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diff --git a/old/69394-0.txt b/old/69394-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5995d14..0000000 --- a/old/69394-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10118 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The dream, by H. G. Wells - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The dream - A novel - -Author: H. G. Wells - -Release Date: November 20, 2022 [eBook #69394] -Last Updated: December 15, 2022 - -Language: English - -Produced by: Al Haines - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAM *** - - - - - - - - THE DREAM - - _A NOVEL_ - - - BY - - H. G. WELLS - - - - New York - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1924 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1923 and 1924, - BY H. G. WELLS. - - Set up and electrotyped. - Published April, 1924. - - - Printed in the United States of America by - THE FERRIS PRINTING COMPANY, NEW YORK. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -CHAPTER THE FIRST - -THE EXCURSION - - -CHAPTER THE SECOND - -THE BEGINNING OF THE DREAM - - -CHAPTER THE THIRD - -MISFORTUNES COME UPON THE SMITH FAMILY - - -CHAPTER THE FOURTH - -THE WIDOW SMITH MOVES TO LONDON - - -CHAPTER THE FIFTH - -FANNY DISCOVERS HERSELF - - -CHAPTER THE SIXTH - -MARRIAGE IN WAR TIME - - -CHAPTER THE SEVENTH - -LOVE AND DEATH - - -CHAPTER THE EIGHTH - -THE EPILOGUE - - - - -PART I - -How Harry Mortimer Smith Was Made - - - -THE DREAM - - - -CHAPTER THE FIRST - -THE EXCURSION - - -§ 1 - -Sarnac had worked almost continuously for the better part of a year -upon some very subtle chemical reactions of the nervous cells of the -sympathetic system. His first enquiries had led to the opening out -of fresh and surprising possibilities, and these again had lured him -on to still broader and more fascinating prospects. He worked -perhaps too closely; he found his hope and curiosity unimpaired, but -there was less delicacy of touch in his manipulation, and he was -thinking less quickly and accurately. He needed a holiday. He had -come to the end of a chapter in his work and wished to brace himself -for a new beginning. Sunray had long hoped to be away with him; she, -too, was at a phase in her work when interruption was possible, and -so the two went off together to wander among the lakes and mountains. - -Their companionship was at a very delightful stage. Their close -relationship and their friendship was of old standing, so that they -were quite at their ease with one another, yet they were not too -familiar to have lost the keen edge of their interest in each other's -proceedings. Sunray was very much in love with Sarnac and glad, and -Sarnac was always happy and pleasantly exalted when Sunray was near -him. Sunray was the richer-hearted and cleverer lover. They talked -of everything in the world but Sarnac's work because that had to rest -and grow fresh again. Of her own work Sunray talked abundantly. She -had been making stories and pictures of happiness and sorrow in the -past ages of the world, and she was full of curious speculations -about the ways in which the ancestral mind has thought and felt. - -They played with boats upon the great lake for some days, they sailed -and paddled and drew up their canoe among the sweet-scented rushes of -the islands and bathed and swam. They went from one guest-house to -another upon the water and met many interesting and refreshing -people. In one house an old man of ninety-eight was staying: he was -amusing his declining years by making statuettes of the greatest -beauty and humour; it was wonderful to see the clay take shape in his -hands. Moreover, he had a method of cooking the lake fish that was -very appetising, and he made a great dish of them so that everyone -who was dining in the place could have some. And there was a -musician who made Sunray talk about the days gone by, and afterwards -he played music with his own hands on a clavier to express the -ancient feelings of men. He played one piece that was, he explained, -two thousand years old; it was by a man named Chopin, and it was -called the Revolutionary Etude. Sunray could not have believed a -piano capable of such passionate resentment. After that he played -grotesque and angry battle music and crude marching tunes from those -half-forgotten times, and then he invented wrathful and passionate -music of his own. - -Sunray sat under a golden lantern and listened to the musician and -watched his nimble hands, but Sarnac was more deeply moved. He had -not heard very much music in his life, and this player seemed to open -shutters upon deep and dark and violent things that had long been -closed to mankind. Sarnac sat, cheek on hand, his elbow on the -parapet of the garden wall, looking across the steely blue of the -lake at the darkling night sky at the lower end. The sky had been -starry, but a monstrous crescent of clouds like a hand that closes -was now gathering all the stars into its fist of darkness. Perhaps -there would be rain to-morrow. The lanterns hung still, except that -ever and again a little shiver of the air set them swaying. Now and -then a great white moth would come fluttering out of the night and -beat about among the lanterns for a time and pass away. Presently it -would return again or another moth like it would come. Sometimes -there would be three or four of these transitory phantoms; they -seemed to be the only insects abroad that night. - -A faint ripple below drew his attention to the light of a boat, a -round yellow light like a glowing orange, which came gliding close up -to the terrace wall out of the blue of the night. There was the -sound of a paddle being shipped and a diminishing drip of water, but -the people in the boat sat still and listened until the musician had -done altogether. Then they came up the steps to the terrace and -asked the master of the guest-house for rooms for the night. They -had dined at a place farther up the lake. - -Four people came by this boat. Two were brother and sister, dark -handsome people of southern origin, and the others were fair women, -one blue-eyed and one with hazel eyes, who were clearly very much -attached to the brother and sister. They came and talked about the -music and then of a climbing expedition they had promised themselves -in the great mountains above the lakes. The brother and sister were -named Radiant and Starlight, and their work in life, they explained, -was to educate animals; it was a business for which they had an -almost instinctive skill. The two fair girls, Willow and Firefly, -were electricians. During the last few days Sunray had been looking -ever and again at the glittering snowfields and desiring them; there -was always a magic call for her in snowy mountains. She joined very -eagerly in the mountain talk, and it was presently suggested that she -and Sarnac should accompany these new acquaintances up to the peaks -they had in mind. But before they went on to the mountains, she and -Sarnac wanted to visit some ancient remains that had recently been -excavated in a valley that came down to the lake from the east. The -four new-comers were interested in what she told them about these -ruins, and altered their own plans to go with her and Sarnac to see -them. Then afterwards all six would go into the mountains. - - - -§ 2 - -These ruins were rather more than two thousand years old. - -There were the remains of a small old town, a railway station of some -importance, and a railway tunnel which came right through the -mountains. The tunnel had collapsed, but the excavators had worked -along it and found several wrecked trains in it which had evidently -been packed with soldiers and refugees. The remains of these people, -much disturbed by rats and other vermin, lay about in the trains and -upon the railway tracks. The tunnel had apparently been blocked by -explosives and these trainloads of people entombed. Afterwards the -town itself and all its inhabitants had been destroyed by poison-gas, -but what sort of poison-gas it was the investigators had still to -decide. It had had an unusual pickling effect, so that many of the -bodies were not so much skeletons as mummies; and there were books, -papers, papier mâché objects or the like in a fair state of -preservation in many of the houses. Even cheap cotton goods were -preserved, though they had lost all their colour. For some time -after the great catastrophe this part of the world must have remained -practically uninhabited. A landslide had presently blocked the lower -valley and banked back the valley waters so as to submerge the town -and cover it with a fine silt and seal up the tunnel very completely. -Now the barrier had been cut through and the valley drained again, -and all these evidences of one of the characteristic disasters of the -last war period in man's history had been brought back to the light -once more. - -The six holiday-makers found the visit to this place a very vivid -experience, almost too vivid for their contentment. On Sarnac's -tired mind it made a particularly deep impression. The material -collected from the town had been arranged in a long museum gallery of -steel and glass. There were many almost complete bodies; one invalid -old woman, embalmed by the gas, had been replaced in the bed from -which the waters had floated her, and there was a shrivelled little -baby put back again in its cradle. The sheets and quilts were -bleached and browned, but it was quite easy to see what they had once -been like. The people had been taken by surprise, it seemed, while -the midday meal was in preparation; the tables must have been set in -many of the houses; and now, after a score of centuries beneath mud -and weeds and fishes, the antiquaries had disinterred and reassembled -these old machine-made cloths and plated implements upon the tables. -There were great stores of such pitiful discoloured litter from the -vanished life of the past. - -The holiday-makers did not go far into the tunnel; the suggestion of -things there were too horrible for their mood, and Sarnac stumbled -over a rail and cut his hand upon the jagged edge of a broken -railway-carriage window. The wound pained him later, and did not -heal so quickly as it should have done. It was as if some poison had -got into it. It kept him awake in the night. - -For the rest of the day the talk was all of the terrible days of the -last wars in the world and the dreadfulness of life in that age. It -seemed to Firefly and Starlight that existence must have been almost -unendurable, a tissue of hate, terror, want and discomfort, from the -cradle to the grave. But Radiant argued that people then were -perhaps no less happy and no happier than himself; that for everyone -in every age there was a normal state, and that any exaltation of -hope or sensation above that was happiness and any depression below -it misery. It did not matter where the normal came. "They went to -great intensities in both directions," he said. There was more -darkness in their lives and more pain, but not more unhappiness. -Sunray was inclined to agree with him. - -But Willow objected to Radiant's psychology. She said that there -could be permanently depressed states in an unhealthy body or in a -life lived under restraint. There could be generally miserable -creatures just as there could be generally happy creatures. - -"Of course," interjected Sarnac, "given a standard outside -themselves." - -"But why did they make such wars?" cried Firefly. "Why did they do -such horrible things to one another? They were people like -ourselves." - -"No better," said Radiant, "and no worse. So far as their natural -quality went. It is not a hundred generations ago." - -"Their skulls were as big and well shaped." - -"Those poor creatures in the tunnel!" said Sarnac. "Those poor -wretches caught in the tunnel! But everyone in that age must have -felt caught in a tunnel." - -After a time a storm overtook them and interrupted their -conversation. They were going up over a low pass to a guest-house at -the head of the lake, and it was near the crest of the pass that the -storm burst. The lightning was tremendous and a pine-tree was struck -not a hundred yards away. They cheered the sight. They were all -exhilarated by the elemental clatter and uproar; the rain was like a -whip on their bare, strong bodies and the wind came in gusts that -held them staggering and laughing, breathlessly unable to move -forward. They had doubts and difficulties with the path; for a time -they lost touch with the blazes upon the trees and rocks. Followed a -steady torrent of rain, through which they splashed and stumbled down -the foaming rocky pathway to their resting-place. They arrived wet -as from a swim and glowing; but Sarnac, who had come behind the -others with Sunray, was tired and cold. The master of this -guest-house drew his shutters and made a great fire for them with -pine-knots and pine-cones while he prepared a hot meal. - -After a while they began to talk of the excavated town again and of -the shrivelled bodies lying away there under the electric light of -the still glass-walled museum, indifferent for evermore to the -sunshine and thunderstorms of life without. - -"Did they ever laugh as we do?" asked Willow. "For sheer happiness -of living?" - -Sarnac said very little. He sat close up to the fire, pitching -pine-cones into it and watching them flare and crackle. Presently he -got up, confessed himself tired, and went away to his bed. - - - -§ 3 - -It rained hard all through the night and until nearly midday, and -then the weather cleared. In the afternoon the little party pushed -on up the valley towards the mountains they designed to climb, but -they went at a leisurely pace, giving a day and a half to what was -properly only one day's easy walking. The rain had refreshed -everything in the upper valley and called out a great multitude of -flowers. - -The next day was golden and serene. - -In the early afternoon they came to a plateau and meadows of -asphodel, and there they sat down to eat the provisions they had -brought with them. They were only two hours' climb from the -mountain-house in which they were to pass the night, and there was no -need to press on. Sarnac was lazy; he confessed to a desire for -sleep; in the night he had been feverish and disturbed by dreams of -men entombed in tunnels and killed by poison-gas. The others were -amused that anyone should want to sleep in the daylight, but Sunray -said she would watch over him. She found a place for him on the -sward, and Sarnac laid down beside her and went to sleep with his -cheek against her side as suddenly and trustfully as a child goes to -sleep. She sat up--as a child's nurse might do--enjoining silence on -the others by gestures. - -"After this he will be well again," laughed Radiant, and he and -Firefly stole off in one direction, while Willow and Starlight went -off in another to climb a rocky headland near at hand, from which -they thought they might get a very wide and perhaps a very beautiful -view of the lakes below. - -For some time Sarnac lay quite still in his sleep and then he began -to twitch and stir. Sunray bent down attentively with her warm face -close to his. He was quiet again for a time and then he moved and -muttered, but she could not distinguish any words. Then he rolled -away from her and threw his arms about and said, "I can't stand it. -I can't endure it. Nothing can alter it now. You're unclean and -spoilt." She took him gently and drew him into a comfortable -attitude again, just as a nurse might do. "Dear," he whispered, and -in his sleep reached out for her hand.... - -When the others came back he had just awakened. - -He was sitting up with a sleepy expression and Sunray was kneeling -beside him with her hand on his shoulder. "Wake up!" she said. - -He looked at her as if he did not know her and then with puzzled eyes -at Radiant. "Then there is another life!" he said at last. - -"Sarnac!" cried Sunray, shaking him. "Don't you know me?" - -He passed a hand over his face. "Yes," he said slowly. "Your name -is Sunray. I seem to remember. Sunray.... Not Hetty-- No. Though -you are very like Hetty. Queer! And mine--mine is Sarnac. - -"Of course! I am Sarnac." He laughed at Willow. "But I thought I -was Harry Mortimer Smith," he said. "I did indeed. A moment ago I -was Henry Mortimer Smith.... Henry Mortimer Smith." - -He looked about him. "Mountains," he said, "sunshine, white -narcissus. Of course, we walked up here this very morning. Sunray -splashed me at a waterfall.... I remember it perfectly.... And yet -I was in bed--shot. I was in bed.... A dream? ... Then I have had a -dream, a whole lifetime, two thousand years ago!" - -"What do you mean?" said Sunray. - -"A lifetime--childhood, boyhood, manhood. And death. He killed me. -Poor rat!--he killed me!" - -"A dream?" - -"A dream--but a very vivid dream. The reallest of dreams. If it was -a dream.... I can answer all your questions now, Sunray. I have -lived through a whole life in that old world. I know.... - -"It is as though that life was still the real one and this only a -dream.... I was in a bed. Five minutes ago I was in bed. I was -dying.... The doctor said, 'He is going.' And I heard the rustle of -my wife coming across the room...." - -"Your wife!" cried Sunray. - -"Yes--my wife--Milly." - -Sunray looked at Willow with raised eyebrows and a helpless -expression. - -Sarnac stared at her, dreamily puzzled. "Milly," he repeated very -faintly. "She was by the window." - -For some moments no one spoke. - -Radiant stood with his arm on Firefly's shoulder. - -"Tell us about it, Sarnac. Was it hard to die?" - -"I seemed to sink down and down into quiet--and then I woke up here." - -"Tell us now, while it is still so real to you." - -"Have we not planned to reach the mountain-house before nightfall?" -said Willow, glancing at the sun. - -"There is a little guest-house here, within five minutes' walk of -us," said Firefly. - -Radiant sat down beside Sarnac. "Tell us your dream now. If it -fades out presently or if it is uninteresting, we can go on; but if -it is entertaining, we can hear it out and sleep down here to-night. -It is a very pleasant place here, and there is a loveliness about -those mauve-coloured crags across the gorge, a faint mistiness in -their folds, that I could go on looking at for a week without -impatience. Tell us your dream, Sarnac." - -He shook his friend. "Wake up, Sarnac!" - -Sarnac rubbed his eyes. "It is so queer a story. And there will be -so much to explain." - -He took thought for a while. - -"It will be a long story." - -"Naturally, if it is a whole life." - -"First let me get some cream and fruit from the guest-house for us -all," said Firefly, "and then let Sarnac tell us his dream. Five -minutes, Sarnac, and I will be back here." - -"I will come with you," said Radiant, hurrying after her. - - -This that follows is the story Sarnac told. - - - - -CHAPTER THE SECOND - -THE BEGINNING OF THE DREAM - - -§ 1 - -"This dream of mine began," he said, "as all our lives begin, in -fragments, in a number of disconnected impressions. I remember -myself lying on a sofa, a sofa covered with a curious sort of hard, -shiny material with a red and black pattern on it, and I was -screaming, but I do not know why I screamed. I discovered my father -standing in the doorway of the room looking at me. He looked very -dreadful; he was partially undressed in trousers and a flannel shirt -and his fair hair was an unbrushed shock; he was shaving and his chin -was covered with lather. He was angry because I was screaming. I -suppose I stopped screaming, but I am not sure. And I remember -kneeling upon the same hard red and black sofa beside my mother and -looking out of the window--the sofa used to stand with its back to -the window-sill--at the rain falling on the roadway outside. The -window-sill smelt faintly of paint; soft bad paint that had blistered -in the sun. It was a violent storm of rain and the road was an -ill-made road of a yellowish sandy clay. It was covered with muddy -water and the storming rainfall made a multitude of flashing bubbles, -that drove along before the wind and burst and gave place to others. - -"'Look at 'em, dearie,' said my mother. 'Like sojers.' - -"I think I was still very young when that happened, -but I was not so young that I had not often -seen soldiers with their helmets and bayonets marching by." - -"That," said Radiant, "was some time before the Great War, then, and -the Social Collapse." - -"Some time before," said Sarnac. He considered. "Twenty-one years -before. This house in which I was born was less than two miles from -the great military camp of the British at Lowcliff in England, and -Lowcliff railway station was only a few hundred yards away. 'Sojers' -were the most conspicuous objects in my world outside my home. They -were more brightly coloured than other people. My mother used to -wheel me out for air every day in a thing called a perambulator, and -whenever there were soldiers to be seen she used to say, 'Oh! PRITTY -sojers!' - -"'Sojers' must have been one of my earliest words. I used to point -my little wool-encased finger--for they wrapped up children -tremendously in those days and I wore even gloves--and I would say: -'Sosher.' - -"Let me try and describe to you what sort of home this was of mine -and what manner of people my father and mother were. Such homes and -houses and places have long since vanished from the world, not many -relics of them have been kept, and though you have probably learnt -most of the facts concerning them, I doubt if you can fully realise -the feel and the reality of the things I found about me. The name of -the place was Cherry Gardens; it was about two miles from the sea at -Sandbourne, one way lay the town of Cliffstone from which steamboats -crossed the sea to France, and the other way lay Lowcliff and its -rows and rows of ugly red brick barracks and its great -drilling-plain, and behind us inland was a sort of plateau covered -with raw new roads of loose pebbles--you cannot imagine such -roads!--and vegetable gardens and houses new-built or building, and -then a line of hills, not very high but steep and green and bare, the -Downs. The Downs made a graceful sky-line that bounded my world to -the north as the sapphire line of the sea bounded it to the south, -and they were almost the only purely beautiful things in that world. -All the rest was touched and made painful by human confusion. When I -was a very little boy I used to wonder what lay behind those Downs, -but I never went up them to see until I was seven or eight years old." - -"This was before the days of aeroplanes?" asked Radiant. - -"They came into the world when I was eleven or twelve. I saw the -first that ever crossed the Channel between the mainland of Europe -and England. That was considered a very wonderful thing indeed. -("It was a wonderful thing," said Sunray.) I went with a lot of -other boys, and we edged through a crowd that stood and stared at the -quaint old machine; it was like a big canvas grasshopper with -outspread wings; in a field--somewhere beyond Cliffstone. It was -being guarded, and the people were kept away from it by stakes and a -string. - -"I find it hard to describe to you what sort of places Cherry Gardens -and Cliffstone were like--even though we have just visited the ruins -of Domodossola. Domodossola was a sprawling, aimless town enough, -but these sprawled far more and looked with a far emptier aimlessness -into the face of God. You see in the thirty or forty years before my -birth there had been a period of comparative prosperity and -productivity in human affairs. It was not of course in those days -the result of any statesmanship or forethought; it just happened,--as -now and then in the course of a rain-torrent there comes a pool of -level water between the rapids. But the money and credit system was -working fairly well; there was much trade and intercourse, no -extensive pestilences, exceptionally helpful seasons, and few very -widespread wars. As a result of this conspiracy of favourable -conditions there was a perceptible rise in the standards of life of -the common people, but for the most part it was discounted by a huge -increase of population. As our school books say, 'In those days Man -was his own Locust.' Later in my life I was to hear furtive whispers -of a forbidden topic called Birth Control, but in the days of my -childhood the whole population of the world, with very few -exceptions, was in a state of complete and carefully protected -ignorance about the elementary facts of human life and happiness. -The surroundings of my childhood were dominated by an unforeseen and -uncontrollable proliferation. Cheap proliferation was my scenery, my -drama, my atmosphere." - -"But they had teachers and priests and doctors and rulers to tell -them better," said Willow. - -"Not to tell them better," said Sarnac. "These guides and pilots of -life were wonderful people. They abounded, and guided no one. So -far from teaching men and women to control births or avoid diseases -or work generously together, they rather prevented such teaching. -This place called Cherry Gardens had mostly come into existence in -the fifty years before my birth. It had grown from a minute hamlet -into what we used to call an 'urban district.' In that old world in -which there was neither freedom nor direction, the land was divided -up into patches of all sorts and sizes and owned by people who did -what they liked with it, subject to a few vexatious and unhelpful -restrictions. And in Cherry Gardens, a sort of men called -speculative builders bought pieces of land, often quite unsuitable -land, and built houses for the swarming increase of population that -had otherwise nowhere to go. There was no plan about this building. -One speculative builder built here and another there, and each built -as cheaply as possible and sold or let what he had built for as much -as possible. Some of the houses they built in rows and some stood -detached each with a little patch of private garden--garden they -called it, though it was either a muddle or a waste--fenced in to -keep people out." - -"Why did they keep people out?" - -"They liked to keep people out. It was a satisfaction for them. -They were not secret gardens. People might look over the fence if -they chose. And each house had its own kitchen where food was -cooked--there was no public eating-place in Cherry Gardens--and each, -its separate store of household gear. In most houses there was a man -who went out to work and earn a living--they didn't so much live in -those days as earn a living--and came home to eat and sleep, and -there was a woman, his wife, who did all the services, food and -cleaning and everything, and also she bore children, a lot of -unpremeditated children--because she didn't know any better. She was -too busy to look after them well, and many of them died. Most days -she cooked a dinner. She cooked it.... It was cooking!" - -Sarnac paused--his brows knit. "Cooking! Well, well. That's over, -anyhow," he said. - -Radiant laughed cheerfully. - -"Almost everyone suffered from indigestion. The newspapers were full -of advertisements of cures," said Sarnac, still darkly retrospective. - -"I've never thought of that aspect of life in the old world," said -Sunray. - -"It was--fundamental," said Sarnac. "It was a world, in every way, -out of health. - -"Every morning, except on the Sunday, after the man had gone off to -his day's toil and the children had been got up and dressed and those -who were old enough sent off to school, the woman of the house tidied -up a bit and then came the question of getting in food. For this -private cooking of hers. Every day except Sunday a number of men -with little pony carts or with barrows they pushed in front of them, -bearing meat and fish and vegetables and fruit, all of it exposed to -the weather and any dirt that might be blowing about, came bawling -along the roads of Cherry Gardens, shouting the sort of food they -were selling. My memory goes back to that red and black sofa by the -front window and I am a child once again. There was a particularly -splendid fish hawker. What a voice he had! I used to try to -reproduce his splendid noises in my piping childish cries: -'Mackroo-E-y'are Macroo! Fine Macroo! Thee a Sheen. _Macroo_!' - -"The housewives would come out from their domestic mysteries to buy -or haggle and, as the saying went, 'pass the time of day' with their -neighbours. But everything they wanted was not to be got from the -hawkers, and that was where my father came in. He kept a little -shop. He was what was called a greengrocer; he sold fruits and -vegetables, such poor fruits and vegetables as men had then learnt to -grow--and also he sold coals and paraffin (which people burnt in -their lamps) and chocolate and ginger-beer and other things that were -necessary to the barbaric housekeeping of the time. He also sold -cut-flowers and flowers in pots, and seeds and sticks and string and -weed-killer for the little gardens. His shop stood in a row with a -lot of other shops; the row was like a row of the ordinary houses -with the lower rooms taken out and replaced by the shop, and he 'made -his living' and ours by buying his goods as cheaply as he could and -getting as much as he could for them. It was a very poor living -because there were several other able-bodied men in Cherry Gardens -who were also greengrocers, and if he took too much profit then his -customers would go away and buy from these competitors and he would -get no profit at all. - -"I and my brother and sisters--for my mother had been unable to avoid -having six babies and four of us were alive--lived by and in and -round about this shop. In the summer we were chiefly out of doors or -in the room above the shop; but in the cold weather it cost too much -trouble and money to have a fire in that room--all Cherry Gardens was -heated by open coal fires--and we went down into a dark underground -kitchen where my mother, poor dear! cooked according to her lights." - -"You were troglodytes!" said Willow. - -"Practically. We always ate in that downstairs room. In the summer -we were sunburnt and ruddy, but in the winter, because of -this--inhumation, we became white and rather thin. I had an elder -brother who was monstrous in my childish memory; he was twelve years -older than I; and I had two sisters, Fanny and Prudence. My elder -brother Ernest went out to work, and then he went away to London and -I saw very little of him until I too went to London. I was the -youngest of the lot; and when I was nine years old, my father, taking -courage, turned my mother's perambulator into a little push-cart for -delivering sacks of coals and suchlike goods. - -"Fanny, my elder sister, was a very pretty girl, with a white face -from which her brown hair went back in graceful, natural waves and -curls, and she had very dark blue eyes. Prudence was also white but -of a duller whiteness, and her eyes were grey. She would tease me -and interfere with me, but Fanny was either negligent or gracefully -kind to me and I adored her. I do not, strangely enough, remember my -mother's appearance at all distinctly, though she was, of course, the -dominant fact of my childish life. She was too familiar, I suppose, -for the sort of attention that leaves a picture on the mind. - -"I learnt to speak from my family and chiefly from my mother. None -of us spoke well; our common idioms were poor and bad, we -mispronounced many words, and long words we avoided as something -dangerous and pretentious. I had very few toys: a tin railway-engine -I remember, some metal soldiers, and an insufficient supply of wooden -building-bricks. There was no special place for me to play, and if I -laid out my toys on the living-room table, a meal was sure to descend -and sweep them away. I remember a great longing to play with the -things in the shop, and especially with the bundles of firewood and -some fire-kindlers that were most seductively shaped like wheels, but -my father discouraged such ambitions. He did not like to have me -about the shop until I was old enough to help, and the indoor part of -most of my days was spent in the room above it or in the underground -room below it. After the shop was closed it became a very cold, -cavernous, dark place to a little boy's imagination; there were -dreadful shadows in which terrible things might lurk, and even -holding fast to my mother's hand on my way to bed, I was filled with -fear to traverse it. It had always a faint, unpleasant smell, a -smell of decaying vegetation varying with the particular fruit or -vegetable that was most affected, and a constant element of paraffin. -But on Sundays when it was closed all day the shop was different, no -longer darkly threatening but very, very still. I would be taken -through it on my way to church or Sunday school. (Yes--I will tell -you about church and Sunday school in a minute.) When I saw my -mother lying dead--she died when I was close upon sixteen--I was -instantly reminded of the Sunday shop.... - -"Such, my dear Sunray, was the home in which I found myself. I -seemed to have been there since my beginning. It was the deepest -dream I have ever had. I had forgotten even you." - - - -§ 2 - -"And how was this casually begotten infant prepared for the business -of life?" asked Radiant. "Was he sent away to a Garden?" - -"There were no Children's Gardens such as we know them, in that -world," said Sarnac. "There was a place of assembly called an -elementary school. Thither I was taken, twice daily, by my sister -Prudence, after I was six years old. - -"And here again I find it hard to convey to you what the reality was -like. Our histories tell you of the beginning of general education -in that distant time and of the bitter jealousy felt by the old -priesthoods and privileged people for the new sort of teachers, but -they give you no real picture of the ill-equipped and understaffed -schoolhouses and of the gallant work of the underpaid and ill-trained -men and women who did the first rough popular teaching. There was in -particular a gaunt dark man with a cough who took the older boys, and -a little freckled woman of thirty or so who fought with the lower -children, and, I see now, they were holy saints. His name I forget, -but the little woman was called Miss Merrick. They had to handle -enormous classes, and they did most of their teaching by voice and -gesture and chalk upon a blackboard. Their equipment was miserable. -The only materials of which there was enough to go round were a stock -of dirty reading-books, Bibles, hymn-books, and a lot of slabs of -slate in frames on which we wrote with slate pencils to economise -paper. Drawing materials we had practically none; most of us never -learnt to draw. Yes. Lots of sane adults in that old world never -learnt to draw even a box. There was nothing to count with in that -school and no geometrical models. There were hardly any pictures -except a shiny one of Queen Victoria and a sheet of animals, and -there were very yellow wall-maps of Europe and Asia twenty years out -of date. We learnt the elements of mathematics by recitation. We -used to stand in rows, chanting a wonderful chant called our Tables:-- - - "'_Twi_-swun two. - _Twi_-stewer four. - _Twi_-shee'r six. - _Twi_-sfour' rate.' - - -"We used to sing--in unison--religious hymns for the most part. The -school had a second-hand piano to guide our howlings. There had been -a great fuss in Cliffstone and Cherry Gardens when this piano was -bought. They called it a luxury, and pampering the working classes." - -"Pampering the working classes!" Firefly repeated. "I suppose it's -all right. But I'm rather at sea." - -"I can't explain everything," said Sarnac. "The fact remains that -England grudged its own children the shabbiest education, and so for -the matter of fact did every other country. They saw things -differently in those days. They were still in the competitive cave. -America, which was a much richer country than England, as wealth went -then, had if possible meaner and shabbier schools for her common -people.... My dear! it was so. I'm telling you a story, not -explaining the universe.... And naturally, in spite of the strenuous -efforts of such valiant souls as Miss Merrick, we children learnt -little and we learnt it very badly. Most of my memories of school -are memories of boredom. We sat on wooden forms at long, worn, -wooden desks, rows and rows of us--I can see again all the little -heads in front of me--and far away was Miss Merrick with a pointer -trying to interest us in the Rivers of England:-- - - "Ty. Wear. Teasumber." - - -"Is that what they used to call swearing?" asked Willow. - -"No. Only Jogriphy. And History was:-- - - "Wi-yum the Conqueror. Tessisstysiss. - Wi-yum Ruefiss. Ten eighty-seven." - - -"What did it mean?" - -"To us children? Very much what it means to you--gibberish. The -hours, those interminable hours of childhood in school! How they -dragged! Did I say I lived a life in my dream? In school I lived -eternities. Naturally we sought such amusement as was possible. One -thing was to give your next-door neighbour a pinch or a punch and -say, 'Pass it on.' And we played furtive games with marbles. It is -rather amusing to recall that I learnt to count, to add and subtract -and so forth, by playing marbles in despite of discipline." - -"But was that the best your Miss Merrick and your saint with the -cough could do?" asked Radiant. - -"Oh! they couldn't help themselves. They were in a machine, and -there were periodic Inspectors and examinations to see that they kept -in it." - -"But," said Sunray, "that Incantation about 'Wi-yum the Conqueror' -and the rest of it. It meant something? At the back of it, lost to -sight perhaps, there was some rational or semi-rational idea?" - -"Perhaps," reflected Sarnac. "But I never detected it." - -"They called it history," said Firefly helpfully. - -"They did," Sarnac admitted. "Yes, I think they were trying to -interest the children of the land in the doings of the Kings and -Queens of England, probably as dull a string of monarchs as the world -has ever seen. If they rose to interest at times it was through a -certain violence; there was one delightful Henry VIII with such a -craving for love and such a tender conscience about the sanctity of -marriage that he always murdered one wife before he took another. -And there was one Alfred who burnt some cakes--I never knew why. In -some way it embarrassed the Danes, his enemies." - -"But was that all the history they taught you?" cried Sunray. - -"Queen Elizabeth of England wore a ruff and James the First of -England and Scotland kissed his men favourites." - -"But history!" - -Sarnac laughed. "It is odd. I see that--now that I am awake again. -But indeed that was all they taught us." - -"Did they tell you nothing of the beginnings of life and the ends of -life, of its endless delights and possibilities?" - -Sarnac shook his head. - -"Not at school," said Starlight, who evidently knew her books; "they -did that at church. Sarnac forgets the churches. It was, you must -remember, an age of intense religious activity. There were places of -worship everywhere. One whole day in every seven was given up to the -Destinies of Man and the study of God's Purpose. The worker ceased -from his toil. From end to end of the land the air was full of the -sound of church bells and of congregations singing. Wasn't there a -certain beauty in that, Sarnac?" - -Sarnac reflected and smiled. "It wasn't quite like that," he said. -"Our histories, in that matter, need a little revision." - -"But one sees the churches and chapels in the old photographs and -cinema pictures. And we still have many of their cathedrals. And -some of those are quite beautiful." - -"And they have all had to be shored up and underpinned and tied -together with steel," said Sunray, "because they were either so -carelessly or so faithlessly built. And anyhow, these were not built -in Sarnac's time." - -"Mortimer Smith's time," Sarnac corrected. - -"They were built hundreds of years earlier than that." - - - -§ 3 - -"You must not judge the religion of an age by its temples and -churches," said Sarnac. "An unhealthy body may have many things in -it that it cannot clear away, and the weaker it is the less it can -prevent abnormal and unserviceable growths.... Which sometimes may -be in themselves quite bright and beautiful growths. - -"But let me describe to you the religious life of my home and -upbringing. There was a sort of State Church in England, but it had -lost most of its official standing in regard to the community as a -whole; it had two buildings in Cherry Gardens--one an old one dating -from the hamlet days with a square tower and rather small as churches -went, and the other new and spacious with a spire. In addition there -were the chapels of two other Christian communities, the -Congregationalists and the Primitive Methodists, and also one -belonging to the old Roman Catholic communion. Each professed to -present the only true form of Christianity and each maintained a -minister, except the larger Church of England place, which had two, -the vicar and the curate. You might suppose that, like the museums -of history and the Temples of Vision we set before our young people, -these places would display in the most moving and beautiful forms -possible the history of our race and the great adventure of life in -which we are all engaged, they would remind us of our brotherhood and -lift us out of selfish thoughts.... But let me tell you how I saw -it:-- - -"I don't remember my first religious instruction. Very early I must -have learnt to say a rhymed prayer to-- - - "'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, - Look on me, a little child.' - -And also another prayer about 'Trespassing' which I thought referred -to going into fields or woods where there was no public footpath, and -which began with the entirely incomprehensible words, 'Our Father -Charting Heaven, Haloed B thy Name.' Also one asked for one's 'daily -bread' and that God's Kingdom should come. I learnt these two -prayers from my mother at an incredibly early age, and said them -every night and sometimes in the morning. She held these words in -far too great reverence to explain them, and when I wanted to ask for -my 'daily bread and butter,' she scolded me bitterly. I also wanted -to ask what would happen to good Queen Victoria when God's Kingdom -came, but I never mustered courage to ask my mother that. I had a -curious idea that there could be a marriage but that nobody had -thought of that solution. This must have been very early in my life, -because Victoria the Good died when I was five, during the course of -a long, far-away, and now almost-forgotten struggle called the Boer -War. - -"These infantile perplexities deepened and then gave way to a kind of -self-protective apathy when I was old enough to go to church and -Sunday school. - -"Sunday morning was by far the most strenuous part of all the week -for my mother. We had all had a sort of bath overnight in the -underground kitchen, except my father and mother, who I don't think -ever washed all over--I don't know for certain--and on Sunday morning -we rose rather later than usual and put on our 'clean things' and our -best clothes. (Everybody in those days wore a frightful lot of -clothes. You see, they were all so unhealthy they could not stand -the least exposure to wet or cold.) Breakfast was a hurried and -undistinguished meal on the way to greater things. Then we had to -sit about, keeping out of harm's way, avoiding all crumpling or dirt, -and pretending to be interested in one of the ten or twelve books our -home possessed, until church time. Mother prepared the Sunday meal, -almost always a joint of meat in a baking-dish which my elder sister -took in to the baker's next door but one to be cooked while we -worshipped. Father rose later than anyone and appeared strangely -transformed in a collar, dickey and cuffs and a black coat and his -hair smoothed down and parted. Usually some unforeseen delay arose; -one of my sisters had a hole in her stocking, or my boots wouldn't -button and nobody could find the buttonhook, or a prayer-book was -mislaid. This engendered an atmosphere of flurry. There were -anxious moments when the church bell ceased to ring and began a -monotonous 'tolling-in.' - -"'Oh! we shall be late _again_!' said my mother. 'We shall be late -_again_.' - -"'I'll go on with Prue,' my father would say. - -"'Me too!' said Fanny. - -"'Not till you've found that button'ook, Miss Huzzy,' my mother would -cry. 'For well I know you've 'ad it.' - -"Fanny would shrug her shoulders. - -"'Why 'e carn't 'ave lace-up shoes to 'is feet like any other kid, I -carn't understand,' my father would remark unhelpfully. - -"My mother, ashen white with flurry, would wince and say, 'Lace-up -shoes at 'is age! Let alone that 'e'd break the laces.' - -"'What's that on the chiffoneer?' Fanny would ask abruptly. - -"'Ah! Naturally you know.' - -"'Naturally I use my eyes.' - -"'Tcha! Got your answer ready! Oh, you _wicked_ girl!' - -"Fanny would shrug her shoulders again and stare out of the window. -There was more trouble afoot than a mislaid buttonhook between her -and my mother. Overnight 'Miss Huzzy' had been abroad long after -twilight, a terrible thing from a mother's point of view, as I will -make plain to you later. - -"My mother, breathing hard, would button my boots in a punitive -manner and then off we would go, Prue hanging on to father ahead, -Fanny a little apart and scornful, and I trying to wriggle my little -white-cotton-gloved hand out of my mother's earnest grip. - -"We had what was called a 'sitting' at church, a long seat with some -hassocks and a kind of little praying-ledge at the back of the seat -in front. We filed into our sitting and knelt and rose up, and were -ready for the function known as morning service." - - - -§ 4 - -"And this service again was a strange thing. We read about these -churches and their services in our histories and we simplify and -idealise the picture; we take everything in the account, as we used -to say in that old world, at its face value. We think that the -people understood and believed completely the curious creeds of those -old-world religions; that they worshipped with a simple ardour; that -they had in their hearts a secret system of comforts and illusions -which some of us even now try to recover. But life is always more -complicated than any account or representation of it can be. The -human mind in those days was always complicating and overlaying its -ideas, forgetting primary in secondary considerations, substituting -repetition and habit for purposive acts, and forgetting and losing -its initial intentions. Life has grown simpler for men as the ages -have passed because it has grown clearer. We were more complicated -in our lives then because we were more confused. And so we sat in -our pews on Sunday, in a state of conforming inattention, not really -thinking out what we were doing, feeling rather than knowing -significances and with our thoughts wandering like water from a leaky -vessel. We watched the people about us furtively and minutely and we -were acutely aware that they watched us. We stood up, we half knelt, -we sat, as the ritual of the service required us to do. I can still -recall quite vividly the long complex rustle of the congregation as -it sat down or rose up in straggling unison. - -"This morning service was a mixture of prayers and recitations by the -priests--vicar and curate we called them--and responses by the -congregation, chants, rhymed hymns, the reading of passages from the -Hebrew-Christian Bible, and at last a discourse. Except for this -discourse all the service followed a prescribed course set out in a -prayer-book. We hopped from one page of the prayer-book to another, -and 'finding your place' was a terrible mental exercise for a small -boy with a sedulous mother on one side and Prue on the other. - -"The service began lugubriously and generally it was lugubrious. We -were all miserable sinners, there was no health in us; we expressed -our mild surprise that our Deity did not resort to violent measures -against us. There was a long part called the Litany in which the -priest repeated with considerable gusto every possible human -misfortune, war, pestilence, famine, and so on, and the congregation -interjected at intervals, 'Good Lord deliver us!' although you might -have thought that these were things within the purview of our -international and health and food administrators rather than matters -for the Supreme Being. Then the officiating priest went on to a -series of prayers for the Queen, the rulers of the State, heretics, -unfortunate people, travellers, and the harvest, all of which I -concluded were being dangerously neglected by Divine Providence, and -the congregation reinforced the priest's efforts by salvos of 'We -beseech Thee to hear us, Good Lord.' The hymns were of very variable -quality, but the greater part were effusive praises of our Maker, -with frequent false rhymes and bad quantities. We thanked Heaven for -our 'blessings,' and that without a thought of irony. Yet you would -imagine that a Deity of Infinite Power might easily have excused our -gratitude for the precarious little coal and greengrocery business in -Cherry Gardens and all my mother's toil and anxieties and my father's -worries. - -"The general effect of this service beneath its surface adulation of -the worshipped God, was to blame Him thoroughly and completely for -every human misfortune and to deny the responsibility of mankind for -its current muddle and wretchedness. Throughout the land and -throughout most of the world, Sunday after Sunday, by chant and hymn -and prayer and gesture, it was being dinned into the minds of young -people, whenever for a moment the service broke through the surface -of their protective instinctive inattention, that mankind was -worthless and hopeless, the helpless plaything of a moody, impulsive, -vain, and irresistible Being. This rain of suggestion came between -their minds and the Sun of Life; it hid the Wonderful from them; it -robbed them of access to the Spirit of Courage. But so alien was -this doctrine of abasement from the heart of man, that for the most -part the congregation sat or stood or knelt in rows in its pews -repeating responses and singing mechanically, with its minds -distracted to a thousand distant more congenial things, watching the -deportment of its neighbours, scheming about business or pleasure, -wandering in reverie. - -"There would come at times into this service, sometimes but not -always, parts of another service, the Communion Service. This was -the reduced remainder of that Catholic Mass of which we have all -learnt in our histories. As you know, the world of Christianity was -still struggling, nineteen hundred years after Christianity had -begun, to get rid of the obsession of a mystical blood sacrifice, to -forget a traditional killing of a God-man, that was as old as -agriculture and the first beginnings of human settlement. The -English State Church was so much a thing of compromise and tradition -that in the two churches it had in Cherry Gardens the teaching upon -this issue was diametrically opposed; one, the new and showy one, St. -Jude's, was devoted to an exaggeration of the importance of the -Communion, called it the Mass, called the table on which it was -celebrated the Altar, called the Rev. Mr. Snapes the Priest, and -generally emphasised the ancient pagan interpretation, while the -other, the little old church of St. Osyth, called its priest a -Minister, its altar the Lord's Table, and the Communion the Lord's -Supper, denied all its mystical importance, and made it merely a -memorial of the life and death of the Master. These age-long -controversies between the immemorial temple worship of our race and -the new life of intellectual and spiritual freedom that had then been -dawning in the world for three or four centuries were far above my -poor little head as I fretted and 'behaved myself' in our sitting. -To my youthful mind the Communion Service meant nothing more than a -long addition to the normal tediums of worship. In those days I had -a pathetic belief in the magic of prayer, and oblivious of the -unflattering implications of my request I would whisper throughout -the opening prayers and recitations of the morning: 'Pray God there -won't be a Communion Service. Pray God there won't be a Communion -Service.' - -"Then would come the sermon, the original composition of the Rev. Mr. -Snapes, and the only thing in the whole service that was not set and -prescribed and that had not been repeated a thousand times before. - -"Mr. Snapes was a youngish pinkish man with pinkish golden hair and a -clean-shaven face; he had small chubby features like a cluster of -_champignons_, an expression of beatific self-satisfaction, and a -plump voice. He had a way of throwing back the ample white sleeve of -his surplice when he turned the pages of his manuscript, a sort of -upthrow of the posed white hand, that aroused in me one of the -inexplicable detestations of childhood. I used to hate this gesture, -watch for its coming and squirm when it came. - -"The sermons were so much above my head that I cannot now tell what -any of them were about. He would talk of things like the 'Comfort of -the Blessed Eucharist' and the 'Tradition of the Fathers of the -Church.' He would discourse too of what he called the Feasts of the -Church, though a collection plate was the nearest approach to -feasting we saw. He made much of Advent and Epiphany and -Whitsuntide, and he had a common form of transition to modern -considerations, 'And we too, dear Brethren, in these latter days have -our Advents and our Epiphanies.' Then he would pass to King Edward's -proposed visit to Lowcliffe or to the recent dispute about the Bishop -of Natal or the Bishop of Zanzibar. You cannot imagine how remote it -was from anything of moment in our normal lives. - -"And then suddenly, when a small boy was losing all hope of this -smooth voice ever ceasing, came a little pause and then the blessed -words of release: 'And now to God the Father, God the Son----' - -"It was over! There was a stir throughout the church. We roused -ourselves, we stood up. Then we knelt for a brief moment of apparent -prayer and then we scrabbled for hats, coats, and umbrellas, and so -out into the open air, a great pattering of feet upon the pavement, -dispersing this way and that, stiff greetings of acquaintances, Prue -to the baker's for the Sunday dinner and the rest of us straight home. - -"Usually there were delightful brown potatoes under the Sunday joint -and perhaps there would be a fruit pie also. But in the spring came -rhubarb, which I hated. It was held to be peculiarly good for me, -and I was always compelled to eat exceptionally large helpings of -rhubarb tart. - -"In the afternoon there was Sunday school or else 'Children's -Service,' and, relieved of the presence of our parents, we three -children went to the school-house or to the church again to receive -instruction in the peculiarities of our faith. In the Sunday school -untrained and unqualified people whom we knew in the week-days as -shop assistants and an auctioneer's clerk and an old hairy deaf -gentleman named Spendilow, collected us in classes and discoursed to -us on the ambiguous lives and doings of King David of Israel and of -Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and the misbehaviour of Queen Jezebel and -the like topics. And we sang easy hymns in unison. At times our -teachers spoke of the Master of Mankind, but they spoke without -understanding; they spoke of him as a sort of trickster who worked -miracles and achieved jail delivery from the tomb. And so had -'saved' us--in spite of the manifest fact that we were anything but -saved. The teaching of the Master was, you know, buried under these -tales of Resurrection and Miracles for two thousand years. He was a -light shining in the darkness and the darkness knew it not. And of -the great past of life, of the races of men and their slow growth in -knowledge, of fears and dark superstitions and the dawning victories -of truth, of the conquest and sublimation of human passions through -the ages, of the divinity of research and discovery, of the latent -splendour of our bodies and senses, and the present dangers and -possibilities amidst which the continually more crowded masses of our -race were then blundering so tragically and yet with such bright -gleams of hope and promise, we heard no talk at all. We were given -no intimation that there was so much as a human community with a -common soul and an ultimate common destiny. It would have been -scandalous and terrifying to those Sunday-school teachers to have -heard any such things spoken about in Sunday school. - -"And mind you," said Sarnac, "there was no better preparation for -life in all the world then than the sort of thing I was getting. The -older church of St. Osyth was in the hands of the Rev. Thomas -Benderton, who dispersed a dwindling congregation by bellowing -sermons full of the threat of hell. He had scared my mother to the -church of St. Jude by his frequent mention of the devil, and the -chief topic of his discourse was the sin of idolatry; he treated it -always with especial reference to the robes adopted by Mr. Snapes -when he celebrated Holy Communion and to something obscure that he -did with small quantities of bread and wine upon his Communion table. - -"Of what the Congregationalists and the Primitive Methodists did and -taught in their places of resort, their chapels and Sunday schools, I -do not know very exactly, because my mother would have been filled -with a passion of religious terror if ever I had gone near those -assemblies. But I know that their procedure was only a plainer -version of our church experiences with still less of the Mass and -still more of the devil. The Primitive Methodists, I know, laid -their chief stress upon the belief that the greater portion of -mankind, when once they had done with the privations and miseries of -this life, would be tortured exquisitely for ever and ever in hell. -I got this very clearly because a Primitive Methodist boy a little -older than myself conveyed his anxieties to me one day when we had -gone for a walk into Cliffstone. - -"He was a bent sort of boy with a sniff and he wore a long white -woollen comforter; there hasn't been such a figure in the world now -for hundreds of years. We walked along the promenade that followed -the cliff edge, by the bandstand and by the people lounging in -deck-chairs. There were swarms of people in their queer holiday -clothes, and behind, rows of the pallid grey houses in which they -lodged. And my companion bore his testimony. 'Mr. Molesly 'e says -that the Day of Judgment might come any minute--come in fire and -glory before ever we get to the end of these Leas. And all them -people'd be tried....' - -"'Jest as they are?' - -"'Jest as they are. That woman there with the dog and that fat man -asleep in 'is chair and--the policeman.' - -"He paused, a little astonished at the Hebraic daring of his -thoughts. 'The policeman,' he repeated. 'They'd be weighed and -found wanting, and devils would come and torture them. Torture that -policeman. Burn him and cut him about. And everybody. Horrible, -horrible torture....' - -"I had never heard the doctrines of Christianity applied with such -particularity before. I was dismayed. - -"'I sh'd 'ide,' I said. - -"''_E_'d see you. '_E_'d see you and tell the devils,' said my -little friend. ''_E_ sees the wicked thoughts in us now....'" - -"But did people really believe such stuff as that?" cried Sunray. - -"As far as they believed anything," said Sarnac. "I admit it was -frightful, but so it was. Do you realise what cramped, distorted -minds grew up under such teaching in our under-nourished, infected -bodies?" - -"Few people could have really believed so grotesque a fairy-tale as -hell," said Radiant. - -"More people believed than you would think," said Sarnac. "Few -people, of course, held it actively for long--or they would have gone -mad--but it was in the background of a lot of minds. And the others? -The effect of this false story about the world upon the majority of -minds was a sort of passive rejection. They did not deny, but they -refused to incorporate the idea with the rest of their thoughts. A -kind of dead place, a scar, was made just where there ought to have -been a sense of human destiny, a vision of life beyond the immediate -individual life ... - -"I find it hard to express the state of mind into which one grew. -The minds of the young had been outraged by these teachings; they -were no longer capable of complete mental growth, a possibility had -been destroyed. Perhaps we never did really take into ourselves and -believe that grotesque fairy-tale, as you call it, about hell but, -because of what it had done to our minds, we grew up without a living -faith and without a purpose. The nucleus of our religious being was -this suppressed fear of hell. Few of us ever had it out fairly into -the light of day. It was considered to be bad taste to speak of any -such things, or indeed of any of the primaries of life, either by way -of belief or denial. You might allude circuitously. Or joke. Most -of the graver advances in life were made under a mask of -facetiousness. - -"Mentally that world in the days of Mortimer Smith was a world -astray. It was astray like a lost dog and with no idea of direction. -It is true that the men of that time were very like the men of this -time--in their possibilities--but they were unhealthy in mind as well -as body, they were adrift and incoherent. Walking as we do in the -light, and by comparison simply and directly, their confusion, the -tortuous perplexity of their thoughts and conduct, is almost -inconceivable to us. There is no sort of mental existence left in -our world now, to which it can be compared." - - - -§ 5 - -"I think I mentioned the line of hills, the Downs that bounded the -world of my upbringing to the north. What lay beyond them was a -matter for wonder and speculation to me long before I was able to -clamber to their crests. In summer time the sun set behind them to -the north-west, often in a glow of gold and splendour, and I remember -that among my fancies was a belief that the Day of Judgment was over -there and that Celestial City to which Mr. Snapes would some day lead -us--in procession, of course, and with a banner. - -"My first ascent of this childhood's boundary must have occurred when -I was eight or nine. I do not remember with whom I went or any other -particulars, but I have a very acute memory of my disappointment at -looking down a long, very gentle slope and seeing nothing but fields -and hedges and groups of large sheep feeding. What I had expected to -find I cannot now remember. I seem to have noted only the foreground -then, and it must have been after many such excursions that I began -to realise the variegated spaciousness of the country to the north. -The view indeed went very far; on a clear day we saw blue hills -nearly twenty miles away; there were woodlands and parklands, brown -ridges of plough-land that became golden ridges of corn in summer -time, village churches amidst clustering greenery, and the gleaming -of ponds and lakes. Southward the horizon lifted as the Downs were -ascended and the breadth of the sea-belt increased. It was my father -who drew my attention to that, on the first occasion of our crossing -the Downs together. - -"'Go as 'igh as you like, 'Arry,' he said, 'and the sea goes up as -'igh. There it is, you see--level with us and we ever so 'igh above -Cherry Gardens. And yet it don't _drown'd_ Cherry Gardens! And why -don't it drown'd Cherry Gardens seeing that it might? Tell me that, -'Arry.' - -"I couldn't. - -"'Providence,' said my father triumphantly. 'Providence does it. -'Olds back the sea, Thus Far. And over there, see 'ow plain it is! -is France.' - -"I saw France and it was exceptionally plain. - -"'Sometimes you see France and sometimes you don't,' said my father. -'There's a lesson in that too, my boy, for those who care to take it.' - -"It had always been the custom of my father to go out after tea on -Sundays, summer and winter alike, and walk right over the Downs to -Chessing Hanger, six miles and more away. He went, I knew, to see my -Uncle John, Uncle John Julip, my mother's brother, who was gardener -to Lord Bramble of Chessing Hanger Park. But it was only when he -began to take me with him that I realised that these walks had any -other motive than fraternal (in law) affection and the natural desire -of a pent-up shopkeeper for exercise. But from the first journey on -I knew that the clue to these expeditions lay in the burthens with -which we returned to Cherry Gardens. Always there was supper in the -cosy little gardener's cottage, and always as we departed we picked -up an unobtrusive load of flowers, fruit or vegetables, celery, peas, -aubergines, mushrooms or what-not, and returned through the dusk or -moonlight or darkness or drizzle as the season and the weather might -determine to the little shop. And sometimes my father would be -silent or whistle softly and sometimes he would improve our journey -with a discourse on the wonders of nature, the beauty of goodness, -and the beneficence of Providence to man. - -"He talked of the moon one moonlight night. 'Look at it, 'Arry,' he -said--'a dead world. Like a skull it is, up there, stripped of its -soul which is its flesh so to speak and all its trees, which, if you -take me, were its 'air and its whiskers--stripped and dead for ever -and ever. Dry as a bone. And everyone who lived there gone too. -Dust and ashes and gone.' - -"'Where they gone, farver?' I would ask. - -"'Gorn to their judgment,' he would explain with gusto. 'Kings and -greengroshers, all the lot of 'em, tried and made sheep and goats of, -and gone to their bliss or their sufferings, 'Arry. According to -their iniquities. Weighed and found wanting.' - -"Long pause. - -"'It's a pity,' he said. - -"'What is, farver?' - -"'Pity it's over. It 'ud be something to look at, them running about -up there. Friendly-like it 'ud be. But that's questioning the ways -of Providence, that is. I suppose we'd be always staring up and -falling over things.... You never see a thing in this world, 'Arry, -that you think isn't right but what when you come to think it out it -isn't wiser than you knew. Providence is as deep as E is I and you -can't get be'ind 'im. And don't go banging them pears against your -side, my boy; they'm Wi'yums, and they won't like it.' - -"About the curious habits of animals and the ways and migrations of -birds my father would also talk very freely. - -"'Me and you, 'Arry, we walk by the light of reason. We 'ave -reasonable minds given us to do it with. But animals and birds and -worms and things, they live by Instink; they jus' feel they 'ave to -do this or that and they do it. It's Instink keeps the whale in the -sea and the bird in the air; but we go where our legs carry us as -reason 'as directed. You can't ask an animal Why did you do this? or -Why did you do that?--you just 'it it; but a man you ask and 'e 'as -to answer, being a reasonable creature. That's why we 'as jails and -punishment and are answerable for our sins, 'Arry. Every sin we 'as -to answer for, great or small. But an animal don't 'ave to answer. -It's innocent. You 'it it or else you leave it be....' - -"My father thought for a time. 'Except for dogs and some _old_ -cats,' he said. He mused among his memories for a time. 'I've known -some _sinful_ cats, 'Arry,' he said. - -"He would enlarge on the wonders of instinct. - -"He would explain how swallows and starlings and storks and such-like -birds were driven by instinct thousands of miles, getting drowned on -the way and dashed to pieces against lighthouses. 'Else they'd -freeze and starve where they was, 'Arry,' said my father. And every -bird knew by instinct what sort of nest it had to build, no one ever -showing it or telling it. Kangaroos carried their young in pouches -by instinct, but man being a reasonable creature made perambulators. -Chickens ran about by instinct directly they were born; not like -human children, who had to be carried and taken care of until reason -came. And jolly lucky that was for the chicken, 'For 'ow a 'en would -carry them,' said my father, 'I carn't imagine.' - -"I remember that I put my father into a difficulty by asking him why -Providence had not given birds an instinct against beating themselves -against lighthouses and moths against the gas-jet and the -candle-flame. For in the room over the shop on a summer's night it -was quite unpleasant to read a book because of the disabled flies and -moths that fell scorched upon its pages. 'It's to teach 'em some -lesson,' said my father at last. 'But what it's to teach them, -'Arry, I don't rightly know.' - -"And sometimes he would talk, with illustrative stories, of -ill-gotten gold never staying with the getter, and sometimes he would -talk of murders--for there were still many murders in the world--and -how they always came out, 'hide them as you may.' And always he was -ready to point out the goodness and wisdom, the cleverness, -forethought, ingenuity, and kindliness of Providence in the most -earnest and flattering manner. - -"With such high discourse did we enliven our long trudges between -Cherry Gardens and Chessing Hanger, and my father's tone was always -so exalted that with a real shock I presently came to realise that -every Sunday evening we were in plain English stealing and receiving -stolen produce from Lord Bramble's gardens. Indeed, I cannot imagine -how we should have got along without that weekly raid. Our little -home at Cherry Gardens was largely supported by my father's share in -the profits of these transactions. When the produce was too good and -costly for Cherry Gardens' needs, he would take it down to Cliffstone -and sell it to a friend there who had a fashionable trade." - -Sarnac paused. - -"Go on," said Radiant. "You are making us believe in your story. It -sounds more and more as if you had been there. It is so -circumstantial. Who was this Lord Bramble? I have always been -curious about Lords." - - - -§ 6 - -"Let me tell my story in my own way," said Sarnac. "If I answer -questions I shall get lost. You are all ready to ask a hundred -questions already about things I have mentioned and points familiar -to me but incomprehensible to you because our world has forgotten -them, and if I weaken towards you you will trail me away and away -further and further from my father and my Uncle Julip. We shall just -talk about manners and customs and about philosophy and history. I -want to tell my story." - -"Go on with your story," said Sunray. - -"This Uncle John Julip of mine, although he was my mother's brother, -was a cynical, opinionated man. He was very short and fatter than -was usual among gardeners. He had a smooth white face and a wise, -self-satisfied smile. To begin with, I saw him only on Sundays and -in white shirt sleeves and a large straw hat. He made disparaging -remarks about my physique and about the air of Cherry Gardens every -time he saw me. His wife had been a dissenter of some sort and had -become a churchwoman under protest. She too was white-faced and her -health was bad. She complained of pains. But my Uncle John Julip -disparaged her pains because he said they were not in a reasonable -place. There was stomachache and backache and heartburn and the -wind, but her pains were neither here nor there; they were therefore -pains of the imagination and had no claim upon our sympathy. - -"When I was nearly thirteen years old my father and uncle began -planning for me to go over to the Chessing Hanger gardens and be an -under-gardener. This was a project I disliked very greatly; not only -did I find my uncle unattractive, but I thought weeding and digging -and most of the exercises of a garden extremely tiring and boring. I -had taken very kindly to reading, I liked languages, I inherited -something of my father's loquaciousness, and I had won a special -prize for an essay in my school. This had fired the most -unreasonable ambitions in me--to write, to write in newspapers, -possibly even to write books. At Cliffstone was what was called a -public library to which the householders of Cliffstone had access and -from which members of their families could borrow books--during -holidays I would be changing my book almost every day--but at -Chessing Hanger there were no books at all. My sister Fanny -encouraged me in my reading; she too was a voracious reader of -novels, and she shared my dislike of the idea that I should become a -gardener. - -"In those days, you must understand, no attempt was made to gauge the -natural capacity of a child. Human beings were expected to be -grateful for any opportunity of 'getting a living.' Parents bundled -their children into any employment that came handy, and so most -people followed occupations that were misfits, that did not give full -scope for such natural gifts as they possessed and which commonly -cramped or crippled them. This in itself diffused a vague discontent -throughout the community, and inflicted upon the great majority of -people strains and restraints and suppressions that ate away their -possibility of positive happiness. Most youngsters as they grew up, -girls as well as boys, experienced a sudden tragic curtailment of -freedom and discovered themselves forced into some unchosen specific -drudgery from which it was very difficult to escape. One summer -holiday came, when, instead of enjoying delightful long days of play -and book-devouring in Cliffstone, as I had hitherto done, I was sent -off over the hills to stay with Uncle John Julip, and 'see how I got -on' with him. I still remember the burning disgust, the sense of -immolation, with which I lugged my little valise up the hills and -over the Downs to the gardens. - -"This Lord Bramble, Radiant, was one of the landlords who were so -important during the reigns of the Hanoverian Kings up to the time of -Queen Victoria the Good. They owned large areas of England as -private property; they could do what they liked with it. In the days -of Victoria the Good and her immediate predecessors these landlords -who had ruled the Empire through the House of Lords made a losing -fight for predominance against the new industrialists, men who -employed great masses of people for their private gain in the iron -and steel industries, cotton and wool, beer and shipping, and these -again gave way to a rather different type who developed advertisement -and a political and financial use of newspapers and new methods of -finance. The old land-holding families had to adapt themselves to -the new powers or be pushed aside. Lord Bramble was one of those -pushed aside, an indignant, old-fashioned, impoverished landowner. -He was in a slough of debts. His estates covered many square miles; -he owned farms and woodlands, a great white uncomfortable house, far -too roomy for his shrunken means, and two square miles of park. The -park was greatly neglected, it was covered with groups of old trees -infested and rotten with fungus; rabbits and moles abounded, and -thistles and nettles. There were no young trees there at all. The -fences and gates were badly patched; and here and there ran -degenerating roads. But boards threatening trespassers abounded, and -notices saying 'NO THOROUGHFARE.' For it was the dearest privilege -of the British landlord to restrict the free movements of ordinary -people, and Lord Bramble guarded his wilderness with devotion. Great -areas of good land in England in those days were in a similar state -of picturesquely secluded dilapidation." - -"Those were the lands where they did the shooting," said Radiant. - -"How did you know?" - -"I have seen a picture. They stood in a line along the edge of a -copse, with brown-leaved trees and a faint smell of decay and a touch -of autumnal dampness in the air, and they shot lead pellets at birds." - -"They did. And the beaters--I was pressed into that service once or -twice--drove the birds, the pheasants, towards them. Shooting -parties used to come to Chessing Hanger, and the shooting used to go -on day after day. It was done with tremendous solemnity." - -"But why?" asked Willow. - -"Yes," said Radiant. "Why did men do it?" - -"I don't know," said Sarnac. "All I know is that at certain seasons -of the year the great majority of the gentlemen of England who were -supposed to be the leaders and intelligence of the land, who were -understood to guide its destinies and control its future, went out -into the woods or on the moors to massacre birds of various sorts -with guns, birds bred specially at great expense for the purpose of -this slaughter. These noble sportsmen were marshalled by -gamekeepers; they stood in rows, the landscape was animated with the -popping of their guns. The highest in the land participated gravely -in this national function and popped with distinction. The men of -this class were in truth at just that level above imbecility where -the banging of a gun and the thrill of seeing a bird swirl and drop -is inexhaustibly amusing. They never tired of it. The bang of the -gun seems to have been essential to the sublimity of the sensations -of these sportsmen. It wasn't mere killing, because in that case -these people could also have assisted in killing the sheep and oxen -and pigs required by the butchers, but this sport they left to men of -an inferior social class. Shooting birds on the wing was the -essential idea. When Lord Bramble was not killing pheasants or -grouse he shot in the south of France at perplexed pigeons with -clipped wings just let out of traps. Or he hunted--not real animal -hunting, not a fair fight with bear or tiger or elephant in a jungle, -but the chasing of foxes--small stinking red animals about the size -of water-spaniels, which were sedulously kept from extinction for -this purpose of hunting; they were hunted across cultivated land, and -the hunters rode behind a pack of dogs. Lord Bramble dressed himself -up with extreme care in a red jacket and breeches of pigskin to do -this. For the rest of his time the good man played a card game -called bridge, so limited and mechanical that anyone nowadays would -be able to read out the results and exact probabilities of every deal -directly he saw his cards. There were four sets of thirteen cards -each. But Lord Bramble, who had never learnt properly to count up to -thirteen, found it full of dramatic surprises and wonderful -sensations. A large part of his time was spent in going from -race-course to race-course; they raced a specially flimsy breed of -horses in those days. There again he dressed with care. In the -illustrated papers in the public library I would see photographs of -Lord Bramble, with a silk hat--a top hat, you know--cocked very much -on one side 'in the Paddock' or 'snapped with a lady friend.' There -was much betting and knowingness about this horse-racing. His -Lordship dined with comparative intelligence, erring only a little on -the excessive side with the port. People still smoked in those days, -and Lord Bramble would consume three or four cigars a day. Pipes he -thought plebeian and cigarettes effeminate. He could read a -newspaper but not a book, being incapable of sustained attention; -after dinner in town he commonly went to a theatre or music-hall -where women could be seen, more or less undraped. The clothing of -that time filled such people as Lord Bramble with a coy covetousness -for nakedness. The normal beauty of the human body was a secret and -a mystery, and half the art and decoration of Chessing Hanger House -played stimulatingly with the forbidden vision. - -"In that past existence of mine I took the way of life of Lord -Bramble as a matter of course, but now that I recall it I begin to -see the enormous absurdity of these assassins of frightened birds, -these supporters of horses and ostlers, these peepers at feminine -thighs and shoulder-blades. Their women sympathised with their -gunmanship, called their horses 'the dears,' cultivated dwarfed and -crippled breeds of pet dogs, and yielded the peeps expected of them. - -"Such was the life of the aristocratic sort of people in those days. -They set the tone of what was considered a hard, bright, healthy -life. The rest of the community admired them greatly and imitated -them to the best of its ability. The tenant farmer, if he could not -shoot pheasants, shot rabbits, and if he could not bet twenty-pound -notes at the fashionable race-meeting at Goodwood, put his half-crown -upon his fancy at the Cliffstone races on Byford Downs--with his hat -cocked over one eye as much like Lord Bramble and King Edward as -possible. - -"Great multitudes of people there were whose lives were shaped -completely by the habits and traditions of these leaders. There was -my Uncle John Julip for example. His father had been a gardener and -his grandfather before him, and almost all his feminine ancestry and -his aunts and cousins were, as the phrase went, 'in service.' None -of the people round and about the downstairs of Chessing Hanger had -natural manners; all were dealing in some more or less plausible -imitation of some real lady or gentleman. My Uncle John Julip found -his ideal in a certain notorious Sir John ffrench-Cuthbertson. He -sought similar hats and adopted similar attitudes. - -"He bet heavily in imitation of his model, but he bet less -fortunately. This my aunt resented, but she found great comfort in -the way in which his clothing and gestures under-studied Sir John. - -"'If only he'd been _born_ a gentleman,' said my aunt, 'everything -'ud a-been all right. 'E's a natural sportsman; 'e eats 'is 'eart -out in the gardens.' - -"He certainly did not work his heart out. I do not remember ever -seeing him dig or carry or wheel a barrow. My memory of him in the -garden is of one who stood, one hand gripping a hoe as if it were a -riding whip under the tail of his coat, and the other gesticulating -or pointing out what had to be done. - -"To my father and myself he was always consciously aristocratic, -bearing himself in the grand manner. This he did, although my father -was a third as tall again as he was and far more abundantly -intelligent. He always called my father 'Smith.' - -"'What are you going to do with that boy, Smith?' he would ask. -'Seems to me, wants feedin' up and open air.' - -"My father, who secretly shared the general view that my Uncle John -under happier stars would have made a very fine gentleman, always -tried, as he expressed it, 'to keep his end up' by calling my uncle -'John.' He would answer, 'Carn't say as I've rightly settled that, -John. 'E's a regular book-worm nowadays, say what you like to him.' - -"'Books!' said my Uncle John Julip with a concentrated scorn of books -that was essentially English. 'You can't get anything out of books -that 'asn't been put into them. It stands to reason. There's -nothing in books that didn't first come out of the sile. Books is -flattened flowers at the best, as 'is Lordship said at dinner only -the other night.' - -"My father was much struck by the idea. 'That's what I tell 'im,' he -said--inexactly. - -"'Besides, who's going to put anything into a book that's worth -knowing?' said my uncle. 'It's like expecting these here tipsters in -the papers to give away something worth keeping to theirselves. Not -it!' - -"''Arf the time,' my father agreed, 'I expect they're telling you -lies in these books of yours and larfing at you. All the same,' he -reflected with an abrupt lapse from speculation to reverence, -'there's One Book, John.' - -"He had remembered the Bible. - -"'I wasn't speaking of that, Smith,' said my uncle sharply. -'Sufficient unto the day---- I mean, that's Sunday Stuff.' - -"I hated my days of trial in the gardens. Once or twice during that -unpleasant month I was sent with messages up to the kitchen and once -to the pantry of the great house. There I said something unfortunate -for my uncle, something that was to wipe out all possibility of a -gardener's career for me. - -"The butler, Mr. Petterton, was also a secondary aristocrat, but in a -larger and quite different manner from that of my uncle. He towered -up and looked down the slopes of himself, his many chins were pink -and stabbed by his collar, and his hair was yellow and very shiny. I -had to deliver into his hands a basket of cucumbers and a bunch of -blue flowers called borage used in the mixing of summer drinks. He -was standing at a table talking respectfully to a foxy little man in -tweeds who was eating bread-and-cheese and drinking beer; this I was -to learn later was Lord Bramble's agent. There was also a young -footman in this room, a subterranean room it was with heavily barred -windows, and he was cleaning silver plate with exemplary industry. - -"'So you brought this from the gardens,' said Mr. Petterton with fine -irony. 'And may I ask why Mr.--why Sir John did not condescend to -bring them himself?' - -"''E tole me to bring them,' I said. - -"'And pray who may you be?' - -"'I'm 'Arry Smith,' I said. 'Mr. Julip, 'e's my uncle.' - -"'Ah!' said Mr. Petterton and was struck by a thought. 'That's the -son of Smith who's a sort of greengrosher in Cliffstone.' - -"'Cherry Gardens, sir, we live at.' - -"'Haven't seen you over here before, my boy. Have you ever visited -us before?' - -"'Not 'ere, sir.' - -"'Not here! But you come over to the gardens perhaps?' - -"'Nearly every Sunday, sir.' - -"'Exactly. And usually I suppose, Master Smith, there's something to -carry back?' - -"'Almost always, sir.' - -"'Something a bit heavy?' - -"'Not too heavy,' I said bravely. - -"'You see, sir?' said Mr. Petterton to the foxy little man in tweeds. - -"I began to realise that something unpleasant was in the wind when -this latter person set himself to cross-examine me in a rapid, -snapping manner. What was it I carried? I became very red about the -face and ears and declared I did not know. Did I ever carry grapes? -I didn't know. Pears? I didn't know. Celery? I didn't know. - -"'Well, _I_ know,' said the agent. '_I_ know. So why should I ask -you further? Get out of here.' - -"I went back to my uncle and said nothing to him of this very -disagreeable conversation, but I knew quite well even then that I had -not heard the last of this matter." - - - - -CHAPTER THE THIRD - -MISFORTUNES COME UPON THE SMITH FAMILY - - -§ 1 - -"And now," said Sarnac, "I have to tell of a tornado of mischances -that broke up our precarious little home at Cherry Gardens -altogether. In that casual, planless, over-populated world there -were no such things as security or social justice as we should -understand these words nowadays. It is hard for us to imagine its -universal ramshackle insecurity. Think of it. The whole world -floated economically upon a cash and credit system that was -fundamentally fictitious and conventional, there were no adequate -protections against greedy abuses of those monetary conventions, no -watch kept over world-production and world-consumption, no knowledge -of the variations of climate year by year, and the fortunes not only -of individuals but of states and nations fluctuated irrationally and -uncontrollably. It was a world in which life was still almost as -unsafe for men and women as life remains to-day for a field-mouse or -a midge, which is never safe from one moment to another in a world of -cats and owls and swallows and the like. People were born haphazard, -gladdened, distressed, glorified or killed haphazard, and no one was -ready for either their births or their deaths. Sudden death there is -still in the world, a bright adventure--that lightning yesterday -might have killed all or any of us, but such death is a rare thing -and a clean thing. There is none of the distressful bearing-down to -death through want, anxiety, and illness ill-tended and -misunderstood, that was the common experience in the past. And one -death does not devastate a dozen or more lives as deaths often did in -the old days. A widow in the old days had lost not only her lover -but her 'living.' Yet life is full of subtle compensations. We did -not feel our endless dangers in those days. We had a wonderful power -of disregard until the chances struck us. - -"All children," said Sarnac, "start with an absolute confidence in -the permanence of the things they find about them. Disillusionment -about safety postulates clear-headedness. You could not realise your -dangers unless you were clear-headed, and if you were clear-headed -you had the fortitude to face your dangers. That old world was -essentially a world of muddle-headed sophisticated children, blind to -the universal catastrophe of the top-heavy and collapsing -civilisation in which they played their parts. They thought that -life was generally safe in a world of general insecurity. Misfortune -astonished everyone in those days, though I cannot understand why -they should have been astonished at any misfortune. - -"The first blow fell without notice about six weeks after I had come -back from Chessing Hanger to my last half year of schooling before I -became a gardener. It was late afternoon and I was home from school. -I was downstairs reading a book and my mother was clearing away tea -and grumbling at Fanny who wanted to go out. The lamp was lit, and -both I and my father who was having what he called 'a bit of a read -at the noosepaper' were as close up to its insufficient light as we -could get. We heard the shop bell jangle overhead. - -"'Drat it!' said my father. 'Whaddey want this time o' day?' - -"He removed his spectacles. He had bought a pair haphazard at a -pawnbroker's shop and always used them when he read. They magnified -his large mild eyes very greatly. He regarded us protestingly. What -_did_ they want? We heard the voice of Uncle John Julip calling down -the staircase. - -"'Mort'mer,' he said in a voice that struck me as unusual. I had -never heard him call my father anything but Smith before. - -"'That you, John?' said my father standing up. - -"'It's me. I want to speak to you.' - -"'Come down and 'ave some tea, John,' cried my father at the bottom -of the stairs. - -"'Somethin' to tell you. You better come up here. Somethin' -serious.' - -"I speculated if it could be any misdeed of mine he had come over -about. But my conscience was fairly clear. - -"'Now whatever can it be?' asked my father. - -"'You better go up and arst 'im,' my mother suggested. - -"My father went. - -"I heard my uncle say something about, 'We're busted. We've bin give -away and we're busted,' and then the door into the shop closed. We -all listened to the movements above. It sounded as though Uncle -Julip was walking up and down as he talked. My sister Fanny in her -hat and jacket flitted unobtrusively up the stairs and out. After a -time Prue came in; she had been helping teacher tidy up, she said, -though I knew better. Then after a long interval my father came -downstairs alone. - -"He went to the hearthrug like one in a trance and stood, staring -portentously in order to make my mother ask what was the matter. -'Why hasn't John come down for a bit of tea or something? Where's he -gone, Morty?' - -"''E's gorn for a van,' said my father; 'that's where 'e's gone. For -a van.' - -"'Whatever for?' asked my mother. - -"'For a removal,' said my father. 'That's what for.' - -"'Removal?' - -"'We got to put 'em up 'ere for a night or so.' - -"'Put'em up! Who?' - -"''Im and Adelaide. He's coming to Cherry Gardens.' - -"'You done mean, Morty, 'e's lost 'is situation?' - -"'I do. S'Lordship turned against 'im. Mischief 'as been made. -Spying. And they managed to get 'im out of it. Turned out 'e is. -Tole to go.' - -"'But surely they give 'im notice!' - -"'Not a bit of it. S'Lordship came down to the gardens 'ot and -strong. "'Ere," 'e said, "get out of it!" Like that 'e said it. -"You thank your lucky stars," 'e said, "I ain't put the 'tecs on to -you and your snivellin' brother-in-law." Yes. S'Lordship said that.' - -"'But what did 'e mean by it, Morty?' - -"'Mean? 'E meant that certain persons who shall be nameless 'ad put -a suspicion on John, told lies about 'im and watched 'im. Watched -'im they did and me. They've drawed me into it, Martha. They've -drawed in young 'Arry. They've made up a tale about us.... I always -said we was a bit too regular.... There it is, 'e ain't a 'ead -gardener any more. 'E ain't going to 'ave references give 'im; 'e -ain't ever going to 'ave another regular job. 'E's been betrayed and -ruined, and there we are!' - -"'But they say 'e took sompthing?--my brother John took sompthing?' - -"'Surplus projuce. What's been a perquisite of every gardener since -the world began....' - -"I sat with burning ears and cheeks pretending not to hear this -dreadful conversation. No one knew of my own fatal share in my -uncle's downfall. But already in my heart, like the singing of a -lark after a thunderstorm, was arising a realisation that now I might -never become a gardener. My mother expressed her consternation -brokenly. She asked incredulous questions which my father dealt with -in an oracular manner. Then suddenly my mother pounced savagely on -my sister Prue, reproaching her for listening to what didn't concern -her instead of washing up." - -"This is a very circumstantial scene," said Radiant. - -"It was the first great crisis of my dream life," said Sarnac. "It -is very vivid in my memory. I can see again that old kitchen in -which we lived and the faded table-cloth and the paraffin lamp with -its glass container. I think if you gave me time I could tell you -everything there was in that room." - -"What's a hearthrug?" asked Firefly suddenly. "What sort of thing -was your hearthrug?" - -"Like nothing on earth to-day. A hearthrug was a sort of rug you put -in front of a coal fire, next to the fender, which prevented the -ashes creeping into the room. This one my father had made out of old -clothes, trousers and such-like things, bits of flannel and bits of -coarse sacking, cut into strips and sewn together. He had made it in -the winter evenings as he sat by the fireside, sewing industriously." - -"Had it any sort of pattern?" - -"None. But I shall never tell my story, if you ask questions. I -remember that my uncle, when he had made his arrangements about the -van, came in for a bread-and-cheese supper before he walked back to -Chessing Hanger. He was very white and distressed looking, Sir John -had all faded away from him; he was like a man who had been dragged -out from some hiding-place, he was a very distressed and pitiful man -exposed to the light. I remember my mother asked him, ''Ow's -Adelaide taking it?' - -"My uncle assumed an expression of profound resignation. 'Starts a -new pain,' he said bitterly. 'At a time like this.' - -"My father and mother exchanged sympathetic glances. - -"'I tell you----' said my uncle, but did not say what he told us. - -"A storm of weak rage wrung him. 'If I knew who'd done all this,' he -said. 'That--that cat of a 'ousekeeper--cat I call her--she's got -someone what wanted my place. If she and Petterton framed it up----' - -"He struck the table, but half-heartedly. - -"My father poured him out some beer. - -"'Ugh!' said my uncle and emptied the glass. - -"'Got to face it,' said my uncle, feeling better. 'Got to go through -with it. I suppose with all these tuppenny-apenny villa gardens 'ere -there's jobbing work to be got. I'll get something all right.... -Think of it! Jobbing gardener! Me--a Jobber! By the Day! It'll -set up some of these 'ere season-ticket clerks no end to 'ave Lord -Bramble's gardener dragging a lawn-mower for them. I can see 'em -showing me to their friends out of the window. Bin 'ead-gardener to -a Lord, they'll say. Well, well----! - -"'It's a come-down,' said my father when my uncle had departed. 'Say -what you like, it's a come-down.' - -"My mother was preoccupied with the question of their accommodation. -'She'll 'ave to 'ave the sofa in the sitting-room I expect, and 'e'll -'ave a bit of a shake-up on the floor. Don't suppose she'll like it. -They'll 'ave their own bedding of course. But Adelaide isn't the -sort to be comfortable on a sofa.' - -"Poor woman! she was not. Although my uncle and my father and mother -all pointed out to her the untimeliness and inconsiderateness of her -conduct she insisted upon suffering so much that a doctor had to be -called in. He ordered a prompt removal to a hospital for an -immediate operation. - -"Those were days," said Sarnac, "of the profoundest ignorance about -the body. The ancient Greeks and the Arabs had done a little anatomy -during their brief phases of intellectual activity, but the rest of -the world had only been studying physiology in a scientific way for -about three hundred years. People in general still knew practically -nothing of vital processes. As I have told you they even bore -children by accident. And living the queer lives they did, with -abnormal and ill-prepared food in a world of unchecked infections, -they found the very tissues of the bodies going wrong and breaking -out into the queerest growths. Parts of these bodies would cease to -do anything but change into a sort of fungoid proliferation----" - -"Their bodies were like their communities!" said Radiant. - -"The same sort of thing. They had tumours and cancers and such-like -things in their bodies and Cherry-Garden urban-districts on their -countrysides. But these growths!--they are dreadful even to recall." - -"But surely," said Willow, "in the face of such a horrible -possibility which might afflict anyone, all the world must have -wanted to push on with physiological research." - -"Didn't they see," said Sunray, "that all these things were -controllable and curable?" - -"Not a bit of it," said Sarnac. "They didn't positively like these -tumours and cancers, but the community was too under-vitalised to put -up a real fight against these miseries. And everyone thought that he -or she would escape--until it had them. There was a general apathy. -And the priests and journalists and so forth, the common opinion -makers, were jealous of scientific men. They did their best to -persuade people that there was nothing hopeful in scientific -research, they did all they could to discredit its discoveries, to -ridicule its patient workers and set people against them." - -"That's what puzzles me most," said Sunray. - -"Their mental habits were different. Their minds hadn't been trained -to comprehensive thinking. Their thinking was all in compartments -and patches. The morbid growths in their bodies were nothing to the -morbid growths in their minds." - - - -§ 2 - -"My aunt in the hospital, with that lack of consideration for my -uncle that had always distinguished her, would neither recover nor -die. She was a considerable expense to him and no help; she added -greatly to his distresses. After some days and at the urgent -suggestion of my mother he removed himself from our sitting-room to a -two-roomed lodging in the house of a bricklayer in an adjacent -street; into this he crowded his furniture from Chessing Hanger, but -he frequented my father's shop and showed a deepening attachment to -my father's company. - -"He was not so successful a jobbing gardener as he had anticipated. -His short contemptuous way with his new clients in the villas of -Cliffstone failed to produce the respect he designed it to do; he -would speak of their flower-beds as 'two penn'orths of all-sorts' and -compare their gardens to a table-cloth or a window box; and instead -of welcoming these home-truths, they resented them. But they had not -the manliness to clear up this matter by a good straightforward -argument in which they would have had their social position very -exactly defined; they preferred to keep their illusions and just -ceased to employ him. Moreover, his disappointment with my aunt -produced a certain misogyny, which took the form of a refusal to take -orders from the wives of his patrons when they were left in sole -charge of the house. As many of these wives had a considerable -influence over their husbands, this too injured my uncle's prospects. -Consequently there were many days when he had nothing to do but stand -about our shop to discuss with my father as hearer the defects of -Cliffstone villa-residents, the baseness of Mr. Petterton and that -cat ('cat' he called her) and the probable unworthiness of any casual -customer who strayed into range of comment. - -"Nevertheless my uncle was resolved not to be defeated without a -struggle. There was a process which he called 'keeping his pecker -up,' which necessitated, I could not but perceive, periodic visits to -the Wellington public-house at the station corner. From these visits -he returned markedly more garrulous, more like Sir John -ffrench-Cuthbertson, and exhaling a distinctively courageous smell -when he coughed or breathed heavily. After a time, as his business -difficulties became more oppressive, my father participated in these -heartening excursions. They broadened his philosophical outlook but -made it, I fancied, rather less distinct. - -"My uncle had some indefinite sum of money in the Post Office Savings -Bank, and in his determination not to be beaten without a struggle he -did some courageous betting on what he called 'certs' at the -race-meetings on Byford Downs." - -"'Cert' beats me altogether," said Radiant. - -"A 'cert' was a horse that was certain to win and never did. A 'dead -cert' was an extreme form of the 'cert.' You cannot imagine how the -prospects and quality of the chief race-horses were discussed -throughout the land. The English were not a nomadic people, only a -minority could ride horses, but everybody could bet on them. The -King was, so to speak, head of the racing just as he was head of the -army. He went in person to the great race-meetings as if to bless -and encourage the betting of his subjects. So that my Uncle John -Julip was upheld by the most loyal and patriotic sentiments when he -wasted his days and his savings on Byford Downs. On several of these -occasions my father went with him and wrestled with fortune also. -They lost generally, finally they lost most of what they had, but on -one or two occasions, as my uncle put it, they 'struck it rich.' One -day they pitched upon a horse called Rococo, although it was regarded -as the very reverse of a 'cert' and the odds were heavy against it, -but an inner light seems to have guided my uncle; it came in first -and they won as much as thirty-five pounds, a very large sum for -them. They returned home in a state of solemn exaltation, which was -only marred by some mechanical difficulty in pronouncing the name of -the winning horse. They began well but after the first syllable they -went on more like a hen that had laid an egg than like rational souls -who had spotted a winner. 'Rocococo' they would say or 'Rococococo.' -Or they would end in a hiccup. And though each tried to help the -other out, they were not really helpful to each other. They diffused -an unusually powerful odour of cigars and courage. Never had they -smelt so courageous. My mother made them tea. - -"'_Tea!_' said my uncle meaningly. He did not actually refuse the -cup she put before him, but he pushed it a little aside. - -"For some moments it seemed doubtful whether he was going to say -something very profound or whether he was going to be seriously ill. -Mind triumphed over matter. 'Knew it would come, Marth,' he said. -'Knew allong it would come. Directly I heard name. Roc----' He -paused. - -"'Cococo,' clucked my father. - -"'Cocococo--hiccup,' said my uncle. 'I knew ourour 'ad come. Some -men, Smith, some men 'ave that instink. I would 'ave put my shirt on -that 'orse, Marth--only.... They wouldn't 'ave took my shirt.' - -"He looked suddenly very hard at me. 'They wouldn't 'ave took it, -'Arry,' he said. 'They done _take_ shirts!' "'No,' he said and -became profoundly thoughtful. - -"Then he looked up. 'Thirty-six to one against,' he said. 'We'd -'ave 'ad shirts for a lifetime.' - -"My father saw it from a wider, more philosophical point of view. -'Might never 'ave been spared to wear 'em out,' he said. 'Better as -it is, John.' - -"'And mind you,' said my uncle; 'this is only a beginning. Once I -start spotting 'em I go on spotting 'em--mind that. This Roc----' - -"'Cococo.' - -"'Cocococo--whatever it is, s'only a beginning. S'only the -firs'-ray-sunlight 'v' a glorious day.' - -"'In that case,' said my mother, 't'seems to me some of us might have -a share.' - -"'Certainly,' said my uncle, 'certainly, Marth.' And amazingly he -handed me a ten-shilling piece--in those days we had gold coins and -this was a little disk of gold. Then he handed Prue the same. He -gave a whole sovereign, a golden pound, to Fanny and a five-pound -Bank of England note to my mother. - -"'Hold on!' said my father warningly. - -"'Tha's a' right, Smith,' said my uncle with a gesture of princely -generosity. 'You share, seventeen pounce ten. Six pounce ten leaves -'leven. Lessee. One 'n' five six--seven--eight--nine--ten--'leven. -_Here!_' - -"My father took the balance of the money with a puzzled expression. -Something eluded him. 'Yers,' he said; 'but----' - -"His mild eye regarded the ten-shilling piece I still held exposed in -my hand. I put it away immediately but his gaze followed my hand -towards my pocket until it met the table edge and got into -difficulties. - -"'Thout the turf, Smith, there wouldn't be such a country as -England,' said my Uncle John, and rounded his remarks off with, 'Mark -my words.' - -"My father did his best to do so." - - - -§ 3 - -"But this hour of success was almost the only bright interlude in a -steady drift to catastrophe. In a little while I gathered from a -conversation between my mother and my father that we were 'behind -with the rent.' That was a quarterly payment we paid to the -enterprising individual who owned our house. I know all that sounds -odd to you, but that is the way things were done. If we got behind -with our rent the owner could turn us out." - -"But where?" asked Firefly. - -"Out of the house. And we weren't allowed to stay in the street. -But it is impossible for me to explain everything of that sort in -detail. We were behind with the rent and catastrophe impended. And -then my sister Fanny ran away from us. - -"In no other respect," said Sarnac, "is it so difficult to get -realities over to you and make you understand how I thought and felt -in that other life than in matters of sex. Nowadays sex is so -simple. Here we are free and frank men and women; we are trained so -subtly that we scarcely know we are trained, not to be stupidly -competitive, to control jealous impulses, to live generously, to -honour the young. Love is the link and flower of our choicest -friendships. We take love by the way as we take our food and our -holidays, the main thing in our lives is our creative work. But in -that dark tormented world in which I passed my dream life, all the -business of love was covered over and netted in by restraints and put -in fetters that fretted and tortured. I will tell you at last how I -was killed. Now I want to convey to you something; of the reality of -this affair of Fanny. - -"Even in this world," said Sarnac, "my sister Fanny would have been a -conspicuously lovely girl. Her eyes could be as blue as heaven, or -darken with anger or excitement so that they seemed black. Her hair -had a brave sweep in it always. Her smile made you ready to do -anything for her; her laughter made the world clean and brightly -clear about her even when it was touched with scorn. And she was -ignorant---- I can hardly describe her ignorance. - -"It was Fanny first made me feel that ignorance was shameful. I have -told you the sort of school we had and of our religious teachers. -When I was nine or ten and Fanny was fifteen, she was already -scolding me for fumbling with the pronunciation of words and -particularly with the dropping of the aspirate. - -"'Harry,' she said, 'if you call me Fenny again it's war and -pinching. My name's Fanny and yours is Harry and don't you forget -it. It's not English we talk in this place; it's mud.' - -"Something had stung her. She had been talking with someone with a -better accent and she had been humiliated. I think that someone may -have mocked her. Some chance acquaintance it must have been, some -ill-bred superior boy upon the Cliffstone promenade. But Fanny was -setting out now to talk good English and make me do the same, with a -fury all her own. - -"'If only I could talk French,' she said. 'There's France in sight -over there; all its lighthouses winking at us, and all we've got to -say is, "Parley vous Francy," and grin as if it was a joke.' She -brought home a sixpenny book which professed but failed to teach her -French. She was reading voraciously, greedily, to know. She read -endless novels but also she was reading all sorts of books, about the -stars, about physiology (in spite of my mother's wild scoldings at -the impropriety of reading a book 'with pictures of yer insides' in -it), about foreign countries. Her passion that I should learn was -even greater than her own passion for knowledge. - -"At fourteen she left school and began to help earn her living. My -mother had wanted her to go into 'service,' but she had resisted and -resented this passionately. While that proposal was still hanging -over her, she went off by herself to Cliffstone and got a job as -assistant book-keeper in a pork butcher's shop. Before a year was -out she was book-keeper, for her mind was as neat as it was nimble. -She earned enough money to buy books and drawing material for me and -to get herself clothes that scandalised all my mother's ideas of what -was becoming. Don't imagine she 'dressed well,' as we used to say; -she experimented boldly, and some of her experiments were cheap and -tawdry. - -"I could lecture to you for an hour," said Sarnac, "of what dress and -the money to buy dresses meant for a woman in the old world. - -"A large part of my sister's life was hidden from me; it would have -been hidden altogether but for the shameless tirades of my mother, -who seemed to prefer to have an audience while she scolded Fanny. I -can see now that my mother was bitterly jealous of Fanny because of -her unexhausted youth, but at the time I was distressed and puzzled -at the gross hints and suggestions that flew over my head. Fanny had -a maddening way of not answering back or answering only by some minor -correction. 'It's horrible, mother,' she would say. 'Not 'orrible.' - -"Behind her defensive rudenesses, unlit, unguided, poor Fanny was -struggling with the whole riddle of life, presented to her with an -urgency no man can fully understand. Nothing in her upbringing had -ever roused her to the passion for real work in the world; religion -for her had been a grimace and a threat; the one great reality that -had come through to her thoughts was love. The novels she read all -told of love, elusively, partially, and an impatience in her -imagination and in her body leapt to these hints. Love whispered to -her in the light and beauty of things about her; in the moonlight, in -the spring breezes. Fanny could not but know that she was beautiful. -But such morality as our world had then was a morality of abject -suppression. Love was a disgrace, a leering fraud, a smutty joke. -She was not to speak about it, not to look towards it until some good -man--the pork butcher was a widower and seemed likely to be the good -man in her case--came and spoke not of love indeed but marriage. He -would marry her and hurry home with his prize and tear the wrappings -from her loveliness, clumsily, stupidly, in a mood of morbidly -inflamed desire." - -"Sarnac," said Firefly, "you are horrible." - -"No," said Sarnac. "But that world of the past was horrible. Most -of the women, your ancestors, suffered such things. And that was -only the beginning of the horror. Then came the birth and -desecration of the children. Think what a delicate, precious and -holy thing a child is! They were begotten abundantly and abnormally, -born reluctantly, and dropped into the squalour and infection of an -overcrowded disordered world. Bearing a child was not the jolly -wholesome process we know to-day; in that diseased society it was an -illness, it counted as an illness, for nearly every woman. Which the -man her husband resented--grossly. Five or six children in five or -six years and a pretty girl was a cross, worried wreck of a woman, -bereft of any shred of spirit or beauty. My poor scolding, worried -mother was not fifty when she died. And one saw one's exquisite -infants grow up into ill-dressed, under-nourished, ill-educated -children. Think of the agony of shamed love that lay beneath my poor -mother's slaps and scoldings! The world has forgotten now the hate -and bitterness of disappointed parentage. That was the prospect of -the moral life that opened before my sister Fanny; that was the -antistrophe to the siren song of her imagination. - -"She could not believe this of life and love. She experimented with -love and herself. She was, my mother said, 'a bold, bad girl.' She -began I know with furtive kissings and huggings in the twilight, with -boy schoolfellows, with clerks and errand-boys. Some gleam of -nastiness came into these adventures of the dusk and made her recoil. -At any rate she became prim and aloof to Cherry Gardens, but only -because she was drawn to the bands and lights and prosperity of -Cliffstone. That was when she began to read and correct her accent. -You have heard of our old social stratifications. She wanted to be -like a lady; she wanted to meet a gentleman. She imagined there were -gentlemen who were really gentle, generous, wise and delightful, and -she imagined that some of the men she saw on the cliff promenade at -Cliffstone were gentlemen. She began to dress herself as I have told. - -"There were scores of such girls in every town in Europe," said -Sarnac, "turning their backs on their dreadful homes. In a sort of -desperate hope. - -"When you hear about the moral code of the old world," Sarnac went -on, "you are apt to think of it as a rule that everyone respected in -exactly the same way that you think everyone believed the professed -religions. We have not so much a moral code now as a moral training, -and our religion involves no strain on reason or instincts, and so it -is difficult for us to understand the tortuosity and evasions and -defiances and general furtiveness and meanness of a world in which -nobody really understood and believed the religious creeds, not even -the priests, and nobody was really convinced to the bone of the -sweetness and justice of the moral code. In that distant age almost -everybody was sexually angry or uncomfortable or dishonest; the -restraints we had did not so much restrain as provoke people. It is -difficult to imagine it now." - -"Not if you read the old literature," said Sunray. "The novels and -plays are pathological." - -"So you have my pretty sister Fanny, drawn by impulses she did not -understand, flitting like a moth out of our dingy home in Cherry -Gardens to the lights, bright lights of hope they seemed to her, -about the bandstand and promenade of Cliffstone. And there staying -in the lodging-houses and boarding-houses and hotels were limited and -thwarted people, keeping holiday, craving for bright excitements, -seeking casual pleasures. There were wives who had tired of their -husbands and husbands long weary of their wives, there were separated -people who could not divorce and young men who could not marry -because they could not afford to maintain a family. With their poor -hearts full of naughtiness, rebellious suppressions, jealousies, -resentments. And through this crowd, eager, provocative, and -defenceless, flitted my pretty sister Fanny." - - - -§ 4 - -"On the evening before Fanny ran away my father and my uncle sat in -the kitchen by the fire discoursing of politics and the evils of -life. They had both been keeping up their peckers very resolutely -during the day and this gave a certain rambling and recurrent quality -to their review. Their voices were hoarse, and they drawled and were -loud and emphatic and impressive. It was as if they spoke for the -benefit of unseen listeners. Often they would both be talking -together. My mother was in the scullery washing up the tea-things -and I was sitting at the table near the lamp trying to do some -homework my teacher had given me, so far as the distraction of this -conversation so close to me and occasional appeals to me to 'mark' -this or that, would permit. Prue was reading a book called -_Ministering Children_ to which she was much addicted. Fanny had -been helping my mother until she was told she was more a hindrance -than a help. Then she came and stood at my side looking over my -shoulder at what I was doing. - -"'What's spoiling trade and ruining the country,' said my uncle, 'is -these 'ere strikes. These 'ere strikes reg'ler -destrushion--destruction for the country.' - -"'Stop everything,' said my father. 'It stands to reason.' - -"'They didn't ought to be allowed. These 'ere miners'r paid and paid -'andsomely. Paid 'andsomely they are. 'Andsomely. Why! I'd be -glad of the pay they get, glad of it. They 'as bulldogs, they 'as -pianos. Champagne. Me and you, Smith, me and you and the middle -classes generally; we don't get pianos. We don't get champagne. -Not-tit....' - -"'Ought to be a Middle Classes Union,' said my father, 'keep these -'ere workers in their places. They 'old up the country and stop -trade. Trade! Trade's orful. Why! people come in now and look at -what you got and arst the price of this and that. Think twice they -do before they spend a sixpence.... And the coal you're expected to -sell nowadays! I tell 'em, if this 'ere strike comes off this 's -'bout the last coal you're likely to see, good or bad. Straight out, -I tell 'em....' - -"'You're not working, Harry,' said Fanny without troubling to lower -her voice. 'Don't see how you can work, with all this jawing going -on. Come out for a walk.' - -"I glanced up at her and rose at once. It wasn't often Fanny asked -me to go for a walk with her. I put my books away. - -"'Going out for a bit of fresh air, mother,' said Fanny, taking her -hat down from its peg. - -"'No, you don't--not at this time,' cried my mother from the -scullery. 'Ain't I said, once and for all----?' - -"'It's all right, mother, Harry's going with me. He'll see no one -runs away with me and ruins me.... You've said it once and for -all--times enough.' - -"My mother made no further objection, but she flashed a look of -infinite hate at my sister. - -"We went upstairs and out into the street. - -"For a time we said nothing, but I had a sense that I was going to be -'told things.' - -"'I've had about enough of all this,' Fanny began presently. 'What's -going to become of us? Father and uncle 've been drinking all day; -you can see they're both more than half-screwed. Both of 'em. It's -every day now. It's worse and worse and worse. Uncle hasn't had a -job these ten days. Father's always with him. The shop's getting -filthy. He doesn't sweep it out now for days together.' - -"'Uncle seems to have lost 'eart,' I said, 'since he heard that Aunt -Adelaide would have to have that second operation.' - -"'Lost heart! He never had any heart to lose.' My sister Fanny said -no more of my uncle--by an effort. 'What a home!' she cried. - -"She paused for a moment. 'Harry,' she said, 'I'm going to get out -of this. Soon.' - -"I asked what she meant by that. - -"'Never mind what I mean. I've got a situation. A different sort of -situation.... Harry, you--you care for me, Harry?' - -"Professions of affection are difficult for boys of thirteen. 'I'd -do anything for you, Fanny,' I said after a pause. 'You know I -would.' - -"'And you wouldn't tell on me?' - -"'Whad you take me for?' - -"'Nohow?' - -"'No'ow.' - -"'I knew you wouldn't,' said Fanny. 'You're the only one of the -whole crew I'll be sorry to leave. I do care for you, Harry. -Straight, I do. I used to care for mother. Once. But that's -different. She's scolded me and screamed at me till it's gone. -Every bit of it. I can't help it,--it's gone. I'll think of you, -Harry--often.' - -"I realised that Fanny was crying. Then when I glanced at her again -her tears were over. - -"'Look here, Harry,' she said, 'would you do--something--for me? -Something--not so very much--and not tell? Not tell afterwards, I -mean.' - -"'I'd do anything, Fanny.' - -"'It's not so very much really. There's that little old portmanteau -upstairs. I've put some things in it. And there's a little bundle. -I've put 'em both under the bed at the back where even Prying Prue -won't think of looking. And to-morrow--when father's out with uncle -like he is now every day, and mother's getting dinner downstairs and -Prue's pretending to help her and sneaking bits of bread--if you'd -bring those down to Cliffstone to Crosby's side-door.... They aren't -so very heavy.' - -"'I ain't afraid of your portmanteau, Fanny. I'd carry it more miles -than that for you. But where's this new situation of yours, Fanny? -and why ain't you saying a word about it at home?' - -"'Suppose I asked you something harder than carrying a portmanteau, -Harry?' - -"'I'd do it, Fanny, if I could do it. You know that, Fanny.' - -"'But if it was just to ask no questions of where I am going and what -I am going to do? It's--it's a good situation, Harry. It isn't hard -work.' - -"She stopped short. I saw her face by the yellow light of a street -lamp and I was astonished to see it radiant with happiness. And yet -her eyes were shining with tears. What a Fanny it was, who could -pass in a dozen steps from weeping to ecstasy! - -"'Oh! I wish I could tell you all about it, Harry,' she said. 'I -wish I could tell you all about it. Don't you worry about me, Harry, -or what's going to happen to me. You help me, and after a bit I'll -write to you. I will indeed, Harry.' - -"'You aren't going to run away and marry?' I asked abruptly. 'It'd -be like you, Fanny, to do that.' - -"'I won't say I am; I won't say I'm not; I won't say anything, Harry. -But I'm as happy as the sunrise, Harry! I could dance and sing. If -only I can do it, Harry.' - -"'There's one thing, Fanny.' - -"She stopped dead. 'You're not going back on me, Harry?' - -"'No. I'll do what I've promised, Fanny. But----' I had a moral -mind. I hesitated. 'You're not doing anything wrong, Fanny?' - -"She shook her head and did not answer for some moments. The look of -ecstasy returned. - -"'I'm doing the rightest thing that ever I did, Harry, the rightest -thing. If only I can do it. And you are a dear to help me, a -perfect dear.' - -"And suddenly she put her arms about me and drew my face to hers and -kissed me and then she pushed me away and danced a step. 'I love all -the world to-night,' said Fanny. 'I love all the world. Silly old -Cherry Gardens! You thought you'd got me! You thought I'd never get -away!' - -"She began a sort of chant of escape. 'To-morrow's my last day at -Crosby's, my very last day. For ever and ever. Amen. He'll never -come too near me again and breathe down my neck. He'll never put his -fat hand on my bare arm and shove his face close to mine while he -looks at my cash-sheet. When I get to----, wherever I'm going, -Harry, I'll want to send him a post card. Good-bye, Mr. Crosby, -good-bye, _dear_ Mr. Crosby. For ever and ever. Amen!' She made -what I knew to be her imitation of Mr. Crosby's voice. 'You're the -sort of girl who ought to marry young and have a steady husband older -than yourself, my dear. Did I ought? And who said you might call me -your dear, dear Mr. Crosby? Twenty-five shillings a week and pawings -about and being called dear, thrown in.... I'm wild to-night, -Harry--wild to-night. I could laugh and scream, and yet I want to -cry, Harry, because I'm leaving you. And leaving them all! Though -why I care I don't know. Poor, boozy, old father! Poor, silly, -scolding mother! Some day perhaps I may help them if only I get -away. And you--you've got to go on learning and improving, Harry, -learning, learning. Learn and get out of Cherry Gardens. Never -drink. Never let drink cross your lips. Don't smoke. For why -should anyone smoke? Take the top side of life, for it's easier up -there. Indeed, it's easier. Work and read, Harry. Learn French--so -that when I come back to see you, we can both talk together.' - -"'You're going to learn French? You're going to France?' - -"'Farther than France. But not a word, Harry. Not a word of it. -But I wish I could tell you everything. I can't. I mustn't. I've -given my promise. I've got to keep faith. All one has to do in the -world is to love and keep faith. But I wish mother had let me help -wash-up to-night, my last night. She hates me. She'll hate me more -yet.... I wonder if I'll keep awake all night or cry myself to -sleep. Let's race as far as the goods-station, Harry, and then walk -home.'" - - - -§ 5 - -"The next night Fanny did not come home at all. As the hours passed -and the emotion of my family deepened I began to realise the full -enormity of the disaster that had come upon our home." - -Sarnac paused and smiled. "Never was there so clinging a dream. I -am still half Harry Mortimer Smith and only half myself. I am still -not only in memory but half in feeling also that young English -barbarian in the Age of Confusion. And yet all the time I am looking -at my story from our point of view and telling it in Sarnac's voice. -Amidst this sunshine.... Was it really a dream? ... I don't believe -I am telling you a dream." - -"It isn't a bit like a dream," said Willow. "It is a story--a real -story. Do you think it was a dream?" - -Sunray shook her head. "Go on," she said to Sarnac. "Whatever it -is, tell it. Tell us how your family behaved when Fanny ran away." - -"You must keep in mind that all these poor souls were living in a -world of repressions such as seem almost inconceivable now. You -think they had ideas about love and sex and duty different from our -ideas. We are taught that they had different ideas. But that is not -the truth; the truth is that they had no clear, thought-out ideas -about such things at all. They had fears and blank prohibitions and -ignorances where we have ideas. Love, sex, these were things like -the enchanted woods of a fairy tale. It was forbidden even to go in. -And--none of us knew to what extent--Fanny had gone in. - -"So that evening was an evening of alarm deepening to a sort of moral -panic for the whole household. It seemed to be required of my family -that they should all behave irrationally and violently. My mother -began to fret about half-past nine. 'I've tole 'er, once for all,' -she said, partly to herself but also for my benefit. 'It's got to -stop.' She cross-examined me about where Fanny might be. Had she -said anything about going on the pier? I said I didn't know. My -mother fumed and fretted. Even if Fanny had gone on the pier she -ought to be home by ten. I wasn't sent to bed at the usual hour so -that I saw my father and uncle come in after the public-house had -closed. I forget now why my uncle came in to us instead of going -straight home, but it was not a very unusual thing for him to do so. -They were already disposed to despondency and my mother's white face -and anxious tiding deepened their gloom. - -"'Mortimer,' said my mother, 'that gal of yours 'as gone a bit too -far. Sarf-pars' ten and she isn't 'ome yet.' - -"''Aven't I tole 'er time after time,' said my father, 'she's got to -be in by nine?' - -"'Not times enough you 'aven't,' said my mother, 'and 'ere's the -fruit!' - -"'I've tole 'er time after time,' said my father. 'Time after time.' -And he continued to repeat this at intervals throughout the -subsequent discussion until another refrain replaced it. - -"My uncle said little at first. He took up his position on the -hearthrug my father had made and stood there, swaying slightly, -hiccupping at intervals behind his hand, frowning and scrutinising -the faces of the speakers. At last he delivered his judgment. -'Somethin'sappened to that girl,' he said. 'You mark my words.' - -"Prue had a mind apt for horrors. 'She's bin in 'naccident per'aps,' -she said. 'She may've bin knocked down.' - -"'I've tole 'er,' said my father, 'time after time.' - -"'If there's bin 'naccident,' said my uncle sagely. 'Well ... -'nything ma've 'appened.' He repeated this statement in a louder, -firmer voice. ''Nything ma've 'appened.' - -"'Stime you went to bed, Prue,' said my mother, ''igh time. 'N' you -too, 'Arry.' - -"My sister got up with unusual promptitude and went out of the room. -I think she must have had an idea then of looking for Fanny's things. -I lingered. - -"'May've been 'naccident, may not,' said my mother darkly. 'Sworse -things than accidents.' - -"'Whaddyoumean by that, Marth?' asked my uncle. - -"'Never mind what I mean. That girl's worried me times and oft. -There's worse things than accidents.' - -"I listened, thrilled. 'You be orf to bed, 'Arry,' said my mother. - -"Whaddyou got to do,--simple,' said my uncle, leaning forward on his -toes. 'Telephone 'ospitals. Telephone plice. Old Crow at the -Wellington won't've gone to bed. 'Sgot telephone. Good customers. -'E'll telephone. Mark my words--s'snaccident.' - -"And then Prue reappeared at the top of the stairs. - -"'_Mother!_' she said in a loud whisper. - -"'You be orf to bed, miss,' said my mother. ''Aven't I got worries -enough?' - -"'Mother,' said Prue. 'You know that little old portmantle of -Fanny's?' - -"Everyone faced a new realisation. - -"'Sgorn,' said Prue. 'And her two best 'ats and all 'er undercloe's -and 'er other dress--gorn too.' - -"'Then she's took 'em!' said my father. - -"'And 'erself!' said my mother. - -"'Time after time I tole her,' said my father. - -"'She's run away!' said my mother with a scream in her voice. 'She's -brought shame and disgrace on us! She's run away!' - -"'Some one's got 'old of 'er,' said my father. - -"My mother sat down abruptly. 'After all I done for 'er!' she cried, -beginning to weep. 'With an honest man ready to marry 'er! Toil and -sacrifice, care and warnings, and she's brought us to shame and -dishonour! She's run away! That I should 'ave lived to see this -day! Fanny!' - -"She jumped up suddenly to go and see with her own eyes that Prue's -report was true. I made myself as inconspicuous as possible, for I -feared some chance question might reveal my share in our family -tragedy. But I didn't want to go to bed; I wanted to hear things out. - -"'Sanny good my going to the plice-station for you on my way 'ome?' -my uncle asked. - -"'Plice!' said my father. 'What good's plice? Gaw! If I 'ad my -'ands on that villain's throat--I'd plice 'im! Bringing shame on me -and mine! _Plice_! 'Ere's Fanny, my little daughter Fanny, beguiled -and misled and carried away! ... I'm 'asty.... Yes, John. You go in -and tell the plice. It's on your way. Tell 'em from me. I won't -leave not a single stone unturned so's to bring 'er back.' - -"My mother came back whiter than ever. 'It's right enough,' she -said. 'She's gorn! She's off. While we stand 'ere, disgraced and -shamed, she's away.' - -"'Who with?' said my father. That's the question, who with? 'Arry, -'ave you ever seen anyone about with your sister? Anyone 'anging -about? Any suspicious-looking sort of dressed-up fancy man? 'Ave -you ever?' - -"I said I hadn't. - -"But Prue had evidence. She became voluble. About a week ago she -had seen Fanny and a man coming along from Cliffstone, talking. They -hadn't seen her; they had been too wrapped up in each other. Her -description of the man was very vague and was concerned chiefly with -his clothes; he had worn a blue serge suit and a grey felt hat; he -was 'sort of a gentleman like.' He was a good lot older than -Fanny--Prue wasn't sure whether he had a moustache or not. - -"My father interrupted Prue's evidence by a tremendous saying which I -was to hear him repeat time after time during the next week. -'Sooner'n this sh'd've 'appened,' said my father, 'I'd 've seen 'er -lying dead at my feet--_gladly_ I'd 've seen 'er lying dead at my -feet!' - -"'Poor girl!' said my uncle. 'Sabitter lesson she 'as before 'er. A -_bitter_ lesson! Poo' chile! Poo' little Fanny!' - -"'Poor Fanny indeed!' cried my mother vindictively, seeing it all, I -perceived, from an entirely different angle. 'There she is prancin' -about with 'er fancy gentleman now in all 'er fallals; dinners and -wine she'll 'ave, flowers she'll 'ave, dresses and everything. Be -took about and shown things! Shown off and took to theayters. The -shame of it! And us 'ere shamed and disgraced and not a word to say -when the neighbours ask us questions! 'Ow can I look 'em in the -face? 'Ow can I look Mr. Crosby in the face? That man was ready to -go down on 'is bended knees to 'er and worship 'er. Stout though 'e -was. 'E'd 'ave given 'er anything she arst for--in reason. What 'e -could see in 'er, I could never make out. But see it 'e did. And -now I've got to face 'im and tell 'im I've told 'im wrong. Time -after time I've said to 'im--"_You wait. You wait, Mr. Crosby_." -And that 'uzzy!--sly and stuck-up and deep! Gorn!' - -"My father's voice came booming over my mother's shrill outcry. -'Sooner'n this should've 'appened I'd 've seen er dead at my feet!' - -"I was moved to protest. But for all my thirteen years I found -myself weeping. ''Ow d'you know,' I blubbered, 'that Fanny 'asn't -gone away and got married? 'Ow d'you know?' - -"'Merried!' cried my mother. 'Why should she run away to be merried? -If it was merridge, what was to prevent 'er bringing 'im 'ome and -having 'im interjuced to us all, right and proper? Isn't her own -father and mother and 'ome good enough for her, that she 'as to run -away and get merried? When she could 'ave 'ad it 'ere at St. Jude's -nice and respectable with your father and your uncle and all of us -and white favours and a carriage and all. I wish I could 'ope she -was merried! I wish there was a chance of it!' - -"My uncle shook his head in confirmation. - -"'Sooner 'n this should 've 'appened,' boomed my father, 'I'd 've -seen 'er dead at my feet!' - -''Last night,' said Prue, 'she said 'er prayers.' - -"'Didn't she always say 'er prayers?' asked my uncle, shocked. - -"'Not kneeling down,' said Prue. 'But last night she was kneeling -quite a long time. She thought I was asleep but I watched 'er.' - -"'That looks bad,' said my uncle. 'Y'know, Smith; that looks bad. I -don't like that praying. Sominous. I don't like it.' - -"And then suddenly and violently Prue and I were packed off upstairs -to bed. - -"For long the sound of their voices went on; the three of them came -up into the shop and stood at the front door while my uncle gradually -took leave, but what further things they said I did not hear. But I -remember that suddenly I had a brilliant idea, suggested no doubt by -Prue's scrap of evidence. I got out of bed and knelt down and said, -'Pray God, be kind to my Fanny! Pray God not to be hard on Fanny! -I'm sure she means to get merried. For ever and ever. Amen.' And -after putting Providence upon his honour, so to speak, in this -fashion, I felt less mentally distracted and got back into bed and -presently I fell asleep." - -Sarnac paused. - -"It's all rather puzzling," said Willow. - -"It seemed perfectly natural at the time," said Sarnac. - -"That pork butcher was evidently a repulsive creature," said Firefly. -"Why didn't they object to him?" - -"Because the importance of the marriage ceremonial was so great in -those days as to dominate the entire situation. I knew Crosby quite -well; he was a cunning-faced, oily-mannered humbug with a bald head, -fat red ears, a red complexion and a paunch. There are no such -people in the world now; you must recall some incredible gross -old-world caricature to imagine him. Nowadays you would as soon -think of coupling the life of a girl with some gross heavy animal as -with such a man. But that mattered nothing to my father or my -mother. My mother I suspect rather liked the idea of the physical -humiliation of Fanny. She no doubt had had her own humiliations--for -the sexual life of this old world was a tangle of clumsy ignorances -and secret shames. Except for my mother's real hostility to Fanny I -remember scarcely a scrap of any simple natural feeling, let alone -any reasonable thinking, in all that terrible fuss they made. Men -and women in those days were so much more complex and artificial than -they are now; in a muddled way they were amazingly intricate. You -know that monkeys, even young monkeys, have old and wrinkled faces, -and it is equally true that in the Age of Confusion life was so -perplexing and irrational that while we were still children our minds -were already old and wrinkled. Even to my boyish observation it was -clear that my father was acting the whole time; he was behaving as he -imagined he was expected to behave. Never for a moment either when -drunk or sober did he even attempt to find out, much less to express, -what he was feeling naturally about Fanny. He was afraid to do so. -And that night we were all acting--all of us. We were all afraid to -do anything but act in what we imagined would be regarded as a -virtuous rôle." - -"But what were you afraid of?" asked Radiant. "Why did you act?" - -"I don't know. Afraid of blame. Afraid of the herd. A habit of -fear. A habit of inhibition." - -"What was the objection to the real lover?" asked Firefly. "I don't -understand all this indignation." - -"They guessed rightly enough that he did not intend to marry Fanny." - -"What sort of a man was he?" - -"I never saw him until many years afterwards. But I will tell you -about that when I come to it." - -"Was he--the sort of man one could love?" - -"Fanny loved him. She had every reason to do so. He took care of -her. He got her the education she craved for. He gave her a life -full of interest. I believe he was an honest and delightful man." - -"They stuck to each other?" - -"Yes." - -"Then why didn't he marry her--if it was the custom?" - -"He was married already. Marriage had embittered him. It embittered -many people. He'd been cheated. He had been married by a woman who -pretended love to impose herself upon him and his fortunes and he had -found her out." - -"Not a very difficult discovery," said Firefly. - -"No." - -"But why couldn't they divorce?" - -"In those days it took two to make a divorce. She wouldn't let him -loose. She just stuck on and lived on his loneliness. If he had -been poor he would probably have tried to murder her, but as it -happened he had the knack of success and he was rich. Rich people -could take liberties with marriage-restrictions that were absolutely -impossible for the poor. And he was, I should guess, sensitive, -affectionate and energetic. Heaven knows what sort of mind he was in -when he came upon Fanny. He 'picked her up,' as people used to say -casually. The old world was full of such pitiful adventures in -encounter. Almost always they meant disaster, but this was an -exceptional case. Perhaps it was as lucky for him that he met her as -it was for her that she met him. Fanny, you know, was one of those -people you have to be honest with; she was acute and simple; she cut -like a clean sharp knife. They were both in danger and want; the -ugliest chances might have happened to her and he was far gone on the -way to promiscuity and complete sexual degradation.... But I can't -go off on Fanny's story. In the end she probably married him. They -were going to marry. In some way the other woman did at last make it -possible." - -"But why don't you know for certain?" - -"Because I was shot before that happened. If it happened at all." - - - -§ 6 - -"_No!_" cried Sarnac, stopping a question from Willow by a gesture. - -"I shall never tell my story," said Sarnac, "if you interrupt with -questions. I was telling you of the storm of misfortunes that -wrecked our household at Cherry Gardens.... - -"My father was killed within three weeks of Fanny's elopement. He -was killed upon the road between Cherry Gardens and Cliffstone. -There was a young gentleman named Wickersham with one of the new -petrol-driven motor-cars that were just coming into use; he was -hurrying home as fast as possible, he told the coroner, because his -brakes were out of order and he was afraid of an accident. My father -was walking with my uncle along the pavement, talking. He found the -pavement too restricted for his subject and gestures, and he stepped -off suddenly into the roadway and was struck by the car from behind -and knocked headlong and instantly killed. - -"The effect upon my uncle was very profound. For some days he was -thoughtful and sober and he missed a race-meeting. He was very -helpful over the details of the funeral. - -"'You can't say 'e wasn't prepared, Marth,' he told my mother. 'You -can't say 'e wasn't prepared. Very moment 'e was killed, 'e 'ad the -name 'v' Providence on 'is lips. 'E'd been saying 'ow sorely 'e'd -been tried by this and that.' - -"''E wasn't the only one,' said my mother. - -"''E was saying 'e knew it was only to teach 'im some lesson though -he couldn't rightly say what the lesson was. 'E was convinced that -everything that 'appened to us, good though it seemed or bad though -it seemed, was surely for the best....' - -"My uncle paused dramatically. - -"'And then the car 'it 'im,' said my mother, trying to picture the -scene. - -"'Then the car 'it 'im,' said my uncle." - - - - -CHAPTER THE FOURTH - -THE WIDOW SMITH MOVES TO LONDON - - -§ 1 - -"In those days," said Sarnac, "the great majority of the dead were -put into coffins and buried underground. Some few people were burnt, -but that was an innovation and contrary to the very materialistic -religious ideas of the time. This was a world in which you must -remember people were still repeating in perfect good faith a creed -which included 'the resurrection of the body and the life -everlasting.' Intellectually old Egypt and her dreaming mummies -still ruled the common people of the European world. The Christian -creeds were themselves mummies from Lower Egypt. As my father said -on one occasion when he was discussing this question of cremation: -'It might prove a bit orkward at the Resurrection. Like not 'aving a -proper wedding garment so to speak.... - -"'Though there's Sharks,' said my father, whose mental transitions -were sometimes abrupt. 'And them as 'ave been eat by lions. Many of -the best Christian martyrs in their time was eat by lions.... They'd -_certainly_ be given bodies.... - -"'And if _one_ is given a body, why not another?' said my father, -lifting mild and magnified eyes in enquiry. - -"'It's a difficult question,' my father decided. - -"At any rate there was no discussion of cremation in his case. We -had a sort of hearse-coach with a place for the coffin in front to -take him to the cemetery, and in this vehicle my mother and Prue -travelled also; my elder brother Ernest, who had come down from -London for the occasion, and my uncle and I walked ahead and waited -for it at the cemetery gates and followed the coffin to the -grave-side. We were all in black clothes, even black gloves, in -spite of the fact that we were wretchedly poor. - -"''Twon't be my last visit to this place this year,' said my uncle -despondently, 'not if Adelaide goes on as she's doing.' - -"Ernest was silent. He disliked my uncle and was brooding over him. -From the moment of his arrival he had shown a deepening objection to -my uncle's existence. - -"'There's luck they say in funerals,' said my uncle presently, -striking a brighter note. 'Fi keep my eye open I dessay I may get a -'int of somethin'.' - -"Ernest remained dour. - -"We followed the men carrying the coffin towards the cemetery chapel -in a little procession led by Mr. Snapes in his clerical robes. He -began to read out words that I realised were beautiful and touching -and that concerned strange and faraway things: 'I am the Resurrection -and the Life. He that believeth in Me though he were dead yet shall -he live....' - -"'I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He shall stand at the -latter day upon the earth....' - -"'We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry -nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be -the Name of the Lord.' - -"Suddenly I forgot the bickerings of my uncle and brother and was -overcome with tenderness and grief for my father. A rush from my -memory of many clumsy kindlinesses, a realisation of the loss of his -companionship came to me. I recalled the happiness of many of my -Sunday tramps by his side in spring-time, on golden summer evenings, -in winter when the frost had picked out every twig in the downland -hedgerows. I thought of his endless edifying discourses about -flowers and rabbits and hillsides and distant stars. And he was -gone. I should never hear his voice again. I should never see again -his dear old eyes magnified to an immense wonder through his -spectacles. I should never have a chance of telling him how I cared -for him. And I had never told him I cared for him. Indeed, I had -never realised I cared for him until now. He was lying stiff and -still and submissive in that coffin, a rejected man. Life had -treated him badly. He had never had a dog's chance. My mind leapt -forward beyond my years and I understood what a tissue of petty -humiliations and disappointments and degradations his life had been. -I saw then as clearly as I see now the immense pity of such a life. -Sorrow possessed me. I wept as I stumbled along after him. I had -great difficulty in preventing myself from weeping aloud." - - - -§ 2 - -"After the funeral my brother Ernest and my uncle had a violent -wrangle about my mother's future. Seeing that my Aunt Adelaide was -for all practical purposes done for, my uncle suggested that he -should sell up most of his furniture, 'bring his capital' into the -greengrocery business and come and live with his sister. But my -brother declared that the greengrocery business was a dying concern, -and was for my mother moving into a house in Cliffstone when she -might let lodgings, Prue would be 'no end of a 'elp' in that. At -first this was opposed by my uncle and then he came round to the idea -on condition that he participated in the benefits of the scheme, but -this Ernest opposed, asking rather rudely what sort of help my uncle -supposed he would be in a lodging-house. 'Let alone you're never out -of bed before ten,' he said, though how he knew of this fact did not -appear. - -"Ernest had been living in London, working at a garage; he drove -hired cars by the month or job, and his respect for the upper classes -had somehow disappeared. The dignity of Sir John ffrench-Cuthbertson -at secondhand left him cold and scornful. 'You ain't going to 'ave -my mother to work for you and wait on you, no'ow,' he said. - -"While this dispute went on my mother with the assistance of Prue was -setting out the cold collation which in those days was the redeeming -feature of every funeral. There was cold ham and chicken. My uncle -abandoned his position of vantage on my father's rag hearthrug and we -all sat down to our exceptional meal. - -"For some little time the cold ham and chicken made a sort of truce -between my brother Ernest and my uncle, but presently my uncle -sighed, drank off his beer and reopened the argument. 'You know I -think, Marth,' he said, spearing a potato from the dish neatly with -his fork, 'you ought to 'ave some voice in what is going to become of -you. Me and this young man from London 've been 'aving a bit of a -difference 'bout what you ought to do.' - -"I realised abruptly from the expression of my mother's white face, a -sort of white intentness which her widow's cap seemed to emphasise, -that she was quite determined to have not only some voice but a -decisive voice in this matter, but before she could say anything my -brother Ernest had intervened. - -"'It's like this, mother,' he said, 'you got to do something, 'aven't -you?' - -"My mother was about to reply when Ernest snatched a sort of assent -from her and proceeded: 'Well, naturally I ask, what sort of thing -can you do? And as naturally, I answer Lodgings. You carn't expect -to go on being a greengrocer, because that ain't natural for a woman, -considering the weights and coal that 'as to be lifted.' - -"'And could be lifted easy, with a man to 'elp 'er,' said my uncle. - -"'If 'e _was_ a man,' said my brother Ernest with bitter sarcasm. - -"'Meaning----?' asked my uncle with cold hauteur. - -"'What I say,' said brother Ernest. 'No more, no less. So if you -take my advice, mother, what you'll do is this. You go down early -to-morrow to Cliffstone to look for a suitable little 'ouse big -enough to 'old lodgers and not so big as to break your back, and I'll -go and talk to Mr. Bulstrode about ending up your tenancy 'ere. Then -we'll be able to see where we are.' - -"Again my mother attempted to speak and was overborne. - -"''Fyou think I'm going to be treated as a nonentity,' said my uncle, -'you're making the biggest mistake you ever made in your life. See? -Now you listen to me, Marth----' - -"'You shut up!' said my brother. 'Mother's _my_ business first and -foremost.' - -"'_Shut up!_' echoed my uncle. 'Wot manners! At a funeral. From a -chap not a third my age, a mere 'azardous empty boy. _Shut_ up! You -shut up yourself, my boy, and listen to those who know a bit more -about life than you do. I've smacked your 'ed before to-day. Not -once or twice either. And I warmed your 'ide when you stole them -peaches--and much good it did you! I oughter've took yer skin off! -You and me 'ave never got on much, and unless you keep a civil tongue -in your head we ain't going to get on now.' - -"'Seeing which,' said brother Ernest with a dangerous calmness, 'the -sooner you make yourself scarce the better for all concerned.' - -"'Not to leave my on'y sister's affairs in the 'ands of a cub like -you.' - -"Again my mother essayed to speak, but the angry voices disregarded -her. - -"'I tell you you're going to get out, and if you can't get out of -your own discretion I warn you I'll 'ave to 'elp you.' - -"'Not when you're in mourning,' said my mother. 'Not wearing your -mourning. And besides----' - -"But they were both too heated now to attend to her. - -"'You're pretty big with your talk,' said my uncle, 'but don't you -preshume too far on my forbearance. I've 'ad about enough of this.' - -"'So've I,' said my brother Ernest and stood up. - -"My uncle stood up too and they glared at one another. - -"'That's the door,' said my brother darkly. - -"My uncle walked back to his wonted place on the hearthrug. 'Now -don't let's 'ave any quarrelling on a day like this,' he said. 'If -you 'aven't any consideration for your mother you might at least -think of 'im who has passed beyond. My objec' 'ere is simply to try -n'range things so's be best for all. And what I say is this, the -ideer of your mother going into a lodging-'ouse alone, without a -man's 'elp, is ridiculous, perfectly ridiculous, and only a -first-class inconsiderate young fool----' - -"My brother Ernest went and stood close to my uncle. 'You've said -enough,' he remarked. 'This affair's between me and my mother and -your motto is Get Out. See?' - -"Again my mother had something to say and again she was silenced. -"'This is man's work, mother,' said Ernest. 'Are you going to shift -it, uncle?' - -"My uncle faced up to this threat of Ernest. 'I've a juty to my -sister----' - -"And then I regret to say my brother laid hands on him. He took him -by the collar and by the wrist and for a moment the two black-clad -figures swayed. - -"'Lea' go my coat,' said my uncle. 'Lea' go my coat collar.' - -"But a thirst for violence had taken possession of Ernest. My mother -and Prue and I stood aghast. - -"'Ernie!' cried my mother, 'You forget yourself!' - -"'Sall _right_, mother,' said Ernie, and whirled my uncle violently -from the hearthrug to the bottom of the staircase. Then he shifted -his grip from my uncle's wrist to the seat of his tight black -trousers and partly lifted and partly impelled him up the staircase. -My uncle's arms waved wildly as if he clutched at his lost dignity. - -"'John!' cried my mother. ''Ere's your 'at!' - -"I had a glimpse of my uncle's eye as he vanished up the staircase. -He seemed to be looking for his hat. But he was now offering no -serious opposition to my brother Ernest's handling of him. - -"'Give it 'im, 'Arry,' said my mother. 'And there's 'is gloves too.' - -"I took the black hat and the black gloves and followed the struggle -upstairs. Astonished and unresisting, my uncle was propelled through -the front door into the street and stood there panting and regarding -my brother. His collar was torn from its stud and his black tie -disarranged. Ernest was breathing heavily. 'Now you be orf and mind -your own business,' said Ernie. - -"Ernie turned with a start as I pushed past him. ''Ere's your 'at -and gloves, uncle,' I said, handing them to him. He took them -mechanically, his eyes still fixed on Ernest. - -"'And you're the boy I trained to be 'onest,' said my uncle to my -brother Ernest, very bitterly. 'Leastways I tried to. You're the -young worm I fattened up at my gardens and showed such kindness to! -_Gratitood!_' - -"He regarded the hat in his hand for a moment as though it was some -strange object, and then by a happy inspiration put it on his head. - -"'God 'elp your poor mother,' said my Uncle John Julip. 'God 'elp -'er.' - -"He had nothing more to say. He looked up the street and down and -then turned as by a sort of necessity in the direction of the -_Wellington_ public-house. And in this manner was my Uncle John -Julip on the day of my father's funeral cast forth into the streets -of Cherry Gardens, a prospective widower and a most pathetic and -unhappy little man. That dingy little black figure in retreat still -haunts my memory. Even from the back he looked amazed. Never did a -man who has not been kicked look so like a man who has been. I never -saw him again. I have no doubt that he carried his sorrows down to -the _Wellington_ and got himself thoroughly drunk, and I have as -little doubt that he missed my father dreadfully all the time he was -doing so. - -"My brother Ernest returned thoughtfully to the kitchen. He was -already a little abashed at his own violence. I followed him -respectfully. - -"'You didn't ought t'ave done that,' said my mother. - -'What right 'as 'e to plant 'imself on you to be kept and waited on?' - -''E wouldn't 'ave planted 'imself on me,' my mother replied. 'You -get 'eated, Ernie, same as you used to do, and you won't listen to -anything.' - -"'I never did fancy uncle,' said Ernie. - -"'When you get 'eated, Ernie, you seem to forget everything,' said my -mother. 'You might've remembered 'e was my brother.' - -"'Fine brother!' said Ernie. 'Why!--who started all that stealing? -Who led poor father to drink and bet?' - -"'All the same,' said my mother, 'you 'adn't no right to 'andle 'im -as you did. And your poor father 'ardly cold in 'is grave!' She -wept. She produced a black-bordered handkerchief and mopped her -eyes. 'I did 'ope your poor father would 'ave a nice funeral--all -the trouble and expense--and now you've spoilt it. I'll never be -able to look back on this day with pleasure, not if I live to be a -'undred years. I'll always remember 'ow you spoilt your own father's -funeral--turning on your uncle like this.' - -"Ernest had no answer for her reproaches. 'He shouldn't 've argued -and said what he did,' he objected. - -"'And all so unnecessary! All along I've been trying to tell you you -needn't worry about me. I don't want no lodging-'ouse in -Cliffstone--_with_ your uncle or _without_ your uncle. I wrote to -Matilda Good a week come Tuesday and settled everything with -'er--everything. It's settled.' - -"'What d'you mean?' asked Ernest. - -"'Why, that 'ouse of hers in Pimlico. She's been wanting trusty 'elp -for a long time, what with her varicose veins up and downstairs and -one thing 'nother, and directly she got my letter about your poor -dear father she wrote orf to me. "You need never want a 'ome," she -says, "so long as I got a lodger. You and Prue are welcome," she -says, "welcome 'elp, and the boy can easy find work up 'ere--much -easier than 'e can in Cliffstone." All the time you was planning -lodging-'ouses and things for me I was trying to tell you---- - -"'You mean it's settled?' - -"'It's settled.' - -"'And what you going to do with your bits of furniture 'ere?' - -"'Sell some and take some....' - -"'It's feasible,' said Ernest after reflection. - - -"'And so we needn't reely 'ave 'ad that--bit of a' argument?' said -Ernest after a pause. 'Not me and uncle?' - -"'Not on my account you needn't,' said my mother. - -"'Well--we 'ad it,' said Ernest after another pause and without any -visible signs of regret." - - - -§ 3 - -"If my dream was a dream," said Sarnac, "it was a most circumstantial -dream. I could tell you a hundred details of our journey to London -and how we disposed of the poor belongings that had furnished our -home in Cherry Gardens. Every detail would expose some odd and -illuminating difference between the ideas of those ancient days and -our own ideas. Brother Ernest was helpful, masterful and irascible. -He got a week's holiday from his employer to help mother to settle up -things, and among other things that were settled up I believe my -mother persuaded him and my uncle to 'shake hands,' but I do not know -the particulars of that great scene, I did not see it, it was merely -mentioned in my hearing during the train journey to London. I would -like to tell you also of the man who came round to buy most of our -furniture, including that red and black sofa I described to you, and -how he and my brother had a loud and heated argument about some -damage to one of its legs, and how Mr. Crosby produced a bill, that -my mother understood he had forgiven us on account of Fanny long ago. -There was also some point about something called 'tenant's fixtures' -that led my brother and the landlord, Mr. Bulstrode, to the verge of -violence. And Mr. Bulstrode, the landlord, brought accusations of -damage done to the fabric of his house that were false, and he made -extravagant claims for compensation based thereon and had to be -rebutted with warmth. There was also trouble over carting a parcel -of our goods to the railway station, and when we got to the terminus -of Victoria in London it was necessary, I gathered, that Ernest -should offer to fight a railway porter--you have read of railway -porters?--before we received proper attention. - -"But I cannot tell you all these curious and typical incidents now -because at that rate I should never finish my story before our -holidays are over. I must go on now to tell you of this London, this -great city, the greatest city it was in the world in those days, to -which we had transferred our fates. All the rest of my story, except -for nearly two years and a half I spent in the training camp and in -France and Germany during the First World War, is set in the scenery -of London. You know already what a vast congestion of human beings -London was; you know that within a radius of fifteen miles a -population of seven and a half million people were gathered together, -people born out of due time into a world unready for them and born -mostly through the sheer ignorance of their procreators, gathered -together into an area of not very attractive clay country by an -urgent need to earn a living, and you know the terrible fate that at -last overwhelmed this sinfully crowded accumulation; you have read of -west-end and slums, and you have seen the cinema pictures of those -days showing crowded streets, crowds gaping at this queer ceremony or -that, a vast traffic of clumsy automobiles and distressed horses in -narrow unsuitable streets, and I suppose your general impression is a -nightmare of multitudes, a suffocating realisation of jostling -discomfort and uncleanness and of an unendurable strain on eye and -ear and attention. The history we learn in our childhood enforces -that lesson. - -"But though the facts are just as we are taught they were, I do not -recall anything like the distress at London you would suppose me to -have felt, and I do remember vividly the sense of adventure, the -intellectual excitement and the discovery of beauty I experienced in -going there. You must remember that in this strange dream of mine I -had forgotten all our present standards; I accepted squalor and -confusion as being in the nature of things, and the aspects of this -city's greatness, the wonder of this limitless place and a certain -changing and evanescent beauty, rise out of a sea of struggle and -limitation as forgetfully as a silver birch rises out of the swamp -that bears it. - -"The part of London in which we took up our abode was called Pimlico. -It bordered upon the river, and once there had been a wharf there to -which ships came across the Atlantic from America. This word Pimlico -had come with other trade in these ships; in my time it was the last -word left alive of the language of the Algonquin Red Indians, who had -otherwise altogether vanished from the earth. The Pimlico wharf had -gone, the American trade was forgotten, and Pimlico was now a great -wilderness of streets of dingy grey houses in which people lived and -let lodgings. These houses had never been designed for the -occupation of lodgers; they were faced with a lime-plaster called -stucco which made a sort of pretence of being stone; each one had a -sunken underground floor originally intended for servants, a door -with a portico and several floors above which were reached by a -staircase. Beside each portico was a railed pit that admitted light -to the front underground room. As you walked along these Pimlico -streets these porticos receded in long perspectives and each portico -of that endless series represented ten or a dozen misdirected, -incomplete and rather unclean inhabitants, infected mentally and -morally. Over the grey and dingy architecture rested a mist or a -fog, rarely was there a precious outbreak of sunlight; here and there -down the vista a grocer's boy or a greengrocer's boy or a fish hawker -would be handing in food over the railings to the subterranean -members of a household, or a cat (there was a multitude of cats) -would be peeping out of the railings alert for the danger of a -passing dog. There would be a few pedestrians, a passing cab or so, -and perhaps in the morning a dust-cart collecting refuse filth--set -out for the winds to play with in boxes and tin receptacles at the -pavement edge--or a man in a uniform cleaning the streets with a -hose. It seems to you that it must have been the most depressing of -spectacles. It wasn't, though I doubt if I can make clear to you -that it wasn't. I know I went about Pimlico thinking it rather a -fine place and endlessly interesting. I assure you that in the early -morning and by my poor standards it had a sort of grey spaciousness -and dignity. But afterwards I found the thing far better done, that -London architectural aquatint, in Belgravia and round about Regent's -Park. - -"I must admit that I tended to drift out of those roads and squares -of lodging-houses either into the streets where there were shops and -street-cars or southward to the Embankment along the Thames. It was -the shops and glares that drew me first as the lights began to fail -and, strange as it may seem to you, my memories of such times are -rich with beauty. We feeble children of that swarming age had, I -think, an almost morbid gregariousness; we found a subtle pleasure -and reassurance in crowds and a real disagreeableness in being alone; -and my impressions of London's strange interest and charm are, I -confess, very often crowded impressions of a kind this world no -longer produces, or impressions to which a crowded foreground or -background was essential. But they were beautiful. - -"For example there was a great railway station, a terminus, within -perhaps half a mile of us. There was a great disorderly yard in -front of the station in which hackney automobiles and omnibuses -assembled and departed and arrived. In the late twilight of an -autumn day this yard was a mass of shifting black shadows and gleams -and lamps, across which streamed an incessant succession of bobbing -black heads, people on foot hurrying to catch the trains: as they -flitted by the lights one saw their faces gleam and vanish again. -Above this foreground rose the huge brown-grey shapes of the station -buildings and the façade of a big hotel, reflecting the flares below -and pierced here and there by a lit window; then very sharply came -the sky-line and a sky still blue and luminous, tranquil and aloof. -And the innumerable sounds of people and vehicles wove into a deep, -wonderful and continually varying drone. Even to my boyish mind -there was an irrational conviction of unity and purpose in this -spectacle. - -"The streets where there were shops were also very wonderful and -lovely to me directly the too-lucid and expository daylight began to -fade. The variously coloured lights in the shop-windows which -displayed a great diversity of goods for sale splashed the most -extraordinary reflections upon the pavements and roadway, and these -were particularly gem-like if there had been rain or a mist to wet -the reflecting surfaces. One of these streets--it was called Lupus -Street, though why it had the name of an abominable skin disease that -has long since vanished from the earth I cannot imagine--was close to -our new home and I still remember it as full of romantic -effectiveness. By daylight it was an exceedingly sordid street, and -late at night empty and echoing, but in the magic hours of London it -was a bed of black and luminous flowers, the abounding people became -black imps and through it wallowed the great shining omnibuses, the -ships of the street, filled with light and reflecting lights. - -"There were endless beauties along the river bank. The river was a -tidal one held in control by a stone embankment, and the roadway -along the embankment was planted at the footway edge with plane trees -and lit by large electric lights on tall standards. These planes -were among the few trees that could flourish in the murky London air, -but they were unsuitable trees to have in a crowded city because they -gave off minute specules that irritated people's throats. That, -however, I did not know; what I did know was that the shadows of the -leaves on the pavements thrown by the electric glares made the most -beautiful patternings I had ever seen. I would walk along on a warm -night rejoicing in them, more particularly if now and then a light -breeze set them dancing and quivering. - -"One could walk from Pimlico along this Thames Embankment for some -miles towards the east. One passed little black jetties with -dangling oil lamps; there was a traffic of barges and steamers on the -river altogether mysterious and romantic to me; the frontages of the -houses varied incessantly, and ever and again were cleft by crowded -roadways that brought a shining and twinkling traffic up to the -bridges. Across the river was a coming and going of trains along a -railway viaduct; it contributed a restless _motif_ of clanks and -concussion to the general drone of London, and the engines sent puffs -of firelit steam and sudden furnace-glows into the night. One came -along this Embankment to the great buildings at Westminster, by -daylight a pile of imitation Gothic dominated by a tall clock-tower -with an illuminated dial, a pile which assumed a blue dignity with -the twilight and became a noble portent standing at attention, a -forest of spears, in the night. This was the Parliament House, and -in its chambers a formal King, an ignoble nobility and a fraudulently -elected gathering of lawyers, financiers and adventurers took upon -themselves, amidst the general mental obscurity of those days, a -semblance of wisdom and empire. As one went on beyond Westminster -along the Embankment came great grey-brown palaces and houses set -behind green gardens, a railway bridge and then two huge hotels, -standing high and far back, bulging with lit windows; there was some -sort of pit or waste beneath them, I forget what, very black, so that -at once they loomed over one and seemed magically remote. There was -an Egyptian obelisk here, for all the European capitals of my time, -being as honest as magpies and as original as monkeys, had adorned -themselves with obelisks stolen from Egypt. And farther along was -the best and noblest building in London, St. Paul's Cathedral; it was -invisible by night, but it was exceedingly serene and beautiful on a -clear, blue, windy day. And some of the bridges were very lovely -with gracious arches of smutty grey stone, though some were so clumsy -that only night could redeem them. - -"As I talk I remember," said Sarnac. "Before employment robbed me of -my days I pushed my boyish explorations far and wide, wandering all -day and often going without any meal, or, if I was in pocket, getting -a bun and a glass of milk in some small shop for a couple of pennies. -The shop-windows of London were an unending marvel to me; and they -would be to you too if you could remember them as I do; there must -have been hundreds of miles of them, possibly thousands of miles. In -the poorer parts they were chiefly food-shops and cheap clothing -shops and the like, and one could exhaust their interest, but there -were thoroughfares like Regent Street and Piccadilly and narrow Bond -Street and Oxford Street crammed with all the furnishings of the life -of the lucky minority, the people who could spend freely. You will -find it difficult to imagine how important a matter the mere buying -of things was in the lives of those people. In their houses there -was a vast congestion of objects neither ornamental nor useful; -purchases in fact; and the women spent large portions of every -week-day in buying things, clothes, table-litter, floor-litter, -wall-litter. They had no work; they were too ignorant to be -interested in any real thing; they had nothing else to do. That was -the world's reward, the substance of success--purchases. Through -them you realised your well-being. As a shabby half-grown boy I -pushed my way among these spenders, crowds of women dressed, wrapped -up rather, in layer after layer of purchases, scented, painted. Most -of them were painted to suggest a health-flushed face, the nose -powdered a leprous white. - -"There is one thing to be said for the old fashion of abundant -clothing; in that crowded jostling world it saved people from -actually touching each other. - -"I would push through these streets eastward to less prosperous -crowds in Oxford Street and to a different multitude in Holborn. As -you went eastward the influence of women diminished and that of young -men increased. Cheapside gave you all the material for building up a -twentieth-century young man from the nude. In the shop-windows he -was disarticulated and priced: hat five and sixpence, trousers -eighteen shillings, tie one and six; cigarettes tenpence an ounce; -newspaper a half-penny, cheap novel sevenpence; on the pavement -outside there he was put together and complete and the cigarette -burning, under the impression that he was a unique immortal creature -and that the ideas in his head were altogether his own. And beyond -Cheapside there was Clerkenwell with curious little shops that sold -scarcely anything but old keys or the parts of broken-up watches or -the like detached objects. Then there were great food markets at -Leadenhall Street and Smithfield and Covent Garden, incredible -accumulations of raw stuff. At Covent Garden they sold fruits and -flowers that we should think poor and undeveloped, but which everyone -in those days regarded as beautiful and delicious. And in Caledonian -Market were innumerable barrows where people actually bought and took -away every sort of broken and second-hand rubbish, broken ornaments, -decaying books with torn pages, second-hand clothing--a wonderland of -litter for any boy with curiosity in his blood.... - -"But I could go on talking endlessly about this old London of mine -and you want me to get on with my story. I have tried to give you -something of its endless, incessant, multitudinous glittering quality -and the way in which it yielded a thousand strange and lovely effects -to its changing lights and atmosphere. I found even its fogs, those -dreaded fogs of which the books tell, romantic. But then I was a boy -at the adventurous age. The fog was often very thick in Pimlico. It -was normally a soft creamy obscurity that turned even lights close at -hand into luminous blurs. People came out of nothingness within six -yards of you, were riddles and silhouettes before they became real. -One could go out and lose oneself within ten minutes of home and -perhaps pick up with a distressed automobile driver and walk by his -headlights, signalling to him where the pavement ended. That was one -sort of fog, the dry fog. But there were many sorts. There was a -sort of yellow darkness, like blackened bronze, that hovered about -you and did not embrace you and left a clear nearer world of deep -browns and blacks. And there was an unclean wet mist that presently -turned to drizzle and made every surface a mirror." - -"And there was daylight," said Willow, "sometimes surely there was -daylight." - -"Yes," Sarnac reflected; "there was daylight. At times. And -sometimes there was quite a kindly and redeeming sunshine in London. -In the spring, in early summer or in October. It did not blaze, but -it filled the air with a mild warmth, and turned the surfaces it lit -not indeed to gold but to amber and topaz. And there were even hot -days in London with skies of deep blue above, but they were rare. -And sometimes there was daylight without the sun.... - -"Yes," said Sarnac and paused. "At times there was a daylight that -stripped London bare, showed its grime, showed its real -ineffectiveness, showed the pitiful poverty of intention in its -buildings, showed the many coloured billstickers' hoardings for the -crude and leprous things they were, brought out the shabbiness of -unhealthy bodies and misfitting garments.... - -"Those were terrible, veracious, unhappy days. When London no longer -fascinated but wearied and offended, when even to an uninstructed boy -there came some intimation of the long distressful journey that our -race had still to travel before it attained even to such peace and -health and wisdom as it has to-day." - - - -§ 4 - -Sarnac stopped short in his talk and rose with something between a -laugh and a sigh. He stood facing westward and Sunray stood beside -him. - -"This story will go on for ever if I digress like this. See! the sun -will be behind that ridge in another ten minutes. I cannot finish -this evening, because most of the story part still remains to be -told." - -"There are roast fowls with sweet corn and chestnuts," said Firefly. -"Trout and various fruits." - -"And some of that golden wine?" said Radiant. - -"Some of that golden wine." - -Sunray, who had been very still and intent, awoke. "Sarnac dear," -she said, slipping her arm through his. "What became of Uncle John -Julip?" - -Sarnac reflected. "I forget," he said. - -"Aunt Adelaide Julip died?" asked Willow. - -"She died quite soon after we left Cherry Gardens. My uncle wrote, I -remember, and I remember my mother reading the letter at breakfast -like a proclamation and saying, 'Seems if she was reely ill after -all.' If she had not been ill then surely she had carried -malingering to the last extremity. But I forget any particulars -about my uncle's departure from this world. He probably outlived my -mother, and after her death the news of his end might easily have -escaped me." - -"You have had the most wonderful dream in the world, Sarnac," said -Starlight, "and I want to hear the whole story and not interrupt, but -I am sorry not to hear more of your Uncle John Julip." - -"He was such a perfect little horror," said Firefly.... - -Until the knife-edge of the hills cut into the molten globe of the -sun, the holiday-makers lingered watching the shadows in their last -rush up to the mountain crests, and then, still talking of this -particular and that in Sarnac's story, the six made their way down to -the guest-house and supper. - -"Sarnac was shot," said Radiant. "He hasn't even begun to get shot -yet. There is no end of story still to come." - -"Sarnac," asked Firefly, "you weren't killed in the Great War, were -you? Suddenly? In some inconsequent sort of way?" - -"Not a bit of it," said Sarnac. "I am really beginning to be shot in -this story though Radiant does not perceive it. But I must tell my -story in my own fashion." - -At supper what was going on was explained to the master of the -guest-house. Like so many of these guest-house-keepers he was a -jolly, convivial, simple soul, and he was amused and curious at -Sarnac's alleged experience. He laughed at the impatience of the -others; he said they were like children in a Children's Garden, agog -for their go-to-bed fairy-tale. After they had had coffee they went -out for a time to see the moonlight mingle with the ruddy afterglow -above the peaks; and then the guest-master led the way in, made up a -blazing pinewood fire and threw cushions before it, set out an -after-dinner wine, put out the lights and prepared for a good night's -story-telling. - -Sarnac remained thoughtful, looking into the flames until Sunray set -him off again by whispering: "Pimlico?" - - - -§ 5 - -"I will tell you as briefly as I can of the household in Pimlico -where we joined forces with my mother's old friend, Matilda Good," -said Sarnac; "but I confess it is hard to be reasonably brief when -one's mind is fuller of curious details than this fire is of sparks." - -"That's excellent!" said the master of the guest-house. "That's a -perfect story-teller's touch!" and looked brightly for Sarnac to -continue. - -"But we are all beginning to believe that he has been there," -whispered Radiant, laying a restraining hand on the guest-master's -knee. "And he"--Radiant spoke behind his hand--"he believes it -altogether." - -"Not _really_?" whispered the guest-master. He seemed desirous of -asking difficult questions and then subsided into an attention that -was at first a little constrained and presently quite involuntary. - -"These houses in Pimlico were part of an enormous proliferation of -houses that occurred between a hundred years and seventy years before -the Great War. There was a great amount of unintelligent building -enterprise in those decades in London, and at the building, as I have -already told you, I think, was done on the supposition that there was -an endless supply of fairly rich families capable of occupying a big -house and employing three or four domestic servants. There were -underground kitchens and servants' rooms, there was a dining-room and -master's study at the ground level, there was a 'drawing-room floor' -above, two rooms convertible into one by a device known as folding -doors, and above this were bedrooms on a scale of diminishing -importance until one came to attics without fire-places in which the -servants were to sleep. In large areas and particularly in Pimlico, -these fairly rich families of the builder's imagination, with servile -domestics all complete, never appeared to claim the homes prepared -for them, and from the first, poorer people, for whom of course no -one had troubled to plan houses, adapted these porticoed plaster -mansions to their own narrower needs. My mother's friend, Matilda -Good, was a quite typical Pimlico householder. She had been the -trusted servant of a rich old lady in Cliffstone who had died and -left her two or three hundred pounds of money----" - -The master of the guest-house was endlessly perplexed and made an -interrogative noise. - -"Private property," said Radiant very rapidly. "Power of bequest. -Two thousand years ago. Made a Will, you know. Go on, Sarnac." - -"With that and her savings," said Sarnac, "she was able to become -tenant of one of these Pimlico houses and to furnish it with a sort -of shabby gentility. She lived herself in the basement below and in -the attic above, and all the rest of the house she had hoped to let -in pieces, floor by floor or room by room, to rich or at least -prosperous old ladies, and to busy herself in tending them and -supplying their needs and extracting a profit and living out of them, -running up and down her staircase as an ant runs up and down a rose -stem tending its aphides. But old ladies of any prosperity did not -come into Pimlico. It was low and foggy, the children of its poorer -streets were rough and disrespectful, and it was close to the river -embankment over which rich, useless old ladies naturally expected to -be thrown. So Matilda Good had to console herself with less -succulent and manageable lodgers. - -"I remember Matilda Good giving us an account of those she had as we -sat in her front downstairs room having a kind of tea supper on the -evening of our arrival. Ernest had declined refreshment and -departed, his task as travel conductor done, but there were my mother -and Prue and myself, all in dingy black and all a little stiff and -strange, thawing slowly to tea and hot buttered toast with a poached -egg each, our mouths very full and our eyes and ears very attentive -to Matilda Good. - -"She appeared quite a grand lady to me that night. She was much -larger than any lady I had hitherto been accustomed to; she had a -breadth and variety of contour like scenery rather than a human -being; the thought of her veins being varicose, indeed of all her -anatomy being varicose and fantastic, seemed a right and proper one. -She was dressed in black with outbreaks of soiled lace, a large -gold-rimmed brooch fastened her dress at the neck and she had a gold -chain about her, and on her head was what was called a 'cap,' an -affair like the lower shell of an oyster inverted, made of layers of -dingy lace and adorned with a black velvet bow and a gold buckle. -Her face had the same landscape unanatomical quality as her body; she -had a considerable moustache, an overhung slightly mischievous mouth -and two different large dark-grey eyes with a slightly vertical cast -in them and very marked eyelashes. She sat sideways. One eye looked -at you rather sidelong, the other seemed to watch something over your -head. She spoke in a whisper which passed very easily into wheezy, -not unkindly laughter. - -"'You'll get no end of exercise on these stairs, my dear,' she said -to sister Prue, 'no end of exercise. There's times when I'm going up -to bed when I start counting 'em, just to make sure that they aren't -taking in lodgers like the rest of us. There's no doubt this 'ouse -will strengthen your legs, my dear. Mustn't get 'em too big and -strong for the rest of you. But you can easy manage that by carrying -something, carrying something every time you go up or down. -Ugh--ugh. That'll equalise you. There's always something to carry, -boots it is, hot water it is, a scuttle of coals or a parcel.' - -"'I expect it's a busy 'ouse,' said my mother, eating her buttered -toast like a lady. - -"'It's a toilsome 'ouse,' said Matilda Good. 'I don't want to -deceive you, Martha; it's a toilsome 'ouse. - -"'But it's a 'ouse that keeps full,' said Matilda Good, challenging -me with one eye and ignoring me with the other. 'Full I am now, and -full I've been since last Michaelmas, full right up; two permanents -I've 'ad three years on end and those my best floors. I've something -to be thankful for, all things considered, and now I got 'elp of a -sort that won't slide downstairs on a tea tray or lick the -ground-floor's sugar lump by lump knowing the lumps was counted and -never thinking that wetness tells, the slut! we'll get on swimmingly. -The sluts I've 'ad, Martha! These board-schools turn them out a -'orror to God and a danger to men. I can't tell you. It's a comfort -to set eyes on any girl as I can see at once 'as been brought up to -take a pride in 'erself. 'Ave a little of that watercress with your -toast, my dear. It'll do that complexion of yours good.' - -"My sister Prue reddened and took some watercress. - -"'The drawing-room floor,' said Matilda Good, 'is a lady. It isn't -often you keep a lady three years, what with the things they know and -the things they fancy they know, but I've kept her. She's a real -lady--born. Bumpus 'er name is--Miss Beatrice Bumpus. I don't know -whether you'll like her, Martha, when you set eyes on her, but she's -got to be studied. She's a particular sort of Warwickshire Bumpus -that hunts. She'll ask you if you want the vote, Martha, directly -she sees you're a fresh face. It isn't a vote or any old vote she -asks you to want, it's _the_ vote.' The whispering voice grew -thicker and richer and a persuasive smile spread far and wide over -the face. 'If it's all the same to you, Martha, you better say you -do.' - -"My mother was sipping her fourth cup of tea. 'I don't know,' she -said, 'as I altogether 'old with this vote.' - -"Matilda Good's great red hands, which had been lying apparently -detached in her lap, produced short arms and lace cuffs and waved -about in the air, waving my mother's objections away. ''Old with it -on the drawing-room floor,' wheezed Matilda. ''Old with it on the -drawing-room floor.' - -"'But if she arsts questions?' - -"'She won't wait to have them answered. It won't be difficult, -Martha. I wouldn't put you into a position of difficulty, not if I -could 'elp it. You just got to 'old with 'er quietly and she'll do -the rest.' - -"'Mother,' said Prue, who was still too overawed by Matilda Good to -address her directly. 'Mother, what _is_ this here vote?' - -"'Vote for Parliament, my dear,' said Matilda Good. - -"'When shall we get it?' asked my mother. - -"'You won't get it,' said Matilda Good. - -"'But if we did, what should we have to do with it, like?' - -"'_Nothing_,' said Matilda Good with bottomless contempt. 'All the -same it's a great movement, Martha, and don't you forget it. And -Miss Bumpus she works night and day, Martha, gets 'it about by -policemen, and once she was actually in prison a night, getting you -and me the vote.' - -"'Well, it shows a kind nature,' said my mother. - -"'My ground-floor's a gentleman. The worst of 'im is the books there -are to dust, books and books. Not that 'e ever reads 'em much.... -Very likely you'll 'ear 'im soon playing his pianola. You can 'ear -it down 'ere almost as if you were inside it. Mr. Plaice, 'e's an -Oxford gentleman and he works at a firm of publishers, Burrows and -Graves, they're called; a very 'igh-class firm I'm told--don't go in -for advertisements or anything vulgar. He's got photographs of Greek -and Latin statues and ruins round above his bookshelves and shields -with College arms. Naked some of the statues are, but for all that -none of them are anything but quite nice and genteel, _quite_ -genteel. You can see at once he's a University gentleman. And -photographs of Switzerland he's got. He goes up mountains in -Switzerland and speaks the language. He's a smoker; sets with a pipe -writing or reading evening after evening and marking things with his -pencil. Manuscripts he reads and proofs. Pipes he has with a pipe -for every day in the week, and a smoker's outfit all made with -bee-utiful stone, serpentine they call it, sort of bloodshot green it -is; tobacco-jar and a pot for feathers to clean his pipes, little -places for each day's pipe, everything all of stone; it's a regular -monument. And when you're dusting it--remember if you drop this here -serpentine it breaks like earthenware. Most of the maids I've 'ad -'ave 'ad a chip at that tobacco graveyard of 'is. And mind you----' -Matilda Good leant forward and held out her hand to arrest any -wandering of my mother's attention. '_'E don't 'old with Votes for -Women_! See?' - -"'One's got to be careful,' said my mother. - -"'One has. He's got one or two little whims, has Mr. Plaice, but if -you mind about them he don't give you much trouble. One of 'is whims -is to pretend to 'ave a bath every morning. Every morning he 'as a -shallow tin bath put out in his room and a can of cold water and a -sponge, and every morning he pretends to splash about in it something -fearful and makes a noise like a grampus singing a hymn--calls it 'is -Tub, he does; though it's a lot more like a canary's saucer. Says he -must have it as cold as possible even if there's ice on it. Well----' - -"Matilda Good performed a sort of landslide over the arm of her -chair, her head nodded, and the whisper became more confidential. -'He _doesn't_,' wheezed Matilda Good. - -"'You mean he doesn't get into the bath?' - -"'Not-tit,' said Matilda Good. 'You can see when he's really been in -by his wet footmarks on the floor. Not 'arf the time does he have -that bath. Per'aps 'e used to have it when he was a young man at -College. I wonder. But it's always got to be put out and the can -always got to be lugged up and poured out and poured away again, and -nobody's ever to ask if he'd like the chill taken off. Not the sort -of thing you ask a University gentleman. No. All the same,' said -Matilda Good, 'all the same I've caught 'im pouring his hand and -shaving water into that water-splash in the winter, after he'd been -going dirty for a week. But have a can of warm? Have the chill -taken off his water? Not Tim! It's curious, ain't it? But that's -one of his whims. - -"'I sometimes think,' said Matilda Good still more extravagantly -confidential, 'that perhaps he climbs all those mountains in -Switzerland same way as he takes his bath....' - -"She rolled back large portions of her person into a less symmetrical -attitude. 'This Mr. Plaice you must know,' she said, 'has a voice -between a clergyman's and a schoolmaster's, sort of hard and -superior, and when you say anything to him he's apt to make a noise, -"Arrr ... Arrr ... Arrr," a sort of slow neighing it is, as though he -doesn't think much of you but doesn't want to blame you for that and -anyhow can't attend to you properly. You mustn't let it annoy you. -It's the way he's been brought up. And he has a habit of using long -condescending sort of words to you. And calling you insulting names. -He'll think nothing of calling you "My worthy Abigail," or "Come in, -my rosy-fingered Aurora," when you knock in the morning. Just as -though a girl could keep 'er 'ands pink and clean with all these -fires to light! He'll ask of me 'How's the Good Matilda? How's -honest Matilda Good to-day?"--sort of fiddling about with your name. -Of course he don't mean to be rude; it's just his idea of being -pleasant and humorous, and making you feel you're being made fun of -in a gentle sort of way instead of being terrible like he might be, -and--seeing he's good pay and very little trouble, Martha--it's no -good getting offended with him. All the same I can't help thinking -at times of how he'd get on if I answered 'im back, and which of us -two would be left alive if we had a fair match of it, making fun of -one another. The things--the things I could say! But that,' said -Matilda Good, breaking into an ingratiating smile of extraordinary -extent and rolling one eye at me--'is just a dream. It isn't the -sort of dream to indulge in in this 'ouse. I've rehearsed it a bit, -I admit. Says 'e--but never mind what 'e says or what I says back to -him.... Ugh! Ugh! ... He's good pay and regular, my dear; he ain't -likely to lose his job and he ain't likely ever to get another, and -in this Vale anyhow we got to put up with 'is whims. And----' - -"Matilda Good spoke as one who confesses to a weakness. 'His pianola -cheers me up at times. I will say that for 'im. It's almost the -only noise one hears from him. Except when he takes off his boots. - -"'Well, up above my drawing-room at present is my second floor front, -the Reverend Moggeridge and his good lady. They been here five -months now and they seem like taking root.' - -"'Not a clergyman?' said my mother respectfully. - -"'A very poor clergyman,' said Matilda, 'but a clergyman. So much to -our credit, Martha. Oh! but they're poor old things! Poor old -things! Been curate or something all his life in some -out-of-the-world place. And lost his job. Somebody had the heart to -turn 'em out. Or something happened. I wonder. 'E's a funny old -man.... - -"'He dodders off nearly every Saturday on supply, they call it, to -take services somewhere over the Sunday, and like as not he comes -back with his cold worse than ever, sniffing and sniffing. It's -cruel how they treat these poor old parsons on supply, fetch 'em from -the station in open traps they do, in the worst of weather, and often -the rectory tee-total without a drop of anything for a cold. -Christianity! I suppose it's got to be.... The two of them just -potter about upstairs and make shift to get their meals, such as they -are, over the bedroom fire. She even does a bit of her own washing. -Dragging about. Poor old things! Old and forgotten and left about. -But they're very little trouble and there it is. And as I -say--anyhow--he's a clergyman. And in the other room at the back -there's a German lady who teaches--well, anything she can persuade -anyone to be taught. She hasn't been here more than a month, and I -don't know whether I like her or not, but she seems straight enough -and she keeps herself pretty much to herself and when one has a room -to let one can't always pick and choose. - -"'And that's the lot, my dear. To-morrow we'll have to begin. -You'll go up presently and settle into your two rooms at the top. -There's a little one for Mortimer and a rather bigger one for you and -Prue. There's pegs and curtains for your things. I'm next door to -you. I'll give you my little old alarum clock and show you all about -it and to-morrow at seven sharp down we come, you and me and Prue. -My Lord, I suppose, has the privilege of his sex and doesn't come -down until half-past! Oh! I'm a suffragette, Martha,--same as Miss -Bumpus. First thing is this fire, and unless we rake the ashes well -forward the boiler won't heat. Then there's fires and boots, dust -the front rooms and breakfasts: Mr. Plaice at eight sharp and mind it -is, and Miss Bumpus at eight-thirty, and get away with Mr. Plaice if -you can first because of the shortness of tablespoons. Five I got -altogether and before I lost my last third floor back I 'ad seven. -'E was a nice lot; 'e was. The old people get their own breakfast -when they want it, and Frau Buchholz has a tray, just bread and -butter and tea, whenever we can manage it after the drawing-room's -been seen to. That's the programme, Martha.' - -"'I'll do my best, 'Tilda,' said my mother. '_As_ you know.' - -"'Hullo!' said Matilda indicating the ceiling, 'the concert's going -to begin. That bump's him letting down the pianola pedals.' - -"And then suddenly through the ceiling into our subterranean -tea-party came a rush of Clavier notes--I can't describe it. - -"One of the few really good things of that age was the music. -Mankind perfected some things very early; I suppose precious-stone -work and gold work have never got very much beyond the levels it -reached under the Seventeenth Dynasty in Egypt, ages ago, and marble -statuary came to a climax at Athens before the conquests of -Alexander. I doubt if there has ever come very much sweeter music -into the world than the tuneful stuff we had away back there in the -Age of Confusion. This music Mr. Plaice was giving us was some bits -of Schumann's _Carnaval_ music; we hear it still played on the -Clavier; and it was almost the first good music I ever heard. There -had been brass bands on Cliffstone promenade, of course, but they -simply made a glad row. I don't know if you understand what a -pianola was. It was an instrument for playing the Clavier with -hammers directed by means of perforated rolls, for the use of those -who lacked the intelligence and dexterity to read music and play the -Clavier with their hands. Because everyone was frightfully unhandy -in those days. It thumped a little and struck undiscriminating -chords, but Mr. Plaice managed it fairly well and the result came, -filtered through the ceiling---- As we used to say in those days, it -might have been worse. - -"At the thoughts of that music I recall--and whenever I hear Schumann -as long as I live I shall recall--the picture of that underground -room, the little fire-place with the kettle on a hob, the -kettle-holder and the toasting fork beside the fire-place jamb, the -steel fender, the ashes, the small blotched looking-glass over the -mantel, the little china figures of dogs in front of the glass, the -gaslight in a frosted glass globe hanging from the ceiling and -lighting the tea-things on the table. (Yes, the house was lit by -coal-gas; electric light was only just coming in.... My dear -Firefly! can I possibly stop my story to tell you what coal-gas was? -A good girl would have learnt that long ago.) - -"There sat Matilda Good reduced to a sort of imbecile ecstasy by -these butterflies of melody. She nodded her cap, she rolled her head -and smiled; she made appreciative rhythmic gestures with her hands; -one eye would meet you in a joyous search for sympathy while the -other contemplated the dingy wall-paper beyond. I too was deeply -stirred. But my mother and sister Prue sat in their black with an -expression of forced devotion, looking very refined and correct, -exactly as they had sat and listened to my father's funeral service -five days before. - -"'Sputiful,' whispered my mother, like making a response in church, -when the first piece came to an end.... - -"I went to sleep that night in my little attic with fragments of -Schumann, Bach and Beethoven chasing elusively about my brain. I -perceived that a new phase of life had come to me.... - -"Jewels," said Sarnac. "Some sculpture, music--just a few lovely -beginnings there were already of what man could do with life. Such -things I see now were the seeds of the new world of promise already -there in the dark matrix of the old." - - - -§ 6 - -"Next morning revealed a new Mathilda Good, active and urgent, in a -loose and rather unclean mauve cotton wrapper and her head wrapped up -in a sort of turban of figured silk. This costume she wore most of -the day except that she did her hair and put on a cotton lace cap in -the afternoon. (The black dress and the real lace cap and the -brooch, I was to learn, were for Sundays and for week-day evenings of -distinction.) My mother and Prue were arrayed in rough aprons which -Matilda had very thoughtfully bought for them. There was a great -bustle in the basement of the house, and Prue a little before eight -went up with Matilda to learn how to set out breakfast for Mr. -Plaice. I made his acquaintance later in the day when I took up the -late edition of the _Evening Standard_ to him. I found him a -stooping, tall gentleman with a cadaverous face that was mostly -profile, and he made great play with my Christian name. - -"'Mortimer,' he said and neighed his neigh. 'Well--it might have -been Norfolk-Howard.' - -"There was an obscure allusion in that: for once upon a time, ran the -popular legend, a certain Mr. Bugg seeking a less entomological name -had changed his to Norfolk-Howard, which was in those days a very -aristocratic one.... Whereupon vulgar people had equalised matters -by calling the offensive bed-bugs that abounded in London, -'Norfolk-Howards.' - -"Before many weeks were past it became evident that Matilda Good had -made an excellent bargain in her annexation of our family. She had -secured my mother's services for nothing, and it was manifest that my -mother was a born lodging-house woman. She behaved like a partner in -the concern, and the only money Matilda ever gave her was to pay her -expenses upon some specific errand or to buy some specific thing. -Prue, however, with unexpected firmness, insisted upon wages, and -enforced her claim by going out and nearly getting employment at a -dressmaker's. In a little while Matilda became to the lodgers an -unseen power for righteousness in the basement and all the staircase -work was left to my mother and Prue. Often Matilda did not go up -above the ground level once all day until, as she said, she 'toddled -up to bed.' - -"Matilda made some ingenuous attempts to utilise me also in the -service of the household: I was exhorted to carry up scuttles of -coal, clean boots and knives and make myself useful generally. She -even put it to me one day whether I wouldn't like a nice suit with -buttons--in those days they still used to put small serving boys in -tight suits of green or brown cloth, with rows of gilt buttons as -close together as possible over their little chests and stomachs. -But the very thought of it sent my mind to Chessing Hanger, where I -had conceived an intense hatred and dread of 'service' and 'livery,' -and determined me to find some other employment before Matilda Good's -large and insidious will enveloped and overcame me. And, oddly -enough, a talk I had with Miss Beatrice Bumpus helped me greatly in -my determination. - -"Miss Bumpus was a slender young woman of about five and twenty, I -suppose. She had short brown hair, brushed back rather prettily from -a broad forehead, and she had freckles on her nose and quick -red-brown eyes. She generally wore a plaid tweed costume rather -short in the skirt and with a coat cut like a man's; she wore green -stockings and brown shoes--I had never seen green stockings -before--and she would stand on her hearthrug in exactly the attitude -Mr. Plaice adopted on his hearthrug downstairs. Or she would be -sitting at a writing-desk against the window, smoking cigarettes. -She asked me what sort of man I intended to be, and I said with the -sort of modesty I had been taught to assume as becoming my station, -that I hadn't thought yet. - -"To which Miss Bumpus answered, 'Liar.' - -"That was the sort of remark that either kills or cures. I said, -'Well, Miss, I want to get educated and I don't know how to do it. -And I don't know what I ought to do.' - -"Miss Bumpus held me with a gesture while she showed how nicely she -could send out smoke through her nose. Then she said, 'Avoid Blind -Alley Occupations.' - -"'Yes, Miss.' - -"'But you don't know what Blind Alley Occupations are?' - -"'No, Miss.' - -"'Occupations that earn a boy wages and lead nowhere. One of the -endless pitfalls of this silly man-made pseudo-civilisation. Never -do anything that doesn't lead somewhere. Aim high. I must think -your case out, Mr. Harry Mortimer. I might be able to help you....' - -"This was the opening of quite a number of conversations between -myself and Miss Bumpus. She was a very stimulating influence in my -adolescence. She pointed out that although it was now late in the -year, there were many evening classes of various sorts that I might -attend with profit. She told me of all sorts of prominent and -successful people who had begun their careers from beginnings as -humble and hopeless as mine. She said I was 'unhampered' by my sex. -She asked me if I was interested in the suffrage movement, and gave -me tickets for two meetings at which I heard her speak, and she -spoke, I thought, very well. She answered some interrupters with -extreme effectiveness, and I cheered myself hoarse for her. -Something about her light and gallant attitude to life reminded me of -Fanny. I said so one day, and found myself, before I knew it, -telling her reluctantly and shamefully the story of our family -disgrace. Miss Bumpus was much interested. - -"'She wasn't like your sister Prue?' - -"'No, Miss.' - -"'Prettier?' - -"'A lot prettier. Of course--you could hardly call Prue _pretty_, -Miss.' - -"'I hope she's got on all right,' said Miss Bumpus. 'I don't blame -her a bit. But I hope she got the best of it.' - -"'I'd give anything, Miss, to hear Fanny was all right.... I did -care for Fanny, Miss.... I'd give anything almost to see Fanny -again.... You won't tell my mother, Miss, I told you anything about -Fanny? It kind of slipped out like.' - -"'Mortimer,' said Miss Bumpus, 'you're a sticker. I wish I had a -little brother like you. There! I won't breathe a word.' - -"I felt we had sealed a glorious friendship. I adopted Votes for -Women as the first plank of my political platform. (No, Firefly, I -won't explain. I won't explain anything. You must guess what a -political platform was and what its planks were.) I followed up her -indications and found out about classes in the district where I could -learn geology and chemistry and how to speak French and German. Very -timidly I mooted the subject of my further education in the basement -living-room." - - - -§ 7 - -Sarnac looked round at the fire-lit faces of his listeners. - -"I know how topsy-turvy this story must seem to you, but it is a fact -that before I was fourteen I had to plead for education against the -ideas and wishes of my own family. And the whole household from top -to bottom was brought into the discussion by Matilda or my mother. -Except for Miss Bumpus and Frau Buchholz, everyone was against the -idea. - -"'Education,' said Matilda, shaking her head slowly from side to side -and smiling deprecatingly. 'Education! That's all very well for -those who have nothing better to do, but you want to get on in the -world. You've got to be earning, young man.' - -"'But if I have education I'll be able to earn more.' - -"Matilda screwed up her mouth in a portentous manner and pointed to -the ceiling to indicate Mr. Plaice. 'That's what comes of education, -young man. A room frowsty with books and just enough salary not to -be able to do a blessed thing you want to do. And giving yourself -Airs. Business is what you want, young man, not education.' - -"'And who's to pay for all these classes?' said my mother. 'That's -what _I_ want to know.' - -"'That's what we all want to know,' said Matilda Good. - -"'If I can't get education----' I said, and left the desperate -sentence unfinished. I am afraid I was near weeping. To learn -nothing beyond my present ignorance seemed to me then like a sentence -of imprisonment for life. It wasn't I who suffered that alone. -Thousands of poor youngsters of fourteen or fifteen in those days -knew enough to see clearly that the doors of practical illiteracy -were closing in upon them, and yet did not know enough to find a way -of escape from this mental extinction. - -"'Look here!' I said, 'if I can get some sort of job during the day, -may I pay for classes in the evening?' - -"'If you can earn enough,' said Matilda. 'It's no worse I suppose -than going to these new cinema shows or buying sweets for girls.' - -"'You've got to pay in for your room here and your keep, Morty, -first,' said my mother. 'It isn't fair on Miss Good if you don't.' - -"'I know,' I said, with my heart sinking. 'I'll pay in for my board -and lodging. Some'ow. I don't want to be dependent.' - -"'What good you think it will do you,' said Matilda Good, 'I _don't_ -know. You'll pick up a certain amount of learning perhaps, get a -certificate or something and ideas above your station. You'll give -all the energy you might use in shoving your way up in some useful -employment. You'll get round-shouldered and near-sighted. And just -to grow up a discontented misfit. Well--have it your own way if you -must. If you earn the money yourself it's yours to spend.' - -"Mr. Plaice was no more encouraging. 'Well, my noble Mortimer,' he -said, 'they tell me _Arr_ that you aspire to university honours.' - -"'I want to learn a little more than I know, Sir.' - -"'And join the ranks of the half-educated proletariat?' - -"It sounded bad. 'I hope not, Sir,' I said. - -"'And what classes do you propose to attend, Mortimer?' - -"'Whatever there are.' - -"'No plan? No aim?' - -"'I thought they'd know.' - -"'Whatever they give you--eh? A promiscuous appetite. And while -you--while you _Arr_ indulge in this mixed feast of learning, this -futile rivalry with the children of the leisured classes, somebody I -suppose will have to keep _you_. Don't you think it's a bit hard on -that kind mother of yours who toils day and night for you, that you -shouldn't work and do your bit, eh? One of the things, Mortimer, we -used to learn in our much-maligned public schools, was something we -called _playing cricket_. Well, I ask you, is this--this -disinclination to do a bit of the earning, _Arr_, is it playing -cricket? I could expect such behaviour from an 'Arry, you know, but -not from a Mortimer. _Noblesse oblige_. You think it over, my boy. -There's such a thing as learning, but there's such a thing as Duty. -Many of us have to be content with lives of unassuming labour. Many -of us. Men who under happier circumstances might have done great -things....' - -"The Moggeridges were gently persuasive in the same strain. My -mother had put her case to them also. Usually I was indisposed to -linger in the Moggeridge atmosphere; they had old-fashioned ideas -about draughts, and there was a peculiar aged flavour about them; -they were, to be plain, a very dirty old couple indeed. With -declining strength they had relaxed by imperceptible degrees from the -not very exacting standards of their youth. I used to cut into their -room and out of it again as quickly as I could. - -"But half a century of the clerical life among yielding country folk -had given these bent, decaying, pitiful creatures a wonderful way -with their social inferiors. 'Morning, Sir and Mam,' I said, and put -down the coals I had brought and took up the empty scuttle-lining I -had replaced. - -"Mrs. Moggeridge advanced shakily so as to intercept my retreat. She -had silvery hair, a wrinkled face and screwed-up red-rimmed eyes; she -was short-sighted and came peering up very close to me whenever she -spoke to me, breathing in my face. She held out a quivering hand to -arrest me; she spoke with a quavering voice. 'And how's Master Morty -this morning?' she said, with kindly condescending intonations. - -"'Very well thank you, Mam,' I said. - -"'I've been hearing rather a sad account of you, Morty, rather a sad -account.' - -"'Sorry, Mum,' I said, and wished I had the courage to tell her that -my life was no business of hers. - -"They say you're discontented, Morty. They say you complain of God's -Mercies.' - -"Mr. Moggeridge had been sitting in the armchair by the fire-place. -He was in his slippers and shirt-sleeves and he had been reading a -newspaper. Now he looked at me over his silver-rimmed spectacles and -spoke in a rich succulent voice. - -"'I'm sorry you should be giving trouble to that dear mother of -yours,' he said. 'Very sorry. She's a devoted saintly woman.' - -"'Yessir,' I said. - -"'Very few boys nowadays have the privilege of such an upbringing as -yours. Some day you may understand what you owe her.' - -("'I begin to,'" interjected Sarnac.) - -"'It seems you want to launch out upon some extravagant plan of -classes instead of settling down quietly in your proper sphere. Is -that so?' - -"'I don't feel I know enough yet, Sir,' I said. 'I feel I'd like to -learn more.' - -"'Knowledge isn't always happiness, Morty,' said Mrs. Moggeridge -close to me--much too close to me. - -"'And what may these classes be that are tempting you to forget the -honour you owe your dear good mother?' said Mr. Moggeridge. - -"'I don't know yet, Sir. They say there's classes in geology and -French and things like that.' - -"Old Mr. Moggeridge waved his hand in front of himself with an -expression of face as though it was I who emitted an evil odour. -'Geology!' he said. 'French--the language of Voltaire. Let me tell -you one thing plainly, my boy, your mother is quite right in -objecting to these classes. Geology--geology is--All Wrong. It has -done more harm in the last fifty years than any other single -influence whatever. It undermines faith. It sows doubt. I do not -speak ignorantly, Mortimer. I have seen lives wrecked and destroyed -and souls lost by this same geology. I am an old learned man, and I -have examined the work of many of these so-called geologists--Huxley, -Darwin and the like; I have examined it very, very carefully and -very, very tolerantly, and I tell you they are all, all of them, -_hopelessly mistaken men_.... And what good will such knowledge do -you? Will it make you happier? Will it make you better? No, my -lad. But I know of something that will. Something older than -geology. Older and better. Sarah dear, give me that book there, -please. Yes'--reverentially--'_the_ Book.' - -"His wife handed him a black-bound Bible, with its cover protected -against rough usage by a metal edge. 'Now, my boy,' he said, 'let me -give you this--this old familiar book, with an old man's blessing. -In that is all the knowledge worth having, all the knowledge you will -ever need. You will always find something fresh in it and always -something beautiful.' He held it out to me. - -"Accepting it seemed the shortest way out of the room, so I took it. -'Thank you, Sir,' I said. - -"'Promise me you will read it.' - -"'Oh yes, Sir.' - -"I turned to go. But giving was in the air. - -"'Now, Mortimer,' said Mrs. Moggeridge, 'do please promise me to seek -strength where strength is to be found and try to be a better son to -that dear struggling woman.' And as she spoke she proffered for my -acceptance an extremely hard, small, yellow orange. - -"'Thank you, Mam,' I said, made shift to stow her gift in my pocket, -and with the Bible in one hand and the empty coal-scuttle-lining in -the other, escaped. - -"I returned wrathfully to the basement and deposited my presents on -the window-sill. Some impulse made me open the Bible, and inside the -cover I found, imperfectly erased, the shadowy outlines of these -words, printed in violet ink: 'Not to be Removed from the -Waiting-Room.' I puzzled over the significance of this for some -time." - -"And what did it signify?' asked Firefly. - -"I do not know to this day," said Sarnac. "But apparently the -reverend gentleman had acquired that Book at a railway-station during -one of his journeys as a Sunday supply." - -"You mean----?" said Firefly. - -"No more than I say. He was in many ways a peculiar old gentleman, -and his piety was, I fancy, an essentially superficial exudation. He -was--I will not say 'dishonest,' but 'spasmodically acquisitive.' -And like many old people in those days he preferred his refreshment -to be stimulating rather than nutritious, and so he may have blurred -his ethical perceptions. An odd thing about him--Matilda Good was -the first to point it out--was that he rarely took an umbrella away -with him when he went on supply and almost always he came back with -one--and once he came back with two. But he never kept his -umbrellas; he would take them off for long walks and return without -them, looking all the brighter for it. I remember one day I was in -the room when he returned from such an expedition, there had been a -shower and his coat was wet. Mrs. Moggeridge made him change it and -lamented that he had lost his umbrella _again_. - -"'Not lost,' I heard the old man say in a voice of infinite -gentleness. 'Not lost, dear. Not lost; but gone before.... Gone -before the rain came.... The Lord gave.... Lord hath taken 'way.' - -"For a time he was silent, coat in hand. He stood with his -shirt-sleeve resting on the mantel-shelf, his foot upon the fender, -and his venerable hairy face gazing down into the fire. He seemed to -be thinking deep, sad things. Then he remarked in a thoughtful, less -obituary tone: 'Ten'n-sixpence. A jolly goo' 'mbrella." - - - -§ 8 - -"Frau Buchholz was a poor, lean, distressful woman of five and forty -or more, with a table littered with the documents of some obscure -litigation. She did not altogether discourage my ambitions, but she -laid great stress on the hopelessness of attempting Kultur without a -knowledge of German, and I am inclined to think that her attitude was -determined mainly by a vague and desperate hope that I might be -induced to take lessons in German from her. - -"Brother Ernest was entirely against my ambition. He was shy and -vocally inexpressive, and he took me to the Victoria Music Hall and -spent a long evening avoiding the subject. It was only as we drew -within five minutes of home that he spoke of it. - -"'What's all this about your not being satisfied with your education, -'Arry?' he asked. 'I thought you'd had a pretty decent bit of -schooling.' - -"'I don't feel I know anything,' I said. 'I don't know history or -geography or anything. I don't even know my own grammar.' - -"'You know enough,' said Ernest. 'You know enough to get a job. -Knowing more would only make you stuck-up. We don't want any more -stuck-ups in the family, God knows.' - -"I knew he referred to Fanny, but of course neither of us mentioned -her shameful name. - -"'Anyhow, I suppose I'll have to chuck it,' I said bitterly. - -"'That's about it, 'Arry. I know you're a sensible chap--at bottom. -You got to be what you got to be.' - -"The only encouragement I got to resist mental extinction was from -Miss Beatrice Bumpus, and after a time I found even that source of -consolation was being cut off from me. For my mother began to -develop the most gross and improbable suspicions about Miss Bumpus. -You see I stayed sometimes as long as ten or even twelve minutes in -the drawing-room, and it was difficult for so good a woman as my -mother, trained in the most elaborate precautions of separation -between male and female, to understand that two young people of -opposite sex could have any liking for each other's company unless -some sort of gross familiarity was involved. The good of those days, -living as they did in a state of inflamed restraint, had very -exaggerated ideas of the appetites, capacities and uncontrollable -duplicity of normal human beings. And so my mother began to -manoeuvre in the most elaborate way to replace me by Prue as a -messenger to Miss Bumpus. And when I was actually being talked -to--and even talking--in the drawing-room I had an increasing sense -of that poor misguided woman hovering upon the landing outside, -listening in a mood of anxious curiosity and ripening for a sudden -inrush, a disgraceful exposure, wild denunciation of Miss Bumpus, and -the rescue of the vestiges of my damaged moral nature. I might never -have realised what was going on if it had not been for my mother's -direct questionings and warnings. Her conception of a proper -upbringing for the young on these matters was a carefully preserved -ignorance hedged about by shames and foul terrors. So she was at -once extremely urgent and extraordinarily vague with me. What was I -up to--staying so long with that woman? I wasn't to listen to -anything she told me. I was to be precious careful what I got up to -up there. I might find myself in more trouble than I thought. There -were women in this world of a shamelessness it made one blush to -think of. She'd always done her best to keep me from wickedness and -nastiness." - -"But she was mad!" said Willow. - -"All the countless lunatic asylums of those days wouldn't have held a -tithe of the English people who were as mad in that way as she was." - -"But the whole world was mad?" said Sunray. "_All_ those people, -except perhaps Miss Bumpus, talked about your education like insane -people! Did none of them understand the supreme wickedness of -hindering the growth of a human mind?" - -"It was a world of suppression and evasion. You cannot understand -anything about it unless you understand that." - -"But the whole world!" said Radiant. - -"Most of it. It was still a fear-haunted world. 'Submit,' said the -ancient dread, 'do nothing--lest you offend. And from your -children--_hide_.' What I am telling you about the upbringing of -Harry Mortimer Smith was generally true of the upbringing of the -enormous majority of the inhabitants of the earth. It was not merely -that their minds were starved and poisoned. Their minds were stamped -upon and mutilated. That world was so pitiless and confused, so -dirty and diseased, because it was cowed and dared not learn of -remedies. In Europe in those days we used to be told the most -extraordinary stories of the wickedness and cruelty of the Chinese, -and one favourite tale was that little children were made to grow up -inside great porcelain jars in order to distort their bodies to -grotesque shapes so that they could be shown at fairs or sold to rich -men. The Chinese certainly distorted the feet of young women for -some obscure purpose, and this may have been the origin of this -horrible legend. But our children in England were mentally distorted -in exactly the same fashion except that for porcelain jars we used -mental tin-cans and dustbins.... My dears! when I talk of this I -cease to be Sarnac! All the rage and misery of crippled and thwarted -Harry Mortimer Smith comes back to me." - -"Did you get to those classes of yours?" asked Sunray. "I hope you -did." - -"Not for a year or two--though Miss Bumpus did what she could for me. -She lent me a lot of books--in spite of much ignorant censorship on -the part of my mother--and I read voraciously. But, I don't know if -you will understand it, my relations with Miss Bumpus were slowly -poisoned by the interpretations my mother was putting upon them. I -think you will see how easy it was for a boy in my position to fall -in love, fall into a deep emotional worship of so bright and friendly -a young woman. Most of us young men nowadays begin by adoring a -woman older than ourselves. Adoring is the word rather than loving. -It's not a mate we need at first but the helpful, kindly goddess who -stoops to us. And of course I loved her. But I thought much more of -serving her or dying for her than of embracing her. When I was away -from her my imagination might go so far as to dream of kissing her -hands. - -"And then came my mother with this hideous obsession of hers, jealous -for something she called my purity, treating this white passion of -gratitude and humility as though it was the power that drags a -blow-fly to some heap of offal. A deepening shame and ungraciousness -came into my relations with Miss Bumpus. I became red-eared and -tongue-tied in her presence. Possibilities I might never have -thought of but for my mother's suggestions grew disgustingly vivid in -my mind. I dreamt about her grotesquely. When presently I found -employment for my days my chances of seeing her became infrequent. -She receded as a personality and friend, and quite against my will -became a symbol of femininity. - -"Among the people who called to see her a man of three or four and -thirty became frequent. My spirit flamed into an intense and -impotent jealousy on account of this man. He would take tea with her -and stay for two hours or more. My mother took care to mention his -visits in my hearing at every opportunity. She called him Miss -Bumpus' 'fancy man,' or alluded to him archly: 'A certain person -called again to-day, Prue. When good-lookin' young men are shown in -at the door, votes flies out of the winder.' I tried to seem -indifferent but my ears and cheeks got red and hot. My jealousy was -edged with hate. I avoided seeing Miss Bumpus for weeks together. I -sought furiously for some girl, any girl, who would serve to oust her -image from my imagination." - -Sarnac stopped abruptly and remained for a time staring intently into -the fire. His expression was one of amused regret. "How little and -childish it seems now!" he said; "and how bitter--oh! how bitter it -was at the time!" - -"Poor little errand-boy!" said Sunray, stroking his hair. "Poor -little errand-boy in love." - -"What an uncomfortable distressful world it must have been for all -young things!" said Willow. - -"Uncomfortable and pitiless," said Sarnac. - - - -§ 9 - -"My first employment in London was as an errand-boy--'junior porter' -was the exact phrase--to a draper's shop near Victoria Station: I -packed parcels and carried them to their destinations; my next job -was to be boy in general to a chemist named Humberg in a shop beyond -Lupus Street. A chemist then was a very different creature from the -kind of man or woman we call a chemist to-day; he was much more like -the Apothecary we find in Shakespeare's plays and such-like old -literature; he was a dealer in drugs, poisons, medicines, a few -spices, colouring matters and such-like odd commodities. I washed -endless bottles, delivered drugs and medicines, cleared up a sort of -backyard, and did anything else that there was to be done within the -measure of my capacity. - -"Of all the queer shops one found in that old-world London, the -chemists' shops were, I think, the queerest. They had come almost -unchanged out of the Middle Ages, as we used to call them, when -Western Europe, superstitious, dirty, diseased and degenerate, -thrashed by the Arabs and Mongols and Turks, afraid to sail the ocean -or fight out of armour, cowered behind the walls of its towns and -castles, stole, poisoned, assassinated and tortured, and pretended to -be the Roman Empire still in being. Western Europe in those days was -ashamed of its natural varieties of speech and talked bad Latin; it -dared not look a fact in the face but nosed for knowledge among -riddles and unreadable parchments; it burnt men and women alive for -laughing at the absurdities of its Faith, and it thought the stars of -Heaven were no better than a greasy pack of cards by which fortunes -were to be told. In those days it was that the tradition of the -'Pothecary was made; you know him as he figures in _Romeo and -Juliet_; the time in which I lived this life was barely four -centuries and a half from old Shakespeare. The 'Pothecary was in a -conspiracy of pretentiousness with the almost equally ignorant -doctors of his age, and the latter wrote and he 'made up' -prescriptions in occult phrases and symbols. In our window there -were great glass bottles of red- and yellow- and blue-tinted water, -through which our gas-lamps within threw a mystical light on the -street pavement." - -"Was there a stuffed alligator?" asked Firefly. - -"No. We were just out of the age of stuffed alligators, but below -these coloured bottles in the window we had stupendous china jars -with gilt caps mystically inscribed--let me see! Let me think! One -was _Sem. Coriand_. Another was _Rad. Sarsap_. Then--what was the -fellow in the corner? _Marant. Ar_. And opposite him--_C. -Cincordif_. And behind the counter to look the customer in the face -were neat little drawers with golden and precious letters thereon; -_Pil. Rhubarb_, and _Pil. Antibil._ and many more bottles, _Ol. -Amyg._ and _Tinct. Iod._, rows and rows of bottles, mystic, -wonderful. I do not remember ever seeing Mr. Humberg take anything, -much less sell anything, from all this array of erudite bottles and -drawers; his normal trade was done in the bright little packets of an -altogether different character that were piled all over the counter, -bright unblushing little packets that declared themselves to be -Gummidge's Fragrant and Digestive Tooth Paste, Hooper's Corn Cure, -Luxtone's Lady's Remedy, Tinker's Pills for All Occasions, and the -like. Such things were asked for openly and loudly by customers; -they were our staple trade. But also there were many transactions -conducted in undertones which I never fully understood. I would be -sent off to the yard on some specious pretext whenever a customer was -discovered to be of the _sotto voce_ variety, and I can only suppose -that Mr. Humberg was accustomed at times to go beyond the limits of -his professional qualification and to deal out advice and instruction -that were legally the privileges of the qualified medical man. You -must remember that in those days many things that we teach plainly -and simply to every one were tabooed and made to seem occult and -mysterious and very, very shameful and dirty. - -"My first reaction to this chemist's shop was a violent appetite for -Latin. I succumbed to its suggestion that Latin was the key to all -knowledge, and that indeed statements did not become knowledge until -they had passed into the Latin tongue. For a few coppers I bought in -a second-hand bookshop an old and worn Latin _Principia_ written by a -namesake Smith; I attacked it with great determination and found this -redoubtable language far more understandable, reasonable and -straight-forward than the elusive irritable French and the trampling -coughing German I had hitherto attempted. This Latin was a dead -language, a skeleton language plainly articulated; it never moved -about and got away from one as a living language did. In a little -while I was able to recognize words I knew upon our bottles and -drawers and in the epitaphs upon the monuments in Westminster Abbey, -and soon I could even construe whole phrases. I dug out Latin books -from the second-hand booksellers' boxes, and some I could read and -some I could not. There was a war history of that first Cæsar, -Julius Cæsar, the adventurer who extinguished the last reek of the -decaying Roman republic, and there was a Latin New Testament; I got -along fairly well with both. But there was a Latin poet, Lucretius, -I could not construe; even with an English verse translation on the -opposite page I could not construe him. But I read that English -version with intense curiosity. It is an extraordinary thing to -note, but that same Lucretius, an old Roman poet who lived and died -two thousand years before my time, four thousand years from now, gave -an account of the universe and of man's beginnings far truer and more -intelligible than the old Semitic legends I had been taught in my -Sunday school. - -"One of the queerest aspects of those days was the mingling of ideas -belonging to different ages and phases of human development due to -the irregularity and casualness of such educational organisation as -we had. In school and church alike, obstinate pedantry darkened the -minds of men. Europeans in the twentieth Christian century mixed up -the theology of the Pharaohs, the cosmogony of the priest-kings of -Sumeria, with the politics of the seventeenth century and the ethics -of the cricket-field and prize-ring, and that in a world which had -got to aeroplanes and telephones. - -"My own case was typical of the limitations of the time. In that age -of ceaseless novelty there was I, trying to get back by way of Latin -to the half knowledge of the Ancients. Presently I began to struggle -with Greek also, but I never got very far with that. I found a -chance of going once a week on what was called early-closing night, -after my day's work was done, to some evening classes in chemistry. -And this chemistry I discovered had hardly anything in common with -the chemistry of a chemist's shop. The story of matter and force -that it told belonged to another and a newer age. I was fascinated -by these wider revelations of the universe I lived in, I ceased to -struggle with Greek and I no longer hunted the dingy book-boxes for -Latin classics but for modern scientific works. Lucretius I found -was hardly less out of date than Genesis. Among the books that -taught me much were one called _Physiography_ by a writer named -Gregory, Clodd's _Story of Creation_ and Lankester's _Science from an -Easy Chair_. I do not know if they were exceptionally good books; -they were the ones that happened to come to my hand and awaken my -mind. But do you realise the amazing conditions under which men were -living at that time, when a youngster had to go about as eager and -furtive as a mouse seeking food, to get even such knowledge of the -universe and himself as then existed? I still remember how I read -first of the differences and resemblances between apes and men and -speculations arising thencefrom about the nature of the sub-men who -came before man. It was in the shed in the yard that I sat and read. -Mr. Humberg was on the sofa in the parlour behind the shop sleeping -off his midday meal with one ear a-cock for the shop-bell, and I, -with one ear a-cock for the shop-bell and the other for any sounds of -movement in the parlour, read for the first time of the forces that -had made me what I was--when I ought to have been washing out bottles. - -"At one point in the centre of the display behind the counter in the -shop was a row of particularly brave and important-looking glass jars -wearing about their bellies the gold promises of _Aqua Fortis_, _Amm. -Hyd._ and such-like names, and one day as I was sweeping the floor I -observed Mr. Humberg scrutinising these. He held one up to the light -and shook his head at its flocculent contents. 'Harry,' he said, -'see this row of bottles?' - -"'Yessir.' - -"'Pour 'em all out and put in fresh water.' - -"I stared, broom in hand, aghast at the waste. 'They won't blow up -if I mix 'em?' I said. - -"'Blow up!' said Mr. Humberg. 'It's only stale water. There's been -nothing else in these bottles for a score of years. Stuff I want is -behind the dispensary partition--and it's different stuff nowadays. -Wash 'em out--and then we'll put in some water from the pump. We -just have 'em for the look of 'em. The old women wouldn't be happy -if we hadn't got 'em there." - - - - -PART II - -The Loves and Death of Harry Mortimer Smith - - - -CHAPTER THE FIFTH - -FANNY DISCOVERS HERSELF - - -§ 1 - -"And now," said Sarnac, "I can draw near to the essentials of life -and tell you the sort of thing love was in that crowded, dingy, -fear-ruled world of the London fogs and the amber London sunshine. -It was a slender, wild-eyed, scared and daring emotion in a dark -forest of cruelties and repressions. It soon grew old and crippled, -bitter-spirited and black-hearted, but as it happened, death came -early enough for me to die with a living love still in my heart...." - -"To live again," said Sunray very softly. - -"And love again," said Sarnac, patting her knee. "Let me see----...." - -He took a stake that had fallen from the fire and thrust it into the -bright glow at the centre and watched it burst into a sierra of -flames. - -"I think that the first person I was in love with was my sister -Fanny. When I was a boy of eleven or twelve I was really in love -with her. But somehow about that time I was also in love with an -undraped plaster nymph who sat very bravely on a spouting dolphin in -some public gardens near the middle of Cliffstone. She lifted her -chin and smiled and waved one hand and she had the sweetest smile and -the dearest little body imaginable. I loved her back particularly, -and there was a point where you looked at her from behind and just -caught the soft curve of her smiling cheek and her jolly little -nose-tip and chin and the soft swell of her breast under her lifted -arm. I would sneak round her furtively towards this particular -view-point, having been too well soaked in shame about all such -lovely things to look openly. But I never seemed to look my fill. - -"One day as I was worshipping her in this fashion, half-turned to her -and half-turned to a bed of flowers and looking at her askance, I -became aware of an oldish man with a large white face, seated on a -garden seat and leaning forward and regarding me with an expression -of oafish cunning as if he had found me out and knew my secret. He -looked like the spirit of lewdness incarnate. Suddenly panic -overwhelmed me and I made off--and never went near that garden again. -Angels with flaming shames prevented me. Of a terror of again -meeting that horrible old man.... - -"Then with my coming to London Miss Beatrice Bumpus took control of -my imagination and was Venus and all the goddesses, and this -increased rather than diminished after she had gone away. For she -went away and, I gather, married the young man I hated; she went away -and gave up her work for the Vote and was no doubt welcomed back by -those Warwickshire Bumpuses (who hunted) with the slaughter of a -fatted fox and every sort of rejoicing. But her jolly frank and -boyish face was the heroine's in a thousand dreams. I saved her life -in adventures in all parts of the world and sometimes she saved mine; -we clung together over the edges of terrific precipices until I went -to sleep, and when I was the conquering Muhammad after a battle, she -stood out among the captive women and answered back when I said I -would never love her, with two jets of cigarette smoke and the one -word, 'Liar!' - -"I met no girls of my own age at all while I was errand-boy to Mr. -Humberg, my evening classes and my reading kept me away from the -facile encounters of the streets. Sometimes, however, when I could -not fix my attention upon my books, I would slip off to Wilton Street -and Victoria Street where there was a nocturnal promenade under the -electric lamps. There schoolgirls and little drabs and errand-boys -and soldiers prowled and accosted one another. But though I was -attracted to some of the girlish figures that flitted by me I was -also shy and fastidious. I was drawn by an overpowering desire for -something intense and beautiful that vanished whenever I drew near to -reality." - - - -§ 2 - -"Before a year was over there were several changes in the Pimlico -boarding-house. The poor old Moggeridges caught influenza, a -variable prevalent epidemic of the time, and succumbed to -inflammation of the lungs following the fever. They died within -three days of each other, and my mother and Prue were the only -mourners at their dingy little funeral. Frau Buchholz fades out of -my story; I do not remember clearly when she left the house nor who -succeeded her. Miss Beatrice Bumpus abandoned the cause of woman's -suffrage and departed, and the second floor was taken by an extremely -intermittent couple who roused my mother's worst suspicions and led -to serious differences of opinion between her and Matilda Good. - -"You see these new-comers never settled in with any grave and sober -luggage; they would come and stay for a day or so and then not -reappear for a week or more, and they rarely arrived or departed -together. This roused my mother's moral observation, and she began -hinting that perhaps they were not properly married after all. She -forbade Prue ever to go to the drawing-room floor, and this -precipitated a conflict with Matilda. 'What's this about Prue and -the drawing-room?' Matilda asked. 'You're putting ideas into the -girl's head.' - -"'I'm trying to keep them from 'er,' said my mother. 'She's got -eyes.' - -"'_And_ fingers,' said Matilda with dark allusiveness. 'What's Prue -been seeing now?' - -"'Marks,' said my mother. - -"'What marks?' said Matilda. - -"'Marks enough,' said my mother. '_'Is_ things are marked one name -and _'Er's_ another, and neither of them Milton, which is the name -they've given us. And the way that woman speaks to you, as though -she felt you might notice sumpthing--friendly like and a bit afraid -of you. And that ain't all! By no means all! I'm not blind and -Prue isn't blind. There's kissing and making love going on at all -times in the day! Directly they've got 'ere sometimes. Hardly -waiting for one to get out of the room. I'm not a perfect fool, -Matilda. I been married.' - -"'What's that got to do with us? We're a lodging-'ouse, not a set of -Nosey Parkers. If Mr. and Mrs. Milton like to have their linen -marked a hundred different names, what's that to us? Their book's -always marked _paid in advance with thanks, Matilda Good_, and that's -married enough for me. See? You're an uneasy woman to have in a -lodging-house, Martha, an uneasy woman. There's no give and take -about you. No save your fare. There was that trouble you made about -the boy and Miss Bumpus--ridiculous it was--and now seemingly there's -going to be more trouble about Prue and Mrs. Milton--who's a lady, -mind you, say what you like, and--what's more--a gentlewoman. I wish -you'd mind your own business a bit more, Martha, and let Mr. and Mrs. -Milton mind theirs. If they aren't properly married it's they've got -to answer for it in the long run, not you. You'll get even with them -all right in the Last Great Day. Meanwhile do they do 'arm to -anyone? A quieter couple and less trouble to look after I've never -had in all my lodging-house days.' - -"My mother made no answer. - -"'Well?' challenged Matilda. - -"'It's hard to be waiting on a shameless woman,' said my mother, -obstinate and white-lipped. - -"'It's harder still to be called a shameless woman because you've -still got your maiden name on some of your things,' said Matilda -Good. 'Don't talk such Rubbish, Martha.' - -"'I don't see why _'E_ should 'ave a maiden name too--on _'is_ -pyjamas,' said my mother, rallying after a moment. - -"'You don't know Anything, Martha,' said Matilda, fixing her with one -eye of extreme animosity and regarding the question in the abstract -with the other. 'I've often thought it of you and now I say it to -you. You don't know Anything. I'm going to keep Mr. and Mrs. Milton -as long as I can, and if you're too pernikkety to wait on them, -there's those who will. I won't have my lodgers insulted. I won't -have their underclothes dragged up against them. Why! Come to think -of it! Of course! He _borrowed_ those pyjamas of 'is! Or they was -given him by a gentleman friend they didn't fit. Or he's been left -money and had to change his name sudden like. It often happens. -Often. You see it in the papers. And things get mixed in the wash. -Some laundries, they're regular Exchanges. Mr. Plaice, he once had a -collar with _Fortescue_ on it. Brought it back after his summer -holiday. Fortescue! There's evidence for you. You aren't going to -bring up something against Mr. Plaice on account of that, Martha? -You aren't going to say he's been living a double life and isn't -properly a bachelor. Do think a little clearer, Martha. And don't -think so much evil. There's a hundred ways round before you think -evil. But you _like_ to think evil, Martha. I've noticed it times -and oft. You fairly wallow in it. You haven't the beginnings of a -germ of Christian charity.' - -"'One can't help seeing things,' said my mother rather shattered. - -"'_You_ can't,' said Matilda Good. 'There's those who can't see an -inch beyond their noses, and yet they see too much. And the more I -see of you the more I'm inclined to think you're one of that sort. -Anyhow, Mr. and Mrs. Milton stay here--whoever else goes. Whoever -else goes. That's plain, I hope, Martha.' - -"My mother was stricken speechless. She bridled and subsided and -then, except for necessary and unavoidable purposes, remained hurt -and silent for some days, speaking only when she was spoken to. -Matilda did not seem to mind. But I noticed that when presently -Matilda sent Prue upstairs with the Miltons' tea my mother's -stiffness grew stiffer, but she made no open protest." - - - -§ 3 - -"And then suddenly Fanny reappeared in my world. - -"It was a mere chance that restored Fanny to me. All our links had -been severed when we removed from Cliffstone to London. My brother -Ernest was her herald. - -"We were at supper in the basement room and supper was usually a -pleasant meal. Matilda Good would make it attractive with potatoes -roasted in their jackets, or what she called a 'frying-pan' of -potatoes and other vegetables in dripping or such-like heartening -addition to cold bacon and bread and cheese and small beer. And she -would read bits out of the newspaper to us and discuss them, having a -really very lively intelligence, or she would draw me out to talk of -the books I'd been reading. She took a great interest in murders and -such-like cases, and we all became great judges of motive and -evidence under her stimulation. 'You may say it's morbid, Martha, if -you like,' she said; 'but there never was a murder yet that wasn't -brimful of humanity. Brimful. I doubt sometimes if we know what -anyone's capable of until they've committed a murder or two.' - -"My mother rarely failed to rise to her bait. 'I can't think 'ow you -can say such things, Matilda,' she would say.... - -"We heard the sound of a motor-car in the street above. Brother -Ernest descended by the area steps and my sister Prue let him in. He -appeared in his chauffeur's uniform, cap in hand, leather jacket and -gaiters. - -"'Got a night off?' asked Matilda. - -"'Court Theatre at eleven,' said Ernest. 'So I thought I'd come in -for a bit of a warm and a chat.' - -"'Have a snack?' said Matilda. 'Prue, get him a plate and a knife -and fork and a glass. One glass of _this_ beer won't hurt your -driving. Why! we haven't seen you for ages!' - -"'Thank you, Miss Good,' said Ernest, who was always very polite to -her, 'I _will_ 'ave a snack. I bin' here, there and everywhere, but -it isn't that I haven't wanted to call on you.' - -"Refreshment was administered and conversation hung fire for awhile. -One or two starts were made and came to an early end. Ernest's -manner suggested preoccupation and Matilda regarded him keenly. 'And -what have you got to tell us, Ernie?' she said suddenly. - -"'We-el,' said Ernest, 'it's a curious thing you should say that, -Miss Good, for I _'ave_ got something to tell you. Something--well, -I don't know 'ow to put it--curious like." - -"Matilda refilled his glass. - -"'I seen Fanny," said Ernest, coming to it with violent abruptness. - -"'_No!_' gasped my mother, and for a moment no one else spoke. - -"'So!' said Matilda, putting her arms on the table and billowing -forward, 'you've seen Fanny! Pretty little Fanny that I used to -know. And where did you see her, Ernie?' - -"Ernest had some difficulty in shaping out his story. 'It was a week -last Tuesday,' he said after a pause. - -"'She wasn't--not one of Them--about Victoria Station?' panted my -mother. - -"'Did you see her first or did she see you?' asked Matilda. - -"'A week ago last Tuesday,' my brother repeated. - -"'And did you speak to her?' - -"'Not at the time I didn't. No.' - -"'Did she speak to you?' - -"'No.' - -"'Then 'ow d'you know it was our Fanny?' asked Prue, who had been -listening intently. - -"'I thought she'd gone to 'er fate in some foreign country--being so -near Boulogne,' my mother said. 'I thought them White Slave Traders -'ad the decency to carry a girl off right away from 'er 'ome.... -Fanny! On the streets of London! Near 'ere. I told 'er what it -would come to. Time and again I told 'er. Merry an 'onest man I -said, but she was greedy and 'eadstrong.... 'Eadstrong and vain.... -She didn't try to follow you, Ernie, to find out where we were or -anything like that?' - -"My brother Ernest's face displayed his profound perplexity. 'It -wasn't at all like that, mother,' he said. 'It wasn't--that sort of -thing. You see----' - -"He began a struggle with the breast pocket of his very tightly -fitting leather jacket and at last produced a rather soiled letter. -He held it in his hand, neither attempting to read it nor offering it -to us. But holding it in his hand seemed to crystallise his very -rudimentary narrative powers. 'I better tell you right from the -beginning,' he said. 'It isn't at all what you'd suppose. Tuesday -week it was; last Tuesday week.' - -"Matilda Good laid a restraining hand on my mother's arm. 'In the -evening I suppose?' she helped. - -"'It was a dinner and fetch,' said my brother. 'Of course you -understand I 'adn't set eyes on Fanny for pretty near six years. It -was 'er knew me.' - -"'You had to take these people to a dinner and fetch them back -again?' said Matilda. - -"'Orders,' said Ernest, 'was to go to one-oh-two Brantismore Gardens -Earl's Court top flat, to pick up lady and gentleman for number to be -given in Church Row Hampstead and call there ten-thirty and take home -as directed. Accordingly I went to Brantismore Gardens and told the -porter in the 'all--it was one of these 'ere flat places with a -porter in livery--that I was there to time waiting. 'E telephoned up -in the usual way. After a bit, lady and gentleman came out of the -house and I went to the door of the car as I usually do and held it -open. So far nothing out of the ornary. He was a gentleman in -evening dress, like most gentlemen; she'd got a wrap with fur, and -her hair, you know, was done up nice for an evening party with -something that sparkled. Quite the lady.' - -"'And it was Fanny?' said Prue. - -"Ernest struggled mutely with his subject for some moments. 'Not -yet, like,' he said. - -"'You mean you didn't recognise her then?' said Matilda. - -"'No. But she just looked up at me and seemed kind of to start and -got in. I saw her sort of leaning forward and looking at me as 'E -got in. Fact is, I didn't think much of it. I should have forgotten -all about it if it 'adn't been for afterwards. But when I took them -back something happened. I could see she was looking at me.... We -went first to one-oh-two Brantismore Gardens again and then he got -out and says to me, "Just wait a bit here," and then he helped her -out. It sort of seemed as though she was 'arf-inclined to speak to -me and then she didn't. But this time I thinks to myself: "I seen -you before, somewhere, my Lady." Oddly enough I never thought of -Fanny then at all. I got as near as thinking she was a bit like -'Arry 'ere. But it never entered my 'ead it might be Fanny. -Strordinary! They went up the steps to the door; one of these open -entrances it is to several flats, and seemed to have a moment's -confabulation under the light, looking towards me. Then they went on -up to the flat.' - -"'You didn't know her even then?' said Prue. - -"''E came down the steps quarternour after perhaps, looking -thoughtful. White wescoat, 'e 'ad, and coat over 'is arm. Gave me -an address near Sloane Street. Got out and produced his tip, rather -on the large side it was, and stood still kind of thoughtful. Seemed -inclined to speak and didn't know what to say. "I've an account at -the garage," 'e says, "you'll book the car," and then: "You're not my -usual driver," 'e says. "What's your name?" "Smith," I says. -"Ernest Smith?" he says. "Yes sir," I says, and it was only as I -drove off that I asked myself 'Ow the 'Ell--I reely beg your pardon, -Miss Good.' - -"'Don't mind me,' said Matilda. 'Go on.' - -"'Ow the Juice d'e know that my name was Ernest? I nearly 'it a taxi -at the corner of Sloane Square I was so took up puzzling over it. -And it was only about three o'clock in the morning, when I was lying -awake still puzzling over it, that it came into my 'ead----' - -"Ernest assumed the manner of a narrator who opens out his -culminating surprise. '--that that young lady I'd been taken out -that evening was----' - -"He paused before his climax. - -"'Fenny,' whispered Prue. - -"'Sister Fanny,' said Matilda Good. - -"'Our Fanny,' said my mother. - -"'_No less a person than Fanny!_' said my brother Ernest triumphantly -and looked round for the amazement proper to such a surprise. - -"'I thought it was going to be Fenny,' said Prue. - -'Was she painted up at all?' asked Matilda. - -"'Not nearly so much painted as most of 'em are,' said my brother -Ernest. 'Pretty nearly everyone paints nowadays. Titled people. -Bishops' ladies. Widows. Everyone. She didn't strike me--well, as -belonging to the painted sort particularly, not in the least. Kind -of fresh and a little pale--like Fanny used to be.' - -"'Was she dressed like a lady--quiet-like?' - -"'Prosperous,' said Ernest. 'Reely prosperous. But nothing what you -might call extravagant.' - -"'And the house you took 'em to--noisy? Singing and dancing and the -windows open?' - -"'It was a perfectly respectable quiet sort of 'ouse. Blinds down -and no row whatever. A private 'ouse. The people who came to the -door to say good night might 'ave been any gentleman and any lady. I -see the butler. 'E came down to the car. 'E wasn't 'ired for the -evening. 'E was a _real_ butler. The other guests had a private -limousine with an oldish, careful sort of driver. Whadyou'd speak of -as nice people.'' - -"'Hardly what you might call being on the streets of London,' said -Matilda, turning to my mother. 'What was the gentleman like?' - -"'I don't want to 'ear of 'im,' said my mother. - -"'Dissipated sort of man about town--and a bit screwed?' asked -Matilda. - -"''E was a lot soberer than most dinner fetches,' said Ernest. 'I -see that when 'e 'andled 'is money. Lots of 'em--oh! quite -'igh-class people get--'ow shall I say it?--just a little bit funny. -'Umerous like. Bit 'nnacurate with the door. _'E_ wasn't. That's -what I can't make out.... And then there's this letter.' - -"Then there's this letter,' said Matilda. 'You better read it, -Martha.' - -"'How did you get that letter?' asked my mother, not offering to -touch it. 'You don't mean to say she gave you a letter!' - -"'It came last Thursday. By post. It was addressed to me, Ernest -Smith, Esq., at the Garage. It's a curious letter--asking about us. -I can't make 'ead or tail of the whole business. I been thinking -about it and thinking about it. Knowing 'ow set mother was about -Fanny--I 'esitated.' - -"His voice died away. - -"'Somebody,' said Matilda in the pause that followed, 'had better -read that letter.' - -"She looked at my mother, smiled queerly with the corners of her -mouth down, and then held out her hand to Ernest." - - - -§ 4 - -"It was Matilda who read that letter; my mother's aversion for it was -all too evident. I can still remember Matilda's large red face -thrust forward over the supper things and a little on one side so as -to bring the eye she was using into focus and get the best light from -the feeble little gas-bracket. Beside her was Prue, with a slack -curious face and a restive glance that went ever and again to my -mother's face, as a bandsman watches the conductor's baton. My -mother sat back with a defensive expression on her white face, and -Ernest was posed, wide and large, in a non-committal attitude, -ostentatiously unable to 'make 'ead or tail' of the affair. - -"'Let's see,' said Matilda, and took a preliminary survey of the task -before her.... - - -"'_My dear Ernie,_' she says.... - -"'_My dear Ernie:_ - -"'_It was wonderful seeing you again. I could hardly believe it was -you even after Mr.--Mr.---- _She's written it and thought better of -it and scratched it out again, Mr. Somebody--Mr. Blank--_had asked -your name. I was beginning to fear I'd lost you all. Where are you -living and how are you getting on? You know I went to France and -Italy for a holiday--lovely, lovely places--and when I came back I -slipped off at Cliffstone because I wanted to see you all again and -couldn't bear leaving you as I had done without a word._' - - -"'She should've thought of that before,' said my mother. - - -"'_She told me, Mrs. Bradley did, about poor father's accident and -death--the first I heard of it. I went to his grave in the cemetery -and had a good cry. I couldn't help it. Poor old Daddy! It was -cruel hard luck getting killed as he did. I put a lot of flowers on -his grave and arranged with Ropes the Nurseryman about having the -grass cut regularly._' - - -"'And 'im,' said my mother, 'lying there! 'E'd 've rather seen 'er -lying dead at 'is feet, 'e said, than 'ave 'er the fallen woman she -was. And she putting flowers over 'im. 'Nough to make 'im turn in -'is grave.' - -"'But very likely he's come to think differently now, Martha,' said -Matilda soothingly. 'There's no knowing really, Martha. Perhaps in -heaven they aren't so anxious to see people dead at their feet. -Perhaps they get sort of kind up there. Let me see,--where was I? -Ah?--_grass cut regularly_. - - -"'_Nobody knew where mother and the rest of you were. Nobody had an -address. I went on to London very miserable, hating to have lost -you. Mrs. Burch said that mother and Prue and Morty had gone to -London to friends, but where she didn't know. And then behold! after -nearly two years, you bob up again! It's too good to be true. Where -are the others? Is Morty getting educated? Prue must be quite grown -up? I would love to see them again and help them if I can. Dear -Ernie, I do want you to tell mother and all of them that I am quite -safe and happy. I am being helped by a friend. The one you saw. -I'm not a bit fast or bad. I lead a very quiet life. I have my tiny -little flat here and I read a lot and get educated. I work quite -hard. I've passed an examination, Ernie, a university examination. -I've learnt a lot of French and Italian and some German and about -music. I've got a pianola and I'd love to play it to you or Morty. -He was always the one for music. Often and often I think of you. -Tell mother, show her this letter, and let me know soon about you all -and don't think unkind things of me. 'Member the good times we had, -Ernie, when we dressed up at Christmas and father didn't know us in -the shop, and how you made me a doll's house for my birthday. Oh! -and cheese pies, Ernie! Cheese pies!_' - - -"'What were cheese pies?' asked Matilda. - -"'It was a sort of silly game we had--passing people. I forget -exactly. But it used to make us laugh--regular roll about we did.' - -"'Then she gets back to you, Morty,' said Matilda, - - -"'_I'd love to help Morty if he still wants to be educated. I could -now. I could help him a lot. I suppose he's not a boy any longer. -Perhaps he's getting educated himself. Give him my love. Give -mother my love and tell her not to think too badly of me. Fanny._' - - -"'Fanny. Embossed address on her notepaper. That's all.' - -"Matilda dropped the letter on the table. 'Well?' she said in a -voice that challenged my mother. 'Seems to me that the young woman -has struck one of the Right Sort--the one straight man in ten -thousand ... seems to have taken care of her almost more than an -ordinary husband might've done.... What'r you going to do about it, -Martha?' - -"Matilda collected herself slowly from the table and leant back in -her chair, regarding my mother with an expression of faintly -malevolent irony." - - - -§ 5 - -"I turned from Matilda's quizzical face to my mother's drawn -intentness. - -"'Say what you like, Matilda, that girl is living in sin.' - -"'Even that isn't absolutely proved,' said Matilda. - -"'Why should 'E----?' my mother began and stopped. - -"'There's such things as feats of generosity,' said Matilda. -'Still----' - -"'No,' said my mother. 'We don't want 'er 'elp. I'd be ashamed to -take it. While she lives with that man----' - -"'Apparently she doesn't. But go on.' - -"'Stainted money,' said my mother. 'It's money she 'as from 'im. -It's the money of a Kep Woman.' - -"Her anger kindled. 'I'd sooner die than touch 'er money.' - -"Her sense of the situation found form and expression. 'She leaves -'er 'ome. She breaks 'er father's 'eart. Kills 'im, she does. 'E -was never the same man after she'd gone; never the same. She goes -off to shamelessness and luxury. She makes 'er own brother drive 'er -about to 'er shame.' - -"'Hardly--_makes_,' protested Matilda. - -"'Ow was _'E_ to avoid it? And then she writes this--this letter. -Impudent I call it. Impudent! Without a word of repentance--not a -single word of repentance. Does she 'ave the decency to say she's -ashamed of 'erself? Not a word. Owns she's still living with a -fancy man and means to go on doing it, glories in it. And offers us -'er kind assistance--us, what she's disgraced and shamed. Who was it -that made us leave Cherry Gardens to 'ide our 'eads from our -neighbours in London? _'Er_! And now she's to come 'ere in 'er -moty-car and come dancing down these steps, all dressed up and -painted, to say a kind word to poor mother. 'Aven't we suffered -enough about 'er without 'er coming 'ere to show 'erself off at us? -It's topsy-turvy. Why! if she come 'ere at all, which I doubt--if -she comes 'ere at all she ought to come in sackcloth and ashes and on -'er bended knees.' - -"'She won't do that, Martha,' said Matilda Good. - -"'Then let 'er keep away. We don't want the disgrace of 'er. She's -chosen 'er path and let 'er abide by it. But _'ere_! To come -_'ere_! 'Ow'r you going to explain it?' - -"'_I'd_ explain it all right,' said Matilda unheeded. - -"'Ow am _I_ going to explain it? And here's Prue! Here's this Mr. -Pettigrew she's met at the Week-day Evening Social and wants to bring -to tea! 'Ow's she going to explain 'er fine lady sister to 'im? Kep -Woman! Yes, Matilda, I say it. It's the name for it. That's what -she is. A Kep Woman! Nice thing to tell Mr. Pettigrew. 'Ere's my -sister, the Kep Woman! 'E'd be off in a jiffy. Shocked 'e'd be out -of 'is seven senses. 'Ow would Prue ever 'ave the face to go to the -Week-day Evening Social again after a show-up like that? And Ernie. -What's 'E going to say about it to the other chaps at the garage when -they throw it up at him that 'is sister's a Kep Woman?' - -"'Don't you worry about _that_, mother,' said Ernest gently but -firmly. 'There's nobody ever throws anything up against me at the -garage anyhow--and there won't be. Nohow. Not unless 'E wants to -swaller 'is teeth.' - -"'Well, there's 'Arry. 'E goes to 'is classes, and what if someone -gets 'old of it there? 'Is sister, a Kep Woman. They'd 'ardly let -'im go on working after such a disgrace.' - -"'Oh I'd soon----' I began, following in my brother's wake. But -Matilda stopped me with a gesture. Her gesture swept round and held -my mother, who was indeed drawing near the end of what she had to say. - -"'I can see, Martha,' said Matilda, 'just 'ow you feel about Fanny. -I suppose it's all natural. Of course, this letter----' - -"She picked up the letter. She pursed her great mouth and waggled -her clumsy head slowly from side to side. 'For the life of me I -can't believe the girl who wrote this is a bad-hearted girl,' she -said. 'You're bitter with her, Martha. You're bitter.' - -"'After all----' I began, but Matilda's hand stopped me again. - -"'Bitter!' cried my mother. 'I _know_ 'er. She can put on that -in'cent air just as though nothing 'ad 'appened and try and make you -feel in the wrong----' - -"Matilda ceased to waggle and began to nod. 'I see,' she said. 'I -see. But why should Fanny take the trouble to write this letter, if -she hadn't a real sort of affection for you all? As though she need -have bothered herself about the lot of you! You're no sort of help -to her. There's kindness in this letter, Martha, and something more -than kindness. Are you going to throw it back at her? Her and her -offers of help? Even if she doesn't crawl and repent as she ought to -do! Won't you even answer her letter?' - -"'I won't be drawn into a correspondence with 'er,' said my mother. -'No! So long as she's a Kep Woman, she's no daughter of mine. I -wash my 'ands of 'er. And as for 'er 'Elp! 'Elp indeed! It's -'Umbug! If she'd wanted 'elp us she could have married Mr. Crosby, -as fair and honest a man as any woman could wish for.' - -"'So that's _that_,' said Matilda Good conclusively. - -"Abruptly she swivelled her great head round to Ernest. 'And what -are you going to do, Ernie? Are you for turning down Fanny? And -letting the cheese pies just drop into the mud of Oblivium, as the -saying goes, and be forgotten for ever and ever and ever?' - -"Ernest sat back, put his hand in his trousers pocket and remained -thoughtful for some moments. 'It's orkward,' he said. - -"Matilda offered him no assistance. - -"'There's my Young Lady to consider,' said Ernest and flushed an -extreme scarlet. - -"My mother turned her head sharply and looked at him. Ernest with a -stony expression did not look at my mother. - -"'O--oh!' said Matilda. 'Here's something new. And who may your -Young Lady be, Ernie?' - -"'Well, I 'adn't proposed to discuss 'er 'ere just yet. So never -mind what 'er name is. She's got a little millinery business. I'll -say that for 'er. And a cleverer, nicer girl never lived. We met at -a little dance. Nothing isn't fixed up yet beyond a sort of -engagement. There's been presents. Given 'er a ring and so forth. -But naturally I've never told 'er anything about Fanny. I 'aven't -discussed family affairs with 'er much, not so far. Knows we were in -business of some sort and 'ad losses and father died of an accident; -that's about all. But Fanny--Fanny's certainly going to be orkward -to explain. Not that I want to be 'ard on Fanny!' - -"'I see,' said Matilda. She glanced a mute interrogation at Prue and -found her answer in Prue's face. Then she picked up the letter again -and read very distinctly: 'One hundred and two, Brantismore Gardens, -Earl's Court.' She read this address slowly as though she wanted to -print it on her memory. 'Top flat, you said it was, Ernie? ...' - -"She turned to me. 'And what are you going to do, Harry, about all -this?' - -"'I want to see Fanny for myself,' I said. 'I don't believe----' - -"''Arry,' said my mother, 'now--once for all--I forbid you to go near -'er. I won't 'ave you corrupted.' - -"'Don't forbid him, Martha,' said Matilda. 'It's no use forbidding -him. _Because he will_! Any boy with any heart and spunk in him -would go and see her after that letter. One hundred and two, -Brantismore Gardens, Earl's Court,'--she was very clear with the -address--'it's not very far from here.' - -"'I forbid you to go near 'er, 'Arry,' my mother reiterated. And -then realising too late the full importance of Fanny's letter, she -picked it up. 'I won't 'ave this answered. I'll burn it as it -deserves. And forget about it. Banish it from my mind. There.' - -"And then my mother stood up and making a curious noise in her throat -like the strangulation of a sob, she put Fanny's letter into the fire -and took the poker to thrust it into the glow and make it burn. We -all stared in silence as the letter curled up and darkened, burst -into a swift flame and became in an instant a writhing, agonised, -crackling, black cinder. Then she sat down again, remained still for -a moment, and then after a fierce struggle with her skirt-pocket -dragged out a poor, old, dirty pocket-handkerchief and began to -weep--at first quietly and then with a gathering passion. The rest -of us sat aghast at this explosion. - -"'You mustn't go near Fanny, 'Arry; not if mother forbids,' said -Ernest at last, gently but firmly. - -"Matilda looked at me in grim enquiry. - -"'I _shall_,' I said, and was in a terror lest the unmanly tears -behind my eyes should overflow. - -"''Arry!' cried my mother amidst her sobs. 'You'll break--you'll -break my heart! First Fanny! Then you.' - -"'You see!' said Ernest. - -"The storm of her weeping paused as though she waited to hear my -answer. My silly little face must have been very red by this time -and there was something wrong and uncontrollable about my voice, but -I said what I meant to say. 'I shall go to Fanny,' I said, 'and I -shall just ask her straight out whether she's leading a bad life.' - -"'And suppose she is?' asked Matilda. - -"'I shall reason with her,' I said. 'I shall do all I can to save -her. Yes--even if I have to find some work that will keep her.... -She's my sister....' - -"I wept for a moment or so. 'I can't help it, mother,' I sobbed. 'I -got to see Fanny!' - -"I recovered my composure with an effort. - -"'_So,_' said Matilda, regarding me, I thought, with rather more -irony and rather less admiration than I deserved. Then she turned to -my mother. 'I don't see that Harry can say fairer than that,' she -said. 'I think you'll have to let him see her after that. He'll do -all he can to save her, he says. Who knows? He might bring her to -repentance.' - -"'More likely the other way about,' said my mother, wiping her eyes, -her brief storm of tears now over. - -"'I can't 'elp feeling it's a mistake,' said Ernest, 'for 'Arry to go -and see 'er.' - -"'Well, anyhow don't give it up because you've forgotten the address, -Harry,' said Matilda, 'or else you are done. Let it be your own -free-will and not forgetfulness, if you throw her over. One hundred -and two Brantismore Gardens, Earl's Court. You'd better write it -down.' - -"'One hundred and two--Brantismore Gardens.' - -"I went over to my books on the corner table to do as she advised -sternly and resolutely in a fair round hand on the fly-leaf of -Smith's _Principia Latina_." - - - -§ 6 - -"My first visit to Fanny's flat was quite unlike any of the moving -scenes I acted in my mind before-hand. I went round about half-past -eight when shop was done on the evening next but one after Ernest's -revelation. The house seemed to me a very dignified one and I went -up a carpeted staircase to her flat. I rang the bell and she opened -the door herself. - -"It was quite evident at once that the smiling young woman in the -doorway had expected to see someone else instead of the gawky youth -who stood before her, and that for some moments she had not the -slightest idea who I was. Her expression of radiant welcome changed -to a defensive coldness. 'What do you want, please?' she said to my -silent stare. - -"She had altered very much. She had grown, though now I was taller -than she was, and her wavy brown hair was tied by a band of black -velvet with a brooch on one side of it, adorned with clear-cut stones -of some sort that shone and twinkled. Her face and lips had a warmer -colour than I remembered. And she was wearing a light soft -greenish-blue robe with loose sleeves; it gave glimpses of her pretty -neck and throat and revealed her white arms. She seemed a magically -delightful being, soft and luminous and sweet-scented and altogether -wonderful to a young barbarian out of the London streets. Her -delicacy overawed me. I cleared my throat. 'Fanny!' I said -hoarsely, 'don't you know me?' - -"She knitted her pretty brows and then came her old delightful smile. -'Why! It's Harry!' she cried and drew me into the little hall and -hugged and kissed me. 'My little brother Harry, grown as big as I -am! How wonderful!' - -"Then she went by me and shut the door and looked at me doubtfully. -'But why didn't you write to me first to say you were coming? Here -am I dying for a talk with you and here's a visitor who's coming to -see me. May come in at any moment. Now what am I to do? Let me -see!' - -"The little hall in which we stood was bright with white paint and -pretty Japanese pictures. It had cupboards to hide away coats and -hats and an old oak chest. Several doors opened into it and two were -ajar. Through one I had a glimpse of a sofa and things set out for -coffee, and through the other I saw a long mirror and a -chintz-covered armchair. She seemed to hesitate between these two -rooms and then pushed me into the former one and shut the door behind -us. - -"'You should have written to tell me you were coming,' she said. -'I'm dying to talk to you and here's someone coming who's dying to -talk to me. But never mind! let's talk all we can. How are you? -_Well_--I can see that. But are you getting educated? And mother, -how's mother? What's happened to Prue? And is Ernest as -hot-tempered as ever?' - -"I attempted to tell her. I tried to give her an impression of -Matilda Good and to hint not too harshly at my mother's white -implacability. I began to tell her of my chemist's shop and how much -Latin and Chemistry I knew, and in the midst of it she darted away -from me and stood listening. - -"It was the sound of a latch-key at the door. - -"'My other visitor,' she said, hesitated a moment and was out of the -room, leaving me to study her furniture and the coffee machine that -bubbled on the table. She had left the door a little ajar and I -heard all too plainly the sound of a kiss and then a man's voice. I -thought it was rather a jolly voice. - -'I'm tired, little Fanny; oh! I'm tired to death. This new paper is -the devil. We've started all wrong. But I shall pull it off. Gods! -if I hadn't this sweet pool of rest to plunge into, I'd go off my -head! I'd have nothing left to me but headlines. Take my coat; -there's a dear. I smell coffee.' - -"I heard a movement as though Fanny had checked her visitor almost at -the door of the room I was in. I heard her say something very -quickly about a brother. - -"'Oh, _Damn_!' said the man very heartily. 'Not another of 'em! How -many brothers have you got, Fanny? Send him away. I've only got an -hour altogether, my dear----' - -"Then the door closed sharply--Fanny must have discovered it was -ajar--and the rest of the talk was inaudible. - -"Fanny reappeared, a little flushed and bright-eyed and withal -demure. She had evidently been kissed again. - -"'Harry,' she said, 'I hate to ask you to go and come again, but that -other visitor--I'd promised him first. Do you mind, Harry? I'm -longing for a good time with you, a good long talk. You get your -Sundays, Harry? Well, why not come here at three on Sunday when I'll -be quite alone and we'll have a regular good old tea? Do you mind, -Harry?' - -"I said I didn't. In that flat ethical values seemed quite different -to what they were outside. - -"'After all, you did ought to have written first,' said Fanny, -'instead of just jumping out on me out of the dark.' - -"There was no one in the hall when she showed me out and not even a -hat or coat visible. 'Give me a kiss, Harry,' she said and I kissed -her very readily. 'Quite sure you don't mind?' she said at her door. - -"'Not a bit,' I said. 'I ought to have written.' - -"'Sunday at three,' she said, as I went down the carpeted staircase. - -"'Sunday at three,' I replied at the bend of the stairs. - -"Downstairs there was a sort of entrance hall to all the flats with a -fire burning in a fire-place and a man ready to call a cab or taxi -for anyone who wanted one. The prosperity and comfort of it all -impressed me greatly, and I was quite proud to be walking out of such -a fine place. It was only when I had gone some way along the street -that I began to realise how widely my plans for the evening had -miscarried. - -"I had not asked her whether she was living a bad life or not and I -had reasoned with her not at all. The scenes I had rehearsed in my -mind beforehand, of a strong and simple and resolute younger brother -saving his frail but lovable sister from terrible degradations, had -indeed vanished altogether from my mind when her door had opened and -she had appeared. And here I was with the evening all before me and -nothing to report to my family but the profound difference that lies -between romance and reality. I decided not to report to my family at -all yet, but to go for a very long walk and think this Fanny business -over thoroughly, returning home when it would be too late for my -mother to cross-examine me and 'draw me out' at any length. - -"I made for the Thames Embankment, for that afforded uncrowded -pavements and the solemnity and incidental beauty appropriate to a -meditative promenade. - -"It is curious to recall now the phases of my mind that night. At -first the bright realities I came from dominated me: Fanny pretty and -prosperous, kindly and self-assured, in her well-lit, well-furnished -flat, and the friendly and confident voice I had heard speaking in -the hall, asserted themselves as facts to be accepted and respected. -It was delightful after more than two years of ugly imaginations to -have the glimpse of my dear sister again so undefeated and loved and -cared for and to look forward to a long time with her on Sunday and a -long confabulation upon all I had done in the meantime and all I -meant to do. Very probably these two people were married after all, -but unable for some obscure reason to reveal the fact to the world. -Perhaps Fanny would tell me as much in the strictest confidence on -Sunday and I could go home and astonish and quell my mother with the -whispered secret. And even as I developed and cuddled this idea it -grew clear and cold and important in my mind that they were not -married at all, and the shades of a long-accumulated disapproval -dimmed that first bright impression of Fanny's little nest. I felt a -growing dissatisfaction with the part I had played in our encounter. -I had let myself be handled and thrust out as though I had been a -mere boy instead of a brother full of help and moral superiority. -Surely I ought to have said something, however brief, to indicate our -relative moral positions! I ought to have faced that man too, the -Bad Man, lurking no doubt in the room with the mirror and the -chintz-covered chair. He had avoided seeing me--because he could not -face me! And from these new aspects of the case I began to develop a -whole new dream of reproach and rescue. What should I have said to -the Bad Man? 'And so, Sir, at last we meet----' - -"Something like that. - -"My imagination began to leap and bound and soar with me. I pictured -the Bad Man, dressed in that 'immaculate evening dress' which my -novels told me marked the deeper and colder depths of male depravity, -cowering under my stream of simple eloquence. 'You took her,' I -would say, 'from our homely but pure and simple home. You broke her -father's heart'--yes, I imagined myself saying that!--'And what have -you made of her?' I asked. 'Your doll, your plaything! to be -pampered while the whim lasts and then to be cast aside!' -Or--'tossed aside'? - -"I decided 'tossed aside' was better. - -"I found myself walking along the Embankment, gesticulating and -uttering such things as that." - -"But you knew better?" said Firefly. "Even then." - -"I knew better. But that was the way our minds worked in the ancient -days." - - - -§ 7 - -"But," said Sarnac, "my second visit to Fanny, like my first, was -full of unexpected experiences and unrehearsed effects. The carpet -on the pleasant staircase seemed to deaden down my moral tramplings, -and when the door opened and I saw my dear Fanny again, friendly and -glad, I forgot altogether the stern interrogations with which that -second interview was to have opened. She pulled my hair and kissed -me, took my hat and coat, said I had grown tremendously and measured -herself against me, pushed me into her bright little sitting-room, -where she had prepared such a tea as I had never seen before, little -ham sandwiches, sandwiches of a delightful stuff called Gentleman's -Relish, strawberry jam, two sorts of cake, and little biscuits to -fill in any odd corners. 'You are a dear to come and see me, Harry. -But I had a sort of feeling that whatever happened you would come -along.' - -"'We two always sort of hung together,' I said. - -"'Always,' she agreed. 'I think mother and Ernie might have written -me a line. Perhaps they will later. Ever seen an electric kettle, -Harry? This is one. And you put that plug in there.' - -"'I know,' I said, and did as I was told. 'There's resistances -embedded in the coating. I've been doing some electricity and -chemistry. Council classes. Six'r seven subjects altogether. And -there's a shop-window in Tothill Street full of such things.' - -"'I expect you know all about them,' she said. 'I expect you've -learnt all sorts of sciences,' and so we came to the great topic of -what I was learning and what I was going to do. - -"It was delightful to talk to someone who really understood the -thirst for knowledge that possessed me. I talked of myself and my -dreams and ambitions, and meanwhile, being a growing youth, my arm -swept like a swarm of locusts over Fanny's wonderful tea. Fanny -watched me with a smile on her face and steered me with questions -towards the things she most wanted to know. And when we had talked -enough for a time she showed me how to play her pianola and I got a -roll of Schumann that Mr. Plaice had long ago made familiar to me and -had the exquisite delight of playing it over for myself. These -pianolas were quite easy things to manage, I found; in a little while -I was already playing with conscious expression. - -"Fanny praised me for my quickness, cleared her tea-things away while -I played, and then came and sat beside me and listened and talked and -we found we had learnt quite a lot about music since our parting. We -both thought great things of Bach,--whom I found I was calling quite -incorrectly Batch--and Mozart, who also had to be pronounced a little -differently. And then Fanny began to question me about the work I -wanted to do in the world. 'You mustn't stay with that old chemist -much longer,' she declared. How would I like to do some sort of work -that had to do with books, bookselling or helping in a library or -printing and publishing books and magazines? 'You've never thought -of writing things?' asked Fanny. 'People do.' - -"'I made some verses once or twice,' I confessed, 'and wrote a letter -to the _Daily News_ about temperance. But they didn't put it in.' - -"'Have you ever wanted to write?' - -"'What, books? Like Arnold Bennett? Rather!' - -"'But you didn't quite know how to set about it.' - -"'It's difficult to begin,' I said, as though that was the only -barrier. - -"'You ought to leave that old chemist's shop,' she repeated. 'If I -were to ask people I know and found out some better sort of job for -you, Harry, would you take it?' - -"'_Rather!_' said I." - -"Why not altogether?" interrupted Firefly. - -"Oh! we used to say _Rather_," said Sarnac. "It was artistic -understatement. But you realise how dreadfully I lapsed from all my -preconceived notions about Fanny and myself. We talked the whole -evening away. We had a delightful cold picnic supper in a pretty -little dining-room with a dresser, and Fanny showed me how to make a -wonderful salad with onions very finely chopped and white wine and -sugar in the dressing. And afterwards came some more of that marvel, -the pianola, and then very reluctantly I took my leave. And when I -found myself in the streets again I had once more my former sense of -having dropped abruptly from one world into another, colder, bleaker, -harder, and with entirely different moral values. Again I felt the -same reluctance to go straight home and have my evening dimmed and -destroyed by a score of pitiless questions. And when at last I did -go home I told a lie. 'Fanny's got a pretty place and she's as happy -as can be,' I said. 'I'm not quite sure, but from what she said, I -believe that man's going to marry her before very long.' - -"My cheeks and ears grew hot under my mother's hostile stare. - -"'Did she tell you that?' - -"'Practically,' I lied. 'I kind of got it out of her.' - -"'But 'e's married already!' said my mother. - -"'I believe there is something,' I said. - -"'_Something!_' said my mother scornfully. 'She's stolen another -woman's man. 'E belongs to 'er--for ever. No matter what there is -against 'er. "Whomsoever God Hath Joined, Let No Man Put -Asunder!"--that's what I was taught and what I believe. 'E may be -older; 'e may have led her astray, but while she and 'e harbour -together the sin is 'ers smutch as 'is. Did you see 'im?' - -"'He wasn't there.' - -"''Adn't the face. That's so much to their credit. And are you -going there again?' - -"'I've kind of promised----' - -"'It's against my wishes, 'Arry. Every time you go near Fanny, -'Arry, you disobey me. Mark that. Let's be plain about that, once -and for all.' - -"I felt mulish. 'She's my sister,' I said. - -"'And I'm your mother. Though nowadays mothers are no more than dirt -under their children's feet. Marry 'er indeed! Why should 'e? -Likely. 'E'll marry the next one. Come, Prue, take that bit of coal -off the fire and we'll go up to bed." - - - -§ 8 - -"And now," said Sarnac, "I must tell you of the queer business -organisation of Thunderstone House and the great firm of Crane & -Newberry, for whom, at Fanny's instance, I abandoned Mr. Humberg and -his gold-labelled bottles of nothingness. Crane & Newberry were -publishers of newspapers, magazines and books, and Thunderstone House -was a sort of fountain of printed paper, spouting an unending wash of -reading matter into the lives of the English people. - -"I am talking of the world two thousand years ago," said Sarnac. "No -doubt you have all been good children and have read your histories -duly, but at this distance in time things appear very much -foreshortened, and changes that occupied lifetimes and went on amidst -dense clouds of doubt, misunderstanding and opposition seem to be the -easiest and most natural of transitions. We were all taught that the -scientific method came into human affairs first of all in the world -of material things, and later on in the matters of psychology and -human relationship, so that the large-scale handling of steel, and -railways, automobiles, telegraphs, flying machines and all the broad -material foundations of the new age were in existence two or three -generations before social, political and educational ideas and -methods were modified in correspondence with the new necessities -these things had created. There was a great unanticipated increase -in the trade and population of the world and much confusion and -conflict, violent social stresses and revolutions and great wars, -before even the need of a scientific adjustment of human -relationships was recognised. It is easy enough to learn of such -things in general terms but hard to explain just what these processes -of blind readjustment meant in anxiety, suffering and distress to the -countless millions who found themselves born into the swirl of this -phase of change. As I look back to that time in which I lived my -other life I am reminded of a crowd of people in one of my old -Pimlico fogs. No one had any vision of things as a whole; everybody -was feeling his way slowly and clumsily from one just perceptible -thing to another. And nearly everybody was uneasy and disposed to be -angry. - -"It is clear beyond question to us now, that the days of illiterate -drudges were already past in the distant nineteenth century, for -power-machinery had superseded them. The new world, so much more -complicated and dangerous, so much richer and ampler, was a world -insisting upon an educated population, educated intellectually and -morally. But in those days these things were not at all clear, and -it was grudgingly and insufficiently that access to knowledge and -enlightenment was given by the learned and prosperous classes to the -rapidly accumulating masses of the population. They insisted that it -should be done by special channels and in a new and different class -of school. I have told you of what passed for my education, reading -and writing, rudimentary computations, 'jogfry' and so forth. That -sort of process, truncated by employment at thirteen or fourteen, -when curiosity and interest were just beginning to awaken, was as far -as education had gone for the bulk of the common men and women in the -opening years of the twentieth century. It had produced a vast -multitude of people, just able to read, credulous and uncritical and -pitifully curious to learn about life and things, pitifully wanting -to see and know. As a whole the community did nothing to satisfy the -vague aspirations of those half-awakened swarms; it was left to -'private enterprise' to find what profits it could in their dim -desires. A number of great publishing businesses arose to trade upon -the new reading public that this 'elementary' education, as we called -it, had accumulated. - -"In all ages people have wanted stories about life. The young have -always wanted to be told about the stage on which they are beginning -to play their parts, to be shown the chances and possibilities of -existence, vividly and dramatically, so that they may imagine and -anticipate their own reactions. And even those who are no longer -youthful have always been eager to supplement their experiences and -widen their judgment by tales and histories and discussions. There -has been literature since there has been writing, since indeed there -was enough language for story-telling and reciting. And always -literature has told people what their minds were prepared to receive, -searching for what it should tell rather in the mind and expectation -of the hearer or reader--who was the person who paid--than in the -unendowed wildernesses of reality. So that the greater part of the -literature of every age has been a vulgar and ephemeral thing -interesting only to the historian and psychologist of later times -because of the light it threw upon the desires and imaginative -limitations of its generation. But the popular literature of the age -in which Harry Mortimer Smith was living was more abundant, more -cynically insincere, lazy, cheap and empty than anything that the -world had ever seen before. - -"You would accuse me of burlesque if I were to tell you the stories -of the various people who built up immense fortunes by catering for -the vague needs of the new reading crowds that filled the -hypertrophied cities of the Atlantic world. There was a certain -Newnes of whom legend related that one day after reading aloud some -item of interest to his family he remarked, 'I call that a regular -tit-bit.' From that feat of nomenclature he went on to the idea of a -weekly periodical full of scraps of interest, cuttings from books and -newspapers and the like. A hungry multitude, eager and curious, was -ready to feed greedily on such _hors d'oeuvre_. So _Tit-Bits_ came -into existence, whittled from a thousand sources by an industrious -and not too expensive staff, and Newnes became a man of wealth and a -baronet. His first experiment upon the new public encouraged him to -make a number of others. He gave it a monthly magazine full of short -stories drawn from foreign sources. At first its success was -uncertain, and then a certain Dr. Conan Doyle rose to fame in it and -carried it to success with stories about crime and the detection of -crime. Every intelligent person in those days, everyone indeed -intelligent or not, was curious about the murders and such-like -crimes which still abounded. Indeed, there could have been no more -fascinating and desirable subject for us; properly treated such cases -illuminated the problems of law, training and control in our social -welter as nothing else could have done. The poorest people bought at -least a weekly paper in order to quicken their wits over murder -mysteries and divorces, driven by an almost instinctive need to probe -motives and judge restraints. But Conan Doyle's stories had little -of psychology in them; he tangled a skein of clues in order to -disentangle it again, and his readers forgot the interest of the -problem in the interest of the puzzle. - -"Hard upon the heels of Newnes came a host of other competitors, -among others a certain Arthur Pearson and a group of brothers -Harmsworth who rose to great power and wealth from the beginning of a -small weekly paper called _Answers_, inspired originally by the -notion that people liked to read other people's letters. You will -find in the histories how two of these Harmsworths, men of great -thrust and energy, became Lords of England and prominent figures in -politics, but I have to tell of them now simply to tell you of the -multitude of papers and magazines they created to win the -errand-boy's guffaw, the heart of the factory girl, the respect of -the aristocracy and the confidence of the _nouveau riche_. It was a -roaring factory of hasty printing. Our own firm at Thunderstone -House was of an older standing than these Newnes, Pearson, Harmsworth -concerns. As early as the eighteenth century the hunger for -knowledge had been apparent, and a certain footman turned publisher, -named Dodsley, had produced a book of wisdom called the _Young Man's -Companion._ Our founder, Crane, had done the same sort of thing in -Early Victorian times. He had won his way to considerable success -with a _Home Teacher_ in monthly parts and with Crane's _Circle of -the Sciences_ and a weekly magazine and so forth. His chief rivals -had been two firms called Cassell's and Routledge's, and for years, -though he worked upon a smaller capital, he kept well abreast of -them. For a time the onrush of the newer popular publishers had -thrust Crane and his contemporaries into the background and then, -reconstructed and reinvigorated by a certain Sir Peter Newberry, the -old business had won its way back to prosperity, publishing a shoal -of novelette magazines and cheap domestic newspapers for women, young -girls and children, reviving the _Home Teacher_ on modern lines with -a memory training system and a _Guide to Success_ by Sir Peter -Newberry thrown in, and even launching out into scientific handbooks -of a not too onerous sort. - -"It is difficult for you to realise," said Sarnac, "what a frightful -lot of printed stuff there was in that old world. It was choked with -printed rubbish just as it was choked with human rubbish and a -rubbish of furniture and clothing and every sort of rubbish; there -was too much of the inferior grades of everything. And good things -incredibly rare! You cannot imagine how delightful it is for me to -sit here again, naked and simple, talking plainly and nakedly in a -clear and beautiful room. The sense of escape, of being cleansed of -unnecessary adhesions of any sort, is exquisite. We read a book now -and then and talk and make love naturally and honestly and do our -work and thought and research with well-aired, well-fed brains, and -we live with all our senses and abilities taking a firm and easy grip -upon life. But stress was in the air of the twentieth century. -Those who had enough courage fought hard for knowledge and existence, -and to them we sold our not very lucid or helpful _Home Teacher_ and -our entirely base _Guide to Success_; but great multitudes relaxed -their hold upon life in a way that is known now only to our morbid -psychologists. They averted their attention from reality and gave -themselves up to reverie. They went about the world distraught in a -day-dream, a day-dream that they were not really themselves, but -beings far nobler and more romantic, or that presently things would -change about them into a dramatic scene centring about themselves. -These novelette magazines and popular novels that supplied the chief -part of the income of Crane & Newberry, were really helps to -reverie--mental drugs. Sunray, have you ever read any -twentieth-century novelettes?" - -"One or two," said Sunray. "It's as you say. I suppose I have a -dozen or so. Some day you shall see my little collection." - -"Very likely _ours_--half of them,--Crane & Newberry's I mean. It -will be amusing to see them again. The great bulk of this reverie -material was written for Crane & Newberry by girls and women and by a -type of slack imaginative men. These 'authors,' as we called them, -lived scattered about London or in houses on the country-side, and -they sent their writings by post to Thunderstone House, where we -edited them in various ways and put the stuff into our magazines and -books. Thunderstone House was a great rambling warren of a place -opening out of Tottenham Court Road, with a yard into which huge -lorries brought rolls of paper and from which vans departed with our -finished products. It was all a-quiver with the roar and thudding of -the printing machinery. I remember very vividly to this day how I -went there first, down a narrow roadway out of the main thoroughfare, -past a dingy public-house and the stage door of a theatre." - -"What were you going to do--pack up books? Or run errands?" asked -Radiant. - -"I was to do what I could. Very soon I was on the general editorial -staff." - -"Editing popular knowledge?" - -"Yes." - -"But why did they want an illiterate youngster like yourself at -Thunderstone House?" asked Radiant. "I can understand that this work -of instructing and answering the first crude questions of the new -reading classes was necessarily a wholesale improvised affair, but -surely there were enough learned men at the ancient universities to -do all the editing and instructing that was needed!" - -Sarnac shook his head. "The amazing thing is that there weren't," he -said. "They produced men enough of a sort but they weren't the right -sort." - -His auditors looked puzzled. - -"The rank-and-file of the men they sent out labelled M.A. and so -forth from Oxford and Cambridge were exactly like those gilt-lettered -jars in Mr. Humberg's shop, that had nothing in them but stale water. -The pseudo-educated man of the older order couldn't teach, couldn't -write, couldn't explain. He was pompous and patronising and prosy; -timid and indistinct in statement, with no sense of the common need -or the common quality. The promoted office-boy, these new magazine -and newspaper people discovered, was brighter and better at the job, -comparatively modest and industrious, eager to know things and impart -things. The editors of our periodicals, the managers of our part -publications and so forth were nearly all of the office-boy class, -hardly any of them, in the academic sense, educated. But many of -them had a sort of educational enthusiasm and all of them a boldness -that the men of the old learning lacked...." - -Sarnac reflected. "In Britain at the time I am speaking about--and -in America also--there were practically two educational worlds and -two traditions of intellectual culture side by side. There was all -this vast fermenting hullabaloo of the new publishing, the new press, -the cinema theatres and so forth, a crude mental uproar arising out -of the new elementary schools of the nineteenth century, and there -was the old aristocratic education of the seventeenth and eighteenth -centuries, which had picked up its tradition from the Augustan age of -Rome. They didn't mix. On the one hand were these office-boy -fellows with the intellectual courage and vigour--oh! of Aristotle -and Plato, whatever the quality of their intellectual equipment might -be; on the other the academic man, affectedly Grecian, like the -bought and sold learned man of the days of Roman slavery. He had the -gentility of the household slave; he had the same abject respect for -patron, prince and patrician; he had the same meticulous care in -minor matters, and the same fear of uncharted reality. He criticised -like a slave, sneering and hinting, he quarrelled like a slave, -despised all he dared despise with the eagerness of a slave. He was -incapable of serving the multitude. The new reading-crowd, the -working masses, the 'democracy' as we used to call it, had to get its -knowledge and its wisdom without him. - -"Crane, our founder, had had in his day some inkling of the -educational function such businesses as his were bound to serve in -the world, but Sir Peter Newberry had been a hard tradesman, intent -only on recovering the prosperity that the newer popular publishers -had filched away from our firm. He was a hard-driving man; he drove -hard, he paid in niggardly fashion and he succeeded. He had been -dead now for some years and the chief shareholder and director of the -firm was his son Richard. He was nicknamed the Sun; I think because -someone had quoted Shakespeare about the winter of our discontent -being made summer by this Sun of York. He was by contrast a very -genial and warming person. He was acutely alive to the moral -responsibility that lay behind the practical irresponsibility of a -popular publisher. If anything, he drove harder than his father, but -he paid generously; he tried to keep a little ahead of the new public -instead of a little behind; the times moved in his favour and he -succeeded even more than his father had done. I had been employed by -Crane & Newberry for many weeks before I saw him, but in the first -office I entered in Thunderstone House I saw the evidences of his -personality in certain notices upon the wall. They were printed in -clear black letters on cards and hung up. It was his device for -giving the house a tone of its own. - -"I remember 'We lead; the others imitate,' and 'If you are in any -doubt about its being too good put it in.' A third was: 'If a man -doesn't know what you know that's no reason for writing as if he was -an all-round fool. Rest assured there is something he knows better -than you do.'" - - - -§ 9 - -"It took me some time to get from the yard of Thunderstone House to -the office in which these inscriptions were displayed. Fanny had -told me to ask for Mr. Cheeseman, and when I had discovered and -entered the doorway up a flight of steps, which had at first been -masked by two large vans, I made this demand of an extremely small -young lady enclosed in a kind of glass cage. She had a round face -and a bright red button of a nose. She was engaged, I realised -slowly, in removing a foreign stamp from a fragment of envelope by -licking the back of the paper. She did not desist from this -occupation but mutely asked my business with her eyes. - -"'Oran-amoiment?' she asked, still licking. - -"'Pardon?' - -"'Oran-amoiment?' - -"'I'm sorry,' I said, 'I don't get it quite.' - -"'Mus' be deaf,' she said, putting down the stamp and taking a -sufficient breath for slow loud speech. ''Ave you -_gottonappointment_?' - -"'Oh!' I said. 'Yes. I was told to come here to-day and see Mr. -Cheeseman between ten and twelve.' - -She resumed her struggle with the stamp for a time. 'S'pose you -don't c'lect stamps?' she asked. ''Sintresting 'obby. Mr. -Cheeseman's written a little 'andbook about it. Looking for a job, I -suppose? May 'ave to wait a bit. Will you fill up that bit of paper -there? Formality we 'ave to insist on. Pencil....' - -"The paper demanded my name and my business and I wrote that the -latter was 'literary employment.' - -"'Lordy,' said the young lady when she read it. 'I thought you was -in for the ware'ouse. I say, Florence,' she said to another -considerably larger girl who had appeared on the staircase, 'look at -'im. 'E's after litry emplyment.' - -"'Cheek!' said the second young lady after one glance at me, and sat -down inside the glass box with a piece of chewing gum and a novelette -just published by the firm. The young lady with the button nose -resumed her stamp damping. They kept me ten minutes before the -smaller one remarked: 'Spose I better take this up to Mr. Cheeseman, -Flo,' and departed with my form. - -"She returned after five minutes or so. 'Mr. Cheeseman says 'E can -see you now for one minute,' she said, and led the way up a staircase -and along a passage that looked with glass windows into a printer's -shop and down a staircase and along a dark passage to a small -apartment with an office table, one or two chairs, and bookshelves -covered with paper-covered publications. Out of this opened another -room, and the door was open. 'You better sit down here,' said the -young lady with the button nose. - -"'That Smith?' asked a voice. 'Come right in.' - -"I went in, and the young lady with the button nose vanished from my -world. - -"I discovered a gentleman sunken deeply in an arm-chair before a -writing-table, and lost in contemplation of a row of vivid drawings -which were standing up on a shelf against the wall of the room. He -had an intensely earnest, frowning, red face, a large broad mouth -intensely compressed, and stiff black hair that stood out from his -head in many directions. His head was slightly on one side and he -was chewing the end of a lead-pencil. 'Don't see it,' he whispered. -'Don't see it.' I stood awaiting his attention. 'Smith,' he -murmured, still not looking at me, 'Harry Mortimer Smith. Smith, -were you by any chance educated at a Board School?' - -"'Yessir,' I said. - -"'I hear you have literary tastes.' - -"'Yessir.' - -"'Then come here and stand by me and look at these damned pictures -there. Did you ever see such stuff?' - -"I stood by his side but remained judiciously silent. The drawings I -now perceived were designs for a magazine cover. Upon all of them -appeared the words 'The New World' in very conspicuous lettering. -One design was all flying machines and steamships and automobiles; -two others insisted upon a flying machine; one showed a kneeling -loin-clothed man saluting the rising sun--which however rose behind -him. Another showed a planet earth half illuminated, and another was -simply a workman going to his work in the dawn. - -"'Smith,' said Mr. Cheeseman, 'it's you've got to buy this magazine, -not me. Which of these covers do you prefer? It's your decision. -_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_.' - -"'Meaning me, Sir?' I said brightly. - -"His bristle eyebrows displayed a momentary surprise. 'I suppose -we're all fitted with the same tags nowadays,' he remarked. 'Which -do you find most attractive?' - -"'Those aeroplane things, Sir, seem to me to be shoving it a bit too -hard,' I said. - -"'H'm,' said Mr. Cheeseman. 'That's what the Sun says. You wouldn't -buy on that?' - -"'I don't think so, Sir. It's been done too much.' - -"'How about that globe?' - -"'Too like an Atlas, Sir.' - -"'Aren't geography and travel interesting?' - -"'They are, Sir, but somehow they aren't attractive.' - -"'Interesting but not attractive. H'm. Out of the mouths of babes -and sucklings.... So it's going to be that labour chap there in the -dawn. You'd buy that, eh?' - -"'Is this going to be a magazine about inventions and discoveries and -progress, Sir?' - -"'Exactly.' - -"'Well, the Dawn's good, Sir, but I don't think that sort of Labour -Day Cartoon man is going to be very attractive. Looks rheumatic and -heavy, Sir. Why not cut him out and keep the dawn?' - -"'Bit too like a slice of ham, Smith--thin pink streaks.' - -"I was struck by an idea. 'Suppose, Sir, you kept that dawn scene -and made it a bit earlier in the year. Buds on the trees, Sir. And -perhaps snowy mountains, rather cold and far off. And then you put a -hand right across it--just a big hand--pointing, Sir.' - -"'Pointing up?' said Mr. Cheeseman. - -"'No, Sir, pointing forward and just a little up. It would sort of -make one curious.' - -"'It would. A woman's hand.' - -"'Just a hand I think, Sir.' - -"'You'd buy that?' - -"'I'd jump at it, Sir, if I had the money.' - -"Mr. Cheeseman reflected for some moments, chewing his pencil -serenely. Then he spat out small bits of pencil over his desk and -spoke. 'What you say, Smith, is exactly what I've been thinking. -Exactly. It's very curious.' He pressed a bell-push on his desk and -a messenger girl appeared. 'Ask Mr. Prelude to come here.... So you -think you'd like to come into Thunderstone House, Smith. I'm told -you know a little about science already. Learn more. Our public's -moving up to science. I've got some books over there I want you to -read and pick out anything you find interesting.' - -"'You'll be able to find me a job, Sir?' I said. - -"'I've got to find you a job all right. Orders is orders. You'll be -able to sit in that room there....' - -"We were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Prelude. He was a tall, -thin, cadaverous man with a melancholy expression. - -"'Mr. Prelude,' said Mr. Cheeseman, waving his arm at the cover -sketches, 'this stuff won't do. It's--it's too banal. We want -something fresher, something with a touch of imagination. What I -want to see on the cover is--well, say a dawn--a very calm and simple -scene, mostly colour, mountain range far away just flushed with -sunrise, valley blue and still, high streamer clouds touched with -pink. See? Trees perhaps in the foreground--just budding--spring -_motif_ and morning _motif_. See? All a little faint and -backgroundy. Then a big hand and wrist across the page pointing at -something, something high and far away. See?' - -"He surveyed Mr. Prelude with the glow of creative enthusiasm on his -face. Mr. Prelude looked disapproval. 'The Sun will like that,' he -said. - -"'It's the goods,' said Mr. Cheeseman. - -"'Why not those flying machines?' - -"'Why not midges?' asked Mr. Cheeseman. - -"Mr. Prelude shrugged his shoulders. 'I've got no use for a magazine -on progress without a flying machine or a Zeppelin,' he said. -'Still--it's your affair.' - -"Mr. Cheeseman looked a little dashed by his colleague's doubt, but -he held to his idea. 'We'll get a sketch made,' he said. 'How about -Wilkinson?' - -"They discussed some unknown Wilkinson as a possible cover designer. -Then Mr. Cheeseman turned to me. 'By the by, here's a youngster -we've got to make use of, Prelude. We don't know what he can do, but -he seems intelligent. I thought we'd use him to sift some of those -scientific books. What he likes, _they'll_ like. _I_ can't read -that stuff. I'm too busy.' - -"Mr. Prelude surveyed me. 'You never know what you can do till you -try,' he said. 'Do you know anything of science?' - -"'Not very much,' I said. 'But I've done some physiography and -chemistry and a little geology. And read a lot.' - -"'You don't want to know very much,' said Mr. Prelude. 'You're -better without it here. Makes you High-Brow. High-Brow goes to tens -of thousands, but Crane & Newberry go to hundreds of thousands. Not -that our brows aren't rising some in this establishment. Educational -and improving, we're going to be. So far as is consistent with our -profits. See that notice,--_We lead_? All the same, Cheeseman,' -said Mr. Prelude, 'the thing that has sold, the thing that sells and -the thing that's going to sell, is the magazine with a pretty girl on -the cover--and the less costume the better. Consistent with decency. -Now here--what's your name?' - -"'Smith, Sir.' - -"'Smith. And here's all these covers on the book-stall. And then I -produce _this_. Which does he buy?' - -"_This_ was the cover of the summer number of Newberry's Story -Magazine, on which two young ladies in skin-tight bathing dresses -disported themselves on a sandy beach. - -"'Smith goes for this,' said Mr. Prelude triumphantly. - -"I shook my head. - -"'You mean to say that isn't attractive?' said Mr. Cheeseman, turning -in his chair and pointing with his well-chewed pencil. - -"I reflected. - -"'There's never anything about them inside,' I said. - -"'Got you there, Prelude!' said Mr. Cheeseman. - -"'Not a bit. He bought six or seven before he found that out. And -most of 'em forgot about it when they read inside.'" - - - -§ 10 - -"I found my introduction to Thunderstone House far less terrifying -than I had anticipated. It was gratifying to have come so near to -what Mr. Cheeseman had thought about the magazine cover, and there -were presently other very reassuring coincidences of the same sort. -I was immediately interested in the editorial and publishing work -that was going on about me, and my mind took one of those forward -strides that are characteristic of adolescence. I was still a boy -when I left Mr. Humberg; I had not been with Crane & Newberry six -weeks before I perceived that I was a capable and responsible young -man. I began to form opinions rapidly, to write with confidence; -even my handwriting suddenly grew up from a careless or over-careful -boyish scrawl to a consistent and characteristic script. I began to -think about the clothes I was wearing and of the impression I made -upon other people. - -"In quite a little time I was writing short contributions to some of -our minor weeklies and monthlies and suggesting articles and -'features' as we called them to Mr. Cheeseman. The eighteen -shillings a week at which I started went up in a series of jerks to -three pounds, which was quite a big salary in those days for a -youngster not yet eighteen. Fanny took the keenest interest in my -work and displayed an extraordinary understanding of its conditions. -She seemed to know all about Mr. Cheeseman and Mr. Prelude and the -rest of my colleagues directly I mentioned them. - -"One day I was working in the room next to Mr. Cheeseman's with -another youngster called Wilkins at a rather odd little job. One of -the authors our firm employed had written a long story for the _Story -Reader's Paradise_, and it had been set up by the printers and passed -for press before it was discovered that in a careless moment she had -given her chief villain the name of a very prominent lawyer who -unhappily also had a country house in a village almost identical in -name with the corresponding village in the story. The prominent -lawyer might see fit to consider this use of his name as libellous -and make trouble for us. So Wilkins and I were going through two -sets of proofs, one to check the other, and we were changing the name -of the prominent lawyer to an entirely different one whenever it -occurred. To brighten the task we had made a game of it. Each one -raced down his galley proof and called the name of 'Reginald Flake' -whenever he found it and scored a point for every name he called -first. I was some points up when I heard a voice in the passage that -seemed oddly familiar to me. 'They're all spread out on my desk, -sir, if you like to come into my room,' I heard Mr. Cheeseman say. - -"'Fay-nits,' said Wilkins. 'It's the Sun.' - -"I turned round as the door opened and saw Mr. Cheeseman holding the -door open for a good-looking youngish man, with rather handsome -regular features and a sort of bang of brown hair over his forehead. -He wore a pair of very round large spectacles with glasses tinted a -faint yellow colour. He met my eyes and an expression of partial -recognition came into his and faded again. Either he recognised me -or he recognised a resemblance in me. He followed Mr. Cheeseman -across the room. Then he turned sharply. - -"'Of course,' he said smiling and returning a step or two towards me. -'You must be young Smith. How are you getting on here?' - -"'I'm working for Mr. Cheeseman mostly,' I said standing up. - -"He turned to Mr. Cheeseman. - -"'Very satisfactory, sir. Quick, interested; he'll do well here.' - -"'I'm glad to hear it--very glad. Everyone has a chance here and -there's no favours. No favours. The best man does the job. Glad to -see you among the directors whenever you care to come up to us, -Smith.' - -"'I'll do my best, Sir.' - -"He hesitated, smiled again in a very friendly way and went into Mr. -Cheeseman's room.... - -"'Where are we?' I said. 'Middle of galley 32? Score, 22-29.' - -"'How d'you know _'im_?' asked Wilkins in a fierce undertone. - -"'I don't know him,' I said, suddenly hot and flushed. 'I've never -seen him before.' - -"'Well, he knew you.' - -"'He's heard about me.' - -"'Who from?' - -"'How the deuce should _I_ know?' I asked with needless heat. - -"'Oh!' said Wilkins and reflected. 'But----' - -"He glanced at my troubled face and said no more. - -"But at the game of 'Reginald Flake' he overhauled me and beat me at -the end of the book, 67-42." - - - -§ 11 - -"I concealed altogether from my mother the share that Fanny had had -in getting me my new job and all the opportunities it carried with it -in Thunderstone House, and so it was possible for her to find some -pride and satisfaction in my increasing prosperity. I was presently -able to double and then still further to increase my contribution to -the household expenses, and I exchanged my attic, which was handed -over to Prue for her very own, for the room which had once sheltered -the old Moggeridges. It was rearranged as a bed-sitting room for me, -and soon I had first one and then several shelves full of books and a -writing-desk of my own. - -"And also I concealed from my mother, for there was no use in -distressing her, the frequency of my visits to Fanny. We began to -make little excursions together, for Fanny, I discovered, was often -very lonely. Newberry was a very busy man, and often he could not -come near her for ten days or a fortnight, and although she had some -women friends, and classes and lectures, there were gaps often of -several days when she would have had no one to speak to but the -servant who came in daily to her, if it had not been for me. But all -this companioning of Fanny I tried to hide from my mother, though now -and then her suspicions stabbed my falsehoods. Ernie and Prue, -however, were able to follow the calls of love unhampered by the -family shame, and presently they were both engaged and his young lady -and her young man were brought to a Sunday tea-party in the -drawing-room--through the kind permission of Mr. and Mrs. Milton who -were, as usual, 'away.' Ernie's Young Lady--I've completely -forgotten her name--proved to be a well-dressed, self-possessed young -woman with a vast knowledge of people in what we used to call -'society'; she talked freely and fashionably, taking the larger share -of the conversation, of Ascot and Monte Carlo and the Court. Prue's -Mr. Pettigrew was of a more serious quality, and of the things he -said I remember now only that he expressed a firm conviction that -Messages from the Dead were Bound to Come in a few years' time. He -was a chiropodist and very well thought of in chiropodological -circles." - -"Stop!" cried Radiant. "What is this? You are talking nonsense, -Sarnac. What is chiropodological--hand--foot--scientific?" - -"I thought you'd ask me that," said Sarnac, smiling. "Chiropody -was--corn-cutting." - -"Corn-cutting--harvesting," said Starlight. "But where do the hands -and feet come in? There were machines then, were there not?" - -"No, this was a different sort of corn. Mr. Humberg's shop was full -of corn-salves and corn-cures. Corns were painful and tiresome -callosities produced on people's feet by the pressure of ill-fitting -boots. We don't know of such things nowadays, but they darkened -scores of lives in Pimlico." - -"But why did they wear ill-fitting boots?" demanded Radiant. -"Oh!--never mind. Never mind. I know. A mad world which made boots -at hazard without looking at the feet that had to wear them! And -wore boots that hurt it when no sane people would dream of wearing -boots! Go on with your story." - -"Let me see," said Sarnac. "I was talking of a tea-party, a family -tea-party in the drawing-room--in which we talked of everything in -the world but my sister Fanny. And quite a little while after that -tea-party my mother fell ill and died. - -"It was a swift and sudden illness. She caught a cold and would not -go to bed. When she did go to bed, she got up after one day of it, -because she couldn't bear to think of all that Prue might be doing or -not doing in the house-work downstairs. And her cold turned to -pneumonia, the same sort of inflammation that had carried off the -Moggeridges, and she died in three days. - -"Now when the fever came upon her she changed suddenly from something -white and hard and unapproachable to something flushed and pitiful. -Her face grew smaller and younger looking, her eyes bright, and -something came into them that reminded me of Fanny when Fanny was -distressed. And all my habit of sullen resistance to my mother -melted when I saw her struggling for breath on her tumbled pillow and -realised that she might be near the end of all her hates and -drudgeries. Matilda Good became again the old friend who had known -her since she was a young woman, and they called each other 'Tilda' -and 'Marty' instead of Matilda and Martha. Matilda for all her -varicose veins was up and down stairs fifty times a day; and there -was much sending out for expensive things, the more expensive the -better, that Matilda thought my mother might 'fancy.' They stood -appealingly untouched upon the table by her bedside. Once or twice -towards the end my mother asked for me, and when I came in the -evening and bent over her she whispered hoarsely, ''Arry boy--promise -me! ... Promise me! ...' - -"I sat down and took the hand she held out to me, and so holding to -me, she dozed. - -"What she wanted me to promise she never said; and whether it was -some last vow she wanted to extract from me that would separate me -from Fanny for ever, or whether her thoughts about Fanny had changed -under the shadow of death and she had some new message for her, I -cannot imagine to this day. Perhaps she herself did not know what I -had to promise; a dying desire for predominance moved her. Will -stirred in her and faded again to nothing. 'Promise me!' Fanny she -never mentioned by name and we did not dare to bring my sister in to -her. Ernest came and kissed her and knelt down by the bedside and -suddenly, dreadfully wept aloud like the child he was and set us all -weeping; he was her firstborn and her dearest, he had known her -before her final embitterment, he had always been a dutiful son to -her. - -"Presently she was lying there very straight and still, as hushed and -still as my father's shop on Sundays, and the traffics and struggles -and angers of life had done with her for ever. Her face was now -neither young nor old, a marble face of peace. All her peevish -resentment was smoothed and wiped away. It had never occurred to me -before that she had or had not good looks, but now I saw that Fanny's -fine regularity of feature came from her. She was like Fanny, like -an immobile, unhumorous Fanny. - -"I stood beside her still body oppressed by a grief too wide and deep -for tears, an immense grief that was not so much for her as for all -that distress of life she had embodied. For now I saw that there was -not and there never had been anything hateful in her; I saw for the -first time the devotion of her, the misguided passion for right, the -mute, blundering, tormented and tormenting love in her heart. Even -her love of Fanny was a love capsized and inverted; her fallen -daughter had been to her a detested changeling for the pretty clever -little girl who was to have been a paragon of feminine virtue. -Except for Ernest how bitterly and repeatedly had we children -offended her rigid and implacable standards, Fanny and I openly and -rebelliously and Prue by discovery! For Prue--I will not tell you -the details of Matilda's exposure--pilfered. - -"Long before we children began to thwart my mother there must have -been a still more monstrous disappointment for her. What sort of -dreams of manly piety and decorum had she wrapped about my poor, -maundering, ramshackle, loose-limbed father when he and she walked -out together in their Sunday clothes, making the best and more than -the best of themselves? He must have been a tall, good-looking, -young man then, and reassuringly apt with pious reflections. What -shocks had he, gross, clumsy, wayward, ignorant and incompetent as -the dear man was, inflicted upon her set and limited expectations? - -"And then think of my Uncle John Julip again, that wonderful and -adored elder brother with the manners of a sporting baronet, who had -slowly shrivelled down to the figure of a drunken thief! Everything -had shrivelled for her,--poor soul! In our streets in those old days -men were permitted to sell brightly coloured distended bladders to -children, the most apt instruments for acute disappointment you can -imagine; and the life God had given my mother was very like one of -these bladders. It had burst and shrivelled down to a limp and empty -residue that nothing could ever restore. She had faced her declining -days, prematurely wrinkled, weary, laborious and unloved except by -one dutiful son.... - -"Yes, the thought of Ernest was a consolation to me. Surely his -loyalty had meant happiness for her." - -Sarnac paused. "I find it impossible," he said, "to disentangle my -thoughts as I stood by my mother's death-bed from a thousand things -that have come to me since about her. I have had to tell of her as -an antagonist, as a hard, uncharitable soul. That was her rôle in my -story. But she was indeed just the creature and victim of that -disordered age which had turned her natural tenacity to a blind -intolerance and wasted her moral passion upon ugly and barren ends. -If Fanny and Ernest and I had shown any stoutness against the -disadvantages of our start in life, if we had won for ourselves any -knowledge or respect, we inherited that much steadfastness from her; -such honesty as we had was hers. If her moral harshness had -overshadowed and embittered our adolescence, her passionate mothering -had sheltered our childhood. Our father would have loved us, -wondered at us and left us about. But early in her life, that fear, -that terror-stricken hatred of sex that overshadowed the Christian -centuries, that frantic resort to the suppressions, subjugations and -disciplines of a stereotyped marriage in its harshest form, a -marriage as easy to step into and as hard to leave as a steel trap -with its teeth hidden by the most elaborate secrecies and -misrepresentations, had set its pitiless grip upon my mother's -imagination and blackened all the happier impulses in life for her. -She was ready, if necessary, to pass all her children through the -fires of that Moloch, if by so doing their souls might be saved. She -did it the more bitterly because she was doing it against the deeper -undeveloped things in her own nature. - -"Such things, more dimly appreciated perhaps, passed through the mind -of Harry Mortimer Smith, my former self, as he stood beside his dead -mother. He was torn--I was torn--by a sense of irrational separation -and by the haunting persuasion of lost opportunities. There were -things I felt that I might have said, propitious moments I might have -seized to make things better between us. I had differed from her so -harshly; I might have been so much kinder to her and still have held -my way. She lay there a feeble, little, old woman, thin, worn and -prematurely aged. How often had I struck at her with all my rebel -strength, blind to the fact that I could wound her as only a child -can wound the mother who bore it. She had been darkened and I also -had been darkened, and now--now it was all too late. The door had -closed between us. And was closed for ever. For ever...." - - - -§ 12 - -"The year and a half that intervened between my mother's death and -the beginning of the First World War--the War that came before the -Poison Gas War and the Great Desolation--were years of rapid growth -for me, mental and physical alike. I remained with Matilda Good -because I had come to love that clumsy, wise, friendly creature -almost as if she was my second mother, but now I was prosperous -enough to occupy the whole of the second floor and to have a -sitting-room separate from my bedroom. I still came down to the -underground breakfast-room for breakfast or supper or high tea -because I liked talking with Matilda. Prue had married Mr. Pettigrew -by that time, and in her stead two grey and sedulous women came -in--they were sisters, one a spinster and the other the wife of a -broken-down prize-fighter--to do the drudgeries Prue and my mother -had done. - -"My chief companion in those days was my sister Fanny. Our -childhood's alliance was renewed and strengthened. We had a need for -each other; we were able to help each other as no one else could help -us. I found out very soon that Fanny's life was divided into two -very unequal parts; that she had hours and sometimes days of -excitement and happiness with Newberry, who loved her greatly and -gave her all the time he could steal away for her and introduced her -to such friends as he could trust to respect her and keep their -secret, and also she had long stretches of uneventful solitude in -which she was terribly left to herself. My sister Fanny was plucky -and loyal and devoted, but before we two got together again I think -she found those grey intervals of suspended animation dreary and -dangerous and sometimes almost intolerable. Often she had nothing to -live for at all, nothing bright and vital, but the almost daily note, -a hasty word or so he scribbled to her. And the better he was, the -worse it was for her. The fact that he was pleasant and delightful -and deeply in love with her, the very brightness of being with him, -made those great intervals seem darker and duller." - -"Hadn't she work?" asked Sunray. - -"And fellow workers, and other women?" asked Firefly. - -"Not in her position. Not as an unmarried woman--of lowly -origins--with a lover." - -"But there were others in the same position? Surely there were many!" - -"A scattered class, a class made to be ashamed of itself. Newberry -and Fanny were lovers, such lovers as we are to-day; they got through -with it and at last, I believe, they married according to the custom -of the time. But they were the exceptional ones, they knew what they -wanted and had stout hearts. Most of these irregular unions -succumbed to the boredom in between and to the temptations of -separation. Forgetfulness and jealousy played havoc with these -insecure couples. The girls in their phases of loneliness picked up -with other men and the first lover suspected their infidelities and -strayed away. I have a lot to tell you yet about jealousy in the old -world; it was not regarded as an ugly thing but as a rather -high-spirited thing. People let it go and were proud of it. And the -majority of these irregular unions were not even love unions in the -first place, they were vice unions, dishonest on either side. Drugs -and drink crept very easily into lives divided between -over-excitement and tedium and darkened by a general disapproval. -The defiant pose was the easiest pose. The unmarried lover was made -a social outcast and driven towards other sorts of social outcasts, -more evil and unhappy.... You see perhaps now why my sister Fanny -was rather alone and aloof, for all that she belonged to a numerous -class. - -"I suppose," said Sarnac, "that the object of that rigid legal -marriage of the old world was to keep lovers together. In countless -cases it kept the wrong people together and lovers apart. But then -you must remember that in those days children were supposed to be -providential accidents; they were indeed accidents of cohabitation -and that altered all the conditions of the question. There were no -proper schools for children, no sort of refuge if the parents parted -and tore the home asunder. We are so secure; it is hard to imagine -now the chancy insecurity of the ancient days. It is hard to imagine -the dangers that hung about an unprotected child. In our world -nowadays we all seem to get paired; sooner or later each finds a mate -and marriage is a natural and necessary relationship instead of a -compulsory device. All the priests of all the religions that have -ever been in the world could not bind me to Sunray more firmly than I -am bound to-day. Does one get a book and an altar to marry the axe -to its handle? ... - -"None of which does in the least degree affect the fact that my -sister Fanny suffered dreadfully from loneliness before she -rediscovered me. - -"She was full of curiosities and enterprise, and she took possession -of my leisure to explore all sorts of shows and resorts in and about -old London, museums, picture-galleries, parks, gardens and heaths, -that I should otherwise never have visited. Indeed she might not -have visited them either if I had not been available as her escort, -because in that world of crazy suppressions, most of these places -were haunted by furtive love-hunters and feeble-minded folk who might -have been irritating and tiresome to a solitary girl so pretty as -Fanny. They would have followed her about and accosted her when they -got her alone, and thrust their disagreeable cravings between her and -the beauty and sunshine. - -"But together we went gaily to all sorts of interesting things. This -old London I am describing to you had a large share of parks and -gardens; there was a pleasing quaintness about all of them and much -unpremeditated loveliness. There was a certain Richmond Park, to -which we often resorted, with many fine old trees and grassy spaces -and wildernesses of bracken, that got very yellow and gay in autumn, -and a quantity of deer. You might have been transported from this -age to Richmond Park two thousand years ago, and still fancied -yourself in the northland parks of to-day. The great trees, like -nearly all trees in those days, were, it is true, infested with -fungus and partly decayed, but Fanny and I never noticed that. They -seemed great healthy trees to us. And there was a view from a -hill-crest of the winding Thames, a very delightful view. And then -there were the oddest old gardens and flower spaces at Kew. I -remember a quite good rock-garden and glass-houses of flowers; the -brightest flowers the old world imagined possible. And there were -paths through a jungle of rhododendra, primitive small rhododendra, -but bright coloured and a great delight to Fanny and me. There was a -place where we had tea at little tables in the open air. In that -frowsty old germ-saturated world with its dread of draughts and colds -and coughs it gave one a bright sense of adventure to eat food in the -open air. - -"We went to museums and picture-galleries and talked about what the -pictures meant and we talked of a thousand things together. There -comes back to me one conversation we had at a place called Hampton -Court, a queer, old, red-brick palace with a great grape-vine under -glass and an ancient garden beside the Thames. There were -flower-beds full of half-wild herbaceous flowers, and we walked -beside them under trees until we came to a low wall that looked upon -the river, and we sat down on a seat and there, after a silence, -suddenly Fanny, like one who has been pent up beyond endurance, began -talking of love. - -"She began by asking questions about the girls I had met and the -girls at Thunderstone House. I described one or two of them to her. -My chief friend among them was Milly Kimpton from the counting-house; -we had got to the pitch of taking teas together and such-like -friendly acts. 'That's not love,' said Fanny the wise, 'lending each -other books. You don't begin to know what love is yet, Harry. - -"'But you will, Harry--you will. - -"'Don't you be too late about it, Harry. There's nothing in life -like loving someone, Harry. People don't talk to you about it and -lots of people don't know what they are missing. It's all the -difference between being nothing or something. It's all the -difference between being dead or alive. When you are really loving -someone you're all right and nothing can harm you. And when you -aren't, nothing is right, everything is wrong. But love is a queer -thing, Harry, and about as dreadful as it is dear. It gets wrong. -Sometimes it all goes wrong and it's awful; it slips from you -somehow; it goes and you're left mean and little--ever so mean!--and -you can't get back and it seems you hardly want to get back. You're -dead and you're damned and done for, and then again it all comes back -again like the sunrise--like being born afresh.' - -"And then with a desperate shamelessness she began to talk of -Newberry and how much she loved him. She told little irrelevant -things about his 'ways.' 'He comes to me whenever he can,' she said, -and repeated this presently. 'He's all my life,' she said. 'You -don't know what he is to me....' - -"Then her constant dread of a separation crept up to the surface of -her thoughts. - -"'Perhaps,' she said, 'it will always go on like this.... I don't -care if it does, I don't care if I never marry him. I wouldn't -care--not if at last I'm thrown aside. I'd go through it all again -and count myself lucky even if I knew for certain I was to be dropped -and cast aside.' - -"Queer Fanny! Her face was flushed and her eyes shining with tears. -I asked myself what had been happening. - -"'He'll never throw me aside, Harry. He'll never throw me aside. He -can't. He can't. He's half as old again as I am and yet he comes to -me in his trouble. Once---- Once he cried to me. Men, all of you, -are so strong and yet so helpless.... - -"'You've got to have a woman to come to.... - -"'Just a little while ago---- Well---- He was ill. He was very -ill. He has pain in his eyes and sometimes he's afraid about them. -This time, suddenly, he had frightful pains. And he thought he -couldn't see. He came straight to me, Harry. He called a cab and -came to me, and he came feeling his way upstairs to me and fumbling -at the door; and I nursed him in my darkened room until the pain had -gone. He didn't go home, Harry, where there were servants and nurses -to be got and attendants and everything; he came to me. It was me he -came to. Me! He's my man. He knows I'd give my life for him. I -would, Harry. I'd cut my body to pieces bit by bit, if it would make -him happy. - -"'It wasn't so much the pain he had, Harry, as the fear. He's not -the one to mind a bit of pain or be afraid of many things. But he -was afraid and scared. He'd never been afraid before, but he was -afraid of going blind--he was too afraid to go to the specialist. It -was like a little child, Harry, and him so big and strong--afraid of -the dark. He thought they'd get hold of him so that perhaps he'd not -be able to come to me. He thought he wouldn't be able to see his -beloved magazines and papers any more. And the pain just turned the -screw on him. He clung to me. - -"'It was me made him go. I took him there. He wouldn't have gone if -it hadn't been for me. He'd have just let things drift on and not a -soul in the world, for all his money and power, to mother him. And -then he might really have gone blind if it hadn't been taken in time. -I pretended to be his secretary and I took him and waited in the -waiting-room for him. I dreaded they'd hurt him. I was listening -for something to happen all the time. I had to look at their old -_Graphics_ as if I didn't care a rap what they were doing to him. -And then he came out smiling with a green shade on and I had to stand -up stiff and cool and wait to hear what he had to say. I was scared -by that shade, Harry. Scared! I held my breath. I thought it had -come. "It isn't so bad as we fancied, Miss Smith," he says--offhand -like. "You kept the taxi? You'll have to take my arm I'm afraid." -"Certainly sir," I said, mimpsy-like. I was careful to be kind of -awkward taking his arm. There were people there in the waiting-room -and you never know. Acted respectful. Me!--that has had him in my -arms a thousand times. - -"'But when we were in the taxi and safe he pushed up the shade and -took me into his arms and he hugged me and he cried--he cried wet -tears. And held me. Because he'd got me still and his sight still -and the work he loves to do. Things would have to be done to his -eyes but he'd keep his sight--and he has. There's been no trouble -now. Not for months.' - -"She sat looking away from me over the shining river. - -"'How could he ever leave me?' she said. 'After a time like that?' - -"Stoutly she spoke, but even to my youthful eyes she seemed little -and lonely, sitting there on the old red wall. - -"I thought of the busy bustling man with the big tortoise-shell -glasses away from her, and of one or two things I had heard whispered -about him. It seemed to me then that no men were good enough for the -women in the world. - -"'When he's tired or in trouble,' said Fanny, sure and still, 'he'll -always come back to me.'" - - - - -CHAPTER THE SIXTH - -MARRIAGE IN WAR TIME - - -§ 1 - -"And now," said Sarnac, "comes a change of costume. You have been -thinking of me, I suppose, as a gawky youth of seventeen or eighteen, -dressed in those ill-fitting wholesale clothes we used to call -'ready-mades.' That youth wore a white collar round his neck and a -black jacket and dark grey trousers of a confused furtive patterning -and his hat was a black hemisphere with a little brim, called a -Bowler. Now he changes into another sort of 'ready-mades,' even more -ill-fitting,--the khaki uniform of a young British soldier in the -Great World War against Germany. In 1914 Anno Domini, a magic wand, -the wand of political catastrophe, waved to and fro over Europe, and -the aspect of that world changed, accumulation gave place to -destruction and all the generation of young men I have described as -being put together from such shops as those one saw in Cheapside, -presently went into khaki and fell into ranks and tramped off to the -lines of ditches and desolation that had extended themselves across -Europe. It was a war of holes and barbed wire and bombs and big guns -like no war that had ever happened before. It was a change of phase -in the world muddle. It was like some liquid which has been growing -hotter and hotter, suddenly beginning to boil and very swiftly -boiling over. Or it was like a toboggan track in the mountains, when -after a long easy, almost level run, one comes to a swift drop and a -wild zig-zag of downward curves. It was the same old downward run at -a dramatic point. - -"Change of costume there was and change of atmosphere. I can still -recall the scared excitements of the August days when the war began -and how incredulous we English were when we heard that our own little -army was being driven back before the German hosts like a spluttering -kitten pushed by a broom, and that the French lines were collapsing. -Then came the rally of September. At the beginning we British -youngsters had been excited spectators, but as the tale of our army's -efforts and losses came home to us we crowded to the recruiting -offices, by thousands and scores of thousands, until at last our -volunteers could be counted by the million. I went with the crowd. - -"It may seem a curious thing to you that I lived through all the -Great World War against Germany, that I was a soldier in it and -fought and was wounded and went back and took part in the final -offensive, that my brother Ernest became a sergeant and won a medal -for gallantry and was killed within a few weeks of the concluding -Armistice, that all the circumstances of my life were revolutionised -by the war and that nevertheless it does not come into the story of -my life as a thing of importance in itself to that story. As I think -of it now, I think of the Great World War as a sort of geographical -or atmospheric fact, like living ten miles from your working place or -being married in an April shower. One would have to travel the ten -miles every day or put up an umbrella as one came out of church, but -it wouldn't touch what one was intimately or alter in any essential -the living substance of one's life. Of course the World War killed -and tortured millions of us, impoverished us all and dislocated the -whole world. But that only meant that so many millions went out of -life and that there was a fractional increase in everyone's anxiety -and disorder; it didn't change the nature and passions, the -ignorances and bad habits of thought of the millions who remained. -The World War arose out of these ignorances and misconceptions and it -did nothing to alter them. After it was all over the world was a -good deal rattled and much shabbier than before, but it was still the -same old mean and haphazard world, acquisitive, divided, cantingly -patriotic, idiotically prolific, dirty, diseased, spiteful and -conceited. It has taken two-score centuries of research and -teaching, training, thought and work to make any great alteration in -that. - -"I admit the outbreak of the World War had a really tremendous air of -being an end and a beginning. There were great days in it at first, -and for us British as much as for any people. We apprehended the -thing in splendid terms. We thought quite honestly--I speak of the -common people--that the Imperialisms of Central Europe were wholly -wrong and that we were wholly right; hundreds of thousands of us gave -ourselves gladly in the sincere belief that a new world was to be won -by victory. That spirit was not confined to Britain, nor to either -side in this war. I am convinced that the years 1914, 1915 and 1916 -saw finer crops of brave and generous deeds and noble sacrifices, of -heroic toil and heroic patience, than any years that ever came before -in the whole history of mankind or than any of the years that -followed for many centuries. The young people were wonderful; death -and honour reaped gloriously among them. And then the inherent -unsoundness of the issue began to wear through and that false dawn -faded out of men's hearts. By the end of 1917 the whole world was a -disillusioned world, with but one hope left, the idealism of the -United States of America and the still untested greatness of -President Wilson. But of that and what it came to, you read about in -the history books and I will not talk about it now. A God in that -man's position might have unified the world in the twentieth century -and saved it centuries of tragic struggle. President Wilson was not -a God.... - -"And I do not think I need tell you very much of the war itself as I -saw it. It was a strange phase in human experience and it was -described and painted and photographed and put on record very -completely. Most of us have read quite a lot about it--except of -course Firefly. You know how human life concentrated for four whole -years upon the trenches that stretched across Europe on either front -of Germany. You know how thousands of miles of land were turned into -wildernesses of mud-holes and wire. Nowadays of course nobody reads -the books of the generals and admirals and politicians of that time, -and all the official war histories sleep the eternal sleep in the -vaults of the great libraries, but probably you have all read one or -two such human books as Enid Bagnold's _Diary without Dates_ or -Cogswell's _Ermytage and the Curate_ or Barbusse's _Le Feu_ or Arthur -Green's _Story of a Prisoner of War_ or that curious anthology, _The -War Stories of Private Thomas Atkins_, and probably you have seen -photographs and films and also pictures painted by such men as -Nevinson and Orpen and Muirhead Bone and Will Rothenstein. All of -them, I can certify now, are very true books and pictures. They tell -of desolation passing like the shadow of an eclipse across the human -scene. - -"But the mind has the power of reducing and effacing every sort of -impression that drags pain with it. I spent great parts out of two -years in that noxious, gun-pocked land of haste and hiding, and that -time now seems less than many days of my peace-time life. I killed -two men with the bayonet in a trench, and it remains as though it was -done by someone else and had no significance for me at all. I -remember much more clearly that I felt very sick when afterwards I -found my sleeve saturated with blood and blood on my hand, and how I -tried to get it off by rubbing my arm in the sand because there was -no water to be got. In the trenches life was hideously uncomfortable -and tedious and while it lasted I was, I know, interminably bored by -the drag of the hours, but all those hours are concentrated now into -a record of the fact. I remember the shock of the first shell that -burst near me and how slowly the smoke and dust unfolded, and how -there was a redness in the smoke and how for a time it blotted out -the light. That shell burst in a field of yellow-flowering weeds and -stubble against the sun, but I do not recall what preceded it nor -what followed it; shell-bursts rattled me more and more as the war -went on, but they left weaker and weaker pictures. - -"One of my most vivid memories of that time is the excitement of my -first leave from the front, and how my party arrived at Victoria -Station and were guided in a clattering throng to a sort of transport -drain called the Underground Railway by elderly volunteers wearing -brassards. I was still muddy from the trenches; there had been no -time for a wash and a brush-up, and I was carrying my rifle and other -gear; we crowded into a brightly lit first-class carriage in which -were a number of people in evening dress who were going out to dinner -and to the theatre. There could not have been a more vivid contrast -if I had seen Firefly there in all her loveliness. There was one -young man not much older than myself between two gorgeously dressed -women. He had a little white bow under his pink chin and a silk -neck-wrap, he had a black cloak with a cape and an opera hat. I -suppose he was an invalid but he looked as fit as I. I felt a -momentary impulse to say something humiliating to him. I don't think -I did. I do not remember that I did. But I looked at him and then -at the brown stain on my sleeve and the wonder of life possessed me. - -"No--I said nothing. I was in a state of intense exhilaration. The -other fellows were gay and inclined to be noisy, one or two were a -little drunk, but I was quietly exalted. I seemed to be hearing and -seeing and perceiving with such an acuteness as I had never known -before. Fanny I should see on the morrow, but that evening I hoped -to see Hetty Marcus with whom I was in love. I was in love with her -with an intensity that only soldier-boys who had been living in the -mud of Flanders for half a year could understand." - - - -§ 2 - -"How," asked Sarnac, "can I make you see Hetty Marcus, dark-eyed, -warm-skinned, wayward and fragile, who brought me to love and death -two thousand years ago? - -"In a way, she was like Sunray here. She was of her type. She had -the same darkness in her eyes, the same still bearing. She was like -Sunray's hungry sister. With a touch of fire in her blood. - -"Yes--and she had those same stumpy little fingers.... _Look_ at -them! - -"I met her on those very Downs I used to walk over with my father -when I was a boy, to steal the produce from Lord Bramble's gardens. -I had a short leave before I was drafted to France and I did not -spend it in London with Matilda Good and Fanny as you may think I -should have done, but I went with three other youngsters who had -enough money to do so, to Cliffstone. I don't know whether I can -make it clear to you why I went to Cliffstone. I was excited at the -thought of going into the actual warfare, I meant to do brave and -wonderful things over there, but also I was terribly overshadowed by -the thought that I might be killed. I did not think of wounds or -suffering, I do not think I feared those things at all, but I had a -profound dread and hatred of extinction before ever I had fully -lived, before I had ever tasted many of the most alluring things in -life. I had always promised myself love and great adventures with -women, and I was passionately distressed at the possibility of being -cheated of those intensities. All of us young innocents were in the -same case. It was I who had thought of Cliffstone, near to our -training camp, with its band and promenade and its flitting glancing -girls. There if anywhere, it seemed to me, we must snatch something -from life before the great shells splashed us to pieces and the clay -of Flanders devoured us. We sneaked off from our families with those -fires of protesting romance in our brains and veins. - -"You cannot imagine how many millions of lads there were in Europe -then, pitifully eager not to miss altogether the secret and magic -experiences of love before they died. I cannot tell you of the -pothouses and prostitutes that lay in wait for us or of the gaunt -moonlight on the beach. I cannot tell you of temptation and -ignorance and disease. It is too ugly to tell you; such things are -passed and done with, and men suffer them no more. We groped in -darkness where now men walk in the light. One of my mates had an -ugly misadventure; all had ugly experiences and I escaped by chance -rather than any merit of my own from those slovenly snares. I was -for a moment fastidious and I recoiled. And I had not drunken as the -others had, because some streak of pride in me had made me habitually -wary with drink. - -"But I was in a storm of excitements and distresses. I was slipping -into the pit though I hated it, and to escape it I set myself to -revive my memories of the days when I was a boy. I went to Cherry -Gardens to see the old home and then to my father's grave--it was -neat and pretty with Fanny's money--and then I determined to walk -over the Downs to recall, if I could, something of the wonder that I -had felt when first I went over them to Chessing Hanger. And also, -if you understand me, I felt love and romance would be there. I -hadn't abandoned the quest that had brought me to Cliffstone; I had -only jumped a foul ditch on my way. When I was a child I had -supposed Heaven was over the Downs, and certainly the golden summer -sunsets were. It seemed natural to turn my back on Cliffstone and go -up into the only really lovely country I had ever known, if I wanted -to find romance. - -"And I found it. - -"I was thrilled but not a bit surprised when I saw Hetty appear over -the sky-line of the hill and come right over the brow and stand with -her hands behind her back and the sun shining on her hair, looking -out across the woods and cornfields to Blythe and the distant marches -and the sea. She had taken her hat off and was holding it behind -her. She wore an ivory-coloured silk blouse very open at the neck -and it was just as though you could see her body through the flimsy -stuff. - -"She dropped into a sitting position, now looking at her world and -now plucking at the little dwarfish flowers in the Downland turf. - -"I stood for a time agape at her. Then my whole being was filled -with a tremulous resolve to talk to her. My path curved up the slope -and carried me over the shoulder of the hill not very far from her. -I followed it, stopping ever and again as if to look at the land and -sea below, until it brought me as near to her as it could, and then I -left it and with a clumsy affectation of carelessness strolled up to -the summit until I stood beside her and about six yards away. I -pretended not to observe her. I clenched my hands to keep my -self-control. She had become aware of me and she was quite -motionless now, sitting up and looking at me, but she did not seem in -the least dismayed. Your fine face she had, Sunray, and your dark -eyes, and I have never known anyone, not even you, who could keep a -face so still. Not rigid or hard or staring it was, but quietly, -profoundly, still, like a face in some beautiful picture. - -"I was all a-tremble, my heart was beating fast but I kept my wits -about me. - -"'Was there ever a lovelier view?' I said. 'I suppose that bit of -blue there that looks like a raft where the water shines, I suppose -that is Denge Ness?' - -"She did not answer for what seemed a long time. She surveyed me -with an unfathomable expression. Then she spoke and as she spoke she -smiled. 'You know that is Denge Ness as well as I do.' - -"I smiled at her smile. Shy pretences were not for her. I came a -step or so nearer with a conversational air. 'I have known this -view,' I said, 'since I was a boy of ten. But I did not know anyone -else set any value upon it.' - -"'Nor I,' she said. 'I came to look at it perhaps for the last -time,' she vouchsafed. 'I'm going away.' - -"'I'm going away too.' - -"'Over there?' she asked, and nodded her head to where the land of -France hung like a cloud in the sky. - -"'In a week or so.' - -"'I'll get to France too. But not so soon as a week or two. But I -am going into the Women's Auxiliary Army Corps and I know I shall get -over there at last. I join up to-morrow. How can one stay at home -with all you boys out there, getting----' - -"She was going to say getting '_killed_.' But she caught the word -back and finished it with, 'Getting into all sorts of danger and -trouble.' - -"'One has to go,' I said. - -"She looked at me with her head a little on one side. 'Tell me,' she -said. 'Do you _want_ to go?' - -"'Not a bit. I hate the whole monstrous business. But there's no -way out. The Germans have put it on us and we have to go through -with it.' - -"That was how we all saw it in England during the War. But I won't -stop now to argue what really caused a war that ended two thousand -years ago. 'The Germans put it on us. I hate going. I wanted to go -on with the work I was doing. Now everything is upset.' - -"'Everything,' she said and thought for some moments. 'I hate going -too,' she said. - -"'It drags on week after week, month after month,' I complained. -'The boredom of it! The drills, the salutes, the silly little -officers! If only they would take us and raffle us and kill us and -have done with it so that we could either die or go home and do -something sensible! My life is being wasted. I have been in the -machine a year--and I've only got thus far on my way to France! When -I see a German soldier at last I shall want to kiss him I shall be so -glad. But either I shall kill him or he will kill me--and that will -be the end of the story.' - -"'And yet one can't keep out of it,' she said. - -"'And there is something tremendous about it,' she went on. 'Once or -twice I have been up here when there were air-raids. I live quite -close here. These air-raids get more and more frequent nowadays. I -don't know what they are coming to. You see the searchlights now, -every night, waving about like the arms of a drunken man. All over -the sky. But before that you hear the pheasants in the woods, -clucking and crying. They always hear it first. Other birds take it -up. They cry and twitter. And then far away the guns begin -rumbling. At first a little sound--"_pud-pud_," then like the whoof -of a hoarse dog. And then one gun after another picks it up as the -raid comes nearer. Sometimes you can catch the whirr of the engines -of the Gothas. There's a great gun behind the farm-house away there -and you wait for that and when it fires it hits you on the chest. -Hardly anything is to be seen except the searchlights. There's a -little flicker in the sky--and star shells. But the guns--riot. -It's mad but it's immense. It takes you. Either you are wild with -fright or you are wild with excitement. I can't sleep. I walk about -my room and long to be out. Twice I've gone out into the night, into -the moonlight--with everything a-quiver. Gone for long walks. Once -shrapnel fell in our orchard with a hiss like rain. It ripped the -bark of the apple trees and tore off twigs and branches and killed a -hedge-hog. I found the little wretch in the morning, nearly cut in -two. Death hap-hazard! I don't mind the death and the danger so -much. But it's the quiver in the world I can't endure. Even in the -daytime sometimes, you can't quite hear them, but you can _feel_ the -guns, over beyond there.... - -"'Our old servant,' she said, 'believes it is the end of the world.' - -"'For us it may be,' I said. - -"She made no answer. - -"I looked at her face and my imagination rioted. - -"I began to talk with a bare simplicity such as we rarely attained in -that shy and entangled age. But my heart was beating fast. 'For -years,' I said, 'I have dreamt of the love of a girl. It was to have -been the crown of life. I have saved myself up for it. I have had a -friend or so, but it wasn't love. And now I am near to going. Out -there. It is only a few days before I go over there--to whatever is -waiting for me. And when it seems beyond hope I come upon -someone.... Don't think me mad, please. Don't think I'm lying. I -am in love with you. Indeed I am. You seem altogether beautiful to -me. Your voice, your eyes--everything. I could worship you....' - -"I couldn't say a word more for a moment or so. I rolled over on the -turf and looked her in the face. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I'm a silly -young Tommy suddenly in love--oh! desperately in love.' - -"Her grave face regarded me. She did not look frightened or -disconcerted. Perhaps her heart beat faster than I thought. But her -voice when she spoke was constrained. - -"'Why are you talking like that? You've just met me.... How can you -love me? It isn't possible people should love like this.' - -"'I've seen you long enough----' - -"I could not talk. I met her eyes. Hers dropped before mine. The -warm colour mounted to her cheeks. She bit her lips. - -"'You,' she said in a low voice, 'are just in love with love.' - -"'Anyhow, I am in love,' I said. - -"She plucked a spray of minute flowers and forgot it in her hand. - -"'This is your last day?' she asked, and made my heart beat faster. - -"'It may be my last altogether for this sort of thing. Who can tell? -... For a long time anyhow. Why should it hurt you to let me love -you to-day? Why shouldn't you be kind to me? Civil to me--anyhow. -I don't ask for so very much. If--suppose--we went for a walk -together? Just a long walk. If we spent most of the day together? -Somewhere we might get something to eat....' - -"She sat considering me gravely. - -"'Suppose I did,' she said as if to herself. 'Suppose I did.' - -"'What harm could it do you?' - -"'What harm could it do?' she repeated with her eyes on mine. - -"If I had been older and more experienced I might have known from her -warm flushed face and her dark eyes that she too was in love with -love that day, and that our encounter was as exciting for her as for -me. Suddenly she smiled; she showed herself for an instant as ready -as myself. Her constraint had vanished. - -"'I'll come,' she decided, and rose with an effortless ease to her -feet, and then at my eager movement as I sprang up before her: 'But -you'll have to be good, you know. It's just a walk--and a talk.... -Why shouldn't we? ... If we keep away from the village.'" - - - -§ 3 - -"It would seem the queerest story in the world if I told you how we -two youngsters spent that day, we who were such strangers that we did -not know each other's names and yet who were already drawn so closely -together. It was a day of kindly beauty and warmth and we rambled -westward until we came to a ridge that dropped steeply to a silvery, -tree-bordered canal, and along that ridge we went until we reached a -village and a friendly inn, where there were biscuits and cheese and -some apples to make a lunch upon. For a time a mood of shyness -followed our first avowals, then Hetty talked of her home and of her -place in the world. It was only after we had eaten together that we -became easy and familiar with each other. It was only as the sun was -sinking in the west and our day drew to its golden end that we -embraced suddenly as we sat together on a felled tree in a wood, and -that I learnt from her what a sweet and wonderful delight the kiss of -love may be." - - - -§ 4 - -Sarnac paused. - -"It happened two thousand years ago but it seems to me that it -happened just six years from now. Once more I am back in that wood -among the long warm shadows of the evening and all my dreams and -imaginations awake to reality with Hetty's body in my arms and her -lips to mine. I have been able to tell you my story hitherto with a -sort of wonder and detachment, as though I showed it you through a -telescope. But I have been telling you overmuch perhaps of Fanny and -Matilda Good because I have had a sort of reluctance about Hetty. -She is still so fresh in my mind that she seems as I name her to come -even here and to be living still, a perplexity between Sunray, who is -so like her and so unlike her, and myself. I love her again and hate -her again as though I was still that assistant editor, that writer of -rubbish, in lost and forgotten Thunderstone House in dead old -London.... - -"And I can't describe things now," said Sarnac, "as I have described -them up to this. I seem no longer to look back into past things. My -memories are living and suffering; they inflame and hurt. I loved -Hetty; she was all the delight of love to me. I married her, I -divorced her, I repented of the divorce and I was killed for her sake. - -"And it seems as if I was killed not a day ago.... - -"I married while I was in England before I was passed for active -service again after my wound. I was wounded in the arm----" - -Sarnac stopped and felt his arm. Sunray looked sharply at it and ran -her hand down it from shoulder to elbow as if to reassure herself. -The others burst into laughter at her manifest anxiety and her -expression of relief, the guest-master being particularly delighted. - -"I was wounded nevertheless. I was a sitting-up case in the -ambulance. I could tell you stories about the nurses and the -hospital and how we had a panic about a submarine as we crossed to -England.... I married Hetty before I went back because we were now -altogether lovers and it was just possible she might have a child. -And moreover there was a business about allowances if I got killed -that was an added inducement to marry. In those days of haphazard -death for the young there was a world-wide fever of love-making and -countless such snatched marriages. - -"She had never got to France as she had said she hoped to do. For -most of the time she was driving a car for the Ministry of Supplies -in London. We spent two days of wild endearment, the only honeymoon -we could get, at her mother's farm at Payton Links, a little hamlet -near Chessing Hanger. (I do not think I have told you that she was -the only daughter of a farmer and that Mrs. Marcus, her mother, was a -widow.) Hetty had been a clever girl, an elementary school teacher -and bookish and enterprising for a country place. She had never -mentioned me to her mother until she had written to tell of her -approaching marriage. - -"When her mother had driven us from the station to the farm and I had -helped her to put away the pony, the old lady's non-committal manner -relaxed and she said, 'Well, it might have been worse. You've looks -and fairish shoulders for one who's town-bred. You can kiss me, my -boy, though Smith is a poor exchange for Marcus, and I can't see how -anyone can ever expect to get a living for man and wife at a fancy -trade like publishing. I'd hoped at first she meant a publican. But -publishing she says it is. Whether you're properly old enough for -Hetty, Time will show.' - -"Time did show very rapidly that I was not properly old enough for -Hetty, though I resisted the demonstration with passionate vigour. - -"In this world of ours we are by comparison very simple and direct. -In that old world we should have seemed shockingly simple and direct. -It's not only that they wrapped up and hid their bodies in all sorts -of queer garments and wrappings but also that they wrapped up and -distorted and hid their minds. And while we to-day have the same -simple and clean ideas all over the world about sexual restraints and -sexual freedoms, people in those days had the most various and -complicated codes, half-hidden and half-confessed. And not merely -half-hidden but imperfectly realised, subconscious rather than -thought out and settled. Few of these codes respected the freedom of -other people or set any bounds to the most extravagant developments -of jealousy. And while Hetty's thoughts about love and marriage had -been nourished on a diet of country-side folk and then of novels and -poetry devoured with avidity and had had tremendous releases in the -lax atmosphere of war-time London, I, in spite of my love for and -faith in Fanny, had almost unwittingly adopted the rigid standards of -my mother. As we used to say in those days, Hetty's was a much more -artistic temperament than mine. For my part I did not so much think -as assume that the worship of a man for a woman gave place to mastery -as soon as her love was won, that the problem of absolute fidelity -for both lovers was to be facilitated on his side by an absolute -submissiveness on hers. And about her, wherever she went, invisible -but real, there had to be a sort of cloistered quality. It was -implicit, moreover, that she had never thought of love before she met -her predestined and triumphant lover. Ridiculous and impossible you -will say! But Sunray here has read the old novels and she can -witness that that was the code." - -Sunray nodded. "That is the spirit of them," she said. - -"Well, in fact, Hetty was not only half a year older than I but ages -beyond me in the business of love. She was my teacher. While I had -been reading about atoms and Darwin and exploration and socialism, -she had been sucking the honey of sensuous passion from hints and -half-hints in old romances and poems from Shakespeare and the old -playwrights. And not only, I realise now, from books. She took me -as one captures and tames an animal and made my senses and my -imagination hers. Our honeymoon was magical and wonderful. She -delighted in me and made me drunken with delights. And then we -parted wonderfully with the taste of her salt tears on my lips, and I -went off to the last five months of the War. - -"I can see her now, slender as a tall boy in her khaki breeches and -driver's uniform, waving to my train as it drew out of Chessing -Hanger station. - -"She wrote adorable and whimsical love-letters that made me ache to -be with her again, and just when we were forcing the great German -barrier of the Hindenberg line, came one to tell me we were to have a -child. She had not told me of it before, she said, because she had -not been quite sure of it. Now she was sure. Would I love her -still, now that she would be no longer slim and gracious? Love her -still! I was filled with monstrous pride. - -"I wrote back to tell her how my job at Thunderstone House was being -saved for me, how we would certainly get a little house, a 'dear -little house,' in some London suburb, how I would worship and cherish -her. Her answer was at once tender and unusual. She said I was too -good to her, far too good; she repeated with extraordinary passion -that she loved me, had never loved and could never love anyone but -me, that she hated my absence more than she could tell, and that I -was to do everything I could, move heaven and earth to get my -discharge and come home to her and be with her and never, never, -never leave her again. She had never wanted my arms about her as she -wanted them now. I read nothing between the lines of that outbreak. -It seemed just a new mood amidst the variety of her moods. - -"Thunderstone House wanted me back as soon as possible, and the War -had done much to increase the power and influence of all magazine -publishers and newspaper proprietors. I got out of the army within -three months of the Armistice and came back to a very soft and tender -and submissive Hetty, a new Hetty more wonderful even than the old. -She was evidently more passionately in love with me than ever. We -took some furnished rooms in a part of London called Richmond, near -the Thames and a great park, and we sought vainly for that bright -little house in which our child was to be born. But there were no -bright little houses available. - -"And slowly a dark shadow fell across the first brightness of our -reunion. The seasonable days passed but Hetty's child was not born. -It was not born indeed until it was nearly two months too late for it -to be my child." - - - -§ 5 - -"We are trained from earliest childhood in the world to be tolerant -and understanding of others and to be wary and disciplined with our -own wayward impulses, we are given from the first a clear knowledge -of our entangled nature. It will be hard for you to understand how -harsh and how disingenuous the old world was. You live in a world -that is as we used to say 'better bred.' You will find it difficult -to imagine the sudden storm of temptation and excitement and -forgetfulness in Hetty's newly aroused being that had betrayed her -into disloyalty, and still more difficult will you find the tangle of -fear and desperate dishonesty that held her silent from any plain -speech with me after my return. But had she spoken instead of -leaving it to me to suspect, discover and accuse, I doubt if she -would have found any more mercy in me for her pitiful and abominable -lapse. - -"I see now that from the day I returned to Hetty she was trying to -tell me of her disaster and failing to find a possible way of doing -so. But the vague intimations in her words and manner dropped like -seeds into my mind and germinated there. She was passionately -excited and made happy by my coming back; our first week together was -the happiest week of my old-world life. Fanny came to see us once -and we went and had a dinner at her flat, and something had happened -to her too, I knew not what, to make her very happy. Fanny liked -Hetty. When she kissed me good night after her dinner, she held me -and whispered: 'She's a dear. I thought I'd be jealous of your wife, -Harry, but I love her.' - -"Yes, we were very happy for that week. We walked along together -back to our rooms instead of taking a taxi, for it was better for -Hetty to walk. A happy week it was that stretched almost to a happy -fortnight. And then the shadows of suspicion gathered and deepened. - -"It was in bed in the darkness of the night that I was at last moved -to speak plainly to Hetty. I woke up and lay awake for a long time, -very still and staring at my bleak realisation of what had happened -to us. Then I turned over, sat up in bed and said, 'Hetty. This -child is not mine.' - -"She answered at once. It was plain she too had been awake. She -answered in a muffled voice as though her face lay against the -pillow. 'No.' - -"'You said, no?' - -"She stirred, and her voice came clearer. - -"'I said no. Oh Husbind-boy I wish I was dead! I wish to God I was -dead.' - -"I sat still and she said no more. We remained like two -fear-stricken creatures in the jungle, motionless, in an immense -silence and darkness. - -"At last she moved. Her hand crept out towards me, seeking me, and -at that advance I recoiled. I seemed to hang for a moment between -two courses of action, and then I gave myself over to rage. 'You'd -touch me!' I cried, and got out of bed and began to walk about the -room. - -"'I knew it!' I shouted. 'I knew it! I felt it! And I have loved -you! You cheat! You foul thing! You lying cheat!'" - - - -§ 6 - -"I think I described to you earlier in the story how my family -behaved when Fanny left us, how we all seemed to be acting and -keeping up a noise of indignation as if we were afraid of some -different and disturbing realisations coming through to us should -that barrage of make-believe morality fail. And just as my father -and my mother behaved in that downstairs kitchen in Cherry Gardens so -now I behaved in that desolating crisis between myself and Hetty. I -stormed about the room, I hurled insults at her. I would not let the -facts that she was a beaten and weeping thing, that she certainly -loved me, and that her pain tortured me, prevail against my hard duty -to my outraged pride. - -"I lit the gas, I don't remember when, and the scene went on in that -watery Victorian light. I began dressing, for never more was I to -lie in bed with Hetty. I meant to dress and, having said my say, to -go out of the house. So I had to be scornful and loudly indignant, -but also I had to find my various garments, pull my shirt over my -head and lace up my boots. So that there were interludes in the -storm, when Hetty could say something that I had to hear. - -"'It all happened in an evening,' she said. 'It isn't as though I -had planned to betray you. It was his last day before he left and he -was wretched. It was the thought of you made me go with him. It was -just kindness. There were two of our girls going to have dinner with -their boys and they asked me to come and that was how I met him. -Officers they were all three, and schoolfellows. Londoners. Three -boys who were going over--just as you were. It seemed rotten not to -make a party for them.' - -"I was struggling with my collar and stud but I tried to achieve -sarcasm. 'I see,' I said, 'under the circumstances mere politeness -dictated--what you did.... Oh, my God!' - -"'Listen how it happened, Harry. Don't shout at me again for a -minute. Afterwards he asked me to come to his rooms. He said the -others were coming on. He seemed such a harmless sort!' - -"'Very!' - -"'He seemed the sort who'd surely get killed. And I was sorry for -him. He was fair like you. Fairer. And it seemed all different -that night. And then he got hold of me and kissed me and I -struggled, but I didn't seem to have the strength to resist. I -didn't realise somehow.' - -"'That's pretty evident. That I can believe.' - -"'You've got no pity, Harry. Perhaps it's just. I suppose I ought -to have seen the risk. But we aren't all strong like you. Some of -us are pulled this way and that. Some of us do the thing we hate. I -did what I could. It was like waking-up to realise what had -happened. He wanted me to stay with him. I ran out from his rooms. -I've never seen him since. He's written but I haven't answered.' - -"'He knew you were a soldier's wife.' - -"'He's rotten. He knew it. He planned it while we were at dinner. -He prayed and promised and lied. He said he wanted just a kiss, just -one kiss for kindness. He began with that kiss. I'd been drinking -wine, and I'm not used to wine. Oh, Harry! Husbind-boy, if I could -have died! But I'd kissed and played about with boys before I met -you. It seemed so little--until it was too late.' - -"'And here we are!' said I. - -"I came and sat down on the bed and stared at Hetty's dishevelled -distress. She was suddenly pitiful and pretty. 'I suppose I ought -to go and kill this swine,' I said. 'I feel more like killing you.' - -"'Kill me,' she said. 'I wish you would.' - -"'What's his name? Where is he now?' - -"'_He_ doesn't matter a rap,' said Hetty. 'You may hang for me if -you like, but you shan't hang for a thing like that. I tell you he -doesn't matter. He's a dirty accident. He happened.' - -"'You're shielding him.' - -"'_Him!_' she said. 'I'm shielding you.' - -"I stared at her. Again came a moment when I seemed to hang -undecided at the parting of two courses, and again I decided to -explode into rage. 'My _God_!' I cried, and then louder and standing -up, 'My _God_!' Then I ranted at her. 'I suppose I've only got -myself to blame for all this. What did I know of what you were -before I met you? I guess I wasn't the first and I guess _he_ won't -be the last. What do names matter? I guess you thanked Heaven for a -green dud when you met me.' And so on. I paced about the room as I -raved. - -"She sat up on the bed, her hair disordered and her eyes tearful, -regarding me with a still and mournful face. 'Oh, Harry!' she would -say ever and again, or 'Oh, Boy!' while I let my clumsy fancy rove -through a wilderness of coarse reproaches. Ever and again I would -come up to her and stand over her. 'Tell me his name,' I would shout -and she would shake her head. - -"At last I was dressed. I looked at my watch. 'Five.' - -"'What are you going to do?' she asked. - -"'I don't know. Go, I suppose. I can't stay here. I should be -sick. I shall get most of my things together and go. I'll find a -lodging somewhere. It's nearly dawn. I'll go before you need get -up. Meanwhile I'll sit in the other room. I can lie on the sofa for -a bit.' - -"'But the fire's not lit!' she said, 'and it's cold. It's not even -laid. And you'll need some coffee!' - -"She stared at me with eyes full of solicitude. - -"And forthwith she shuffled out of bed and slipped her feet into her -bedroom slippers and put on a gay dressing-gown that had been a great -delight to us--ten days ago. She went meekly by me, moving her poor -heavy body rather wearily, and found some fire-lighters in a cupboard -and knelt by the fireplace and began to rake out the ashes of the -overnight fire. I made no movement to prevent her. I began to -collect together various books and small possessions I intended to -take with me. - -"She was only apprehending the situation very slowly. She turned to -me in the middle of her fire-lighting. 'I suppose you'll leave me a -little money to go on with?' she said. - -"That gave me a base opportunity. 'I'll leave you money all right,' -I sneered. 'I suppose I've got to keep you until we're free. Then -it will be his job. Or the next man's.' - -"She occupied herself with the fire. She filled a kettle and put it -ready. Then she sat down in an arm-chair by the hearth. Her face -was white and drawn but she shed no tears. I went to the window and -pulled up the blind and stared at the street outside with its street -lamps still alight; everything was gaunt and bleak in the colourless -cold horror of the earliest dawn. - -"'I shall go to mother,' she said, shivering and pulling her -dressing-gown about her shoulders. 'It will be dreadful for her to -know what has happened. But she's kind. She'll be kinder than -anyone.... I shall go to her.' - -"'You can do what you like,' I said. - -"'Harry!' she said. 'I've never loved any man but you. If I could -kill this child---- If it would please you if I killed this -child----' - -"She spoke with white lips. 'Yes. I tried all I knew. Some things -I couldn't bring myself to do. And now it's a thing that's alive....' - -"We stared at one another in silence for some moments. - -"'No!' I said at last. 'I can't stand it. I can't endure it. -Nothing can alter it now. You tell a tale. How do I know? You've -cheated once and you can cheat again. You gave yourself to that -swine. If I live to a hundred I'll never forgive that. You gave -yourself. How do I know you didn't tempt him? You gave. You can -go. Go where you gave yourself! They're things no decent man can -forgive. Things that are dirty to forgive. He stole you and you let -him steal you and he can have you. I wish---- If you'd had the -beginnings of a sense of honour you'd never have let me come back to -you. To think of these last days here. And you--you with this -secret next your heart! The filthiness of it! You--you, whom I've -loved.' - -"I was weeping." - -Sarnac paused and stared into the fire. "Yes," he said, "I was -weeping. And the tears I shed--it is wonderful--the tears I shed -were tears of the purest self-pity. - -"And all the time I saw the thing from my own standpoint alone, blind -to the answering tragedy in Hetty's heart. And the most grotesque -thing is that all the time she was getting me coffee and that when it -was ready I drank her coffee! At the end she wanted to kiss me, to -kiss me 'good-bye,' she said, and I rebuffed her and struck her when -she came near me. I meant only to thrust her back but my hand -clenched at the opportunity. '_Harry!_' she whispered. She stood -like a stunned thing watching me go, and then turned suddenly and -swiftly and ran back to the bedroom. - -"I slammed the outer door and went downstairs into the empty morning -Richmond streets; altogether empty of traffic they were, under the -flush of dawn. - -"I carried my bag towards the railway station that would take me to -London; my bag was heavy with the things I had brought away, and it -dragged upon my arms, and I felt myself a tragically ill-used but -honourably self-vindicated young man." - - - -§ 7 - -"Oh, poor little things!" cried Starlight. "Oh! poor, little, -pitiful pitiless creatures! This story hurts me. I couldn't endure -it, if it were anything more than a dream. Why were they all so hard -upon each other and so deaf to the sorrow in each other?" - -"We knew no better. This world now has a tempered air. In this -world we breathe mercy with our first fluttering gasp. We are so -taught and trained to think of others that their pain is ours. But -two thousand years ago men and women were half-way back to crude -Nature. Our motives took us unawares. We breathed infections. Our -food was poisoned. Our passions were fevers. We were only beginning -to learn the art of being human." - -"But didn't Fanny----?" began Firefly. - -"Yes," said Willow; "didn't Fanny, who was naturally so wise about -love, didn't she take you in hand and send you back to forgive and -help your wretched Hetty?" - -"Fanny heard my version of our story first," said Sarnac. "She never -realised the true values of the business until it was too late to -stop the divorce. When I told her that Hetty had lived a life of -depravity in London while I was in the trenches, she heard me with -amazement but never doubted my word. - -"'And she seemed such a dear,' said Fanny. 'She seemed so in love -with you. It's wonderful how different women are! There's women who -seem to change into something else directly they get out of sight of -you round a corner. I _liked_ your Hetty, Harry. There was -something sweet about her, be what she may. I never dreamt she'd -deceive you and let you down. Fancy!--going about London picking up -men! It's just as though she'd done it to me. - -"Matilda Good too was wonderfully sympathetic. 'No woman goes wrong -only just once,' said Matilda. 'You're right to end it.' The -Miltons were giving up her drawing-room floor, I could have it, if I -cared to take it. I was only too glad to take it and return to my -old home. - -"Hetty, I suppose, packed up her own belongings as well as she could. -She went down from Richmond to her mother's farm at Payton Links, and -there it was her child was born. - -"Now I want to tell you," said Sarnac, "what is, I believe, the most -remarkable thing in all this story I am telling you. I do not -remember in all that time right up to and including our divorce, that -I felt any impulse of pity or kindliness, much less of love, towards -Hetty. And yet in my dream I was very much the same sort of man as I -am to-day. I was a man of the same type. But I was driven by a -storm of amazed and outraged pride and sexual jealousy of the most -frantic sort towards acts of spite that are almost inconceivable here -and now. I was doing all I could to divorce Hetty in such a way as -to force her into marriage with Sumner--for that was the man's -name--because I had learnt that he was a hopelessly bad character and -because I believed he would make her miserable and mar her life -altogether. I wanted to do that to punish her, to fill her with -bitter regrets for her treatment of me. But at the same time it -drove me to the verge of madness to think that he should ever possess -her again. If my wishes could have been given creative force, Hetty -would have gone to Sumner disfigured and diseased. They would have -come together again amidst circumstances of horrible cruelty!" - -"Sarnac!" cried Sunray, "that you should even _dream_ such things!" - -"Dream! It is as men were. It is as they are, except for the -education and the free happiness that release us. For we are not -fourscore generations from the Age of Confusion, and that was but a -few thousands more from the hairy ape-men who bayed the moon in the -primeval forests of Europe. Then it was the Old Man in lust and -anger ruled his herd of women and children and begot us all. And in -the Age of Confusion after the Great Wars man was, and he still is, -the child of that hairy Old Ape-Man. Don't I shave myself daily? -And don't we educate and legislate with our utmost skill and science -to keep the old beast within bounds? But our schools in the days of -Harry Mortimer Smith were still half-way back to the cave; our -science was only beginning. We had no sexual education at all, only -concealments and repressions. Our code was still the code of -jealousy--thinly disguised. The pride and self-respect of a man was -still bound up with the animal possession of women--the pride and -self-respect of most women was by a sort of reflection bound up with -the animal possession of a man. We felt that this possession was the -keystone of life. Any failure in this central business involved a -monstrous abasement, and against that our poor souls sought blindly -for the most extravagant consolations. We hid things, we perverted -and misrepresented things, we evaded the issue. Man is a creature -which under nearly every sort of stress releases hate and malign -action, and we were then still subjected to the extremest stresses. - -"But I will not go on apologising for Harry Mortimer Smith. He was -what the world made him and so are we. And in my dream I went about -that old world, doing my work, controlling my outward behaviour and -spending all the force of my wounded love for Hetty in scheming for -her misery. - -"And one thing in particular was of immense importance to my -tormented being. It was that I should get another lover quickly, -that I should dispel the magic of Hetty's embraces, lay the haunting -ghost of my desire for her. I had to persuade myself that I had -never really loved her and replace her in my heart by someone I could -persuade myself was my own true love. - -"So I sought the company of Milly Kimpton again. We had been close -companions before the War, and it was not difficult to persuade -myself that I had always been a little in love with her. Always she -had been more than a little in love with me. I told her my story of -my marriage and she was hurt for my sake and indignant beyond means -with the Hetty I presented to her. - -"She married me within a week of the completion of my divorce." - - - -§ 8 - -"Milly was faithful and Milly was kind; she was a cooling refuge from -the heat and distresses of my passion. She had a broad, candid face -that never looked either angry or miserable; she held her countenance -high, smiling towards heaven with a pleasant confidence and -self-satisfaction; she was very fair and she was broad-shouldered for -a woman. She was tender but not passionate; she was intelligently -interested in things but without much whim or humour. She was nearly -a year and a half older than I. She had, as people used to say, -'taken a great fancy' to me when first I came into the firm, a crude -and inexperienced youngster. She had seen me rise very rapidly to -Mr. Cheeseman's position on the editorial staff--he had been -transferred to the printing side--and at times she had helped me -greatly. We were both popular in Thunderstone House, and when we -married there was a farewell dinner to Milly, who gave up her -position then in the counting-house; there were speeches and a -wonderful wedding-present of dinner-knives and silver forks and -spoons in a brass-bound chest of oak with a flattering inscription on -a silver plate. There had been a good deal of sympathy with Milly in -Thunderstone House, especially among the girls, and a good deal of -indignation at me when my first marriage occurred, and my belated -recognition of my true destiny was considered a very romantic and -satisfactory end to the story. - -"We secured a convenient little house in a row of stucco houses all -built together to have one architectural effect, called Chester -Terrace, close to one of the inner parks of London known as Regent's -Park. Milly, I discovered, had a little fortune of nearly two -thousand pounds, and so she was able to furnish this house very -prettily according to current taste, and in this house in due course -she bore me a son. I rejoiced very greatly and conspicuously over -this youngster's arrival. I think you will understand how essential -it was to my obsession for defeating and obliterating Hetty that -Milly should bear me a child. - -"I worked very hard during that first year of married life and on the -whole I was happy. But it was not a very rich nor a very deep sort -of happiness. It was a happiness made up of rather hard and rather -superficial satisfactions. In a sense I loved Milly very dearly; her -value was above rubies, she was honest and sweet and complaisant. -She liked me enormously, she was made happy by my attentions; she -helped me, watched for my comfort, rejoiced at the freshness and -vigour of my work. Yet we did not talk very freely and easily -together. I could not let my mind run on before her; I had to shape -what I said to her feelings and standards, and they were very -different feelings and standards from my own. She was everything a -wife should be except in one matter; she was not for me that -particular dear companion for whom the heart of every human being -craves, that dear companion with whom you are happy and free and -safe. That dear companionship I had met--and I had thrust it from -me. Does it come twice in a life to anyone?" - -"How should I know?" said Sunray. - -"We know better than to reject it," said Radiant. - -"Perhaps after many years," said Willow, answering Sarnac's question, -"after one has healed and grown and changed." - -"Milly and I were close friends indeed, but we were never dear -companions. I had told Hetty about my sister Fanny on the evening of -our first day together when we walked over the hills, she was -instantly sure that she would love Fanny, Fanny had seemed very brave -and romantic to Hetty's imagination; but I did not tell Milly of -Fanny until close upon our marriage. You will say that it was not -Milly's fault that I was shy with her on Fanny's account, but -assuredly it was a fault in our relationship. And it was clear that -Milly accepted Fanny on my account and refrained from too searching a -commentary because of me. Milly believed profoundly in the -institution of marriage and in the obligation of an unlimited -chastity upon women. 'It is a pity she cannot marry this man,' said -Milly, anticipating perplexities. 'It must make everything so -inconvenient for her--and everyone who knows her. It must be so -difficult to introduce her to people.' - -"'You needn't do that,' I said. - -"'My people are old-fashioned.' - -"'They needn't know,' I said. - -"'That would be the easier way for me, Harry.' - -"I found my own declarations of affection for Fanny considerably -chilled by the effort Milly made to be generous in the matter. - -"I found it still more difficult to tell her that Fanny's lover was -Newberry. - -"'Then is that how you got into Thunderstone House?' asked Milly when -at last I got to that revelation. - -"'It's how I got my chance there,' I admitted. - -"'I didn't think it was like that. I thought you'd made your way in.' - -"'I've made my way up. I've never been favoured.' - -"'Yes--but---- Do you think people know, Harry? They'd say all -sorts of things.' - -"You perceive that Milly was not a very clever woman and also that -she was very jealous of my honour. 'I don't think anyone knows who -matters,' I said. 'Neither I nor Fanny advertise.' - -"But it was clear Milly did not like the situation. She would have -much preferred a world without sister Fanny. She had no curiosity to -see this sister that I loved so dearly or to find any good in her. -On various small but quite valid scores she put off going to see her -for a whole week. And always I had to remind her of Fanny and speak -of Fanny first before Fanny could be talked about. In all other -matters Milly was charming and delightful to me, but as far as she -could contrive it she banished Fanny from our world. She could not -see how much of my affection went also into banishment. - -"Their meeting when at last it came about was bright rather than -warm. An invisible athermanous screen had fallen not only between -Milly and Fanny but between Fanny and myself. Milly had come, -resolved to be generous and agreeable in spite of Fanny's -disadvantageous status, and I think she was a little disconcerted by -Fanny's dress and furniture, for Milly was always very sensitive to -furniture and her sensitiveness had been enhanced by our own efforts -to equip a delightful home on a sufficient but not too extravagant -expenditure. I had always thought Fanny's furnishings very pretty, -but it had never occurred to me that they were, as Milly put it, -'dreadfully good.' But there was a red lacquer cabinet that Milly -said afterwards might be worth as much as a hundred pounds, and she -added one of those sentences that came upon one like an unexpected -thread of gossamer upon the face: 'It doesn't seem right somehow.' - -"Fanny's simple dress I gathered was far too good also. Simple -dresses were the costliest in those days of abundant material and -insufficient skill. - -"But these were subsequent revelations, and at the time I did not -understand why there should be an obscure undertone of resentment in -Milly's manner, nor why Fanny was displaying a sort of stiff -sweetness quite foreign to my impression of her. - -"'It's wonderful to meet you at last,' said Fanny. 'He's talked -about you for years. I can remember once long before--long before -the War--and everything--at Hampton Court. I can remember sitting on -those seats by the river and his talking about you.' - -"'I remember that,' I said, though it wasn't the part about Milly -that had stuck in my memory. - -"'We used to go about together no end in those days,' said Fanny. -'He was the dearest of brothers.' - -"'I hope he'll still be,' said Milly very kindly. - -"'A son's a son till he gets a wife,' said Fanny, quoting an -old-woman's proverb. - -"'You mustn't say that,' said Milly. 'I hope you'll come to see -us--quite often.' - -"'I'd love to come,' said Fanny. 'You're lucky to get a house so -easily, these days.' - -"'It isn't quite ready yet,' said Milly. 'But as soon as ever it is -we must find some day when you are free.' - -"'I'm often free,' said Fanny. - -"'We'll fix a day,' said Milly, obviously quite resolute to ensure -that we had no unexpected calls from Fanny when other people might be -about. - -"'It's nice you have been in the counting-house and understanding all -about his work,' said Fanny. - -"'My people didn't like my going into business at all,' said Milly. -'But it's lucky I did.' - -"'Lucky for Harry,' said Fanny. 'Are your--people London people?' - -"'Dorset,' said Milly. 'They didn't like my coming to London. -They're just a little bit churchy and old-fashioned, you know. But -it's college or business, I said, and you don't find me staying at -home to dust and put out the flowers. One has to take a firm line -with one's people at times. Didn't you find that so? There was a -convenient aunt in Bedford Park to secure the proprieties and head -off the otherwise inevitable latch-key, and it was business instead -of college because my best uncle, Uncle Hereward--he's the Vicar of -Peddlebourne--objects to the higher education of women. And there -was also a question of finance.' - -"'It must be interesting for Harry to meet your people,' said Fanny. - -"'He's completely conquered Aunt Rachel,' said Milly. 'Though she -started hostile. Naturally, as I'm about the only Kimpton of three -generations they pitched their expectations high. They'd like me to -have a husband with a pedigree a yard long.' - -"I felt Milly was rather over-emphasising the county family side of -the Kimptons--her father was a veterinary surgeon near Wimborne--but -I did not appreciate the qualities in Fanny's bearing and furniture -that were putting Milly into this self-assertive mood. - -"They went on to talk with a certain flavour of unreality of the -hygienic and social advantages of Regent's Park. 'It's easy to get -to for one's friends,' said Milly. 'And quite a lot of interesting -people, actors and critics and writers and all that sort of people, -live round and about there. Of course Harry will want to know more -and more of the artistic and literary world now. I expect we'll have -to have a Day for them and give them tea and sandwiches. It's a -bore, but it's necessary, you know. Harry's got to know people.' - -"She smiled at me between pride and patronage. - -"'Harry's going up in the world,' said my sister. - -"'That's what makes it all so wonderful,' said Milly. 'He's a -wonderful brother for you.' - -"She began to praise the beauty of Fanny's flat, and Fanny offered to -show her all over it. They were away some time and I went to the -window, wishing stupidly after the manner of a man that they could -somehow contrive to be a little different and a little warmer with -each other. Didn't they both love me and shouldn't that be a bond of -sisterhood between them? - -"Then came tea, one of Fanny's wonderful teas, but I was no longer -the indiscriminate devourer of teas that I had been. Milly praised -it all like a visiting duchess. - -"'Well,' said Milly at last with the air of one who has many -appointments, 'it's time to go I'm afraid....' - -"I had been watching Fanny very closely throughout this visit and -contrasting her guarded and polished civilities with the natural -warmth of her reception of Hetty, half a year before. I felt I could -not wait for another occasion before I had a word or two with her. -So I kissed her good-bye--even her kiss had changed--and she and -Milly hesitated and kissed, and I went down past the landing with -Milly and heard the door close above. 'I've left my gloves,' I said -suddenly. 'You go on down. I won't be a moment.' And I darted back -upstairs. - -"Fanny did not come to the door immediately. - -"'What is it, Harry?' she said, when she appeared. - -"'Gloves!' said I. 'No! Here they are in my pocket. Silly of me! -... You _do_ like her, Fanny? You think she's all right, don't you? -She's a little shy with you, but she's a dear.' - -"Fanny looked at me. I thought her eyes were hard. 'She's all -right,' she said. 'Quite all right. You'll never have to divorce -_her_, Harry.' - -"'I didn't know. I want you to--like her. I thought--you didn't -seem quite warm.' - -"'Silly old Harry!' said Fanny, with a sudden return to her old -manner. And she took me and kissed me like a loving sister again. - -"I went down two steps from the door and turned. - -"'I'd hate it,' I said, 'if you didn't think she was all right.' - -"'She's all right,' said Fanny. 'And it's Good Luck to you, Harry. -It's---- You see it's about Good-Bye for me. I shan't be seeing -very much of you now with that clever wife of yours to take you -about. Who's so _well_-connected. But Good Luck, old Brudder! Oh! -_always_ Good Luck!' - -"Her eyes were brimming with tears. - -"'God send you are happy, Harry dear--after your fashion. It's--it's -different....' - -"She stopped short. She was weeping. - -"She banged her door upon me, and I stood puzzled for a moment and -then went down to Milly." - - - - -CHAPTER THE SEVENTH - -LOVE AND DEATH - - -§ 1 - -"In the two years that followed I learnt to love and trust my -stiff-spirited wife more and more. She was very brave in a conscious -and deliberate way, very clear-headed, very honest. I saw her fight, -and it was not an easy fight, to bring our son into the world, and -that sort of crisis was a seal between man and woman in those days -even as it is to-day. If she never got to any just intuitions about -my thoughts and feelings I did presently arrive at a fairly clear -sense of hers. I could feel for her ambitions and humiliations. She -worked hard to make our home bright and efficient. She had a taste -for sound and 'solid' things and temperate harmonies. In that old -world, encumbered with possessions and with an extreme household -autonomy, servants were a very important matter indeed and she -managed ours with just that measured kindliness and just that -avoidance of intimacy that was needed by the social traditions of the -time. She had always been intelligently interested in the internal -politics of Thunderstone House and she showed the keenest desire for -my success there. 'I'll see you a director before ten years,' she -said. And I worked very hard indeed and not merely for ambition's -sake. I really understood and believed in the educational importance -of that great slovenly business. Newberry came to recognise in me a -response to his own ideas. He would consult me about new schemes and -the modification of old procedure. He relied on me more and more and -talked with me more and more frequently. And it is a queer thing to -recall that by a sort of convention between us we never mentioned or -alluded to my sister Fanny in any of our discussions. - -"I changed a good deal during my first two and a half years of -married life. I matured and hardened. I became a man of the world. -I was put up for and elected a member of a good club and developed my -gift for talk. I met a widening variety of people, and some of them -were quite distinguished people, and I found they did not overawe me. -I possessed a gift for caustic commentary that gained me some -reputation as a wit, and I felt a growing interest in the showy and -sterile game of party politics. My ambitions grew. I was active; I -was self-satisfied. I had largely forgotten my intense sexual -humiliation. But I was not a very happy man. My life was like a -handsome, well-appointed room with a north light; the bowls were full -of cut-flowers but the sunlight never came in." - - - -§ 2 - -"For two years and a half I saw nothing of Hetty and it was not my -fault that I ever saw her again. I did everything I could to -eradicate her from my existence. I destroyed her photographs and -every little vestige of her that might distress me by its memories. -If I caught myself in a reverie in which she figured I forced my -attention to other things. Sometimes when I made a new success I had -a flash of desire that she should witness it. Ugly, I agree, but is -it not what we still are--except for civilisation? She came back -sometimes in dreams, but they were anger-soaked dreams. And I -cultivated my pride and love for Milly. With increasing prosperity -Milly's skill in dressing herself developed; she became a very -handsome, effective woman; she gave herself to me with a smiling -sense of temperate and acceptable giving. - -"In those days we had not learnt to analyse our motives. We were -much less observant of ourselves than men and women are to-day. I -had set my mind upon loving Milly and I did not realise that the -essential thing in loving is a thing beyond our wills. Fanny and -Hetty I loved by nature and necessity, but my days were now far too -completely apportioned between work and Milly for much companionship -with Fanny to survive, and Hetty in my heart was like one of those -poor shrivelled corpses of offending monks they walled up in the -monasteries during the Age of Christendom in Europe. But I found now -a curious liveliness in my interest in women in general. I did not -ask what these wanderings of attention signified; I was ashamed of -them but I gave way to them. Even when I was in Milly's company I -would look at other women and find a vague excitement if the intent -of my glances was returned. - -"And I began to read novels in a new spirit, though I did not know -why I was taking to novels; I was reading them, I see now, for the -sake of the women I found in them. I do not know, Sunray, whether -you realise how much the novels and plays of those days served to -give men and women love-phantoms with whom they made imaginative -excursions. We successful and respectable ones went our dignified -and satisfied ways, assuaging the thin protests of our starved -possibilities with such unsubstantial refreshment. - -"But it was because of that wandering eye for women that I -encountered Hetty again. It was in the springtime that I came upon -her, either in March or very early April, in some public gardens -quite near to Chester Terrace. These gardens were not in my direct -way from the underground railway station, which took me to and fro -between home and business and my house, but I was in no hurry for -Milly's tea-party and the warmth and sunlight drew me to this place -of blossom and budding green. They were what we should call spring -gardens nowadays, small but cleverly laid out for display with an -abundant use of daffodil, narcissus, hyacinth, almond-blossom and the -like, with hard paths and seats placed to command happy patches of -colour. On one of these seats a woman was sitting alone with her -back to me looking at a patch of scyllas. I was struck by the -loveliness of her careless pose. Such discoveries of the dear beauty -that hides in the world would stir me like a challenge and then stab -me with pain. She was dressed very poorly and simply, but her dingy -clothing was no mor than the smoked glass, one uses to see the -brightness of the sun. - -"I slackened my pace as I went past and glanced back to see her face. -And I saw the still face of Hetty, very grave and sorrowful, Hetty, -no longer a girl but a woman, looking at the flowers and quite -unheedful of my regard. - -"Something greater than pride or jealousy seized me then. I went a -few steps farther and stopped and turned, as though no other thing -was possible. - -"At that she became aware of me. She looked up, doubted, and -recognised me. - -"She watched me with that motionless face of hers as I came and sat -down beside her. I spoke in a voice of astonishment on the edge of a -storm of emotion. 'Hetty,' I said, 'I couldn't go past you!' - -"She did not answer immediately. 'Are you---?' she began and -stopped. 'I suppose we were bound to meet again,' she said, 'sooner -or later. You look as if you had grown, Harry. You look well and -prosperous.' - -"'Do you live in this part of London?' I asked. - -"'Camden Town just now,' she said. 'We move about.' - -"'You married--Sumner?' - -"'What did you expect me to do? What else was there to do? I've -drunk my cup to the dregs, Harry.' - -"'But---- You had the child?' - -"'It died--it died all right. Poor little mite. And my mother died -a year ago.' - -"'Well, you've got Sumner.' - -"'I've got Sumner.' - -"At any time before that meeting I should have exulted over the death -of Sumner's child, but in the presence of Hetty's misery that old -hatred would not come back for its gratification. I was looking at -her face which was so familiar and so changed, and it was as if I -woke up again to love for her after two years and a half of -insensibility. What a beaten and unhappy thing she was--she whom I -had loved and hated so bitterly. - -"'It seems a long way back now to Kent, Harry--and mother's farm,' -she said. - -"'You've parted with it?' - -"'Farm and furniture--and mostly it's gone. Sumner bets. He's -betted most of it away. It's hard, you see, to find a job but easy -to fancy a winner. Which doesn't win....' - -"'My father used to do that,' I said. 'I'd like to shoot every -race-horse in England.' - -"'I hated selling the farm,' she said. 'I sold the farm and came -into this dingy old London. Sumner dragged me here and he's dragging -me down. It's not his fault; it's how he's made. But when a spring -day comes like this----! I think of Kent and the winds on the Downs -and the blackthorn in the hedges and the little yellow noses of the -primroses and the first elder leaves coming out, until I want to cry -and scream. But there's no getting out of it. Here I am. I've come -to look at these flowers here. What's the good? They just hurt me.' - -"She stared at the flowers. - -"'My God!' I said, 'but this hurts me too. I didn't expect----' - -"'What did you expect?' she asked, and turned that still face of hers -to me and silenced me. - -"'I don't see that it should hurt you,' she said. 'I brought it on -myself. You didn't do it. It happened to me. It was my fault. -Though why God made me love beautiful things--and then set a trap for -me and made me fool enough to fall into it----!' - -"Silence fell between us. - -"'Meeting you like this,' I began presently, 'makes me see things--so -differently. You see--in those old days--in some ways you seemed so -much stronger than I was. I didn't understand.... I see---- This -makes me feel---- I ought to have taken better care of you." - -"'Or shown me mercy. I was dirty and shameful--yes. All that. But -you were merciless, Harry. Men are merciless to women. I did--all -through--I loved you, Harry. In a way I've always loved you and I -love you now. When I looked up and saw it was you coming back to -me---- For a minute you were just like the old Harry. For a -moment---- It was like Spring coming real.... But it's no good -talking like that now, Harry. It's too late.' - -"'Yes,' I agreed. 'Too late....' - -"She watched my face through a long pause. I weighed my words when I -spoke. 'Up to now,' I said, 'I've never forgiven. Now---- Now I -see you here I wish--I wish to God--I had forgiven you. And made a -fight for it with you. We might---- Suppose, Hetty, suppose I had -forgiven you----?' - -"'Harry dear,' she said softly, 'you don't want to be seen here -making a woman cry. We won't talk of that. Tell me about yourself. -I've heard you married again. A beautiful woman. Sumner saw that I -heard of that. Are you happy, Harry? You look prosperous, and -everyone isn't prosperous these post-war times.' - -"'That's all so-and-so, Hetty. I work hard. I've got ambitions. -I'm still a publisher's assistant at the old place but I'm near to -being a director. I'm high up. My wife---- She's a dear and a -great help to me.... Somehow meeting you ... My God! Hetty, what a -mess we made of things! It's all very well, but the second time of -marrying isn't like the first. You and I---- I'm a sort of blood -brother to you and nothing can change it. The wood--that little wood -where you kissed me! Why did we smash it up, Hetty? Why did we do -it? Two fools who'd got so precious a thing! That's all past. But -hate is dead between us. That's past too. If there was anything I -could do for you now I would do it.' - -"A gleam of the old humour came, 'If you could kill Sumner,' she -said, 'and smash the world and destroy the memories of three years -... It's no good, Harry. I ought to have kept myself clean. And -you--you might have been gentler with me.' - -"'I couldn't, Hetty.' - -"'I knew you couldn't. And I couldn't foresee that my blood would -betray me one evening. And here we are! Like meeting after we are -dead. Spring comes now but it comes for other people. All these -little crocus trumpets--like a brass band it is--they are trumpeting -up the next lot of lovers. Better luck to them!' - -"We sat still for a time. In the background of my mind Milly and her -assembled tea-cups became evident as a faint urgency. 'You're late,' -she'd say. - -"'Where are you living, Hetty?' I asked. 'What is your address?' - -"She shook her head after a moment's thought. 'Better you shouldn't -know.' - -"'But somehow I might help.' - -"'It would only disturb us all. I've got my cup--of dirty water--to -drink. I've got to stand what I'm in for. What could you do to help -me?' - -"'Well,' said I, 'my address anyhow is easy to keep in mind. It's -just what it was when we---- In the days when we lived---- -Thunderstone House it is. Some day there might be something----' - -"'It's good of you.' - -"We stood up face to face, and as we stood there a thousand -circumstances vanished and nothing remained but our hurt and injured -selves. 'Good-bye, Hetty,' I said. 'Good luck.' - -"Our hands met. 'Good luck to you, Harry. It's no good, but I'm -glad we met like this. And to find you forgive me a little at last.'" - - - -§ 3 - -"That meeting had a profound effect upon me. It banished much -aimless reverie from my mind; it unlocked the prison in which a whole -multitude of forbidden thoughts had been confined. I thought -enormously of Hetty. They were vague and impossible thoughts; they -came in the night, on the way to business, even during slack moments -in business hours; rehearsals of dramatised encounters, explanations, -magic turns of circumstances that suddenly restored our lost world to -us. I tried to suppress these cloudy imaginations but with little -avail; they overspread my mental skies in spite of me. I can't tell -you how many times I walked through those gardens in Regent's Park; -that detour became my normal route from the station to my home. And -I would even go out of my customary way along some side-path because -I had caught a glimpse far off, between the tree-branches and the -flower-beds, of a solitary woman. But Hetty never came back there. - -"In my brooding over Hetty a jealousy and hatred of Sumner developed -steadily. I do not think I had any desire for Hetty myself but I -wanted intensely to get her away from him. This hostility to Sumner -was the ugly undertow of my remorse and re-awakened love of Hetty. -He was the evil thing that had deprived me of Hetty. I did not -reflect for a moment that it was I with my relentless insistence upon -divorce that had forced her back to him. - -"And all this dreaming and brooding and futile planning, all this -body of desire for something more to happen between Hetty and myself, -went on without my breathing a word of it to any living soul. It was -on my conscience that it was disloyal to Milly, and I even made a -half-hearted attempt to tell Milly that I had met Hetty and been -shocked at her poverty and unhappiness. I wanted to bring her into -my own state of mind and have her feel as I did. I threw out a -remark one day--we had gone to Hampstead Heath for a walk one -afternoon--that I had once walked along that ridge by the Round Pond -with Hetty during my last leave. 'I wonder how she is living now,' I -said. - -"Milly did not answer immediately, and when I looked at her her face -was flushed and hard. 'I hoped you had forgotten her,' she said in a -suffocated voice. - -"'This brought it back to me.' - -"'I try never to think of her. You don't know what that woman meant -to me--the humiliation. - -"'It was not only for myself,' she added. 'It was for you.' - -"She said no more but it was manifest how terribly the mere name of -Hetty had disturbed her." - -"Poor little things!" cried Firefly. "How insanely jealous you all -were!" - -"And I did not go to Fanny and tell her about Hetty for a time. I -had misrepresented Hetty to her as a figure of common depravity and I -found it difficult to put that right. Nowadays I did not see so much -of Fanny as I had formerly done. She was living half-way across -London from me. Her relations with Newberry were now much more -public than they had been and she had developed a circle of -acquaintances who cared for her. But this publicity made Milly more -stiff towards her because she feared that a scandal would be made -about Fanny in relation to my position in the firm of Crane & -Newberry. Near Pangbourne, Newberry had taken a bungalow and there -Fanny would spend whole weeks at a time, quite out of our range. - -"But presently a situation developed which sent me post-haste to -Fanny for help and advice." - - - -§ 4 - -"Suddenly in July, when I was beginning to think I should never hear -from her again, Hetty appealed to me for help. Would I meet her one -evening, she asked, by the fountain in the park near the Zoological -Gardens, and then we could get chairs and she would tell me what she -had in mind. She did not want me to write her a letter, Sumner had -become very jealous of her, and so would I put an advertisement in -the _Daily Express_ with the letters A B C D and giving the hour and -date. I made an appointment for the earliest possible evening. - -"Instead of the despondent and spiritless Hetty I had met in the -spring I found a Hetty high strung and excited. 'I want some place -where we shan't be seen,' she said as I came up to her. She took my -arm to turn me about, and led the way towards two green chairs -standing apart a little away from the main walk that here traversed -the park. I noted that she was still wearing the same shabby dress -she had had on our previous encounter. Her manner with me was quite -different from the manner of our former meeting. There was something -familiar and confident about her as though in between she had met me -in imagination a multitude of times--as no doubt she had. - -"'You meant all you said, Harry, when we talked before?' she began. - -"'Everything.' - -"'You will help me if you can?' - -"'Everything I can.' - -"'Suppose I asked you for some money?' - -"'Naturally.' - -"'I want to get away from Sumner. I have a chance. I could do it.' - -"'Tell me about it, Hetty. All I can do, I will.' - -"'Things have changed, Harry, since that day we met. I'd got into a -sort of despairing state. I took whatever came. Seeing you changed -me. I don't know why but it did. Perhaps I was going to change -anyhow. But I can't stand being with Sumner any longer. And there's -a chance now. I shall want a lot of money--sixty or seventy pounds.' - -"I thought. 'That's quite possible, Hetty. If you can wait a week -or so. Ten days say.' - -"'You see I have a friend, a girl who married a Canadian. She stayed -here to have her child when he went home and now she goes out to him. -She's been ill; she's not very strong and she doesn't want to face -the voyage alone. It would be easy for me to get out there with her -as her cousin and companion. If I had an outfit---- We've discussed -it all. She knows someone who could manage about a passport for me. -In my maiden name. That's the scheme. I could have my outfit sent -to her place. I could slip away.' - -"'You'd take another name? Begin again over there?' - -"'Yes....' - -"I sat considering this project. It pleased me. 'There need be no -trouble about the money,' I said. - -"'I can't go on living with Sumner. You never saw him. You don't -know what he's like.' - -"'I've heard he was good looking.' - -"'Don't I know that face--flushed and weak! He's a liar and a cheat. -He has a conceit he can best everyone. And he's begun drinking. God -knows why I married him. It seemed the natural thing somehow since -you had divorced me. The child had to have a father.... But he -disgusts me, Harry. He disgusts me. I can't go on. I can't endure -it. You can't imagine it--in those little lodgings--in the hot -weather. To keep a maudlin drunken man away from one.... If I -hadn't seen this way out something worse might have happened.' - -"'Can't you come away from him at once?' I asked. 'Why should you -ever go back to him?' - -"'No. I must get clear away or there will be mischief. And you -mustn't be in it. He'd think of you at once. If he had a hint it -was you. That's what you have to do about the money and everything, -letters or anything--get it to me without your being mixed up with -it. You must get me money, not cheques. We mustn't be seen to meet. -Even about here it's risky. He's got into a gang. He's been getting -deeper and deeper into a rotten set. They blackmail the bookies. -They go about with revolvers. They pass on things to one another. -It grew out of betting and now they call it getting a bit of their -own back.... If they spot you in it, they'll come for you.' - -"'Trench warfare in London. I'll risk it.' - -"'You needn't risk anything--if we are discreet. If there was some -one I could see--who'd hand things on.' - -"I thought at once of my sister Fanny. - -"'That would be safe,' said Hetty. 'As safe as could be. And I'd -love to see her again. I loved her when I met her.... But all this -is awful good of you, Harry. I don't deserve a moment's kindness. - -"'Nonsense! I pushed you into the dirt, Hetty.' - -"'I jumped into it.' - -"'Fell into it. It's nothing very much, Hetty, to give you a hand to -get out of it again.'" - - - -§ 5 - -"I went the next day to my sister Fanny to prepare her for Hetty's -call. Fanny sat in an arm-chair and listened and watched my face as -I told my story, confessed how I had exaggerated Hetty's offence and -asked for help. 'I ought to have seen her, Harry, before I took your -word for it,' she said. 'Of course, even now, I can't imagine how a -girl who loves one man could ever stand the kiss of another as she -did, but then, as you say, she'd been drinking. We women aren't all -made alike. There's all sorts make a world. Some girls--the -backbone goes out of them when they feel a man's kisses. You and me, -Harry, we aren't made like that. I've been thinking while you sat -talking there, how like we both are to poor mother really--for all -she quarrelled with me. We'll grow hard presently if we aren't -careful. And your Hetty was young and she didn't know. Only once it -was. And all her life's been spoilt by it! ... I didn't know it was -like that, Harry.' - -"And my sister Fanny began to recall her impressions of Hetty. She -recalled her fine animation and the living interest of her talk. -'When she left I said to myself, she's got wit; that's the first -witty woman I've ever met. She's got poetry in her. Everything she -says comes out a little different from the things most people say. -She says things that come like flowers in a hedgerow. So she did. -Does she still?" - -"'I never thought of it like that before,' I said. 'I suppose she -has a sort of poetry. Only the other day--when I met her first. -What was it she said? Something.' - -"'It's no good quoting, Harry. Witty things should bloom where they -grow. They're no good as cut-flowers. But you and I are fairly -quick and fairly clever, Harry, but we've never had any of that.' - -"'I've always loved her talk,' I said. - -"I began to explain the situation to Fanny more fully and to show how -she could help in it. I was not to see Hetty again; Fanny was to see -her, pay her the hundred pounds we could put together for her, -communicate with the friends she was to accompany and get her away. -Fanny listened gravely and agreed. - -"Then she reflected. - -"'Why don't you take her to Canada yourself, Harry?' she asked -abruptly." - - - -§ 6 - -"I did not answer Fanny for some moments. Then I said, 'I don't want -to.' - -"'I can see you love Hetty still.' - -"'Love. But I don't want that.' - -"'You don't want to be with her?' - -"'It's out of the question. Why ask a painful thing like that? All -that is dead.' - -"'Isn't a resurrection possible? Why is it out of the question? -Pride?' - -"'No.' - -"'Why then?' - -"'Milly.' - -"'You don't love Milly.' - -"'I won't have you discuss that, Fanny. I do love her.' - -"'Not as you love Hetty.' - -"'Quite differently. But Milly trusts me. She keeps faith with me. -I'd as soon steal money--from a child's money-box--as go back on -Milly.' - -"'It's wonderful how fine men can be to the wives they don't love,' -said Fanny bitterly. - -"'Newberry's different,' I said. 'I've got my little son. I've got -my work. And though you will never have it, I love Milly.' - -"'In a way. Is she company for you? Is she fun?' - -"'I trust and love her. And as for Hetty, you don't understand about -Hetty. I love her. I love her enormously. But it's like two ghosts -meeting by moonlight. We two are dead to each other and--sorrowful. -It isn't as though it was anything like your case over again. I see -Hetty in hell and I'd do nearly anything in life to get her out. I -don't even want to meet her. I want to get her away out of this -filth and stupidity to where she can begin again. That's all I want -and that's all she wants. How could she and I ever come together -again? How could we kiss again as lovers kiss? Poor defiled things -we are! And all my cruelty. You're thinking of something else, -Fanny. You're not thinking of Hetty and me.' - -"'Maybe I am,' said Fanny. 'Yes, I think I am. And so she is to go -to Canada and begin again--till her health comes back and her courage -comes back. It isn't natural for a woman of her temperament to live -without a man to love her, Harry.' - -"'Let her live and love,' said I. 'She'll have changed her name. -Her friends will stand by her. They won't give her away. Let her -forget. Let her begin again.' - -"'With another man?' - -"'It may be.' - -"'You don't mind the thought of that?' - -"I was stung but I kept my temper. 'Have I any right to mind the -thought of that now?' - -"'But you will. And you will go on living with this wife you trust -and respect. Who's dull spirited--dull as ditchwater.' - -"'No. Who's my son's mother. Who is trustworthy. Whom I'm pledged -to. And I've got my work. It may seem nothing to you. It's good -enough for me to give myself to it. Can't I love Hetty, can't I help -her out of the net she's in, and yet not want to go back to -impossible things?' - -"'Grey Monday mornings,' said Fanny. - -"'As if all life wasn't grey,' I said. - -"And then," said Sarnac, "I remember that I made a prophecy. I made -it--when did I make it? Two thousand years ago? Or two weeks ago? -I sat in Fanny's little sitting-room, an old-world creature amidst -her old-world furnishings, and I said that men and women would not -always suffer as we were suffering then. I said that we were still -poor savages, living only in the bleak dawn of civilisation, and that -we suffered because we were under-bred, under-trained and darkly -ignorant of ourselves, that the mere fact that we knew our own -unhappiness was the promise of better things and that a day would -come when charity and understanding would light the world so that men -and women would no longer hurt themselves and one another as they -were doing now everywhere, universally, in law and in restriction and -in jealousy and in hate, all round and about the earth. - -"'It is still too dark for us,' I said, 'to see clearly where we are -going, and everyone of us blunders and stumbles and does wrong. -Everyone. It is idle for me to ask now what is the right thing for -me to do? Whatever I do now will be wrong. I ought to go with Hetty -and be her lover again--easily I could do that and why should I deny -it?--and I ought to stick to Milly and the work I have found in the -world. Right road or left road, both lead to sorrow and remorse, but -there is scarcely a soul in all this dark world, Fanny, who has not -had to make or who will not presently have to make a choice as hard. -I will not pull the skies down upon Milly, I _cannot_ because she has -put her faith in me. You are my dear sister Fanny and I love you and -we have loved each other. Do you remember how you used to take me -round to school and hold my hand at the crossings? Don't make things -too hard for me now. Just help me to help Hetty. Don't tear me to -pieces. She is still alive and young and--Hetty. Out there--she at -least can begin again.'" - - - -§ 7 - -"Nevertheless, I did see Hetty again before she left England. There -came a letter for me at Thunderstone House in which she proposed a -meeting. - -"'You have been so kind to me,' she wrote. 'It is the next best -thing to your never having left me. You have been a generous dear. -You've given back happiness to me. I feel excited already at the -thought of the great liner and the ocean and full of hope. We've got -a sort of picture of the ship; it is like a great hotel; with our -cabin marked in it exactly where it is. Canada will be wonderful; -Our Lady of the Snows; and we are going by way of New York, New York, -like nothing else on earth, cliffs and crags of windows, towering up -to the sky. And it's wonderful to have new things again. I sneak -off to Fanny's just to finger them over. I'm excited--yes, and -grateful--yes, and full of hope--yes. And Harry, Harry, my heart -aches and aches. I want to see you again. I don't deserve to but I -want to see you again. We began with a walk and why shouldn't we end -with a walk? Thursday and Friday all the gang will be at Leeds. I -could get away the whole day either day and it would be a miracle if -anyone knew. I wish we could have that same old walk again. I -suppose it's too far and impossible. We'll save that, Harry, until -we're both quite dead and then we'll be two little swirls of breeze -in the grass or two bits of thistledown going side by side. But -there was that other walk we had when we went to Shere and right over -the North Downs to Leatherhead. We looked across the Weald and saw -our own South Downs far, far away. Pinewood and heather there was; -hills beyond hills. And the smoke of rubbish-burning.' - -"I was to write to Fanny's address. - -"Of course we had that walk, we two half-resuscitated lovers. We did -not make love at all though we kissed when we met and meant to kiss -when we parted. We talked as I suppose dead souls might talk of the -world that had once been real. We talked of a hundred different -things--even of Sumner. Now that she was so near escape from him her -dread and hatred had evaporated. She said Sumner had a passionate -desire for her and a real need of her and that it was not fair to him -and very bad for him that she despised him. It wounded his -self-respect. It made him violent and defiant. A woman who cared -for him, who would take the pains to watch him and care for him as a -woman should do for a man, might have made something of him. 'But -I've never cared for him, Harry; though I've tried. But I can see -where things hurt him. I can see they hurt him frightfully at times. -It doesn't hurt him any the less because he does ugly things.' He -was vain, too, and ashamed of his incapacity to get a sufficient -living. He was drifting very rapidly to a criminal life and she had -no power over him to hold him back. - -"I can still see Hetty and hear her voice, as we walked along a broad -bridle-path between great rhododendron bushes, and she talked, grave -and balanced and kind she was, of this rogue who had cheated her and -outraged her and beaten her. It was a new aspect of Hetty and yet at -the same time it was the old dear Hetty I had loved and wasted and -lost, clear-minded and swift, with an understanding better than her -will. - -"We sat for a long time on the crest of the Downs above Shere where -the view was at its widest and best, and we recalled the old days of -happiness in Kent and talked of the distances before us and of -crossing the sea and of France and so of the whole wide world. 'I -feel,' she said, 'as I used to when I was a child, at the end of the -school quarter. I'm going away to new things. Put on your frock, -put on your hat; the big ship is waiting. I am a little frightened -about it and rather happy.... I wish---- But never mind that.' - -"'You wish----?' - -"'What else could I wish?' - -"'You mean----?' - -"'It's no good wishing." - -"'I've got to stick to the job I've taken. I've got to see it -through. But if you care to know it, Hetty, I wish so too. My -God!--if wishes could release one!' - -"'You've got your job here. I wouldn't take you away, Harry, if I -could. Sturdy you are, Harry, and you'll go through with it and do -the work you're made to do--and I'll take what comes to me. Over -there I guess I'll forget a lot about Sumner and the things that have -happened in between--and think a lot about you and the South Downs -and this--how we sat side by side here. - -"'Perhaps,' said Hetty, 'heaven is a place like this. A great -hillside to which you come at last, after all the tugging and pushing -and the hoping and the disappointments and the spurring and the -hungers and the cruel jealousies are done with and finished for ever. -Then here you sit down and rest. And you aren't alone. Your lover -is here and he sits beside you and you just touch shoulder to -shoulder, very close and very still, and your sins are forgiven you; -your blunders and misunderstandings they matter no longer; and the -beauty takes you and you dissolve into it, you dissolve into it side -by side and together you forget and fade until at last nothing -remains of all the distresses and anger and sorrow, nothing remains -of you at all but the breeze upon the great hillside and sunshine and -everlasting peace.... - -"'All of which,' said Hetty, rising abruptly to her feet and standing -over me, 'is just empty nothingness. Oh Harry! Harry! One feels -things and when one tries to say them it is just words and nonsense. -We've hardly started on our way to Leatherhead and you'll have to be -back by seven. So get up, old Harry. Get up and come on. You are -the dearest person alive and it has been sweet of you to come with me -to-day. I was half-afraid you'd think it wasn't wise....' - -"In the late afternoon we got to a place called Little Bookham and -there we had tea. About a mile farther on was a railway station and -we found a train for London; it came in as we got on to the platform. - -"Everything had gone well so far and then came the first gleam of -disaster. At Leatherhead we sat looking out on the station platform -and a little ruddy man came trotting along to get into the -compartment next to us, a little common fellow like an ostler with a -cigar under his Hebrew nose, and as he was about to get in he glanced -up at us. Doubt and then recognition came into his eyes and at the -sight of him Hetty recoiled. - -"'Get in,' said the guard, blowing his whistle, and the little man -was hustled out of sight. - -"Hetty was very white. 'I know that man,' she said, 'and he knows -me. He's named Barnado. What shall I do?' - -"'Nothing. Does he know you very well?' - -"'He's been to our rooms--three or four times.' - -"'He may not have been sure it was you.' - -"'I think he was. Suppose he were to come to the window at the next -station to make certain. Could I pretend not to be myself? Refuse -to recognise him or answer to my name?' - -"'But if he was convinced it was you in spite of your bluff that -would instantly make him suspicious and off he'd go to your husband! -If on the other hand you took it all quite casually--said I was your -cousin or your brother-in-law--he might think nothing of it and never -even mention it to Sumner. But making him suspicious would send him -off to Sumner right away. Anyhow, you go to Liverpool to-morrow. I -don't see that his recognition of you matters.' - -"'I'm thinking of you,' she said. - -"'But he doesn't know who I am. So far as I know none of that lot -has seen me....' - -"The train slowed down at the next station. Mr. Barnado appeared, -cigar and all, bright-eyed and curious. - -"'Blest if I didn't say to myself that's Hetty Sumner!' said Mr. -Barnado. 'Wonderful 'ow one meets people!' - -"'My brother-in-law, Mr. Dyson,' said Hetty, introducing me. 'We've -been down to see his little daughter.' - -"'I didn't know you 'ad a sister, Mrs. Sumner.' - -"'I haven't,' said Hetty, with a note of pain in her voice. 'Mr. -Dyson is a widower.' - -"'Sorry,' said Mr. Barnado. 'Stupid of me. And what age might the -little girl be, Mr. Dyson?' - -"I found myself under the necessity of creating, explaining and -discussing an orphan daughter. Mr. Barnado had three and was -uncomfortably expert about children and their phases of development. -He was evidently a model father. I did as well as I could, I drew -out Mr. Barnado's family pride rather than indulged my own, but I was -immensely relieved when Mr. Barnado exclaimed, 'Gawd! 'Ere's Epsom -already! Glad to 'ave met you, Mr.----' - -"'Damn!' I said to myself. I had forgotten. - -"'Dixon,' said Hetty hastily, and Mr. Barnado, after effusive -farewells, proceeded to remove himself from the carriage. - -"'Thank Heaven!' said Hetty, 'he didn't come on to London. You're -the poorest liar, Harry, I've ever known. As it is--no harm's been -done.' - -"'No harm's been done,' said I, but two or three times before we -reached the London station where we were to part for ever, we -recurred to the encounter and repeated the reassuring formula that no -harm had been done. - -"We parted at Victoria Station with very little emotion. Mr. Barnado -had brought us back, as it were, to an everyday and incidental -atmosphere. We did not kiss each other again. The world about us -had become full now of observant eyes. My last words to Hetty were -'Everything's all right!' in a business-like, reassuring tone, and -the next day she slipped off to join her friends at Liverpool and -passed out of my life for ever." - - - -§ 8 - -"For three or four days I did not feel this second separation from -Hetty very greatly. My mind was still busy with the details of her -departure. On the third day she sent me a wireless message, as we -used to call it, to Thunderstone House. 'Well away,' she said. -'Fine weather. Endless love and gratitude.' Then slowly as the days -passed my sense of loss grew upon me, the intimations of an immense -loneliness gathered and spread until they became a cloud that -darkened all my mental sky. I was persuaded now that there was no -human being who could make me altogether happy but Hetty, and that -for the second time I was rejecting the possibility of companionship -with her. I had wanted love, I perceived, without sacrifice, and in -that old world, it seems to me now, love was only possible at an -exorbitant price, sacrifice of honour, sacrifice of one's proper work -in the world, humiliations and distresses. I had shirked the price -of Hetty and she was going from me, taking out of my life for ever -all those sweet untellable things that were the essence of love, the -little names, the trivial careless caresses, the exquisite gestures -of mind and body, the moments of laughter and pride and perfect -understanding. Day by day love went westward from me. Day and night -I was haunted by a more and more vivid realisation of a great -steamship, throbbing and heaving its way across the crests and -swelling waves of the Atlantic welter. The rolling black coal-smoke -from its towering funnels poured before the wind. Now I would see -that big ocean-going fabric in the daylight; now lit brightly from -stem to stern, under the stars. - -"I was full of unappeasable regret, I indulged in endless reveries of -a flight across the Atlantic in pursuit of Hetty, of a sudden -dramatic appearance before her;--'Hetty, I can't stand it. I've -come'--and all the time I stuck steadfastly to the course I had -chosen. I worked hard and late at Thunderstone House; I did my best -to shunt my imagination into new channels by planning two new -quasi-educational publications, and I set myself to take Milly out to -restaurants to dinner and to the theatre and to interesting shows. -And in the midst of some picture-show perhaps I would find my rebel -mind speculating what sort of thing Hetty would have said of it, had -she been there. There was a little show of landscapes at the Alpine -Gallery and several were pictures of Downland scenery and one showed -a sunlit hillside under drowsy white clouds. It was almost like -seeing Hetty. - -"It was exactly a week after Hetty's landing in New York that I first -encountered Sumner. It was my usual time of arrival and I was just -turning out of Tottenham Court Road into the side street that led to -the yard of Thunderstone House. There was a small public-house in -this byway and two men were standing outside it in attitudes of -expectation. One of them stepped out to accost me. He was a little -flushed Jewish man, and for the moment I did not recognise him at all. - -"'Mr. Smith?' said he, and scrutinised me queerly. - -"'At your service,' said I. - -"'Not by any chance Mr. Dyson or Dixon, eh?' he asked with a leer. - -"'Barnado!' cried my memory and placed him. My instant recognition -must have betrayed itself in my face. Our eyes met and there were no -secrets between them. 'No, Mr. Barnado,' I said with incredible -stupidity; 'my name's just plain Smith.' - -"'Don't mention it, Mr. Smith, don't mention it,' said Mr. Barnado -with extreme politeness. 'I had a sort of fancy I might have met you -before.' And turning to his companion and raising his voice a -little, he said, 'That's him all right, Sumner--sure as eggs are -eggs.' - -"Sumner! I glanced at this man who had given my life so disastrous a -turn. He was very much my own height and build, fair with a blotched -complexion and wearing a checked grey suit and an experienced-looking -grey felt hat. He might have been my unsuccessful half-brother. Our -eyes met in curiosity and antagonism. 'I'm afraid I'm not the man -you want,' I said to Barnado and went on my way. I didn't see any -advantage in an immediate discussion in that place. I perceived that -an encounter was inevitable, but I meant it to happen amidst -circumstances of my own choice and after I had had time to consider -the situation properly. I heard something happen behind me and -Barnado said: 'Shut up, you fool! You've found out what you want to -know.' I went through the passages and rooms of Thunderstone House -to my office and there, when I was alone, I sat down in my arm-chair -and swore very heartily. Every day since the departure of Hetty I -had been feeling more and more sure that this at least was not going -to happen. I had thought that Sumner was very easily and safely and -completely out of the story. - -"I took my writing-pad and began to sketch out the situation. '_Ends -to be secured,_' I wrote. - -"'_No. 1. Hetty must not be traced._ - -"'_No. 2. Milly must hear nothing of this._ - -"'_No. 3. No blackmailing._' - -"I considered. '_But if a lump payment,_' I began. This I scratched -out again. - -"I had to scheme out the essential facts. '_What does S. know? What -evidence exists? Of what? No clue to lead to Fanny? There is -nothing but that journey in the train. He will have a moral -certainty but will it convince anyone else?_' - -"I wrote a new heading: '_How to handle them?_' - -"I began to sketch grotesques and arabesques over my paper as I -plotted. Finally I tore it up into very small fragments and dropped -it into my wastepaper basket. A messenger-girl rapped and came in -with a paper slip, bearing the names of Fred Sumner and Arthur -Barnado. - -"'They've not put the business they want to talk about,' I remarked. - -"'They said you'd know, Sir.' - -"'No excuse. I want everybody to fill in that,' I said. 'Just say -I'm too busy to see strangers who don't state their business. And -ask them to complete the form.' - -"Back came the form: 'Enquiry about Mr. Sumner's missing wife.' - -"I considered it calmly. 'I don't believe we ever had the -manuscript. Say I'm engaged up to half-past twelve. Then I could -have a talk of ten minutes with Mr. Sumner alone. Make that clear. -I don't see where Mr. Barnado comes in. Make it clear it's a -privilege to see me.' - -"My messenger did not reappear. I resumed my meditations on the -situation. There was time for a lot of aggressive energy to -evaporate before half-past twelve. Probably both of the men had come -in from the outskirts and would have nowhere to wait but the streets -or a public-house. Mr. Barnado might want to be back upon his own -business at Epsom. He'd played his part in identifying me. Anyhow, -I didn't intend to have any talk with Sumner before a witness. If he -reappeared with Barnado I should refuse to see them. For Barnado -alone I had a plan and for Sumner I had a plan, but not for the two -of them together. - -"My delaying policy was a good one. At half-past twelve Sumner came -alone and was shown up to me. - -"'Sit down there,' I said abruptly and leant back in my chair and -stared at his face and waited in silence for him to begin. - -"For some moments he did not speak. He had evidently expected me to -open with some sort of question and he had come ready loaded with a -reply. To be plumped into a chair and looked at, put him off his -game. He tried to glare at me and I looked at his face as if I was -looking at a map. As I did so I found my hatred for him shrinking -and changing. It wasn't a case for hatred. He had such a poor, -mean, silly face, a weak arrangement of plausibly handsome features. -Every now and then it was convulsed by a nervous twitch. His -straw-coloured moustache was clipped back more on one side than the -other, and his rather frayed necktie had slipped down to display his -collar stud and the grubbiness of his collar. He had pulled his -mouth a little askew and thrust his face forward in an attempt at -fierceness, and his rather watery blue eyes were as open and as -protruded as he could manage. - -"'Where's my wife, Smith?' he said at last. - -"'Out of my reach, Mr. Sumner, and out of yours.' - -"'Where've you hid her?' - -"'She's gone,' I said. 'It's no work of mine.' - -"'She's come back to you.' - -"I shook my head. - -"'You know where she is?' - -"'She's gone clear, Sumner. You let her go.' - -"'Let her go! _You_ let her go, but I'm not going to. I'm not that -sort. Here's this girl you marry and mess about with and when she -comes across a man who's a bit more of a man than you are and handles -her as a woman ought to be handled, you go and chuck her out and -divorce her, divorce her with her child coming, and then start -planning and plotting to get her away from the man she's given her -love to----' - -"He stopped for want of words or breath. He wanted to exasperate me -and start a shouting match. I said nothing. - -"'I want Hetty back,' he said. 'She's my wife and I want her back. -She's mine and the sooner this foolery stops the better.' - -"I sat up to the desk and put my elbows on it. - -"'You won't get her back,' I said very quietly. 'What are you going -to do about it?' - -"'By God! I'll have her back--if I swing for it.' - -"'Exactly. And what are you going to do?' - -"'What can't I do? I'm her husband.' - -"'Well?' - -"'You've got her.' - -"'Not a scrap of her.' - -"'She's missing. I can go to the police.' - -"'Go to them. What will they do?' - -"'I can put them on to you.' - -"'Not a bit of it. They won't bother about me. If your wife's -missing and you go to the police, they'll clear up all your gang with -their enquiries. They'll be only too glad of the chance. Trouble -me! They'll dig up the cellars in your house and in your previous -house to find the body. They'll search you and ransack you. And -what they don't do to you, your pals will.' - -"Sumner leaned forward and grimaced like a gargoyle to give his words -greater emphasis. '_Yew_ were the last man seen with her,' he said. - -"'Not a scrap of evidence.' - -"Sumner cursed vigorously. 'He saw you.' - -"'I can deny that absolutely. Frowsty little witness your friend -Barnado. Don't be too sure he'll stick it. Nasty business if a -woman disappears and you find yourself trying to fix something that -won't hold water on to someone her husband dislikes. If I were you, -Sumner, I wouldn't take that line. Even if he backs you up, what -does it prove? You know of nobody else who pretends to have seen me -with Hetty. You won't be able to find anybody....' - -"Mr. Sumner extended his hand towards my table. He was too far away -to bang it properly so he pulled his chair up closer. The bang when -it came was ineffective. 'Look 'ere,' he said and moistened his -lips. 'I want my Hetty back and I'm going to have her back. You're -precious cool and cucumberish and all that just now, but by God! -I'll warm you up before I've done with you. You think you can get -her away and bluff me off. Never made such a mistake in your life. -Suppose I don't go to the police. Suppose I go for direct action. -Suppose I come round to your place, and make a fuss with your wife." - -"'That will be a nuisance,' I said. - -"He followed up his advantage. 'A masterpiece of a nuisance.' - -"I considered the forced fierceness of his face. - -"'I shall say I know nothing about your wife's disappearance and that -you are a blackmailing liar. People will believe me. My wife will -certainly believe me. She'd make herself do so if your story was ten -times as possible. Your friend Barnado and you will make a pretty -couple of accusers. I shall say you are a crazy jealous fool, and if -you keep the game up I shall have you run in. I'd not be altogether -sorry to have you run in. There's one or two little things I don't -like you for. I'd not be so very sorry to get quits.' - -"I had the better of him. He was baffled and angry but I saw now -plainly that he had no real fight in him. - -"'And you know where she is?' he said. - -"I was too full of the spirit of conflict now to be discreet. 'I -know where she is. And you don't get her--whatever you do. And as I -said before, What can you do about it?' - -"'My God!' he said. 'My own wife.' - -"I leant back with the air of a man who had finished an interview. I -looked at my wrist-watch. - -"He stood up. - -"I looked up at him brightly. 'Well?' I said. - -"'Look here!' he spluttered. 'I don't stand this. By God! I tell -you I want Hetty. I want her. I want her and I'll do what I like -with her. D'you think I'll take this? Me? She's mine, you dirty -thief!' - -"I took up a drawing for an illustration and held it in my hand, -regarding him with an expression of mild patience that maddened him. - -"'Didn't I marry her--when I needn't have? If you wanted her, why -the devil didn't you keep her when you had her? I tell you I won't -stand it.' - -"'My dear Sumner, as I said before, What can you do about it?' - -"He leant over the desk, shook a finger as though it was a pistol -barrel in my face. 'I'll let daylight through you,' he said. 'I'll -let daylight through you.' - -"'I'll take my chance of that,' I said. - -"He expressed his opinion of me for a bit. - -"'I won't argue your points,' I said. 'I guess we're about through -with this interview. Don't shock my clerk, please, when she comes -in.' And I rang the bell on my desk. - -"His parting shot was feeble. 'You've not heard the last of me. I -mean what I told you.' - -"'Mind the step,' said I. - -"The door closed and left me strung up and trembling with excitement -but triumphant. I felt I had beaten him and that I could go on -beating him. It might be he would shoot. He'd probably got a -revolver. But it was ten to one he'd take the trouble to get a fair -chance at me and screw himself up to shooting pitch. And with his -loose twitching face and shaky hand it was ten to one against his -hitting me. He'd aim anyhow. He'd shoot too soon. And if he shot -me it was ten to one he only wounded me slightly. Then I'd carry -through my story against him. Milly might be shaken for a time, but -I'd get the thing right again with her. - -"I sat for a long time turning over the possibilities of the case. -The more I considered it the more satisfied I was with my position. -It was two o'clock and long past my usual lunch time when I went off -to my club. I treated myself to the unusual luxury of a half-bottle -of champagne." - - - -§ 9 - -"I never believed Sumner would shoot me until I was actually shot. - -"He waylaid me in the passage-way to the yard of Thunderstone House -as I was returning from lunch just a week after our first encounter -and when I was beginning to hope he had accepted his defeat. He had -been drinking, and as soon as I saw his flushed face, half-angry and -half-scared, I had an intimation of what might befall. I remember -that I thought then that if anything happened he must get away -because otherwise he might be left to tell his tale after I was dead. -But I didn't really believe he was man enough to shoot and even now I -do not believe that. He fired through sheer lack of nervous and -muscular co-ordination. - -"He did not produce his pistol until I was close up to him. 'Now -then,' said he, 'you're for it. Where's my wife?' and out came the -pistol a yard from me. - -"I forget my answer. I probably said, 'Put that away' or something -of that sort. And then I may have seemed about to snatch it. The -report of the pistol, which sounded very loud to me, came at once, -and a feeling as though I'd been kicked in the small of the back. -The pistol was one of those that go on firing automatically as long -as the trigger is gripped. It fired two other shots, and one got my -knee and smashed it. 'Damn the thing!' he screamed and threw it down -as though it had stung him. 'Get out, you fool. Run!' I said as I -lurched towards him, and then as I fell I came within a foot of his -terrified face as he dashed past me towards the main thoroughfare. -He thrust me back with his hand as I reeled upon him. - -"I think I rolled over on to my back into a sitting position after I -fell, because I have a clear impression of him vanishing like the -tail of a bolting rabbit into Tottenham Court Road. I saw a van and -an omnibus pass across the space at the end of the street, heedless -altogether of the pistol shots that had sounded so terrible in my -ears. A girl and a man passed with equal indifference. He was -clear. Poor little beast! I'd stolen his Hetty. And now---- - -"I was very clear-headed. A little numbed where I had been hit but -not in pain. I was chiefly aware of my smashed knee, which looked -very silly with its mixture of torn trouser and red stuff and a -little splintered pink thing that I supposed was an end of bone. - -"People from nowhere were standing about me and saying things to me. -They had come out of the yard or from the public-house. I made a -swift decision. 'Pistol went off in my hand,' I said, and shut my -eyes. - -"Then a fear of a hospital came upon me. 'My home quite handy,' I -said. 'Eight Chester Terrace, Regent's Park. Get me there, please.' - -"I heard them repeating the address and I recognised the voice of -Crane & Newberry's door porter. 'That's right,' he was saying. -'It's Mr. Mortimer Smith. Anything I can do for you, Mr. Smith?' - -"I do not remember much of the details of what followed. When they -moved me there was pain. I seem to have been holding on to what I -meant to say and do, and my memory does not seem to have recorded -anything else properly. I may have fainted once or twice. Newberry -was in it somehow. I think he took me home in his car. 'How did it -happen?' he asked. That I remember quite clearly. - -"'The thing went off in my hand,' I said. - -"One thing I was very certain about. Whatever happened they were not -going to hang that poor, silly, hunted cheat, Sumner. Whatever -happened, the story of Hetty must not come out. If it did, Milly -would think only one thing: that I had been unfaithful to her and -that Sumner had killed me on that account. Hetty was all right now. -I needn't bother about Hetty any more. I had to think of Milly--and -Sumner. It is queer, but I seem to have known I was mortally wounded -from the very instant I was shot. - -"Milly appeared, full of solicitude. - -"'Accident,' I said to her with all my strength. 'Went off in my -hand.' - -"My own bed. - -"Clothes being cut away. Round my knee the cloth had stuck. The new -grey suit which I'd meant should last the whole summer. - -"Then two strangers became conspicuous, doctors, I suppose, -whispering, and one of them had his sleeves up and showed a pair of -fat pink arms. Sponges and a tinkle of water dripping into a basin. -They prodded me about. Damn! That hurt! Then stinging stuff. What -was the good of it? I was in the body they were prodding, and I knew -all about it and I was sure that I was a dead man. - -"Milly again. - -"'My dear,' I whispered. 'Dear!' and her poor, tearful face beamed -love upon me. - -"Valiant Milly! Things had never been fair to her. - -"Fanny? Had Newberry gone to fetch her? Anyhow he had vanished. - -"She'd say nothing about Hetty. She was as safe as--safe as -what?--what did one say?--any thing--safe. - -"Poor dears! What a fuss they were all in. It seemed almost -shameful of me to be glad that I was going out of it all. But I was -glad. This pistol shot had come like the smashing of a window in a -stuffy room. My chief desire was to leave kind and comforting -impressions on those poor survivors who might still have to stay on -in the world of muddle for years and years. Life! What a muddle and -a blundering it had been! I'd never have to grow old now anyhow.... - -"There was an irruption. People coming in from the dressing-room. -One was a police inspector in uniform. The other showed policeman -through his plain clothes. Now was the time for it! I was quite -clear-headed--quite. I must be careful what I said. If I didn't -want to say anything I could just close my eyes. - -"'Bleeding internally,' said someone. - -"Then the police inspector sat down on the bed. What a whale he -was!--and asked me questions. I wondered if anyone had caught a -glimpse of Sumner. Sumner, bolting like a rabbit. I must risk that. - -"'It went off in my hand,' I said. - -"'What was he saying? How long had I had that revolver? - -"'Bought it this lunch time,' I said. - -"Did he ask why? He did. 'Keep up my shooting.' - -"Where? He wanted to know where. 'Highbury.' - -"'What part of Highbury?' They wanted to trace the pistol. That -wouldn't do. Give Mr. Inspector a paper chase. '_Near_ Highbury.' - -"'Not in Highbury?' - -"I decided to be faint and stupid. 'That way,' I said faintly. - -"'A pawnshop?' - -"Best not to answer. Then as if by an effort, 'Lil' shop.' - -"'Unredeemed pledges?' - -"I said nothing to that. I was thinking of another touch to the -picture I was painting. - -"I spoke with weak indignation. 'I didn't think it was loaded. How -was I to know it was loaded? It ought not to have been sold--loaded -like that. I was just looking at it-- - -"I stopped short and shammed exhaustion. Then I felt that I was not -shamming exhaustion. I was exhausted. Gods! but the stuffing was -out of me! I was sinking, sinking, out of the bedroom, out from -among this group of people. They were getting little and faint and -flimsy. Was there anything more to say? Too late if there was. I -was falling asleep, falling into a sleep, so profound, so -fathomless.... - -"Far away now was the little roomful of people, and infinitely small. - -"'He's going!' somebody said in a minute voice. - -"I seemed to come back for an instant. - -"I heard the rustle of Milly's dress as she came across the room to -me.... - -"And then, then I heard Hetty's voice again and opened my eyes and -saw Hetty bending down over me--in that lovely place upon this -mountain-side. Only Hetty had become my dear Sunray who is mistress -of my life. And the sunshine was on us and on her face, and I -stretched because my back was a little stiff and one of my knees was -twisted." - -"'Wake up! I said,'" said Sunray. "'Wake up,' and I shook you." - -"And then we came and laughed at you," said Radiant. "Firefly and I." - -"And you said, 'then there is another life,'" said Firefly. "And the -tale is only a dream! It has been a good tale, Sarnac, and somehow -you have made me think it was true." - -"As it is," said Sarnac. "For I am as certain I was Henry Mortimer -Smith yesterday as I am that I am Sarnac here and now." - - - - -CHAPTER THE EIGHTH - -THE EPILOGUE - - -§ 1 - -The guest-master poked the sinking fire into a last effort. "So am -I," he said, and then with profound conviction, "_That tale is true._" - -"But how could it be true?" asked Willow. - -"I should be readier to believe it true if Sarnac had not brought in -Sunray as Hetty," said Radiant. "It was very dreamlike, the way -Hetty grew more and more like his dear lady and at last dissolved -altogether into her." - -"But if Smith was a sort of anticipation of Sarnac," said Starlight, -"then it was natural for him to choose as his love a sort of -anticipation of Sunray." - -"But are there any other anticipations in the story?" asked Willow. -"Did you recognise any other people who are intimate with you both? -Is there a Fanny in this world? Is there a Matilda Good or a brother -Ernest? Was Sarnac's mother like Martha Smith?" - -"That tale," said the guest-master, stoutly, "was no dream. It was a -memory floating up out of the deep darkness of forgotten things into -a kindred brain." - -Sarnac thought, "What is a personality but a memory? If the memory -of Harry Mortimer Smith is in my brain, then I am Smith. I feel as -sure that I was Smith two thousand years ago as that I was Sarnac -this morning. Sometimes before this in my dreams I have had a -feeling that I lived again forgotten lives. Have none of you felt -that?" - -"I dreamt the other day," said Radiant, "that I was a panther that -haunted a village of huts in which lived naked children and some very -toothsome dogs. And how I was hunted for three years and shot at -five times before I was killed. I can remember how I killed an old -woman gathering sticks and hid part of her body under the roots of a -tree to finish it on the morrow. It was a very vivid dream. And as -I dreamt it it was by no means horrible. But it was not a clear and -continuous dream like yours. A panther's mind is not clear and -continuous, but passes from flashes of interest to interludes of -apathy and utter forgetfulness. - -"When children have dreams of terror, of being in the wild with -prowling beasts, of long pursuits and hairbreadth escapes, perhaps it -is the memory of some dead creature that lives again in them?" asked -Starlight. "What do we know of the stuff of memory that lies on the -other side of matter? What do we know of the relations of -consciousness to matter and energy? For four thousand years men have -speculated about these things, and we know no more to-day than they -did in Athens when Plato taught and Aristotle studied. Science -increases and the power of man grows but only inside the limits of -life's conditions. We may conquer space and time, but we shall never -conquer the mystery of what we are, and why we can be matter that -feels and wills. My brother and I have much to do with animals and -more and more do I perceive that what they are I am. They are -instruments with twenty strings while we have ten thousand, but they -are instruments like ourselves; what plays upon them plays upon us, -and what kills them kills us. Life and death alike are within the -crystal sphere that limits us for ever. Life cannot penetrate and -death will not penetrate that limitation. What memories are we -cannot tell. If I choose to believe that they float away like -gossamer nets when we die, and that they float I know not where, and -that they can come back presently into touch with other such gossamer -nets, who can contradict me? Maybe life from its very beginning has -been spinning threads and webs of memories. Not a thing in the past, -it may be, that has not left its memories about us. Some day we may -learn to gather in that forgotten gossamer, we may learn to weave its -strands together again, until the whole past is restored to us and -life becomes one. Then perhaps the crystal sphere will break. And -however that may be, and however these things may be explained, I can -well believe without any miracles that Sarnac has touched down to the -real memory of a human life that lived and suffered two thousand -years ago. And I believe that, because of the reality of the story -he told. I have felt all along that whatever interrupting question -we chose to ask, had we asked what buttons he wore on his jacket or -how deep the gutters were at the pavement edge or what was the price -he had paid for his cigarettes, he would have been ready with an -answer, more exact and sure than any historian could have given." - -"And I too believe that," said Sunray. "I have no memory of being -Hetty, but in everything he said and did, even in his harshest and -hardest acts, Smith and Sarnac were one character. I do not question -for a moment that Sarnac lived that life." - - - -§ 2 - -"But the hardness of it!" cried Firefly; "the cruelty! The universal -heartache!" - -"It could have been only a dream," persisted Willow. - -"It is not the barbarism I think of," said Firefly; "not the wars and -diseases, the shortened, crippled lives, the ugly towns, the narrow -countryside, but worse than that the sorrow of the heart, the -universal unkindness, the universal failure to understand or care for -the thwarted desires and needs of others. As I think of Sarnac's -story I cannot think of any one creature in it who was happy--as we -are happy. It is all a story of love crossed, imaginations like -flies that have fallen into gum, things withheld and things -forbidden. And all for nothing. All for pride and spite. Not all -that world had a giver who gave with both hands.... Poor Milly! Do -you think she did not know how coldly you loved her, Sarnac? Do you -think her jealousy was not born of a certainty and a fear? ... A -lifetime, a whole young man's lifetime, a quarter of a century, and -this poor Harry Smith never once met a happy soul and came only once -within sight of happiness! And he was just one of scores and -hundreds of millions! They went heavily and clumsily and painfully, -oppressing and obstructing each other, from the cradle to the grave." - -This was too much for the guest-master, who almost wailed aloud. -"But surely there was happiness! Surely there were moods and phases -of happiness!" - -"In gleams and flashes," said Sarnac. "But I verily believe that -what Firefly says is true. In all my world there were no happy -lives." - -"Not even children?" - -"Lives, I said, not parts of lives. Children would laugh and dance -for a while if they were born in Hell." - -"And out of that darkness," said Radiant; "in twenty short centuries -our race has come to the light and tolerance, the sweet freedoms and -charities of our lives to-day." - -"Which is no sort of comfort to me," said Firefly, "when I think of -the lives that _have_ been." - -"Unless this is the solution," the guest-master cried, "that everyone -is presently to dream back the lives that have gone. Unless the poor -memory-ghosts of all those sad lives that have been are to be brought -into the consolation of our happiness. Here, poor souls, for your -comfort is the land of heart's desire and all your hopes come true. -Here you live again in your ampler selves. Here lovers are not -parted for loving and your loves are not your torment.... Now I see -why men must be immortal, for otherwise the story of man's martyrdom -is too pitiful to tell. Many good men there were like me, jolly men -with a certain plumpness, men with an excellent taste for wine and -cookery, who loved men almost as much as they loved the food and -drink that made men, and they could not do the jolly work I do and -make comfort and happiness every day for fresh couples of holiday -friends. Surely presently I shall find the memories of the poor -licensed innkeeper I was in those ancient days, the poor, overruled, -ill-paid publican, handing out bad stuff in wrath and shame, I shall -find all his troubles welling up again in me. Consoled in this good -inn. If it was I who suffered in those days, I am content, but if it -was some other good fellow who died and never came to this, then -there is no justice in the heart of God. So I swear by immortality -now and henceforth--not for greed of the future but in the name of -the wasted dead. - -"Look!" the guest-master continued. "Morning comes and the cracks at -the edge of the door-curtain grow brighter than the light within. Go -all of you and watch the mountain glow. I will mix you a warm bowl -of drink and then we will sleep for an hour or so before you -breakfast and go your way." - - - -§ 3 - -"It was a life," said Sarnac, "and it was a dream, a dream within -this life; and this life too is a dream. Dreams within dreams, -dreams containing dreams, until we come at last, maybe, to the -Dreamer of all dreams, the Being who is all beings. Nothing is too -wonderful for life and nothing is too beautiful." - -He got up and thrust back the great curtain of the guest-house room. -"All night we have been talking and living in the dark Ages of -Confusion and now the sunrise is close at hand." - -He went out upon the portico of the guest-house and stood still, -surveying the great mountains that rose out of cloud and haze, dark -blue and mysterious in their recesses and soaring up at last into the -flush of dawn. - -He stood quite still and all the world seemed still, except that, far -away and far below, a mist of sounds beneath the mountain mists, a -confusion of birds was singing. - - - - -¶ Mr. Wells has also written the following novels: - - THE WHEELS OF CHANCE - LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM - KIPPS - TONO-BUNGAY - ANN VERONICA - MR. POLLY - THE NEW MACHIAVELLI - MARRIAGE - THE PASSIONATE FRIENDS - THE WIFE OF SIR ISAAC HARMAN - BEALBY - THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT - MR. BRITLING SEES IT THROUGH - THE SOUL OF A BISHOP - JOAN AND PETER - THE UNDYING FIRE - THE SECRET PLACES OF THE HEART - - -¶ The following fantastic and imaginative romances: - - THE TIME MACHINE - THE WONDERFUL VISIT - THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU - THE INVISIBLE MAN - THE WAR OF THE WORLDS - THE SLEEPER AWAKES - THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON - THE SEA LADY - THE FOOD OF THE GODS - IN THE DAYS OF THE COMET - THE WAR IN THE AIR - THE WORLD SET FREE - MEN LIKE GODS - - -¶ Numerous short stories collected under the following titles: - - THE STOLEN BACILLUS - THE PLATTNER STORY - TALES OF SPACE AND TIME - TWELVE STORIES AND A DREAM - - -¶ The same short stories will also be found in three volumes: - - TALES OF THE UNEXPECTED - TALES OF LIFE AND ADVENTURE - TALES OF WONDER - - -¶ A Series of books on social, religious and political questions: - - ANTICIPATIONS (1900) - A MODERN UTOPIA - THE FUTURE IN AMERICA - NEW WORLDS FOR OLD - FIRST AND LAST THINGS - GOD THE INVISIBLE KING - THE OUTLINE OF HISTORY - RUSSIA IN THE SHADOWS - THE SALVAGING OF CIVILISATION - WASHINGTON AND THE HOPE OF PEACE - A SHORT HISTORY OF THE WORLD - THE STORY OF A GREAT SCHOOLMASTER - - -¶ And two little books about children's play, called: - - FLOOR GAMES and LITTLE WARS - - - - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DREAM *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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