - -"Fun!" exclaimed the rector. "No, no fun perhaps. But a hearty -welcome I--" - -"Oh, keep your hearty welcomes to yourself!" cried Mr. Wriford. - -And then the chairman: "You're a confirmed rascal, sir. A confirmed -and stubborn rascal. When our good vicar--" - -"Well, you're a self-important, over-fed, and very gross-looking -pomposity," returned Mr. Wriford. - -"Seven days," said the chairman, very swollen. "Take them away, -constable." - -"Curse me," said Mr. Puddlebox when, accommodated for the night in -adjoining cells, they conversed over the partition that divided them. -"Curse me, you're no better than a fool, loony, and I challenge any -man to be a bigger. Here we are at these vile tasks for a week and -would have got away scot free and a shilling from the parson but for -your fool's tongue." - -"Well, I had to say something to stir them up," explained Mr. -Wriford. "I must be doing something all the time, or I get-- - -"Well, there's better things to do than this cursed foolishness," -grumbled Mr. Puddlebox. - -"It's new to me," said Mr. Wriford. "That's what I want." - -That indeed was what he wanted in these months and ever sought with -sudden bursts of fierceness or of irresponsible prankishness. He -must be doing something all the time and doing something that brought -reprisals, either in form of fatigue that followed hard work in their -odd jobs--digging, carting stable refuse, hoeing a long patch of root -crops, harvesting which gave the pair steady employment and left them -at the turn of the year with a stock of shillings in hand, roadside -work where labour had fallen short and a builder was behindhand with -a contract for some cottages--or in form of punishment such as -followed his truculence before the magistrate or was got by escapades -of the nature of their early adventures. - -Something that brought reprisals, something to be felt in his body. -"Why, you don't understand, you see," Mr. Wriford would cry, -responsive to remonstrance from Mr. Puddlebox. "All my life I've -felt things here--here in my head," and he would strike his head hard -and begin to speak loudly and very fiercely and quickly, so that -often his words rolled themselves together or were several times -repeated. "In my head, head, head--all mixed up and whirling there -so I felt I must scream to let it all out: scream out senseless words -and loud roars like uggranddlearrrrohohohgarragarragaddaurrr! Now my -head's empty, empty, empty, and I can smash at it as if it didn't -belong to me. Look here!" - -"Ah, stop it, boy, stop it!" Mr. Puddlebox would cry, and catch at -Mr. Wriford's fist that banged in illustration. - -"Well, that's just to show you. Man alive, I've stood sometimes in -my office with my head in such a whirling crash, and feeling so sick -and frightened--that always went with it--that I've felt I must catch -by the throat the next man who came in and kill him dead before he -could speak to me. In my head, man, in my head--felt things all my -life in my head: and in my heart;" and Mr. Wriford would strike -himself fiercely upon his breast. "Felt things in my heart so I was -always in a torment and always tying myself up tighter and tighter -and tighter--not doing this because I thought it was unkind to this -person; and doing that because I thought I ought to do it for that -person--messing, messing, messing round and spoiling my life with -rotten sentiment and rotten ideas of rotten duty. God, when I think -of the welter of it all! Now, my boy, it's all over! My head's as -empty as an empty bucket and so's my heart. I don't care a curse for -anybody or anything. I'm beginning to do what I ought to have done -years ago--enjoy myself. It's only my body now; I want to ache it -and feel it and hurt it and keep it going all the time. If I don't, -if I stop going and going and going, I begin to think; and if I begin -to think I begin to go back again. Then up I jump, my boy, and let -fly at somebody again, or dig or whatever the work is, as if the -devil was in me and until my body is ready to break, and then I say -to my body: 'Go on, you devil; go on. I'll keep you at it till you -drop. You've been getting soft and rotten while my head was working -and driving me. Now it's your turn. But you don't drive me, my boy; -I drive you. Get at it!' That's the way of it, Puddlebox. I'm free -now, and I'm enjoying myself, and I want to go on doing new things -and doing them hard, always and all the time. Now then!" - -Mr. Puddlebox: "Sure you're enjoying yourself, boy?" - -"Why, of course I am. When it was all this cursed head and all worry -I didn't belong to myself. Now it's all body, and I'm my own. I've -missed something all my life. Now I'm finding it. I'm finding what -it is to be happy--it's not to care. That's the secret of it." - -Mr. Puddlebox would shake his head. "That's not the secret of it, -boy." - -"What is, then?" - -"Why, what I've told you: not to think so much about yourself." - -"Well, that's just what I'm doing. I'm not caring a curse what -happens to me." - -"Yes, and thinking about that all the time. That's just where you're -spooked, boy." - -"Spooked!" Mr. Wriford would cry with an easy laugh. "That's seeing -myself like I used to. I've not seen myself for weeks--months." - -"But you're not unspooked yet, boy," Mr. Puddlebox would return. - - - -II - -They were come west in their tramping--set in that quarter by the -motor-car that had run them from that early adventure with the -nightshirted and the corduroyed gentlemen. It had alighted them in -Wiltshire, and they continued, while splendid summer in imperial days -and pageant nights attended them, by easy and haphazard stages down -into Dorset and thence through Somerset and Devon into Cornwall by -the sea. - -Many amazements in these counties and in these months--some of a -train with those afforded by the liver-cutting wagoner and by the -yellow-toothed farmer bent upon arson; some quieter, but to Mr. -Wriford, if he permitted thought, not less amazing--as when he found -himself working with his hands and in his sweat for manual wages; -some in outrage of law and morals that had shocked the Mr. Wriford of -the London days. He must be doing something, as he had told Mr. -Puddlebox, and doing something all the time. What he did not tell -was that these things--when they were wild, irresponsible, grotesque, -wrong, immoral---were done by conscious effort before they were -entered upon. Mr. Wriford used to--had to--dare himself to do them. -"Now, here you are!" Mr. Wriford would say to himself when by -freakish thought some opportunity offered itself. "Here you are! -Ah, you funk it! I knew you would. I thought so. You funk it!" -And then, thus taunted, would come the sudden burst of fierceness or -of irresponsible prankishness, and Mr. Wriford would rush at the -thing fiercely, and fiercely begin it, and with increasing fierceness -carry it to settlement--one way or the other. - -Once, up from a roadside to a labourer who came sturdily by, "I'll -fight you for tuppence!" cried Mr. Wriford, facing him. "Ba goom, -I'll faight thee for nowt!" said the man and knocked him down, and -when again he rushed, furious and bleeding, smashed him again, and -laughing at the ease of it, trod on his way. - -"Well, why to the devil did you do such a mad thing?" said Mr. -Puddlebox, awakened from a doze and tending Mr. Wriford's hurts. -"Where to the devil is the sense of such a thing?" - -"I thought of it as he came along," said Mr. Wriford, "and I had to -do it." - -"Why, curse me," cried Mr. Puddlebox, "I mustn't even sleep for your -madness, boy." - -"Well, I've done it," Mr. Wriford returned, much hurt but fiercely -glad. "I've done it, and I'm happy. If I hadn't--oh, you wouldn't -understand. That's enough. Let it bleed. Let the damned thing -bleed. I like to see it." - -He used to like to sit and count his bruises. He used to like, after -hard work on some employment, to sit and reckon which muscles ached -him most and then to spring up and exercise them so they ached anew. -He used to like to sit and count over and over again the money that -their casual labours earned him. These--bruises, and aches and -shillings--were the indisputable testimony to his freedom, to the -fact that he at last was doing things, to the reprisals against which -he set his body and full earned. He used to like to go long periods -without food. He used to like, when rain fell and Mr. Puddlebox -sought shelter, to stand out in the soak of it and feel its soak. -These--fastings and discomforts--were manifests that his body was -suffering things, and that he was its master and his own. - -Through all these excesses--checking him in many, from many -dissuading him, in their results supporting him--Mr. Puddlebox stuck -to him. That soft, fat, kindly and protective hand came often -between him and self-invited violence from strangers by Mr. -Puddlebox--when Mr. Wriford was not looking--tapping his head and -accompanying the sign with nods and frowns in further illustration, -or by more active rescues from his escapades. Chiefly Mr. Puddlebox -employed his unfailing good-humour as deterrent of Mr. Wriford's -fierceness. He learnt to let the starvation, or the exposure to the -elements, or the engagement in some wild escapade, go to a certain -pitch, then to argue with Mr. Wriford until he made him angry, then -by some jovial whimsicality to bring him against his will to -involuntary laughter; then Mr. Wriford would be pliable, consent to -eat, to take shelter, to cease his folly. Much further than this Mr. -Puddlebox carried the affection he had conceived for Mr. Wriford--and -all it cost him. Once when lamentably far gone in his cups, he was -startled out of their effects by becoming aware that Mr. Wriford was -producing from his pockets articles that glistened beneath the moon -where it lit the open-air resting-place to which he had no -recollection of having come. - -He stared amazed at two watches, a small clock, spoons, and some -silver trinkets; and soon by further amazement was completely -sobered. "I've done it," said Mr. Wriford, and in his eyes could be -seen the gleam, and in his voice heard the nervous exaltation, that -always went with accomplishment of any of his fiercenesses. "I've -done it! It was a devil of a thing--right into two bedrooms--but -I've done it." - -Mr. Puddlebox in immense horror: "Done what?" - -"Broken in there," and Mr. Wriford jerked back his head in "there's" -indication, and Mr. Puddlebox, to his new and frantic alarm, found -that a large house stood within fifty paces of them, they in its -garden. - -"Why, you're--hup!"--cried Mr. Puddlebox--"Blink! Why, what to the -devil do you mean--broken in there? What are we,--hup, blink!--doing -here?" - -"Why, we had a bet," said Mr. Wriford, looking over his prizes and -clearly much pleased with himself. "I bet you as we came down the -road that I'd break in here before you would. I took the front and -you went to the back, but you've been asleep." - -"Asleep!" cried Mr. Puddlebox. "I've been drunk. I was drunk." He -got on his knees from where he sat and with a furious action fumbled -in his coat-tails. From them his bottle of whisky, and Mr. Puddlebox -furiously wrenched the cork and hurled the bottle from him. "To hell -with it!" cried Mr. Puddlebox as it lay gurgling. "Hell take it. -I'll not touch it again. Why, loony--why, you staring, hup! hell! -mad loony, if you'd been caught you'd have gone to convict prison, -boy. And my fault for this cursed drink. Give me those things. -Give them to me and get out of here--get up the road." - -"Let 'em alone!" said Mr. Wriford menacingly. "What d'you want with -'em?" - -Mr. Puddlebox played the game learnt of experience. He concealed his -agitation. He said with his jolly smile: "Why, mean that I will not -be beat at anything by you or by any man. I will challenge you or -any man at any game and will be beat by none. You've been in and got -'em, boy; now, curse me, I will equal you and beat you for that I -will go in and put them back. Play fair, boy. Hand over." - -"Well, there you are," said Mr. Wriford, disarmed and much tickled. - -"Out you go then, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox, gathering up the -trinkets. "Out into the road. You had none of me to interfere with -you, and I must have none of you while I go my own way to this." - -Mr. Puddlebox took Mr. Wriford to the gate of the grounds, then went -back again in much trembling. An open window informed him of Mr. -Wriford's place of entry. He leant through to a sofa that stood -handy, there deposited the trinkets, and very softly shut the window -down. When he rejoined Mr. Wriford, fear's perspiration was -streaming from him. "I've had a squeak of it," said Mr. Puddlebox -with simulated cheeriness. "Let's out of this, and I'll tell you." - -He walked Mr. Wriford long, quickly and far. While he walked he -fought again the battle that had been swift victory when he cast his -bottle from him; and in future days fought it again and met new -tortures in each fight. - -"Aren't you going to get any whisky?" asked Mr. Wriford when on a -day, pockets lined with harvest money, he noticed Mr. Puddlebox's -abstinence. - -"Whisky! Hell take such stinking stuff," cried Mr. Puddlebox and -sucked in his cheeks--and groaned; then put a hand in his tail-pocket -and felt a hard lump rolled in a cloth that lay where the whisky used -to lie and said to himself: "Two bottles--two bottles." - -It was Mr. Puddlebox's promise to himself, and his lustiest weapon in -his battles with his desire, that, on some day that must come -somehow, the day when he should be relieved of his charge of Mr. -Wriford, he would buy himself two bottles of whisky and sit himself -down and drink them. Into the hard lump rolled in the cloth, and -composing it, there went daily when his earnings permitted it two -coppers. When that sum reached eighty-four--two at three-and-six -apiece--his two bottles would be ready for the mere asking. - -Wherefore "Two bottles! Two bottles!" Mr. Puddlebox would assure -himself when most fiercely his cravings assailed him, and against the -pangs of his denial would combine luxurious thoughts of when they -should thus be slaked and fears of what might happen to his loony if -he now gave way to them. - -Much those fears--or the affection whence they rose--cost him in -these later days: swiftly their end approached. Much and more as -summer passed and autumn came sombrely and chill: swiftly their end -as sombre day succeeded sombre day, and they passed down into -Cornwall and went along the sombre sea. Village to village, through -nature in decay that grey sky shrouded, grey sea dirged: Mr. -Puddlebox ever for tarrying when larger town was reached, Mr. Wriford -ever for onward--onward, on. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -CROSS WORK - -Ever for onward, Mr. Wriford--onward, onward, on! - -Where, in the bright days, Mr. Puddlebox had taken the lead and -suggested their road and programme, now, in the sombre days, chill in -the air, and in the wind a bluster, Mr. Wriford led. He chose the -roughest paths. He most preferred the cliff tracks where wind and -rain drove strongest, or down upon the shingle where walking was -mostly climbing the great boulders that ran from cliff to sea. He -walked with head up as though to show the weather how he scorned it. -He walked very fast as though there was something he pursued. - -Mr. Puddlebox did not like it at all. Much of Mr. Puddlebox's jolly -humour was shaken out of him in these rough and arduous scrambles, -and he grumbled loud and frequent. But very fond of his loony, Mr. -Puddlebox, and increasingly anxious for him in this fiercer mood of -his. - -There are limits, though: and these came on an afternoon wild and wet -when Mr. Wriford exchanged the cliff road for the shore and pressed -his way at his relentless pace along a desolate stretch cut into -frequent inlets by rocky barriers that must be toilsomely climbed, a -dun sea roaring at them. - -"Why, what to the devil is it you're chasing, boy?" Mr. Puddlebox's -grumblings at last broke out, when yet another barrier surmounted -revealed another and a steeper little beyond. "Here's a warm town -we've left," cried Mr. Puddlebox, sinking upon a great stone, "and -here's as wet, cold, and infernal a climbing as I challenge you or -any man ever to have seen. Here's you been dragging and trailing and -ripe for anything these three months and more, and now rushing and -stopping for nothing so I challenge the devil himself to keep up with -you." - -"Well, don't keep up!" said Mr. Wriford fiercely. "Who wants you to?" - -Mr. Puddlebox blinked at that; but he answered stoutly: "Well, curse -me if I do, for one." - -"Nor me for another," said Mr. Wriford and turned where he stood and -pressed on across the shingle towards the next rocky arm. - -Mr. Puddlebox sucked in his cheeks, felt at the hard lump in his -pocket, then followed at a little run, and caught Mr. Wriford as Mr. -Wriford climbed the further barrier of rocks. - -"Hey, give us a hand, boy," cried Mr. Puddlebox cheerfully. "This is -a steep one." - -Mr. Wriford looked down. "What, are you coming on? I thought you'd -stopped." - -"You're unkind, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox. - -Mr. Wriford, looking down, this time saw the blink that went with the -words. He jumped back lower, coming with reckless bounds. "I'm -sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. Look here, coming across this bit"--he -pointed back to their earlier stopping-place--"I felt--I felt -_rotten_ to think you'd gone." - -"Why, that's my loony!" cried Mr. Puddlebox, highly pleased. "Come -down here, boy. Let's talk of this business." - -"But I wouldn't look back," said Mr. Wriford, "or come back. I've -done with that sort of thing." - -"Why, so you have," said Mr. Puddlebox, rightly guessing to what Mr. -Wriford referred. "You can come down now, though, for I'm asking you -to, so there's no weakness in that. There's shelter here." - -"I don't want shelter," said Mr. Wriford, and went a step higher and -stood with head and back erect where gale and rain caught him more -full. - -Mr. Puddlebox summoned much impressiveness into his voice. "Boy," -said Mr. Puddlebox, "this is a fool's game, and I never saw such even -with you. Bring sense to it, boy. Tramping is well enough for fine -days: winters for towns. There's money to be found in towns, boy; -and if no money, workhouse is none so bad, and when we've tried it -you've liked it and called it something new, which is what you want. -Well, there's nothing new this way, boy. There's no work and there's -no bed in the fields winter-time. Nothing new this way, boy." - -A fiercer drive of wind spun Mr. Wriford where he stood exposed. He -caught at a rock with his hands and laughed grimly, then stood erect -again, and pressed himself against the rising gale. - -"Ah, isn't there, though?" he cried. "Man, there's cold and rain and -wind, and there's tramping on and on against it and feeling you don't -care a damn for it." - -"Well, curse me, but I do," returned Mr. Puddlebox. "It's just what -I do mind, and there's no sense to it, boy. There's no sense to it." - -"There is for me," Mr. Wriford cried. "It's what I want!" He turned -from fronting the gale. Mr. Puddlebox saw him measuring with his eye -the height where he stood from the ground, and called in swift alarm: -"Don't jump! You'll break your legs. Don't--" - -Mr. Wriford laughed aloud, jumped and came crashing to his hands and -knees, got up and laughed again. "That's all right!" said he. - -"Boy, that's all wrong," said Mr. Puddlebox very seriously. "That's -all of a part with your rushing along as if it was the devil himself -you chased; and what to the devil else it can be I challenge you to -say or any man." - -Mr. Wriford took up the words he had cried down from the top of the -barrier. "It's what I want," he told Mr. Puddlebox. "Cold and not -minding it, and fighting against the wind and not minding it, and -getting wet and going on full speed however rough the road and not -minding that. Cold and wind and rain and sticking to it and fighting -it and beating it and liking it--ah!" and he threw up his arms, -extending them, and filled his chest with a great breath, as though -he embraced and drunk deep of the elements that he stuck to and -fought and beat. - -Mr. Puddlebox looked at him closely. "Sure you're liking it?" he -asked, his tone the same as when he often inquired: "Sure you're -happy, boy?" - -"Sure! Why, of course I'm sure. Why, all the time I'm thrashing -along, do you know what I'm saying? I'm saying: 'Beating you! -Beating you! Beating you!' and at night I lie awake and think of it -all waiting outside for me and how I shall beat it, beat it, beat it -again when morning comes." - -"Sit down," said Mr. Puddlebox. "I've something to say to you." - -"No, I'll stand," said Mr. Wriford. - -"Aren't you tired?" - -"I'm fit to drop," said Mr. Wriford; and then with a hard face: "But -sitting down is giving way to it. I'll not do that. No, by God, -I'll beat it all the time." - -Then Mr. Puddlebox broke out in exasperation and struck his stick -upon the shingle to mark it. "Why, curse me if I ever heard such a -thing or knew such a thing!" cried Mr. Puddlebox. "Beating it! I've -told you a score time, and this time I give it to you hot, that when -you go so, you're spooked, spooked to hell and never will be -unspooked! 'Beating it, beating it, beating it!' you cry as you rush -along! Why, it's then that it is beating you all the time, for it is -of yourself that you are thinking. And that's what's wrong with you, -thinking of yourself, and has always been. And there's no being -happy that way and never will be. Think of some one else, boy. For -God Almighty's sake think of some one else or you're beat and mad for -sure!" - -Mr. Wriford gave him back his fierceness. "Think of some one else! -That's what I've done all my life. That's what locked me up and did -for me. I've done with all that now, and I'm happy. Think of some -one else! God!" cried he and snapped his fingers. "I don't care -that for anybody. Whom should I think of?" - -"Well, try a thought for me," cried Mr. Puddlebox, relenting nothing -of his own heat. "I've watched you these four months. I've got you -out of trouble. Curse me, I've fed you and handled you like a baby. -But for me you'd like be lying dead somewhere." - -"Well, who cares?" cried Mr. Wriford. "Not me, I don't." - -"Ah, and you'd liker still be clapped in an asylum and locked there -all your days; you'd mind that. But for me that's where you'd be and -where you'll go, if I left you to-morrow." - -Mr. Wriford cried with a black and angry face: "Well, if it's true, -who asked you to hang on to me? Why have you done it? If it's true, -mind you! For I've done my share. You've admitted that yourself. -In the rows we've got into I've done my share, and in the work we've -done I've done more than my share, once I've learnt the hang of it. -Now then! That's true, isn't it? If you've done so jolly much, why -have you? There's one for you. Why?" - -His violent storming put a new mood to Mr. Puddlebox's face. Not the -exasperation with which he had burst out and continued till now. -That left him. Not the jolly grin with which commonly he regarded -life in general and Mr. Wriford in particular. None of these. A new -mood. The mood and hue Mr. Wriford had glimpsed when, looking down -from the barrier as Mr. Puddlebox overtook him, and crying down to -him: "I thought you'd stopped," he had seen Mr. Puddlebox blink and -heard him say: "You're unkind, boy." Now he saw it again--and was -again to see it before approaching night gave way to following morn. - -Mr. Puddlebox blinked and went redly cloudy in the face. "Why?" said -he. "Well, I'll tell you why, boy. Because I like you. I liked -you, boy, when you came wretched up the Barnet road and thought there -was one with you, following you. I liked you then for you were glad -of my food and my help and caught at my hand as night fell and held -it while you slept. Curse me, I liked you then, for, curse me, you -were the first come my way in many years of sin that thought me -stronger than himself and that I could be stronger to and could help. -I liked you then, boy, and I've liked you more each sun and moon -since. I've lost a precious lot in life through being what, curse -me, I am. None ever to welcome me, none ever to be glad of me, none -ever that minded if I rode by on my legs or went legs first in a -coffin cart. Then came you that was loony, that was glad of me here -and glad of me there, that asked me this and asked me that, that -laughed with me and ate with me and slept with me, that because you -was loony was weaker than me. So I liked you, boy; curse me, I loved -you, boy. There's why for you." - -This long speech, delivered with much blinking and redness of the -face, was listened to by Mr. Wriford with the fierceness gone out of -his eyes but with his face twisting and working as though what he -heard put him in difficulty. In difficulty and with difficulty he -then broke out. "God knows I'm grateful," Mr. Wriford said, his -voice strained as his face. "But look at this--I don't want to be -grateful. I don't want that kind of thing. I've been through all -that. 'Thank you' for this; and 'Thank you' for that; and 'I beg -your pardon;' and 'Oh, how kind of you.' Man, man!" cried Mr. -Wriford, striking his hands to his face and tearing them away again -as though scenes were before his eyes that he would wrench away. -"Man, I've done that thirty years and been killed of it. I don't -want ever to think that kind of stuff again. I want just to keep -going on and having nothing touch me except what hurts me here in my -body and not care a damn for it--which I don't. You're always asking -me if I'm happy, and I know you think I'm not. But I am. Look how -hard my hands are: that makes me happy just to think of that. And -how I don't mind getting wet or cold: that makes me happy, so happy -that I shout out with the gladness of it and get myself wetter. It's -being a man. It's getting the better of myself. You're going to say -it's not. But you don't understand. One man has to get the better -of himself one way and one another. With me it's getting the better -of being afraid of things. Well, I'm beating it. I'm beating it -when I'm out here, tramping along. But when I'm sheltering it's -beating me. When you tell me--" He stopped, and stooping to Mr. -Puddlebox took his hands and squeezed them so that the water was -squeezed to Mr. Puddlebox's eyes. "There!" cried Mr. Wriford. -"Grateful! I'm more grateful to you. I'm fonder of you than any man -I've ever met. But don't tell me you're fond of me. I don't want -that from anybody. When you tell me that it puts me back to what I -used to be. I'm grateful. Believe that; but don't make me talk -about it." - -"I never did want you to," said Mr. Puddlebox. "Look here, boy. -Look how we begun on this talk. I told you to think of some one -else, care for some one else, and you broke out 'whom were you to -care for?' and I gave you, being cold and wet and mortal tired, I -gave you 'For God Almighty's sake care for me' and then told you why -you should. Well, let's get back to that. Care for me. Look here, -boy. We were ten mile to the next village along this devil of a -place when we left the town. I reckon we've come four, and here's -evening upon us and six to go. Well, I can't go them, and that's the -end and the beginning of it. I'm for going back where there's a bed -to be had and while yet it is to be had, for they sleep early these -parts. Wherefore when I say 'for God Almighty's sake care for me,' I -mean stop this chasing this way and let's chase back the way we come. -We'll forget what's gone between us," concluded Mr. Puddlebox, -reverting to his jolly smiles and getting to his feet, "and I'll hate -you and you'll hate me, since that pleases you most, and back we'll -get and have a dish of potatoes inside of us and a warm bed outside. -Wherefore I say: - -"O ye food and warmth, bless ye the Lord: praise Him and magnify Him -for ever." - -Mr. Wriford laughed, and Mr. Puddlebox guessed him persuaded once -again. But he set his face then and shook his head sharply, and Mr. -Puddlebox saw him determined. "No," said Mr. Wriford. "No, I'm not -going back. I'm never going back. If you want to know what I'm -going to do, I'm going to stay the night out here." - -Mr. Puddlebox cried: "Out here! Now what to the devil--" - -"I'd settled it," Mr. Wriford interrupted him. "I'd settled it when -I thought you'd gone back. There're little caves all along here--I -saw one the other side of these rocks. I'm going to sleep in one. -I'd made up my mind when you caught up with me. I'm going to do it." - -Mr. Puddlebox stared at him, incapable of speech. Then cried: "Wet -as you are?" - -"Wet as I am," said Mr. Wriford and laughed. - -"Cold as it is and going to be colder?" - -"Cold as it is and the colder the better." - -"You'll stay alone," cried Mr. Puddlebox. "Curse me if I'll stay -with you." - -"You needn't," said Mr. Wriford. "I'm not asking you to." - -"But you think I'm going to," cried Mr. Puddlebox. "And you're -wrong, for I'm not. I'm going straight back, and I'm going at once, -the quicker to fetch you to your senses. I'm going, boy;" and in -advertisement of his intention Mr. Puddlebox began resolutely to move -away. - -Mr. Wriford as resolutely turned to the barrier of rocks and began to -climb. - -"Come on, boy," called Mr. Puddlebox. - -Mr. Wriford called back: "No. No, I'm going to stay. I'm going to -see the night through." - -"You'll know where to find me," cried Mr. Puddlebox. "I'll be where -we lay last night." - -Mr. Wriford's laugh came to him through the gathering gloom, and -through the gloom he saw Mr. Wriford's form midway up the rocks. -"And you'll know where to find me," Mr. Wriford called. - -Mr. Puddlebox paused irresolutely and cursed roundly where he paused. -Then turned and stamped away across the shingle. When he reached the -rocky arm where first they had quarrelled he stopped again and again -looked back. Mr. Wriford was not to be seen. - -"That'll go near to kill him if he stays," said Mr. Puddlebox. "And, -curse me, if I go back to him he will stay. I'll push on, and he'll -follow me. That's the only way to it." - -They had spent the previous night in an eating-house where "Beds for -Single Men--4d." attracted wanderers. It was seven o'clock when Mr. -Puddlebox's slow progression--halting at every few yards and looking -back--at length returned him to it. He dried and warmed himself -before the fire in the kitchen that was free to inmates of the house. - -"Where's your mate?" asked the proprietor. "Thought you was making -Port Rannock?" - -"Too far," said Mr. Puddlebox; and to the earlier question: "He's -behind me. I'll wait my supper till he comes." - -He waited, though very hungry. Every time the door of the kitchen -opened he turned eagerly in expectation that was every time denied. -Towards nine he gave up the comfortable seat he had secured before -the blaze and sat himself where he could watch the door. It never -admitted Mr. Wriford. - -"What's the night?" he asked a seafaring newcomer. - -"Blowing up," the man told him. "Blowing up dirty." - -Mr. Puddlebox went from the room and from the house, shivered as the -night air struck him, and then down the cobbled street. Ten o'clock, -borne gustily upon the wind, came to him from the church tower as he -turned along the shore. - -None saw him go: and he was not to return. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -WATER THAT TAKES YOUR BREATH - -Mr. Puddlebox's landsman's eye showed him no signs of that "blowing -up dirty" of which he had been informed. A fresh breeze faced him as -he walked and somewhat hindered his progress; but a strong moon rode -high and lighted him; the sea, much advanced since he came that way, -broke quietly along the shore. "Why, it's none so bad a night to be -out," thought Mr. Puddlebox; and there began to change within him the -mood in which he had left the lodging-house. Seated there he had -imagined a rough night, wet and dark, and with each passing hour had -the more reproached himself for his desertion of his loony. Now that -he found night clear and still, well-lit and nothing overcold, he -inclined towards considering himself a fool for his pains. - -An hour on his road brought change of mood again. The very -stillness, the very clearness that first had reassured him, now began -to frighten him. He began to apprehend as it were a something -sinister in the quietude. He began to dislike the persistent -regularity of his footsteps grinding in the deep shingle and to -dislike yet more the persistent regularity of the breaking waves. -They rose about knee-high as he watched them, fell and pressed -whitely up the beach, back slowly, as though reluctant and with deep -protest of the stones, then massed knee-high and down and up again. -Darkly on his right hand the steep cliffs towered. - -The monotony of sound oppressed him. He began to have an eerie -feeling as though he were being followed, and once or twice he looked -back. No, very much alone. Then his footsteps, whose persistent -regularity had wrought upon his senses, began to trouble him with -their noisiness upon the shingle. He tried to walk less heavily and -presently found himself picking his way, and that added to the -eeriness, startling him when the loose stones yielded and he stumbled. - -He approached that quarter where the shore began to be divided by the -rocky barriers that ran from cliff to sea. Then he apprehended what, -as he expressed it to himself, was the matter with the sea. It was -very full. It looked very deep. What had seemed to him to be waves -rolling up now appeared to him as a kind of overflowing, as though -not spurned-out waves, but the whole volume of the water welled, -swelled, to find more room. The breaking sound was now scarcely to -be heard, and that intensified the stillness, and that frightened him -more. He began to run.... - -Mr. Puddlebox stopped running for want of breath; but that physical -admission of the mounting panic within him left him very frightened -indeed. He went close to the cliffs. Darker there and very shut-up -the way they towered so straight and so high. He came away from -them, his senses worse wrought upon. Then he came to the first of -the rocky barriers that ran like piers from the cliff to the sea, and -then for the first time noticed how high the tide had risen. When he -came here with Mr. Wriford they had done their climbing far from the -cliff's base. Now the barrier was in great part submerged. He must -climb it near to the cliff where climbing was steeper and more -difficult. Well, there was sand between these barriers, that was one -good thing. Walking would be easier and none of that cursed noise -that his feet made on the shingle. With much difficulty he got up -and looked down upon the other side.... - -There wasn't any sand. Water where sand had been--water that with -that welling, swelling motion pressed about the shingle that banked -beneath the cliff. - -Mr. Puddlebox said aloud, in a whisper: "The tide!" It was the first -time since he had started out that he had thought of it. He looked -along the cliff. From where he stood, from where these rocky piers -began, the cliff, as he saw, began to stand outwards in a long bluff. -The further one went, the further the tide would.... He carried his -eyes a little to sea. Beneath the moon were white, uneasy lines. -That was where the sea swirled upon the barriers. He looked -downwards and saw the placid water welling, swelling beneath his feet. - -"The tide," said Mr. Puddlebox again, again in a whisper. He -swallowed something that rose in his throat. He ran his tongue -around his lips, for they were dry. He shivered, for the -perspiration his long walk had induced now seemed to be running down -his body in very cold drops. He looked straight above him and at -once down to his feet again and moved his feet in steadying of his -balance: a sense of giddiness came from looking up that towering -height that towered so steeply as to appear hanging over him. He -looked along the way he had come; and he stood so close to the -cliff-face, and it bulked so enormously before him, that the bay he -had traversed seemed, by contrast, to sweep back immensely -far--immensely safe. - -Mr. Puddlebox watched that safety with unmoving eyes as though he -were fascinated by it. The longer he watched the more it seemed to -draw him. He kept his eyes upon one distant spot, half way along the -bay and high up the shore, and his hypnotic state presented him to -himself sitting there--safe. Still with his eyes upon it he moved -across the narrow pier in its direction and sat down, legs dangling -towards the bay, in the first action of descending. He twisted about -to pursue the action, for he was a timid and unhandy climber who -would climb downwards facing his hold. As he came to his hands and -knees he went forward on them and looked across the fifty yards of -shingle-bank, the sea close up, that separated him from the next pier -of rocks. He was a creature of fear as he knelt there--a very figure -of very ugly fear, ungainly in his form that hung bulkily between his -arms and legs, white and loosely fat in his face that peered -timorously over the edge, cowardly and useless in his crouching, -shrinking pose. - -He said aloud, his eyes on the distant barrier: "I'm as safe -there--for a peep--as I am here. I can get back. Even if I get wet -I can get back." - -He shuffled forward and this time put his legs over the other side -and sat a while. Here the drop was not more than three feet beneath -the soles of his boots as they dangled. He drew them up. "If he's -safe, he's safe," said Mr. Puddlebox. "And if he's drowned, he's -drowned. Where's the sense of--" - -Something that floated in the water caught his eye. A little, round, -greyish clump. About the size of a face. Floating close to the -shore. Not a face. A clump of fishing-net corks that Mr. Puddlebox -remembered to have seen dry upon the sand when first he arrived here. -But very like, very dreadfully like a face, and the water rippling -very dreadfully over it at each pulsing of the tide. Floated his -loony's face somewhere like that? Struggled he somewhere near to -shore as that? The ripples awash upon his mouth? His eyes staring? -Mouth that had laughed with Mr. Puddlebox these several months? Eyes -that often in appeal had sought his own, and that he loved to light -from fear to peace, to trust, to confidence, to merriment? Floated -he somewhere? Struggled he somewhere? Waited he somewhere for these -hands which, when he sometimes caught, proved them at last of use to -some one, stronger than some one else's in many years of sin? - -Mr. Puddlebox slid to the shingle and ran along it; came to the -further barrier and got upon it; stood there in fear. Beyond, and to -the next pier, there was no more, between sea and cliff, than room to -walk. - -His lips had been very dry when, a short space before, looking -towards where now he stood, he had run his tongue around them. They -were moist then to what, licking them again, his tongue now felt. -Cold the sweat then that trickled down his body: warm to what icy -stream fear now exuded on his flesh. He had shivered then: now he -not shivered but in all his frame shook so that his knees scarcely -could support him. Then it was merely safety that he desired: now he -realised fear. Then only safety occupied his mind: now cowardice -within him, and he knew it. Love, strangely, strongly conceived in -these months, called him on: fear, like a live thing on the rock -before him, held him, pressed him back. He thought of rippling water -awash upon that mouth, and looked along the narrow path before him, -and licked his arid lips again: he saw himself with that deep water, -that icy water, that thick water, welling, swelling, to his knees, to -his waist, to his neck, sucking him adrift--ah! and he looked back -whence he had come and ran his tongue again about his ugly, hanging -mouth. - -"I'm a coward," said Mr. Puddlebox aloud. "I can't come to you, -boy," he said. "I've got to go back, boy," he said. "I can't stand -the water, boy. I've always been terrified of deep water, boy. I'd -come to you through fire, boy; by God, I would. Not through water. -I'm a coward. I can't help it, boy. Water takes your breath. I -can't do it, boy." - -He waited as if he thought an answer would come. There was only an -intense stillness. There was only the very tiniest lapping of the -water as it welled and swelled: sometimes there was the faint rattle -of a stone that the sucking water sucked from the little ridge of -pebbles against the cliff. - -Mr. Puddlebox looked down upon the water and spoke to it. The words -he spoke might have been employed fiercely, but he spoke them -scarcely above a whisper as though it were a confidence that he -invited of the sea. "Why don't you break and roar?" said Mr. -Puddlebox to the sea, bending down to it. "Why don't you break and -roar in waves with foam? You'd be more like fire then. There'd be -something in you then. It's the dead look of you. It's the thick -look of you. Why don't you break and roar? It's the swelling up -from under of you. It's the sucking of you. Why don't you break and -roar?" - -No answer to that. Only the aching stillness. Only the very -tiniest, tiniest lapping of the water as it welled and swelled: -sometimes the tiny rattle of a stone that from the ridge against the -cliff the sucking water sucked. - -In that silence Mr. Puddlebox continued to stare at the water. He -stared at it; and at its silence, and as he stared, and as silent, -motionless, he continued to stare, his face began to work as, in the -presence of a sleeper, sudden stealthy resolve might come to one that -watched. Then he began to act as though the water were in fact -asleep. He looked all round, then he stepped swiftly down to the -little ridge. The pebbles gave beneath him and carried his left foot -into the water. He stood perfectly still, pressed against the cliff. -"Why don't you break and roar?" whispered Mr. Puddlebox. No answer. -No sound. He began to tread very cautiously towards the further -pier, the palms of his hands against the cliff, and his face -anxiously towards the sea, and all his action as though he moved in -stealth and thought to give the sea the slip. As he neared the -barrier, so neared the cliff the sea. When but twenty yards remained -to be traversed the cliff began to thrust a buttress seaward, awash -along its base. "Water takes your breath," Mr. Puddlebox had said. -A dozen steps took him above his boots, and he began to catch at his -breath as the chill struck him. He opened his mouth with the intent -to make these sobbing inspirations less noisy than if drawn hissing -through his teeth. He slid his feet as if to lift and splash them -would risk awakening the sleeping tide. He was to his knees in it -when he reached the rocks. Their surface was green in slimy weed: -that meant the tide would cover them. He got up, and on his hands -and knees upon the slime caught at his breath and peered beyond. - -No beach was visible here: only water: perfectly still. - -It was a very short way to the next barrier, and of the barrier very -short what was to be seen. The buttress of the cliff pressed -steadily out to what was no more than a little table of rock, -scarcely thicker above the surface than the thickness of a table-top, -then seemed to fall away. A trifle beyond the table there upstood a -detached pile of rock, rather like a pulpit and standing about a -pulpit's height above the water. That table--when it ran far out -along the shore--was where Mr. Puddlebox, looking back, had last seen -his loony stand. He remembered it, for he remembered the summit of -the pulpit rock that peered above it. - -The idea to shout occurred to him. That low table seemed to mark a -corner. His loony might be beyond it. If he shouted-- He did not -dare to shout. Here, more than before, the intensity of the silence -possessed him. He did not dare to break it. Here, with no beach -visible, the water seemed profoundly dead in slumber. - -"Why don't you break and roar?" said Mr. Puddlebox. "Why don't -you--" he held his breath and crept forward. He lowered himself and -caught his breath. His feet crunched upon the shingle bed, the water -stood above his knees, and while the stones still moved where he had -disturbed them he stood perfectly still. When they had settled he -began to move, sideways, very slowly, his back against the cliff. -Each sidelong step took him deeper; at each he more sharply caught -his breath. It seemed to him as though the cliff were actually -pressing him forward with huge hands. He pressed against it with all -his force as though to hold it back. It thrust him, thrust him, -thrust him. He was deep to his thighs. He was deep to his waist. -"Water takes your breath," Mr. Puddlebox had said. At each deepening -step more violently his breath seemed to be taken, more clutchingly -had to be recalled. He was above his waist. He stumbled and gave a -cry and recovered himself and began to go back; tried to control his -dreadful breathing; came on again; then again retreated. Now his -breathing that had been sobbing gasps became sheer sobs. He suddenly -turned from his sidelong progress, went backwards in two splashing -strides whence he had come--in three, in four, and then in a panic -headlong rush, and as if he were pursued clambered frantically out -again upon the slimy rocks. - -As if he were pursued--and now, as if to sight the pursuit, looked -sobbing back upon the water he had churned. There was scarcely a -sign of his churning. Scarcely a mark of his track. Still as before -the water lay there. Still, and thick, and silent, and asleep, and -seemed to mock his fears. - -"Blast you!" cried Mr. Puddlebox, responsive to the silent mock. -"Blast you, why don't you break and roar?" He put a foot down to it -and glared at the water. "Why in hell don't you break and roar?" -cried Mr. Puddlebox, and flung himself in again, and splashed to the -point at which he had turned and fled, and drew a deep breath and -went forward above his waist.... - -The cliff thrust him out and he was deeper; thrust again, and he was -above his waist. "Takes your breath"--he was catching at his breath -in immense spasms. The shore dropped beneath his feet and he was to -his armpits, the table of rock a long pace away. He was drawn from -the cliff, and he screamed in dreadful fear. He tried to go back and -floundered deeper. He was drowning, he knew. If he lost his -footing--and he was losing it--he would go down, and if he went down -he never would rise again. He called aloud on God and screamed aloud -in wordless terror. The tide swung him against the cliff and drew -him screaming and clutching along it. He stumbled and knew himself -gone. His hands struck the table of rock. He clutched, found his -feet, sprang frantically, and drew himself upon it. He lay there -exhausted and moaning. When his abject mind was able to give words -to his moans, "O my Christ, don't let me drown," he said. "Not after -that, Christ, don't let me drown. O merciful Christ, not after that." - -After a little he opened his eyes that had been shut in bewilderment -of blind terror and in preparation of death and that he had not -courage or thought to open. He opened his eyes. This is what he saw. - -Beneath his chin, as he lay, the still, deep water. Close upon his -right hand the cliff that towered upwards to the night. A narrow -channel away from him stood the pulpit rock. The cliff ran sharply -back from beside him, then thrust again towards the pulpit; stopped -short of it and then pressed onwards out to sea. Its backward dip -formed a tiny inlet over which, masking it from the open sea, the -pulpit rock stood sentinel. The back of the inlet showed at its -centre a small cave that had the appearance of a human mouth, open. -At low water this mouth would have stood a tall man's height above -the beach. A short ridge ran along its upper lip. In the dim light -it showed there blackly like a little clump of moustache. From its -under lip, forming a narrow slipway of beach up to it, there ran a -rubble of stones as if the mouth had emitted them or as if its tongue -depended into the sea. The corners of the mouth drooped, and here, -as if they slobbered, the water trickled in and out responsive to the -heaving of the tide. - -Mr. Wriford lay upon this slip. He lay face downwards. His arms -from his elbows were extended within the mouth of the cave. His -boots were in the water. His legs, as Mr. Puddlebox thought, lay -oddly twisted. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -WATER THAT SWELLS AND SUCKS - -Who is so vile a coward that one weaker than himself, in worse -distress, shall not arrest his cowardice? Who that has given love so -lost in fear as not to love anew, amain, when out of peril his love -is called? Who so base then not to lose in gladness what held his -soul in dread? - -First Mr. Puddlebox only stared. Water that takes your breath had -taken his. Water that takes your breath rose in a thin film over the -rock where on his face he lay, passed beneath his body, chilled him -anew, and took his breath again. He watched it ooze from under him -and spread before him: lip upwards where he faced it and ooze beneath -his hands. Then gave his eyes again towards the cave. - -Who is so vile a coward? Mr. Puddlebox's teeth chattered with his -body's frozen chill: worse, worse, with terror of what he had -escaped--God, when that sucking water sucked!--fast, faster with that -worse horror he besought heaven "not after that" should overtake him. -Who so vile, so base? Ah, then that piteous thing that lay before -his eyes! in shape so odd, so ugly--broken? dead? Whom he had seen -so wild, so eager? who child had been to him and treated as a child? -Who first and only in all these years of sin had looked to him for -aid, for counsel, strength? Who must have fought this filthy, cruel, -silent, sucking water, and fighting it have called him, wanted him? -Ah! - -Who is so vile? "Loony," Mr. Puddlebox whispered. "Loony! Hey, -boy!" - -He only whispered. He did not dare a cry that should demand an -answer--and demanding, no answer bring. "Hey, boy! Loony!" He -tried to raise his voice. He dared not raise it. Anew and thicker -now the water filmed the rock about him. Here was death: well, there -was death--that piteous thing.... - -Then change! Then out of death life! Then gladness out of dread! -Then joy's tumult as one beside a form beneath a sheet should see the -dead loved move. - -About the slipway, as he watched, he saw the swelling water, as if -with sudden impulse, swell over Mr. Wriford's boots, run to his -knees, and in response the prone figure move--the shoulders raise as -if to drag the body: raise very feebly and very feebly drop as if the -oddly twisted legs were chained. - -Feebly--ah, but in sign of life! Revulsion from fear to gladness -brought Mr. Puddlebox scrambling to his feet and upright upon them. -To a loud cry there would be answer then! Loudly he challenged it. -"Loony!" cried Mr. Puddlebox, his voice athrill. "Hey, boy, what's -wrong? I'm coming to you, boy!" - -It was a groan that answered him. - -"Are you hurt, boy?" - -There answered him: "Oh, for God's sake--oh, for God's sake!" - -"Why, that's my loony!" cried Mr. Puddlebox in a very loud voice. -"Hold on, boy! I'm coming to you!" - -Excitedly, in excited gladness his terrors bound up, quickly as he -could, catching at his breath as his fears caught him, stifling them -in jolly shouts of: "Hold on for me, boy! Why, here I come, boy, -this very minute!" he started to make his way, excitedly pursued it. - -"Hold on for me, boy!" The cliff along the wall of the inlet against -which he stood shelved downwards into the dark, still sea. "Here I -come, boy!" He went on his face on the table rock and with his legs -felt in the water beneath him and behind him. "Hold on for me, boy!" -His feet found a ridge, and he lowered himself to it and began to -feel his way along it, his hands against the cliff, above his waist -the still, dark sea. "Here I come, boy! This very minute!" - -So he cried: so he came--deeper, and now his perils rose to fight -what brought him on. Deeper--the water took his breath. "Here I -come, boy!" Stumbled--thought himself gone, knew as it were an icy -hand thrust in his vitals from the depths, clutching his very heart. -"I'm to you now, boy. Here--" Terror burst in a cry to his mouth. -He changed it to "Whoa!" He was brought by the ridge on which he -walked to a point opposite what of the slipway before the cave stood -dry. The ridge ended abruptly. He had almost gone beyond it, almost -slipped and gone, almost screamed. - -"Whoa!" said Mr. Puddlebox. "Hold on for me, boy!" He took his -hands from the cliff and faced about where Mr. Wriford lay. Shaken, -he felt his way lower. God, again! Again his foothold terminated! -Abruptly he could feel his way no more. Like a hand, like a hand at -his throat, the water caught his breath. "Hold on for me, boy!" His -voice was thick. "Hold on for me, boy!" Clear again, but he stood, -stood, and where he stood the water swayed him. Here the cliff base -seemed to drop. Here the depths waited him. Facing his feet he knew -must be the wall of the slipway. No more than a long stride--ah, no -more! If he launched himself and threw himself, his foot must strike -it, his arms come upon its surface where that figure lay. Only a -long stride. What, when he made it, if no foothold offered? What if -he missed, clutched, fell? He looked across the narrow space. Only -that spring's distance that figure lay, its face turned from him. He -listened. The silence ached, tingled all about him. Suddenly it -gave him from the figure the sound of breathing that came and went in -moans. - -Who is so vile a coward? Swiftly Mr. Puddlebox crouched, nerved, -braced himself to spring. Ah, swifter thrust his mind, and bright as -flame and fierce as flame, as a flame shouting, flamed flaming vision -before his starting eyes. He saw himself leap. He saw himself -clutch, falling--God, he could feel his finger-nails rasp and -split!--fallen, gone: rising to gulp and scream, sinking to suffocate -and gulp and writhe and rise and scream and gulp and sink and go. -Like flame, like flame, the vision leapt--upstreaming from the water, -shouting in his ears. Thrice he crouched to spring; thrice like -flame the vision thundered: thrice passed as flame that bursts before -the wind: thrice left him to the stillness, the sucking water, the -sound of moaning breath. A fourth time, a last time: ah, now was -gone the very will to bring himself to crouch! - -He stood a moment, vacant, only trembling. His senses fluttered back -to him, and gone, so they informed him, something that before their -flight had occupied them. What? In his shaken state he was again a -vacant space searching for it before he realised. Then he knew. -There was no sound of breathing.... - -Trembling he listened for it, staring at the figure. Still; there -was no sound. Suddenly he heard it. Dreadfully it came. Feebly, a -moaning inspiration: stillness again--then a very little sigh, very -gentle, very tiny, and the prone figure quivered, relaxed. - -Dead? Again, as on the table rock, afraid to call aloud, "Loony!" -Mr. Puddlebox whispered. "Hey, boy!" - -No answer. Swelling about him came the creeping water, swayed him, -swelled and swayed again: high to his chest, higher now and moving -him--moving, sucking, drawing. Here was death: ah, well, wait a -moment, for there was death--that piteous thing face downwards there. -He spoke softly: "Hey, boy, are you gone?" The water rocked him. He -cried brokenly, loudly: "Loony! Are you gone, boy?" - -Again, again, life out of death, joy's tumult out of fear! - -He saw Mr. Wriford draw down his arms, press on his elbows, raise, -then turn towards him his face, most dreadfully grey, most dreadfully -drawn in pain. - -Who so vile, so base? - -Swift, swift revulsion to gladness out of dread. "Why, that's my -loony!" cried Mr. Puddlebox in a very loud voice. - -Mr. Wriford said: "Have you come?" - -"Why, here I am, boy!" He steadied his feet. - -Very feebly, scarcely to be heard: "I don't see you." - -"Why, there's no more than my nob to be seen, boy! I'm here to my -nob in the water." His feet were firm. He braced himself. "I'm to -you, boy, and I'm in the most plaguy place as I challenge any man -ever to have been." He crouched. "I've to jump, boy, and how to the -devil--" - -He launched himself. His foot struck the slipway bank--no hold! -Smooth rock, and his foot glanced down it! He had thought to spring -upward from what purchase his foot might find. It found none. -Clutching as he fell, he obtained no more than his arms upon the -shingle of the slipway, his chin upon it, his elbows thrusting deep, -his fingers clutching in the yielding stones. - -"Loony!" Mr. Puddlebox cried. "Loony!" - -He slipped further. He suddenly screamed: "Loony, I'm going! -Christ, I'm going!" - -His face, in line with Mr. Wriford's, two arm's-lengths from it, was -dreadfully distorted, his lips wide, his teeth grinding. He choked -between them: "Can you help me, boy?" - -Mr. Wriford was trying to help him. Mr. Wriford was working towards -him on his elbows, his face twisted in agony. As he came, "My legs -are broken," he said. "I'll reach you. I'll reach you." - -Eye to eye and dreadfully eyed they stared one upon the other. A -foot's breadth between them now, and now their fingers almost -touching. - -"I'm done, boy! Christ, I'm done!" But with the very cry, and with -his hand so near to Mr. Wriford's slipped again beyond it, Mr. -Puddlebox had sudden change of voice, sudden gleam in the eyes that -had stood out in horror. "Curse me, I'm not!" cried Mr. Puddlebox. -"Curse me, I've bested it. I've found a hole for my foot. Ease up, -boy. I'm to you. By God, I'm to you after all!" - -Groan that was prayer of thanks came from Mr. Wriford. Fainting, his -head dropped forward on his hands. There was tremendous commotion in -the water as Mr. Puddlebox sprang up it from his foothold, thrashing -it with his legs as, chest upon the shingle, he struggled -tremendously. Then he drew himself out and on his knees, dripping, -and bent over Mr. Wriford. - -"I'm to you now, boy! You're all right now. Boy, you're all right -now." - -The swelling water swelled with new impulse up the shingle, washed -him where he knelt, ran beneath Mr. Wriford's face, and trickled in -the stones beyond it. - -Mr. Puddlebox looked back upon it over his shoulder. He could not -see the table rock where he had lain. Only the pulpit rock upstood, -and deep and black the channel on either hand between it and the -walls of their inlet. He looked within the cave mouth before him and -could see its inner face. It was no more than a shallow hollowing by -the sea. He looked upwards and saw the cliff towering into the -night, overhanging as it mounted. - -He passed his tongue about his lips. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -WATER THAT BREAKS AND ROARS - -I - -In a very little while Mr. Puddlebox had dragged Mr. Wriford the -three paces that gave them the mouth of the cave and had sat him -upright there, his back against the cliff. Mr. Wriford had groaned -while he was being moved, now he opened his eyes and looked at Mr. -Puddlebox bending over him. - -"Why, that's my loony!" cried Mr. Puddlebox very cheerfully. The -flicker of a smile rewarded him and from the moment of that smile he -concealed, until they parted, the terrors that consumed him. "Why, -that's my loony!" cried he, and went on one knee, smiling confidently -in Mr. Wriford's face. "What's happened to you, boy?" - -Mr. Wriford said weakly: "I've broken my legs. I think both my legs -are broken." He indicated the pulpit rock with a motion of his head. -"I climbed up there. Then I thought I'd jump down. Very high and -rocky underneath, but I thought of it, and so I did it. I didn't -land properly. I twisted my legs." - -He groaned and closed his eyes. "Well, well," said Mr. Puddlebox, -holding his hands and patting them. "There, boy, there. You're all -right now. I'm to you now, boy." - -"I suppose I fainted," Mr. Wriford said. "I found it was night and -the tide up to my feet. I began to drag myself. I dragged myself up -and up, and the tide followed. Is it still coming?" - -"You're all right now, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox. "Boy, you're all -right now." - -He felt a faint pressure from Mr. Wriford's hands that he held; he -saw in Mr. Wriford's eyes the same message that the pressure -communicated. He twisted sharply on his heels, turning with a fierce -and threatening motion upon the water as one hemmed in by ever-bolder -wolves might turn to drive them back. - -From where he knelt the water was almost to be touched. - - - -II - -Mr. Puddlebox got to his feet and stooped and peered within the cave. -The moon silvered a patch of its inner face. It gleamed wetly. He -looked to its roof. Water dripped upon his upturned face. The cave -would fill, when the tide was full. He caught his breath as he -realised that, looked out upon the dark, still sea, and caught his -breath again. He stepped out backwards till his feet were in the -water and looked up the towering cliff. It made him sick and dizzy, -and he staggered a splashing step, then looked again. To the line of -the indentation that had seemed like a clump of moustache upon the -cave's upper lip, the cliff on either hand showed dark. Above that -line its slaty hue was lighter. - -That was high-water mark. - -He went a step forward and stood on tiptoe. The tips of his fingers -could just reach the narrow indentation--just the tips of his -fingers: and sick again he went and dizzy and came down to his heels -and turned and stared upon the dark, still sea. - -Then he went to Mr. Wriford again and crouched beside him: took his -hands and patted them and smiled at him, but did not speak. - -Mr. Wriford spoke. He said tonelessly: "Are we going to drown?" - -"Drown?" cried Mr. Puddlebox in a very loud voice. "Why, boy, what -to the devil has drowning got to do with it? Drown! I was just -thinking, that's all. I was thinking of my supper--pork and onions, -boy; and when to the devil I shall have had enough, once I get to it, -I challenge you to say or any other man. Drown, boy! Why, these -poor twisted legs of yours have got into your head to think of such a -thing! You can't be thinking this bit of a splash is going to drown -us? Why, listen to this, boy--" and with that Mr. Puddlebox turned -to the sea and stretching an arm towards it trolled in a very deep -voice: - -"O ye sea of the Lord, bless ye the Lord: praise Him and magnify Him -for ever! - -"That's all that bit of a splash is going to do," said Mr. Puddlebox -very cheerfully; "going to praise the Lord and going to damp our -boots if we let it, which, curse me, we won't. All we've got to -think about is where we're going to sit till the water goes back -where, curse me, it should always be instead of shoving itself up -here. One place is as good as another, boy, and there's plenty of -them, but I know the best. Now I'm going to shift you back a bit, -loony," Mr. Puddlebox continued, standing upright, "and then we're -going to sit together a half-hour or so, and then I'm going to have -my pork and onions, and you're going to be carried to bed." - -Very tenderly Mr. Puddlebox drew Mr. Wriford back within the cave. -"Now you watch me," said Mr. Puddlebox, "because for once in your -life I'm the one that's going to do things while you look on. -There's only a pair of good legs between us, boy, and that's ample -for two of us, but, curse me, they're mine, and I'm going to do what -I want with them." - -While in jolly accents he spoke thus Mr. Puddlebox was dislodging -from the floor of the cave large stones that lay embedded in the -shingle and piling them beneath the indentation that showed upon the -cave's upper lip. He sang as he worked. Sometimes "O ye sea" as he -had trolled before; sometimes "O ye stones;" sometimes, as he tugged -at a larger boulder-- - -"O ye fearful weights, bless ye the Lord: praise Him and magnify Him -for ever!" - -Always with each variation he turned a jolly face to Mr. Wriford; -always he turned from Mr. Wriford towards the sea that now had -reached the pedestal he was building a face that was grey, that -twitched in fear. - -"O ye whacking great stones, bless ye the Lord: praise Him and -magnify Him for ever!" - -Knee-high he built his pedestal, working furiously though striving to -conceal his haste. Now he stood in water as he strengthened the -pile. Now the water had swelled past it and swelled to Mr. Wriford's -outstretched feet. Now Mr. Puddlebox climbed upon the mound of -stones and brought his head above the narrow indentation above the -cave. It showed itself to be a little ledge. He thrust an arm upon -it and found it as broad as the length of his forearm, narrowing as -it went back to end in a niche that ran a short way up the cliff. -There was room for one to sit there, legs hanging down; perhaps for -two--if two could gain it. - -Mr. Puddlebox dropped back to the water and now dragged last stones -that should make a step to his pile. Then he went to Mr. Wriford. - -"Now, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox very cheerfully. "Now I've got the -cosiest little seat for you, and now for you to get to it. You can't -stand?" - -"I can't," Mr. Wriford said. - -"Try if I can prop you against the cliff." - -He took Mr. Wriford beneath the arms and began to raise him. Mr. -Wriford implored: "Don't hurt me!" and as he was raised from the -ground screamed dreadfully. "Oh, God! Oh, God, don't, don't;" and -when set down again lay feebly moaning: "Don't! Don't!" - -There immediately began the most dreadful business. - -"Boy," said Mr. Puddlebox, "I've got to hurt you. I'll be gentle as -I can, my loony. Boy, you've got to bear it." He abandoned his -pretence of their safety, and for his jolly humour that had supported -it, permitted voice and speech that denied it and revealed the stress -of their position. "Boy, the tide is making on us. It's to fill -this cave, boy, before it turns. There's slow drowning waiting for -us unless I lift you where I've found a place." - -"Let me drown!" Mr. Wriford said. "Oh, let me drown." - -The sea drove in and washed the cave on every side. Involuntarily -Mr. Wriford cried out in fear and stretched his arms to Mr. -Puddlebox, bending above him. - -"Come, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox and took him again beneath the arms: -again as he was moved he cried: "Don't! Don't!" - -"Boy," cried Mr. Puddlebox fiercely, "will you watch me drown before -your eyes?" - -"Save yourself then. Save yourself." - -"By God Almighty I will not. If you won't let me lift you you shall -drown me." - -Then determinedly he passed his hands beneath Mr. Wriford's arms; -then resolutely shut his ears to dreadful cries of pain; then, then -the dreadful business. "Boy, I've got to hurt you. I'll be gentle, -my loony. Bear it, boy, oh, for Christ's sake bear it. Round my -neck, boy. Hold tight. Bear it, boy; bear it." - -He carried his arms round Mr. Wriford's back, downwards and beneath -his thighs and locked them there. There were dreadful screams; but -dreadfully the water swelled about them, and he held on; there were -moans that rent him as they sounded; but he spoke: "Bear it, boy; -bear it!" and with his burden waded forth. - -He faced from the sea and towards the pedestal he had built. - -"Loony!" - -"Oh, for God's sake, set me down." - -"Now I've to raise you." - -He began to press upwards with his arms, raising his burden high on -his chest. - -"Wade out and drown me," Mr. Wriford cried. "If you've any mercy, -for God's sake drown me!" - -"You're to obey me, boy. By God, you shall obey me, or I'll hurt you -worse. Catch in my hair. Hold yourself up by my hair. High as you -can. Up, up!" - -He staggered upon the steps he had constructed; he gained the -pedestal he had made. He thought the strain had become insupportable -to him and that he must fall with it. "Now when I lift you, boy, -keep yourself up. I'll bring you to my head and then set you back." -He called upon himself supremely--raised and failed, raised and -failed again. "Now, boy, now!" - -He got Mr. Wriford to the ledge and thrust him back; himself he clung -to the ledge and almost senseless swayed between his hands and feet. - -Presently he looked up. "You're safe now, boy." - -Mr. Wriford watched him with eyes that scarcely seemed to see: he -scarcely seemed to be conscious. - -"I had to speak sharply to you, boy." - -Mr. Wriford advanced a hand to him, and he took it and held it. -"There was nothing in what I said, boy." - -He felt the fingers move in his that covered them. "I had to cry -out," Mr. Wriford said weakly. "I couldn't help it." - -"You were brave, boy, brave. You're safe now. The water will come -to you. But you're safe." - -"Come up!" said Mr. Wriford. "Come up!" - -"I've to rest a moment, boy," Mr. Puddlebox answered him. - -He held that hand while he stood resting. He closed his fingers upon -it when presently he spoke again. Now the sea had deepened all -about, deep to his knees where he stood. As if the slipway before -the cave while it stood dry had somehow abated its volume, it seemed -to rise visibly and swiftly now that this last barrier was submerged. -All about the walls of the inlet deeply and darkly it swelled, -licking the walls and running up them in little wavelets, as beasts -of prey, massed in a cage, massing and leaping against the bars. - -"There's no great room for me beside you, boy," Mr. Puddlebox said -and pressed the fingers that he held. - -"Come up," said Mr. Wriford. "Quickly--quickly!" - -Mr. Puddlebox looked at the narrow ledge and turned his head this way -and that and looked again upon the sea. - - - -III - -Now, while he looked and while still he waited, the sea's appearance -changed. A wind drove in from seaward and whipped its placid -surface. Black it had been, save where the high moon silvered it; -grey as it flickered and as it swelled about the cliff it seemed to -go. It had welled and swelled; now, from either side the pulpit rock -that guarded their inlet, it drove in in steeply heaving mass that -flung within the cave and all along the cliff and that the cave and -cliff flung back. It were as if one with a whip packed this full -cage fuller yet, and as though those caged within it leapt here and -there and snapped the air with flashing teeth. - -"Now I'll try for it, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox. "These stones are -shaking under me." - -Mr. Wriford withdrew his hand and with his hands painfully raised -himself a little to one side. The action removed his back from the -crevice up the cliff face in which it had rested. A growth of hardy -scrub clung here, and Mr. Puddlebox thrust forward his hand and -pulled on it. - -"Now I'll try for it, boy," he said again. He looked up into Mr. -Wriford's face. "There's nothing to talk about twixt you and me, -loony," he said. "We've had some rare days since you came down the -road to me, boy. If this bush comes away in my hand and I slip and -go, why there's an end to it, boy, and as well one way as another. -Don't you be scared." - -"I shall hold you," Mr. Wriford said. Intensity filled out and -strengthened his weak voice. "I shall hold you. I'll never let you -go." - -There began some protest out of Mr. Puddlebox's mouth. It was not -articulated when the rising sea mastered at last the stones beneath -his feet; drove from him again his courage; returned him again his -panic fear; and he cried out, and swiftly crouched and sprang. He -achieved almost his waist to the level of the ledge. He swept up his -other hand to the scrub in the crevice and fastened a double grip -within it. It was hold or go, but the scrub held and his peril that -he must hold or go gave him immense activity. He drew himself and -forced himself. His knee nearer to Mr. Wriford came almost upon the -ledge, and Mr. Wriford caught at the limb and gripped it as with -claws. "Your other knee!" Mr. Wriford cried. "Higher! For God's -sake a little higher!" - -The further knee struck the ledge wide out where it no more than -showed upon the cliff. - -"Higher! Higher!" - -Horribly from Mr. Puddlebox, as from one squeezed in the throat and -in death straining a last word: "Hold me! Hold me, boy! Don't let -me drown in that water!" - -"Higher! Higher!" - -"Don't let me drown--don't let me drown in that water!" - -"Higher! An inch--an inch higher." - -The inch was gained. "Now! Now!" - -The knee dug into the very rock upon its inch of hold, Mr. Puddlebox -clutched higher in the scrub, drew up his other leg, drew in his -knees and knelt against the cliff. - -Unstrung, and breathing in spasmodic clutches of his chest, he -remained a space in that position, and Mr. Wriford collapsed and in -new pain leant back where he sat. Presently, and very precariously, -Mr. Puddlebox began to twist about and lowered himself to sit upon -the ledge. The crevice where the ledge was broadest was between -them. Mr. Puddlebox with his left hand held himself in his seat by -the scrub that filled this niche, and when Mr. Wriford smiled weakly -at him and weakly murmured, "Safe now," he replied: "There's very -little room, boy," and looked anxiously upon the sea that now in -angry waves was mounting to them. He looked from there to the dark -line on either hand that marked the height of the tide's run. The -line was level with his waist as he sat. He looked at Mr. Wriford -and saw how narrow his perch, and down to the sea again. He said to -himself: "That's four times I've been a dirty coward." He said in -excuse: "Takes your breath," and caught his breath and looked upon -the sea. - - - -IV - -Now was full evidence, and evidence increasing, of that "blowing up -dirty" of which he had been informed, and which the stillness of the -swelling water had seemed to falsify. "Why don't you break and -roar?" Mr. Puddlebox had asked the sea. White and loud it broke -along the cliff, snatching up to them, falling away as beasts that -crouch to spring, then up and higher and snatching them again. The -moon, as if her watch was up, withdrew in clouds and only sometimes -peered. The wind, as if he now took charge, came strongly and -strongly called the sea. The sea, as if the moon released it, broke -from her stilly bonds and gave itself to vicious play. Strongly it -rose. It reached their hanging feet. Stronger yet as night drew on, -and now set towards the corner of the inlet nearer to Mr. Wriford's -side and there, repulsed, washed up, and there, upspringing, washed -in a widening motion towards their ledge. - -They sat and waited, rarely with speech. - -At long intervals Mr. Puddlebox would say: "Boy!" - -No more than a moan would answer him. - -"That's all right, boy." - - - -V - -Quite suddenly the water came. Without premonitory splash or leap of -spray, quite suddenly, and strongly, deeply, that widening motion -where the sea leapt in its corner came like a great hand sweeping -high and washed the ledge from end to end--like a hand sweeping and, -of its suddenness and volume, raised and swept and shook them where -they sat. - -At this its first coming, neither spoke of it. There was only a gasp -from each as each was shaken. It did not seem to be returning. - -After a space, "Boy!" said Mr. Puddlebox again. - -"Well? ... well?" - -"That's all right, boy." - -He clung with his left hand to the scrub. He brought over his right -and rested it upon Mr. Wriford's that held the ledge. "Is the pain -bad, boy?" - -"I'm past pain. I don't feel my legs at all." - -"Cold, boy?" - -"I don't feel anything. I keep dreaming. I think it's dreaming." - -"That's all right, boy." - -Again, and again suddenly, that sweeping movement swept -them--stronger in force, greater in volume. It swept Mr. Wriford -towards Mr. Puddlebox. It almost dislodged him. He was pressed back -and down by Mr. Puddlebox's hand, and again the water came. They -were scarcely recovered, and once again it struck and shook them. - -Now they sat waiting for its onsets. Now the gasp and dreadful -struggle while the motion swept and sucked was scarcely done when on -and fierce and fiercer yet again it came and shook them. - -Now what happened--long in the telling--happened very quickly. - -"It's the end--it's the end," Mr. Wriford sobbed--his gasps no more -than sobbing as each snatch came. "God, God, it's the end!" - -"Hell to the end!" cried Mr. Puddlebox fiercely and fiercely holding -him. "Loony, there's nothing here to end us! Boy, do you mind that -coastguard we passed early back? He walks here soon after daybreak, -he told us, when this bloody tide is down. He'll help me carry you -down. Boy, with your back in this niche here you're safe though the -sea washes ever so. I'm going to leave you to it. Wedge in, boy." - -He began to sidle away. - -Fiercely the sweeping movement struck them, stopping Mr. Wriford's -protest, driving him to the ledge's centre, all but carrying Mr. -Puddlebox whence he clung. - -He thrust Mr. Wriford against the niche and roughly tore his hand -from Mr. Wriford's grasp. - -"What are you doing?" Mr. Wriford cried. "Giving me your place--no, -no--!" - -Fiercely was answered: "Hell to giving my place! Not me, curse me! -I'm going for safety, boy." He indicated the pulpit rock whose -surface dryly upstood before them. "Easy to get on there. I'm going -to swim there." - -"You can't swim! No--you shall not--no!" - -Again the beat of rushing water. Scarcely seated where he had edged, -Mr. Puddlebox was dragged away, clung, and was left upon the ledge's -last extremity. As glad and radiant as ever it had been, the old -jolly beam came to his face, to his mouth the old jolly words. -"Swim! Why, boy, I'd swim that rotten far with my hands tied. Curse -me, I'd never go if I couldn't. Swim! Why, curse me, I will swim -you or any man, and I challenge any to the devil to best me at it. -Wedge back, boy. Wedge back." - -He turned away his jolly face, and to the waiting water turned a face -drawn and horrible in fear. - -Water that takes your breath! - -He swung himself forward on his hands and dropped. He drowned -instantly. - -* * * * * * * * - -There had been no pretence of swimming. There seemed to be no -struggle. In one moment he had been balancing between his hands in -seated posture on the ledge. In the next down and swallowed up and -gone. - -Eyes that looked to see him rise and swim stared, stared where he was -gone and whence he came not: then saw his body rise--all lumped up, -the back of its shoulders, not its head. Then watched it, all lumped -up, slightly below the surface, bobbed tossing round the cliff within -the inlet: out of sight in the further corner: now bumping along the -further wall: now submerged and out of view. Now washed against the -pulpit rock: now a long space bumping about it: now drawn beyond it: -gone. - - - - -BOOK FOUR - -ONE OF THE OLDEST ONES - - - -CHAPTER I - -KINDNESS WITHOUT GRATITUDE - -I - -In the place where Mr. Wriford next found himself he first heard the -reverberant thunder of the sea. He realised with sudden terror that -he was not holding on; and as one starting out of bad dreams--but he -had no dreams--in sudden terror he clutched with both his hands. -That which his hands clutched folded soft and warm within their -grasp, and then he heard a pleasant voice say: - -"Why, there you are! You've kept us waiting a long time, you know!" - -He found he was in a bed. A man, and two women who wore white aprons -and caps and nice blue dresses, stood at its foot and were smiling at -him. The sun was shining on their faces, and it was through windows -behind him that the sound of the sea came. While, very puzzled, he -watched these smiling strangers, the man stepped to him and slipped -firm, reassuring fingers about his wrist where his hand lay clutching -the blue quilt that covered him. - -"No need to cling on like that, you know," said the man, disengaging -his grasp. "You're all right now." - -Mr. Wriford made one or two attempts at speech. "I don't--I don't -think I--I don't think--" - -He checked himself each time. His voice sounded so weak and strange -that he thought each time to better it. He was not successful; and -he let it go as it would with: "I don't think I ought to be here." - -The women smiled at that, and the man said: "Well, I don't know where -else you should be, I'm sure. You're very comfortable here." - -"You're just in the middle of a nice sleep, you know," said one of -the women, bending over the bed-rail towards him. "I think I should -just finish it if I were you." - -The other one said: "Would you like to hold my hand again?" - -"There's an offer for you," said the man. "I'm sure I would." - -There was a sound of quiet laughter, and the woman who had last -spoken came to a chair by Mr. Wriford's side and sat down and took -his hand. He somehow felt that that was what he had wanted, and he -closed his eyes. - -Thereafter he often--for moments as brief as this first meeting--saw -the three again; and learnt to smile when he saw them, responsive to -the smiles they always had for him, and became accustomed to their -names of "Doctor" and "Sister" and "Nurse." It was "Nurse" who sat -beside him and held his hand. When he awoke--or whatever these brief -glimpses of these kind strangers were--he always awoke with that same -startled clutching as when he had first seen them. If it was only -the warm folding stuff that his hands felt he would cling on a -moment, vacantly terrified. When Nurse's hand was there he felt all -right at once and learnt to smile a kind of apology. - -Once--or one day, he had no consciousness of time--when he thus -clutched and felt her hand and smiled, she said: "You shouldn't start -like that. You needn't now, you know." - -"I don't know why I do," he told her. - -She said: "I expect you're thinking of--" - -But Mr. Wriford wasn't thinking at all. He was only rather vacantly -puzzled when he saw his three kind friends. Beyond that his mind -held neither thoughts nor dreams. - - - -II - -Thought came suddenly in a very roundabout way. Nurse had a very -childish face. Her skin was very pink and white, and her eyes very -blue, and there was something very childish, almost babyish, about -her soft brows and about her rosy mouth. Her face began to have a -place with Mr. Wriford, not only when he looked at it, but when he -was sleeping. When he was sleeping, though, it had a different body, -a different dress. It thus, in that different guise, was with him -when one day he awoke and saw her bending close over him, smiling at -him. He said at once, the word coming to him without any searching -for it, without conscious intention of pronouncing it: "Brida!" - -She said "What?" Now thoughts were visibly struggling in his eyes. -Nurse could see them changing all the aspect of his face, as though -his eyes were a pool up into which, stirred by that word, thoughts -came streaming as stilly depths are stirred from their clearness by -some fish that darts along their floor and upward clouds their bed. -She turned her head and whispered sharply: "Sister!" then back to him -and asked him: "What a pretty name! Brida, did you say?" - -His mind was rushed long past the word that had awakened it. First, -with that awakening, had come the moment when first he had spoken -it--"I'm going to call you Brida!" St. James's Park; dusk falling; -the rustle of October leaves about their feet; her flower face redly -suffused.... More than that called him. More! In this sudden -tumult of his brain, these beating pulses, all these noises, more, -more than these demanded recognition; fiercely some clamour called -him on to emotions that wrapped up these, submerged, enveloped them. -There had been one in these emotions that claimed him more than she; -there had been fears, pains, perils in them--ah, here with a sudden, -overwhelming rush they came! "Wedge in, boy! Wedge in!" He that -had called those words was swinging on his hands--hands that had held -him!--was swinging on his hands above the swirling water--was down, -was gone! - -Mr. Wriford screamed out shockingly: "You couldn't swim! You -couldn't swim!" - -Sister was saying: "There, there! Don't, don't! You're all right -now! You're all right now! Look, Nurse will hold your hand." - -He stared at her. He said brokenly: "Let me alone! Let me alone!" - -"Shan't Nurse hold your hand?" - -"Please let me alone." - - - -III - -He only wanted to be alone--alone with his thoughts that now were -full and clear returned to him--alone with that grotesque figure with -that grotesque name who had come to him through the water and for him -had gone into the water--and could not swim, could not swim! - -He slept and awoke now and lay awake in normal periods. He smiled at -Nurse and Sister and Doctor but did not talk. He only wanted to be -alone. He would lie through the day for hours together with wide, -staring eyes, submitting passively when some one came to attend him -or to feed him, but never speaking. He only wanted to be alone. - -Strangers came sometimes--ladies with flowers, mostly. He came to -recognize them. They smiled at him, and he smiled responsively at -them. But never spoke. He only wanted to be alone. When they were -quite strangers--visitors he had not seen before--he always heard -Sister bringing them with the same words: "This is our very -interesting patient. Yes, this is the private ward. It is rather -nice, isn't it? Our interesting patient. Poor fellow, he--" and -then whispering, and then Sister at the foot of the bed with some one -who smiled and nodded and said: "Good morning. I hope you are -better." - -He never turned his head as the voices announced approach from -somewhere on his left. He never gave direct thought either to -Sister's familiar words that brought them or to the whispering that -followed. Voices and persons passed as it were at a very, very long -distance before him. He only wanted to be alone; to lie there; to -think, to think. - - - -IV - -A morning notable in its early hours for much uncommon bustle on the -part of Sister and Nurse aroused him at last to consciousness that -something was expected of him and that he must give attention to -where he was and what was going on about him. Sister and Nurse, who -always wore their cheerful blue cotton dresses until the afternoon, -appeared this morning in their serge gowns. Doctor, who was -generally in a tweed suit with cyclist trouser clips at his ankles, -came in a frock-coat and wriggling his hands with the action of a man -unaccustomed to having stiff cuffs about his wrists. The blue quilt -was exchanged for a white one with roses down the centre associated -with the days when a harmonium was played somewhere in the building -and when the sound of hymns floated across Mr. Wriford's thoughts. - -"Visiting Committee Day to-day," Sister told Mr. Wriford, "and -Doctor's going to have a talk with you when he comes. I should try -and talk, you know. Isn't there a lot you want to hear about?" - -This was a question Sister often asked him, but to which he never -responded with more than: "I'd just like to be alone, Sister." -To-day the unusual bustle and stir had already shaken the steady -vigil of his thoughts, and he said: "Yes--yes, thank you, I think I -would." - -Then Doctor in the frock-coat and with the wriggling hands-- - -"Well, we'll just have a talk," said Doctor, speaking to Sister but -looking at Mr. Wriford, after the usual examination and questions. -And when Sister had left them he sat on the side of the bed and -began. "You've had a rough passage, you know," said Doctor. "But -you're going on fine now. I've just let you be, but I think you -ought to begin to talk a bit now. You're feeling pretty fit?" - -"I'm very strong really," said Mr. Wriford. "I'm weak now, but I'm -very strong really. I feel all right. I'm sorry I've not said much. -I've been thinking." - -"That's all right," said Doctor. "You've been mending, too, while -you've been quiet. Do you remember everything?" - -"Yes, I remember." - -"Remember the coastguards finding you?" - -"No, I don't remember that." - -Doctor laughed. "I expect you're further behind-hand than you think, -then. How long do you think you've been here?--nearly two months!" - -Mr. Wriford said without emotion: "Two months. Will you tell me the -date, please?" - -"December--nearly Christmas. It's Christmas next week. Now look -here, what about your friends? We must send them a happy Christmas -from you, what?" - -"I've no friends," said Mr. Wriford. - -"No friends! None at all? Come, you must have, you know." - -"I've not," said Mr. Wriford. "Look here, as soon as I'm well, I'll -go away. That's all I want." - -Doctor looked puzzled. "Got a name, I suppose?" - -"Wriford." - -"Wriford--that's funny. I've just finished reading again--you're no -relation to the author, I suppose? Philip Wriford?" - -Mr. Wriford smiled and shook his head. - -"Jove, he can write!" said Doctor with inconsequent enthusiasm. -"Read any of--? You're an educated man, aren't you?" - -"I'm a working man," said Mr. Wriford. "No, I don't read much." - -Doctor seemed to be thinking for a moment more of the Wriford who -wrote than of the Wriford who lay here. Recollecting himself he went -on: "How did you get there--where the coastguards found you?" - -"I was tramping--looking for work. I got cut off. Will you tell me, -please? Where is this place?" - -Doctor told him. This was Port Rannock--the cottage hospital. The -coastguards had found him wedged up on the cliff and brought him in. -Touch and go for a very long time while he lay -unconscious--unconscious nearly a month. They had mended his -legs--one broken, the knee of the other sprained--fever--"all sorts -of things," said Doctor, smiling. "But we've fixed you up now," he -ended. "You're on the road now all right," and he went on to explain -the real business of this talk and of the Visiting Committee's -intentions when they came. Mr. Wriford was to be moved. "Only a -Cottage Hospital, you see," and the bed was wanted. There had been a -landslip where some local men were working--five cases--the main ward -simply crowded out. Mr. Wriford must go to the town infirmary over -at Pendra--unless-- - -"Sure you haven't any friends?" said Doctor, looking at Mr. Wriford -closely. "Quite sure? Committee here? All right, Sister, I'm -coming. Quite sure?" - -Mr. Wriford said: "Quite. I had one. He was with me. He was -drowned. Did they find--?" - -"Why, the coastguards who found you found a body on the shore the -same day. Was that your friend? A big man--stout?" - -"That was my friend," said Mr. Wriford; and asked: "Is he buried -here?" - -"In the churchyard. We knew nothing who he was, of course. There's -just a wooden cross. You'd like to see it when you're better. -They've kept his things, or at least a list of them. You could -identify by them. Had he any friends?" - -"Only me. I think only me. We met on the road." - -"Poor chap," said Doctor. "Washed off, I suppose?" - -"No, he jumped off. He couldn't swim." - -Doctor, who was going obedient to Sister's call, turned and -exclaimed: "Jumped off? Why?" - -But Mr. Wriford was lying back as he had lain these many days, -thinking. - - - -V - -Visiting Committee. Visiting Committee tramped and shuffled into the -room and grouped about his bed and stared at him--one clergyman -addressed as Vicar, one very red gentleman addressed as Major, two -other men and two ladies; all rather fat and not very smartly groomed -as though one rather ran to seed at Port Rannock and didn't bother -much about brushing one's coat-collar or pressing one's trousers -or--for the ladies--keeping abreast of the fashions. All meaning to -be kind, but all, after a while, rather inclined to be huffy with -this patient whose story Doctor had reported, whom Doctor considered -fit to be moved, but who displayed no gratitude for all that had been -done for him, nor any sort of emotion when told that he would be sent -to Pendra Infirmary at the end of the week. - -Visiting Committee opened with a cheery joke on the part of Major at -which everybody smiled towards the patient, but to which the patient -made no sort of response. Visiting Committee in the persons of Major -and Vicar fired a few questions based upon Doctor's information, at -first kindly and then rather abrupt. Patient just lay with wide eyes -that never turned towards the speaker and either answered: "Yes, -thank you," or "No, thank you," or did not answer at all. Visiting -Committee thought patient ungracious and said so to itself as it -moved away. - -"You ought to have spoken to them," said Nurse a little -reproachfully, coming to him afterwards. "You ought just to have -said a little, Wriford--that's your name, isn't it? I think they'd -have let you stay over Christmas if you had. Wouldn't you have liked -to stay with us for Christmas?" - -"I just want to be alone," said Mr. Wriford. - -"I told him," said Nurse, reporting this conversation to Sister later -in the day, "I told him that of course he'd had a terrible time, but -that he ought really to try not to think so much about himself. You -know, when I said that he turned his head right round to me, a thing -he never does, and stared at me in the oddest way." - - - -VI - -If that was so it remained the only thing that aroused him all the -time he was at the Cottage Hospital. Even when the ambulance came -over from Pendra Infirmary, and Nurse and Sister tucked him up in it -and commended him to the care of the Infirmary nurse who came in the -carriage, even then, beyond thanking them quietly, he neither turned -his head for a last look nor seemed in any degree distracted from his -steady thoughts. He just lay as before, gazing straight before him -and thinking, and continued so to lie and think when they got him to -bed in the large convalescent ward at the Infirmary. - -"Matey," said a husky voice from the bed beside him, "Matey, I've got -me portograph in the Daily Mirror paper. I'm the oldest sea-captain -living, and I've got all me faculties except only me left eye. Can't -you move, Matey? I've got me portograph in the Daily Mirror paper. -I'll show you, Matey." - -A sharp call down the ward. "Father! Get back into bed this minute, -Father! I never did! What are you thinking about? Get back this -minute, Father!" - -The oldest sea-captain living objected querulously: - -"I've got me portograph in the Daily Mirror paper." - -"Yes, and I'll take it away from you if you don't lie still." - -"Matey," said the oldest sea-captain living, "Matey, I've got me -portograph in the Daily Mirror paper." - -He lay gazing before him, just thinking, thinking. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS - -I - -These occupied Mr. Wriford's thoughts. First of that sacrifice made -for him when, without hint of it, without so much as good-bye, Mr. -Puddlebox had swung off his hands from the ledge and gone down into -the sea. Why made for him? How? - -Doctor had asked it over at the Cottage Hospital: - -"Jumped off? Why?" - -Ah, why? Search it through the long days, ask it of the night. -Follow, ah, follow it in dreaming; awake to question it anew! -Sacrifice made for him! What must have been suffered in the -determination to make it? What in its dreadful act? And why, why? -Well, if no answer to that, set it aside--set Why aside and seek to -find How? How done? Its courage wherein found, where? - -Why? How? How? Why? Ah, questions unanswerable; ah, solutions -never to be found! Doctor's questions over at the Cottage Hospital; -wholly and sanely Mr. Wriford's questions, there as he lay gazing -before him in the little room at Port Rannock, here as he lay in the -convalescent ward at Pendra Infirmary. Why? How? How? Why? -Wholly and sanely his by day and day succeeding day, by night and -night succeeding night. Wholly and sanely his--coldly his. - -Coldly: in time, and in the ceaseless effort to answer them as -strength returned and as he was encouraged to get up and walk the -ward, he found himself thinking, nay, forced himself to think, of Mr. -Puddlebox without emotion: without emotion watching that very scene -upon the ledge, that drop into the water, that lumped-up body bobbing -round the cliff. For him! Was he worth it? No, not worthy it in -any degree. Had he done anything to deserve it? He had done -nothing. Narrowly, coldly, he searched every moment of his days in -Mr. Puddlebox's company. There was not one revealed a single action, -even a single thought, that might give claim to such a sacrifice. -Far from it! Consciously and actively and intentionally he had lived -in all that period for himself alone. Till then he had devoted all -his life to others. Through all the time thereafter it had been his -aim to live for himself--to care for no one's feelings, himself to -have no feelings: simply to do things, simply to inflict upon his -body whatsoever recklessness his mind conceived: through his body -experience it, in his mind never to be touched by it. Whatever -suffering it had caused him, gleefully he had relished. But Mr. -Puddlebox also it had caused suffering and discomfort, and Mr. -Puddlebox had not relished it at all: very much the reverse. What -claim then had he on Mr. Puddlebox's affections? - -Affections! What had affections to do with such a case? Admit -affections--God alone knew why, but admit that the companionship of -their many days together, their many adventures, experiences, had -aroused common affection in Mr. Puddlebox. Admit that you scarcely -could live with a man day by day, night by night, hour by hour, -without of two results one: hating him and leaving him, or becoming -accustomed to him and accepting him. That might arouse affections, -just as affections might be aroused by any inanimate thing always -carried: a stick, a penknife, a comfortable old coat. Admit -affections then: what had affection to do with accepting that -dreadful death--or any death? That was more than affection. That -was as much more than affection as a mountain a hill, an ocean a -stream. That was love: nay, that was love's very apotheosis. -Ridiculous, outrageous to imagine for himself in Mr. Puddlebox any -love: how much more preposterous love in that degree! Preposterous, -ridiculous--then why? Leave it--ah, leave it, leave it, and come to -How. Think of it coldly. Divorce emotion from its searching and -coldly examine How. How had Mr. Puddlebox gone to such a death? -What found within himself, what quality possessed, to swing him off -his hands and go, and drown, and die? Courage? Be cold, be cruel, -be sane! Courage? Puddlebox had no courage. Carelessness of life? -He was very fond of life. Look at the man! Remember him, not as he -died, but in his grotesque personality as he lived. Consider his -idle, slothful habit of mind and of body. Recall his dislike of -work, of any hardship. Look at his ideal of comfort--to shuffle -about the countryside doing nothing; to have food to eat; to get -comfortably drunk. How in such character the courage to die so -suddenly, so horribly? How? Lo, How was more impossible than Why. -Nay, How was Why. What but supremest love could have invested him -with strength to go to such a death? What but divinest love to -conceive of such a sacrifice? And love was out of consideration. -Useless to try to delude these questions with: "He must have loved -me." Clear that he could not have. Then why? Then done by -possession of what attribute? Was there some quality in life unknown -to Mr. Wriford? - - - -II - -Ah, was there? That same question, a barrier insurmountable, a void -dark, boundless, unfathomable, similar to that which ended his -questioning of Mr. Puddlebox's sacrifice, ended also his searching -along another train of thought which, as he grew stronger, more and -more closely occupied him--inquiry relative to his own condition. He -had had a shot at life. He had cast aside every bond, every scruple, -every fear, every habit, which formerly--as he had thought--had tied -him up in misery. That phase was over. It attracted no more. He -had longed to do it; he had done it. What profit? He was very weak. -He found that there had passed out of him with the vigour of his body -the violent desire to make his body do and feel and suffer. Vigour -would return. He would grow stronger. Daily already he was -regaining strength. But that desire never would return. It had been -exorcised. It had been fulfilled. When he was in London, when he -was in all the tumult of that London life, he had thought--God! if -only he could break away from it all! break away and rest his mind -and bring the labour of living from his head to his hands, from his -brain to his body! He had imagined his hands hard, his body -sweating, his mind free, and he had thought: "God, God, there, there, -could I but get at it, lies, not the labour of living, but the joy of -living!" Well, he had got at it. He had done it. Horny and hard he -had made his hands; sore and asweat he had wearied his body. What -profit? He had wanted to do things--things arduous, reckless, -violent. He had done them. What benefit? He had wanted to care for -nobody and nothing, to mind nobody's feelings, to have none himself. -He had done it. He had wantonly insulted, he had wilfully outraged; -he had mastered fear, he had stifled moral consciousness. What -virtue? Look back upon it! That which he had desired to do he had -done. He had seized the course where labour of living should be made -joy of living. He had run it to the uttermost. Mad dog--he had -lived, as he had wished to live, a mad dog life, impervious to all -sensation, moral or physical. No qualm, no scruple, no thought, no -fear had checked him. He had drunk of it full and drunk of it deep. -What profit? Soul, soul, look back with me and see where we have -come! In the old life never free. In the new life utterly free. In -the old responsible. Utterly irresponsible in the new. In the old -tied up--tied up, that had been his cry. In the new released. What -profit? In the old assured that happiness lay in the new. Now the -new tried, and happiness still to seek--nay, happiness more lost, -more deeply hidden than ever before. Then it had seemed to lie in -freedom; now freedom had been searched and it was not. Where then? -Was there some secret of happiness that he had missed? - -Suppose he were strong again. Imagine the few weeks passed that -would return him his strength and let him leave this place. Would he -go back to the wild things, the reckless things, the schooling of his -body by exposure to pain, to hunger, to fatigue? No, for it had been -tried. No, for he had tasted it and was nothing attracted to taste -of it again. Was he afraid of its hurts? No, impervious to them, -minding them not at all. But he had exulted in them, he had been -exalted by them. He had believed they were leading somewhere. Ah, -here he was looking back upon them, and he knew that they led -nowhere. He had come through them, and he found himself come through -empty. They might fall about him again when he was strong and went -out to them--they might fall about him, but they would arouse nothing -in him. He might once again challenge them and cause them furiously -to assail him. He would know while he did so and while they scourged -him that they were barren of virtue, empty, dry as ashes, profitless, -containing nothing, concealing nothing. - -Where stood he? Where? Look, in the old days he had been slave of -his mind, hounded by his brain. He had cast that away. He had -escaped from it. Look, in the new he had turned for joy of living to -his body and had mastered his body and all his fears and all his -thoughts. He had lived through two lives--life that was not his own -but given to others; life that was all his own and to none but -himself belonged. Fruitless both. Was there some secret of -happiness that he had missed? - - - -III - -Ah, was there? This, as the new year broke its bonds, displaced all -other thoughts, became Mr. Wriford's sole obsession. Was there -something in life that he had missed? He was able now to take -exercise daily in the Infirmary grounds. He would go on these -occasions to its furthest recesses. His desire was to escape the -other inmates of the convalescent ward; to be alone; to get away -where in solitude he could pursue the question that ceaselessly he -revolved: Was there some secret of happiness that he had missed? He -brought, he could bring, no train of sequent reasoning to its -investigation. He merely brooded upon it. He merely reviewed life -as he had known it, saw how it had crumbled at every step, and how it -crumbled anew at every re-examination of it, and wondered vaguely was -there some quality might have been brought into it to cement it into -a stable bridge that would have borne him cheerily upraised upon it, -something that might yet be found--something that he had missed? And -often, as his review carried him searching along the period of Mr. -Puddlebox, wondered vaguely whether the final question of that -sacrifice was related to this final question of himself. Had Mr. -Puddlebox some quality unknown to him? Was there something in life -that he himself had missed? Were the two questions one question? -Was there one answer that should supply both answers? - - - -IV - -Daily, walking in the grounds or watching from the windows, he -watched the new year struggling from her bonds. He came to greet her -in all her different moods as a sentient creature--to envisage her as -one in like situation to his own. She was struggling for -freedom--nay, not for freedom, but for her own possession. The old -year had her. In winter's guise he held her. Sometimes she escaped -him, sometimes she was laughing all about and everywhere, a young -thing, a wild thing, a timid thing. For three days together she -would so reign, smiling, fluttering, free. Then winter snatched her -back, overlaid her, jealously crushed her in his iron bonds. -Sometimes she wept. Sometimes here and there she ran and laid her -pretty trinkets on branch and bough and hedge. Winter would out and -catch her, drag her away, despoil all her little traces. Sometimes -she fought him. Sometimes as she smiled, as she danced, as she -bedecked herself, winter would come shouting, blustering, -threatening. A bonny sight to see her hold her own! Bolder she -grew, weaker he. He had his moments. She sulked, she cried, she -pouted, then laughingly she tricked him. Here he would catch her. -Look, there she was away! Here tear up her handiwork: look, there -her fingers ran! His legions sank exhausted: she laughed and called -her own. Warmly, timidly, fragrantly her breezes moved about her; -greenly, freshly, radiantly she smiled to their caress. They piped, -she danced. She was out, she was free. She was high upon the -hillside, she was deep within the valley, she was painting in the -hedgerows, she was piping in the trees. - -Where aimed she? Ah, this was but the budding! Soon, soon, supreme, -content, mistress of all and of herself she'd reign through starry -nights, through steadfast, silent days. Peace she pursued, serenity, -content. Peace she would win. Mr. Wriford turned from her when thus -far his thoughts had followed her. Daily before him, petulant she -struggled. He had struggled. Soon she'd be free. He had been free. -Then pressed she on to happiness. He? - -Was there some secret of happiness he had missed? - - - - -CHAPTER III - -CRACKJAW NAME FOR MR. WRIFORD - -I - -Stronger now. He was left very much alone by the other inmates of -the convalescent ward, and that was what he wished. Strange folk -themselves, some with odd ways, some with ugly, they accepted -strangeness in others as a proper qualification for those greater -comforts which made this department of the workhouse a place highly -desirable. The one common sympathy among them was to present their -several ailments as obstinately and as alarmingly as possible, and -they respected the endeavour in one another. Except when order of -dismissal and return to the workhouse came among them. The victim -upon whom the blow fell would then most shamelessly round upon his -mates in a manner that filled the ward with indignant alarm and -protestation. - -"Me quite strong!" the unhappy victim would cry. "What about old -George there? He's stronger than me. What about old Tom? What -about Mr. Harris? What about Captain Peter? Shamming! They're all -shamming! Ask old George what he told me yesterday. Never felt -better in his life, he told me. Ask old Tom. Can't get enough to -eat 'e's that 'arty, he says. Me! It's a public scandal. It's a -public scandal this ward is. Taking out a dying man, that's what -you're doing, and leaving a pack of shammers! Look at Mr. Graggs -there! Look at him. Ever see a sick man look like that? Public -scandal! Public--" - -Outraged victim led protesting away. Horrified convalescents -dividing their energies between smiling wanly, as though at the point -of death and therefore charitable to victim's ravings, and protesting -volubly at his infamous aspersions. - -Mr. Wriford, only wishing to be left alone, escaped these bitter -attacks from injured victims just as for a long time he escaped from -matron and doctors the form of attention which aroused alarm in the -ward. He mixed with his fellow-convalescents not at all, and this -aloofness, in a community where garrulity on the subject of aches and -pains and bad weather and discontent with food was the established -order, earned him in full the solitude which alone he desired. Its -interruption was most endangered in those hours of wet days, and in -the evenings, when, out of bed and dressed, the convalescents were -cooped up within the ward. At the least there was always then the -risk of being caught by the oldest sea-captain living with his -ceaseless: "Matey! Matey, I've got me portograph in the Daily Mirror -paper!" and sometimes the descent upon him of some other infirm old -gentleman who, worsted and enraged in some battle of ailments with -cronies, would espy Mr. Wriford seated remote and alone and bear down -upon him with his cargo of ills. - - - -II - -To escape these attentions Mr. Wriford learnt to simulate absorption -in one of the out-of-date illustrated weekly papers with which for -its intellectual benefit the ward was supplied. No thought that -these papers were once a part of his daily life, himself a very -active factor in theirs, ever stirred him as he turned the pages or -gazed with unseeing eyes upon them. His fingers turned the pages: -his mind, in search of Was there some secret of happiness he had -missed? revolved the leaves of retrospection that might disclose -it--but never did. His head would bend intensely above a picture or -a column of letterpress: his eyes, not what was printed saw, but saw -himself as he had been, somehow missing--what? - -Seclusion by this means for his searching after his problem brought -him one day to an occurrence that did actually concentrate his -attention on the printed page before his eyes--a page of illustrated -matter that concerned himself. A new batch of weekly periodicals had -been placed in the ward--dated some two months back. He took one -from the batch, opened it at random, and seated himself, with eyes -fixed listlessly upon it, as far as might be from the gossiping -groups gathered about the fires at each end of the ward. Absorbed -more deeply than usual in his thoughts, he carelessly allowed it to -be apparent that the journal was not holding his attention. It lay -upon his knee. His eyes wandered from its direction. - -"Matey," said the oldest sea-captain living, suddenly springing upon -him, "Matey, I got me portograph in the Daily Mirror paper. You -ain't never 'ad a fair look at it, Matey." - -"Not now," said Mr. Wriford. "I'm reading." - -He took up the paper that had rested on his knees; but the oldest -sea-captain living placed upon it his cherished cutting from the -Daily Mirror paper. "Well, read that, Matey," said the oldest -sea-captain living. "That's better than any bit you've got there. -Look, Matey. Look what it says." He indicated with a trembling -finger the smudged and thumbed lettering beneath the smudged picture -and read aloud: "'One of the most remarkable men to be found in our -workusses--those re--those rep--those reposetteries of strange 'uman -flotsam---is Cap'n Henery Peters, the oldest sea-captain living.' -That's me, Matey. See my face? 'Cap'n Henery--'" - -"Yes," said Mr. Wriford. "Yes. That's fine," and took up the -cutting and handed it back. - -"You ain't finished reading of it," protested the oldest sea-captain -living. - -"I have. I read quicker than you. I'll read it again in a minute. -I just want to finish this. I'm in the middle of it." - -The oldest sea-captain living protested anew. "You wasn't reading -when I come up to you. I saw you wasn't." - -"I was thinking. I'd just stopped to think." - -It was an unfortunate excuse, arousing a fellow sympathy in the -oldest sea-captain living. "Why, they do make you think, some of the -words they writes, don't they?" said he. "Look at my -bit--re--rep--reposetteries--there's one for yer. What's a -re--rep--reposettery?" - -"I don't know." - -"Well, I don't neither, Matey," said the oldest sea-captain living, -"an' I don't suppose that young chap as wrote it did." He pointed to -the page upon which Mr. Wriford seemed to be engaged. "It's a -cracker, Matey. You got some crackers there too by the look of it." -He put his finger on a word of title lettering that ran in bold type -across the top. "W-r-i-f-o-r-d," he spelt. "That's a crackjaw name -for yer. What's it spell, Matey?" - -But Mr. Wriford, attracted by the crackjaw name thus indicated, was -now giving a real attention to the paper. The oldest sea-captain -living concentrated upon his own beloved features in the Daily Mirror -paper, and, engrossed upon them, drifted away. - -Mr. Wriford read the headline, boldly printed: - -"THE WRIFORD BOOM: ANOTHER BRILLIANT NOVEL." - - -It was a review--a remarkable eulogy--of the novel he had finished -and deposited with his agent shortly before that sudden impulse on -the Thames embankment. It was embellished with photographs of -himself, with reproductions of the covers of his two earlier novels, -with inscriptions announcing the prodigious number of editions into -which they seemed to have gone, and with extracts of "exquisite" or -"thought-provoking" or "witty" passages set in frames. Beneath that -flaming "The Wriford Boom: Another Brilliant Novel" was a long -sub-title in small black type epitomizing all that lay beneath it. -Mr. Wriford read it curiously. In part it dealt with what was -described in inverted commas as his "disappearance." Evidently much -on that head was general knowledge. The writer scamped details -leading up to his main point, the Wriford Boom and the contribution -thereto of a brilliant new novel, with many a plausible "Of course." -The mystery of the disappearance which was "of course" no longer a -mystery; Mr. Wriford had "of course" been seen by a friend leaving -Charing Cross by the Continental train a few days after his -disappearance; later he had "of course" been seen in Paris, and he -was now "of course" living somewhere on the Continent in complete -seclusion. The writer contrasted this modest escape from lionisation -with the conduct of other authors who "of course" need not be named, -and proceeded to tremendous figures of book-sales, and of advance -orders for the present volume, making his point finally with "A boom -which, if started by the sensational 'disappearance,' has served to -make almost every section of the general public share in the rare -literary quality enjoyed by--comparatively speaking--the few who -recognized Mr. Wriford's genius at the outset." - -Mr. Wriford read it all curiously, with a sense of complete -detachment. He looked at the photographs of himself, recalling the -circumstances in which each had been taken and feeling himself -somehow as unrecognisably different from them as the convalescent -ward was different from the surroundings shown by the camera. He -read the review of the new book, especially the passages quoted from -it, recalling the thoughts with which each had been written and -feeling them somehow to have belonged, not to himself, but to some -other person who had communicated them to him and now had committed -them to print. He reckoned idly and roughly the royalties that were -represented by the prodigious figures of sales, and realised that a -very great deal of money must be awaiting him in his agent's hands. -But the thought of the money--the positive wealth to which it -amounted--stirred him no more than the glowing terms of his -appreciation in critical and popular opinion. It aroused only this -thought: the memory that, in the days represented by those -photographs, money then also had given him no smallest satisfaction. -He had had no use for it. He had had no time to use it. So with -success--no interest in it, no time to enjoy it; always driven, -always driving to do something else, to catch up. Curious to think -that once he would have sparkled over it, rejoiced in the money, -thrilled in the triumph. Young Wriford would have--Young Wriford, -that personality now immeasurably remote, whom once he had been. Why -would Young Wriford have delighted? Ah, Young Wriford was happy. -Why? What knew he, what possessed he, in those far distant years, -that somehow had been lost, that he had thought, by breaking away and -not caring for anything or anybody, to recover, that, now the -experiment was over, showed itself more deeply lost than ever before? -Where and how had that attribute of happiness--whatever it was--been -dropped? ... - -Lo, he was back again where the oldest sea-captain living had found -him and had interrupted him, the paper fallen on his knees, his eyes -gazing blankly before him: was there some secret of happiness he had -missed? - -As he mused he was again disturbed--this time by the Matron. It was -a Board day, she told him, and he was to go before the guardians at -once. The guardians were sitting late and had reached his case; -ordinarily it would not have come up till next fortnight; after -receiving the Medical Officer's report they attended personally to -all convalescent ward cases. - -The Matron gave Mr. Wriford this information as she conducted him to -the Board-room door. "It'll be good-bye," she said, smiling at him -kindly as she left him--he was different from the generality of her -patients. "It'll be good-bye. You're passed out of the C. W." - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -CLURK FOR MR. MASTER - -I - -Guardians sat at a long, green-covered table. Large plates of -sandwiches and large cups of coffee were supporting them against the -strain of their labours in sitting late, and they regarded Mr. -Wriford with eyes that stared from above busily engaged mouths. A -different class of men from the members of the Cottage Hospital -Committee and, like the Matron, accustomed to a class of pauper -different from Mr. Wriford. - -His difference was advertised in his youth--a quality very much -abhorred by the honest guardians as speaking to shocking -idleness--and in the refinement of his voice and speech--a -peculiarity that lent itself to banter and was used for such. - -One addressed as Mr. Chairman first spoke him. - -"Well, you've had a good fat thing out of us," said Mr. Chairman, -himself presenting the appearance of having made a moderately fat -thing out of his duties, and speaking with one half of a large -sandwich in his hand and the other half in his mouth. "Best part of -three months' board and lodging in slap-up style. Number One. Diet -and luxuries ad lib. What are you going to do about it? Are you -going to pay for it?" - -This was obviously a very humourous remark to make to a pauper, and -it received at once the gratifying tribute of large sandwichy grins -and chuckles all round the table. - -"I call upon Mr. Chairman," said one grin, "to tell this gentleman -exactly what he has cost the parish in pounds, shillings and pence -sterling." - -This, by its reception, was equally humourous, one Guardian being so -overcome by the wit of "gentleman" and "sterling" as to choke over -his coffee and rise and expectorate in the fire. - -"Sixteen, fourteen, six," said Mr. Chairman, "and as a point of order -I call Mr. Master's attention to the fact that another time a -spittoon had better be provided for the gentleman as has just needed -the use of one." - -The Workhouse Master who stood beside Mr. Chairman having contributed -obsequiously to the merriment and banter aroused by this sparkle of -humour, Mr. Chairman loudly called the meeting to order and again -taxed Mr. Wriford with his debt to the parish. - -"Sixteen, fourteen, six," said Mr. Chairman. "Can you pay it? I lay -you've never earned so much money in all your life, so now then?" - -In the days of wild escapade with Mr. Puddlebox, Mr. Wriford's -thoughts--all in some form of passion--worked very rapidly. Now, as -though they had learnt their gait from his slow revolving of his -ceaseless question, they worked very slowly; and when he spoke he -spoke very slowly. His mind went slowly to the account he had been -reading of himself in the illustrated paper. He thought of the large -sum that awaited him in his agent's hands, and he thought, with an -impulse of the furious Puddlebox days, of the glorious sensation he -would arouse by bellowing at these uncouth creatures: "Earned so -much! Well, I daresay I could buy up the lot of you, you -ugly-looking lot of pigs, and have as much over again!" But he -allowed the impulse to drift away. He had done that sort of thing: -to what profit? He might do it. He might follow it up by stampeding -about the room, hurling sandwiches at Guardians and shouting with -laughter at the amazement and confusion while he did as much damage -as he could before he was overpowered. What profit? The excitement -would pass and be over. It would lead to nothing that would satisfy -him. It would bring him nowhere that would rest him. He had done -that sort of thing. It attracted him no more. Should he answer them -seriously--explain who he was, request that a telegram should be sent -to his agent, go back to his old life, take up the success that -awaited him? What profit? That, too, he had tried. That, too, -would lead him nowhere, bring him no nearer to his only desire. He -imagined himself back in London, back in his own place once more, -enjoying the comforts he had earned, travelling, amusing himself, -settling to work again. What profit? Enjoyment! Amusement! He -would find none. They and all that they meant lay hidden beneath -some secret of life that must be found ere ever he could touch -them--something for which always and always he would be searching, -something he had missed. He had tried it. It had no attraction for -him: rather it had a thousand explanations, worries, demands, at -whose very thought he shuddered. Let him drift. Let him go -wheresoever any chance tide might take him. Let him be alone to -think, to think, and haply to discover. - -"Well?" said Mr. Chairman. - -"If you think I'm fit to go, I'll go at once," said Mr. Wriford. -"I'm very grateful for all that has been done for me." - -Mr. Chairman reckoned that he ought to be. "Where'll you go?" -demanded Mr. Chairman. - -"Anywhere." - -"What'll you do?" - -"I don't know." - -Mr. Chairman thumped the table in expression of one of the many -trials that Guardians had to bear. "What's the sense o' that talk?" -demanded Mr. Chairman. "Anywhere! Don't know! That's the way with -all you chaps. Get outside and pretend you're starving and pitch a -fine tale about being turned out and get rate-payers jawing or -magistrates preachin' us a lecture. We've been there before, my -beauty." - -Chorus of endorsement from fellow-Guardians who growl angrily at Mr. -Wriford as though they had indeed been there before and saw in Mr. -Wriford the visible embodiment of their misfortune. - -"Well, what?" said Mr. Wriford helplessly. - -Mr. Chairman with another thump, and as though he had never asked a -question throughout the proceedings, announced that that was for him -to say. Mr. Master would find a bed for him and let him take jolly -good care that he earned it." - -"I'll be very glad to work," said Mr. Wriford. - -Mr. Chairman looked at him contemptuously. "Plucky lot you can do, I -expect!" said Mr. Chairman. - -"I can do clerical work," said Mr. Wriford. "Anything in the way of -writing or figures. I'm accustomed to that. If there's anything -like that until I'm fit to go--" A sudden faintness overcame him. -The room was very hot, and the standing and the questioning, while -all the time he was thinking of something else, possessed him, in his -weak state, with a sudden giddiness. He smiled weakly and said "I'm -sorry" and sat down abruptly on a chair that fortunately was close to -him. - -Mr. Master bent over Mr. Chairman and whispered obsequiously on a -subject in which the words "our clurk" were frequently to be heard. -"Gentlemen," said Mr. Chairman, "Mr. Master suggests that we might -leave over the business of appointing a boy-clurk till our next -meeting, while he sees if this man can give him any help. I want to -get home to my supper, and I expect you do. Agreed, gentlemen?" - -"Agreed," chorused the gentlemen, throwing down pens and taking up -new sandwiches with the air of men who had performed enormous labours -and were virtuously happy to be rid of them. - -Mr. Chairman nodded at Mr. Master. "Keep his nose to it," said Mr. -Chairman. - -"This way," said Mr. Master to Mr. Wriford; and Mr. Wriford got -slowly to his feet and followed him slowly through a door he held -ajar. - - - -II - -Stronger now. Increasingly stronger as day succeeded day and the -year came more strongly into her own. Only waiting a little more -strength, so he believed, to betake himself from Pendra Workhouse and -go--anywhere. Actually, as the event that did at last prompt him to -go might have told him, it was a reason, a shaking-up, a stirring of -his normal round, rather than sufficient strength that he awaited. -In a numbed and listless and detached way he was not uncomfortable in -the new circumstances to which he was introduced after the Board-room -interview. The Master, removed from the obsequious habit that he -wore when before the Guardians, showed himself not unkindly. He -conceived rather a liking for Mr. Wriford. Mr. Wriford performed for -him the duties of boy-"clurk" in a manner that was of the greatest -assistance to him. He reported very favourably on the matter to the -Guardians; and when Mr. Wriford spoke of taking his discharge put -forward a proposition to which the Guardians found it convenient to -consent. Why lose this inmate of such valuable clurkly -accomplishments? Why not offer him his railway fare home, wherever -in reason that might be, if he stayed, say a month, and continued to -assist the Master? At the end of that time he might be offered a -very few shillings a week to continue further--if wanted. Mr. Master -carried the proposition to Mr. Wriford. Mr. Wriford in a numbed, -listless and detached way said: "All right, yes." He was taken from -the workhouse ward where till then he had slept and accommodated in a -tiny box-room in the Master's quarters. His nose was kept at it, as -Mr. Master had been desired. His duties were capable of extension in -many directions. That he fulfilled them in a numbed, listless, and -detached fashion was none to the worse in that he accepted them -without complaint whatever they might be. "I call him: 'All right, -yes,'" Mr. Master obsequiously told the Guardians. "That's about all -ever he says. But he does it a heap. Look at the way the stores are -entered up. I've had him checking them all this week." - - - - -CHAPTER V - -MAINTOP HAIL FOR THE CAPTAIN - -I - -The event that at last aroused Mr. Wriford and took him far from -Pendra was supplied by the oldest sea-captain living on that -distinguished personage's birthday. The oldest sea-captain living -"went a bit in his legs" shortly after Mr. Wriford had entered upon -the new phase of his duties. He was provided with a wheeled-chair, -and Mr. Wriford found him seated in this in the grounds one day, -abandoned by his cronies and weeping softly over his beloved -portograph in the Daily Mirror paper. He wept, he told Mr. Wriford, -because none of them blokes ever took any notice of him now. The -finer weather kept the blokes largely out of doors, and they would go -off and leave him. "I'm the oldest sea-captain living, Matey," said -he in a culminating wail, "and I've got me portograph in the Daily -Mirror paper. It's cruel on me. 'Ave a look at it, Matey." - -Mr. Wriford pushed the wheeled-chair and the oldest sea-captain -living about the grounds all that afternoon, and the task became -thereafter a part of his daily occupation. It was not a duty. It -merely became a habit. The face of the oldest sea-captain living -would light up enormously when he saw Mr. Wriford approaching, and he -would thank him affectionately when each voyage in the wheeled-chair -was done, but Mr. Wriford was never actively conscious of finding -pleasure in the old man's gratitude. He never conversed with him -during their outings--and had no need to converse. The oldest -sea-captain living did all the talking, chattering garrulously and -with the wandering of a fading old mind of his ships, his voyages, -and his adventures, and ecstatically happy so to chatter without -response. He was born in Ipswich, he told Mr. Wriford, and he was -married in Ipswich and had had a rare little house in Ipswich and had -buried his wife in Ipswich. Whenever, in his chattering, he was not -at sea he was at Ipswich, and the reiteration of the word gradually -wormed a place into Mr. Wriford's mind, creeping in by persistent -thrusts and digs through the web and mist of his own thoughts which, -as he revolved them, enveloped him numbed, listless, detached from -the oldest sea-captain living and his chattering as from all else -that surrounded him in the workhouse. - - - -II - -Yet an event proved that not only the name Ipswich but some feeling -for this its famous son, some sense of happiness in the hours devoted -to the wheeled-chair, also had found place in his mind. A birthday -of the oldest sea-captain living brought the event. In celebration -of the occasion the oldest sea-captain living was permitted to give a -little tea-party in the convalescent ward. Some dainties were -provided and with them just the tiniest little drop of something in -the oldest sea-captain's tea. Enormously exhilarated, the oldest -sea-captain living obtained of the Matron permission to send a -special request to Mr. Wriford to attend the festivities, and -enormously exhilarated he showed himself when Mr. Wriford came. -Flushed and excited he sat at the head of the table in full -possession once more of the ear of his companions and making up for -previous isolation by chattering tremendously of his exploits. -Roused to immense heights by his sudden popularity and by virtue of -the little drop of something in his tea, he gave at intervals, to the -great delight of the assembly, an example of how he used to hail the -maintop in foul weather when master of his own ship. With almost -equal force of lungs he hailed Mr. Wriford when Mr. Wriford appeared. - -"Hallo, Matey!" hailed the oldest sea-captain living. "Ahoy, Matey! -Ahoy!" - -No doubt about the affection and gratitude that Matey had aroused in -him by perambulation of the wheeled-chair. Even Mr. Wriford himself -was touched and aroused and caused to smile by the flushed and -beaming countenance that called him to a seat beside him and by the -pressure of the trembling hands that grasped his own and drew him to -a chair. "Matey!" cried the oldest sea-captain living, "I'm -ninety-nine, and I can hail the maintop fit to make the roof come -down. Listen to me, Matey." - -Gurgles of anticipation all round the table. "Now this is to be the -last time, Father," said the Matron, coming to them. "There's too -much noise here, and you'll do yourself an injury if you're not -careful. The last time, now!" - -It was the last time. - -The oldest sea-captain living took an excited sip at his cup of tea -with the little drop of something in it, then caught at Mr. Wriford's -shoulder, and drew himself to his full height in his chair. His -other hand he put trumpet shape to his lips. - -"Maintop! ahoy, there!" trumpeted the oldest sea-captain living. He -inspired a long, wheezing breath. Mr. Wriford could feel the hand -clutching on his shoulder. "Ahoy! Maintop, ahoo! Ahoy! A--!" - -The fingers on Mr. Wriford's shoulder bit into his flesh as though -there was returned to them all the vigour that had been theirs when -first that voice bawled along a deck. So sharp, so fierce the pinch -that he looked up startled. Startled also the other faces along the -table, and startled the Matron, frightened and running forward. They -saw what he saw--saw the blood well out horribly upon the oldest -sea-captain's mouth, felt the grip relax, and saw him crash horribly -upon the tea-cups. - -Lift him away. Call the doctor. Call the doctor. Lift him, lay him -here. Send away those gibbering, frightened old men huddling about -him. Lay him here. Wipe those poor old lips. "There, Father, -there!" What does he want? What is it he wants? What is he trying -to say? Listen, bend close. "Matey, Matey!" Mr. Wriford jumps up -from kneeling beside him and runs to the table; snatches up a grimy -newspaper-cutting lying there and brings it to the oldest sea-captain -living; puts it in his fingers and sees the fingers close upon it and -sees the glazing eyes light up with great happiness. "Matey!" Very -faintly, scarcely to be heard. "Matey!" He is thanking him. -"Matey! Gor bless yer, Matey!" There is a bursting feeling in Mr. -Wriford's heart. Words come choking out of it. "Captain! Captain! -You've got your photograph. Take you out for a ride to-morrow, -Captain! Better now? Captain!" Captain's lips are moving. He is -thanking him. Ay, with his soundless lips thanking, with his spirit -answering his call from the main-top.... - -"Poor old Father!" says Matron, rising from her knees. - -Captain has answered. - - - -III - -Attendants carry the body to an adjoining room. Mr. Wriford follows -it and stays by it. He is permitted to stay and stays while darkness -gathers. What now? for now a change again. To push the -wheeled-chair had been a habit, not a pleasure. Was that sure? Why -is it pain to think to-morrow will not bring that lighting of those -eyes, that chatter of those lips? Why in his heart that bursting -swell a while ago? Why swells it now as darkness shrouds that poor -old form? Had he without knowing it been happy in that task? without -knowing it, come near then to something in life that he had missed? -What now? Well, now he would go away. What here? Ah, in the dusk -that masses all about the room, bend close and peer and ask again. -What here? Look, those stiff fingers clutch that portograph. Look, -those stained lips are smiling, smiling. He is happy. He was always -happy when Matey came. Has he taken happiness with him? Was it -within grasp and not recognised and now missed again--gone? - - - -IV - -Mr. Wriford takes his discharge. Guardians, holding to their word, -take him his railway ticket. The Master is genuinely sorry. When at -last, on the night of the oldest sea-captain's death, he finds Mr. -Wriford determined, "Well, the Guardians will be sitting to-morrow," -he says. "I'll tell 'em. They'll take your ticket for you. Where -to?" - -He has to repeat the question. Fresh from the death-bed and its new -turn to the old thoughts, Mr. Wriford is even more than commonly -absent and bemused. "Where to?" repeats Mr. Master. "Where's your -friends you want to go to?" - -Mr. Wriford takes the first place that comes into his head. Very -naturally it is the name that has edged a place in his mind by -repeated reiteration during perambulation of the wheeled-chair. - -"Ipswich," says Mr. Wriford. - -Guardians think it a devil of a big fare to pay and grumble a bit. -On the one hand, however, this inmate has saved a boy-"clurk's" wages -now for some considerable period: on the other, Ipswich will take him -hundreds of miles beyond danger of starving and falling back on their -hands and making a general nuisance of himself. - -"Very well, Ipswich," says Mr. Chairman. "Agreed, gentlemen?" -Agreed. "Take the ticket yourself, Mr. Master," says Mr. Chairman, -"and see him into the train. None of his larks, you know!" - - - -V - -So it is done. On the day previous to his departure Mr. Wriford has -a holiday from Mr. Master and walks over to Port Rannock, to the -churchyard. He has identified while in the Infirmary the list of -clothes and pathetic oddments--bundle of thirty-five coppers among -them, paid in towards expenses of burial--found on the body of Mr. -Puddlebox and has been told the grave lies just in the corner as you -enter. It is just a grass-grown mound, nameless, that he finds. An -old man who seems to be the sexton confirms his question. Yes, that -was a stranger found drowned back in November. The last burial here. -Long-lived place, Port Rannock. - -Mr. Wriford stands a long while beside it--thinking. How go you now, -Puddlebox? If you stood here--"O all ye graves, bless ye the Lord, -praise Him--" That would be your way. How go you now? -Puddlebox--that wasn't your real name, was it?--Puddlebox, why did -you do it? Puddlebox, how did you do it? Puddlebox, I'm going off -again. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm just going. I wish -to God--I'd give anything, anything, to have you with me again. You -can't. Well, how go you now? Can you think of me? Have you found -what I can't find--what I've missed? Ah, it was always yours. You -were always happy. How? Why? Down you went, down and drowned for -me, for me! Down without even good-bye. Why? How? ... - -The sexton, locking up his churchyard, turned Mr. Wriford out. -"Well, good-bye," said Mr. Wriford to the nameless mound and carried -his thoughts and his questions back along the road to the Workhouse. -Ah, carried them further and very long. With him, now centring about -Mr. Puddlebox and now about the perplexity of the something touched -and something lost again in the oldest sea-captain living, during the -long journey to London; with him again towards Ipswich. - - - -VI - -He crossed London by the Underground Railway. He did not want to see -London. The second part of his journey, in the Ipswich train, was -made in a crowded carriage, amid much staring and much chatter. A -long wait was made at a station. Why Ipswich? And what then? Well, -what did that matter? But why stay stifled up in here? He got up -and left the compartment and passing out of the station among a crowd -of passengers gave up his ticket without being questioned on it. -Evening was falling. He neither asked nor cared where he was. Only -those thoughts, those questions that had come with him in the train, -concerned him, and pursuing them, he followed a road that took him -through the considerable town in which he found himself and into the -country beyond it. The month was May, the night, as presently it -drew about him, warm and gentle. A hedgeside invited him, and he sat -down and after a little while lay back. He did not trouble to make -himself comfortable. There was nothing he wanted. There was only -one thought into which all the other thoughts shaped: was there some -secret of happiness he had missed? - - - - -BOOK FIVE - -ONE OF THE BRIGHT ONES - - - -CHAPTER I - -IN A FIELD - -I - -Sandwiches, supplied in liberal manner by Mr. Master and not touched -on the railway journey, sufficed Mr. Wriford's needs through the -following day. He tramped aimlessly the greater part of the time. -Evening again provided him with a bed by the roadside. It was the -next morning, to which he awoke feeling cold and feeling ill, that -aroused him to his first thoughts of his present situation. He -clearly must do something; but he had only negative ideas as to what -it should be. Negative, as that, in passing a farm, it crossed his -mind to apply for work as had been the practice with Mr. Puddlebox. -But he recalled the nature of that work and was at once informed that -he was now completely unfitted for it. He had been very strong then. -He felt very weak now. He had then been extraordinarily vigorous and -violent in spirit, and his spirit's violence had led him to delight -in exercising his body at manual labour. Now he felt very weary and -submissive in mind; and that feeling of submission was reflected in -extreme lassitude of his limbs. It came back to this--and at once he -was returned again to his mental searching--that then there seemed -object and relief in taxing himself arduously: now he had proved that -trial and knew that no object lay beyond it, that no relief would -ever now be contained in it. And in any event he was not capable of -it: he was weak, weak; he felt very ill. - -But something must be done. Let him determine how he stood; and with -this thought he began for the thousandth time to rehearse his life as -he had lived it. One of the lucky ones: he had been that: it had -driven him into the river. One of the free: that also he now had -been. Those months with Puddlebox he had cared for nothing and for -nobody: recked nothing whether he lived or died. He had worked with -his hands as in the London days he had imagined happiness lay in -working. He had attained in brimming fulness all that in the London -days he had madly desired. It had brought him where now he was--to -knowledge that there was something in life he had missed, and to -baffled, to bewildered ignorance what it might be or in what manner -of living it might be found. Well, let him drag on. Just to drag on -was now the best that he could do. Let life take him and do with him -just whatsoever it pleased. Let him be lost, be lost, to all who -knew him and to all and everything he knew. Let him a second time -start life afresh, and this time not attack it as in the wild -Puddlebox days he had attacked it, but be washed by it any whither it -pleased, stranded somewhere and permitted to die perhaps, perhaps -have disclosed to him, and be allowed to seize, whatever it might be -that somehow, somehow, somewhere, somewhere, he had missed. - -Thus, as aimlessly he wandered, his thoughts took the form of plans -or resolutions, yet were not resolutions in any binding sense. They -drifted formlessly through his mind as snatches of conversation, -carried on in a crowded apartment, will drift through a mind -pre-occupied with some idea; or they drifted through him as snow at -its first fall will for long drift over and seem to leave untouched -any stone that rises above the surface of the ground. He was -preoccupied with his own ceaseless questioning. He was preoccupied -with helpless and hopeless sense of helplessness and hopelessness. -There was something that others found that gave them peace and gave -them happiness, that he had missed, that he knew not where he had -missed or where to begin to find. - -All of plan or resolution that in any way settled upon this deeper -brooding was that somehow he must find something to do. In the midst -of his brooding he would jolt against realisation of that necessity, -think aimlessly upon it for a little, then lose it again. Slowly it -permeated his mind. Evening brought him to the outskirts of a small -town; and at a house in a by-street where "Beds for Single Men" were -offered, and where he listlessly turned in, the matter of being -called upon for the price of a lodging shook him to greater -concentration upon his resources. He found that, by Mr. Master's -carelessness or kindness, he had been left with a trifle of change -over the money given him to make his way across town when he broke -his journey in London--elevenpence. He paid ninepence for his bed. -In the morning there remained to him two coppers for food, and he -knew himself faint with protracted fasting. In a street of dingy -shops he turned into a coffee-house. "Shave?" said a man in soiled -white overalls, and he realised that he had mistaken the door and -stepped into a barber's adjoining the refreshment shop. He was -unshaven, and any work that he could do would demand a reasonably -decent appearance. "Attend to you in a moment," said the soiled -overalls, and Mr. Wriford dropped into a chair to await his pleasure. -The ragged fragment of a local newspaper lay on a table beside him, -and he took it up with some vague idea of discovering employment -among the advertisements. That portion of the paper was missing. -His eye was attracted by an odd surname, "Pennyquick," and when the -barber called him and was operating on him he found himself -listlessly reflecting upon what he had read of an inquest following -the sudden death of the assistant-master at Tower House School, chief -evidence given by Mr. Pennyquick, headmaster. - -A penny was the price of his shave. He took his penny that remained -into the adjoining coffee-shop and obtained with it a large mug of -cocoa. "Three ha'pence with a slice of bread and butter," said the -woman at the counter, pushing the cocoa towards him. "Don't you want -nothing to eat?" - -Her tone and the look she gave him were kindly. "I want it," said -Mr. Wriford significantly. - -"You look like it," said the woman. "There!" and slid him a hunk of -dry bread. - -He tried to thank her. He felt strangely overcome by her kindness. -Tears of weakness sprang to his eyes; but no words to his mouth. -"That's all right," she said. "You're fair starved by the look of -you." - -He puzzled as he finished his meal, and as he wandered out and up the -street again, to know why he had been so touched by the woman's -action. He found himself feeling towards her that same swelling in -his heart as when the oldest sea-captain living with stained lips had -whispered: "Matey! Matey!" - -Was there something in life that he had missed? What in the name of -God had that to do with being given a piece of bread? - - - -II - -He found himself late in the afternoon reaching the end of a deserted -road of widely detached villas. The last house carried on its gate a -very dingy brass plate. - - TOWER HOUSE SCHOOL - JAMES PENNYQUICK, B.A. - - -Pennyquick? Pennyquick? It was the name that had caught his -attention in the paper at the barber's. What had he read about it? -He trailed on a few steps and remembered the inquest on the -assistant-master, and stopped, and stared. - -A rough field lay beyond the house. It was separated from the road -by barbed-wire fencing which trailed between dejected-looking poles -that at one time had supported it but now bowed towards the ground in -various angles of collapse. Within the field were pitched at -intervals decayed cricket stumps set in a wide circle, and there -stood about dejectedly in this circle dejected-looking boys to the -number of eighteen or twenty. At intervals, as Mr. Wriford stood and -watched, the boys stirred into a dejected activity which gave them -the appearance of being engaged in a game of rounders. A gentleman, -wearing on his head a dejected-looking mortar-board without a tassel, -and beneath it untidy black garments of semi-clerical appearance, -imparted these intervals of activity to the boys. He paced the field -in a series of short turns near the house, hands behind his back, -head bent, and, as Mr. Wriford could see, sucking in the cheeks of a -coarse-looking face surrounded by scrubby whiskers of red hair. -Every now and then he would throw up his head towards the -dejected-looking boys and bawl "PLAY UP!" whereupon the -dejected-looking boys would give momentary attention to their game. - -Mr. Wriford stepped over the trailing wire and approached the maker -of this invigorating call. "Excuse me," said Mr. Wriford, come -within speaking distance. "Are you Mr. Pennyquick?" - -Halted in his pacing at sight of Mr. Wriford, the gentleman thus -addressed awaited him with lowered head and lowering gaze much as a -bull might regard the first movements of an intruder. He sucked more -rapidly at his cheeks as Mr. Wriford came near, and for a space -sucked and fiercely stared after receiving the question. - -"Well, what if I am?" he then returned. His voice was -extraordinarily harsh, and he came forward a step that brought his -face close to Mr. Wriford's and stared more threateningly than -before. His eyes were dull and heavily bloodshot, and there went -with the sucking at his cheeks a nervous agitation that seemed to -possess his neck and all his joints. "What if I am?" he demanded -again, and his words discharged a reek communicative of the fact -that, whoever he was, abstinence from alcohol was not among his moral -principles. - -"By any chance," said Mr. Wriford, "do you happen to want an -assistant-master?" - -"I don't want you." - -"I thought you might want temporary assistance." - -He was stared at a moment from the clouded eyes. Then, in another -volume of the fierce breath, "Well, you thought wrong!" he was told. -"Now!" - -"Very well," said Mr. Wriford and turned away. - -He went a dozen paces towards the road. There seized him as he -turned and as he walked away a sudden realisation of his case, a -sudden panic at his plight, a sudden desperation to cling on to what -he believed offered here. He must find something to do. There could -be no concealment, no peace for him while he wandered outcast and -penniless. That way lay what most he feared. He would be found -wandering or found collapsed, and questions would be asked him and -explanations demanded of him. That terrified him. He could not face -that. Whatever else happened he must be left alone. He must find -something to do that would hide him--give him occupation enough to -earn him food and shelter and leave him to himself to think. - -He turned and went back desperately. The man he believed to be Mr. -Pennyquick was standing staring after him and waited staring as he -came on. - -"Look here," said Mr. Wriford desperately. "Look here, Mr. -Pennyquick. I know you think it strange my coming to you like this. -But I heard, I heard in the town, that you wanted an -assistant-master. If you don't--" - -"I've told you," said Mr. Pennyquick, admitting the personality by -not denying it, "I've told you I don't want you. Now!" - -"If you don't," said Mr. Wriford, unheeding the rebuff, more -desperate by reason of it, "if you don't, there's an end of it. But -if you want temporary help--temporary, a day, or a week--I can do it -for you." - -"Do what?" demanded Mr. Penny quick. - -"I can teach," said Mr. Wriford. There was sign of relenting in Mr. -Pennyquick's question, and Mr. Wriford took it up eagerly. "I can -teach," he repeated. - -"What can you teach?" - -"I can teach all the ordinary subjects." - -"I'm getting a University man," said Mr. Pennyquick. - -"Temporarily," Mr. Wriford urged. As every passage of their -conversation brought him nearer this sudden chance or threw him -further from it, his panic at its failure, and what must happen, then -increased desperately. "Temporarily," he urged. "I've had a -public-school education." - -"Yes, you look it!" said Mr. Pennyquick, and laughed. - -"English subjects," cried Mr. Wriford. "Latin, mathematics. I can -do it if you want it." - -Mr. Pennyquick glanced over his shoulder at his dejected-looking -boys, then stared back again at Mr. Wriford and began to speak with -more consideration and less fierceness. "I'm not saying," said Mr. -Pennyquick, "that I don't want temmo--temmer--PLAY UP! Tem-po-rary -assistance. I do. I'm very ill. I'm shaken all to bits. I ought -to be in bed. What I'm saying is I don't want you. I don't know -anything about you. I've got the reputation of my school to -consider. That's what I'm saying to you." - -Dizziness began to overtake Mr. Wriford--the field to rock in long -swells, Mr. Pennyquick by turns to recede and advance, swell and -diminish. He felt himself upon the verge of breaking down, wringing -his hands in his extremity and staggering away. But where? Where? -"Temporarily," he pleaded. "Temporarily." - -"You might drink for all I know," said Mr. Pennyquick, pronouncing -this possibility as if consumed with an unnatural horror of it. - -"I don't drink." - -"How do I know that?" - -Mr. Wriford cried frantically: "It's only temporarily! If I drink, -if I'm not suitable, you can stop it in a moment." - -"No notice?" said Mr. Pennyquick. - -"No--no notice. Temporarily--it's only temporarily. That'll be -understood." - -"Well, if no notice is understood I'll take the risk--for a week, -while I'm getting a man. I'll give you fifteen shillings. No, I -won't. I'll give you twelve. I'll give you twelve shillings, and if -I have to sack you before the week's out--well, you just go. That's -understood?" - -"Thank you," Mr. Wriford said. The field was spinning now. He could -think of nothing else to say. "Thank you." - -"Be here at nine to-morrow," said Mr. Pennyquick. "Just before -nine," and he turned away and shouted to his boys: "Stop now! Come -in now!" - -"But--" said Mr. Wriford. "But--but--" He was trying for words to -frame his difficulty. "But--do I live in?" - -"Live in!" cried Mr. Pennyquick. "I'm taking risks enough having you -at all! Live in! Stop now. Come in now!" and he walked away -towards the house. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -IN A PARLOUR - -I - -Lights in all the windows and in the street lamps as Mr. Wriford -regained the town. Night approaching--and he terrified of its -approach. Little chill was in the air, yet as he walked he trembled -and his teeth chattered. He was shaken and acutely distressed by -revulsion of the effort to cling on and achieve his purpose against -Mr. Pennyquick's domineering savagery. He was worse shaken and worse -distressed by mounting continuance of the panic at his plight that -had driven him to the interview. That plight and to what it might -lead had suddenly been revealed to him as he walked away after the -first rebuff. Now it utterly consumed him. He shrunk from the gaze -of passers-by. He avoided with more than the fear of an evil-doer -the police constables who here and there were to be seen. His urgent -desire was concealment, to be left alone, to be quiet. His fear was -to be apprehended, found destitute, questioned, interfered with. -Questioning: that was his terror; solitude: that was his want. He -wanted to hide. He wanted to hide from every sort of connection with -what in two different phases he had lived through, and in each come -only to misery. He told himself that if, in obedience to his bodily -desires--his hunger, his extreme physical wretchedness--he were -somehow to get in communication with London and enjoy the money and -the place that waited him there--that would be the very quick of -intolerable meeting with his old self again. Unthinkable that! If -his bodily desires--his faintness, his extreme exhaustion--overcame -him, there would be meeting the old life in guise of explanations, of -dependence again in infirmary or workhouse. No, he must somehow be -alone; he must somehow live where none should interfere with him and -where he might on the one hand be occupied and on the other be able -to sit aside from all who knew him or might bother him, and thus -pursue his quest: was there some secret of happiness in life that he -had missed? These bodily miseries would somehow, somewhere, be -accommodated or would kill him: this mental searching--ever? - -There was upon him accumulation of wretchedness such as in all his -wretchedness of his accursed life he never had endured. At its worst -in the old days, the days of being one of the lucky ones, there had -shone like a lamp to one lost in darkness the belief that if he could -get out of it all he would end it all. Ah, God, God, he had escaped -it and was in worse condition for his escape! The belief had been -tested--the belief was gone. In the wild Puddlebox days he had -beaten off wretchedness with violence of his hands and of his body, -believing that it ever could thus be beaten. God, it had beaten him, -never again in that deluded spirit could be faced. In the infirmary -he had begun his wondering after something in life that he had -missed. Lo, here was he come out to find it, and Christ! it was not, -and Christ! he might not now so much as sit and rest and ponder it. - -He felt himself hunted. He felt every eye turned upon him within -whose range he came; every hand tingling suddenly to clutch him and -stop him; every voice about to cry: "Here, you! You, I say! What -are you doing? Where do you live? Who are you?" - -He felt himself staggering from his dreadful faintness and thereby -conspicuous. Thrice as he stumbled round any corners that he met he -found himself passing a constable who each time more closely stared. -He took another turning. It showed him again that same policeman at -the end of the street. He dared not turn back. That would be -flight, his disordered mind told him, and he be followed. He dared -not go on. There was a little shop against where he stood. Its -lighted window displayed an array of gas-brackets, a variety of glass -chimneys and globes for lamps and gas, some coils of lead piping, and -in either corner a wash-basin fitted with taps. There was inscribed -over this shop - - HY. BICKERS, CERT. PLUMBER - -and attached to a pendent gas bracket within the window was a card -with the announcement: - - LODGER TAKEN - - -Mr. Wriford made a great effort to steady himself; steadied his -shaking hand to press down the latch; and to the very loud jangle of -an overhead bell entered the tiny shop that the door disclosed. - - - -II - -There was sound of conversation and the clatter of plates from a -brightly-lit inner parlour. Mr. Wriford heard a voice say: "I'll go, -Essie, dear," and there came out to him a nice-looking little old -woman, white-haired and silvery-hued, rather lined and worn, yet -radiating from her face a noticeable happiness, as though there was -some secret joy she had, who smiled at him in pleasant inquiry. - -"I'm looking for a lodging," said Mr. Wriford. - -At her entry she had left the parlour door open behind her, and at -Mr. Wriford's words there came to him through it a bright girlish -voice which said: "There, now! Jus' what I was saying! Isn't that -funny, though! Let's have a laugh!" and with it, as though Mr. -Wriford's statement had conveyed the jolliest joke in the world, the -merriest possible ring of laughter. - -The woman smiled at Mr. Wriford; and there was in the laugh something -so infectious as to make him, despite his wretchedness, smile in -response. She went back to the door and closed it. "That's our -Essie," she said, speaking as though Mr. Wriford in common with -everybody else must know who Essie was. "She's such a bright one, -our Essie!" The secret happiness that seemed to lie behind her years -and behind the lines of her face shone strongly as she spoke. One -might guess that "Our Essie" was it. Then she answered Mr. Wriford's -statement. "Well, we've got a very nice bedroom," she told him. -"Would you like to see it?" - -"I'm sure it's nice," said Mr. Wriford. His voice, that he had tried -to strengthen for this interview, for some ridiculous reason trembled -as he spoke. The reason lay somewhere in the woman's motherly face -and in her happy gleaming. He felt himself stupidly affected just as -he had been affected--recurrence of the sensation brought the scenes -before his eyes--by the last appeal to him of the oldest sea-captain -living, and by the kindly action of the woman in the coffee-shop who -had given him a piece of bread early that morning. "I'm sure it's -nice," he said again, repeating the words to correct the stupid break -in his voice. "Would you tell me the price?" - -"Won't you sit down?" said the woman. "You do look that tired!" - -He murmured some kind of thanks and dropped into a chair that stood -by the counter. - -She looked at him very compassionately before she answered his -question. "Tiring work looking for lodgings," she said. - -He nodded--very faint, very wretched, very vexed with himself at that -stupid swelling from his heart to his throat that forbade him speech. - -"Would you be living in?" he was asked. - -"I think I should be out all day." - -"Jus' breakfast and supper? That's the usual, of course, isn't it? -And full Sundays. That would be twelve shillings." - -Twelve shillings was to be his wage from Mr. Pennyquick. He could -not spend it all. - -"I couldn't pay it," said Mr. Wriford and caught at the counter to -assist himself to rise. - -"Well, I am sorry, I'm sure," said the woman, and she added: "Hadn't -you better rest a little?" - -His difficulty in rising warned him that if he did get up he might be -unable to stand. "I will, just a moment," he told her, "if you don't -mind. It's very kind of you. I've had rather a long day." - -She had said she was sorry, and she stood looking at him as though -she were genuinely grieved and more than a little disturbed in mind. -"How much could you pay?" she asked. - -"I could pay ten." - -"And when might you want to begin?" - -"Now." - -"Would it be for long?" - -"I can't say. I don't think it would." - -She said briskly, as though her obvious disturbance of mind had -dictated a sudden course, "Look here, jus' wait a minute, will you?" -and went into the parlour, closing the door behind her. - -Murmur of voices. - -"You know," she said, coming back to him, "if it was likely to be -regular perhaps we could arrange ten shillings. But not knowing, you -see, that's awkward. We like our lodger more to be one of us like. -We don't want the jus' come and go sort. That's how it stands, you -see. You couldn't say, I suppose?" - -"It's very kind of you," said Mr. Wriford. "I'm afraid I can't. -I'll tell you. I'm engaged with Mr. Pennyquick at Tower House -School--" - -"Oh, Mr. Pennyquick!" - -"You know him, I expect?" - -"Oh, I know Mr. Pennyquick," said the woman, and seemed to have some -meaning in her tone. - -"Well, it's only for a week, or by the week. I can't say how long." - -He was given no reply to this. It was as if mention of Mr. -Pennyquick's name placed him as very likely to be among the "come and -go sort." "I had better be going, I think," he said, and this time -got to his feet. - -"Well, I am sorry," the woman said again. "I'm sure I'm very sorry, -and you know I can't say straight off where you'll get what you want -for ten shillings. There's places, of course. But you know you -don't look fit to go trudging round after them this time of night. -Hadn't you better go just for the night somewhere? There's Mrs. -Winter I think would take you for the night. She's at--" - -Mr. Wriford went to the door. "You needn't trouble," he said weakly. -"It can't be by the night. I can only pay at the end of the week." - -The woman gave a little sound of dismay. "But--do you mean no money -till then?" - -He nodded. That was what he meant--and must face. - -"But, dearie me, you won't find any will take you without deposit. -They're very suspicious here, you know." - -"Well," said Mr. Wriford. "Well--" and with fingers as helpless as -his voice began to fumble at the latch. - -"But where are you going?" - -"This handle," he said. "It's rather stiff." He took his hand from -it as she came round the counter to him, then immediately caught at -it again and supported himself against it. - -She saw the action and cried out in consternation. "Oh," she cried. -"Why, you can't hardly stand, and going off nowhere! Why, you jus' -can't. You'll have to stop." - -He asked wearily: "Stop! How can I stop?" - -"Why, ten shillings. That'll be all right. Our Essie, you know--" - -He could say no more than "Thank you. Thank you." - -"You'll come right along. We're just sitting down to supper. No, -I'll just tell them first." - -He effected speech again as, with her last words, she went to the -parlour door. "But deposit," he said, and recalled the phrase she -had used. "Aren't you suspicious?" - -"Why, that can't be helped," she smiled back at him. "Our Essie, you -know, she'd never forgive me if I sent you off like you are. Jus' -sit down." - -He had scarcely taken a seat when she was back again and calling him -from the threshold of the open parlour door. "That's all right. -Come right along. You didn't give your name, did you?" - -"Wriford," and he reached her where she stood smiling. - -She turned within and announced him: "Well, here's our lodger. -That's Mr. Bickers." - -A man of stature and of strength, once, this Hy. Bickers, Cert. -Plumber. Bent now and stooping, but with something very strong, very -confident in his face: lined and worn as his wife's, silvery as hers. -Slightly whiskered, of white, otherwise clean shaven. A smoking-cap -on his head. Little enough hair beneath it. In his face that same -suggestion of a very happy secret happiness. "Expect you're tired," -said Mr. Bickers and gave a warm hand-clasp. - -"And that's our Essie." - -A very cool, vigorous young hand, this time, that grasped Mr. -Wriford's and shook it strongly. A slim, brown little thing, our -Essie, eighteen perhaps, very pretty, with extraordinarily bright -eyes; wearing a blue cotton dress with white spots. - -"Pleased to meet you," said Essie. - - - -III - -Such a cheerful, jolly room, the parlour. Here was a round table set -out for supper, and Essie bustling in and out of what appeared to be -the kitchen, giving final touches and laying a fourth place. A great -number of framed texts all round the walls, with two or three -religious pictures, a highly coloured portrait of Queen Victoria and -another of General Booth. A bright little fire burning, with an -armchair of shining American cloth on each side of it, and a sofa and -chairs, similarly covered, all with antimacassars, set around the -room. A bookcase near the window, and near one armchair a little -table carrying an immense Bible with other Bibles and prayer-books -placed upon it. Some shells on the mantelpiece in front of an -immense, gilt-framed mirror, and with them a great number of cups and -saucers and vases all inscribed as "A present from" the place whence -they were purchased. - -Mr. Wriford sat on the sofa, silent, better already from the warmth -and the fragrant savour from the kitchen; not less wretched though: -somehow more wretched, somehow overcome and utterly consumed with -that swelling feeling from his heart to his throat. Mr. Bickers sat -in one of the armchairs, silent. Mrs. Bickers in the kitchen. - -Mrs. Bickers appears. "Now Essie, dear, I'll dish up. You jus' look -after the lodger, dear. I expect the lodger will like to wash his -hands. Hot water, dear, and there's his bundle." - -Essie comes out of the kitchen with a steaming jug in one hand and a -candle in the other, puts down the candle to tuck Mr. Wriford's -parcel under her arm, and then takes it up again. "This way," says -Essie and leads the way through another door and up a flight of very -steep and very narrow stairs. "Aren't they steep, though?" says -Essie over her shoulder. "We don't half want a lift!" - -The stairs give onto a passage with doors leading off from the right, -and the passage terminates in a door which Essie butts open with her -knee, and here is a bedroom. "This is the lodger's room," says -Essie, setting down the candle and then removing the jug from the -basin and pouring out the water. "Course it don't look much jus' at -present, not expecting you, you see. But I'll pop up after supper -an' put it to rights. Find your way down, can't you? I'll get you a -bit of soap out of my room to go on with." There is a second door to -the bedroom, and Essie goes through it and returns with soap. -"That's my room," says Essie. "I call this my dressing-room when we -haven't got a lodger, jus' like as if I was a duchess," and she gives -the bright laugh that Mr. Wriford had heard in the shop. "That's all -right then. Bring the candle. That mark on the wall there's where a -lodger left his candle burning all night. Oh, they're cautions, some -of our lodgers! Don't be long." - - - -IV - -Most savoury and most welcome soup opens the supper. After it a -shoulder of mutton, Essie doing all the helping and the carving and -the running about. She sits opposite Mr. Wriford. Her eyes--there -is something quite extraordinarily bright about her eyes as he -watches them. They are never still. They are for ever sparkling -from this object to that; and wherever momentarily they rest he sees -them sparkle anew and sees her soft lips twitch as though from where -her eyes alight a hundred merry fancies run sparkling to her mind. -Her eyes flicker over the dish of potatoes and rest there a moment, -and there they are sparkling, and her mouth twitching, as though she -is recalling comic passages in buying them or in cooking them, or -perhaps it is their very appearance, grotesquely fat and helpless, -heaped one upon the other, in which she sees something odd that -tickles her. Most extraordinarily bright eyes, and with them always -most funny little compressions of her lips, as if she is for ever -tickled onto the very brink of breaking into laughter. - -This at last, indeed, she does. Presence of the new lodger seems to -throw a constraint about the table, and the meal is eaten almost to -the end of the mutton course in complete silence. Very startling, -therefore, when Essie suddenly drops her knife and fork with a -clatter and leans back in her chair, eyes all agleam. "Oh, dear me!" -cries Essie, as Mr. and Mrs. Bickers stare at her. "Oh, dear me! -I'm very sorry, but just munching like this, you know, all of us, -without speaking a word! Oh, dear!" and she uses the expression that -Mr. Wriford had heard when he first spoke to Mrs. Bickers. "Oh, -dear, let's have a laugh!" - -Mrs. Bickers glances at Mr. Wriford and says reprovingly: "Oh, -Essie!" But there is no help for it and no avoiding its infection. -Essie puts back her head and goes into a ring of the brightest -possible laughter, and Mrs. Bickers laughs at her, and Mr. Bickers -laughs at her, and even Mr. Wriford smiles; and thereafter Essie -chatters without ceasing to her parents on an extraordinary variety -of topics connected with what she has done or seen during the day, in -every one of which she finds subject for amusement and many times -declares of whatever it may be: "Oh, aren't they funny, though! -Let's have a laugh!" - -Mr. Wriford smiles when she laughs--impossible to avoid it. -Otherwise he contributes nothing to the chatter. This strange, this -kind and happy and generous ending to his day, acts upon him only in -increasing sensation of that upward swelling from his heart to his -throat that forbids him speech. He has the feeling that if he talks -his voice will break in tears--of weakness, of wretchedness: nay, of -worse than these--of their very apotheosis. There is happiness here. -There is here, among these three, that which he is seeking, seeking -and cannot find. They have found it: what is it then? It is all -about them--shining in their faces, singing in their words. He is -not of it. He is outside it. They are on the heights; he in the -depths, the depths! Let him not speak, let him not speak! If he -speaks he must sob and cry, get to his feet, while wondering they -look at him, and stare at them, and break from them and go. If he so -betrays himself he must cry at them: "What have you found? Why are -you happy? This kills me, kills me, to sit here and watch you. -Don't touch me. None of you touch me. Let me go. Just let me go." - -They seem to see his plight. They smile encouragingly at him to draw -him into their talk; Mr. Bickers, when the women are clearing away, -offers him a new clay pipe and the tobacco jar. But they seem to -understand. They accept without comment or offence the negation of -these advances which he gives only by shaking his head as they are -made. - -"Well, that's done!" says Essie, coming down from the lodger's room -after the supper has been cleared away. "Bed made and everything -nice and ready. One of the castors of the bed is shaky, Dad. You'll -have to see to it in the morning. I can't think how I never noticed -it till now. Oh, those lodgers! They're fair cautions!" - -Mrs. Bickers smiles at Mr. Wriford. "Well, I expect you'd like to go -straight to bed, wouldn't you now?" - -Painful this distrust of his voice. He rises and manages: "Yes, I -would." - -"You'll be ever so much better in the morning after a good sleep. -What about--" and Mrs. Bickers looks at her husband. - -"It's our custom," says Mr. Bickers in his deep voice, "all to read a -piece from the Bible before we go to bed--all that sleep under this -roof. We'll do it now so you can get along. Essie, dear." - -Essie puts chairs to the table, and then Bibles. The immense Bible -for Mr. Bickers, one but a little smaller for Mrs. Bickers, and one -for herself. "There's my Church-service for you," says Essie to Mr. -Wriford. All the Bibles have a ribbon depending from them whereat -they are opened, and Essie finds the place for Mr. Wriford. -"Twenty-fourth Psalm," says Essie. "My fav'rit. Isn't it a short -one, though!" - -"We read in turn," says Mr. Bickers. He has one hand on the great -Bible and stretches the other to Mrs. Bickers, who takes it and holds -it. Mr. Wriford sits opposite them, then Essie, next her father on -his other side and snuggling against him, and they begin. - -Mr. Bickers, very deep and slow and reverent: - -"_The earth is the Lord's and all that therein is: the compass of the -world and they that dwell therein._" - -Mrs. Bickers, very gently: - -"_For he hath founded it upon the seas, and prepared it upon the -floods._" - -Mr. Wriford. He is trembling, trembling, trembling. They are -waiting for him. They are looking at him. Round swings the room, -around and around. Who is waiting? Who is looking? Others are -here. He hears the oldest sea-captain living, plainly as if he stood -before him in the room: "Matey! Matey!" He sees Mr. Puddlebox, -plainly as if he were here beside him. "Wedge in, boy; wedge in!" -They are surely here. They are surely calling him. He is on the -rock with the sea about him. He is in the little room with the -figure on the bed. Darkness, darkness. Is this Puddlebox? Is this -Captain? Is he by the sea? Is he by the bed? Round swings the -darkness, around and around. He is not! He is here! He is here -where happiness is. They are waiting for him. They are watching -him. Wriford! Wriford! He tries to read the words that swim before -his eyes. He must. They are very few. They are a question. He -must! Trembling he gives voice: - -"_Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord: or who shall rise up in -his holy place?_" - -Essie, strong and clear and eager, emphasising the first word as -though strongly and directly she answered him: - -"_Even he that hath clean hands, and a pure heart: and that hath not -lift up his mind unto vanity, nor sworn to deceive his neighbour._" - -Mr. Bickers, as one that feels the words he reads, and is sure of -them: - -"_He shall receive the blessing from the Lord: and righteousness from -the God of his salvation._" - -Mrs. Bickers in gentle confirmation: - -"_This is the generation of them that seek him: even of them that -seek thy face, O Jacob._" - -His turn again. He cannot! Let him get out of this! Let him away! -This is not to be borne. Unendurable this. What are they reading? -Why have they chosen these words. "Who shall ascend?" They know his -misery, then! They know the depths that he is in! Hateful that they -should know it, hateful, insufferable, horrible. They see his state -and have chosen words that mean his state. He is exposed before -them. Let him away! Let him get out of this! They shall not know! -His turn. He cannot, cannot. They are watching. They are waiting. -Do they see how his face is working? Do they see how he twists and -twists his hands? His turn. Ah, ah, he is in the depths, the -depths! He is physically, actually down, down--struggling, gasping, -suffocating. All this room and these about him stand as it were -above him--watching him, waiting for him, knowing his misery. He is -sinking, sinking. He is in black and whirling darkness. There is -shouting in his ears. Let him away! Let him go! - -Some one says: "Essie, dear." - -Essie--strong and loud and clear, with tremendous emphasis upon the -first word as though her strong young voice performed its meaning: - -"_Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting -doors: and the King of glory shall come in._" - -He gets to his feet, overturning his chair. He stumbles away, with -blind eyes, with groping hands. - -"Not that door!" cries Essie and runs to him. "Here's the door. -Here's the stairs. Look, here's your candle." - -He blunders up. He blunders to his room. He extinguishes the -candle. Let him have the dark, the dark! He throws off his clothes, -tearing them from him as though they were his agonies. God, if he -could but tear these tortures so! He flings himself upon the bed and -trembles there and clutches there and thrusts the sheet between his -teeth to stay him crying aloud. Inchoate thoughts that rend him, -rend him! Unmeaning cries that with the sheet he stifles. What, -what consumes him now? He cannot name it. What tortures him? He -does not know. Writhe, writhe in the bed; and now it is the sea, and -now the Infirmary ward, and now the coffee-shop, and now the parlour. -Ah, beat down, beat down these torments! Ah, sit up and stare into -the darkness and rid the spirit, rid the mind, of all these shapes -and scenes that press about the pillow. Has he slept? Is he -sleeping? Why suffers he? What racks him? In God's name what? In -pity, in pity what? - -"_Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting -doors: and the King of glory shall come in._" - -Ah, ah! - - - - -CHAPTER III - -TRIAL OF MR. WRIFORD - -I - -He had determined, writhing in those tortures of that night, at -daybreak to get out of it. He had promised himself, striving to -subdue his mental torments, that early morning, the house not yet -astir, should see him up and begone. Sleep betrayed him his promises -and his resolves. While he writhed and while he cried aloud to sleep -to come and rest his fevered writhings, she would not be won. -Towards morning she came to him. He awoke to find daylight, sounds -about the house, escape impossible. - -His reception at breakfast in the little parlour changed his -intention. His reception made the desertion that now he intended -immediately he could leave the house as impossible as, now he saw, -escape at daybreak had been most base. He found in Mr. and Mrs. -Bickers and in Essie not the smallest trace of recognition that his -conduct upon the previous evening had been in the smallest degree -remiss. He found them proving in innumerable little ways that, as -Mrs. Bickers had told him, they liked their lodgers to be "one of us -like." Mr. Bickers proposes to walk with him towards Tower House -School in order to show him short cuts that will lessen the way by -five minutes. Mrs. Bickers inquires if she may go through his bundle -to see if any buttons or any darnings are required. Overnight he had -been made to put on a pair of Mr. Bickers' slippers. Essie has put a -new lace in one of his boots because one, when she was polishing the -boots, was "worn out a fair treat." How can he run away from them -without paying them in face of such kindness and confidence as all -this? "Glad you like bacon," says Essie, helping him generously from -the steaming dish she brings from the kitchen; and says to her -mother: "Haven't some of our lodgers bin fanciful, though? Oh, we -haven't half had some cautions!" and her eyes sparkle and her lips -twitch as though her merry mind is running over the entertainment -that some of the cautions have given. - -No, there can be no desertion of his duties here after this. They -trust him. They accept him as "one of us like." Already he is -indebted to them. Until the week is out he is penniless and unable -to repay them. When his week is up he can thank them and pay them -and go. Till then, at whatever cost--and he will stiffen himself for -the future; he was ill and overwrought last night--he must stay and -earn and settle for the week for which he is committed. - -"Ready?" says Mr. Bickers. "Time we was moving now." - -Yes, he is quite ready. Essie runs to the shop door to open it for -them. Mrs. Bickers comes with them to see them off. Some cows are -being driven down the street. Essie stops with hand on the door to -watch them. "Now, Essie," says Mr. Bickers. Two cows lumber onto -the pavement. Mr. Wriford sees Essie's eyes sparkling and her lips -twitching as she watches. - -Mr. Bickers again: "Now, Essie dear--Essie!" - -But Essie still watches. "Oh, jus' look at them!" says Essie with a -little squirm of her shoulders and then turns round: "Aren't cows -funny, though? Let's have a laugh!" - -There is nothing at all to laugh at that any of the waiting three can -see--except at Essie. Essie laughs as though cows were indeed the -very funniest things in the world, and her laugh is impossible of -resistance. Mr. Bickers is smiling as they start down the street, -and Mr. Wriford is smiling also. - -"She's such a bright one, our Essie," says Mr. Bickers. - -"You must be very fond of her," says Mr. Wriford--"You and Mrs. -Bickers;" and Mr. Bickers replies simply: "Why, I reckon our Essie is -all the world to us." - - - -II - -Mr. Wriford suits Mr. Pennyquick. Mr. Pennyquick, indeed, as Mr. -Wriford finds, is suited by anybody and anything that permits him -leisure in which to nurse his ailment. His ailment requires rest -which he takes all day long on the sofa in his study; and his ailment -requires divers cordials which he keeps handily within reach in long -bottles under the sofa. He is an outdoor man, as he tells Mr. -Wriford when Mr. Wriford comes into the study on some inquiry. He is -all for the open air and for sports; he only missed a double Blue at -Cambridge--Rugby football and cross-country running--through rank -favouritism, and he can't bear to be seen taking physic. To look -around his room, says he, you'd never think he was a regular -drug-shop inside owing to these rotten doctors, would you? Not a -bottle of the muck to be seen anywhere. That's because, says he, his -breath exuding the muck in pungent volumes, he hides the bottles -through sheer sensitiveness. He's feeling a wee bit brighter this -afternoon, thank goodness, and if Wriford, like a good chap, would -just start the First Form in their Caesar he'll be in in about two -ticks and take them over. - -Poor fellow, he never does manage to get in in two ticks or in any -more considerable circumference of the clock. Mr. Wriford, as he -closes the study door, hears the chink of bottle and glass and knows -that the open-air man will breathe no other air than that of his room -until he is able to grip his malady sufficiently to stagger up to bed. - -The trial week, indeed, is not many days old before Mr. Wriford -obtains a pretty clear comprehension of the state of affairs at the -Tower House and the reputation of its Headmaster. "Pennyquick! -Whiskyquick, I call him," says Essie; and though her mother reproves -this levity, and though ill-natured gossip has no exercise in the -Bickers' establishment, even the cert. plumber and his wife admit -that the school is not what it was, and speak of a time when there -were forty or fifty boys and several resident masters. There are -only twenty-four boys now--all boarders. There are no day-boarders. -The town knows its Mr. Pennyquick; and the time cannot be far distant -when the tradesmen in different parts of the county, now attracted by -the past reputation of this "School for the Sons of Gentlemen," also -will know him for what he is. Six boys left the Tower House at the -end of the previous term; five are leaving at the end of this. They -are sorry to go, Mr. Wriford finds, and at first rather wonders at -the fact. But the reason is clear before even the trial week is out. -The reason is that these twenty-four young Sons of Gentlemen, -dejected-looking as he had seen them at play when he accosted Mr. -Pennyquick, are dejected also in spirit--morally abased, that is to -say, partly as coming from homes too snobbish to commit them to the -rough and tumble of local elementary or grammar schools, and partly -as being received into the atmosphere emanated by their Headmaster at -the Tower House. They like the school. It suits them, and -therefore, wiser than they should be, they carry no tales to their -parents. They like the school. They like the utter slackness and -slovenliness of the place. There is no discipline. There is -scarcely a pretence of education. They wash in the mornings not till -after they are dressed, Mr. Wriford finds, and they do not appear to -wash again all day. They are thoroughly afraid of Mr. Pennyquick, -but he scarcely ever visits them, leaving them now entirely to Mr. -Wriford as formerly he left them to Mr. Wriford's predecessors who -seemed to have been much of a habit of mind and character with -themselves. Domestic arrangements are looked after by Mr. -Pennyquick's mother who is a little, frightened grey wisp of a woman -with hands that shake like her son's, but shake for him and because -of him, Mr. Wriford discovers, not as a result of similar ailment and -remedy. She adores her son. She is terrified of him. She is -terrified for him. She sees his livelihood and his manhood crumbling -away, simultaneously and disastrously swift, and what she can do, by -befoolment of parents in correspondence relative to her son's -ill-health and their own son's happiness and success, by pathetic -would-be befoolment of Mr. Wriford on the same counts, and by lenient -treatment of the pupils, that does she daily and hourly to avert the -doom she sees. - - - -III - -Within the first days of the trial week Mr. Wriford's duties fall -into a regular routine. This is his trial week, his temporary week, -a week in which he comes to his duties overwrought, shaken, uncertain -and, thus conditioned, is wretched in his performance of them. -Shortly before nine he presents himself at Tower House. The boys are -wandering dejectedly about the playground. He passes nervously -through them--they do not raise their caps--and hides from them in -the schoolroom till the hour strikes on a neighbouring church clock. -Then Mr. Wriford rings a large hand-bell, and the boys drift in at -their leisure and take their places on the benches. Sometimes, -before Mr. Wriford has finished ringing, Mr. Pennyquick, in gown and -untasselled mortar-board, comes charging across the playground from -the house, and there is then an alarmed stampede on the part of the -boys to get in before him or to crowd in immediately upon his heels. -Sometimes there is a very long wait before the appearance of the -Headmaster; and Mr. Wriford, nervously irresolute as to whether to -ring again or to begin school without him, stands wretched and -self-conscious at his raised desk while the boys titter and whisper, -or throw paper pellets, or look at him and--he knows--titter and -whisper at his expense. This is his trial week, his temporary week. -He is much overwrought in body and in mind. He does not know what -authority he should show or how to show it. He hesitates till too -late to interfere with one outburst of horse-play or of giggling. At -the next he hesitates in doubt as to whether, having overlooked the -former, he can attempt to subdue this. While he hesitates, and while -the noise increases, and while the humiliation and wretchedness it -causes him increase--in the midst of all this Mr. Pennyquick charges -in. Mr. Pennyquick is either unshaved and looking the worse for it; -or he has shaved and has cut himself and dabs angrily at little tufts -of cotton wool that decorate his chin. - -"Anderson!" barks Mr. Pennyquick, seizing the roll-call book and a -pencil but not looking at the one or using the other. "Adsum," -responds Anderson; and Mr. Pennyquick barks through the roll, which -he knows by heart, much as if he were a sheep-dog with each boy a -sheep and each name a bark or a bite in pursuit of it. He does not -wait for responses. He barks along in a jumble of explosions, -interspersed with a jumble of squeaked replies; punctuated at -intervals, as if it were part of the roll, by a very much louder bark -in the form of a fierce "SPEAK UP!" and concluded by a rush without -pause into prayers--Mr. Pennyquick plumping suddenly upon his knees, -much as if the sheepdog had suddenly hurled itself upon the flock, -and the first portion of the devotions being lost in the din of his -pupils extricating themselves from their desks in order to follow his -example, much as if the flock had responded by a panic stampede in -every direction. - -"Samuel Major," barks Mr. Pennyquick, as if he were biting that young -gentleman. "'Sum!" squeaks Samuel Major, as if he were bitten. -"Minorsum - Smithsum - Stoopersum - Taylorsum--SPEAK UP!--Tooveysum - -Westsum - Whitesum--SPEAK UP!--Williamssum - Wintersum - Woodsum - -Ourfatherchartinheavenhallo'edbeth'name ... Amen--SPEAK -UP!--mightyanmosmercifulfatherwethynunworthyservants ... Amen--SPEAK -UP!" - -The schoolroom is divided by a red baize curtain into two parts. The -scholars are divided into three forms of which Form One is the -highest. Mr. Pennyquick, who knows the time-table of lessons by -heart just as he knows the roll-call, follows the last Amen with a -last "SPEAK UP!" and is himself followed in haste and trepidation by -the members of Form One as he jumps from his knees and charges -through the curtain barking "Form One. Thursday. Euclid. -Blackboard. Come round the blackboard. Last night's prep?" - -"Twelfth proposition, sir," squeaks the boy whose eye he has caught. - -This--or the same point in whatever else the subject may -be--invariably marks the end of Mr. Pennyquick's early morning -energy. He begins to draw on the blackboard or to find the place in -a text-book. The energy goes, or the recollection of his medicine -begins, and he changes his mind and barks: "Revise last night's -prep!" There is a stampede to the desks and a burying in books. The -Headmaster paces the room between the wall and the curtain, barking a -"WORK UP!" at intervals and hesitating a little longer each time he -turns at the curtain. "WORK UP!" and he comes charging through -towards Mr. Wriford and the door. "Keep an eye on Form One, Wriford. -Draw the curtain. I'm not quite the thing this morning. Take them -on for me if I'm not back in ten minutes, will you? I ought to be in -bed, you know. I shan't be long. WORK UP!" - -He is gone. He rarely appears again. If he appears it is when -clearly he is not quite the thing and is only to skirmish a few times -up and down the schoolroom to the tune of "WORK UP! WORK UP!" or to -show himself on the playing-field, bellow "PLAY UP!" and betake -himself again to the treatment of his complaint. - -He is gone. Mr. Wriford is left with all the three forms in his -charge. It is his trial week. He does not know what authority he -should show or how to show it. He does not know what has been learnt -or what is being learnt, and he is cunningly or cheekily frustrated -at every attempt to discover it. In whatever way he attempts to set -work afoot an excuse is found to stop him. By one boy he is told -that "please, sir," they do not do this, and by another that "please, -sir," they have never done the other. He has neither sufficient -strength of himself nor sufficient certainty of his position to -insist. Without advice, without support, he is left very much at the -mercy of the three forms, and they show him none. While he tries to -settle one form it is under the distractions and the interruptions of -the other two. When he turns to one of these the first joins the -third in idleness and disorder. At eleven o'clock he is informed -"Please, sir, we have our break now," and there is a stampede for the -door without awaiting his assent. Similarly at half-past twelve, -when morning school ends, and similarly again at four and at -half-past seven, which are the terminations of afternoon school and -of evening preparation. There is no asking his permission. His -position is exactly summarised by this--that the boys know the rules -and customs, he does not; and further by this--that while he remains -miserably uncertain of the extent of his authority and of how he -should assert it, they, by that very uncertainty, well estimate its -limits and hourly, with each advantage gained, more narrowly confine -it, more openly defy him. - - - -IV - -At one o'clock there is lunch. Sometimes Mr. Pennyquick is present -as the boys assemble, and then they assemble in timid silence and eat -with due regard to manners. Sometimes he does not appear till midway -through the meal, till when there is greedy and noisy and slovenly -behaviour, which frightened-looking Mrs. Pennyquick attempts -occasionally to check with a timid: "Hush, boys," or upon which she -looks with nervously indulgent smiles. There is painfully evident in -all her dealings with the boys a dread amounting to a lively terror -that anything shall be done to displease them. Mr. Wriford soon -realises that her hourly fear is of a boy writing home anything that -may lead to parental inquiry and thence to the disclosure of her -son's affliction. In out-of-school hours she frequently visits the -schoolroom and looks anxiously at any boy who may be engaged in -writing. Mr. Wriford at first wonders why. He understands when one -day, passing behind a boy thus occupied, she stops and says: "Writing -home, Charlie? That's a good boy. Do tell your father that Mr. -Pennyquick only this morning was telling me what a good boy you are -at your lessons and how well you are getting on. Write a nice -letter, dear. Would you like to come with me a minute and see if I -can find some sweeties in my cupboard? Come along, then." - -With like purpose it is in fearful apprehension that she watches her -son's face and his every movement when he is at the luncheon table. -Mr. Wriford sees her look up with face in agony of misgiving when the -Headmaster comes in late, sees her eyes ever upon him in constant -dread as he sits opposite her at the head of the table. There does -not appear great cause for nervousness. As a rule the Headmaster -sits glowering and glum and fires off no more than, his own plate -being empty, an occasional "EAT UP!" Sometimes he is boisterously -cheerful. Whatever his mood he never omits one very satisfactory -tribute to his own principles in which his mother joins very happily -and impressively. It takes this form. Immediately Mr. Pennyquick -sits down he calls in a very loud voice for the water to be passed to -him. He then fills his glass from such a great height as to make all -the boys laugh, then drinks, then sets down the tumbler with a sharp -rap, and then says to Mr. Wriford: "I don't know if you're a -beer-drinker, Wriford, but I'm afraid we can't indulge you here. I -never touch anything but water myself. I attribute every misery, -every failure in life, to drink, and I will allow it in no shape or -form beneath my roof. I can give no man a better motto than my own -motto: Stick to Water!" - -Mr. Pennyquick then drinks again with great impressiveness, and Mrs. -Pennyquick at once cries: "Boys, listen to that! Always remember -what Mr. Pennyquick says and always say it was Mr. Pennyquick who -told you. Stick to Water is Mr. Pennyquick's motto, and he never, -never allows drink in any shape or form beneath his roof. Why, do -you know--I must tell them this, dear--a doctor once ordered Mr. -Pennyquick just a small glass of wine once a day, and Mr. Pennyquick -said to him: 'Doctor, I know I'm very ill; but if wine is the only -thing to save me, then, doctor, I must die, for wine I do not and -will not touch.'" - -All eyes in great admiration on this unflinching champion of -hydropathy, who modestly concludes the scene with a loud: "EAT UP!" - - - -V - -Afternoon school, in its idleness, inattention, and indiscipline, is -a repetition of the morning. Preparation from six to half-past seven -again discovers irresolution, uncertainty and wretchedness set in the -midst of those who by every device increase it and advantage -themselves from it. At four o'clock it is Mr. Wriford's duty to keep -an eye on the boys while they disport themselves in the field where -he had first seen them; at half-past five is tea; at shortly before -eight Mr. Wriford is making his way to where supper awaits in the -cheerful parlour behind the little shop of the cert. plumber. - -Thither he goes through the darkness; and, as one in darkness that -gropes for light, can see no light, and dreads the sudden leap of -some assault, so trembles he among the dark oppressions of his mind. - -These are evenings of early summer, and they have early summer's -dusky veils draped down from starry skies. Her pleasant scents they -have, her gentle airs, her after-hush of all her daylight choirs. -They but enfever Mr. Wriford. Her young nights, these, that not -arrest her days but softly steal about her, finger on lip attend her -while she sleeps, then snatch their filmy coverlets while eastward -she rubs her smiling eyes, springs from her slumber, breaks into -music all her morning hymns, and up and all about in sudden radiance -rides, rides in maiden loveliness. Ah, not for him! - -These are young nights that greet him as he leaves the school. In -much affliction he cries out upon their stilly peace. Look, here -that new year in summer is, her peace, her happiness attained, that -from the windows of the ward at Pendra he had watched blown here and -there, mocked, trampled on, caught by the throat and thrust beneath -the iron ground in variance with winter's jealousy. In her he had -envisaged his own stress. Look, here she reigns in happy peace, in -ordered quiet: he? - -He moans a little as he walks. There is something in life that he -has missed, and to its discovery he can bring no more than this--that -it rests not in violent disregard of what happens to him or what he -does, for that he has proved empty; nor rests in the ease that, by -communication with London, might be his, for that inflicts return to -the old self, hatred and fear of whom had driven him away. Where -then? And then it is he moans. His mind presents him none but these -alternatives; his mind, when miserably he rejects them, threateningly -turns them upon him in forms of fear. "Well, you have got to live," -his mind threatens him. "To-morrow you shall perhaps be turned out -from this post at the school. You will have to face anew some means -of life; you will have to suffer what has to be suffered in that -part; face men and submit to their treatment of such as you, or face -them and find fierceness sufficient to defy them." - -"No, no!" he cries. "No, no!" He fears his powers of endurance, -fears that beneath those trials he will be driven back to where is -turned upon him the other threat. "Well, you must go back," his -thoughts threaten him. "Money and comfort await you in London for -your asking. You must go back to what you were. Live at ease in -seclusion, if you will; ah, with your old way of life to tell you -hourly that now it has you chained--that now you have tried escape, -proved it impossible, and never again can escape it!" - -He cries aloud: "No, no!" He moans for his abject hopelessness. He -trembles for his fears at these his threats. Under his misery he -wanders away from the direction of the little plumber's shop, hating -to enter it and to its brightness expose his suffering; under his -fears he hastens to it, clinging to this present occupation lest, -losing it, one of the threats that threaten him unsheaths its sword -upon him. - - - -VI - -When, by these vacillations, he is late for the supper hour, Essie -will be at the shop door watching for him. - -"Well, aren't you half late, though!" cries Essie. "I was jus' goin' -to dish up. Oh, you lodgers, you know, you're fair cautions!" - -"I was kept late," he says. - -"Well, you weren't half walking slow when you come round the corner, -though." She sees his face more clearly in the light of the shop and -she says: "Oh, dear, you don't look half tired! My steak-and-kidney -pudding, that's what you want! Here he is, Dad! Get his slippers, -Mother? That old Whiskyquick's been fair tiring him out!" - -She runs to the kitchen and in a minute calls out: "All ready? Oh, -it's cooked a fair treat!" She bears in the steaming -steak-and-kidney pudding, sets it on the table, but stops while above -the bubbling crust she poises her knife and watches it with her -little twitches of her lips and with her sparkling eyes. - -"Come, Essie," says Mrs. Bickers. - -"Oh, isn't it funny, though," says Essie, "all bubbling and -squeaking! Let's have a laugh!" - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -MARTYRDOM OF MASTER CUPPER - -I - -It is by a very surprising and extraordinary event that, from the -abyss of wretchedness, irresolution and humiliation of the trial week -at Tower House School, Mr. Wriford finds himself lifted to the plane -of its extension by week and week of ever increasing stability and -assurance; finds himself suiting Mr. Pennyquick; finds himself in a -new phase in which there develop new emotions. - -This event is no less remarkable, no less apparently cataclysmal to -his position in the school and to the school itself, than a -tremendous box upon the ear which, early in his second week, Mr. -Wriford administers to a First Form pupil whose name is Cupper and -whose face is fat and dark and cunning. - -Morning school, very shortly after the Headmaster with a loud "WORK -UP!" has left his class "for ten minutes," is the hour of this -amazement. A week's experience of the new assistant-master has -opened to the pupils unbounded lengths of impertinence and -indiscipline to which they can go; and the door has no sooner banged -behind Mr. Pennyquick than they proceed to explore them.. - -A favourite form of this sport is to badger Mr. Wriford with -requests, and it is done the more noisily and impertinently by strict -observation of the rule established in all schools on the point. At -once, that is to say, Mr. Pennyquick having left the room, there -uprises a forest of arms, a universal snapping of fingers and thumbs, -and a chorus that grows to a babel of: "Please, sir! Please, sir! -Please, sir!" - -One "Please, sir" is that there is no ink, another to borrow a knife -to sharpen a pencil, another to find a book, another to open a -window, another to shut it. Mr. Wriford tries to pick out a -particular request and to answer it; he calls for silence and is -responded to with louder "Please, sirs!" He thinks to stop the din -by ignoring it, turns his back upon the noise and cleans the -blackboard, and this is the signal for changing the note to a general -wail of: "Oh, please, sir!--Oh, please, sir!--Oh, please, sir!" - -Master Cupper carries the sport to a length hitherto unattempted. -Master Cupper rises to his feet and with snapping finger and thumb -calls very loudly: "Please, sir! Please, sir!" - -"Sit down, Cupper!" - -"But, please, sir; please, sir!" - -"Sit down!" and Mr. Wriford turns again to the blackboard. He is -quite aware, though he cannot see, what is happening. He knows that -Cupper has left his place and is approaching him with uplifted hand -and persistent "Please, sir!" He knows that Cupper is close behind -him and, from the laughter, that doubtless he is misbehaving -immediately behind his back. He turns and catches Cupper with -fingers extended from his nose. He does not know whether to pretend -he has not seen it, or how, if he should not overlook it, to deal -with it. His face works while he tries to decide. Cupper should -have been warned. Cupper is not. Cupper's fat face grins -impudently, and Cupper says: "Please, sir." - -"Go and sit down," says Mr. Wriford, trying not to speak miserably, -trying to speak sternly. - -"But, please, sir!" - -And thereupon, as hard as he can hit, stinging his own hand with the -force of the blow, putting into it all he has suffered in this room -during the week, Mr. Wriford hits Master Cupper so that there is a -tolerable interval in which Master Cupper reels somewhere into the -middle of next month before Master Cupper can so much as howl. - -Then Master Cupper howls. Master Cupper, hand to face, opens his -mouth to an enormous cavern and discharges therefrom four separate -emotions in one immense, shattering, wordless blare of terror and of -fury, of anguish and of surprise. Scarcely all the boys shouting -together could have surpassed this roar of the stricken Cupper, and -they sit aghast, and Mr. Wriford stands aghast, while tremendously it -comes bellowing out of the Cupper throat. Then bawls Cupper: "I'll -tell Mr. Pennyquick!" and out and away he charges, roaring through -playground and into house as he goes as roars a rocket into the -night. Fainter and more distant comes the roar, then, true to its -rocket character, and to the consternation of those who listen, -culminates in a muffled explosion of sound and in a moment comes -roaring back again pursued by Mr. Pennyquick who also roars and -drives it before him with blows from a cane. - -Woe is Cupper! Cupper, for appreciation of this astounding sequel, -must be followed as, hand to face, from assistant-master to -Headmaster bellowing he goes. Blindly the stricken Cupper charges -through the study door, slips on the mat, and blindly charges -headlong into Mr. Pennyquick. - -Then is the explosion that comes muffled to the listening schoolroom. -First Cupper, shot head first into Mr. Pennyquick's waistcoat, knows -that his head is lavishly anointed with strongly smelling medicine -which Mr. Pennyquick is pouring into a tumbler from a very large -medicine bottle labelled "Three Star (old);" next that his unwounded -cheek and ear have suffered an earthquake compared with which that -received by their fellows from Mr. Wriford was in the nature of a -caress; next that with a bottle and a broken glass he is rolling on -the floor; then, most horrible of all, that Mr. Pennyquick is -springing round the room bellowing: "WHERE CANE? WHERE CANE? WHERE -CANE?" - -There is then a pandemonic struggle between Mr. Pennyquick, a -cupboard, a cataract of heterogeneous articles which pour out of it -upon him, and a bashful cane which refuses to emerge; and there is -finally on the part of Master Cupper a ghastly realisation of his -personal concern in this terrifying struggle and the part for which -he is cast on its termination. Invigorated thereby, up springs -Master Cupper, bawling, and plunges for the door, and simultaneously -out comes the cane, and on comes Mr. Pennyquick, bawling, and plunges -after him. Master Cupper takes three appalling cuts of the cane in -the embarrassment of getting through the doorway, two at each turn of -the passages, a shower in the death-trap offered by the open -playground, and comes galloping, a hand to each side of his face, -into the shuddering schoolroom, bawling: "Save me! Save me!" and -leading by the length of the cane Mr. Pennyquick, with flaming face -and streaming gown, who cuts at him with bellows of: "FLOG you! FLOG -you!" - -The circuit of the schoolroom is thrice described with incredible -activity on the part of Cupper, and with enormous havoc of boys, -books, forms, and blackboards on the part of Mr. Pennyquick. The air -is filled with dust, impregnated with Three Star (old). Finally, and -with an exceeding bitter cry, Master Cupper hurls himself beneath a -desk where Mr. Pennyquick first ineffectually slashes at him, then -thrusts at him as with a bayonet, and then, to the great horror of -all, turns his attention to the room in general. Up and down the -rows of desks charges Mr. Pennyquick, hacking at crouching boys with -immense dexterity, right and left, forehand and backhand, as a -trooper among infantry; bellows "WORK UP! WORK UP!" with each slash, -and with a final cut and thrust at a boy endeavouring to conceal -himself behind a large wall map, and a final roar of "WORK UP!" -disappears in a whirlwind of streaming gown and flashing cane. - - - -II - -The schoolroom clock has not altered five minutes between the first -roar of unhappy Cupper, tingling beneath Mr. Wriford's hand, and the -sobbing groans that now he emits crouching beneath his sheltering -desk. Yet in that period the whole atmosphere of Tower House School -is drastically and permanently changed. - -There stands in his place the assistant-master, momentarily expecting -summary dismissal, yet, while to anticipate it he debates immediate -departure, conscious that the whole room whose butt he has been now -cowers beneath his eye and shudders at his slightest movement. There -tremble on their benches the pupils who in this appalling manner have -seen first the iron discipline of their assistant-master and next, -most surprisingly and most horribly, his terrific support by Mr. -Pennyquick. In the study there rocks upon his feet the Headmaster -endeavouring to drown in Three Star (old) the memory of the -exhibition he has given, and thinking of Mr. Wriford, in so far as he -is capable of coherent thought, only in the aspect of one who must be -implored to keep the school together while the outbreak of fury is -explained and lived down by its perpetrator taking to his bed and his -mother reporting a sudden breakdown. - -Unhappy Cupper, it is to be remarked, martyred in his poor throbbing -flesh for the production of this new atmosphere, is directly -responsible for the several delusions on which it is in large measure -based, in that he is firmly convinced that he told the Headmaster why -he was come howling to his study and is assured therefore that it was -the reason, not the manner, of his entry that earned him his -subsequent flight for life paid for so horribly as he ran. The boys -believe he made his appeal and, in the result of it, are tremblingly -resolved to take any punishment from Mr. Wriford rather than follow -Cupper's example of inviting Mr. Pennyquick's interference. Mr. -Wriford believes his blow was reported and awaits dismissal for his -loss of temper. And finally it is the belief of Mr. Pennyquick that -Cupper made a wilful and groundless entry to his study and that he -was surprised thereby into a violence in which (said he to Three Star -[old]): "God alone knows what I did." - -It is while the first onset of these thoughts pursue their several -victims that Master Cupper, under terror of his own portion in them, -creeps snuffling from his hiding-place to his seat; and to his own -seat also, on tiptoe, very timidly, the young gentleman who had taken -shelter behind the wall map. Mr. Wriford makes a sudden movement -with the intention of leaving the Tower House before he is dismissed -from it. A convulsion passes through the pupils. They glue their -heads above their books. Immediately they are in a paroxysm of -study, each separate minute of which surpasses in intensity the -combined labours of any week the Tower House has known since its -Headmaster was forced to take to medicine. - -Mr. Wriford remains in his seat to watch this extraordinary scene. -The hour of the recreation interval comes and goes. Not a boy so -much as lifts his head. The close of morning school shows itself -upon the clock. Not a boy moves. This is the serenest period Mr. -Wriford has known since ever the train from London brought him here a -fortnight ago. It is a grim eye he sets upon the devoted heads of -his toiling pupils. He hates them. For what they have made him -endure in these days he hates them one and all, wholly and severally. -He has a relish of their desperate industry beneath his observation. -He has a relish that is an actual physical pleasure in this utter -silence, in this feeling that here--for the first time since God -alone knows when--he is where he rules and is not hunted. He leans -back in his chair in sheer enjoyment of it. He closes his eyes and -delights that he is utterly still. - -The luncheon bell rings. Mr. Wriford goes to the door and opens it -and stands by it. Very quietly, file by file from the rows of desks, -with bent heads and with the gentle movements of well trained lambs, -the boys pass out before him. - -He follows them, and, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Pennyquick appearing, -presides at a meal over which there broods, as it were, a solemn and -religious hush. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -ESSIE'S IDEA OF IT - -I - -It is Essie who helps Mr. Wriford carry forward the advantage that -Master Cupper has gained him. Mr. Pennyquick did not show himself -throughout the remainder of the day. The expected dismissal for -having struck Master Cupper--awaited in the grim satisfaction of -grovellingly docile pupils throughout afternoon school and evening -preparation--is deferred, therefore, as Mr. Wriford supposes, until -the morrow; and in the morning he finds himself mentioning it to -Essie. - -He is the reverse of talkative with the Bickers household. The -oppression that nightly he brings home from Tower House sits heavily -upon him in the bright little parlour, intensified, as on his first -evening there, rather than relieved by it. He always dreads the -ordeal of the Bible reading. He always escapes to bed immediately it -is over. At breakfast he has excuse to hurry over his meal and hurry -from the house. On this morning, however, Essie comes to breakfast -dressed in hat and jacket. She is going to spend the day with -friends in a neighbouring town. She has to start for her train as -Mr. Wriford starts for his work and, as his way lies past the railway -station, "Why, we'll jus' skedaddle together," says Essie. - -He cannot refuse. Facing the dismissal he anticipates, he more than -ever desires to be alone; but Essie takes their companionship on the -way for granted, and presently is chattering by his side of whom she -is going to see, and what a long time it is since she has seen them, -and appearing not at all to notice that he gives her no response. -She is wonderfully gay and excited, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes -even more radiant than commonly they sparkle. She has new gloves, -which she shows him, turning the hand next him this way and that for -their better display and announcing them "not half a bargain at -one-an'-eleven-three, considering I never had this dress then to -match 'em by;" and she has a linen coat and skirt of lilac shade and -a hat of blue flowers in which she looks quite noticeably pretty; and -she looks at herself in all the shop windows as she chatters and -appears to be more delighted than ever at what she sees reflected -there. - -"Don't think I shall miss the train, do you?" says Essie. "Takes me -a long time to say good-bye to Mother and Dad through not liking -leavin' them alone all day. Don't think it's very unkind, do you, -jus' once in a way, you know? You'd never think how I hate doin' it, -though." - -These are questions, in place of chattering information, and Mr. -Wriford feels he must come out of his own thoughts to answer them. -He chooses the first and tells her--his first words since they left -the shop: "You've plenty of time. It takes exactly nine minutes to -the station. I notice it by the big clock every day." - -"Well, that's safe as the Bank of England then," declares Essie. -"Plenty of time," and she takes advantage of it to stop deliberately -for a moment and twitch her veil in front of a tobacconist's shining -window. Mr. Wriford pauses for her, and she turns dancing eyes to -him when she has settled her veil to her liking. "Isn't it funny, -though, seeing yourself with pipes and all in your face? Let's have -a laugh!" - -He does not join her in the merry laugh she enjoys; and suddenly he -is aware that she is regarding him curiously, and then that she is -making the first personal remark she has ever addressed to him. "You -aren't half one of the solemn ones," says Essie. - -It is then that he tells her: "Well, I'm on my way to be dismissed. -There's not much joke in that." - -Essie gives a little exclamation and stops abruptly, her face all -concern. "Oh, you don't say!" - -"Yes, I do. Come on." - -"The proper sack?" - -"Come along. You'll miss your train." - -"Oh, bother the old train!" cries Essie. "That's fair done it. I -shan't be half miserable thinking of you." - -"Why should you?" says Mr. Wriford indifferently. - -She replies: "Well, did you ever! Me going off to enjoy myself and -thinking of you getting the sack! Oh, that old Whiskyquick, he's a -caution!" - -"But there's no earthly need for you to mind." - -"Why, of course there is," says Essie. "Especially with me going off -on a beano like this. Of course there is. My goodness, I know what -it is for a lodger when he gets the sack! Whyever didn't you tell us -before--all of us? Then we might have talked it over, and ten to one -Dad could have advised you. I've seen Dad get a lodger out of a mess -before now. Just tell me. Whatever is it for?" - -"I hit one of the boys." - -Essie's eyes wince as though herself she felt the blow. "Not hard?" - -"As hard as ever I could." - -"Oh, dear!" says Essie reproachfully. "You never ought to do that, -you know. Just a slap--that's nothing. I've fetched one of my -Sunday-school boys a slap before now. But losing your temper, you -know!" - -"He wanted it," said Mr. Wriford. - -"That's what you think," says Essie. "Well, never mind about that -now. Just tell me." - -He tells her. He finds himself less indifferent to her sympathy as -he proceeds. He finds it rather a relief to be telling her of -it--rather pleasantly novel to be telling anybody anything. He tells -her from the moment of his blow at Cupper, and why the blow was -struck, to the furious onset of Mr. Pennyquick, slashing among the -boys with his cane--the humourous aspect of which he for the first -time perceives and laughs at--and he finds himself, as he concludes, -rather leaning towards the sympathy he expects. - -But the sympathy is not for him; nor does Essie, who usually can see -a joke in nothing at all, laugh at Mr. Pennyquick's wild gallop among -his pupils. - -"Oh, those poor boys!" says Essie. "Don't I just feel sorry for -them!" - -"You wouldn't if you knew them." - -"Wouldn't I, though! I wish I had half your chance!" - -He asks her impatiently, irritated at the unexpected attitude she has -taken: "My chance at what?" - -"Why, your chance to make them happy. Why, they're not boys at all. -I think it every time I see them." - -"No, they're little fiends." - -"That's silly talk," says Essie rather sharply. "I daresay you'd be -a fiend, for that matter, with that old toad of a Whiskyquick not to -care what happens to you except to frighten you to death." - -Mr. Wriford says coldly: "I didn't know we were talking about the -boys. You asked me to tell you--" - -"Oh," cries Essie, "don't you get a crosspatch now! I know it was -about your sack we were talking, and I am sorry, truly and reely -sorry. But, look here, I don't believe you'll get it, you know. I -believe old Whiskyquick's that ashamed of himself he won't show his -face for a week. An' I don't believe he even knows you hit that poor -what's-his-name--Cupper?--so there! I believe he hit him for -disturbing him, and I daresay catching him drinking, before the poor -little fellow could speak. I do reely. Look here--" - -They have reached the station and Essie stops outside the -booking-office. "Look here, I tell you what there is to it. Don't -you worry about the sack. Ten to one you won't get it till he's got -some one instead of you, anyway. Just you don't worry. It only -makes it worse, like when you're going to have a tooth out. You see -if you can't make those poor boys happy. Why, you know, when I first -had my Sunday-school class, oh, they were cautions! They'd never had -any one to be kind to them, jus' like your boys. I told 'em stories, -and told 'em games, and took 'em a walk every time, and showed 'em -things, and you'd never believe how good they are now. You just try. -I mean to say, whatever's the good of anybody if you don't try to -make other folk happy, is there? Oh, there's my train signalled. -Goo'-by. I shan't half think how you're getting on. I say, -though--" and Essie, who has been extraordinarily grave in this long -speech, begins to sparkle in her eyes again. - -"Yes," says Mr. Wriford. - -"You haven't got a minute to buy my ticket?" - -"I'll get your ticket, of course." - -"That's fine." She counts him some money from her purse. "Third -return Wilton, excursion. Mind you say excursion. One and tuppence. -Here comes the puffer." - -Mr. Wriford says "excursion;" and then Essie, by hanging back as the -train comes in, indicates clearly enough that she would like him also -to find her a carriage. When she is in and leaning from the window -she explains the reason of these manoeuvres. - -"Thanks awfully," says Essie and whispers: "You know, I like people -to see me with a young man to fuss me about." - -Mr. Wriford's smile is the first expression of real amusement he has -known in many long months. As the train begins to move he raises his -hat. "Oh, thanks awfully," cries Essie, immensely pleased. -"Remember what I said. I shan't half think how you're getting on. -Mind you remember! Goo'-bye! Goo'-bye!" - - - -II - -He remembers. Mr. Pennyquick's manner at roll-call and prayers -distinctly bears out all three of Essie's conjectures, and that helps -him to remember. The Headmaster charges through the names and -through the devotions even more rapidly than usual. At their -termination he does not even indulge the pretence of taking Form One -in a lesson. "Amen--WORK UP!" concludes Mr. Pennyquick and turns at -once to Mr. Wriford. "Can you possibly take them all this morning, -Wriford? Just for once. I absolutely ought to be in bed. I'm on -the very verge of a breakdown. You saw what happened to me -yesterday. I really don't know what I'm doing. The doctor insists -on a little wine, but I'm fighting against it. Perhaps I'm wrong. -But you know my principles. If you could just look after them till -lunch." He strides to the door, opens it, closes it again, strides -back and glares upon his pupils, strained over their books. "WORK -UP!" and then more threateningly, more hoarsely than ever: "WORK UP! -WORK UP!" and then to the door and a last "WORK UP!" and then -discharges himself from view as abruptly as if Three Star (old) had -stretched a hand across the playground and grabbed him out. - -Thus are proved, as Mr. Wriford reflects, seated in the shivering -silence that remains after the Headmaster's disappearance, two of -Essie's beliefs. Mr. Pennyquick is obviously ashamed of -himself--apprehensive of the results upon his boys and upon his -assistant-master of his yesterday's exhibition and seeking by greater -fierceness to coerce the one and by pitiable excuses to cajole the -other; obviously also he projects no summary measures against Mr. -Wriford--likely enough, indeed, is ignorant of cause of offence. -There remains Essie's third premise: that the boys are wretched and -to be pitied; and with it her advice that it is for Mr. Wriford to -make them happy. He remembers. He looks on them, cowed before him, -with the new eyes of these instructions, and for the first time since -he has assumed his position here sees them, not as little fiends who -have made his life a burden, but as luckless unfortunates whose lives -have themselves been burdensome under one tyrant, and who now believe -themselves delivered over to another. - -He remembers. He remembers Essie's Sunday-school boys who were -"little cautions" until she told 'em stories and showed 'em games and -took 'em for walks and showed 'em things; and suddenly Mr. Wriford -sits upright and says briskly: "Look here!" - -There is a sharp catching at breaths all about the room, a nervous -jump--a panic apprehension, clearly enough, that this is the prelude -to repetition of yesterday's violence. It makes Mr. Wriford feel -very sorry. He remembers Essie's "Poor little fellows. I don't feel -half sorry for them." He contrasts their dejected and aimless and -slipshod and now frightened ways with his own bright school-days. He -gets up and steps down from the platform on which his desk is raised -and stands amongst them, his hands in his pockets, feeling curiously -confident and easy. "Look here," says Mr. Wriford, "let's chuck work -this morning and have a talk. We ought to be jolly good pals, you -know, instead of messing about like we've been doing ever since I -came. When I was at school we used to be frightful pals with our -masters. Of course we couldn't stick 'em in Form sometimes, but out -of school they were just like one of us. They played footer and all -that with us, and the great thing was to barge them like blazes, -especially if one had had a sock over the ear like poor old Cupper -there." - -First surprise; then a nervous giggle here and there; then more -general giggling; now all turning towards Master Cupper (very red and -sheepish), and very cheerful giggling everywhere. - -Rather jolly, thinks Mr. Wriford, and proceeds: "How is old Cupper, -this morning, by the way? Cupper, you and I ought to shake hands, -you know," and Mr. Wriford strolls down to Master Cupper, and they -shake, Master Cupper grinning enormously. "That's all right. You -and I are pals, anyway. You and I versus the rest in future, Cupper, -if they get up to any of their larks. You were a silly young ass, -you know, yesterday, cocking a snook at me behind my back. That's -absolutely what you'd expect a Board School kid to do. What's your -father, Cupper?" - -"Please, sir, he's an auctioneer," says Cupper. - -"Auctioneer, is he? Well, you look out he doesn't sell you one of -these days, my boy, if you go cocking snooks all over the place." - -Immensely delighted laughter at this brilliant flash of wit, and Mr. -Wriford sits easily on Cupper's desk with his feet on the form before -him and goes on. "You know, you're all rather young asses, you are, -really. You don't work in school, and you don't play out of it. -Why, hang it, you don't even play cricket. You're keen on cricket, -aren't you?" - -Enthusiastic exclamations of "Rather!" - -"Well, you go fiddling about with rounders--a girl's game; and you -don't even play that as if you meant it. Why on earth don't you play -cricket?" - -"Please, sir," says some one, "we haven't got any proper bats and -wickets." - -"Man alive," says Mr. Wriford, "you've got some stumps and a ball, -and I've seen an old bat kicking about. What more do you want? Tell -you what, we'll start right away and get up Cricket Sixes--single -wicket, six a side. They're a frightful rag. We can get three--four -teams of six boys each. Each team plays all the rest twice to see -which is the champion. We'll keep all the scores in an exercise book -and call it the Tower House Cricket League. I'll be scorer and -umpire. Come on, we'll pick the Sixes right away." - -Up to his desk Mr. Wriford goes amidst a buzzing of delight and gets -a clean exercise book and then says: "Half a moment, though. We -ought to have a Captain of the School, you know, and some -Prefects--Monitors. The Captain will be my right-hand man, and the -Prefects will be his. We'll vote for him. That's the best way. -Each of you chaps write down the man you think ought to be the -Captain, and then old Cupper will collect the papers and bring them -to me, and we'll count them together." - -It is done amid much excitement, and presently Mr. Wriford hails -Abbot as Captain of the School, and up comes Abbot, loudly applauded, -a red-headed young gentleman of pleasant countenance, to shake hands -with Mr. Wriford and with him to select the Prefects. Three -Prefects, Mr. Wriford thinks, and says: "I vote we have old Cupper -for one." - -"And Toovey," says Abbot. - -"Right, Toovey. And what about Samuel Major? He looks a bit of a -beefer. Well now," continues Mr. Wriford, thoroughly interested, -"you four chaps had better each be captain of one of the Cricket -Sixes. We'll pick them next. They must all be as equal as possible." - -This takes quite a long time, but is satisfactorily settled at last -and the names written down in the exercise-book and the first two -matches arranged for that afternoon: Abbot's _versus_ Toovey's, and -Samuel Major's _v._ Cupper's. Then "Good Lord," says Mr. Wriford, -looking at the clock, "it's nearly lunch time. I vote we chuck it -now and go and look out these stumps and things and find a decent -pitch. Half a minute, though. You, Abbot, you know, and you three -Prefect chaps must remember what you are and must help me to keep -order and to see that no one plays the fool in school or out, and all -that kind of thing; and you other chaps must jolly well obey them. -This afternoon, for instance, we'll have a talk about work and see -just where we all stand and make up our minds to work like blazes. -Well, while I'm fixing up Form Three, you must see that Form One -doesn't play the goat, Abbot, and you, Samuel, must look after Form -Two. See the idea of the thing? Work is jolly interesting, you -know, if you go at it properly, like I'll show you. Some -subjects--like geography for instance--we'll take all together, and -that'll be quite a rag. We're simply going to pull up our socks and -work like blazes and play like blazes, too. See? Come on, let's get -those cricket things fixed up." - -Out they go. Mr. Wriford holding Abbot's arm, and other boys -clinging about him--out to the field where first from the roadside he -had seen them dejected and listless, and where now they run before -him, keen, excited, eager, taken right out of their old sorry habits. - -He, also, the first time in many months, out of himself removed. - - - -III - -Mr. Wriford goes back to the plumber's shop that night occupied with -plans for developing on the morrow the interests of the Cricket -Sixes, the Captaincy, the Prefects, and the new schedule of lessons -drawn up during the afternoon. Essie is home before him, chattering -more volubly and more brightly than ever by reason of her doings with -her friends and her day-long desertion of Mother and Dad. She runs -to the shop door when she hears Mr. Wriford and greets him eagerly. - -"You never got the sack, did you?" - -"No, he never said a word. I believe you were right about him being -rather ashamed." - -Essie does a little dance of joy and claps her hands. "Oh, if I'm -not lucky, though!" cries Essie. "That was the one thing would have -spoilt the fair jolly old time I've had, and there it's turned out A1 -just like all the rest!" - -Mr. Wriford tells her: "It's very nice of you to be glad about it." - -"Why, of course I'm glad," cries Essie. "That's just finished up my -day a treat! Now you won't half enjoy the things I've brought home -for supper from my young lady friends. I was afraid--oh, you don't -know what it is to have a lodger about the house when he's lost his -job! They're fair cautions, lodgers are, when they've got the sack!" - -And later in the evening, when he sees Essie sitting and looking -before her with her eyes smiling and her lips twitching, she suddenly -looks up, and catching his gaze, reveals that it is of him she is -thinking. "You weren't half in the dumps, though, were you?" she -says. "Isn't it funny, though, when a thing's turned out A1, to look -back and see what a state you were in? Isn't it, though? Let's have -a laugh!" - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -THE VACANT CORNER - -I - -The morrow finds eager pupils awaiting Mr. Wriford, and eager work -and eager play, and again in the evening he is returning to the -plumber's shop occupied with the plans for the next day thrown up by -these new developments. - -So it is also on the following day, and so the next, and so by day -and day and week and week. Interestedly and swiftly the time in -these preoccupations passes. He is quite surprised to find one -evening that weeks to the number of half the term have gone. Captain -of the School Abbot brings it to his notice; and on arrival at Tower -House next morning Mr. Wriford brings it, together with Abbot's -reason for mentioning it, to the notice of Mr. Pennyquick. - -Mr. Wriford knocks on the study door, waits for the "One moment! One -moment!" which is called to him and which gives a chinking of glass -in suggestion of the fact that the Headmaster is putting away the -medicine bottles, exhibition of which, as an Open-air Man, is so -distasteful to him, and then enters to find the Open-air Man lying, -as usual, on the sofa, amidst an air that appears to have escaped -from beneath a cork rather than have come from the window. - -Mr. Wriford expresses the hope that he is better, Mr. Pennyquick the -fear that he is not, and there is then brought forward the suggestion -advanced by Abbot. - -"Thursday is half-term," says Mr. Wriford. "Do you think the boys -might have a holiday? They've been working very well." - -"A whole holiday?" says Mr. Pennyquick doubtfully. - -Mr. Wriford knows perfectly well the reason for the dubiety in the -Headmaster's voice. In these days he has taken the work of the -school entirely out of Mr. Pennyquick's hands. Mr. Pennyquick no -longer so much as reads roll-call and prayers. Abbot calls the roll -and is mighty proud of the duty; Mr. Wriford takes prayers. Mr. -Pennyquick perhaps twice in a week will tear himself from his sofa -and his medicines and suddenly burst upon the schoolroom, patrol a -few turns with loud and quite unnecessary "WORK UP'S!" and as -suddenly discharge himself again to his study. - -The less frequently he appears, the more he shirks any scholastic -duties with the neglect they entail of nursing his distressing -ailments in the seclusion of his study. Thus it is the idea of -having the boys on his hands for a complete day that gives this doubt -to his tone when a whole holiday is projected, and Mr. Wriford, well -aware of it, quickly reassures him on the point. - -"Well, I think they deserve a whole holiday," says Mr. Wriford. "Of -course I'd come up just the same and look after--" - -"My dear fellow, a whole holiday by all means," Mr. Pennyquick breaks -in. "By all means. Splendid! They deserve it. You're doing -wonderfully with them, my dear fellow. My mother reports she has -never known them so happy or so well-behaved. No ragging in the -dormitories at night. Cold baths every morning at their own request. -Good God, do you know I'm so much a cold bath man myself that I take -one twice a day--twice a day winter and summer--when I'm fit. Clean -and smart and quiet at meals. Perfect silence in the schoolroom. -Keen, manly play in the field. Devoted to you. My dear fellow, -you're wonderful. Whole holiday? Whole holiday by all means. I was -going to suggest it myself." - -"Thursday, then," says Mr. Wriford. "They'll be delighted. I -thought of playing cricket in the morning and then, if you agree, -asking Mrs. Pennyquick if she could fix us up some lunch and tea -things in hampers, and we'd go and picnic all the rest of the day at -Penrington woods and bathe in the river and that kind of thing." - -The Headmaster thinks it splendid. "Splendid, my dear fellow. -Splendid. Certainly. I'll see to it myself. Cricket! Bathing! -Good God, you'll think it very weak of me, but I feel devilish near -crying when I think of a jolly day like that and me tied up here and -unable to share it. Cricket! Good God, why, when I was at Oxford I -made nine consecutive centuries for my college one year. It's a -fact. Nine absolutely--or was it ten? I must look it up. I believe -it was ten. Bathing! My dear fellow, a few years ago I thought -nothing of a couple of miles swim before breakfast--side-stroke, -breast-stroke, back-stroke; good God, I was an eel in the water, a -living eel. I'm an outdoor man, absolutely. Always have been. -That's the cruelty of it. Hullo, there's the bell. I shall take -prayers this morning, Wriford. I'm coming in all day for a real good -day's work with the dear fellows. I don't know what the doctor will -say, but I'm going to do it." - -Mr. Wriford is at the door, and the Outdoor Man already stretching -down an arm to feel beneath the sofa. "Perhaps not prayers," says -the Outdoor Man. "You'd better not wait for me for prayers. I've -just my loathsome medicine to take. Take prayers for me for once, -like a good fellow, and I'll be with you in two minutes. Splendid. -You're wonderful. Two minutes. Damn." - -There is the sound of a bottle upset beneath the sofa, and Mr. -Wriford hurries off to find Abbot already halfway through the roll, -then to take prayers, and then, amidst tremendous applause, to -announce a whole holiday for Thursday's half-term. - -"Well, come on, let's make certain we deserve it," says Mr. Wriford, -when the manifestations of joy have been sufficiently expressed. -"Come along, Form Two, arithmetic. Let's see if we can't understand -these frightful decimals. Clean the blackboard, Toovey. Abbot, you -take Form Three behind the curtain and give them their dictation. -Here's the book. Find an interesting bit and read it out loud first. -Form One, you're algebra. You'd better take the next six examples. -Cupper, you're in charge. Now then, Two, crowd around. Where's the -chalk?" - - - -II - -This was the spirit of the lessons nowadays. Everybody worked. -Nobody shirked. Interest, even excitement, was found under Mr. -Wriford's guidance to lie in the hated lesson-books, and it was -excitedly wrestled out of them. Some of the subjects, as Mr. Wriford -taught them, were made exciting in themselves; the rest were somehow -inspired with the feeling that the next chapter--the next chapter -really is exciting once we can get to it. All the Tower House -schoolbooks were horribly thumbed and inked and dog-eared in their -first few pages--long indifferently laboured over, never understood, -cordially loathed. Beyond lay virgin pages, clean, untouched, many -sticking together as when fresh from the binder's press. "Look -here," Mr. Wriford used to say, "these French grammars, they're all -the same--all in a filthy state up to page thirty and rippingly clean -beyond, just like a new story-book. Look here, let's pretend all -that new part is a country we're going to emigrate into and explore, -and that first of all we've got to toil over the Rocky Mountains of -all this first muck. You half know it, you know. If we get through -a good few pages every time we'll get there like lightning. Come on!" - -They always "came on" responsive to this kind of call. The work in -all the subjects belonged to the distant period of Mr. Wriford's own -school-days. He had to get it up as it came. He brought to the boys -the quite novel effect of a master learning with them as they learnt, -and that produced the stimulus of following him in place of the grind -of being driven. "My word, this is a teaser!" Mr. Wriford would say, -frankly stumped by an arithmetical problem; and the delighted laugh -that always greeted this was the impetus to an eager and intelligent -following him when he would get it aright and demonstrate its -processes. Wits were sharpened, perceptions stirred. Boyish high -spirits, mental alertness, and vigorous young qualities were rescued -from the dejection and apathy and slovenliness and ugliness that had -threatened to submerge them: and Mr. Wriford finds himself infected -and carried along by the moral quickening he has himself aroused. - - - -III - -He knows it. He feels it. He both knows and feels it because, -whereas formerly he groped ever in darkness of spirit and beneath -intolerable oppression of mind, now, when engaged in these -occupations or when thinking upon them, he is lifted out of himself, -and in the zest of their activities forgets the burden of his own -tribulations. Thus what had been all darkness, all shrinking, all -fears, becomes divided, as street lamps break the night, into periods -of light while he is within the arc of these pursuits and into -passages of the old gloom only between one day's leaving of the -school and the next morning's return to it. Slowly from this he -advances to stronger influence of the light, less frequent onset of -the shadows. First by these lamps the measureless blackness of his -way is broken. Gradually he is handed more quickly and more surely -from lamp to lamp. Not often now, with their immense and crushing -weight, their suffocating sense of numbing fear, those old and -intolerable clouds of misery descend upon him; not often now those -black abysses that yawned on every side about his feet; not often -those entombing walls that towered every way about his soul. -Sometimes they come. He, in the days of that nightmare hunted life -in London, sometimes had known snatched intervals of relief--in -companionship, in reading--in the midst of which there would strike -down upon him the thought that this was but transitory, that -presently it would end, that presently he would be returned to the -strain, to the fears, to the darkness, to the panic bursting to get -out of it. So now, sometimes, when his mind moved ever so little -from its occupation with these new interests, he would be clutched as -though immediately outside them clutching hands waited to drag him -out and drag him down--clutched and engulfed and bound again in bonds -of terror, as one whose pleasant slumber suddenly gives place to -dreadful sense of falling. In the midst of his thoughts upon some -aspect of work or play with his pupils, "This cannot go on always," -he would think; "This will somehow come to an end sooner or later;" -and immediately the waiting hands would up and snatch him down; -immediately the fears oppress him; immediately the walls, the -blackness come; and he would cry: "What then? Where then?" and grope -again; and bruise once more himself on his despair; and plan to go -away and abandon it all, so that at least he might of his own will -leave these interests, not wait till suddenly they to their own end -should come and he be driven from them. - -So sometimes these old tumults came upon him; yet came less -frequently, and the less frequently they came were with less -suffering escaped. Now, in their onsets, was for the first time a -way of refuge from them. Where formerly he had been utterly -abandoned to them, sinking more and more deeply within them at every -cry of his despair, now was a knowledge that they could be lost; and -quicker and more strongly a conscious grasp at what should lose them -and draw him out from their oppression. At first with dreadful -effort and often with defeat, gradually with less affliction and with -more certain hold, he would attempt to turn his mind from these -broodings and fasten it upon his enterprises in the school. There -was to be thought out a way of helping Form Two to get the hang of -parsing in their English grammar to-morrow; there was the idea of -starting the young beggars in a daily class of drill and physical -exercises; there was the plan of rummaging among Pennyquick's books -to pick out a little library of light reading for the boys and to -read to them himself for half an hour each day; there was the thought -of how jolly nicely they had responded to his proposal to go through -their play-boxes and pick out all the cheap trash he found they had -been reading, and of the jokes they had had over the bonfire made -from the collection; there was the thinking of other ways in which -this complete confidence they gave him could be used for their own -benefit; there was--there were a hundred of such preoccupations for -his mind, any one of which, could he but fix tenaciously enough upon -it, would draw him from the quicksands of his depression and set his -feet where strongly they bore him. - - - -IV - -Thus came he gradually into a state in which the old depths of -oppression troubled him no more; in which the apprehensive, hunted -look went from his eyes; in which sometimes a smile was to be seen -upon his face; and in which--to the observer--his outstanding -attribute was just that he was very quiet, very reserved: gently -responsive to advances from others but never of himself offering -conversation. So may one newly convalescent after great illness be -observed; and to this Mr. Wriford's case in these days may best be -likened. As the convalescent, after long pains, deliriums, fevers, -nights void of sleep, is carried to sit in the sunshine from the bed -where these have been endured, so in this haven rested Mr. Wriford -from his mind's distresses. There sits the patient, wan and weak, -desirous only to enjoy the pleasant air, wanting no more than just to -feed upon the smiling prospect his eyes that all the devils of his -fevered brain have burned; silently acquiescent to ministrations of -those who tend him. Here lived Mr. Wriford, quiet and reserved, no -longer preyed upon by those fierce storms of hopeless misery such as, -on the first night at the Bickers' table, had sent him torn and -broken from the room; wearing a gentle aspect now in place of those -contracted eyes, that knotted brow, born of the fever in his brain; -hands no longer trembling; voice eased of its strained and rasping -note that came of fear it should break out of his control and go in -tears of his distress. There rests the convalescent's body, thin and -enfeebled from its rackings on the bed. Here stayed Mr. Wriford, -wanting only here to stay where refuge was from all the devils that -had devoured him. There rests the patient, slowly replanning life -that death had challenged, sickness shattered. Here lived he, -quietly revolving what had brought him here and what should follow -now. - -Was there something in life that he had missed? Calmly now he could -ask and search the question. Till now, since its first coming, it -had been as a gnawing tumour, as an empoisoned wound within him--an -inward fire, a pulsing abscess to relieve whose tortures he, as a -wild beast thus maddened that turns its jaws upon its vitals, had -bruised himself to madness in frantic goadings of his mind. Now he -could review it calmly, almost dispassionately. The thing was out of -him, no longer burning in his brain. Till now, he had thought upon -it in frenzy of despair, now he could stand as it were away from -it--turn it this way and that in examination with his hands, smile -and shake his head in puzzlement, and put it aside to go to his -duties with his boys, return and take it up and puzzle it again. Was -there something in life that he had missed? Yes, there was -something. He could unriddle it as far as that. He was at peace -now, but there was nothing in that peace. Some attribute was -missing. This was peace: but it was emptiness. This was quietness: -but a thousand leagues remote from happiness. Happiness was an -active thing, a stirring thing, a living thing, a warm thing, a -pulsing thing. Barren here, cold here. Let the mind run, let the -mind run about a thousand pleasures such as money could buy. They -might be his for the asking. He had but to return to London, and -they were his. Well, let the mind run. Back it would come -disconsolate, empty-handed, with no treasures in its pack. Nothing -attracted him. Ah, but somewhere, somewhere, somewhere, that thing -was--the live thing, the stirring thing, the active thing, the warm -thing. Something that he had missed in life: that was certain. -Happiness its name: that was assured. Where? In what? How to be -found? Only negative answers to these. Well, shake the head over it -and put it away; smile and confess its bafflement. Here are things -to be done. Do them and return to puzzle again in a little while. - -So and in this wise quietly through the days--standing aside in this -retreat and looking at life as one that, furnishing a room, stands to -stare at a bare corner, and only knows something is wanted there, and -only knows that nothing of all he has will suit, and only turns away -but to return again and stare. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -ESSIE - -I - -That simile of Mr. Wriford's condition in these days to one who, -rearranging the furniture of his room, stares in constant bafflement -at a bare corner and can by no means determine with what to fill it, -may be advanced a further step. The decorator's eye, narrowly -judging all the objects that are at his disposal, will in time, in a -"better than nothing" spirit, turn more frequently to one, and -presently he will try it: there came a time when it occurred to Mr. -Wriford, dispassionately revolving the vacancy in his life, that -there was one might fill it--Essie. - -One day, and this was the beginning of the idea--not then -conceived--Mr. Wriford asked Essie if he might take her for a walk. -A Saturday evening was the day: a July evening, cool and still--very -grateful and inviting after oppressive heat through morning and -afternoon; a breeze come up with nightfall. There was no preparation -class at Tower House on Saturdays. Mr. Wriford left his boys reading -the books he had rummaged for them out of Mr. Pennyquick's library -and came home to early supper. By eight o'clock Essie had washed up, -and Mr. Wriford came to her where she was standing by the shop door -enjoying the pleasant air. - -"Isn't it jolly, though?" said Essie, moving to give him place beside -her in the entrance. - -"Yes, it's beautifully cool now," Mr. Wriford agreed. - -Several young couples--man and maid--were passing in one direction up -the street. Mr. Wriford watched Essie's face as she watched them. -He could see her eyes shining and those little twitches of her lips -as she observed each separate swain and maid. With the slow passing -of one pair, their hands clasped, walking very close together, she -gave a little squirm and a little sound of merriment and turned to -him. - -"Aren't they funny, though," said Essie, "courting!" - -Mr. Wriford asked her: "Where are they all going?" - -"Why, they're going to the Gardens, of course. There isn't half a -jolly band plays there Saturday evenings." - -She was the prettiest little thing, as Mr. Wriford looked at her, -standing there beside him. He liked her merry ways, so different -from his own habitual quietude. It occurred to him that, apart from -that walk to the station together some weeks before, he hardly ever -had spoken to her out of her parents' company. Why not?--so pretty -and jolly as she was. - -A sudden impulse came to him. He hesitated to speak it. She might -resent the suggestion. He looked at her again--those funny little -twitchings of her lips! "May I take you for a stroll, Essie?" he -said. - -There was not the least reason to have hesitated. Essie's face -showed her pleasure. She quite jumped from her leaning pose against -the doorway. "Oh, that's fine!" cried Essie. "I'll just pop on my -chapeau. I won't be half a tick." - -She was gone with the words, and he heard her running briskly up the -stairs to her room and then very briskly down again and then in the -parlour, crying: "Dad, me an' the lodger are going for a stroll in -the Gardens. Sure you've got everything you want, Mother? Look, -there's the new silk when you've finished that ball. Isn't it -pretty, though!" and then the sound of a kiss for Mother and a kiss -for Dad; and then coming to him, gaily swinging her gloves in a brown -little hand, her eyes quite extraordinarily sparkling. - -"There you are!" cried Essie, and they started. "That wasn't long, -was it? Why, some girls, you know, keep their young fellows waiting -a treat." - -"Do they?" said Mr. Wriford, a trifle coldly. - -"Don't they just!" cried Essie, noticing nothing that his tone might -have been intended to convey, and beginning, as they went on in -silence, to walk every now and then with a gay little skip as though -by that means to exercise her delighted spirits. - -Mr. Wriford, now that he was embarked upon his sudden impulse, found -himself somehow dissatisfied with it. He would have been -embarrassed, perhaps a little disappointed, he told himself, had she -refused his invitation. He found himself embarrassed, perhaps a -little piqued, that she had accepted it so readily, taken it so much -as a matter of course. And then there was that "young fellow" -expression with its obvious implication. His idea had been that she -would have shown herself conscious of being--well, flattered, by his -invitation. Not, he assured himself, that there was anything -flattering in it; but still--. Perhaps, though, she was more -conscious of it than she had seemed to show; and coming to that -thought he asked her suddenly, giving her the opportunity to say so: -"I hope you didn't mind my proposing to take you for a walk?" - -Essie skipped. "Good gracious!" cried Essie. "Whyever?" - -"I thought you might think it rather--sudden." - -Essie laughed and skipped again. "Sudden! Why, you've bin long -enough, goodness knows! Why, I've bin expecting you to ask me for -weeks, you know!" - -"Have you?" said Mr. Wriford. - -"Think I have!" cried Essie. "Why, the lodger always does!" - -"Oh!" said Mr. Wriford. - -This time Essie seemed to detect something amiss in his tone. In a -few paces she was bending forward as she walked and trying to read -his face. "I say," said Essie, "you aren't in a crosspatch, are you?" - -"Of course I'm not. Why should I be?" - -"Sure I don't know. You wanted me to come, didn't you?" - -"Of course I did. I shouldn't have asked you otherwise." - -"Well, I don't know," said Essie. "Young fellows are that funny -sometimes!" - -Silence between them after that, but as they came to the Gardens -Essie showed that the funny ways of young fellows had been occupying -her in the interval. "Of course, you're always very quiet, aren't -you?" she said. - -"I don't talk much," Mr. Wriford agreed. - -"Of course you don't!" cried Essie and seemed so reassured by the -recollection that Mr. Wriford suddenly felt he had been behaving a -little unkindly--stupidly; and with some idea of making amends smiled -at her. - -Essie flashed back with eyes and lips. "Of course you don't!" she -cried again. "Well, I vote we enjoy ourselves now if ever. Just -look at all the lights! See the funny little blue ones? Aren't they -funny though, all twinkling! Let's have a laugh!" - -With a laugh, therefore, into the Gardens; and with a laugh Mr. -Wriford's unreasoning distemper put off. Jolly little Essie! - -No need, moreover, to do more than listen to her, and to think how -jolly she was, and how pretty she looked, as she turned chattering to -him while she led the way among the groups clustered about the -bandstand. "We'll go right through," said Essie. "There's seats up -there where you can sit an' hear the band an' see the lights a treat. -Jus' watch a minute to see that great big fat man with the trombone -where he keeps coming in pom! pom! There! See him? Oh, isn't he a -caution!" - -Close to Mr. Wriford she stands, and Mr. Wriford watches her watch -the fat gentleman with the trombone, her lips twitching while she -waits for his turn and then her little squirm of glee when he raises -his instrument to his mouth and solemnly administers his deliberate -pom! pom! to the melody. "Oh, dear!" cries Essie, "isn't this just -too jolly for anything! Come along. Up this path. I know a not -half quiet little seat up here. I say, though! When you've been -looking at the lights! If this isn't dark! Oo-oo!" - -This "Oo-oo!" is expressive of the fact that really it is rather -ticklish work suddenly being launched on a pitch dark path, falling -away steeply at the sides, after the glare of the bandstand; and with -the "Oo-oo!" comes Essie's arm pressing very close against Mr. -Wriford's and her hand against his hand. - -"Let's hold hands," says Essie, and her fingers come wriggling into -his---cool and firm, her fingers, and there is the faint chink of the -bracelets that she wears. "I like holding hands, don't you?" - -Cool and firm her fingers. His hand is unresponsive, but rather -jolly to feel them come wriggling into it and then twine about it. -She settles them to her liking, and this is enlocked about his own, -her palm to his. Yes, rather jolly to feel them thus: they give him -a curious thrill, a desire. - - - -II - -Essie's seat was found to be quite the not half quiet little place -that she had promised. It stood at the termination of the winding -path, backed by a high rockery of ferns and looking down upon the -lights and the bandstand whence came the music very pleasantly -through the distance. - -Here were influences that touched anew the curious thrill her fingers -had given Mr. Wriford. The warm, still night, the feeling of -remoteness here, the music floating up, Essie very close beside him, -her face clear to his eyes in this soft glow of summer darkness. A -very long time since to Mr. Wriford there had been such playfulness -of spirit as stirred within him now. Soft she was where she touched -him, sensibly warm against his arm, enticingly fragrant. - -"Told you this would be jolly, didn't I?" said Essie. - -"Yes, it is," agreed Mr. Wriford, and put his arm along the seat -behind her shoulders. - -Essie didn't seem to mind. - -And then his hand upon the shoulder further from him. - -Nor to mind that. - -"All right, I call it," said Essie. "You know, if you came out more -to the band and places like this, you soon wouldn't be so quiet." - -"I shouldn't care much about it by myself," said Mr. Wriford. - -"Oh, I'd come with you," Essie assured him. "Nothing's much fun not -when you do it by yourself. I say, whatever are you doing with that -arm of yours on my shoulder?" - -"I'm not doing anything with it," said Mr. Wriford, and gave a little -laugh, and said: "I'm going to, though." - -"What?" - -"This." - -"Oo-oo!" cried Essie. - -Mr. Wriford's "This" was bending his face to hers, and his arm -slipped a little lower down her shoulders, and drawing her towards -him. "Oo-oo-oo!" cried Essie and pressed away and turned away her -head. "Oo-oo!" and then he kissed her cheek, then brought his other -arm around and turned her face to his. "Oo-oo-oo! I say, you -know!"--and there, close beneath his own, were those soft, expressive -lips of hers, and twice he kissed them: and of a sudden she was -relaxed in his arms, no longer struggling, and there were depths in -those eyes of hers, and this time a long kiss. - -"There!" said Mr. Wriford and released her; and immediately two -curious emotions followed in his mind. First, that, now the thing -was over, it was over--completed, done, not attracting any more. - -"I say, you know!" said Essie, settling her hat and pouting at him: -and all rosy she was, all radiant, enticingly pouting, pretending -aggrievement--just the very blushes, pouts, and smiles to have it -done again. But for Mr. Wriford not enticing at all: over, done; -conceiving in him almost a distaste of it; and, moved a trifle away -from her, he said hardly: "I suppose the lodger always does that, -too?" - -"Well, most of 'em," said Essie cheerfully; and at that his new -emotion quickened, and he made a petulant, angry movement with his -shoulders. - -She detected his meaning just as she had detected the coldness in his -voice as they came down towards the Gardens together a short while -before. She detected his meaning, and answered him sharply, and the -words of her defence and the manner of it broke out in him the second -of the two emotions that followed his caprice. - -"Well, what's the odds to it if they have?" said Essie, sitting up -very straight and speaking very tensely. "Where's the harm? It's -only fun. Not as if I had a proper young fellow of my own. Take -jolly good care if I had! Where's the harm? I like being kissed. I -like to think some one's fond of me." - -Now, for all the sharpness of her tone, she looked appealing: a -trifle of a flutter in those expressive lips of hers: a hint of a -catch in her voice. Swiftly to Mr. Wriford came his second emotion. -Poor little Essie that liked to think some one was fond of her! -Jolly little Essie with her "Let's have a laugh!" Here was the -kindest, cheeriest little creature in the world! Let him enjoy it! - -"That's all right, Essie," said Mr. Wriford and moved to her again -and took her brown little hand. - -"Glad you think so, I'm sure!" said Essie. "That's my hand, if -you've no objection," and she withdrew it. - -Mr. Wriford took it again and held it while it wriggled. "Come, -who's the crosspatch now?" - -"Well, that's nice!" cried Essie. "I'm sure I'm not." - -"Put your fingers like you had them when we walked up. That's the -way of it. This little one there and that little one there." - -"Oh, go on!" said Essie, but settled her fingers as she was told. - -"Rather nice just now, don't you think?" said Mr. Wriford. - -"Not bad," said Essie. - -"Perhaps we'll do it again?" - -"Perhaps the moon'll drop plump out of the sky." - -"Well, we'll watch it," said Mr. Wriford, "and if it doesn't we will. -Let's be friends, Essie." - -"Oh, we're friends, all right." - -"Well, I'll pretend I'm your--young fellow. How about that?" - -Essie gave a little laugh. "Likely!" she said. "You know, I believe -you're a caution after all, for all you're so quiet. My young -fellow! Why, I don't even know your name--your Christian name, I -mean." - -"What do you think?" - -"However do I know? Shouldn't be a bit surprised if it was Solomon." - -"Well, it isn't. What would you like it to be?" - -Essie looked across the bandstand lights beneath them for a moment, -then made a little snuggling movement with the hand in Mr. Wriford's, -and then looked at him and said softly: "Well, I've never had an -Arthur." - -"Call me Arthur, then--so long as you don't make it Art or Artie." - -"What, don't you like Art, then?" said Essie, and then suddenly, her -eyes asparkle again, her lips twitching, "Aren't names funny, though? -Let's have a laugh!" - -And Mr. Wriford laughed and said the name Edith always made him think -of seed cake; and Essie laughed immensely and said Alice always -reminded her of a piece of silk; and Mr. Wriford said Ethel was a bit -of brown velvet; and Essie said Robert was a bouncing foot-ball; and -in this laughter and this childish folly Mr. Wriford found himself -immoderately tickled and amused, and Essie quite forgot the -disturbance that had followed the kissing; and home when the band -stopped they went in quick exchange of lightsome subjects. - -Mr. Wriford, for the first time that he might have remembered, went -to bed and fell asleep without lying long awake to think and think. - -The significant thing was that he did not try to remember it, nor -reflect upon it. He was smiling at an absurdity of jolly little -Essie's as he put out his light: he was soon asleep. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -OUR ESSIE - -I - -Walks with Essie are frequent now; and in the house talk with Essie -at all odd moments that bring them together. Jolly little Essie! -Mr. Wriford finds himself often thinking of her as that, and for that -quality always seeking her when moodiness oppresses him. Days pass -and there is a step in advance of this: good little Essie! Careless, -he realises himself, of what mood he takes to her. He can be silent -with her, depressed, oppressed, thinking, puzzling: Essie never -minds. He can be irritable with her and speak sharply to her: Essie -never minds. Essie is content just to rattle along and not be -answered, or, if that seems to vex him further, then just to occupy -herself with those bright, roving eyes of hers, and with those merry -thoughts which they pick up and reflect again in the movements of -those expressive lips. Days pass and his thoughts of her take yet a -further step: pretty little Essie!--Essie who likes to be kissed, who -sees "no odds to it," who likes to think somebody is fond of her! -She is jolly little Essie--always cheers him: "Oh, Arthur!" when for -an hour he has not spoken a word, or speaking, has snubbed her, "Oh, -Arthur! Just look at those dogs chasing! Oh, did you ever! Aren't -they funny, though! Let's have a laugh!" She is good little -Essie--never minds: "Well, whatever's the odds to that?" when -sometimes he apologises for having been ungracious. "I daresay I'm -not half a nuisance, chattering, when you want to be quiet. Why, -you're always quiet though, aren't you? I don't mind." She is -pretty little Essie: "Oo-oo!" cries Essie. "I say, though!" and -then, as on that first occasion, relaxes and gives him those pretty, -expressive lips of hers, and is warm and soft and clinging in his -arms; and then one day, when in his kiss she detects some ardour, -born, while he kisses her, of a sudden gathering realisation of his -frequent, his advancing thoughts of her, says to him softly, -snuggling to him: "What, are you fond of me, Arthur?" - -More swiftly than the space of the inspiration of a single breath an -idea springs, fixes, spreads within him. It is determination of all -his thought of her in their advancing stages: it is swiftest look -from that vacant corner in the room of his life to Essie, always so -jolly, always so good, ah, so pretty, yielding in his arms. Swift as -a single breath it is. Why should not Essie fill that vacant place? - -"What, are you fond of me, Arthur?" - -Deep in his sudden thought he does not answer her. What sees she -responsive to her question in his eyes? She sees that which makes -her leave his grasp. - -In her eyes he sees sudden moisture shining. - -Deep in the sudden thought that has him--bemused as one that, in -earnest conversation with a friend, turns bemusedly to address a -remark to another, he says: "Hulloa, you're not crying, Essie?" - -"Likely!" says Essie, blinking. - -"You are, though. What's up?" - -"That's the sun in my eyes." - -"There's precious little sun." - -Essie dabs her eyes with her handkerchief and gives a little sniff. -"Well, there's precious little tears." - -"Essie, you asked me if I was fond of you." - -She turns upon him with sudden sharpness. "More fool me then." - -"What do you mean? Essie, I am. I'm very, very fond of you." - -"Come on," says Essie briskly. "We'll be late. I was only having a -game--so are you." - - - -II - -Here is a new idea for Mr. Wriford--come to him suddenly, but, as now -he sees, in process of coming these many days. Here is a new idea, -completely developed in that swift moment while Essie asked him: -"What, are you fond of me, Arthur?" but over whose development now -constantly he ponders--welding it, shaping it, assuring himself of it -in its every detail. It is solution--no less--of what has hounded -him these many years. It is discovery of what shall fill that vacant -place over which, in the quietude of these more recent days, -dispassionately he has puzzled. Essie the solution: Essie the thing -that shall fill up the vacancy. He wonders he has not thought of it -before. Who, out of the turmoil, the hopelessness, the abject misery -in which he came here, who found him the quietude? Essie. Who for -the old grinding torments, the abysmal fears, has exchanged him the -dispassionate wondering? Essie. Look, look upon the present state -that now is his, contrast it with the old, and seek who is -responsible. Essie. His early constraint in the Bickers' household -is vanished as completely as his early miseries at the Tower House -School. He is confident and at ease and actively interested when -among his boys. Who showed him the way of it? Essie. In the life -behind the plumber's shop he is become very intimately the "one of us -like" that Mrs. Bickers, at their first meeting, had told him they -liked their lodgers to be. By whose agency? Essie's. Essie has -told Mother and Dad his name is Arthur and to call him Arthur: and -Arthur he is become, alike to the cert. plumber, who delights to -instruct him in the mysteries of plumbing and often from his workshop -in the yard hails him "Arthur! Arthur, come an' look at this here! -I'm fixin' a new weight to a ball-tap;" and to Mrs. Bickers who as -often as not adds a "dear" to it and says: "Arthur, dear, give over -talking to Essie a minute an' jus' see if you can't put that shop -bell to rights like Mr. Bickers showed you how. It's out of order -again." Who to this pleasant homeliness introduced him? Essie. Who -supports him in its enjoyment? Essie. Who is the centre, the -mainspring of this happy household? Essie. Essie, Essie, Essie, -jolly and good and pretty little Essie! He meets her at every -thought. She, she, supplies his moods at every turn! - -Very well, then. The school term at Tower House is drawing to a -close. Scarcely a fortnight remains before the holidays begin. What -then? - -Ah, then the new thought that suddenly has come to him. In the -quietude of mind, in the dispassionate puzzlement upon what it is -that he has missed in life--in this convalescent attitude towards -life that now is his he has no desire to return, when the school term -is ended and he is unemployed, to the wandering, to the hopeless -quest that brought him here. Why not advance by Essie the quietude -that by Essie he has found? Why not by Essie fill the dispassionate -puzzlement that by Essie has become dispassionate where for so long -it had so cruelly been frenzied? What if he went away with Essie? -What if he took her away? What if he so far resumed touch with the -prosperity that waited him in London as to get money from his agent, -due to him for his successful novels, and go away with Essie--live -somewhere in retreat with Essie, have Essie for his own? Why not? -No reason why. It was fixed and determined in his mind in that very -instant when, as she asked him "What, are you fond of me, Arthur?" it -came to him. - -The more he thinks upon it the more completely it attracts him.... - -He thinks upon it, and it attracts him, with no delusion of what, if -he acts upon it, it will give him. It will not give him positive -happiness. He would take Essie away with no such delusion as that. -But strongly, seductively, it offers him a negative peace. With -Essie no need longer to brood on what it was in life that he had -missed: Essie who never minded, who always brightened him, who then -would be his own--Essie would stifle that old hopeless yearning. -There would be pleasure in money with Essie--pleasure in pleasing -her, in watching her delight in little things that it could buy. He -first would travel on the Continent with Essie, delighting in her -delight at worlds of which she had scarcely so much as heard. How -she would laugh at funny foreigners and at funny foreign ways! Then -he would settle down, take a house somewhere, live quietly, take up -his novel-writing again, have Essie always to turn to when he wanted -her, to minister to him and entertain him, and have her--being -Essie--at his command to keep out of his way when he wished to work, -or perhaps to think--ah, for thoughts sometimes still would -come!--and not be worried. Yes--jolly little Essie, good little -Essie--there was refuge, refuge to be found with her! Yes--pretty -little Essie--she was desirable, desirable, desirable to him! Yes, -let it be done! Yes, let him immediately set about the -accomplishment of it! - - - -III - -His purpose was no sooner definitely fixed, than in the way of its -fulfilment practical difficulties began to arise. They arose in form -of scruples. He intended no harm to Essie. She never should suffer -in smallest degree, by word or act, in giving herself to him. But to -marry her never--at the first making of his purpose--so much as -crossed his mind. A little later this aspect of his moral intentions -towards her came up in his thoughts--and marriage he at once -dismissed as altogether subversive of that very peace of mind he -anticipated in having her for his own. To marry her, as he saw it, -were an irrevocable and dreadful step that immediately would return -him to new torments, new despair. Bound for life to such as Essie -was, not loving her, only very fond of her, very grateful to -her--why, the bond would terrify him and goad him as much as ever he -was terrified and goaded by the bonds and responsibilities of the -London days from which in frenzy he had fled. Misery for him and, -knowing himself, he knew that he would visit it in misery upon her. -Panic at what he had done would fill him, consume him in all the -dreadful forms in which he knew his panics, directly he had done it. -He would hate her. Despite himself, despite his fondness for her, -despite all she had given him and could give him, despite all these, -if he were bound to her he would be unkind to her, cruel to her. -Merely and without bond to have her for his own presented his -Essie--his jolly little Essie, good little Essie, pretty little -Essie--on a footing immeasurably different. That very fact of being -responsible for her without being bound to her would alone--and -without his happiness in her--assure her of his constant care, his -unfailing protection always and always. Natured as he was--or as he -had become in the days of his stress--he thought of bondage as -utterly intolerable to him. No; marriage was worse than unthinkable, -marriage was to lose--and worse than lose--the very happiness upon -which now he was determined. - -Yet scruples came. - -He had not the smallest doubt of winning Essie to his -intentions--Essie who liked to think somebody was fond of her, who -liked to be kissed, who had confessed of the lodgers that "most of -'em had"--who, in fact, was Essie Bickers. He knew, thinking upon -it, what had been in pretty little Essie's heart when she said -softly: "What, are you fond of me, Arthur?" He knew it was that she -loved him. He knew what had been in her heart when, having said it, -she drew away from him, and he knew why as she drew away he had seen -tears in her eyes. He knew it was because, having made her -confession of love, she had seen no response of love in his eyes that -only were bemused with sudden thought upon his sudden plan. He knew -he had only to tell her that she was wrong, that indeed he loved her. -Yet scruples came. - - - -IV - -He set about his plans. On the morning when but a week remained to -the end of the term--the date he had fixed in his mind--he wrote -before he came down to breakfast a letter to his agent in London. - - -"DEAR LESSINGHAM, - -"I'm still alive! I've been wandering--getting back my health. I -was rather run down. Now, very soon, I hope to get to work again. -Keep it to yourself that you've heard of me again. I'll be seeing -you soon. Meanwhile, you've got a pile of money for me, haven't you? -I want you, please, to send me at once £200 in £10 notes to this -address. I'm going abroad for a bit. - - "Yours ever, - "PHILIP WRIFORD." - - -Funny to be in touch with that world again! He put the letter in his -pocket. He would post it on his way to school. Imagine Essie's eyes -when she saw all that wealth! He could hear her cry--he imagined -himself showing it to her in a first-class carriage bound for -London--"Oh, Arthur! Did you ever, though!" - -Smiling upon that thought, he went down-stairs to the parlour; and it -was thus, at the very moment as it were of first putting out his hand -to take Essie, that scruples came. - -He found Mrs. Bickers seated alone. There were sounds of Essie gaily -humming as she prepared breakfast in the kitchen. Mrs. Bickers, -busily sewing, looked up and smiled at him. "Good morning, Arthur. -I declare I do like to see you come down of a morning smiling like -that. Busy, aren't I? So early, too!" and she held up what looked -to be a blouse that she was making, and told him: "That's for our -Essie!" - -The smile went from his face and from his thoughts. "Our Essie!" -Only now that phrase, and what it meant, entered his calculations on -his purpose; and with it the thought of his smiles which Mrs. Bickers -had been so glad to see--and what they meant. - -He desired to turn the conversation; yet even as he made answer he -knew his words were leading him deeper into it. "Why, you're not -surprised to see me smiling, are you, Mrs. Bickers?" he said. "This -is what I call a very smiling house, you know." - -Mrs. Bickers set down her work on her lap and smiled anew. "Well, -that's good news," she said. "Ah, and it's not always been either, -Arthur." - -"Hasn't it, Mrs. Bickers?" - -"Oh, dear, it hasn't! Why, Mr. Bickers and me we had a heap of -trouble one time." - -"But you're very happy now?" - -"I've been happy," said Mrs. Bickers, smiling again, "eighteen years -and three--four--eighteen years and four months." - -"That means ever since something?" - -"Ever since our Essie came," said Mrs. Bickers softly. - -Our Essie! Ah! He said dully: "Yes, you must be fond of Essie?" - -"Fond!" Mrs. Bickers echoed him. "Why, Arthur, she's all the world -to Mr. Bickers an' me, our Essie. She's such a bright one! Our -Essie came to us very late in life, and you know I reckon we've never -had a minute's trouble since. Looking back on what we'd had before, -that's why we say, Mr. Bickers an' me, that we reckon she was a gift -sent straight out of heaven. We're sure of it. Brought up with old -folk like us, she'd grow up quiet and odd like some children are, -wouldn't you think? Or likely enough discontented, finding it dull? -But you've only got to look at our Essie to feel happy. There's not -many can say that of a daughter, not for every bit of eighteen years, -Arthur. We reckon we're uncommon blessed, Mr. Bickers an' me." - -In comes Essie with a steaming dish: "Oh, these sausages, Mother! -Jus' look at them sizzling! Oh, aren't they funny, though!" - - -He does not post his letter on the way to school. He does not post -it on the way back from school. He carries it up-stairs again in his -pocket when he goes to bed. Scruples! - -Scruples--he lies awake and reasons the scruples; he tosses -restlessly and damns the scruples. Scruples! In the morning he has -settled them. He rises very early before the house is astir. He -comes down to post his letter and goes at once through the back yard -which offers nearer way to the letter-box. - -"Hulloa, Arthur! Why, you're up early!" - -This time it is Mr. Bickers, hailing him through the open door of his -workshop where he is busily occupied with blow-flame and -soldering-irons. - -"Well, not so early as you, Mr. Bickers. I thought I was first for -once." - -The cert. plumber laughs, evidently well-pleased. "Come along in an' -give a hand. Soldering, this is. Me! I'm never abed after five -o'clock summer-times." - -"I often think you're wonderfully young for your years, Mr. Bickers." - -Another laugh of satisfaction. "I'm younger than I was a score years -back; and that's a fact, Arthur." - -"What's the secret of it?" - -"Why," says Mr. Bickers, "there is a secret to it, sure enough. It's -this way, Arthur. Now you put the solder-pot on the lamp again. -There's matches. This way--I was fifty-two years growing old, and -I've been close on nineteen years growing young. Ever since-- -Hullo! careful with it!" - -"Ever since--?" says Mr. Wriford, his head averted, fumbling with the -lamp, fumbling with his thoughts. - -"Ever since our Essie came to us." - -"Yes," says Mr. Wriford, and adds "Yes, that's much what Mrs. Bickers -was telling me only yesterday." - -"Why, it's the same with both of us," says Mr. Bickers; and then -changes his voice to the voice that Mr. Wriford recognises for that -in which he reads the scriptural portions at night. "You mark this -from me, Arthur," Mr. Bickers continues. "You're a young man. You -mark what I tell you--" - -Necessary to face Mr. Bickers while he tells--to face that serene old -countenance, those steady eyes, that earnest voice. "Prayers aren't -always answered the way you expect, Arthur. You'll find that. -There's man's way of reckoning how a thing ought to be done, and -there's God's way. We'd had uncommon trouble, Mrs. Bickers an' me, a -score years back, and we prayed our ways for to ease it. Essie came. -God's way. Our Essie come to us a blessing straight out of heaven." - -Necessary to face him, necessary to hear in his voice, to see in his -eyes, to watch in the radiation that fills up the careworn lines -about his mouth and on his brow--necessary to hear and to see there -what "Our Essie" means to him. - -Necessary to say something.... To say what? Mr. Wriford can only -find the words he said yesterday to Mrs. Bickers. He says: "Yes, you -must be fond of Essie." - -"Fond!" says Mr. Bickers. "I'll tell you this to it, Arthur. I'll -tell you just what our Essie is to us. There's a verse we say night -and morning, Mrs. Bickers an' me, when we're returning thanks for our -blessing: 'Through the tender mercy of our God, whereby the dayspring -from on high hath visited us.' That's our Essie." - -The dayspring from on high! Irreverent, in Mr. Wriford's dim -recollection of the text, in its application to Essie. He tries to -laugh at it. How laugh at it? Dayspring--ah, that is she! She is -that in her perpetual vitality, in her bubbling, ceaseless, -bottomless well of spirits. She is that to him, and therefore he -requires her, requires her. Ah, she is that to them! -Scruples--scruples--infernal scruples--ridiculous scruples. He means -no harm to her. God knows he means nothing but happiness to her. -Yet the day passes. He defers his intention to post his letter till -after breakfast. He goes to school and defers it till the luncheon -hour. He goes then for a walk and defers it till he is coming home. -He comes home and brings his letter with him. - -Scruples--damn them! Scruples--damn himself for entertaining them! - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -NOT TO DECEIVE HER - -I - -Let Essie decide! That is the decision to which he comes, with which -he stills his scruples. He desires her. The more he reflects upon -possession of her--his to amuse him, to run his house that he will -take for her, to make him laugh, not to interfere with him, requiring -nothing from him but what he shall choose to give her--the more he -visions this prospect, the more ardently it attracts him. There he -sees that vacant place in his life filled up; there he sees -sufficiently attained the secret of happiness that he has missed; -there, belonging to him, he sees her--jolly little Essie--filling, -hiding, forgetting him his endless quest, his hopeless hopelessness, -his old-time miserable misery. He cannot marry her. He does not -love her. He could not be mated--for life!--to such as she in all -her funny little phrases reveals herself to be. He only wants her. -Then come the scruples. Well, let Essie decide! She shall know his -every intention, his every feeling. He will not even so far delude -her as to tell her he loves her. If she who loves him is willing to -go with him, what need matter Mr. and Mrs. Bickers with their -devotion to our Essie? What are they to him? Why should they -interfere with his life? What are they to Essie if he--as he will -be--is everything to her? And then, with "Let Essie decide," he -finally crushes under foot all of scruples, all of conscience, that -remain after this review of his resolve: finally, for this is his -last and comforting and confident resolve--that if Essie is shocked -and frightened and will not, he will immediately accept it: whatever -the temptation will nothing deceive or trick her, not by so much as a -look pretend he loves her, immediately leave her and immediately -return to the old hopelessness, the old quest, the old emptiness of -all his former years. - -Decided! His scruples stilled! Himself assured, absolved! Let -Essie decide it. Now to act. - - - -II - -This is Thursday. He has carried that letter nearly a week unposted -in his pocket. To-morrow the Tower House School breaks up. On -Saturday Mrs. Bickers and Essie are going for a three weeks' summer -holiday to Whitecliffe Sands, which is an hour away on the Norfolk -coast, and it has been decided a month before that he is to accompany -them for their first week as Mrs. Bickers' guest. The kindly -invitation had been made, and he had gratefully accepted it, in the -period before this sudden thought of filling with Essie that vacant -corner in the room of his life: in the period when he had been -content dispassionately to drift along until the holidays should -terminate his engagement--dispassionately to leave till then -conjecture upon what he next should do. - -This summer visit to Whitecliffe Sands was, as he then learned, an -annual excursion. Mr. Bickers stays with the shop, but closes it and -comes down to mother and Essie every Saturday until Monday. When -only that month remained before the holiday came, discussion of the -subject became Essie's chief topic of conversation at supper every -evening; all aglitter it made her with reminiscences of Whitecliffe's -past delights and with anticipations of its fond excitements now to -be renewed: the pier that has been opened since last summer, the -concert party that will reopen its season there just before they -arrive, the progress she has made and means to make in swimming, the -white shoes she is going to buy, the new coat and skirt that she and -mother are making because "My goodness, you don't have to look half -smart on the parade, evenings!" - -In the midst of this had come one evening Mrs. Bickers' "What about -Arthur?" and then, to his rather rueful smile and announcement that -he had no plans as yet beyond the end of the term, her kindly -proposal, evidently arranged beforehand with Mr. Bickers: "Well, I -tell you what would be very nice, Arthur dear, that is, if you -haven't got another job of work immediately by then. Me and Mr. -Bickers have had a talk about it. We'd like you to come with Essie -an' me jus' till Mr. Bickers comes down after our first week. -There's his nice room you could have in our lodgings, and you'd be -just our guest like. A nice blow by the sea would do you a world of -good, an' nice for our Essie to have a companion." - -Essie had clapped her hands in immense delight: he had accepted with -marks in his eyes and voice of a return of that sense of being -overwhelmed by this household's kindness that in the early days here -often overwhelmed him. Now he set his teeth against consideration of -that aspect. Let Essie decide! He might take her away to-morrow or -on Saturday morning: it might be easier to wait and slip off one day -from Whitecliffe. Let Essie decide! - -That evening he asked her. - - - -III - -The night was fine for a stroll after supper. They passed together -up the main street of the town towards the Gardens--Essie desperately -excited with the immediate nearness of Whitecliffe and attracted by -all the shops in case there was something she had not yet bought for -the holiday: himself revolving in his mind how best to open his -proposal. He wished to do it at once. He found it very difficult to -begin. - -"Oh, those parasols!" cried Essie, stopping before a -brightly-illuminated window. "Do stop, Arthur. That sort of blue -one with lace! Did you ever! Wouldn't I like that for Whitecliffe -though! Can you see the ticket? Nine-an'-eleven-three! Oh, talk -about dear!" - -"That's not really expensive, Essie." - -"My goodness, it is for me, though. Ten shillings, Arthur!" - -"Essie, would you like to be rich?" - -"Oo, wouldn't I just!" - -"What would you say if I was rich, Essie?" - -Essie turned away from the coveted sunshade and laughed delightedly -at him. "Goodness, wouldn't it be funny! I'd say what ho! What -_ho_!" - -"Essie, I want to tell you something. I am rich. I'm what you'd -call very rich." - -"Picked up a shilling, have you?" cried Essie, gleefully entering -into the game. "Let's go into the bank and invest it!" - -"No, we'll go in here," said Mr. Wriford, the contents of a -bookseller's window they had reached giving him a sudden idea. -"We'll go in here. I'll show you something." - -She caught his arm as he stepped towards the door. "Whatever do you -mean?" - -He answered her very intensely, "Essie, be serious. I've a lot to -tell you to-night. First of all, I'm rich, I've only been pretending -all the time I've been down here. My name's not Arthur at all. It's -Philip--" - -Essie made a laughing grimace. "Ur! Philip's like skim milk." - -Unheeding her, he went on. "Philip Wriford. I'm an author-- - -"Oh, if you aren't a caution!" cried Essie. - -"You don't believe it?" - -Essie assumed a very ingenuous air. "Your mistake, pardon me. I -wasn't born jus' before supper, you know." - -"Will you believe it if I go in here and ask to see some of my books?" - -"Oh, wouldn't I like to see you dare!" - -"Come along," and he stepped inside the porch of the shop and opened -the door. - -Essie, half-laughing, half-frightened at this boldness, clutched at -his arm. He caught her hand and led her within. "Oh, if you aren't -a caution to-night!" Essie whispered. "Don't, Arthur! Arthur, don't -be so bold!" - -"You've got to believe." - -A counter at the end of the shop displayed above it the words -"Lending Library." Essie, most terribly red in the face, followed -him while he stalked to it, and then stood confounded with his -boldness and striving immensely to restrain her laughter while Mr. -Wriford addressed the young woman who came towards them. - -"Have you got any of Philip Wriford's books in the library?" Mr. -Wriford asked her. - -"We've got several copies," he was told. "But they're all out. -There's a great demand for them." - -His eye caught the top volume of a pile of books on the counter, from -each of which a ticket was displayed, and he motioned towards it. - -"Yes, that's his last," the young woman said, "but it's ordered. -It's going out to-morrow." - -"I can look at it?" - -"Oh, you can look at it. If you like to take out a subscription by -the week or longer, you can put your name down for it. There's other -copies out," and she moved away. - -Mr. Wriford took up the book with something of a thrill--the first -actively stirring thought of his work since he had fled from it. It -was the book he had delivered to his agent shortly before that night -of his escape, and had seen ecstatically reviewed in the paper at -Pendra. He had never seen it in print. He opened it at the title -page. "Twelfth Edition," he read aloud to Essie. "You know what -that means. It was only published in the autumn." - -"How do you know?" said Essie. - -"I tell you I wrote it. I tell you I'm Philip Wriford." - -The young woman's departure permitted Essie to relieve her laughter. -"Oh, Arthur, do not!" she cried. - -"I tell you it's true." He turned to the opening chapter and began -with very strange sensations to read what he had written in days -separated from the present by illimitable gulfs of new identity. The -cunning of his own hand, thus separated from the identity that now -read the words, was abundantly apparent to him. There was a nervous -and arresting force in the first paragraph, a play of wit above a -searching philosophy, that called up and strongly attracted his -literary appreciation, dormant beneath the stresses of his past -months. - -Occupied, for the moment he forgot Essie standing by his side. Her -voice recalled her to him. She was reading over his shoulder, and -reaching the end of the paragraph, spoke her opinion. - -"Isn't it silly, though!" said Essie. - -He closed the book and put it down and turned to her and looked at -her. "Do you think so?" he said. - -"Well, don't you?" cried Essie. "I never read such ridiculous -nonsense. I'm sure if you were an author, Arthur, you couldn't write -such silly stuff as that." - -He laughed a trifle vexedly. "Come along," he said, and laughed -again, this time to himself and with better humour, as they came into -the street and turned towards the Gardens. He could appreciate the -blow at his conceit: further, this little scene was illuminating -demonstration of the gulf social and intellectual between himself and -Essie, and somehow that approved him in his intentions towards her: -what vexed him now was only the failure of this sudden plan to inform -Essie of his position in life and so to give him opening for the -proposal he intended. - -The bookseller's was the last shop in the High Street. They had -entered the Gardens before Essie, consumed with laughter, could find -words for comment. Then she said: "Oh, Arthur, if you weren't a fair -caution! I'd never have thought it of you!" - -"You don't believe it?" - -"Why, of course I don't!" - -"Well, you've got to believe somehow that I've got a lot of money." - -"Daresay I can believe the moon is made of green cheese if I try hard -enough. I say, though, serious, whatever for have I got to believe -you're rich?" - -It was the desired opening. He slipped his hand beneath her arm. -"Because I want to spend it on you, Essie. I want to make you happy -with me." - -He felt and heard her sharply catch her breath. He looked down at -her and saw her eyes dim and her face suffuse in sudden rush of -colour. - -"Oh, Arthur!" Essie said and caught her breath again. - -"Let's go up to our seat, Essie." - - - -IV - -In silence up to their seat, and on their seat a little space in -silence. She first to speak. She, while he sat determining how best -to tell her, turned to him eyes starry as the stars that lit them, in -which still and deeper yet he saw the moisture that had dimmed them a -moment before, and still, and cloudier yet, her face all cloudy red. - -She said very softly: "What, have you proposed to me, Arthur, dear?" - -He was prepared for anything but that. He was reassuring himself, -while they waited in that silence, upon his resolution not to deceive -her, not even to pretend he loved her as she understood love, upon -his determination, for his honour and for hers (so he convinced -himself), straitly, without deception, without temptation, to throw -all the burden of decision upon her love for him. This "What, have -you proposed to me?" took him unawares. It caught him so -unexpectedly that, of its very unexpectedness, it threw out of him -its own response where, had he first imagined such a question, to -fashion answers to it had filled him with confusion, nay, with dismay. - -Its own response! It came to him as a question so ludicrously odd, -so blundering, so inept, ah, so characteristic of jolly little -Essie's funny little ways, that he gave a little laugh, and put his -arm about her shoulders, and playfully squeezed her to him and -laughed again and exclaimed "Essie!" - -The softness left her voice, the dimness her eyes. "Oh, aren't I -glad!" cried Essie and snuggled against him and said: "Oh, hasn't it -come all of a sudden, though!" - -Her funny little ways! Close she was against him--jolly to hold her -thus: his arm about her, her face close beneath his own, his other -hand that held her hand caressing her soft warm cheek--his dear, his -jolly little Essie. But not to deceive her! Let him hold to that. -Let her be told in her own opportunity that which he has to tell. -Let him lead her towards it. - -He asked her--avoiding her question, not confirming her -exclamation--"Do you love me, Essie?" - -She wriggled herself closer up to him, and laughed at him with those -soft expressive lips and with those eyes of hers, and said "Oh, love -you!" as though love were too ridiculously poor a word. - -"Put up with me, Essie--always? You know what I am sometimes." - -"Put up with you!" cried Essie, and again the wriggle and again the -laugh, and then said "What a way to talk!" and by a movement of her -face towards his own made as if to kiss such talk away. - -He kept himself from that. Not to deceive her! "Suppose I made you -miserable, Essie?" - -"However could you?" - -"Suppose I did? You know how I get sometimes." - -"Mean when you're quiet?" said Essie, snuggling. "Of course you're -quiet sometimes, aren't you? My goodness, I don't mind. I'd just -have a jolly laugh by myself." - -Her funny little ways! He was fighting against them. They urged him -that they were in themselves just what attracted him--always to have -them to turn to in his moodiness. Ah, not to deceive her! He said -heavily: "I don't mean that, Essie. Suppose--suppose I made you more -miserable than that? Suppose I told you something that made you -think I couldn't be fond of you?" - -She asked him quickly: "What, been engaged before, have you?" - -"I've been lots of things. I'm going to tell you." - -He felt her stiffen. "I only want to hear this one. Why didn't you -marry her?" - -"I think because she wouldn't marry me." - -"Oh, dear!" cried Essie, and wriggled. "Isn't this awful! Oh, don't -I hate her, though! Whyever wouldn't she?" - -Here was a way to tell her. What if it meant to lose her? Here was -the opportunity. Let him hold to his vow! He said deeply: "Essie, -because she knew me too well. She knew some of what you've got to -know, Essie. She'd tell you." - -"Like her to try!" said Essie and sat up with a jerk. - -He could face her now. There she was, his jolly little Essie, -looking so fierce, breathing so quickly. Tell her and lose her? -Clasp her and kiss away that angry little frown? Not to deceive her! -Hold, hold to that! He began: "She'd tell you--what I've got to tell -you. She'd tell you--listen to me, Essie. What would you do if she -told you I'd make you--or anybody--unhappy? That I'm all--all wrong, -all moods, all utterly impossible? Essie, that I can't love anybody -really--not even you? That I'm not to be trusted? That I can't -trust myself? That I'd marry and then--then pretty well go mad to -think I was married and do anything to get out of it? That all I -want, that what I want, Essie, is--is not exactly to marry? Essie, -do you understand? That so long as I felt free, -perhaps--perhaps--I'd be all right--perhaps be kind?" - -He stopped. She was sitting bolt upright, staring straight before -her into the night, her pretty lips compressed, and he could hear her -breathing--short and quick and sharp. - -He said: "Essie, what would you do--what would you do if she told you -that?" - -She turned sharply towards him. "Do?" cried Essie. He could see how -she quivered. "I tell you what I'd do! I'd take my hand and I'd -give her such a slap in the face as she wouldn't forget in a hurry, I -know!" - -He laughed despite himself. But he cried: "If it was true, Essie? -If it was true?" - -"Give her another!" said Essie. "Such a one!" - -Her funny little ways! He gave an exclamation and caught her to him. -She was rigid in her indignant heat. He clasped her and turned her -face to his. "Oo-oo!" cried Essie, "Oo-oo!" and relaxed, and -snuggled, and put her mouth to his. He laughed -freely--bitterly--recklessly. How treat her as others than her class -should be treated? Why treat her so? He cried: "Essie, you're -impossible!" and squeezed her in reproof of her and in helpless -desire of her, and cried: "Essie! Essie! Essie!" - -She laughed and clung to him; laughed and kissed him kiss for kiss. -She said presently, only murmuring, so close their lips: "Wouldn't I -just though! Hard as I could I'd fetch her such a couple of slaps! -Oo-oo! Oh, I say, Arthur! Why, I never heard such things! I never -heard such a caution as she must have been! Jus' because you're -quiet, dear--that's what it was. One of that fast lot. That's what -she was. Don't I know them, though!" - -He was just holding her, kissing her, laughing at her. Why not? -He'd not wrong her till she understood--that was his new assurance. -At Whitecliffe he'd take her, and tell her there so that not possibly -she'd misunderstand him. Not to deceive her--he'd not deceived her -yet. - -Swiftly deception came. - -"Won't we be happy though!" - -"Won't we!" he answered her. - -"Won't I take care of you just!" - -"That's what I want, Essie! That's what I want!" - -"Quiet as you like, dear. I shan't mind.". - -"Essie, I'll make you happy--happy." - -"Just think of Mother and Dad when we tell them! They aren't half -fond of you, Mother and Dad." - -The beginning of it. "We won't tell them--yet," he said. - -"What, have a secret?" - -"Just for a day or two--just till Whitecliffe." - -"Oh, isn't that fine, though, to have it a secret by ourselves!" - -"Fine, Essie." - -"Not long though. I couldn't keep it above a week!" - -"Just a week, Essie." - -She was silent a moment, her lips on his. And very silent he. - -She said: "You're not really rich, dear?" - -"Yes, I am." - -"Perhaps you only said it--just because. I know how things pop out. -That doesn't matter. Look, I shouldn't be half surprised if Dad'll -give you a job of work in his shop when he knows we're engaged." - -"It's true, Essie. Rich as rich." - -"You've never got as much as fifty pounds?" - -"Heaps more than that." - -"Oh, if ever! We'll never have a jolly little house of our own?" - -"We will, though. A jolly one." - -Silent again. She was smiling, dreaming. And silent he. He was -thinking, thinking. A striking clock disturbed her. "Eleven! Oh, -would you believe it! If we don't hurry, we'll have to tell them--to -explain." - -"We'll hurry," he said; and he added: "We must keep our secret, -Essie." - -She was out of his arms in her surprise at the hour. Something in -his voice made her look at him quickly. "There, you're quiet -now--like you are sometimes," she said. - -He told her "I'm thinking--of you." - -At that she suddenly was in his arms again, her hands about his neck. -"There's one thing," she whispered and drew down his face. "Oh, -there's one thing!" - -He asked her "What?" - -"Jus' tell me how you love me. You've not said it." - -Not to deceive her! "As if I need, Essie?" - -"But I want you to. Jus' say it so I can remember it." - -Not to deceive her! He stroked her face. "As if I need, Essie! Why -should you want me to?" - -She told him: "Well, but of course you need. Of course I want you -to. Oh, isn't that jus' what a girl wants to hear, Arthur? Why, -haven't I laid awake at night, loving you over and over, and thought -how it would be to hear you say it! Do jus' say it to me, dear." - -Not to deceive her!--not even to pretend he loved her as she -understood love! Ah, here at the stake was his vow--caught, brought -at last to the burning. Evasions had saved it, hidden it, preserved -it to him unbroken: here it was dragged to the open. As he had -nerved himself to try to tell her, so now he strengthened himself to -hold to his resolution. Ah, as at enticement of her funny little -ways he could not resist her, so now, by sudden yearning in her cry, -fear to lose her overcame him. She suddenly had change of her fresh -young voice; she suddenly, as he waited, and she felt his arms relax, -most passionately was pressed against him, and suddenly, with a -break, in a cry, entreatingly besought him: "Ah, do jus' put your -arms around me, dear, and hold me close and say you love me. Do!" - -Why not? How not? Thrice fool, thrice fool to hesitate! These that -she asked were only words, and all his plans and all his happiness at -stake upon them. This not the deeper step--nothing irrevocable here. -Who, with such as Essie, would scruple as he scrupled? Who such a -fool? Who had suffered of life as he had suffered? Who, in his -case, would hold away relief as he was holding it? She should -decide. He'd hold to that. By God, by God, he'd seal her to him -first! - -He said: "I love you, Essie." - -Holding her, he could feel the sigh she gave run through her as -though all her spirit trembled in her ecstasy. She whispered: "Put -your face down on mine." - -He put his cheek to hers. Her cheek was wet. - -"Are you crying, Essie?" - -She pressed closer to him. - -"Why are you crying?" - -She murmured: "Well, haven't I wanted this! Isn't it what I've -always wanted! Say it again, dear. With your face on mine and with -your arms around me say it." - -"I love you, Essie." - -Only words--no harm in that. Only words! At Whitecliffe he'd tell -her, and she, as he'd sworn, should decide. Only words--only words, -but he'd not lose her now! - -As they walked home, he posted his letter. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE DREAM - -I - -"Registered letter for you," cried Essie. "My goodness if there -isn't!" - -This was in the little sitting-room of the Whitecliffe Sands -lodgings--the fifth morning there; Mr. Bickers expected on the -morrow; Mr. Wriford, as had been arranged when he was invited for the -blow by the sea that would do him a world of good, supposed to be -leaving on the same day; and Essie, as they walked the parade -together before breakfast, in highest state of excitement and -mystification at Arthur's insistence that their secret should be kept -till then and then should be revealed--if Essie wished it. - -"Well, but aren't you a tease, though!" said Essie delightedly, as -this was repeated while they came in to where the registered letter -awaited them on the breakfast-table. "Aren't you a fair tease! 'If -I want to!' Why, aren't I simply dying to just! I'm simply bursting -to tell Mother every single minute. Isn't a secret a caution -though--just like when you've got a hole in your dress and think -everybody's looking at it. Oh, isn't it funny how you do when you -have, though? Let's have a laugh!" - -The laughter brought them to the registered letter and to Essie's -exclamation at it; and then, as she handled the packet, readdressed -in Mr. Bickers' clerkly script, and gave it to Mr. Wriford: "Feels to -me as if some one's sent you a pocket-handkerchief," said Essie. - -"That shows you don't know what a honeymoon ticket feels like," said -Mr. Wriford and fingered the bundle of banknotes within their -parchment cover. "Listen to the crinkling. That's the confetti they -always pack it in." - -Essie was highly amused. "Hasn't being engaged made you different, -though! You're jolly as anything down here. Aren't I glad!" - -"It's you that's made me different," Mr. Wriford declared; and -"Oo-oo!" cried Essie at what went with this assurance. "Oo-oo! Look -out, here's Mother coming." - -Mrs. Bickers' appearance, and then all the jolly chatter at -breakfast, and afterwards the morning bathe and the rest of the usual -programme of Whitecliffe's delights, caused the mysterious registered -letter to go--as she would have said--clean out of Essie's head. Mr. -Wriford, when he had a moment alone, opened it and read it, and found -within it, thrice repeated, a phrase that intensely he chorused as he -put letter and the twenty ten-pound notes in his pockets and looked -upon the immediate plans that now were all ripe for execution. - - - -II - -"Your return to life" was this phrase that the literary agent three -times repeated in the course of his enthusiastic delight and surprise -at news at last of missing Mr. Wriford. He gave some astonishing -figures of the sales of Mr. Wriford's books. He put forward what -appeared to him the most engaging of the contracts which publishers -were longing to make. He ended with How soon would Mr. Wriford run -up to town for a talk? or should Mr. Lessingham come down? "Don't -let your return to life--now that at last you have made it--give me a -moment's longer silence than you can help." - -"Return to life"--that was the phrase. Essie's words--"Hasn't being -engaged made you different, though?"--that was the illustration of -it. Return to life! Ay, that was it, ay, that was his, far, far -more truly, with wonder of rebirth immeasurably more, than ever -Lessingham or any one in all the world could know. There was thrill -in that very thought that none but himself knew its heights, its -volume, its singing, its radiant intensity. That knowledge was his -own as in the immediate future his life was to be his own--life -without a care, life without a tie, life of complete abandonment to -pleasure of work, to pleasure of sheer pleasure, to pleasure of jolly -little Essie always to turn to, to look after, to make happy, and yet -always to know of her that if he wished--he never would so wish--he -could be rid of her: no tie, no bond--happiness, freedom; freedom, -happiness! - -This was the state to which, with a sudden, ecstatic soaring as it -were, he had swung away from the evening of saying "I love you, -Essie," and of posting his letter, through these laughing days at -Whitecliffe Sands, to now when arrival of the honeymoon ticket made -him all ready for the final step. Once that declaration of the love -he did not feel--as Essie understood love--had been made, his -scrupulous withholding from it lay strewn about his feet as matter of -no more regard than the torn wrappings of a casket from which there -has been taken a very precious prize. That declaration sealed her to -him; and through those intervening days while the letter was awaited, -constantly he repeated it, constantly embellished it. He mocked, he -almost upbraided himself for his old scruples at it. Why, it was her -due, her right, he told himself. She should be happy with him--that -was his resolve: never should regret, never suffer. Why, how -possibly could she be happy, how avoid pains of regret, if she were -not assured that he loved her? - -So he gave her this bond--that was her due--of his love; so with each -day, each hour, each moment of Whitecliffe in her company he became -more and more assured of her. Assured! He was convinced. There was -not a glance from her eyes, not a sound from her lips, not a touch of -her hand but informed him that she was his to do with as he would, -come any test that he might put her to. Return to life! Why, this -freedom, this happiness, was but the threshold of it. Return to -life! He imaged all the darkness he had come through and damned it -in exultant triumph at all its terrors trampled under foot: night, -darker than deepest summer darkness here, he had known; day, of which -these burning cloudless days of holiday were sign and symbol, now was -his, and brighter still awaited him.... - -Whitecliffe Sands, anxious to present to its visitors every -attraction and convenience that may place it among rising seaside -resorts, numbers among the latter a Tourist Bureau in the High Street -where, so an inscription informs you, you may book in advance to any -railway station in the British Isles. On the morning of the arrival -of the registered letter, Mr. Wriford stepped in here and took for -to-morrow two first-class tickets to London: a fast train at five -o'clock in the afternoon, he was told. - - - -III - -The morrow brought Mr. Bickers at midday, Mrs. Bickers and Mr. -Wriford and Essie at the station to meet him, Essie in his arms and -hugging him with delighted cries of joy before he is well out of the -train. It is a thing to make all who stand about on the platform -desist from their own greetings to see her slim young figure in its -pretty white dress flash forward as the train comes in, and to smile -at her cry of "There he is! Oh, jus' look at his summer waistcoat -he's got!" and then to see her in his arms with "Oh, Dad! Oh, if you -don't look a darling in that waistcoat! Whereever did you get it, -though?" - -Most wonderfully animated she is, most radiantly pretty. Mr. -Bickers, after affectionate greeting of his wife, and to Mr. Wriford -most genial "Hullo, Arthur! All right? That's the way! Glad to see -you again, Arthur," watches her adoringly where she has returned to -his carriage with "I'll get your bag, Dad!" and says: "Doesn't she -look a picture, our Essie! Doesn't Whitecliffe suit our Essie!" - -Most wonderfully animated she is, most radiantly pretty--chattering; -walking with gay little skips as she holds Dad's hand while they -proceed to the lodgings; carrying them all with her a dozen times on -her irresistible appeal of: "Oh, isn't that funny, though! Let's -have a laugh," before the lodgings are reached. - -It is much more than Whitecliffe's breezes that make her thus, much -more than joy at Dad's arrival: it is that this is To-day, the -promised day--the secret come to bursting-point, and to burst out in -all its wonder at any moment that Mr. Wriford may choose to relieve -the almost unbearable excitement and mystery and tell her it may be -told. "Feels to me like all the birthdays I ever had all rolled into -one," Essie had declared to Mr. Wriford early that morning. "If -you'd seen me jump out of bed when I woke up! Oh, jus' think when we -tell them! Will it be when Dad arrives at the station? Well, at -lunch, then?" And when Mr. Wriford smiles and shakes his head at -each of these, "Well, but they think you're going to-day! Oh, if -ever I knew any one love a mystery like you do!" - -"I'll tell you when," says Mr. Wriford. "I'll tell you all of a -sudden." For him also it is the day--the promised day--awaited thus -with deliberate purpose, and he a little nervous, a little restless, -something ill at ease now that its hour swiftly comes. - -"You're never going to keep it till the very last minute just before -they think you're going? My goodness, I couldn't bear it. I'll -simply scream. I know I shall." - -"Look here, Essie, I'll tell you. I'm going by the five o'clock -train to London--" - -Essie corrects him. "You mean that's what you'll say you are. Oh, -how ever I won't scream I can't think!" - -"Well, just before that we'll say we're going for a last walk -together--for me to say good-bye to everything; and then we'll -arrange how to--tell them." - -She clapped her hands and laughed with glee. "If you're not a -caution, Arthur! Oh, how ever I won't scream before five o'clock! -Oh, when we tell them!" - - -At five o'clock she was to be lying still, with silent lips: he on -his knees: death waiting. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -THE BUSINESS - -I - -"You're never going to keep it till the very last minute?" Essie had -said. Mr. Wriford's plan rested for its actual execution upon this -very fact of keeping it till the very last minute--from her. Essie -had thrilled with the delicious mystification of "They think you're -going to-day." It was his carefully deliberated project suddenly to -spring upon her that indeed he was going to-day--and then to ask her: -"I'm going, Essie--by this train--I'm not going back to say -good-bye--I'm going now--for ever. Essie, are you coming with me?" - -Thus was she suddenly to be presented with it. Thus was she to -decide--flatly, immediately. She was to know what sort of union he -intended. She was either to fear it and let him go from her--as he -would go--at once and for ever; or of her love for him he was to -carry her with him--immediately, to have always for his own! - -Let Essie decide! He was holding to that. With Essie let the -decision be! All he was doing was to present the decision to her -sharp and clear and sudden: all he had done was to tell her that he -loved her. But there resulted to him this: that between the -sharpness of the decision she was to make and the love he had pressed -upon her in these intervening Whitecliffe days, between the effects -of these on such as Essie was, he was certain of her, convinced of -her: so utterly assured of her that as, after lunch, they left the -house for that last walk in which he was "to say good-bye to -everything," he told Mr. and Mrs. Bickers: "Don't be anxious if we're -not back by half-past four. There's another train at seven. I can -just as well go by that if we find we want to stop out a bit;" so -certain of her that, as they left the house, "Bring a warm wrap of -some kind," he said to Essie. "Bring that long cloak of yours." - -"Why, it's as hot as anything!" Essie protested. But the agonies of -"nearly screaming" in which she had sat through lunch while Mother -and Dad said how sorry they were Arthur was going, and that if the -job of work he was after fell through he was to be sure and let them -know at once--the agonies of enduring this without screaming, made -it, as she told him when they were started, impossible "to stand -there arguing on the steps with them watching us, so I've got to lug -this along, and don't I look half a silly carrying it either, all -along the parade too!" - -"I'll carry it," said Mr. Wriford and took the cloak; "and we won't -keep along the parade. We'll go that walk of ours in towards Yexley -Green and round by that white house with the jolly garden and come -out on to the cliff. That'll give us plenty of time to get back." - -Essie laughed and skipped. "Plenty of time! How you can keep it up -like that I can't think. My goodness, if you oughtn't to be on the -stage! Hope you like carrying that cloak!" - -"Well, there'll be a shower or two, I shouldn't be surprised," said -Mr. Wriford. "Anyway, it'll do to sit down on when we get over to -the cliff and sit down--to arrange." - - - -II - -This white house with the jolly garden that was to be the -turning-point of their walk had come to be quite a place of -pilgrimage since its chance discovery on the first morning of the -holiday. "Whitehouse" was its name. It was tenantless. An -auctioneer's placard announced that it was for sale. They had walked -far along the cliffs from Whitecliffe Sands on that first morning, -had taken a winding lane that led to Yexley Green, and in the lane -suddenly had come upon Whitehouse, with which immediately Essie, and -Mr. Wriford scarcely less, had fallen most encaptivatingly in love. -A high wall surrounded it. They had explored its garden: kitchen -garden with fruit trees; and a bit of lawn with a shady old elm; and -enticing odd little bits of garden tucked here and there behind -shrubberies and in corners; and a little stable--at the stable Mr. -Wriford had said: "That's where you'd keep a fat little pony, Essie, -and have one of those jolly little governess cars and drive into -Whitecliffe every day to do the shopping." And "Oh, if ever!" Essie -had cried delightedly; and immediately and thenceforward the thing -had been to come here every day and imagine Whitehouse was theirs and -plan the garden--sadly neglected--as they would have it if it were. -One storey high, the house, and white, and "sort of bulging, the -darling," as Essie had said, with the effect that the three -ground-floor rooms and even the kitchen at the back were spaciously -circular in shape. High French windows--"My goodness, though, if -there aren't more windows than walls almost!" Encircled all about by -a wide, paved verandah. - -"It's the very house for an author," Mr. Wriford had declared. "Shut -away from everything by that jolly old wall, Essie; and this -room--come and look at this room, Essie--this would be mine where I'd -write. It must get the sun pretty well all day, and it's sort of -away from the others--quite quiet. Couldn't I write in there!" - -Essie with her nose flat against the window: "Oh, wouldn't it be -glorious! Can't I just see you sitting in there writing a book! -Perhaps I'd be out on the verandah here with a little dog that I'd -have and just have a peep at you sometimes!" - -To-day as they came by Whitehouse and turned towards the cliffs there -was a sudden development of these imaginative ecstasies. The showers -that Mr. Wriford had foreboded, heralded by watery clouds trailing up -from the west, approached in quickening drops of heavy rain as they -came through Yexley Green. They were at Whitehouse when sudden -midsummer downpour broke and descended. - -"My goodness!" cried Essie. - -"We'll shelter in the porch--in the verandah," said Mr. Wriford and -opened the gate. "Run, Essie!" - -In the porch, Essie breathless and laughing from their helter-skelter -rush, and shaking the raindrops from her skirts, Mr. Wriford read -again a duplicate of the auctioneer's notice posted at the gate. He -came to the last words and read them aloud with exclamation. - -"'Open to view!' Essie, if we haven't been donkeys all this time! I -believe it's--" He turned the handle of the door. "It is. It's -open!" - -"Oo-oo!" cried Essie, clasping her hands in delight, flashing her -sparkling eyes all about the wide hall--its white panelling, its -inglenook fireplace, its room-doors standing ajar with captivating -peeps of interiors even more entrancing than when seen from outside, -its low, spacious stairway bending up to the first floor--"Oh, if -ever! Oh, Arthur, if it isn't a darling!" - -At the cliffs--and they had been within five minutes of them when the -rain came--he had planned they should sit down and he would tell her: -"I'm going by the five o'clock train. Here's my ticket. Essie, are -you coming with me? Look, here's yours." The diversion of being -within enchanting Whitehouse, his laughter at Essie's ecstasies as -from room to room they went, momentarily forgot him his purpose--and -yet, and partly of envisaging within these perfect surroundings the -very joy, settled with Essie in dwelling-place so conducive to work -and happiness as this, that soon should be his, brought him (and her) -directly to it. - -With light and trifling steps they suddenly were plunged amidst it. -The exploration, twice repeated, was done. Essie was in ecstasies -anew over the sitting-room, of which Mr. Wriford told her again: -"Yes, this would be yours. That's the dining-room behind, you see, -with a door to the kitchen where your servants would be." - -"Not really two servants?" said Essie. - -"Oh, rather--three perhaps; and then the gardener chap who'd look -after your pony-trap." - -"Oh, my goodness!" said Essie, sparkling. "Do just go on, dear!" - -"Yes, well, this would be yours. We wouldn't call it the -drawing-room or any rot like that. Just your room with jolly -furniture and a little bureau where you'd keep your accounts. We'd -have tea in here when we didn't have it outside. The servants would -call it the sitting-room. We'd call it jolly little Essie's room. -I'd get fed up with working sometimes, you know, and come and sprawl -about in here. You'd be sewing or something, I expect." - -Essie had no expression for all this but an enormous sigh of ecstasy. -Then she said: "Now we'll go back to yours," and hand in hand they -came to it--and to their reckoning. - - - -III - -"Simply built for a chap to write in," Mr. Wriford said. "Just look -how it gets the sun. It's stopped raining. I'd come here directly -after breakfast. That's the time I can write. There's where I'd -have my table. You'd see I was kept quiet." - -"Oh, wouldn't I just," said Essie. "You see, there's a passage comes -right down to this door, and my goodness if I saw any of the servants -come past that corner there, or even go into the room overhead! My -goodness, they'd know it if they did!" - -He put his arm about her shoulders and laughed and pressed her to -him; and Essie said: "Oh, just fancy if it really could be ours!" - -He kept her there. She in his arm, they in surroundings such as -these: he working, she ministering to him--ah, return to life! return -to life! - -"Well, we'll have a place as like it as we can find," he said. - -She shook her head. With just a little sigh, "We never could," she -said. "We'll be happier than anything wherever we are; but one -thing, there couldn't be another darling place like this, and -another, it would cost a fair fortune. Why, it's not even to let. -It's only for sale." - -He told her easily: "That's all right. That's just what we're going -to do--buy a little place somewhere. I bet a thousand would buy this -Whitehouse, buried away down here." - -Essie made a tremendous mouthful of the word: "Well, a _thousand_!" - -He laughed and squeezed her in reproof again. "Or two," he said. -"Won't you ever understand what they pay for what you call the silly -books?" - -She had protested before, when in these Whitecliffe days he had -assured her of his identity with Philip Wriford, that she never would -have said silly in the library that evening if she had known the book -was his "really." She protested now again with a wriggle and a -laugh; but quickly upon her protest looked up at him with: "Oh, you -can't ever mean that you really could buy this? You simply can't?" - -He nodded, smiling. - -"Oh," she cried, "why not then? Why not? Oh, Arthur, just think if -you would! Oh, jus' think!" - -The smile went from his lips and from his eyes. Whitehouse, so near -to Mother and Dad, was impossible. Flight must take them, and keep -them, very far from here. Before he could speak it was this very -fact of proximity to home that she adduced in further persuasion. - -"And think," she cried, "how near we'd be to Mother and Dad! Jus' an -hour in the train. I could see them every week. I expect you've -thought they'd live with us, you being so rich. But they never -would, you know. Dad would never leave his shop, one thing; and -another, Mother's often said when we've talked about me getting -married one day, that a girl ought to have a home of her own and not -have her mother tied round her neck. Why, this would be perfect, -this darling Whitehouse, and so close to them! Oh, if you really -can, Arthur!" - -Here was the telling of it. - -"I can't," he said. "We can't live here, Essie." - -She detected something amiss in his tone. There went out of her face -the fond and smiling entreaty expressive of her plea. She said: -"Arthur, why?" - -To one of the windows there was a broad window-seat, and he took her -to it. "Let's sit down here, Essie." - -She said: "Oh, whatever is it, dear?" - -He took her hand. "It's this. What I told your father and mother -about going by the five o'clock train is true. I am going. It's -nearly four now. It's time to be starting back. I am going. Look, -here's my ticket." - -Wonderingly she looked at it, and at him. "Oh, you can't be?" - -"I am. There's the ticket. Essie, look. Here's yours." - -She almost laughed. She looked at his face and the impulse was -checked. But she said half-laughingly, her brows prettily puckered: -"Oh, whatever? Is it a game, dear, you're having?" - -"No, it's no game. It's very serious. I'm going--for good. Not -coming back--ever." - -She made a little distressful motion with her hands. "Oh, Arthur, -don't go on so, dear. Whatever can you mean?" - -"I mean just what I say. I'm going--at five o'clock." He stopped -and looked intently into her wondering, her something shadowed, eyes. -He said: "Essie, are you coming with me?" - -This time she laughed. It obviously was a game! A little ring of -her clear and merry laughter, and her eyes that always sparkled, that -had been shadowed, sparkling anew. "Oh, if you oughtn't to be an -actor on the stage! If you didn't half frighten me, though!" and she -laughed again. "Why, how could I come? Why, we're not married yet!" - -Now! - -He put an arm about her and drew her to him. "Don't let me frighten -you, Essie. Trust me. Trust me. Come with me, Essie. I'll take -care of you. I'll love you always. You'll never regret it--not a -moment. You know what I can do for you--everything you want. You -know how happy we'll be--happy, happy." - -He had imagined--he had prepared for--everything that she might say: -fears, tears, doubts, protests--he had rehearsed his part, his fond -endearments, his dear cajoleries, against them all. He was utterly -unprepared for her answer, for the gentle puzzlement in her eyes that -went with it, for the Sunday-school awe in her voice with which she -spoke it. - -"What, live in sin?" said Essie. - -He was prepared for, he had rehearsed, every way this telling of her -might go. Across any difficulties of it he had stepped to the utter -conviction of her that, howsoever it went, would radiantly end it, he -knew. He was utterly unprepared for this her first contribution to -it, for each and all with which she followed it, for the sudden fear, -and then the quickly mounting fear, and then the knowledge, that she -was lost to him--that the game was up, the thing done, the plans -shattered, the future irrevocably destroyed: he was most unprepared -of all, as the knowledge came and grew and burned within him, for the -fury that began to fill him at his loss, the fury and the hate that -finally he broke upon her. And God, God, how vilely quickly the -thing was projected, was fought, was done! In one minute, as it -seemed to him, they were lovingly trifling their plans of Whitehouse; -in the next, those very plans had swept him to the telling; in the -next, return to life was crushed like ashes in his mouth, and his -fury and hate were out and raging; in the next, they were back -returning on the cliffs, a blustering wind got up, rain again -streaming. - -Look how it went. Consider the quickness of it. - -"What, live in sin?" - -He caught her to him. "Live together, live together, Essie--always. -Don't talk about sin." - -"How could I? Oh, how ever could I?" - -"Together, together, Essie! Think of us together in a little house -of our own just like this. Think of you looking after me, and of me -looking after my sweet, my dear, my darling!" - -"How could I, dear? How could I?" - -"Trust me--trust me! Ah, those tears in my darling's darling eyes! -Look how I kiss them away and hold her in my arms and always hold -her." - -"I couldn't, dear. I couldn't." - -"You know I'm different. You know how different I am from other men. -That's why I ask you, why I take you, without marrying you. Does it -frighten you at first? Only at first. You know I'm different. You -know you trust me." - -"Oh, you don't love me! You don't love me, after all!" - -Chill at his heart. - -"I can't live without you, Essie." - -"Oh, you couldn't ask me to live in sin, not if you loved me." - -Swift fear that he has lost her. - -"It is because I love you. Because I love you." - -"Oh, didn't I love to think you loved me, Arthur! You don't. You -don't." - -Losing her! The knowledge loses him the ardour of his words, halts -him and stumbles him among them. "You're silly, you're silly to talk -like that!" - -"Oh, didn't I think you loved me truly!" - -Lost her! He knows it. He feels it. There is something in her -simple, plaintive exclamations, in her "I couldn't, couldn't, dear," -in her abandonment to belief that he cannot love her--there is some -damned, numbing essence in it that emanates as it were from her -spirit and thus informs him; and thus informing him, numbs and dumbs -his own. Lost her! And cannot combat it. Lost her! And has no -words, no help. Fury beginning in him. Fury at his impotence -mounting within him. Return to life! By God, by God, to lose it! - -"Essie, will you let me go, then? Now? For ever? You can't. All -our love? All our happiness we're going to have?" - -"Oh, didn't I think you loved me truly!" - -Fury within him. That maddening iteration of her maddening cry! He -can scarcely retain his fury. He chokes it back. He is hoarse as he -grinds out words. "Think of us in a little house like we've planned." - -"I couldn't, dear, I couldn't!" - -"Think how we'll have everything we want!" - -"Oh, I can't bear to hear you tempting me!" - -Fury in a storm breaks out of him. "Oh!" he cries and makes a savage -action with his arms that thrusts her from him. "Oh, for God -Almighty's sake, don't drag the Bible into it!" - -She says: "Arthur!" - -He gets violently to his feet, his hands clenched, and makes again -that savage, breaking action of his arms, and cries at her: -"Temptation and sin and rubbish, rubbish, like that! Let it alone! -If you don't love me, say so! If you're going to let me go, say so! -Don't drag the Bible into it! If you don't love me, say so, say so, -say so!" - -"Arthur, you know I love you. You don't love me, dear!" - -A last effort. A last control of his fury. He turns to her. -"Essie, I can't live without you. Essie! Essie!" - -"Oh, you couldn't love me to ask me to live in sin!" - -That ends it. That expression--its beastly and vulgar piety, its -common, vulgar phraseology--sweeps across his fury as in a rasping -shudder of abhorrence. He breaks his fury out upon it. He bursts -out: "By God, you're common, common! Do you think I'd marry -you--you? What do you think you are? Who do you think I am? Marry -you! Marry you! Let's get out of this! Let's go home, and you can -tell your father and your mother!" - -Return to life! Gone, gone! Lost, lost! He was shaking with hate -and shaking with utter fury. He walked to the door and staggered as -he walked and must stop and correct his direction as though he were -drunken. At the door he turned to her and saw that she remained -seated, leaning back against the window, her hands clasped. He -cried: "Are you coming? Are you coming?" - -She got up and came to him and went through the doorway before him -and through the outer door. He slammed it behind him, and they -passed out from Whitehouse and up the lane, and out upon the cliffs -and turned along them homeward. Raining. He carried her cloak but -did not offer it her. A wind blew gustily from off the land that -frequently buffetted him, and her, and at whose buffettings and at -the slippery foothold of the rain-swept grass he angrily exclaimed. - - - -IV - -She walked to seaward of him close along the cliff's edge. Here the -cliff fell sharply a few feet, then overhung an outward lap of gorse -and bracken, sheer then to the sands. Once as they pressed and -slipped their way along, he caught her eyes. She was crying. He -sneered: "You can tell your father and mother!" - -She caught her breath to answer him: "As if--I should!" - -"What are you crying about, then?" - -"Didn't I think you loved me--truly!" - -They were approaching the little coastguard station of Yexley Gap. -Damn this rain. Damn this slippery grass. Damn this infernal wind. -A fiercer gust came blustering seaward. He caught with both hands at -his hat--nearly gone. Essie's cloak upon his arm blew across his -eyes--blinded him, and he had to stop. - - -She didn't scream. It was not a cry. She just, in perplexity, in -puzzlement, in trouble as it were, said "_Arthur!_" - -She was balancing. She was struck by the wind and -balancing--balancing with her body and with her arms, and looking at -him as if she did not quite know what was happening to her; and in -the like perplexity said to him "_Arthur!_"--balancing, -over-balancing. - -There were not ten feet between them. He rushed, and slipped as he -rushed. It was like running with those leaden feet of nightmare. It -seemed to him an immense time before he reached her. A horrible, -blundering, unspeakable business, then. The cloak, the accursed -cloak, got between them--between them. A jumbling, ghastly, -blundering business, their hands fumbling on either side of it. Was -this going on for ever and ever? The accursed cloak fumbled itself -away. Ah, God, now it was their naked hands that were fumbling--all -wet and slippery with rain, seeming to be all fists and no fingers -and only knocking against one another instead of catching hold. And -not a word said, and only very quick breathing, and jumbling and -fumbling and jumbling. Look here, this fumbling, she's falling, -toppling; is this going on for ever and ever and ever? - -It was her hands that in the last wild, hideous fumbling clutched -his. She toppled right back. He fell. He was face downwards upon -the slippery grass, to his waist almost over the cliff, and slipping, -slipping, and she had his hands--the backs of his hands over the -knuckles so that his fingers were imprisoned and useless, and there -she hung and dragged him, and he was slipping. - -He said: "O God, Essie! O God! Can't you get your hands higher up, -so I can hold you, instead of you holding me?" - -She said: "I shall fall if I do." - -He said: "My darling! My darling! Hold on, then, Essie. Dig your -nails in." - -"Am I hurting you?" - -"Oh, for God's sake, Essie, hold, hold!" - -Next she said: "Are you slipping?" - -He said: "Some one will come. Some one will come. I heard a shout. -Hold! Hold!" - -She persisted: "Are you slipping?" - -He said: "Yes. I'm slipping. Hold! Hold!" - -There isn't any need to describe anything--of his gradual slipping by -her drag upon him, of his useless hands enviced in hers, of her very -terrible clutch upon them. - -She presently said: "Tell me that what you said on the seat that -night, dear." - -He knew. He cried most passionately: "I love you, Essie." - -"Truly?" - -From the uttermost depths of his heart: "Truly! Truly!" - -"More than any one?" - -From his soul, from all his deepest depths, from all he ever had -suffered, from all he ever had been, "Essie," he cried, "before God I -love you more than all the world!" - -She said: "You can't raise me to kiss me, can you, dear?" - -He said: "I can't, Essie." - -"Are you slipping?" - -He did not answer her. He was slipped almost beyond recovery. - -She then said: "Say that again--'before God.' I like that, dear." - -"Essie, Essie, before God I love you above all the world!" - -She gave a little sigh. She said: "Well, both of us--what's the -sense to it, dear?" and she opened her fingers, and he saw her whizz, -strike the face of the cliff where it jutted out, and pitch, and -crash among the gorse and bracken, and roll over and over to the very -edge of the outward lap above the sands, and caught there and lying -there ... her jolly little dress for Whitecliffe lying there. - -A hand grabbed him, or he, beyond recovery of his balance, had -followed her. A coastguard grabbed him and dragged him back. He -said in a thick, odd voice: "What the devil's the use of that now? -You fool, what the devil's the use of that?" - - -He lay there, the rain stopped, in the sunshine. He just lay -there--a minute, an hour, a year, a lifetime, eternity? They went -down--a circuitous path to where she lay. They brought her up. They -carried her, on a shutter, past him. He gave some wordless sound -from his lips and scrambled on his knees towards their burden and -threw his arms about it and clung there, with wordless sounds. - -One man said: "She's alive, sir." - -Another man said: "We'd best try to get her home before--" - -A third man said: "Can you walk to show us the way?" - -He got up and went stumbling along. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -THE SEEING - -They carry her to her room. There is only one doctor in Whitecliffe. -He is found and fetched; and leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bickers by the -bedside, comes down to the sitting-room where is a man stunned to -apparent speechlessness by grief, whom he takes to be the patient's -brother. The doctor says he will stay till the end, and for "the -end" then substitutes "for the night." There is nothing he can do -immediately and by himself. He speaks of the possibility of an -operation in the morning, but seemingly has no thought of -telegraphing to a surgeon he names who could perform it. She will -pass away without recovery of consciousness, he fears. There is not -only the injury to her head but of her spine. More than that there -is the question of-- If the case had been taken to the hospital at -Market Redding.... The man whom he takes to be her brother drags -with blundering fingers from his pocket a packet of banknotes and -thrusts them towards him with a curious action--an action suggestive -(were not the idea ridiculous) of their being some horrible thing. - -Well, are they not the price of her that was to buy her? - -Taking the packet, the doctor flushes. He had judged these people by -the rooms they occupy--a clumsy thing to do at the seaside where -frequently people must take what accommodation they can find. This -man's educated bearing, perceptible despite the grief that scarcely -enables him to speak, should have informed him of his mistake. Very -well, he will telegraph. He cannot hold out much hope. But convey -hope to those poor old folk up-stairs. Indeed, of course one knows -of cases.... In these days of aeroplanes one hears of cases where -terrible falls, long periods of unconsciousness, have been survived. -Eh? Still--and though he is alone in the sitting-room with this the -poor girl's brother he drops his voice and tells him.... - - -She lies in her room, Mother and Dad with her. She lies there -unconscious and only, under God, to wake to die. He that had -stumbled before her bier, directing those who bore her, stumbles now -from the house. "Kill me! Kill me!" Ah, cry that pulses as a wound -within him; that he desires to cry aloud, and would cry aloud, and -does wordlessly groan with his breathing. But there is agony that he -endures that of speech bereaves him, of power of movement wherewith -to carry out what now alone remains, numbs and denies him. There is -a seat without the house upon the parade. He drops upon it, and -there endures ... and there endures.... - -Endures! It is as if there had been discovered to him within him -some vital core, some spot, some nucleus of life, some living soul -and centre of him, capable of receiving the very quick and apotheosis -of torture, such as all his normal body and all his normal mind -delivered over to rack and irons could not have felt. There is a -point in human pain where pain, numbing the centres of the mind, -mercifully defeats itself and can no more. There is discovered to -him within him a core, a quick, an essence of him, capable of agony -to infinity, down into which, as a blunted knife, drives every -thought in writhing agony. In physical agony he writhes beneath -them, twisting his legs, driving his nails within his palms, bleeding -with his teeth his lips. - -In that flash while she fell, and falling saved him: "She has given -her life for mine!" In that hour, that age, that all eternity of -time while, prone and powerless, rescued upon the cliff he lay: -"Twice, twice, I look upon a body lifeless to let mine live!" In -that stumbling progression before her bier: "Kill me! Kill me! O -vile, O worst, O foulest, unnameable thing, betake thyself to hell, -if any hell be vile enough to hold thee!" - -Revelation! Revelation! As she fell, as he lay, as he stumbled, as -here he writhes in agony--revelation--and all his life in terrible -review beneath it. "Kill me! Kill me!" he groans. "O vile, O -worst, O foulest, unnameable thing, betake thyself to hell, if any -hell be vile enough to hold thee!" - -"Not so. Not yet," there answers him. It is as though there speak -to him his thoughts with voice that peals imperatively through all -his being, reverberating through him in tremendous majesty of doom, -as through the aisles reverberates and makes to tremble all the air -an organ's swelling thunder. - -"Not so! Not yet! Thou hast not strength to move to find thy hell. -Rise if thou canst. Stay, for thou must. Revelation is here. -Behold thy life beneath it!" - -He crouches there. Enormously it thunders all about him. -"Revelation! O blind, O purblind miserable! Have not a thousand -lights been thrust before thee to proclaim thee this that only now -thou seest? Thou seeker after happiness! Thou greatly-to-be-pitied! -Thou sufferer! Thou victim of affliction! Thou innocent! Thou -greatly wronged! Is it thus thou hast seen thyself? Ah, whining -wretch that thou hast been! Ah, blind, ah, purblind fool, that could -not see! That first must have a life to show thee! That first must -send to death he that in daily sacrifices of thy companionship had -shown thee happiness was sacrifice! Blind, blind! Thou must demand -death of him to try to rend thy blindness, and still wast blind, -still cried to heaven of thy misery, still wast of all men most to be -pitied, most oppressed! Ah, whining wretch! To her for more -revelation thou must come. By her, daily, hourly revelation is -thrust before thee--she, that gay, that sweet, that joyous life, -whose every single, smallest thought was thought for others, and -still, O soul enmired, enmeshed in blindness, thou couldst not -see!--still thou must have the deeper sacrifice! One life doth not -suffice thee. Another thou must have. And now thou criest: -'Revelation! Revelation!' What cost? Look, look, thou vilest, now -that thine eyes are clear, now that thy soul is stirred at last from -all the slime of self, self, self, where thou hast kept it--look now, -and count the cost of this thy revelation. Look now! Hold up thy -shuddering soul, new from its slime, to look how all thy life is -strewed with sacrifices made for thee, how at each step, blind, thou -hast demanded more; how two whose every slightest breath was more of -beauty than all thy years have made, how two were given thee; how in -thy blindness thou rebukedst them both in each devotion, in every act -of love, of care, and must press on to have their lives, their broken -bodies--he by the sea, she by the cliff--for this thy revelation." - -Day comes to evening, evening reaches into night. "Kill me! Kill -me!" he moans. "O vile, O worst, O foulest thing, O blind, let me -betake myself to hell, if any hell be vile enough to hold me!" - -There answers him in dreadful summons, in final roll and crash of -sound: "Look back. Look back. Thou hast purchased this thy -revelation. Thou hast recovered from its slime thy soul. Two lives -and boundless love thou hast demanded for it. Thy price is paid. -Look back, look back. Hold up that soul of thine and see the way -that thou hast come. Then seek thy hell, if hell will have thee. -Hold up thy soul!" - -The sound is snatched away. Only its resonance remains, and sharp -and piercing streams the air it leaves to silence. In that intensity -with new eyes he looks back; and now into this quick, this nucleus of -life within him that is made capable of pain transcending human pain, -receives each vision that his new eyes reveal. In agony receives -them, writhing at their torture. Who had been happy? They that had -sacrificed! Happy till when? Till he came! Happy in what? In -selflessness, in selflessness.... Who had been happy? That uncouth -vagabond that in their every moment together had tended him, cared -for him, protected him. O blind, that, mired in self, never till now -had realised his strong devotion! In shame, in horror, in grief's -abandonment, he cries aloud his uncouth name: "Puddlebox! Puddlebox! -For me! O God, for me!" Writhing, he hears his jolly voice: "O ye -tired strangers of the Lord: bless ye the Lord." Hears his jolly -voice: "Down, loony, down!" ... That was on the wagon, receiving -blows that he might escape! ... Hears his jolly voice: "You think too -much about yourself, boy, and therefore I name you spooked." ... O -blind, O blind that all his life had thought too much about himself, -and only of himself--thought only of how to win his own happiness, -realised never till now that happiness was in making others happy, -and nowhere else, and nowhere else! ... Hears his jolly voice: -"Wherefore whatsoever comes against me, boy--heat, cold; storm, -shine; hunger, fullness; pain, joy--cause for praise I find in them -all and therefore sing: 'O ye world of the Lord; bless ye the Lord.'" -... O blind, blind, that many weeks lived with that creed and never -till now realised its meaning.... Hears his jolly voice: "I like -you, boy." ... Hears his jolly voice: "Why, what to the devil is the -sense of it, boy?"--but doing it, following it, for him! ... O blind, -O blind! ... Hears his jolly voice: "I'm to you now, boy! I'm to -you, boy. Why, that's my loony!" ... Hears his jolly voice: "Wedge -in, boy! Wedge in! Swim! Why, I'd swim that rotten far with my -hands tied, and I challenge you or any man--" ... Sees him swing off -his hands, and drop, and go, and drown, and die.... O blind, blind, -blind! - -Deep swings the night about him; deep sounds the murmuring sea. -"Kill me! Kill me!" he groans. "O vile, O worst, O foulest thing, -let me betake myself to hell, if any hell be vile enough to hold me!" - -There answers him: "Not so. Not yet. Look back. Look back. Hold -up thy soul, new from its slime of self, self, self, and look along -the way that thou hast come. Hold up thy soul and look!" - -He is searching, he is searching in the days at Pendra. He is -wondering, he is wondering. Is there some secret of happiness in -life that he has missed? O blind, O purblind in the face of God! -Day and night, by countless love, by endless devotion, the secret had -been thrust before him. Blind! Of self alone he had thought. The -last, the uttermost sacrifice had been presented him. Blind! -Enmired, enmeshed in self, it had shown him nothing, left him still -whimpering, still wondering, still seeking, still pitying his fate. -Who had been happy? Essie! Essie! Happy till when? Till he came! -Happy in what? In selflessness! Blind! O blindness black beyond -belief, now that with new eyes he sees it. Puddlebox had shown him. -Essie not alone had shown him but had told him. On that day of the -depth of his misery at the Tower House School, when she had helped -and advised him by telling of her way with her own Sunday-school -boys: "You jus' try it," she had said. "I mean to say, whatever's -the good of anybody if they don't try to make everybody else happy, -is there? You jus' try." He had tried. He had made the boys happy. -Himself he had touched happiness in theirs. O blind, O blind! She -had given the very secret of happiness into his hands, and he had -used it and proved it and yet, so chained in self, had never -recognised it, but had pressed on for further proof. On past her -"Aren't you quiet, though, sometimes? I don't mind, dear." On past -her "Oh, won't I keep you quiet just when you're working!" On to her -piteous cry: "Oh, didn't I think you loved me truly!" On, on, -voracious in his blindness as vampire in its lust, on, on, demanding -yet another life until she says: "Well, both of us, dear, what's the -sense to it?" Until she lies there, broken, that he might live. -Until she lies here unconscious and only, under God, to wake to die. - -"Kill me! Kill me!" he groans. "Let me find hell, if any hell is -vile enough to hold me. Let me not live but to create hell here on -earth for all who come about me. O ye world of the Lord: bless ye -the Lord." He had crushed out that praise. "Let's have a laugh!" -He had crushed out that laughter. - -Kill himself. That was left. That was all. Ah, if he had but -killed himself when, on that night countless ages of changed identity -ago, he had thrown himself into the river! Who had been saved had he -not lived? What of delight had he not robbed the world had he not -trailed across it? Who had been saved? Old Puddlebox--old Puddlebox -had been alive, jovial, genial, praising. Essie--Essie had been -alive, laughing, loving, streaming her sunshine. Who would have -missed him? None, none, for there was none in all his life he had -brought happiness. - -Was there none, indeed? What is this sudden apprehension as of some -new dismay that checks and holds him? What new revelation of his -depths has that question unlocked, unloosed upon him? What change, -what agony is here? What bursts within his heart? What seems to -struggle in the air to reach him? What sweeps across that quick, -that nucleus of life, that core, that essence, that as deep waters -takes his breath and holds him trembling where till now in torture he -has writhed? - -"Matey! Matey!" - -"Captain! Captain!" - -Ah, tumult inexpressible as of bursting floods rushing in mist and -spray from bondage; ah, surging of immensity of thoughts, of visions. -Missed him had he died? There was one, there was one had lost a -little happiness had he died when he had tried to die. "Captain! -Captain!" - -He hears his voice as he had heard it in the ward: "Matey! Matey! -Gor' bless yer, Matey!" - -He turns about on the seat. He throws his arms upon its rail. He -buries his face upon them. - - -There is a step across the road. A hand touches him. "Arthur? Is -that you, Arthur?" - -Mr. Bickers, bending above him. - -"Is she dead?" - -"She's still unconscious. I'm anxious for Mrs. Bickers, Arthur. I -want to take her to lie down a little. Would you just come and watch -in case our Essie wakes?" - -He gets up and goes with Mr. Bickers to the house. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -PRAYER OF MR. WRIFORD - -I - -Look where she lies. Never to wake? Unconscious, and only, under -God, to wake to die? Surely she but reposes, smiling, smiling there? -Look where her face, surrounded by her hair, rests there untouched by -scratch or mark or bruise. Surely she only sleeps; and sleeping, -surely still pursues those gay young fancies of her joyous life: look -how they seem to smile upon those soft, expressive lips of hers. -Look where she lies. Look how her tender form, hid of its suffering, -lies there so slim and shapely beneath the wrappings drawn about her. -Look at her hands, each slightly closed, that lie upon her breast: -surely to touch them is to feel responsive their firm, cool clasp? -surely to touch them is to wake her? Look where she lies. Never to -wake? Unconscious, and only, under God, to wake to die? Surely she -but reposes, smiling, smiling there? - -Look where she lies. This is her room. Look where here, and here, -and here, and here, are all her little trinkets, treasures, trifles, -she has brought with her from home for this her jolly holiday. These -are her portraits here, in those plush frames, of Mother and of Dad. -That is her text she has illumined, taken from her "fav'rit:" "Lift -up your heads, O ye gates: and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors." -An odd, long text for framing. Those are her copper wire "native" -bracelets there. "Oh, you don't have to look half smart on the -parade, evenings!" That is her Church-service by her bed. He -remembers that first night when he used it. Those are her best -gloves, smoothed out there. That old stump of lead pencil lying upon -them was his. He remembers it. - -Look where she lies. On the threshold he pauses. That is old Mr. -Bickers gone again on his knees against the bed, his white head bowed -within his hands. That is Mrs. Bickers kneeling there, her lips -moving. Brokenly now, such an odd, deep, trembling sound, comes Mr. -Bickers' voice. Brokenly--jumbling his own words with words -familiar. It is the prayer he had said was their daily prayer, and -he jumbles it with other prayers and into it jumbles his own. - -"Lord, now lettest--" Mr. Bickers stops; and there is long silence; -and he begins again: "Lord, if it be thy will, if it be thy will, if -it be thy will, if our Essie's suffering, if it be thy will, Lord, -now lettest this thy servant, thy servant, depart in peace, in peace, -in peace, according to ... mine eyes have seen thy ... through the -tender mercies of our God whereby the dayspring ... from on high ... -hath visited us. Amen. Amen." - -Mrs. Bickers says "Amen." Mrs. Bickers collapses where she kneels. -Mr. Bickers goes to her and raises her and says: "There, Mother! -There, Mother, dear! Come and rest, Mother. Rest just a little -while, Mother. Arthur's here. Arthur will stay by her. Arthur will -tell us. Just a little while, Mother, dear." - -She has no resistance. She is collapsed in his arms. - -He supports her from the room. He says to Mr. Wriford: "I'll just -lay her on her bed, Arthur. Just across the passage. Doors open. -I'll hear you. The doctor's down-stairs. There, Mother! There, -there, Mother." - -Look where she lies. He is alone with her. - - - -II - -Come to this Mr. Wriford on his knees with her, his hands upon her -hand, his head between his outstretched arms. Come to his revelation -she has revealed to him; to that which came to him with sudden -thought of Captain; come to his prayer. - -"This is my dear, my darling, lying here.... I have looked back. I -have looked back upon such pitiless review of all my blindness, that -to look forward, to live and not destroy myself, is almost heavier -than I can bear.... I will bear it.... I see. I understand. I -accept. Self has been the cause of all my wreckage--thought of -myself, always of myself and of no other. I see that now--clearly, -bitterly, I see it. And yet--and yet, O God--in the very moment of -seeing it, I still thought to kill myself. That was self again. I -am so rooted in self that, in the very hour of my revelation, still -only of myself I thought--only of saving myself by death from these -my torments, only of ending them because I could not bear to let -myself endure them. All my life I have lived in self. Ah, with my -eyes open--deeper shame! deeper shame!--I almost had died in self. -Ah, even realising that, still I cannot tear self out of me, still I -kneel here dreading to live, fearing to live, crying that it is -heavier than I can bear, heavier than I can bear! Oh, what a thing -is self that with such cunning can prevail, how deeply hidden, in -what myriad forms disguised! Help me to see it. Keep my eyes open. -Keep my eyes open.... - -"Well, I accept then. I will not kill myself.... Lord, since I have -accepted, use this my dear, my darling, no longer for me.... This is -my dear, my darling, lying here beneath thy hand. She has offered -her life for mine. Let it suffice, O God. Judge me apart from her. -Judge me apart from her. Judge me apart from my darling. One life -came to me to open my eyes. I remained blind. He gave the deeper -sacrifice--blind in my blindness I remained. Then Essie. Thy -servant. My jolly little Essie. If I had killed myself, if by -destroying myself I had mocked her sacrifice, mocked Thee, O God, -then mightest Thou by closing Thy hand upon her have pursued me even -into hell. But I accept--but I accept, O God. Therefore relieve -her--therefore relieve her--therefore let suffice that which she has -done.... - -"Am I daring to bargain? Am I stipulating, making terms, advancing a -price? Remember, remember that I am new before Thee, long out of -prayer, long unaccustomed to Thy ways. It is no bargain, O God. It -is only confusion of these my thoughts. All that I ask is -this--judge me apart from her, use her no longer for me, judge me no -more through her, let that which she has done suffice. Look, I will -go away from her and leave her. Whether, beneath Thy wisdom, she -lives or dies shall nothing prevail with me. If she may live it -shall not strengthen me--no bargain there, O God. If she must die it -shall not shake me--O God, no bargain there. Judge me apart from -her. I will go out of her life. I will go out from every knowledge -of Thy will towards her. I will not even pray for her. I will not -even pray for her lest in my heart, beneath my words, beneath my -thoughts, it is in cunning that actually I am here--agreeable to -forego destruction of myself if I may know that she is spared; -resolved to kill myself if I be guilty of her death. Enough--enough. -Let me end with that while I have clearness of vision to see it. -This is my dear, my darling, lying here. I will go out from all -knowledge of her. Judge me apart from her. Let that which she has -done suffice." - -He withdrew his hands from her hand as though in evidence of -detaching himself from her. He thrust them out again to touch her -and cried "Essie! Essie!" He then took them to his face. - -He said: "Let me speak as a man. I will go out from her. I will -live. Let me speak as a man. Let me not make vain promises, offer -false protests. This is not religion. Religion, as it is lived, is -nothing to me. Let me not delude myself nor seek in cunning to -delude Thee. Let me not try to pretend that this that I have -suffered converts me suddenly from that which I was to that which -Essie is. Let me speak as a man. That is not of a moment. I am not -one man in one moment, a new man in the next. I am the same. All my -infirmities the same--rooted in me as my bones: bones of my spirit -and no more changed than bones of my body that are rooted in my -flesh. I am the same. Ay, even as I say it, I am tempted to say -that I am not the same but am changed. Rescue me from that cunning. -Keep me from that. Let me not even in cunning pretend, in -self-delusion believe, that this hour, these thoughts, these torments -I have endured will all my life remain with me. I have known -penitence before. I have knelt in presence of death before. I have -wept. I have vowed. Where are my tears? Where my promises? Let me -speak as a man. Time swings on. That which is all the world to-day -is less than dust to-morrow, That which is laid, beneath death's -shadow, in penitence before Thy feet, is there in ashes, when death -has winged away, to mock Thy mercy. Time swings on. Vows made in -penitence--they are no more than to the drunkard his drink: delusion, -forgetfulness, anodyne, courage until the spirit that has tricked the -brain has gone, until the travail that has worn the soul has ebbed. -Back then to fear, to baseness, as surely as night succeeds to day.... - -"What then? What do I purpose? What have I to offer? Lord, there -is only this in me that is different: that my eyes are opened to that -to which all my life they have been sealed. I have nothing to -promise, nothing to vow. I have only to ask: Keep my eyes open; help -me to remember this that my eyes have seen; help me to know what is -self; help me to rid me of it. All my life--all my life from the -beginning it has been self. Back in the London days when I was -working day and night, when I was longing to be free, when I thought -I was giving up my life to others, it was all self, self that was -destroying me. It was not ceaseless work that wrought upon my peace -of mind, robbed me of my youth; it was pitying myself, thinking of -myself, contrasting my lot with that of others. It is not work nor -trouble that kills a man, robs him of sleep, loses him his -happiness--it is turning the stress of it inwards upon himself, never -forgetting himself when occupied with it, always keeping himself -before his eyes, watching himself, pitying himself. Brida knew it. -'You think too much about yourself, Phil,' she used to tell me. That -old Puddlebox had the secret of it and told it me plainly. 'You -think too much about yourself, boy, and that is what's the matter -with you and with most of us.' He told it to me plainly. 'I don't -believe a word of it,' he told me when he had heard my story. 'Your -story is the same as my story and the same as everybody else's story -in this way: that you've never done any thing wrong in all your life, -and that all that's happened to you is what other folk have put upon -you.' Ay, that was it! I thought I was sacrificing my life; I was -grudging every thought of it, every moment of it given away from my -own pursuits. How could I be sacrificing when in doing so I was -unhappy? That is negation in terms. To sacrifice is happiness. Old -Puddlebox showed it me. This my Essie showed it me. To give--to -give time, money, life itself, and have compassion for oneself in -giving them, that is the very pit of self, worse than self open and -wilful. That is the selfishness that all my life has been my curse, -my wreckage. All that ever has happened to me I have seen in terms -of myself and of no other. Every trouble, every irritation that in -those London days those poor things about me brought to me, I at once -turned upon myself--looked at with my eyes, not with theirs; thought -instantly and always, even while I helped them, how it affected me, -not how it affected them. Ah, that is the heart of misery and that -is the secret of happiness! To see only with one's own eyes, to -judge only from one's own point, to estimate life in terms of self -and of no other: that is to goad oneself on from trial to trial, from -misery to misery. To see with others' eyes, to judge from their -outlook upon life, to estimate life in terms of those upon whom life -presses and not in terms of self: that is the secret of happiness, -that is the thing in life that I have missed.... - -"Try me not, O God, in great things. Help me in small. In the small -things, in the small, the everyday things, O God, that is where self -comes--that is where I shall not see it, that is where, disguised, it -will deceive me. To quarrel, to complain, to be impatient--what is -it but self? Help me to put myself where each one stands that comes -about me. Help me to look with their eyes--how have vexation then? -There is no vexation, there is no unhappiness in all this world but -what through self a man brings into it. All happiness, this -world--in every hour happiness, in every remotest corner happiness. -But man lives not in it but in his own world--the world that he -himself creates; of which he is the centre; that, however little he -be, revolves about him. That is whence is his unhappiness. Others -come into his world. Ah, if he can but watch them in it with their -own eyes, not with his! God! what a world this world would be if -under Thy hand it were governed as man governs the world which he -himself creates--as I have governed mine! Tolerance for none but -self, pity for none but self, all within it judged, measured, watched -in terms of self! Rid me of that! Rid me of self. Help me to see -self. Help me to see with others' eyes, not with my own...." - - -So ends his prayer--so ends his vigil. Mr. Bickers returns, and it -is towards daybreak. He looks once more at her, smiling, smiling -there. He will not even pray for her. Let that which she has done -suffice. Let him be judged apart from her--not strengthened if she -may live, not shaken if she must die. He goes down the stairs; out -into young morning spreading across the sea. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -PILGRIMAGE - -I - -Not to know--in no way to be prevailed upon in this his return to -life by knowledge of whether she lives or has died. In no way to be -strengthened--but of himself to live--if life has been permitted her; -in no way to be shaken if her life has been required. To be judged -apart from her.... - -Come with this Mr. Wriford while for a year he thus places in proof -his acceptance. He takes up his life where on his flight from London -he had left it. To do that--not to admit his every impulse which -calls upon him to hide, to live in seclusion, and there dwell with -his memories, cherish his affliction--is part of his bond pledged by -her bedside. The secret of happiness has been purchased for him; let -him not mock that which has been paid. He has the secret; let him -exercise it. Abandonment to grief--what is that but pity of self? -Life in retreat, unable to face the world--what is that but admission -that his fate, that which affects himself, is harder than he can bear? - -Bound up in this, he takes train immediately from Whitecliffe to -London, presently is involved in all the tortures that his welcoming -inflicts upon him. His return is made a sensation of the hour by his -friends and soon, as he finds, by that larger circle to whom his -books have made him known. "Where have you been?" It is a question -to which he seems to have to spend every hour of all his days in -formulating some kind of answer. It is a question--and all the -congratulation and felicitation that goes with it--that often he -tells himself he can no longer stand and must escape. "Where have -you been?" and all the while it is at Whitecliffe--in that room, -among those scenes--that his heart is, and that he desires only to be -left alone to keep there. But he does not escape. But he does not -keep himself alone. It is self that bids him. It is self he has -come out to know and face. He forces himself to see with the eyes of -those that do them the kindnesses that are done him. He makes -himself respond. He permits himself no shrinking. - -He revisits Mr. and Mrs. Filmer. They have "got along very well -without him," they tell him. - -"I am bound to say," says Mrs. Filmer, "that at the time we thought -your conduct showed very little consideration for us. I am bound to -say that." - -"A mere postcard," says Mr. Filmer, "can relieve much suspense; but -one does not of course always think of duties to others, h'm, ha." - -"Well, that's just what I am here to think of," Mr. Wriford responds. -"Is there anything I can do? Anything you want?" - -There is nothing, as it appears, except a manifestation of fear that -he proposes to upset the establishment by quartering himself upon -them, relief from which expands them somewhat, and they proceed with -the news that two of the boys, his nephews, are on their way home on -leave. - -The boys come, and in their affairs and in their interests he finds -better response to the "Anything I can do?" than was received from -the Filmers. Till their arrival he has had, in seclusion of his -rooms, intervals when he can retreat within his thoughts. There is a -holiday home to be made for them, and he takes a flat and occupies -himself with them, and these intervals are denied him. The young men -are here to have a good time. There are their eyes for him to see -with--not his own. He has a trick, they both notice it, of saying: -"Well, tell me just how you look at the business." It is a trick -that is expressed also in his manner, in a certain inviting, -sympathetic way that he has, and it comes to be noticed in the much -wider circle of his friends. "Used to be a fearfully reserved chap, -Wriford," they say. "Never quite knew whether he was shy or thought -himself too good for you. Do you notice how different he is now?" - -"Do you ever notice him when he's alone, though--sitting in the club -here and not knowing you're looking at him?" another would reply. -"There's a look on his face then--he's been through it, Wriford, I'll -bet money." - - - -II - -Ah, he has been through it and daily feels the mark of it. Time -swings on. He settles down. The sensation of his return evaporates. -His nephews go back to their duties. He settles down. This is his -post--here in the hurly-burly. He will not desert it. He takes up -his work again. Long days he sits staring at the blank sheets of -paper before him. His thoughts are ready. There obtrudes between -them and the marshalling of them memories of how it had been planned -he again was to resume them: "Won't I keep you quiet just, dear!" ... -That is self, pity for himself, grieving for himself. Let him put it -away. Let him get to work. Let it return--ah, let her face, her -voice, her jolly laughter return to him just for an hour when work is -done, just while he lies awake.... - - -Come to this Mr. Wriford when a year is gone. Summer again--June -again--the holidays again--again that day. He has lived through a -year of it. Through a long year he has proved himself. If he might -know certainly that she is dead, he could not fall back again. That -is what he has feared at the outset. He does not fear it now. He -has lived through a year of it. He is assured of himself now. If he -might but make a pilgrimage to Whitecliffe, see where he had walked -with her, see where perhaps she lies, permit his spirit to walk those -roads, those paths, those fields with her again, suffer it to stand -beside her...! - -He goes. He goes first, on a sudden fancy, to far Port Rannock and -stands beside the mound that marks the grave he knows there. - -"Well, you old Puddlebox," says Mr. Wriford, standing there. "Well, -you old Puddlebox. How goes it? How goes it now? Well enough with -you, old Puddlebox! You knew the secret. I know it now. Too late -for me, old Puddlebox. But, if you know, you'll be shouting your -praises on it, eh, old Puddlebox? What was it you said as the sea -came on to us? 'Well, we've had some rare times together, boy, since -first you came down the road.'" - -He suddenly cried: "I would to God--I would to God you might shake -off this earth, these stones, and come to me face to face for one -moment while I clasped your hand!" - - - -III - -So on to Whitecliffe. So to his pilgrimage there. Just such another -day awaits him as on that day a year ago. Sunshine and clouded sun, -as he walks the parade. Presage of rain, as on through Yexley Green -to Whitehouse he goes. Whitehouse still stands empty; he walks the -garden, looks through the windows, tries the door, treads again the -rooms where last he had walked with her. "Jolly little Essie's room" -this was to have been.... This was where he would write.... This -was where wouldn't she keep him quiet just! ... She sat there while -he told her... - -Up the path to the cliff, along the cliff and past that place, paused -long upon it, and on to Whitecliffe Church. Here is the churchyard. -He knows all these old graves--he had peered here and here and here -with Essie, puzzling their quaint inscriptions. It is for a new -stone he looks. Yes, there is one. Three sides of the church he -walks and only the old stones sees. Come to the porch, a new white -cross confronts him. He goes to it. It is not hers! Sense tells -him they would not have brought her here, would not have left her -here. They would have taken her home. Yes, but that moment while he -crossed the turf towards the cross, that moment while its letters -came in view--and were not "Essie,"--has shaken him so that his limbs -tremble, so that he must somewhere rest ... there is the porch. - -A troop of noisy boys come through the gate, and then more boys by -ones and twos. An old man who comes from within the church and looks -out upon the churchyard for a moment remarks to him first that there -is going to be a shower, then, calling out in reproof at a pair of -the laughing boys, that it is choir-practice just going to begin. -The old man returns to his duties; the last of the boys seem to have -arrived: there are sounds within the church and premonitory notes of -the organ; some heavy drops of the rain that has been threatening; -then in a sudden stream the shower. - -From where he sits he can see far up the road beyond the gate. He -sees a group that had been approaching shelter beneath a distant -tree. The downpour falls in a deluge that is fierce and short, -passes and leaves the path in puddles, and with unnoting eyes he sees -the group beneath the tree desert its shelter and come hurrying -towards the church. The organ is playing now, voices swing in sudden -volume of sound; unheeding, as with his eyes he is watching without -seeing, he yet is subconsciously aware of the regular rise and fall -of psalms. - -With his eyes unseeing! They suddenly, as he watches, declare to him -that which sets a drumming in his head, a snatching at his breath. -The group has reached the gate. It is an old man drawing a wicker -bath-chair, an old lady walking behind it. Drumming in his head; it -passes; there succeeds to it a rocking of all the ground about his -feet, a swimming, a receding, a swift approaching of all the land -beyond the porch. That old man is opening the gate, turning his back -to draw the bath-chair carefully through, revealing one that sits -within it, coming on now ... coming on now ... closer and closer and -closer... - -This Mr. Wriford simply stands there. He doesn't do anything, and he -doesn't say anything. He can't. You see, he has been through a good -deal for a good long time. This is the end of a long passage for -him. You know how weak he is. You probably despise him. Well, -then, despise him now. He has no parts, no qualities, for this. He -makes a bungling business of it. He has come to the doorway of the -porch and simply stands there. They have seen him. They are staring -at him. They are saying things. They are exclaiming. He doesn't -hear. He just stands there.... - -Then he begins. He jolts down off the step of the porch. He -stumbles along the few paces to the bath-chair. She that is seated -there gives a kind of laugh and a kind of cry. He falls on his -knees, kneeling in puddles, and puts his arms out, and takes her in -them, and catches her to him, and buries his face against her, and -holds her, holds her--and has nothing at all that he can say, not -even her name. - -Well, nor has she. She just has her arms about him.... When at last -she speaks, Mr. and Mrs. Bickers have gone--into the church, or into -the air, or into the ground--gone somewhere for some reason. And -even then it is not at first speech but some odd little sound that -she makes, and at that he looks up and she stoops to him--and there -they are, her cheek against his cheek. - -"My back's a fair old caution," says Essie then. "They don't think -I'll ever walk again." - -He stammers something about "I'll carry you, dear. I'll carry you." - -Each in the other's arms, her cheek against his cheek. - -"Just going to Whitehouse, we were," says Essie. "My goodness, if it -hadn't rained and made us come for shelter!" - -He says something about: "It's empty--it's still empty for -us--Whitehouse." - -Some one opens the church door. Young voices and music that have -been muffled come streaming through towards them-- - -_Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord: or who shall rise up in -his holy place?_ - -_Even he that hath clean hands and a pure heart: and that hath not -lift up his mind unto vanity, nor sworn to deceive his neighbour._ - -A sound escapes him. He feels a sudden moisture from her face to -his. The singing goes deeper; then with triumphant surge and sweep -breaks out again: - -"_Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting -doors...._" - -"What, are you crying too?" says Essie. "Aren't we a pair of us, -though?" - - - -THE END - - - - - - -_By the author of "The Clean Heart"_ - -THE HAPPY WARRIOR - -By A. S. M. HUTCHINSON - -Author of "The Clean Heart" and "Once aboard the Lugger----" - -Frontispiece $1.35 net. - -The plot of "The Happy Warrior" is unusual, its love interest is -sweet and pure, and there is a fight of which it is truthfully said -that there is nothing more virile and tense in literature. - -Shows the touch of the master hand ... Mr. Hutchinson is nothing if -not original. His own strong individuality is apparent in his method -and in his style.--_New York Times_. - -Mr. Hutchinson has a newer and a better grasp of style, which -manifests itself in clear, forcible English, and a really fine -intermixture of humor and pathos. We have here a sweet and pure love -story.--_St. Louis Globe-Democrat_. - -"The Happy Warrior" is a remarkable publication ... Mr. Hutchinson -establishes himself as a master of characterization, keen observer -with a fine sense of the dramatic, and as fine a prose poet as we -have had since Meredith.--_Chicago Post_. - -A brilliant piece of work.... Its author takes his place at once -among living novelists whose work is something more than a successful -commercial product. "The Happy Warrior" establishes Mr. Hutchinson -among the artists.--_London Daily Telegraph_. - -... His romance and his humor are all his own, and the story is shot -through and through with a fleeting romance and humor that is all the -more effective because it is so evanescent. Few novels exist in -which the characters are as viable as Mr. Hutchinson's.--_Boston -Transcript_. - - - -_By the author of "The Clean Heart."_ - -ONCE ABOARD THE LUGGER---- - -By A. S. M. HUTCHINSON - -Author of "The Clean Heart" and "The Happy Warrior." - -327 pages. $1.30 net. - -This is the novel that gave Mr. Hutchinson a conspicuous place among -the younger English authors who have so recently achieved literary -distinction. It is not a sea story, as its title would appear to -indicate, but a delightful comedy of English life, containing the -most romantic of love stories, written with such rare humor that it -stands apart from the great mass of present-day fiction. It is a -novel to read and reread, for through all the laughter and quaintness -shines the reality of life. - -At once serious in its mockery of seriousness and touched with -genuine sentiment in its sympathy with the emotions of youth ... -Altogether it is refreshing.--_Everybody's Magazine_. - -A light, humorous and clever romance.... Mr. Hutchinson's name is -new to American readers but he is a writer of parts. To the right -readers it will be warmly welcomed.--_Springfield Republican_. - -As real and dainty as anything which has been written for years. It -is a book to please every sort of reader, for it is full of wit and -wisdom. The best praise that one can write of it, however, is that -after reading it you will want to own it, for a desire to reread -parts of it is sure to come.--_San Francisco Call_. - -It is written in the highest of high spirits, in a vein of persistent -humor, and it moves along with an alertness and vivacity that is a -perpetual joy to the reader. A new humorist as well as a new -novelist has arisen in Mr. Hutchinson. He never fails to be -entertaining. It is vitally and significantly human.--_Boston -Transcript_. - - - - LITTLE, BROWN & CO., PUBLISHERS - 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON - - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Clean Heart, by A. S. M. 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