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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-20 18:21:04 -0700 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-03-20 18:21:04 -0700 |
| commit | 5a98d04e274ce68d2e5ddb30979be245f5ca8b96 (patch) | |
| tree | d852948aa234b303b31c8cb0dd6c7446621a65b4 /75675-h | |
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diff --git a/75675-h/75675-h.htm b/75675-h/75675-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8a9fcec --- /dev/null +++ b/75675-h/75675-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13327 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + + <title> + Following Darkness | Project Gutenberg + </title> + + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + + <style> + +/* DACSoft styles */ + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +/* General headers */ +h1 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +/* Chapter headers */ +h2 { + text-align: center; + font-weight: bold; + margin: .75em 0; +} + +div.chapter { + page-break-before: always; +} + +.nobreak { + page-break-before: avoid; +} + +/* Indented paragraph */ +p { + margin-top: .51em; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1em; +} + +/* Unindented paragraph */ +.noi {text-indent: 0em;} + +/* Centered unindented paragraph */ +.noic { + text-indent: 0em; + text-align: center; +} + +/* Drop caps */ +p.cap {text-indent: 0em;} + +p.cap:first-letter { + float: left; + padding-right: 3px; + font-size: 250%; + line-height: 83%; +} + +.x-ebookmaker p.cap:first-letter { + float: left; + padding-right: 3px; + font-size: 250%; + line-height: 83%; +} + +/* Non-standard paragraph margins */ +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +.p4 {margin-top: 4em;} + +/* Horizontal rules */ +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb { + width: 35%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-left: 32.5%; + margin-right: 32.5%; +} + +hr.chap { + width: 65%; + margin-left: 17.5%; + margin-right: 17.5%; +} + +@media print { + hr.chap { + display: none; + visibility: hidden; + } +} + +hr.r30 { + width: 30%; + margin-left: 35%; + margin-right: 35%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; +} + +/* Physical book page and line numbers */ +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + right: 3%; +/* left: 92%; */ + font-size: x-small; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-align: right; + color: gray; +} /* page numbers */ + +/* Blockquotes */ +.blockquot { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-bottom: 1em; +} + +/* Alignment */ +.right {text-align: right;} + +/* Text appearance */ +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Small fonts and lowercase small-caps */ +.smfont { + font-size: .8em; +} + +/* Images */ +img { + max-width: 100%; /* no image to be wider than screen or containing div */ + height:auto; /* keep height in proportion to width */ +} + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 90%; /* div no wider than screen, even when screen is narrow */ +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} /* to keep poem centered on page */ + +.poetry { + display: block; + text-align: left; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.poetry2 { + display: inline-block; + text-align: left; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +/* then large inline blocks don't split well on paged devices */ +@media print { .poetry2 {display: block;} } + +.x-ebookmaker .poetry2 {display: block;} + +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} + +.poetry .verse { + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poetry2 .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} + +.poetry2 .verse { + padding-left: 3em; + text-indent: -3em; +} + +.poetry .indent0 {padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry .indent1 {padding-left: 3.5em;} +.poetry .indent3 {padding-left: 4.5em;} +.poetry2 .indent0 {padding-left: 3em;} +.poetry2 .indent4 {padding-left: 8em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.tnote { + background-color: #E6E6FA; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + padding: 0.5em; +} + +.tntitle { + font-size: 1.25em; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +/* Title page borders and content. */ +.author { + font-size: 1.25em; + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +.works { + font-size: .75em; + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +/* Advertisement formatting. */ +.adtitle { + font-size: 1.5em; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +.adauthor { + font-size: 1.25em; + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +.adsection { + font-size: 1.25em; + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75675 ***</div> + + +<figure class="figcenter x-ebookmaker-drop" id="cover_sm"> + <img src="images/cover_sm.jpg" alt="book cover" title="book cover"> +</figure> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1 class="nobreak">FOLLOWING<br> +DARKNESS</h1> + +<p class="p2 noic">BY</p> + +<p class="noi author">FORREST REID</p> + +<p class="noi works">AUTHOR OF “THE BRACKNELS,” ETC.</p> + +<div class="p2 poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry2"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent4">“Lost, lost, for ever lost,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">That beautiful shape!”</div> + <div class="right smcap">Shelley.</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="p2 noi adauthor">LONDON</p> + +<p class="noi adauthor">EDWARD ARNOLD</p> + +<p class="noi adauthor">1912</p> + +<p class="noi works">[<i>All Rights Reserved</i>]</p> +</div> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="noic">TO E. M. F.</p> +</div> + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">LIST OF CHAPTERS</h2> + +<p class="noic"><a href="#DARKNESS">FOLLOWING DARKNESS</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLI">CHAPTER XLI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLII">CHAPTER XLII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIII">CHAPTER XLIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLV">CHAPTER XLV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVI">CHAPTER XLVI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVII">CHAPTER XLVII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLVIII">CHAPTER XLVIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XLIX">CHAPTER XLIX</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_L">CHAPTER L</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LI">CHAPTER LI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LII">CHAPTER LII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LIII">CHAPTER LIII</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LIV">CHAPTER LIV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LV">CHAPTER LV</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LVI">CHAPTER LVI</a><br> +<a href="#CHAPTER_LVII">CHAPTER LVII</a><br></p> +</div> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="DARKNESS">FOLLOWING DARKNESS</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It is not without some hesitation that I offer to the public +the following fragment of an autobiography, even though +in doing so I am but obeying the obvious intention of its +author. When the papers of Mr. Peter Waring came into +my possession I had indeed no idea of its existence, and +I have now no means of telling when it was written. The +fact that he left it unfinished proves nothing. He may +have begun it and abandoned it years ago: he may have +been working at it shortly before his death. That he +intended to carry it to completion, there is, I think, abundant +evidence in a mass of detached notes and impressions +bearing on a later period of his life. These, rightly or +wrongly, I have not printed, partly because the earlier +portion has in itself a certain unity and completeness, +which would be marred were I to add anything to it, and +partly because they never received his personal revision. +Moreover, many of them are in the highest degree fantastic +and exotic, so that it is at times difficult to take them +literally, especially if the simplicity and directness of the +earlier pages be borne in mind.</p> + +<p>Those who are familiar with Mr. Waring’s writings published +during his lifetime—writings in which the personal +element is so slight—will hardly be prepared for anything +so intimate as this journal. His critical methods were +entirely scientific. Of their value I am not the proper +person to speak, having neither the necessary knowledge,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span> +nor, to tell the whole truth, the necessary sympathy. Our +paths, if they seemed to run parallel for a moment, diverged +very early in life, and I could never take much interest in +the work to which he devoted his real, though, I venture +to think, somewhat narrow gifts. He was still a young +man—barely thirty-six—when he died, but he had already +become eminent in his own particular line, that of the +newer art criticism, invented, I believe, by the Italian, +Morelli. It was scarcely a career to bring him much under +the public eye, but his “Study of the Drawings of the +Early Italian Masters” gained him, I understand, the recognition +of a small number of persons, of various nationalities, +occupied in making similar researches. He was busy with +the proofs of the second and larger edition of this work +when, on the 10th of September, 1911, he died under tragic +circumstances. The mystery of his death, about which +there was some noise in the papers at the time, will, I think, +never now be cleared up, though, to my own mind, it is +perfectly clear that he was murdered.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In relation to the autobiography, a word or two of +comment and explanation is possibly due to the reader. +To begin with, I have altered all the proper names save +two—my own, and that of Mrs. Carroll, of Derryaghy, +Newcastle, County Down, his oldest friend, which I have +allowed to remain. I feel this, myself, to be unsatisfactory, +but I cannot see how at present it is to be avoided. Again, +though I have added nothing, I have left out a few pages—only +a few—and none, I believe, of importance, so far as +the understanding of the whole is concerned. For this I +have no excuse to offer, except that it seemed to me that +he himself should have omitted them.</p> + +<p>In the main the portrait he has given of himself coincides +with my own impression of him in early life. I can remember +very well when I first came to know him at school.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span> +I was more struck by his gifts then, perhaps, than I was +later, though even at that time he seemed to me to be +intensely one-sided. He was very intelligent, but from the +beginning his whole manner of looking upon life was, in +my opinion, unfortunate. It may sound harsh to say +so, but as the years passed I do not think he improved. +Latterly, he appeared to me to have little but his fine taste. +It was as if everything had become subservient to an +æsthetic sense, which was extraordinarily, morbidly acute. +Yet even while I write this I have a suspicion that I am +not doing him justice. If he had been nothing but what +I say he was, I should not be able to look back with tenderness +upon the friendship of those early days, whereas the +recollection of that friendship will always remain one of +the pleasantest memories of my life. I regret that it should +have been broken, but that was almost inevitable. It +came about slowly and naturally, though no doubt the +actual break was hastened by a mutual friend of ours, who +informed me that Waring had described me as borné and +tedious. That is the kind of thing which rankles. You +may say to yourself it is of no consequence, but to have +an uneasy feeling that your friend finds your company dull +quickly becomes unendurable. A man would rather be +thought almost anything than a bore; hence it was that +for a long time I entirely ceased to see him. I regret it +now, for he may never have made the fatal remark, and +even if he did, judging from his journal, it need not have +been inconsistent with affection.</p> + +<p>The last time I saw him was at Mrs. Carroll’s house, +about a year before his death. She had asked me down, +I suppose by Waring’s request, and I went, though I stayed +only one night. I had not seen him for years until this +occasion, and I was struck, and even shocked, by his altered +appearance, and still more by his manner, which was that, +I imagined, of a man haunted by some secret thought that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span> +has come between him and everything about him. This +impression, though I do not desire to lay stress upon it, +may throw a light on certain of the later notes I have not +printed, and these, in turn, may afford some clue as to the +mystery surrounding his death, for it is evident that he +had come under the influence of strange and disreputable +persons, who professed to experiment in occult sciences—spiritualism, +and even magic. His hair had turned quite +white at the temples. He seemed restless and dissatisfied; +and, whatever else he may have found in his long wanderings, +I could not believe he had found peace.</p> + +<p>Late in the evening we sat together. He was so silent +that I looked at him to see if he had fallen asleep. The +room we were sitting in—the morning-room—gave on to +a garden at the side of the house, into which one could +easily pass through tall French windows. The night was +warm, and one of these windows stood wide open, letting +in the scent of flowers, but with a curtain drawn across it +to keep out moths and other winged creatures attracted +by lamplight. I did not speak, but waited for him to talk +or to keep silent as he chose. After a while I got up to +examine a few black-framed etchings that hung upon the +walls. These, with some pieces of china, formed the only +decorations. I drew back the curtain and looked out into +the night. The moon was high above the trees, and I +could hear the low sound of waves breaking on the shore. +When I turned round he was watching me, and I was struck +by his expression, which was that of a man on the point +of making some very private communication. But perhaps +my sudden movement disconcerted him, for he said +nothing, and in a little I could see the impulse had left +him. I began to talk, not of my own work, which I thought +would have no interest for him, but of his, which I was +surprised to find he seemed to regard as equally unimportant. +I asked him what had first led him to take it up.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span></p> + +<p>“There was nothing else,” he answered.</p> + +<p>Seeing that I waited for him to go on, he made an effort +to shake off his abstraction. “If I hadn’t found it I should +have bored myself to death. What is there for a boy of +eighteen, with no taste for society, and left to wander about +Europe alone, to do? Fortunately, I had always cared +for pictures, and early Italian art appealed to me particularly.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, you had your writing.”</p> + +<p>“I never wrote a line except to take notes. I was nearly +thirty before it occurred to me to publish anything. Even +then, it was only for a few pedants more or less like myself +that I wrote. My writings are of no account. The only +people I can imagine it pleasant to write for are quite young +people. They might lend your work a sort of charm by +reading their own youth and enthusiasm into it. But it +is not easy to arouse enthusiasm by describing how Bernardino +de’ Conti paints ears, or how Pontormo models +hands. For one thing, nobody wants to know. All that +it leads to is that presently you find yourself approaching +the most innocent work of art with the mind of a detective, +revelling in clues and the æsthetically unimportant. Nine-tenths +of your enjoyment comes from the gratified sense of +your own ingenuity. Of course it is wrong. When I was +a boy I fell in love with one of Giotto’s frescoes in the Upper +Church at Assisi, a thing half-peeled from the wall, and +representing Saint Francis preaching to the birds. But +why I liked it had nothing in the world to do either with +Giotto or Saint Francis. I simply saw a bit of decoration, +a Japanese print in gray and blue.... That is the proper +spirit. One day, however, a year or so later, I was in +the Louvre, in the Salle des Primitifs, and before me was +a beautiful little picture which hangs on the side wall, near +the door. Below it was printed an artist’s name, Gentile +da Fabriano. I looked at the picture again, and I said to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span> +myself, ‘Why Gentile, when it is obviously by Jacopo +Bellini?’ That was the beginning.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t think, then, it matters very much?”</p> + +<p>“About Gentile? Not in the least. I haven’t even +persuaded them to make the alteration in the catalogue.”</p> + +<p>But I could see he was talking merely not to be silent, +so I got up and we lit our candles. At the top of the +staircase I said good-night, for our bedrooms were on +opposite sides of the house, but he pushed open a door. +“There is a picture here,” he said.</p> + +<p>I followed him into the big, dark room, black shadows +that seemed almost solid gliding away before us. He took +my candle and held both up so that their light flickered +across a small canvas that hung just above the level of our +eyes. The painting represented the head of a quite young +girl, and I recognised it at once as a portrait of Katherine +Dale. I am no judge of pictures, so I will only say that +this picture gave me pleasure. Yet I should have hesitated +to call the face beautiful, and it certainly was not pretty. +It reminded me rather of an early Millais—that is to say, +the subject reminded me of a Millais type. There was the +same breadth of forehead, the same rich colouring and +steadfast, serious eyes that were more like the eyes of a +boy than of a girl. I wondered why he had brought me +in to look at it just now, and thought it had perhaps been +painted by a celebrated artist.</p> + +<p>“Whose is it?” I asked, and was greatly surprised +when he told me he had done it himself, from memory. +I had never seen any of his work before, and I congratulated +him on his success, which seemed to me to be really +a genuine one. I asked another question, but he did not +reply. He merely returned me my candle, which I held up +for another look. The small, wavering, uncertain flame +lent a curious air of life to the portrait, and I continued +to regard it, for the frankness and simplicity of the young<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span> +face gave me great pleasure. When I glanced round I +discovered I was alone. My companion had disappeared +without my noticing it, and evidently he had gone out, not +by the way we had entered, but by another door at the +farther end of the room. That this was the case I had +more positive proof next moment, for a sudden draught +extinguished my candle so swiftly and unexpectedly that +I had an odd feeling that somebody had stolen up behind +me and blown it out.</p> + +<p class="right smcap">Owen Gill.<br></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span></p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</h2> +</div> + + +<p>What is there in this house, in these surroundings, so +utterly different from those I was born amongst, that +revives a swarm of memories of my childhood and youth? +My notes are piled up on the table before me, they have +been there for several days, and I have not touched them, +though I came here to work. A warm Italian sun floods +the stiff and formal garden stretching from my window, +with its pale paved walks, its fountain, and dark cypress-trees; +but when I shut my eyes, it is quite another garden +that I see, and now, when I have at last taken up my pen +to write, it is not to fulfil the task I had set myself, but to +chatter idly of a boyhood passed under other skies, grayer, +softer, and colder. The odd fact is that ever since my +arrival here, in spite of my being upon “classic soil,” in a +district rich in historical suggestion, and full, too, of the +colour and odour of the south, I have been communing +daily, hourly almost, with my own youth. I should like +to set down simply what that youth was, without embroidery, +without suppression, though, on the other hand, +a mere bald enumeration of the outward facts will be little +to my purpose. The facts in themselves are nothing. +Unless I can recapture the spirit that hovered behind them, +my task will have been fruitless, and even though in my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> +effort to do so I shall probably accentuate it, alter it, clip +its wings and make it heavy, yet that must be my aim if +I am to write at all. I have little eloquence, and perhaps +no power of evocation, but the whole great, soft, time-toned +picture is before me at this moment, and I cannot +resist the temptation to linger over it. If I linger over it +pen in hand, what matter?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In the foreground there must be the portrait of a boy, +but painted in the manner of Rembrandt rather than +Bronzino. By this I mean there will be less of firm, clear +outline, than of light and shadow. The danger is that in +the end there may be too much shadow; but at least I +shall not, in the manner of a writer of fiction, have sacrificed +my subject for the sake of gaining an additional brightness +and vivacity. The spirit of youth is not merely bright and +vivacious; above all, it is not merely thoughtless and noisy. +It is melancholy, dreamy, passionate; it is admirable, and +it is base; it is full of curiosity; it is healthy, and it is +morbid; it is animal, and it is spiritual; sensual, yet filled +with vague half-realised yearnings after an ideal—that is +to say, it is the spirit of life itself, which can never be +adequately indicated by the description of a fight or of a +football match.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Of my earliest childhood I can form no consecutive picture; +I shall therefore pass over it quickly. Certain incidents +stand out with extraordinary vividness, but the chain +uniting them is wanting, and it is even impossible for me +to be quite sure as to the order in which they occurred. +Some are so trivial that I do not know why I should remember +them; others, at the time, doubtless, more important, +have now lost their significance; and countless others, +again, I must have completely forgotten. But it occurs +to me, on looking back deliberately, that I have changed +very little from what I was in those first years. I have +developed, but what I was then I am now, what I cared +for then I care for now. In other words, like everybody +else, I came into this world a mere bundle of inherited +instincts, for the activity of which I was no more responsible +than for the falling of last night’s rain.</p> + +<p>Of the dawning of consciousness I have no recollection +whatever. Back farther than anything else there reach +two impressions—one, of being set to dance naked on a +table, amid the laughter of women, and the rhythmic +clapping of their hands; the other, probably later in date, +of what must have been a house-cleaning, stamped on my +mind by an inexplicable fear of those flakey collections of +dust which gather under furniture that has not been moved +for a long time. By then I had certainly learned to talk,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span> +for those flakes of dust I called “quacks.” I do not know +where the name came from, nor why I should have disliked +“quacks,” but they affected me with a strange dread, and +here was a whole army of them where I had never seen but +one or two. Some stupid person running after me with +a broom pretended to sweep them over me, and I started +bawling at the top of my voice. Then, for consolation, I +was lifted up to bury my nose in a bowl of violets, and the +colour and sweetness of the flowers took away my trouble. +Probably it was later than this that I first became aware +of a peculiar sensibility to dress—not to underclothing, but +to my outer garments. To be dressed in a new suit of +clothes gave me a curious physical pleasure—a feeling purely +sensual, and that must, I imagine, have been connected +with the dawn of obscure sex instincts. Such things can +be of little interest save to the student of psychology, and +it would be tedious to catalogue them in full, but I have +no doubt myself that if they, and others, had been intelligently +observed, the whole of my future could have been +cast from them. To me, I confess, they throw a disquieting +light upon all human affairs, reviving that sombre figure +of destiny which overshadowed the antique world.</p> + +<p>Another and happier instinct which I brought with me +from the unknown was an intense sympathy with animals. +There was not a cat or dog or goat or donkey in the village +that I had not struck up a friendship with. I even carried +this sympathy so far as to insist on feeding daily the ridiculous +stone lions which flanked the doorsteps at Derryaghy +House. I don’t think I ever actually believed that their +morning meal of stale bread gave much pleasure to these +patient beasts, and I had with my own eyes seen sparrows +and thrushes—who very soon came to look out for me—snatch +it from them before my back was turned; still, I +persevered, stroking their smooth backs, kissing their cold +muzzles, just as I lavished depths of affection on a stuffed,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> +dilapidated, velvet elephant who for many years was my +nightly bed-fellow.</p> + +<p>My only impressions of my mother go back to those days +or, possibly, earlier—a voice singing gay songs to the piano, +while I dropped asleep in my bed upstairs—and then, +again, somebody lifting me out of this bed to kiss me, the +close contact of a face wet with tears, the pressure of arms +that held me clasped tightly, that even hurt a little. That +is all. I cannot remember how she looked, or anything +else. On the evening when she said good-bye to me and +left our house, I knew she was crying, but, though it called +up in me a sort of solemn wonder, I did not understand it, +and went to sleep almost as soon as she put me back into +my bed. It was not till next day that my own tears came, +with the first real sorrow I had known.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>There follows now a sort of blank in my recollections, +which continues on to my ninth or tenth year. I do not +know why this period should have been so unproductive +of lasting impressions. It is like a tranquil water over +which I bend in the hope of seeing some face or vision +ripple to the surface, but my hope is disappointed. Nothing +emerges—not even a memory of any of those ailments, +measles and what not, from which, in common with other +children, I suppose I must have suffered. Nor can I +recollect learning to read. I can remember quite well +when I couldn’t read, for I have a very distinct recollection +of lying on my stomach, on the parlour floor, a book open +in front of me, along whose printed, meaningless lines I +drew my finger, turning page after page till the last was +reached, though what solemn pleasure I could have got +from so dull a game—surely the most tedious ever invented—I +now utterly fail to comprehend.</p> + +<p>I was always very fond of being read to, except when +the story had a moral, or was about pious children, when<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> +I hated it. The last of these moral tales I listened to was +called “Cassy.” I particularly disliked it, but I can remember +now only one scene, where Cassy comes into an +empty house at night, and discovers a corpse there. +This had an effect on my mind which for several days +made me extremely reluctant to go upstairs by myself after +dark. “Jessica’s First Prayer,” “Vinegar Hill,” “The +Golden Ladder”—how I loathed them all! Every Sunday, +after dinner, my father would take some such volume from +the shelf, open it, and put on his spectacles. Holding the +book at a long distance from his eyes, he would read aloud +in a monotonous, unanimated voice, while I sat on a high-backed +chair and listened, for I was not allowed to play +the most innocent game, nor even to go out for a walk. +These miserable tales were full of the conversions of priggish +children; of harrowing scenes in public-houses or squalid +city dens. Some of them were written to illustrate the +Ten Commandments; others to illustrate the petitions in +the Lord’s Prayer. They contained not the faintest glimmer +of imagination or life: from cover to cover they were +ugly, dull, unintelligent, full of death, poverty and calamity. +On the afternoon when “Cassy’s” successor was produced—I +forget its name—in a state of exasperation, brought +about by mingled boredom and depression, I snatched the +book out of my father’s hands and flung it on the fire. I +was whipped and sent to bed, but anything was better +than “Vinegar Hill,” and next Sunday, also, I refused to +listen. Again, with tingling buttocks, I was banished to +the upper regions, but really I had triumphed, for when +the fateful day came round once more, the book-case was +not opened, and I had never again to listen to one of those +sanctimonious tales.</p> + +<p>Fairy stories and animal stories were what I liked best, +while some of the old nursery rhymes and jingles had a +fascination for me.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span></p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“How many miles to Babylon?</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Three score and ten.</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Can I get there by candlelight?—</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Yes, and back again.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noi">Was it some magical suggestion in the word “candlelight” +that invariably evoked in a small child’s mind a definite +picture of an old fantastic town of towers and turrets, lit +by waving candles, and with windows all ablaze in dark +old houses? Many of these rhymes had this quality of +picture making:</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Hey, diddle diddle,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">The cat and the fiddle,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">The cow jumped over the moon:</div> + <div class="verse indent1">The little dog laughed</div> + <div class="verse indent1">To see such sport</div> + <div class="verse indent1">When the dish ran away with the spoon.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noi">That, I suppose, is pure nonsense, yet the magic was there. +Before and after the cow made her amazing leap the stuff +was a mere jingle: it was the word “Moon” that brought +up the picture: and I saw the white, docile beast, suddenly +transformed, pricked by the sting of midsummer madness, +with lowered head and curling horns, poised for flight, for +the wonderful upward leap, while a monstrous, glowing +moon hung like a great scarlet Chinese lantern in the clouds, +low against a black night.</p> + +<p>At this time I had few books I cared for, but as I grew +older, and my powers of understanding increased, I found +more, for up at Derryaghy House was a whole library in +which I might rummage without any other interference +than that my father could exercise from a distance. Sometimes +when I brought a book home which he did not approve +of, he would send me back with it; but if I had begun it +I always finished it. I had made this a rule; though, on +the other hand, if I had not begun it, I let my father have +his way.</p> + +<p>Everything connected with the East had a deep attraction<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span> +for me—or, shall I say, what I imagined the East to +be—a country of magicians and mysterious talismans, of +crouching Sphinxes and wonderful gardens. I delighted in +the more marvellous stories in the “Arabian Nights,” and +I regretted infinitely that life was really not like that. To +go for a walk and fall straightway on some wonderful +adventure, that was what I should have loved. I remember +poring over a big folio of photographs of Eastern monuments. +Those mystical, winged beasts with human heads, +in their attitude of eternal waiting and listening, touched +some chord in my imagination: they had that strangeness +which I adored, and at the same time they had an odd +familiarity. I appeared to remember—but, oh, so dimly!—having +seen them before, not in pictures, but under a +hot, heavy, languid sun, long, long ago. The luxuriousness, +the softness and sleepy charm of the Asiatic temper—I had +something in common with it, I could understand it. The +melodious singing of a voice through the cool twilight; the +notes of a lute dying slowly into silence; another voice, +low and clear and musical, reading from the “Koran”—where +had I heard all that? I pictured great coloured +bazaars, where grave merchants with long white beards sat +cross-legged and silent, where beautiful, naked, golden-skinned +slaves stood waiting for a purchaser, where you +could buy silken carpets that would carry you over the +world, and black, ebony horses, swifter than light.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll had given me one of the upstairs rooms at +Derryaghy to be my very own, and had let me furnish it +myself from a store of old, out-moded furniture, which, for +I know not how long, had been gathering dust and cobwebs +in a kind of immense, low attic called the lumber-room. +Everything was more or less threadbare and worn, but I +had plenty to choose from, and the actual rummaging was +as exciting as an adventure on a desert island. I had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span> +discovered a quaint little piano, with but two or three +octaves of notes, and most of those silent, save for a twangling +of wires. This I thought must be Prudence Carroll’s +spinet, for it looked exactly like the one in her portrait; +indeed, that had been my principal reason for bringing it +downstairs. With Prudence Carroll I had been in love all +my life, and sometimes, in the dusk, when I struck very +softly one of the cracked treble notes of the spinet, I would +imagine her spirit stealing on tip-toe up behind me to +listen. Another discovery, and perhaps the most exciting, +was of an old davenport, with a secret drawer at the back +of it—not so very secret, perhaps, since I had found it +without looking for it, owing to the weakness of the spring, +and my own energetic dusting. Inside was nothing more +interesting than some old accounts, written on discoloured +paper, but anybody who opened it to-day would, I fancy, +find more appropriate documents....</p> + +<p>There was a cushioned window-seat, low and deep, and +from it I could look out over the sea. In summer, with +the window wide open, I could listen to it also, and to all +kinds of lovely songs coming through it, dreamy and happy +and sad. For there was a sort of undercurrent of dreaming +that ran through my life. The romance surrounding the +picture of Prudence Carroll, that peculiar, brooding quality +of mind by which I could give to such things a kind of +spiritual life that had for me an absolute reality, was, perhaps, +only too characteristic of a mental condition which +might unsympathetically be called that of perpetual wool-gathering. +Though I played cricket and football, and +bathed and knocked about generally with the other boys +in the village, I had no close friend, and I dreamed of an +imaginary playmate. For this playmate and myself I invented +appropriate adventures. He had a name, which I +shall not write here, and I still think he was an extraordinarily +nice boy, but he dropped out of my existence about<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span> +my fifteenth year. I had my secret world, too, where such +adventures took place. Behind this inner, imaginative life +must have lurked a vague dissatisfaction with life as I +actually found it. Now and then I read something which +appeared to me to describe my other world, and, as I +chanced on such suggestions more frequently in verse than +in prose, I became a great reader of poetry. The passages +that echoed so familiarly, though so faintly, from my +mysterious, lovely land, brought it up before me very much +as the scent of a flower may call up a vision of a high-walled +summer garden. Whether any reality lay behind it, I don’t +know that I even asked myself; but, on drowsy summer +afternoons, dream and reality would float and mingle together, +and I would feel intensely happy.</p> + +<p>As I write I would give much to be able to live over +again one of those summer afternoons, when the air hung +heavy with the scent of mignonette and roses, and Mrs. +Carroll sat reading or working, while I lay in the grass on +my back at her feet, and the low sound of the sea splashed +through the silence of my sleepy thoughts, and the booming +of a bee was the slumberous soul of June or July heat +turned to music. In those hours my other world was very, +very near.</p> + +<p>Afterwards I sometimes wondered if there were a place +where those lived days were laid away, or if their beauty, +happiness and peace, must be quite lost. They had a +quality of peacefulness that for me no later days have had: +I seemed to dip deep into their cleansing dreamy quiet, as +into a clear sea.</p> + +<p>Other dreams I had, that were not so pleasant, but they +came only at night. One I still remember vividly was +unfortunately typical of many. I seemed to be walking +down a street with another boy, when our attention was +attracted by the high, bare wall of a house. There was +something, I know not what, about this house, which made<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span> +it different from its neighbours and aroused our curiosity. +We noticed in the wall, almost on the street level, a small +window. This window was open, and a fatal fascination +drew us to it at once. I watched my friend crawl through, +for we knew the house was empty; then I followed him, +the opening being just wide enough to admit me. Inside, +we found ourselves on a gigantic marble staircase, spiral +in form, and winding up and down as far as we could follow +it with our eyes. There were no windows except the one +we had entered by, and it, somehow, was invisible from +inside, yet the place was perfectly lighted. There were no +landings, no doors, nothing but this staircase, absolutely +uniform in its construction, with low, broad, marble steps +which wound down and down, and up and up. The place +resembled a vast, still well, and we could not hear the +slightest sound as we stood listening. The steps were very +shallow, and we ran lightly down. The other boy went +more quickly than I did, and in a little while I lost sight +of him, though I still heard his footsteps, growing ever +fainter, till at last they died away, and the stillness closed +in about me with a strange heaviness. I continued to +follow him, but all at once I noticed that the stairs I trod +were darker and stained with damp. A faint chill odour +and feeling of damp and decay rose, too, into my face, and +the light was growing dimmer. I knew I was going down +into a great vault or tomb far below the ground, a charnel-house, +an unknown place of death. I caught sight far +below me of a light as of a lamp burning, and I had an +intuition, a consciousness that came to me in a flash, that +my companion had awakened something. This knowledge +brought with it a memory of mysterious horror, a memory +that I had been here before. Then, with an ever increasing +terror, I began to run up the steps I had just run down, +but my feet had grown heavy and my limbs weak. Up +and up I hurried, seeing nothing before me but an endless<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span> +stretch of winding marble stairs. I did not know where +my window was, I might even now have passed it. I heard +nothing, but I knew I was being followed, and that whatever +it was that followed me was gaining on me rapidly. +I could hardly breathe: an agony of fear shook me. Then +I heard close to my ear the bark of a dog. It was the +window. I dropped on my knees and squeezed my head +and shoulders through; I was almost free when I felt +myself grasped from behind and with a scream I woke, +shaking, panting, bathed in sweat.</p> + +<p>There came a time when these nightmares occurred so +frequently that I got to be able to waken myself out of +them. While I was actually dreaming—when I would +have run a few steps down the stair, for example—a sudden +foresight of what was coming would dawn upon me, and +by a violent struggle I would break through the net of +sleep and sit up in bed. Many of these dreams were connected +with a dark, mahogany wardrobe which stood in +my father’s bedroom. When I had begun to dream and +found myself in that room I knew something evil was going +to happen, and I would watch the wardrobe door and +struggle violently to wake myself before it should open. +Even when I was wide awake, and in broad daylight, this +so ordinary piece of furniture came to have, for me, a +sinister aspect. It was odd that I should have suffered +so from these grisly nocturnal terrors, for in ordinary life +I was not in any way a coward. A feeling of shame made +me keep them a profound secret, and as I grew older they +diminished, till by the time I was fifteen they had practically +ceased.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Perhaps I should here attempt some slight description +of my father, whom I have already mentioned, and of my +home. My father was the National schoolmaster at Newcastle, +County Down, and our house was next door to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> +school. My bedroom window looked out over the sea, +about a hundred yards away, and behind the house were +the Mourne Mountains, and the Derryaghy estate, which +took in the lower slopes of Slieve Donard. Our house, +when the Virginian creeper that covered it was red, looked +pretty enough from the road, but was poorly and even +meagrely furnished. The most that could be said for it +was that it was clean and tidy. The few attempts at +ornamentation would have been better away—the two or +three pictures, the hideous vases on the mantelpiece. My +father had a strong liking for illuminated texts, and +there were several of these, in gilt frames, in every +room in the house, including the kitchen and the +bath-room. What furniture there was was modern, +cheap, and objectionable: it was characteristic of my +father that he had never even bought himself a comfortable +arm-chair.</p> + +<p>He was a tall man, thin and grizzled, pale, and dressed +always in an ill-cut, ready-made, black tail-coat and waistcoat, +with dark gray trousers. I always disliked his clothes, +especially the two shining buttons at the back of his coat. +He wore a beard and moustache, both somewhat ragged, +and his brown eyes were indescribably melancholy. His +hands and feet were very coarse and large. There was +power in his face, but there was a depressing lack of anything +approaching geniality. He gave me the impression +that he did everything from a sense of duty, and nothing +because he took a pleasure in it. The seriousness of his +expression was truly portentous: it was impossible that +anything in the world could matter so much as that. He +was not well-off—that is obvious from the position he +occupied—but he lived in a way that was unnecessarily +economical. He was by no means ungenerous if it were +some case of distress that had come to his knowledge, but +in ordinary life he was excessively near. The only luxuries<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span> +he had ever permitted himself were these coloured texts, +and they cost little.</p> + +<p>When I was with him I never felt quite at my ease, and +this made me sulky and perpetually on the defensive. I +was not more with him than I could help, and as we lived +alone together, with only an old woman who came in every +day to look after the house and do the cooking, it must have +been easy for him to see that I avoided his society. I never +pretended to myself to have any particular affection for +him, and I don’t even know that it would have mended +matters if I had.</p> + +<p>One night, when I was about fourteen, I woke up in the +dark, with the consciousness that it was very late and that +I was not alone in my room. The next moment I knew my +father was there, kneeling beside my bed. I lay absolutely +quiet: I knew he was praying, and praying for me. Presently +I heard him sigh, and then rise noiselessly to his feet, +but I gave no sign. I heard him move away, I heard my +door being softly closed, the faint click of the latch as it +slipped into its place. I lay on with my eyes wide open, +wondering why he had come in like this. I did not like it. +It made me feel uncomfortable, as all emotions do when we +are unable to respond to them. I believed my father cared +for me far more than for anything else in the world, yet +somehow that did not help matters. It was not the sort of +love that begets love in return. Though he loved me, I +felt he did not trust me, or rather that he believed I had an +infinite capacity for yielding to temptation. By this time +I understood that when my mother left home she had gone +to somebody else. I knew at any rate that she was living, +for she had sent a sum of money for my education, which my +father had returned, though some scruple of conscience had +made him think it right to tell me he had done so. But he +explained nothing and I asked no questions. As I lay +awake that night I thought of all this, and it occurred to me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span> +that it might have much to do with his extraordinary +anxiety about my religious and moral life. He was afraid, +and I lay awake for a long time trying to puzzle out what it +was he was afraid of.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was quite impossible for him to make me religious. +For one thing, it was not in my nature. It was not so much +that I disbelieved what I was taught of religion, as that +these instructions aroused in me an implacable antagonism. +I did not like the notion of an all-seeing God, for instance. +Imperfectly grasped, this conception represented to my +mind a kind of tyranny, a kind of espionage, which I strongly +resented. Moreover, I detested Sundays and everything +connected with them. When I went to church it was with +a face like a thunder-cloud, and once there, with an incredible +obstinacy, I would shut my ears to all that went +on, prayers, hymns, and sermon. This fact, combined with +so many others, tended, as time passed, to make my relations +with my father more and more strained, for he was religious +in the narrowest and severest fashion. I remember his +taking me, one Sunday evening, when I was between twelve +and thirteen, to hear a preacher who had come from a +considerable distance to hold two special services. The +occasion stands out from all others, because it was the only +one upon which I was startled out of my habitual attitude +of sulky defiance. For the first three-quarters of an hour +all went as usual, and when the sermon was about to begin I +prepared myself to think of other things. But the text, +or texts, delivered in a quiet, impressive voice, arrested my +attention.</p> + +<p>“For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against +kingdom: and great earthquakes shall be in divers places, +and famines, and pestilences; and fearful sights and great +signs shall there be from heaven.... Your sons and your +daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span> +visions, and your old men shall dream dreams: and I will +show wonders in heaven above, and signs in the earth beneath; +blood and fire, and vapour of smoke: the sun shall +be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood.... +And then shall they see the Son of Man coming in a cloud, +with power and great glory.”</p> + +<p>In spite of myself the words thrilled me with their vivid, +menacing suggestiveness, and I listened intently to what +followed. It seemed apparent that the end of the world +was at hand. The signs were taken up one by one, and it +was shown, to my growing discomfiture, that all had been +fulfilled: nothing remained but the sounding of the last +trumpet, which, according to the preacher—he seemed even +to regard it as highly probable—might take place that very +night. By the time he had reached this point my disquietude +had become abject fear, and I joined fervently in +the last prayer. But why had I never been told of this +imminent danger? When we got back from church, it was +a very subdued boy who sat by his father’s side, a Bible +open on the parlour table in front of him. I read with a +feverish haste to prove my changed way of life, and, it must +be confessed, also to keep off as long as possible the hour of +bed-time. There was a horrible plausibility about what I +had heard. The concluding words kept ringing in my ears. +“I see no reason why it should not be this very night.” +“Wouldn’t it, in fact, be just the kind of thing that <em>would</em> +happen at night?” I asked myself piteously; and I was +tormented by a dread of the hideous trumpet note, by a +bloody moon, and by the apparition of dead and shrouded +bodies, rising up with glaring eyeballs and tied jaws and all +the mouldering signs of the grave—dreadful, galvanized +corpses, risen from their wormy beds to meet their Lord in +the air. At length I could put off my bed-time no longer. +I could see my father was not convinced by the open Bible, +and, with his usual suspiciousness, had become curious<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span> +as to what passages I was so interested in. Ten minutes +later, on my knees in my small, candle-lit bedroom, I was +lying to my God of a tremendous love I had begun to feel for +Him; but in spite of this I passed an abominable night. +In the morning I continued my miserable hypocrisy, grovelling +before this frightful Deity for Whom I had developed +so sudden and demonstrative an affection, and Whom, at the +same time, I begged naïvely not to come. Gradually, but +not for several days, these terrors faded, receiving their +death-blow when my father told me that all Jews must +return to Jerusalem before the last day. Now there was a +Jewish family living at Castlewellan, whom I thought I +could keep my eye on, and as I had heard nothing of their +moving I felt fairly safe.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Very quickly I became more emancipated as I began to +think things out for myself, and a year later I could laugh +at these early fears. My father told me a crude anecdote +which he had read, I think, in Mark Pattison’s “Memoirs.” +A man in a public-house in Leicestershire had used the oath, +“God strike me blind,” and instantly he had been struck +blind by a flash of lightning. On becoming converted he +had recovered his sight while taking the Sacrament. This +edifying tale was, I believe, vouched for by a friend and +disciple of Cardinal Newman’s, but to me, I confess, it +seemed as stupid and revolting as anything I had ever +heard. My father declared it to be true, yet I secretly +doubted it, and that afternoon, in my own room, standing +by the window, I said aloud, and very deliberately, “God +strike me blind! God strike me blind!” I waited with +a mingled trepidation and incredulity, as if I had thrown +some mysterious bomb into the unknown. A sea-gull flew +past the window, white against the dark autumn sky: the +leaves of the Virginian creeper trembled and grew still. I +said again and in a louder voice, “God strike me blind!”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span> +But no flash of lightning followed. Down below, on the +beach, the gray waves curled over with a slow musical +splash. I looked into the sky, but it was calm and untroubled, +and I decided that the story was a myth.</p> + +<p>Most of my religious difficulties were, however, metaphysical. +The conception of eternity was one I could not +grasp. I could, in a vague way, figure myself as living on +for ever, but I could not with the same facility move my +mind backward. I seemed able to imagine that there might +be no end, but I could not imagine that there had been +no beginning. “If there had been no beginning, how could +we ever have got as far as this?” I asked myself. “Where +I am now—this particular moment—must be at a certain +distance from something, or it cannot be anywhere. But +if there is no beginning, then this moment cannot be any +further on than yesterday was!” My brain grew dizzy +with vain efforts to think impossible thoughts. I would +break a stick and say, “God can make it that I haven’t +broken it. But if I shut my eyes, and when I open them +the stick is whole, that will only show He has mended it. +Yet He is all-powerful!” And so on, and so on; for whatever +point I took up, sooner or later I was met by an +insoluble problem. These problems were, nevertheless, just +what fascinated me. The practical ethics of religion, that +I should simply be good and encourage in myself a variety +of Christian virtues—that kind of thing did not interest me +in the least. As a matter of fact, I possessed singularly +few of these virtues. It is true that I detested any kind +of meanness or cruelty, that I was truthful, straightforward, +and, in certain directions, loving and gentle enough; but +I was egotistical, proud, and ludicrously self-conscious, +quick tempered, flying into violent passions for very little, +and, above all, I had a stubbornness nothing could move.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It is difficult, as I have said, in looking back over those +days, to see things in any fixed order. It is as if one’s +memories floated in a kind of haze, appearing and disappearing, +melting into one another. But there is a definite +point from which my story becomes consecutive, and I can +carry it back as far as that cold, clear January morning, +the morning of Mr. Carroll’s funeral, when I stood beside +my father, at some distance from the grave, among a group +of people I did not know, and whom I should never see +again. I examined them all with a mild and impartial +curiosity, and was struck by the fact that none of them +showed the slightest emotion, though all alike wore a grave +and decorous demeanour. I could not blame them, for I +did not feel sad myself. Mr. Carroll had always been +perfectly amiable to me, but I had seen little of him, and +when we did meet he had looked at me vaguely, as if he +were unable to remember who I was. I had only known +him as an invalid, occasionally hobbling about with the +aid of two black, silver-headed sticks, but for the most part +keeping pretty closely to his own rooms. He seemed to +me to be very old, yet at his death I learned that he was +not old at all, his appearance of decrepitude being simply +the result of an excessively disorderly life, imposed upon a +naturally wretched constitution. I learned, at the same +time, the history of Mrs. Carroll’s marriage; how, before<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span> +the first year was out, she had ceased to see much of her +husband, and a little later had ceased to see him altogether. +It was fifteen years afterwards, when he had become the +futile person I knew, that he had returned to her. As the +coffin, bared of its covering of sickly-smelling flowers, was +lowered into the ugly, gaping grave, and the damp red +earth rattled heavily on the lid with a hollow, brutal sound, +I recalled the strange, white face, the watery blue eyes, +the fixed smile, the soft, polite manner; but I was not in +the least grieved to know I should never see them again. +And when, a week or so later, I was once more in and out +of the house just as of old, I had already ceased to think +of him. Once or twice, passing the closed door of his room +in the dusk, the thought of meeting his ghost, of hearing +the tap, tap of his stick coming toward me down the long +passage, gave me a momentary thrill; but even these poor +tributes to his memory faded swiftly, passed into a total +oblivion.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Scarlatina broke out in the village in the spring of that +year, a week or two before my sixteenth birthday. There +were not many cases, and all were mild, but there was much +talk of closing the school. My father, for I know not what +reason, was against this, and in the end got his own way, +but about a month later he had the satisfaction of seeing +me catch the infection just when everybody else was getting +better. I can remember quite distinctly the day I took +ill. I had not been feeling well the day before, but had said +nothing about it, and that morning I went to school as usual. +I might as well have stayed at home for all the work I did. +I sat there with a book before me, my head aching, my +throat dry and painful. The noise of the classes saying their +lessons at the tops of their voices, especially the junior class, +to whom Miss McWaters was repeating a stanza of poetry, +line by line, while they screamed it after her, irritated, even +while it amused, me. Miss McWaters was a thin and angular +person, no longer young, endowed by nature with a high-pitched +voice, prominent teeth, and a red nose, and by art +with a yellow, fuzzy fringe. All these qualities now loomed +particularly large in my vision of her, though at other times +I knew she was a kind and friendly person. Her red nose +and her fringe haunted me, her whole face seemed to undergo +extraordinary, kaleidoscopic changes; she became a sort +of fantastic witch who was exercising horrible spells on these +small children standing in a circle round her chair; her +mouth grew larger, her big white teeth seemed thirsting to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span> +bury themselves in their soft little throats. This impression +grew suddenly so sharp that I had to shake myself and +sit back in my seat to get rid of it. Then once more she was +only Miss McWaters, to whom years ago I had repeated this +same verse of poetry in that same shrill sing-song tone which +now was going through and through my head....</p> + +<p>I looked about the room with heavy eyes—at the white +walls, the torn, ink-stained maps, the scored desks and +forms, the wooden floor—and the whole place seemed to +move round and round like a wheel. I saw my father, with +a pointer in his hand, indicating differently shaped areas +on a large blank map of England, and asking a row of +youngsters what counties they represented. That was the +kind of lesson I had always detested myself and had never +even attempted to learn. I knew from my father’s angry, +“Next—next—next,” that nobody in the class was giving +satisfaction. And then they all seemed to shrink and float +back, while the room shot out like a telescope, and I watched +them from somewhere miles and miles away. And the +high, clear voice of Miss McWaters proclaimed:</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower’d,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noi">And a dozen shrill voices replied:</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower’d,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noi">The words seemed mere nonsense in my ears, and I had a +sort of delirious vision of a big star, with a red nose and a +fringe and large white teeth, pointing out the time on a huge +clock, while a lot of little stars stood round in a ring and +pulled watches out of their waistcoat pockets and set them +to the time told by the big clock. This seemed funny to me, +and I began to laugh; and then, next moment, I wanted to +lie down somewhere and be quiet. My head was throbbing +like a steamboat with a too powerful engine, and there was +a dull aching at the back of my eyeballs. I got up and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span> +tip-toed across the room, but my foot caught the end of a +form, and I nearly pitched through the door, head first.</p> + +<p>I had intended going home, but with my hand on the latch +of the gate I decided to go up to Derryaghy instead. Singularly +enough, the thought that I might be sickening for +scarlatina never occurred to me. The distance to Derryaghy +was not more than a quarter of a mile, yet it seemed +to me long, and before I arrived I regretted having started. +The hall-door being open when I reached the house, I went +in without ringing. I knew they would be at lunch, but I +had no appetite, and as I did not want to answer questions +or talk, I went straight on up the broad, low stairs, with +the intention of going to my own room. At the head of the +staircase, full in the light, hangs the celebrated portrait +people come from far to admire. I sat down on the wide couch +before it, not because I wanted to look at what I had already +seen thousands of times, but because my head swam. I +leaned against the back of the couch and closed my eyes. +When I opened them, the portrait being in front of me, +I could not help staring at it, in a dull way. It represents +a young man standing bare-headed on a hill-side, holding +a gun in his hand, and with an elderly dog seated sedately by +him. The curiously long, oval face, with its high forehead +and narrow, pointed chin, has much distinction, though +little beauty, and its pallor contrasts oddly with the faded +red of the full sensuous lips, completely revealed beneath +the light, curled moustache. The eyes are dark, the hair +light brown. The hands are hidden by brown gauntlet +gloves, and over the dark brown doublet falls a lace collar. +The trousers would look black but for the darker shade of +the long boots, and this darker note is carried through to the +trees behind, sombre and heavy against a yellow sky. Both +man and dog are obviously posing for their portraits—the +whole thing is a work of art, that is to say, it is something +utterly beyond nature. The highest light is in the face,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span> +but there is no white anywhere, and, with the exception of +the faint red of the lips, no colour save the browns and +blacks, the creamy flesh-tints. Over all, the mellow tone +of time has cast a kind of golden softness. I had been told +that it was by a great Spanish artist called Velasquez—his +name, indeed, was there, in large black letters on the dull +gilt frame—and that it was a very valuable painting, worth +fabulous sums. I can affirm to-day that it is really a fine +work; but it is not by Velasquez. It is by Mazo, and is, +in fact, only a slightly modified copy of Velasquez’s famous +portrait of Philip in the Louvre.</p> + +<p>This picture had always had an odd fascination for me, +though there was something about the face I did not like, +something cold and proud, which I knew I should have +detested in actual life. I gazed at it now stupidly enough, +and then I had a nervous thrill, for it seemed to me to have +come all at once to life. One part of my brain knew this +to be nonsense, and that I had been seeing queer things all +day, but the other part of my brain continued to watch it, +with a half expectation of seeing it descend out of its frame. +The eyes had begun to move, and the lips trembled; the +mouth opened slowly in a yawn which the brown gloved +hand was raised languidly to conceal; and then from behind +the picture I heard a little mocking laugh. These +things bewildered me, but did not startle me; and through +them I became conscious that Mrs. Carroll was coming up +the stair and that she was speaking to me. I answered her +in words which I knew were perfectly idiotic, and which +moreover sounded husky and strange, as if some other voice +than my own were speaking through my lips. Again I +heard the little mocking laugh. This time I thought it +came from the top of the picture, and glancing up I saw, +sure enough, a black imp, like a small, naked, negro boy, +perched cross-legged, on the top of the frame, from which +he grinned down at me impudently, raising his fingers to his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span> +snub nose, and spreading them out in a derisive and very +familiar grimace. I began to talk about the picture, about +school, and about Miss McWaters. Then a cloud waved +back from my brain; the portrait slid into its place, the +imp disappeared, and everything was once more as it should +be. But I felt a burning thirst, and when Mrs. Carroll +opened the door of a large, bright, sunny room, I was glad +to fling myself down on the bed. Almost immediately I was +seized by a deadly sickness. I managed to get off the bed in +time to avoid making a mess, but the vomiting returned +again and again, till I collapsed into a state of exhaustion. +Heavy clouds waved across my brain, obscuring my thoughts, +and again clearing, leaving consciousness to flicker up, like +the flame in a dying lamp, so that I knew I had been undressed +and was safe in bed. And all the time I wanted to +drink—to drink.... More than one person was in the room +with me; Mrs. Carroll was there, and old Doctor O’Brian. +In the open doorway Miss Dick hovered. And then suddenly +I was alone. I could hear a fire crackling in the grate, +and it had grown darker. A lamp was burning on a table +somewhere over beside the fireplace. I listened to the fire, +and presently it seemed to me I could hear the lamp burning +too. It burned with a soft low continuous sound that was +like the note of a flute, and it occurred to me that everything +in the world was only sound—the bed I was lying on, +the shadows flickering across the ceiling, the dancing firelight—all +were but notes of a tune. This appeared so +strikingly obvious that I could not understand why I had +never noticed it before. I tried to make out what the tune +was, but it eluded me, flickering away from me like a butterfly. +I turned round in my bed, for I had heard a slight noise +at the door. All seemed now to have grown silent. I +could not hear the lamp burning, nor even the fire. This +silence was surely unusual, abnormal; it filled me with a +vague disquietude. It grew deeper and deeper till I could<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span> +not hear, even when I strained my ears, the faintest murmur +either without or within the house. The silence was like a +liquid, luminous atmosphere, through which strange things +were floating nearer. It was like a sea, and gradually it +darkened into colour—there was a broad, dark, blue sea +before me, in a strange, rich light, as if I were watching it +through old stained glass. I saw sirens swimming about in +the warm, swelling waves, appearing and disappearing. +They followed a high-pooped, fantastic ship, just as I had +often seen porpoises following a boat out in the bay. The +ship moved along slowly, and its broad, coloured sails were +embroidered with green dragons that shone like fire, and at +its bow was a green, jewelled serpent’s head. Then once +more there was nothing but the room, and I heard a faint +noise as of someone moving in a chair. Another sound +immediately followed, and I started, for it was curiously +different; it was the sound one hears before something +happens. I watched the handle of the door turn, and the +door itself open and close quickly yet stealthily. Three +figures had entered. One was a tall figure in brown, with a +gun in his gloved hand, and he was followed by a great dark +brown dog, who at once leaped on to the bed and sat at the +foot, watching me with sombre, burning eyes. The third +figure was Miss McWaters. Her nose was longer and redder +than I had ever seen it before, and it kept twitching from +side to side in a curious way; her big teeth flashed in an +unpleasant grin, and her fringe waved and curled about as if +it were alive. For the third time I heard the strange little +mocking laugh that had come from behind the picture, but +I could not discover who had uttered it. Perhaps it was +Miss McWaters, for I knew she was waiting for me to say +something—a verse of poetry—yes, I remembered:</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower’d,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noi">Then a dense, heavy darkness swept up, blotting out +everything.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I awoke in broad sunlight. The room was full of it, and +the scent of flowers floated in through the open windows +and mingled with the faint smell of drugs. For some time +I lay there quietly, too languid to make a movement or to +speak. Then the door softly opened, and I saw Mrs. Carroll +come in and stand beside my bed. “Is he asleep?” I +heard her ask, for I had closed my eyes. I opened them +and looked up at her.</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered, smiling.</p> + +<p>She smiled, too. “It’s time for you to take your medicine,” +and the nurse came forward to give it to me. When +I had swallowed it, I lay back among the soft pillows +deliciously....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The memory of my convalescence is a strange one, for it +came at a time when certain physical changes were taking +place within me, and I seemed to myself to be somehow +different from what I had been before I fell ill. My voice +had altered; my mind was coloured by vague and happy +dreams. Sometimes when I turned in bed or stretched +myself, the contact of the fine linen sheets against my skin +gave me a peculiar thrill, which ran all down my spine. +It appeared I had been very ill, that it had been a touch-and-go +matter whether I should manage to pull through; +yet now I did not feel that I wanted to get well too quickly. +The flowers, the fruit, the brightness, the big delightful<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> +room—so different from my room at home—the care everybody +took of me, the books that were read to me, the sense +of being here so securely, with everything just as I liked +it, and with Mrs. Carroll to look after me—all that was +delicious. The one jarring note was my father’s letter, +which I read, and then put back in its envelope. It was +about my escape, how near to death I had been, and how +he hoped the mercy that had been shown me would make +me think seriously. I did not want to think seriously: +I wanted to bask in the sunshine of these pleasant days +while they lasted. If I had died it would have been all +over by this time, and since I hadn’t, why should I be +different? It seemed to me hardly the time to talk of +God’s mercy, seeing that I had barely scraped through a +severe illness. It was like thanking a man, who has just +broken your head with a stick, for not killing you outright. +My father talked of a miracle, but I had slender faith in +miracles, and I regret to say his entire letter struck me as +amazingly unintelligent. In a kind of lazy and sublime +egotism I began to ponder on the oddity of a man like my +father having a son such as I was; and while I was engaged +with these speculations Mrs. Carroll sat beside me, playing +“patience.” She told me my father could not come to see +me for fear of carrying the infection to school, and I received +these tidings with an immense relief, for I had been dreading +that he would want to talk to me about death, and +perhaps make me join in returning thanks for my recovery. +I watched her as she sat there, her plump hands drawing +out the cards, her eyes seriously scanning the faces of those +already turned up. She was a large, placid lady, stout and +ruddy. She must always, even in her earliest youth, have +been plain, but her face was filled with an extraordinary +kindness that made it infinitely pleasant. It was not the +sort of kindness which can be simulated; it was something +that was a natural part of her, and was reflected in all she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span> +did and said. It had moulded the expression of her countenance, +just as time and weather will alter the features of +a statue. Her eyes were small and gray, and she wore +gold-rimmed spectacles, which, somehow, were becoming +to her. I never saw her dressed in anything but black, +and with a light lace cap on her gray hair. She was extremely +fond of me, and I knew it, and I’m afraid imposed +upon it, though I loved her sincerely. At that time it +appeared to me perfectly natural that she should be fond +of me; it was simply a part of the order of things; it had +always been so, and I couldn’t have imagined anything +else. It never even occurred to me that I had no claim +upon her, except that which she herself had established; +it never occurred to me that I might, in my relation to her, +have been just like any of the other boys in the village. +On the contrary, I looked upon Derryaghy quite as if it +were a second, and certainly much my best-loved, home.</p> + +<p>The “patience” failed, and Mrs. Carroll swept up the +cards. “Shall I read to you?” she asked me, and, I +having graciously given my permission, she took up +“Huckleberry Finn.” It was a book I rejoiced in, but I +don’t think Mrs. Carroll cared for it, I don’t think she even +found it funny. She spoke rather slowly, and it amused +me infinitely to hear her gentle voice reproduce the talk of +Huck, or Pap, or the King....</p> + +<p>That same day, after lunch, the nurse left. I was getting +on very well, and was to be allowed up toward the end of +the week. In the afternoon Mrs. Carroll had gone out, +and I found myself alone. I went on with “Huck,” but +a chapter or two brought me to the end. I began another +book, “Bevis,” but my eyes grew tired, and I let it drop +on the bed beside me. As I lay idle I was seized by a +desire to get up. I resisted it for a few minutes, and then +I slid into a sitting posture, with my legs hanging over the +side of the bed. It struck me that they had grown absurdly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span> +thin and long, and I felt wretchedly shaky. I stood up, +all the same, holding on to the bedpost till I got accustomed +to being on my feet, when I put on my dressing-gown, and +walked somewhat uncertainly as far as the door. I turned +the handle and looked out with a strange curiosity into +the passage. It was as if I had been ill for months, it all +somehow seemed so queer and new. The long high corridor, +off which the rooms opened, was hung with tall portraits +that appeared, in the mellow sunlight of high far windows, +to watch me stiffly yet furtively. I liked them, I liked +everything about the place, I liked to look down the passage +with its long row of closed doors, which seemed so mysterious, +reaching right on to the head of the staircase. I +listened for footsteps, but heard nothing. Miss Dick +probably was out, and the servants’ quarters were far +away. I had a feeling that I was really the son of the +house, that everything about it, its pictures, its ghosts, +were mine. I went to my favourite picture and stood +beneath it. It was a portrait of a lady with dark hair and +dark blue eyes, and it was partly this peculiar contrast, I +think, this contrast of blue eyes and black hair, that had +originally pleased me. She was young and she had a +strange quaint name—Prudence Carroll. The artist had +painted her as if she were just come in from the garden, +for she held still a bunch of flowers in her hand. She was +standing by a queer little piano—or was it a spinet?—the +spinet I had now in my room? It was open, and in a +minute or two she would lay down her flowers and play +some air on it, or the accompaniment of some forgotten +ballad. Did the painter intend to show that these were +the things she was fondest of—music and flowers? Poor +Prudence Carroll had been dust these hundred years, the +notes of her spinet were either cracked or dumb, and her +tardy lover had arrived a century too late, for she had +died unmarried, and but a year after this portrait was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span> +painted! Why had no one cared for her? Perhaps some +day, between twilight and dusk, she would slip into my +room and sing to me, “Rose softly Blooming,” or “Voi +che sapete!” A rustle of muslin, a ghostly scent of +ghostly flowers, the twangling notes of the spinet, and a +voice singing a song that would sound thin and far off, like +the sound of wind—that is how it would happen.</p> + +<p>I was charmed with these fancies, but I stood there only +a few minutes, for there was something odd in that silence +of closed doors and listening portraits, and I returned to +the sunshine of my room. I went to the window and +leaned my forehead against the pane and looked out. Far +away I could see a stretch of sand, streaked with streams +and pools of water, for the tide was out: and beyond the +sand, clear in the sunlight, was the sea, blue-green under +the soft blue sky, marked with indigo and purple where +the bottom was formed of rocks and seaweed. At the +water’s edge some children—from this distance I could +not make out who they were—were sailing toy boats. +With trousers and petticoats well rolled up from bare brown +legs, with their scarlet jerseys and caps and striped cotton +dresses, they formed a bright note of colour, and brought +me into touch again with life out of doors. On the left +horn of the bay’s crescent the sand-hills, with their sparse +covering of bleached, wan grass, were pale and iridescent +in the sun.</p> + +<p>A gardener was mowing the grass just below my window, +and the sleepy sound of the mowing-machine was delightful, +and the smell of the fresh green grass, turned over in bright +cool heaps. I got back into bed again, and took up “Bevis.”</p> + +<p>I read for half an hour, when my eyes once more grew +tired. The sound of the mowing-machine had ceased, and +a deep silence filled the afternoon. I lay listening to the +silence, half-asleep, half-awake, when all at once I heard +a sound of scraping under my window. It flashed across<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span> +my mind that I was alone here in this part of the house, +and that burglars were taking the opportunity to break in, +and perhaps they would murder me. The thing was +utterly nonsensical, and would never have occurred to me +had I been in my normal health, but it had hardly entered +my head when I saw a ladder shoot up past the window, +and strike with a grating sound against the wall. My +heart began to thump. I heard steps on the ladder; +somebody was mounting it. The next moment Jim’s face, +brown and ruddy and grinning, popped in, and I gasped +with relief. Jim was a boy who worked in the garden, +and was about the same age as I was. He smiled broadly, +and his bright, brown eyes gazed at me with evident +pleasure. “How are you, Master Peter?” he grinned. +“They’re nobody about, so I thought I’d look in.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m all right,” I answered, “but you mustn’t stay +there, or you’ll be catching the infection.”</p> + +<p>“I wanted to see the skin peeling off you. What like +is it underneath?”</p> + +<p>I felt disappointed at this callous explanation of what +I had imagined to be sympathy. “You can’t see it,” I +answered crossly. “You’d better clear out before somebody +catches you.”</p> + +<p>Jim disappeared, but I called after him, “I say ... +Jim——”</p> + +<p>The round, ruddy-brown face bobbed up again.</p> + +<p>“Will you do something for me?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Ay.”</p> + +<p>“Will you play something to me. I’m sick of lying +here, doing nothing.”</p> + +<p>“I darn’t. Oul Thomas’d stop me, an’ I’d get in a row. +I be to red up all the grass, an’ rake the walk.”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>I took no further interest in Jim, and he again vanished. +There was a further scraping noise, and the ladder, too,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span> +disappeared. I lay on in a kind of waking-slumber till Mrs. +Carroll came in, bringing me my tea. When I had finished +I once more fell into a doze, but opened my eyes in the dusk, +when I heard the notes of Jim’s flute under my window, in +a slow melancholy tune, with an occasional pause, as if the +musician was not very certain of his music. I recognised +the air—the Lorelei. It had a curious effect in the gathering +twilight, as if the music and the fading light were in some +subtle way mingled. I knew that the unseen musician was +Jim, yet none the less the mournful notes, coming slowly +in a minor key, seemed the very soul of the deepening darkness, +and called up before me a world of imaginary sorrows, +a passionate regret for I knew not what, a kind of home-sickness +for my dream-land. Tears gathered in my eyes +and ran down my cheeks. Fortunately nobody could see +them, but I was ashamed of them myself, though I knew +they were partly the result of my physical weakness. Still, +it was ridiculous that I should cry over Jim’s playing. Jim +really couldn’t play at all. It was stupid, idiotic; and the +other day I had cried just in this same senseless fashion over +a book I had been reading; I had wept my soul out in an +ecstasy of love and misery.</p> + +<p>When Jim’s serenade was ended I lay on in the darkness, +my tears drying on my cheeks, and thought what a fool I +was. Why should I have cried? What was the matter +with me? It was not that I was unhappy; on the contrary, +I was extremely happy. Yet somehow I felt dimly +that there was a greater happiness than any I had ever +experienced or probably ever should experience. The +meaning of my emotions and desires never became quite +clear, though I seemed on the verge of discovery. It was +as if there were something stirring within me to which I +could not give freedom, something which remained +unsatisfied even in the midst of my keenest pleasures....</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span></p> + +<p>On a bright morning early in June I was allowed out for +the first time since my illness, and I insisted on going alone. +As I came out into the warmth of the sun I felt a charm as +of a mysterious new birth. I went straight to the woods. +The green alleys winding in front of me amid tall old trees, +in all the vivid richness of early summer, seemed exquisitely +beautiful. It was as if I had never realized before how +lovely the world was. I lay down on my back on the warm, +dry moss and listened to a skylark singing as it mounted up +from the fields near the sea into the dark clear sky. No +other music ever gave me the same pleasure as that passionately +joyous singing. It was a kind of leaping, exultant +ecstasy, a bright, flame-like sound, rejoicing in itself. And +then a curious experience befell me. It was as if everything +that had seemed to me external and around me were suddenly +within me. The whole world seemed to be within me. +It was within me that the trees waved their green branches, +it was within me that the skylark was singing, it was within +me that the hot sun shone, and that the shade was cool. A +cloud rose in the sky, and passed in a light shower that +pattered on the leaves, and I felt its freshness dropping into +my soul, and I felt in all my being the delicious fragrance +of the earth and the grass and the plants and the rich brown +soil. I could have sobbed with joy, but in the midst of it I +heard the sound of footsteps, and looked behind me quickly, +to see the figure of one of the two idiots, who lived in a hovel +outside the village, approaching. This was the man; +there was a woman also, his sister. He was perfectly harmless, +and he drew near now with smiles meant to be ingratiating. +He held an empty pipe in his hand, and made +guttural noises that I knew were asking me for tobacco. I +told him I had none, but he would not go away. He stood +right over me, a grin on his deformed face. The big, misshapen +head, the horrible, slobbering mouth, the stupid +persistence, all filled me with a cold rage. He had spoiled<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span> +everything; I hated him, and I could have killed him, for it. +But he still stood there and jibbered with his ugly, dripping +mouth. It was only when I struck at him savagely with +my stick that he moved off, glancing back at every step. +And when he was gone I felt nothing but a kind of cold +disgust and animosity, mingled with shame at my own +conduct. All the beauty had gone out of the woods, and I +got up and went home.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>When, some time in July, Mrs. Carroll told me that she +had invited her nephew and niece, Gerald and Katherine +Dale, to come on a visit to Derryaghy, I became at once +very curious to see them. I had never even heard of +them before, and now I learned such interesting items as +that they lived in London, were twins, and about my own +age, or perhaps a year older, Mrs. Carroll could not remember. +They arrived at the end of the month, and that night +I went to dinner to meet them. As it happened, I was +late. My watch had stopped for half an hour or so in the +afternoon, and then gone on again, an annoying and foolish +trick it occasionally played me. I was told they were +already in the dining-room, but that dinner had only begun. +The prospect of meeting strangers always produced in me +an unconquerable shyness, and, to-night, partly because I +was late, and partly because these particular strangers +were so nearly my own age, my shyness was doubled. I +did not look at either of them as I entered the room where, +though daylight had not yet quite failed, two softly shaded +lamps burned, amid a profusion of flowers, upon the white +and silver table. I shook hands with my hostess and +with Miss Dick, mumbling out apologies, and had begun +a lengthy and involved description of the cause of my +delay, when Mrs. Carroll cut me short by introducing me +to the Dales. I shook hands with one and bowed to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span> +other, blushing and incapable of finding a word. I should +never have guessed they were even brother and sister, let +alone twins, for in appearance they were utterly unlike. +Katherine pleased me. She was fresh and bright and +attractive; I even thought her beautiful, for there was +something of the open air about her, something of nature. +At any rate she gave me that impression; her beauty had +a kind of grave simplicity; and, if I had been a poet, and +had been describing her, all my similes would have been +taken from nature, from open hill-sides, from the wind and +the sky. As I sat down beside her, her clear, dark, very +blue eyes rested on me frankly, and with that she suddenly +set me puzzling over where I had seen her before, or whom +she reminded me of. I kept glancing at her furtively, +but, seen in profile, her face was no longer suggestive, and +I decided I had made a mistake. She appeared to me +friendly and candid and unaffected, but I doubted if she +were clever. Her brother, on the other hand, probably +<em>was</em> clever. I did not take to him, he was smaller than +she, thin and brown and subtle; also he had a way of +looking at you that made you want to ask him what it +was he found amusing.</p> + +<p>“Peter will be able to show you everything, and take +you everywhere,” Mrs. Carroll explained, comprehensively, +and then Katherine asked me if I played golf.</p> + +<p>I answered, “No,” and felt ashamed. I went on to +prove that it was not my fault, that my father had refused +to allow me to join the club, but at that point I caught +Gerald’s eyes watching me with an expression of interest, +and I suddenly blushed. “Do <em>you</em> play?” I asked him +aggressively.</p> + +<p>He seemed surprised. His glance just brushed mine +and rested on a picture above my head. “No,” he answered +quietly.</p> + +<p>“Gerald is studying music abroad,” said Mrs. Carroll,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span> +“at Vienna, where I don’t suppose they have ever heard +of golf. He is going to be a musician.”</p> + +<p>“How interesting!” exclaimed Miss Dick. “Fancy, +Vienna!”</p> + +<p>Miss Dick was Mrs. Carroll’s companion, and was even, +in some distant way, related to her. Her family, however, +had fallen on evil days, and she was permanently settled +at Derryaghy. She was a gushing, fussy, kindly creature, +with a minimum allowance of brains, but overflowing with +good intentions and amazingly loyal in her affections, +though these latter, I must add, had never been bestowed +upon me. I took Mrs. Carroll’s word for it that she had +once been very pretty, but now her thinness, accentuating +a peculiar type of feature, gave her an absurd resemblance +to a lean and restless fowl. I noticed that she had attired +herself to-night as for a striking festival. She was a person +liable to these unexpected changes in the degree of her +brilliancy, which at present was positively dazzling. She +began to ask about Vienna, and expressed a deep regret +at never having visited that city.</p> + +<p>“We have had the piano specially tuned for you,” said +Mrs. Carroll to Gerald.</p> + +<p>“Oh you shouldn’t have bothered,” he answered.</p> + +<p>“You evidently don’t know what it was like before!” +I began, and then stopped short. Nobody took any notice.</p> + +<p>Miss Dick, who seemed determined, cost what it might, +to keep the conversation on the subject of music, mentioned +that her mother had heard Patti in “La Sonnambula,” and +how, when that great prima donna had paused in the middle +of the opera to sing “Home Sweet Home,” the entire house +had risen to its feet with enthusiasm. “It has always +seemed to me that music is the most perfect of the arts,” +she added, fixing her lace collar.</p> + +<p>“Painting is the most perfect of the arts,” I contradicted. +Somehow, when they were uttered, all my remarks<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span> +sounded unhappy, not to say rude, though I was only +trying to be agreeable. Miss Dick accentuated this last +one by helping herself to potatoes in significant silence. +“You can look at a picture oftener than you can read a +book,” I went on, addressing Gerald, “and oftener than +you can listen to a piece of music.”</p> + +<p>“I daresay,” he answered, and I resented his politeness. +“Why can’t he stand up for his own business?” I thought.</p> + +<p>I glanced at Katherine, and wanted to say something +pleasant to her, but that was apparently beyond my power. +My solitary “No,” in answer to her question about golf, +had been the one word I had so far addressed to her. I +relapsed into silence and did not speak again till dinner was +over.</p> + +<p>When we went to the drawing-room it looked as if we +were going to have a musical evening, for Miss Dick sat down +at the piano with all the air of a person opening a concert. +She played an arrangement of something or other, by Thalberg. +All Miss Dick’s pieces were arrangements, except +those that were fantasias, and it was a feature of them that +the beginning of the end could be heard about a couple of +pages off, in a series of frantic rushes and arpeggios. She +played now with a fierce concentration on the task to be +accomplished; her face getting redder as Thalberg became +more surprising; her mouth screwed up slightly at the right +corner, through which just the tip of her tongue was visible; +her eyes glaring, devouring the sheet of music before her, +at which every now and then she made a frantic grab with +her left hand, to turn the page—she would never allow anybody +to turn for her.</p> + +<p>When she had struck the last note, to which she indeed +gave an astonishing rap, there was a general sigh, as for a +danger evaded.</p> + +<p>“My dear, I don’t know how you do it!” Mrs. Carroll +murmured, almost as breathless as the performer.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span></p> + +<p>“It does take it out of one,” Miss Dick panted complacently.</p> + +<p>Gerald sat looking on with a barely perceptible smile. +“Won’t you play something now?” Miss Dick said to him.</p> + +<p>His eyebrows twitched slightly. “Not just yet, I think. +In a little. I want to smoke a cigarette first.” He passed +out on to the terrace, and we all gazed after him. When +he thought, I suppose, that the echoes awakened by Miss +Dick had had time to subside, he came back, and began to +fiddle with the music-stool, screwing it up and down. Yet +when he did commence to play, after many preliminaries, it +was in a broken fragmentary fashion, beginning things and +suddenly dropping them after a few bars. I was prepared +not to like him, but he had not struck more than a note or +two when I knew I had never heard the piano really played +before. In spite of myself I felt the dislike I had conceived +for him slipping away, and then, just as I was commencing +to enjoy myself, he stopped abruptly. He got up and walked +over to the window where I sat.</p> + +<p>“You haven’t altered, Gerald,” said Mrs. Carroll dryly.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean my playing, Aunt?” he asked sweetly. +“It is supposed to have got rather better, but I am sure you +are right.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll gave something as nearly resembling a sniff as +she could give. I saw she was not in love with her nephew; +but Miss Dick’s cat jumped on to his knee and he began to +stroke it. There was something in his extreme self-possession +which, though I knew it to be based on a profound sense +of superiority to everybody present, I could not help admiring, +just as I could not help admiring his playing, or, for +that matter, his personal beauty, which was striking. And +I admired the way he was dressed. While remaining quite +conventional, it managed to suggest individuality, and its +perfect taste, apparent in the slightest details, gave him, as +he sat there, something of the finish, of the harmony and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span> +tone, of an old portrait. Again his glance met mine. I +believe he knew I had been watching him, and perhaps something +of what I had been thinking, and I turned away +abruptly. Miss Dick, who had taken a great fancy to him, +begged him to play again. He refused, yet a moment later +he said, speaking so that nobody but I could hear him, +“Would you like me to?”</p> + +<p>“Not in the least,” I answered rudely. Rather ashamed +of myself I got up, crossed the room, and boldly took possession +of a chair beside his sister. But with that my boldness +ended, and I could think of nothing to say. I had not even +sufficient courage to look her in the face, and the fact that I +had so deliberately come to sit beside her only to maintain a +fixed and gloomy silence made me feel ridiculous.</p> + +<p>“Do you play golf?” I stammered out at last, the inanity +of my remark only striking me after it had left my lips. +“She will think I am a fool, and dislike me,” I told myself +miserably; but Katherine answered as if the subject had +never been alluded to before. Her reply only left me to +rack my brains anew. It was no use; a malignant spell +appeared to have been cast upon me, holding me tongue-tied, +my mind a blank. A perspiration broke out all over +my body and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back. +Every minute was like an hour, yet I could think of nothing +but this accursed golf. I described the links and even the +Club House, and might have gone on to enumerate the +caddies had I remembered their names. I became suddenly +conscious that my hands and feet were enormous. I +thrust my hands in my trouser pockets, but my feet still +remained visible. I knew my thick nose had neither shape +nor character, that my coarse, brown hair was more like a +kind of tropical plant than like hair, and that my overhanging +brows and the shape of my mouth gave me a sullen +look. I had tried to alter my appearance by doing my hair +in different ways, but it was no use. I remembered having<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span> +noticed in the morning, when I was tying my tie, that a slight +frown made me more thoughtful looking, and I instantly +assumed one. I compared the appearance I imagined myself +to present with Gerald’s, and then I saw him watching me +with what I believed to be a kind of veiled mockery in his +eyes. My shyness turned to rage. Katherine tried to talk +to me, but I answered in monosyllables, and, an hour earlier +than I had intended, I got up to say good-night.</p> + +<p>“We shall see you to-morrow, Peter,” Mrs. Carroll suggested, +as I shook hands with her. “What would you like +to do to-morrow?” she added, turning to Katherine.</p> + +<p>Katherine smiled at me as if we were quite old friends. +“I want to climb some of the mountains,” she said. “I +planned that the minute I saw them.”</p> + +<p>Again her face awakened in me the memory of another +face I had known—but where? when?</p> + +<p>“In that case you ought to start early,” Mrs. Carroll went +on, “and you could take your lunch with you. Peter +knows all the different walks for miles round.”</p> + +<p>I was on the point of declaring that I had an engagement, +but I overcame the temptation. I promised to come soon +after breakfast, and made my escape.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I went home in a state of profound depression. I had +made a hopeless fool of myself; probably they were talking +about it now. These thoughts were rendered no brighter +by being mingled with anticipations of what I was returning +to. Above all else in the world, perhaps, I hated, and +almost feared, that atmosphere of dullness and joylessness, +which hung like a mist over our house. It exasperated +me, it seemed to sap my vitality, and with all the strength +of my nature I tried to resist it. It was as if the narrowness +and dinginess, the gray, colourless, melancholy monotony +of my father’s existence, had a hateful power of penetrating +into my brain, like the fumes of a drug, clouding my mind, +subduing it to a kind of cold lethargy: there were times +when I had a feeling that I was struggling for life.</p> + +<p>My father was in the parlour when I came in. He +glanced up at the clock, which meant that he was surprised +at my returning so much earlier than usual, but he made +no remark. I sat down to take off my boots; then I took +up the book I was reading. My father all this time had +not spoken a word, and I had returned him silence for +silence. Sometimes, after a whole evening of this kind +of thing, my feeling of constraint would become so acute +that the effort required to say even good-night would +appear almost insurmountable, and I would invent all +sorts of excuses for slipping out of the room without<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span> +doing so. My father was correcting exercises. The books +were arranged in two piles in front of him—those he had +already finished with, and those he had not yet touched. +Behind him was the wall, with its cheap, ugly, flowered +paper, and illuminated texts. I glanced at him from time +to time over the top of my book. There was a perpetual +dinginess in his appearance; his linen was not often scrupulously +clean, and his nails never were. Just now I wanted +to ask him to stop snuffing. How could I read while he +kept on making such disgusting noises! He had a peculiar +way of breathing through his nose so as to produce a sort +of whistling sound, which I could never get accustomed to. +Often I had gone upstairs and sat in an ice-cold bedroom +merely to be rid of it.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he looked up over his spectacles and addressed +me across the table. “I intended to ask you about that +book you have brought home. Who gave it to you?”</p> + +<p>I at once assumed an air of elaborate nonchalance. +“Nobody gave it to me. I found it in the book-case.”</p> + +<p>“What are you reading in it?”</p> + +<p>“‘Venus and Adonis.’”</p> + +<p>“I don’t like the books you have been reading lately.”</p> + +<p>“But this is Shakespeare!” I exclaimed, feigning +tremendous astonishment.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care who it is. Why can’t you read what +other boys read?”</p> + +<p>“I thought he was supposed to be the greatest poet in +the world!”</p> + +<p>“You know very well what I mean. If you <em>do</em> read him, +why don’t you read the plays—‘Julius Cæsar?’”</p> + +<p>“I’d rather have poems than plays. What is the harm +in this?”</p> + +<p>“The harm is that it is not suited to your age. It is +full of all kinds of voluptuous images and thoughts. You +have been too much at Derryaghy lately.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span></p> + +<p>The train of reasoning which connected voluptuous +thoughts with Derryaghy was difficult to follow, yet I was +not surprised that my father had come out there. With +him all roads led to Derryaghy, and I could never understand +what he really felt about my position in relation to +Mrs. Carroll. When he spoke face to face with her his +manner always expressed something like a carefully repressed +disapproval, and at the same time he allowed me +to remain under countless obligations to her. For example, +she looked after, that is to say, she paid for, my clothing. +Also it had been settled recently that she was to pay my +school, and later my university, expenses. I believe a +struggle was perpetually going on within him between his +consciousness of my interests and a desire to tell her to +mind her own business and to leave him to look after his +son himself. This peculiar combination of natural antipathy, +a fear to give offence, and a sense that it was his +duty to be thankful, was singularly ill adapted to produce +a graceful attitude in his personal dealings with her, and +I do not think she cared for him.</p> + +<p>“Now that Mrs. Carroll has her nephew and niece, there is +no need for you to go there so often,” he went on. “I was +glad to see that you did not stay late to-night.” He added +the last words in a conciliatory tone, even with approval.</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you like her?” I asked simply.</p> + +<p>He fixed his eyes sternly upon me. “Why don’t I like +whom?”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Carroll.”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Carroll! I don’t think I understand you!”</p> + +<p>As I gave no further explanation he returned to his +exercises, but I could see an irrepressible desire to justify +himself working in his mind. It broke out in another +minute. “You don’t appear to realise that your question +accuses me of both ingratitude and hypocrisy! Or, possibly, +that is what you intended to do?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span></p> + +<p>Oh, how well I knew this mood, and how we would go +round and round the same little circle, and how he would +outwardly be so calm and reasonable and not in the least +annoyed, yet inwardly be perfectly furious. “I think I’ll +go to bed,” I murmured, getting up, and pretending to +yawn.</p> + +<p>My yawn was only meant to convey sleepiness, but my +father saw in it impertinence. “Why do you try to vex +me?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I don’t try to vex you. Why should I?”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Carroll is different from us. Her position in life +is different; it alters her view of everything; it is only +natural that she should be more worldly.”</p> + +<p>“Is she very worldly?” I asked, without enthusiasm. +Anybody less so, I could hardly imagine, but there was no +use arguing.</p> + +<p>My father branched off in another direction. “To-night, +at dinner, were you offered wine?”</p> + +<p>“I had some claret.”</p> + +<p>“You remembered I had told you I would rather you +didn’t take anything?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Are you speaking the truth, Peter?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know whether I remembered or not,” I answered +petulantly. “I didn’t think it important enough to make +a fuss about. You always want me to do everything differently +from other people. If I can’t do as other people do, +I’d rather not go at all.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not aware that I told you anything except what +would please me,” he answered coldly. “I left you perfectly +free.”</p> + +<p>“How can you call it ‘leaving me free’ when you’re for +ever asking me whether I’ve done it? You say you don’t +forbid me to do things, but you always talk about them +afterwards.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span></p> + +<p>There was a pause. It was broken by my father who +seemed now deeply offended. “Did you make any arrangement +about going back?”</p> + +<p>“I promised to go to-morrow, after breakfast.”</p> + +<p>“What for?”</p> + +<p>“I was asked to take the Dales somewhere.”</p> + +<p>“Can’t they find their own way? It isn’t very difficult.”</p> + +<p>“Does that mean I’m not to go?”</p> + +<p>“You can’t be always going there. You seem to me to +live there.”</p> + +<p>“It’s easier than living at home,” I muttered.</p> + +<p>“It is pleasanter, I daresay; but I don’t want you to +make yourself a nuisance to strangers.”</p> + +<p>“Aren’t they the best judges of whether I’m a nuisance or +not?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I don’t wish you to go to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“You might have said so sooner,” I burst out. “What +reason have you?”</p> + +<p>“I hope you don’t intend to be as disrespectful as you +are,” my father said slowly. “If I had no other reason for +not wanting you to go, I should have a very good one in the +way it seems to make you behave when you come back. +I <em>have</em> another reason, however: I don’t desire you to grow +up with an idea that you have nothing to think of in life but +your own pleasures. You are quite sufficiently inclined +that way as it is.”</p> + +<p>He spoke quietly, but there was a concentrated feeling +behind his words. “What have I been doing?” I asked, +trying to be equally calm, though I knew my eyes were +bright, my cheeks flushed, and my lips pouting.</p> + +<p>“I wasn’t alluding to anything particular so much as to +your whole way of looking at things. You appear to wish +to be absolutely independent, to go out and in just as you +please. You appear to think you have no duty to me or to +anybody else. You are becoming utterly selfish.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span></p> + +<p>“Selfish!” I was too indignant to protest more than by +simply repeating the word. People always called you +selfish, I thought, bitterly, when you only wanted to prevent +<em>them</em> from being so. I was convinced I was capable of +making the most sublime sacrifices, if there were any need +for them. Indeed I had often imagined myself making such +sacrifices, making them secretly, but to be discovered in the +end, when all my unsuspected nobility would suddenly be +revealed, in some rather public way, perhaps, but too late +to save those who had wilfully misunderstood me from +agonies of remorse. It was my father who was selfish, with +his idea of making everybody think and act exactly as he +did. He was not only selfish, but he was jealous. That +was at the back of all these objections to my going to +Derryaghy. Only, he never realized his own faults; he +found moral justifications for them. One thing was certain, +I was going there to-morrow, whether he allowed me to or not. +I was so full of these thoughts that I missed a great deal of +what he was saying, but the gist of it I gathered—and I +had heard it frequently before—that I should have my living +to earn, my way to make in the world, that I shouldn’t have +Mrs. Carroll always, and that the fewer luxurious tastes I +acquired, the more chance I should have of being happy in +the very obscure and humble path that was apparently all +my father saw before me.</p> + +<p>If he really wanted to inspire me with feelings of humility, +however, he could hardly have wasted his breath on a more +thankless task. It was not that I saw myself becoming remarkably +successful, but simply that I seemed to have had +a glimpse of what an extraordinary youth I was. My interview +with my father had made me forget all about my unhappy +behaviour at Derryaghy, and as soon as I was in bed +I began to compose a passionate drama, of which I was, +naturally, the hero, but in which, without any rehearsal, +Katherine Dale appeared as heroine. I had braved my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span> +father’s anger in order to be with her, and now I was no +longer shy, the right words rushed from me in a torrent. +Sometimes our love story was happy, more often it was a +perfect bath of tears. Indeed, I think I must have had +some inborn feeling for the stage, so frequently did I lead up +to the most telling and lime-lit situations, on the very weakest +of which a curtain could only go down to a thunder of +applause. In this present drama there was a fathomless +well of sentiment, of “love interest” of the most uncompromising +type. I had read lately, in bound volumes of +<cite>Temple Bar</cite>, one or two novels by Miss Rhoda Broughton, +and as I lay there in my small room, with a text above my +head, I was far from anxious to “keep innocency.” On the +contrary, I was one of those bold, dark, rugged, cynical +creatures, one of those splendid ugly men, who carry in their +breasts a smouldering fire of passion for some girl “with eyes +like a shot partridge”; one of those men who gnaw the ends +of their moustaches, and have behind them the remembrance +of a fearful life. My name was Dare Stamer, or Paul Le +Mesurier, and my heart was sombre and volcanic. The plot +of our romance did not vary a great deal. We met; we +loved; we quarrelled. I married somebody else—a cold, +soulless, blonde beauty with magnificent shoulders—and +Katherine sometimes went into a consumption, and sometimes +did not, but in either case there was a last meeting +between us, when the veils of falsehoods were torn aside, +and for one wild, mad, delirious moment I held her in my +arms, my lips pressed on hers. It was these wild, mad, +delirious moments that so appealed to me. They followed +one another thick and fast as rain-drops in a thunder-shower. +I was ever at a climax. The room was brimmed +up with lovers’ tears and lovers’ kisses, meetings and partings, +yet never perhaps had the text above my head, though +I was far from thinking so, been obeyed so literally and so +successfully.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I was wakened in the morning by Tony scratching at my +door. Still half-asleep, I got up to let him in, and then +returned to bed, where he had already taken the most comfortable +place. He looked at me for a moment or two and +then closed his round, dark, innocent eyes till they showed +only as two slits of dim silver, and set up a loud snoring. I +was too lazy to get up, and lay idly watching him. He had +a curious and expressive beauty, resembling that of some +wonderful piece of Chinese porcelain, at once bizarre and +attractive. There was something quaint about him, an +adorable simplicity. In colour he was white, decorated +with brindle patches. Leonardo would have made a drawing +of him, would have delighted in the superb limbs and +wide deep chest, the big, broad, heavy, wrinkled head, with +its massive, low-hanging jaw, its upturned, flat, black nose, +its silky ears, like the petals of a rose, and those dark, lovely +eyes, in which, when he was at rest, a profound melancholy +floated. As a pup, able to walk and no more, he had been +a birthday present from Mrs. Carroll: now he weighed +about sixty pounds and was three years old.</p> + +<p>As I watched him I tried to make up my mind whether +I should say anything further about going to Derryaghy. +In spite of all last night’s bravery I knew well enough that, +when it came to the point, it was really rather impossible +deliberately to disobey my father; and, what is more, that I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span> +shouldn’t want to do so. I somehow kept seeing the thing +from his point of view, and this irritated me, because it made +me powerless to do anything but sit at home and sulk.</p> + +<p>“I’ll have to go up to the house and say that I can’t +come,” I told him after breakfast. He had risen from the +table and was in the act of taking down our Bibles from the +book-shelf, preparatory to “worship”—a function which +took place every morning and evening, and which consisted +in my reading aloud a chapter from the Bible, and in my +father making a prayer. Sometimes he commented on +what I read, explained a verse, drew a lesson from it—interruptions +I secretly resented, as they tended to prolong +“worship”—sometimes he listened in silence.</p> + +<p>He put my Bible down beside my tea-cup before replying. +Then, when he had resumed his seat, and fumbled with his +spectacle-case, he said, “You may go with them: I have +been thinking it over.”</p> + +<p>I answered nothing, though I had a sort of uncomfortable +feeling that thanks might possibly be expected. I wondered +what would happen if I were to say I didn’t want to go, that +I should never go again, that I would rather stay here with +him quite alone, free from all “worldly temptations.” It +was really the most perfect opportunity imaginable for a +thoroughly sentimental scene, like those in the stories he +used to read to me. I pictured how it would be wrung out +to the last drop of sloppiness, and be promptly followed by +my conversion, or even death-bed.</p> + +<p>“I think it is the ninth chapter of Isaiah,” my father said, +interrupting these meditations.</p> + +<p>“I read the ninth yesterday,” I replied. “It’s the tenth.”</p> + +<p>My father turned another page, and I began:</p> + +<p>“‘Woe unto them that decree unrighteous decrees—’” +I felt my cheeks grow red, because the verse seemed to me +so extraordinarily apt to the decree about my not going to +Derryaghy. I did not look at my father, but keeping my<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span> +eyes glued to the page went on. The rest of the chapter, +however, was less pertinent.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“‘He is come to Aiath, he is passed to Migron; at +Michmash he hath laid up his carriages:</p> + +<p>‘They are gone over the passage: they have taken up their +lodging at Geba; Ramah is afraid; Gibeah of Saul is fled.</p> + +<p>‘Lift up thy voice, O daughter of Gallim; cause it to be +heard unto Laish, O poor Anathoth.</p> + +<p>‘Madmenah is removed; the inhabitants of Gebim gather +themselves to flee,’” etc., etc.</p> +</div> + +<p>It was not wildly exciting in itself, and I cannot say my +reading of it made it more so. The only good point about +it was that it did not lend itself to exegesis. The kind of +thing my father liked was, “Servants, be obedient to them +that are your masters.” Then he would interrupt me to +say, “That means, when their masters tell them to do what +is right. If we are told to do something we know to be +wrong, we must refuse to obey.”</p> + +<p>When I had finished we knelt down before our chairs. +My father prayed aloud, and I stared out of the window, +and tried to decide whither I should take the Dales. Between +the sentences my father, as usual, kept crossing and uncrossing +his feet, and scraping them together, as if he were +trying to remove a tight pair of slippers. It seemed odd to +me that he could pray so earnestly and at the same time +use such artificial language, crammed with “thees” and +“thous,” and “hearests” and “doests.” Before he had +reached “Amen” I was on my feet, dusting the knees of my +trousers.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>A quarter of an hour later, as I walked up to Derryaghy, +Willie Breen, the grocer’s son, a little boy of ten or eleven, +ran out from the shop, and, after gazing carefully up and +down the road, slipped a small piece of paper into my hand. +One side of this paper was painted black; on the other a single +word, “Friday,” was printed in red ink. I put it in my +pocket and walked on without making any sign or uttering +a word, which was the proper etiquette to observe under +these peculiar circumstances; and in equal silence Willie +returned to the shop.</p> + +<p>When I reached the house, though I had been intending +all along to ask for Katherine, I suddenly asked for Gerald +instead.</p> + +<p>“Gerald isn’t down yet,” Mrs. Carroll informed me, +coming into the hall from the dining-room. “Probably +he’s not even out of bed. Go up and tell him to hurry. +He’s in the room next yours. Katherine is seeing about +your lunch.”</p> + +<p>Rather reluctantly I went up to Gerald’s room and tapped +at his door. “Come in,” he said, sleepily.</p> + +<p>He was indeed still in bed, and, in spite of the fact of our +appointment, did not seem in any hurry to get out of it.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s you!” he exclaimed. “Good-morning.”</p> + +<p>I felt uncomfortable, for I was sure he would think it +queer my coming into his room when I hardly knew him.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span> +“Good-morning,” I answered, trying to imitate the tone he +had used. “I was told to tell you to hurry.”</p> + +<p>He sat up and yawned. “It’s late, I suppose,” he murmured. +“They hadn’t sense enough to send me up my +breakfast.”</p> + +<p>“Do you always have breakfast in your room?” I asked.</p> + +<p>He looked out of the window as if I did not interest him. +“No,” he answered, after a perceptible pause, “but I have +it when I want to.”</p> + +<p>I felt snubbed. I didn’t know whether to stay or go, +but he decided the matter by telling me to wait till he had +had his bath, that he shouldn’t be long. He put on a +dressing-gown, and left me. When he came back I didn’t +know why he had asked me to stay, for he began to dress +without taking the slightest notice of me. I sat on the edge +of the bed and watched him. It seemed to me stupid that +I should feel slightly in awe of him, but there was no use +pretending that I didn’t. I had already made up my mind +that I disliked him, yet somehow I could not be indifferent +to him—I wanted him to think me important, to admire me. +He was only a year older than I was, but he was infinitely +more a man of the world, and it was this, really, that impressed +me. He dressed very quickly, yet I noticed that +the result was just as harmonious as it had been last night. +His clothes were of a light brown colour, that was exactly +the same shade as his hair, and a little darker than his skin. +A pale violet tie was loosely knotted over a cambric shirt. +His forehead was broad; his yellow-brown eyes were set +widely apart, and were neither large nor small; his nose +was straight and his mouth extraordinarily delicate. His ears +seemed to me, too, to have their own peculiar beauty. His +skin was of a golden-brown colour, but clear almost to +transparency, and a tiny blue vein was faintly visible on his +left temple, running from the delicate eyebrow to the cheekbone. +When he listened his brows slightly wrinkled. I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span> +would have given a good deal to have looked like +him.</p> + +<p>Suddenly I caught his eyes in the mirror watching me +ironically. “Do you know you were extremely rude to me +yesterday?” he said, without turning round.</p> + +<p>I blushed and had nothing to reply.</p> + +<p>“Well, I forgive you.” He patted me on the shoulder. +“I’m ready now. Come along.”</p> + +<p>“Why wouldn’t you play properly when you were +asked?” I blurted out, as we went downstairs.</p> + +<p>“I would have played if there had been anybody to play +to. Neither Katherine nor Aunt Clara knows <cite>God save the +Queen</cite> from the <cite>Moonlight Sonata</cite>, and that Dick person is +too absurd for words. I’ll play for you some time when +they aren’t there. And now I must have breakfast; +I won’t keep you very long.... What do you want all +that for?” he asked, as Katherine suddenly appeared with +a large basket.</p> + +<p>“For lunch; we’re not going to starve ourselves.”</p> + +<p>“Poor Katherine; evidently you’re not. We can each +take our own lunch; a basket like that is only a nuisance.”</p> + +<p>“You needn’t carry it,” said Katherine. “You and I +will carry it by turns,” she said to me.</p> + +<p>“What’s the use of talking like that,” answered Gerald. +“It doesn’t mean anything. If that huge thing has to be +dragged all the way I shan’t go at all.”</p> + +<p>He departed to the dining-room, while Katherine and I +were left standing in the hall, the basket between us.</p> + +<p>“We needn’t take any drinkables,” I began, “there’ll be +plenty of water.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t put in any,” said Katherine.</p> + +<p>We sat down in the porch to wait for Gerald. When he +rejoined us, which he did very leisurely, I glanced at his +shoes, and suggested that he should change them for something +more substantial.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span></p> + +<p>“Why? We’re not going through ploughed fields, are +we? I haven’t any hob-nails even if we were.” A panama +hat shaded his face and he swung a light cane in his hand. +I knew at once we should have difficulty in getting him any +distance, and was very nearly proposing he should stay at +home.</p> + +<p>“Why aren’t we driving?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Such nonsense!” exclaimed Katherine. “If Aunt +Clara had wanted us to drive she would have said so.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t mind making inquiries,” Gerald intimated. “I +somehow feel it’s the proper thing to drive.”</p> + +<p>“You’re not to say anything about it; Aunt Clara won’t +like it, I know.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll drive with our young friend Peter, here,” he said +airily, tapping me on the shoulder with his cane.</p> + +<p>I could see Katherine was becoming impatient; Gerald +was the only one who was perfectly cool. “About carrying +Katherine’s lunch,” he began. “Hadn’t we better get a +stick and put it through the handle of this thing?” He +kicked the basket lightly. “Then two of us could struggle +with it together.”</p> + +<p>The idea was a good one, and we put it into practice.</p> + +<p>Our road kept all the way by the coast: on the right, +the mountains; on the left, a strip of waste land, varying in +width, and covered with dry, sapless grass upon which, +nevertheless, there were goats feeding; below this, the steep +drop down to the sea. Shadowless in the strong sun, the +road wound on ahead, white with dust, like a pale ribbon on +the green and russet landscape. We had gone about a mile +when Gerald suddenly announced, “I’m not going any +further; it’s too hot.”</p> + +<p>This brought us again to a standstill. “It’s so like you +to spoil everything,” said Katherine.</p> + +<p>“What am I spoiling? I suppose I can please myself. +Only, since I’m not coming, I’d advise you to chuck some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span> +of that grub away.” He took his cigarette-case from his +pocket and offered me a cigarette, which I refused. He lit +one himself.</p> + +<p>“You know very well that if you go home Aunt Clara +will think I ought to have come with you, or at any rate be +back for lunch,” said Katherine quietly.</p> + +<p>“How should I know such absurd things? And I can’t +help what she thinks, can I?”</p> + +<p>“We could have stayed out all day.”</p> + +<p>Gerald had begun to whistle an air very softly, and I +recognized it as something he had played last night. His +eyes were fixed on the distant horizon, and he seemed +slightly bored.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps if we were to bathe it might make a difference—who +knows? Suppose young Peter and I bathe while you +watch the basket here in this pleasant sunny spot; or you +could walk on slowly with it, and we might in the end even +overtake you?”</p> + +<p>I turned to Katherine. “Come along,” I said brusquely. +“What’s the use of bothering about him?”</p> + +<p>He looked at me and coloured faintly. “Then I’m to +say you won’t be home till dinner-time?” he asked, speaking +directly to his sister.</p> + +<p>Katherine hesitated. “Shall he say that?”</p> + +<p>“Let him say what he likes,” I returned, shortly.</p> + +<p>We moved on together, and I did not look back, though +Katherine did, more than once. “I’ll make no more arrangements +with your brother,” I remarked.</p> + +<p>Katherine was silent. “Perhaps we should come another +day instead?” she began presently, and in a hesitating way.</p> + +<p>“You mean you are going to give in to him?” I said, +making up my mind that there should be no other day, so +far as I was concerned.</p> + +<p>She was again silent, and meanwhile we continued to +walk on. I could see she was uncertain as to what she<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span> +ought to do, that she did not want to disappoint me, and +that, on the other hand, she was not sure about Gerald. +“He’s offended at something,” she began. “He takes +offence very easily.... He thinks you didn’t want him.”</p> + +<p>“Why should he think that?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.... But it is something of that sort, I’m +sure.”</p> + +<p>I was going to say that I did not care a straw what he +thought, but checked myself. “He didn’t appear to me +to be offended,” I replied. “It was simply that he thought +it too much fag.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t know him,” said Katherine.</p> + +<p>And we continued to trudge along, our feet white with +dust. It really <em>was</em> very hot, and I was glad I had so little +clothing on—merely a light cotton tennis-shirt under my +jacket. When we reached a low grey bridge that spanned a +shallow mountain stream we branched inland. This was +the Bloody Bridge, I told Katherine, and a religious massacre +had once taken place here. I pointed out the remains +of an old church, with its fallen tombs, and after resting for +a few minutes we began to climb the valley, which was the +walk I had proposed to take them. This valley was wonderfully +beautiful, widening out gradually, and gradually +ascending; on each side of it steep dark mountains, covered +with heather, and grass, and gorse, and hidden streams which +flowed into the broader, deeper stream we followed. The +colouring was rich and splendid—dull gold, bronze, dark +green and even black, with the brighter purple of the heather +woven through it, and the long, narrow, pale, silver streak +of water, glittering and gleaming, far, far up, till in the end +it was lost over the edge of a higher valley which crossed +ours at right angles.</p> + +<p>“These are the Mourne Mountains?” Katherine asked +gazing up at them. “I’ve seen them from the Isle of Man. +On a clear day you can make them out quite distinctly.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span></p> + +<p>She began to talk to me about mountains, about Switzerland, +where she had been last spring, and I felt ashamed +never to have been anywhere. Yet, while she was describing +it, I had an instinct that I should not like Switzerland. +By some chance I indeed pictured it very much as, later on, +I was actually to find it. Katherine’s enthusiasm could +not remove this conviction: in fact, what she said, secretly +strengthened my idea that it must be an odious country, +and, years later, amid all the showy banality of its picturesqueness, +I remembered this particular walk, and my +own beautiful dark country rose up before me, with its +sombre hills, its dreamy, changing sky.</p> + +<p>But at the time I had nothing to say, I had no comparisons +to make, I had seen nothing. “I should like to go to a big +city like London or Paris,” I told her, “not to live there, +but to see it.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe you’d like it.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.... You’re so much a part of all +this.” She glanced up at the hills.</p> + +<p>“Do <em>you</em> like cities?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I simply love them; but then I’m quite different.”</p> + +<p>“I’d like the picture galleries any way,” I declared.</p> + +<p>“Are you fond of pictures?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve not seen many—only reproductions.”</p> + +<p>“I’m fond of them too. There was a splendid picture in +the Academy this year of a girl skating. She was holding +a muff up to her face so that it covered her mouth and chin, +but she was awfully pretty, and when you came into the +room you would just think she was a real person. And the +snow was so nice, with a sort of pink light on it. If you come +over to London I’ll take you to see everything.”</p> + +<p>But again, just as in the case of Switzerland, my instinct +told me I should detest this picture. For a moment I +had a feeling of depression; it seemed to me of infinite<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span> +importance that Katherine should like the things that I +liked.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care for pretty pictures,” I said. “I hate +everything pretty,” I went on almost angrily.</p> + +<p>“Would you rather have ugly ones?” asked Katherine, +laughing, as if she had caught me in an absurdity. I had +no answer to give, though I knew myself exactly what I +meant. I felt lonely and melancholy. Then I looked at +Katherine. She was very beautiful, and in a quite different +way from her brother. And suddenly I knew where I had +seen her before—her eyes, at least—they were the eyes of +Prudence Carroll.... I gazed at her, seeking some further +resemblance, but could discover none. Her skin was very +white, save where in her cheeks it flushed to a soft radiant +glow. Her brown, crisp hair was pulled back straight from +her forehead, though one or two little tufts had got loose and +waved in the faint wind. Her nose and mouth had the +same delicate beauty as Gerald’s, but her expression was +quite different, and it was there that her greatest beauty lay.... +Yes, there again was a resemblance to Prudence +Carroll—her expression was the same as Prudence Carroll’s. +She had the same eyes, the same expression ... perhaps, +then, the same spirit.... A sort of daydream had begun +to weave itself into my thoughts.</p> + +<p>“How far can we go this way?” Katherine interrupted me.</p> + +<p>“As far as you can see. There is another valley beyond. +We could go along it and home over Slieve Donard, but it +is a long distance.”</p> + +<p>We climbed slowly, not talking very much. It was past +noon now, and hotter than ever, and when we reached a deep +green pool under a waterfall we stopped to bathe our hands +and faces in it. Its cool sweetness was alluring, as if a water-sprite +sang up through it into the hot sunlight, and the white +spray sparkled in the sun. “It would be splendid for a +bathe,” I murmured.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span></p> + +<p>“Bathe if you want to; I can walk on and you can overtake +me.”</p> + +<p>I remembered Gerald, however, and refused to do this, +being full to the brim just now of unselfishness and chivalry. +“We might have our lunch here,” I suggested. “Then we +could hide the basket somewhere, and not be bothered by it +again till we are going home.”</p> + +<p>We spread a napkin on a broad flat stone, and our lunch on +top of that. I now discovered why the basket had been so +heavy, but, though it had been a nuisance carrying it, its +contents were extremely welcome. We had almost finished +when a peculiar feeling rather than a sound made me look +up, and I saw a man standing not more than three or +four yards from us. It was as if he had risen out of the +earth. When you are under the impression that you are +miles away from any human being, such a sudden apparition +is a little startling, nor was the appearance of this visitor +reassuring. He was large and pale, with short brown hair, +and at the back of his head he wore a cap, like a boy’s cap, +which was too small for him. His clothes, without being +ragged, were stained and worn, and of a nondescript, +brownish colour. He was young, probably between twenty-five +and thirty, and strongly built. There was something +coldly malevolent in the pale, clean-shaved face, something +indescribably corrupt and cruel, which seemed to stare out +of the hard brown eyes, and to hover about the smiling lips. +He stood before us, looking down in obvious enjoyment of +our discomfiture, making no movement to pass on. It was +curious that features so perfectly regular, features neither +bloated nor disfigured, could give so vivid an impression of +ugliness. It was the ugliness of something positively evil, +and my first feeling was one of instinctive repugnance and +disgust, as if I had been touched by an obscene and noxious +creature. I felt, I can’t say why, that I was in the presence +of something actively dangerous, and not only to my body,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span> +but reaching beyond that: I felt as if I were in the presence +of some form of spiritual corruption or decay, that I knew +nothing about, and that yet I had a horror of, as a young +rabbit is afraid of a hawk. That prolonged, impudent stare, +passing over me, seemed to leave a trail of filth, of slime, of +something that defiled like a loathsome caress. His eyes +slid from me to Katherine with the same repulsive scrutiny. +What was he doing here? He was no country man. As +my first startled feeling passed, my temper began to rise. +“What do you want?” I asked. “How much longer are +you going to stand there?”</p> + +<p>He laughed almost noiselessly, though he still neither +moved nor spoke. It was as if the sound of his laugh +touched a spring within me, and I lifted a sharp piece of +stone lying near my feet. I felt a sudden rage, an extraordinary +desire to destroy. I could actually feel my lips +draw back ever so little, just like the lips of an angry terrier. +I had no longer the faintest sensation of fear: on the +contrary, what I wanted was for him to make a movement +forward, a gesture that I could take as threatening. And +the rough, natural weapon I had picked up must have +acquired a sudden appearance of dangerousness, for our +visitor drew back and his face altered. Then he laughed +more loudly and on a different note as he passed on his +way down the valley. I felt elated. Somehow, I was +certain my stone would not have missed its mark, and +that there would have been no hesitation, no lack of force, +on the part of the wielder. Katherine and I watched +him as he retreated, now disappearing from our sight, +and now again appearing, but always at a point farther +down.</p> + +<p>“Well, he’s gone,” I said. “He was horrible looking.” +I faced her with a proud consciousness of having behaved +very well.</p> + +<p>“Do you know what <em>you</em> looked like?” asked Katherine.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span> +And before I could answer: “You looked just like David +when he threw the stone.”</p> + +<p>I blushed. Then, “I never cared much for David,” I +answered ungraciously, and moreover untruly, for I was, +secretly, extremely pleased and flattered.</p> + +<p>“Neither did I till a minute ago, but that was because +I didn’t know what he was like.”</p> + +<p>My blush deepened. “Well, the beast’s gone at any rate,” +I said to cover my gratification. “I will tell Michael +when we get home. He can’t be prowling about here for +any good.”</p> + +<p>“Who is Michael?”</p> + +<p>“One of our policemen—the decentest.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We hid the basket under the heather. A quiet had +fallen upon us, through which the noise of the splashing +water seemed to weave itself in patterns and arabesques +of sound.</p> + +<p>“Shall we go up higher?” I asked, and without answering +me Katherine began to climb the hill-side, and I +followed her over dry, springy, fragrant heather, and +between huge mossy boulders that had lain undisturbed +for centuries. We stopped to look at a fly-catching plant, +that curious, unpleasant mixture of the animal and the +vegetable. Katherine had never seen one before, and she +examined the outspread, concave disc, with the skeletons, +the grey husks of flies, adhering to its green surface. We +found a bee struggling on his back on the purple flower of +a thistle, waving his legs in the air, a ridiculous picture of +intoxication. But in spite of these interruptions the silence +that had crept over us lingered still. When we reached +a place where the ground rose steeply for a yard or two +I gave Katherine my hand to help her, and when we came +to more level ground we still went on hand in hand. And +with this light contact there came to me a strange, thrilling<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span> +pleasure, intense yet dreamy, unlike anything I had ever +known before. I did not look at my companion. When +I spoke, telling her to avoid a patch of soft ground that had +here spread across the path, the sound of my own voice +astonished me, so unfamiliar was it, even trembling slightly; +and I felt my limbs trembling. But why should it be so? +What was there? Why was I nervous? Nothing had +happened but this short easy climb hand in hand. I threw +my hat from me and flung myself down among the heather, +lying with my hands clasped behind my head, and my face +turned up to the dark blue sky. Far, far below us, the sea, +blue and deep, broad, beautiful and free, lay shimmering +in the hot sun. I had a sensation of intense happiness, +physical and mental, into which I seemed to be sinking +deep and deeper. I felt my eyes grow moist, and I turned +away my head that my companion might not see my face.</p> + +<p>Presently I looked round. Katherine was sitting beside +me, gazing straight out at the distant sea. The broad brim +of her black hat shadowed her face. The deep blue of her +eyes seemed darker than before; they had the blue now of +the eyes Renoir so often painted, and that I have seen +nowhere else. I wanted to say something, I hardly knew +what. I hovered shyly on the verge of it, like a timid +bather on the brink of the sea, but there was no one to push +me in, and my plunge was not taken.</p> + +<p>“It’s jolly nice here!” Those feeble words were all I +could find to express the rapid rush of emotion that had +shaken my whole being. The vast and complex forces of +nature were stirring within me almost as unconsciously +as the new leaf germinates in the growing plant. Yet there +was something which, without any words at all, I must have +expressed, had there been an observer to see it. I mean +the helplessness of youth, its pathetic credulity and good +faith, its brightness and briefness in the face of those hoary +old hills, and of feelings that were almost as ancient.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span></p> + +<p>I sat up and clasped my hands about my knees. “I +wonder what it will be like living in town?” I said.</p> + +<p>“Yes, you’re going away next month, aren’t you? +Aunt Clara told me.”</p> + +<p>“My father wanted me to try for a post in a Government +office. There is a boy who lives here who is going to do +that: he is working for his exam. now.” Then I added, I +don’t know why; “Mrs. Carroll is paying for me, and will +be afterwards, when I go to college. I’m to go to one of +the English universities—Oxford, I think. Of course my +father couldn’t afford to send me, and indeed he’d rather I +didn’t go at all. He let me decide, however, though there +was really only one thing that made him give in.”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“My mother once sent money to be used for my education, +and he would not take it.”</p> + +<p>Katherine was mystified, and, as I saw this, it dawned +on me that I should not have spoken. I had taken it for +granted that she knew all about me.</p> + +<p>“You know, my mother doesn’t live at home,” I explained; +and then, to change the subject, I took the piece +of paper Willie Breen had given me that morning from my +pocket.</p> + +<p>“Can you guess what that is?” I asked.</p> + +<p>She turned it over.</p> + +<p>“It means that on Friday there will be a meeting of a +kind of club we have,” I said. “It is a night club. The +whole thing is a secret. We have supper round a fire, and +talk, and tell yarns, and all that.”</p> + +<p>“Outside?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; over on the golf-links usually.”</p> + +<p>“But why at night?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know. Pretty late too—about half-past +eleven or twelve. I got it up last year with some of the +boys who were staying down here. And then, afterwards,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span> +I kept it up with two or three of the chaps at school. This +year I got sick of it, and I’ve only been to one meeting.”</p> + +<p>“At night! It must be rather queer. I love the sea at +night. Are you allowed to bring visitors?”</p> + +<p>“There is no rule; there are no rules of any kind. Would +you like to come?”</p> + +<p>Katherine hesitated. Then she laughed. “Yes. Would +it matter?”</p> + +<p>“There’ll be nobody but boys there.”</p> + +<p>“But you’d take me; and of course, Gerald would +come.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll take you if you’ll come by yourself,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Without Gerald? I couldn’t. What harm would he +do?”</p> + +<p>I did not say; but without Gerald I knew I could carry +the thing off, with him it would be difficult. “You’d +have to promise not to tell anybody,” I explained.</p> + +<p>“Of course. If I told, I shouldn’t be there myself.”</p> + +<p>“But I mean even afterwards.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll not tell.”</p> + +<p>For a minute or two we looked down the hill-side, bathed +in the afternoon sun; then I made up my mind. “If you +can promise that Gerald won’t talk about it I’ll take you. +But won’t you find it difficult to get out?” I added immediately +afterwards.</p> + +<p>“No; we’ll simply sit up later than the others. They +seem to go to bed about ten.”</p> + +<p>“But the lodge-gate will be locked.”</p> + +<p>“I can easily manage about that.”</p> + +<p>I regretted having mentioned the matter at all, yet I +hadn’t the courage to draw back. “I’ll tell you on Friday +morning exactly when to be ready,” I said.</p> + +<p>We sat silent. Katherine had taken off her hat and +it lay on the ground beside her; she was fastening a bunch of +heather into her blue and white muslin dress.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span></p> + +<p>“Have you looked at the portraits in the long passage +yet?” I asked suddenly.</p> + +<p>“Yes; not very particularly, but I noticed there were +some.”</p> + +<p>“Did you see one of a dark lady standing by a spinet, +holding a bunch of flowers?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t remember. Who is she?”</p> + +<p>“Prudence Carroll,” I answered. “Look at her when +you go in.”</p> + +<p>Katherine had completed her task. “Why?” she +inquired, turning to me.</p> + +<p>“I think she is very like you—or you are very like her.”</p> + +<p>“I shall see; but suppose I don’t care for her?”</p> + +<p>“Then you can say I’m a fool. But you will care for +her—at any rate, I do. I don’t mean that your features are +just the same as hers.”</p> + +<p>“And I’m not dark, am I?”</p> + +<p>“No; at all events not <em>so</em> dark. However, you will see +what I mean—perhaps you will see.”</p> + +<p>“You’re not sure? It can’t be so very striking then.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just what it is—it <em>is</em> striking. It mayn’t, however, +be exactly obvious to everybody. When I first saw +you, I kept wondering who you were like. I couldn’t get at +it for a long time—then I knew.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I never even heard of her, but I’m shockingly +ignorant of my ancestors.”</p> + +<p>“She wasn’t an ancestor: she was never married; the +likeness isn’t physical.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, then I shan’t see it. Besides, I never <em>do</em> see likenesses, +even when they’re much less mysterious than this.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,—perhaps, in a way, it is mysterious. I +can see it more clearly sometimes than others. I don’t +think I should see it at all if you were asleep or dead.”</p> + +<p>“What a horrid idea!” She laughed, but not quite +easily.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span></p> + +<p>“Do you not feel that these hills are familiar to you?” +I asked dreamily. “I can imagine a person coming to some +house like Derryaghy for the first time, and then finding that +he knew this room and that, where this passage led to, what +view he should see when he looked out through that little +window at the top of the stairs. Or it might be that two +people would come there together, and everything they said +would sound like an echo from something that had been +spoken before, and each, while they waited for it, would +know the answer, before it had left the other’s lips.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not sure that I follow you,” said Katherine prosaically, +“but I imagine you are trying to make out that I +may be what-do-you-call-her Carroll come to life again. +You’re the strangest boy I ever met.”</p> + +<p>“You told me I was like David. But—but—pretend +it for a moment. Say you were Prudence Carroll, then who +should I be?”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t any idea. Perhaps the apprentice of the artist +who painted her picture, if he had an apprentice.”</p> + +<p>I considered this. It had never occurred to me before. +But I could not get back, I could not discover even a faint +gleam. It was not the time; I was too saturated with my +actual surroundings.</p> + +<p>I did not pursue the subject, for I saw it had no interest for +Katherine. Besides, I wanted to be quiet. I thought +if we sat in silence, if I held her hand; above all, if we sat in +silence close together, her arms about me, my cheek against +her cheek, the past might swim up into the present, and we +should know. But instead of that we began to talk, to talk +of things that did not matter, until, by and by, we got up +to return home.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I stayed in the house all the evening, but I could not read, +and so I sat down to write to Katherine. I wrote for more +than an hour, though I was very doubtful whether, in the +end, I should post my letter. It was the first time in my +life I had ever written to anybody. Of course I cannot +remember now what I said: I can remember the sense of +it, or the nonsense, possibly, but not how I expressed it. +Very badly, I suppose, for I tore my first attempt up, and +began another, over which I must have spent an even longer +time, since, to finish it, I was obliged to get up and light +the lamp. When I went out to the post it was quite dark, +and immediately after I had dropped my letter in the box +I had a strong desire to get it back again. Why had I been +in such a hurry? I should have kept it till morning. Then, +as I pictured Katherine reading it, a thrill of pleasure swept +through my timidity.</p> + +<p>I did not go home, but strolled, instead, over the golf-links +in the direction of the sea. At such an hour they were +absolutely deserted, and the pale sand-hills, stretching +away in the moonlight and beside a dark waste of water, +wore an unfamiliar, a slightly weird aspect, suggestive of +some desolate lunar landscape. I wandered on, utterly +oblivious to time, till I found a comfortable spot between +two of these hills, on a gentle slope that was almost like a +couch. I was filled with a passionate sense of life, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span> +lying there, with the long thin sapless grass about me and +above me, and the soft white powdery sand beneath, I +could look out over the sea, and feel myself perfectly +alone. The water was a dark mass under the moon, darker +than the beach, darker than the sky, but not so dark as +the Mourne Mountains, which rose away on my left in +smooth, bold, black curves.</p> + +<p>There was no wind. Down in the hollow where I lay +I was as sheltered as I should have been in bed. The night +was washed through with the soft sound of the waves as +they splashed in a long curving line on the flat strand that +stretched on round to Dundrum, three miles away. Moths +hovered above me with a beating of pale delicate wings; +and all around, like a vast background for the sound of the +sea, was the deep, rich, summer silence of the slumbering +world, a silence of unending music, as though the great, +living earth were breathing softly in its sleep. I lay on my +back, and above me was the vast, deep vault of the sky, +full of a floating darkness, in which the white moon hovered +like a ghost. And I lay there in luxurious enjoyment of +the night, and of the life that was running through my own +body. It seemed to me at that moment as if my spirit +were no longer merely passively receptive of what was +borne in upon it, but that it had actually taken wing, had +grown lighter, more volatile, were flowing out through the +surrounding atmosphere, through the sky and the sea, were +moving with the movement of the water. The earth beneath +me was living and breathing, and, obedient to some +obscure prompting of my body, I turned round and pressed +my mouth against the dry grass, closer and closer, in a long +silent embrace.</p> + +<p>It was very well there was no one to observe this exhibition +of primitive and eternal instinct. I felt a passionate +happiness and excitement. My head was bare, the salt +sharp smell of the sea seemed to have set all my nerves<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span> +tingling, and I unfastened my shirt that my breast might +be bare also. All the past had slipped from me, and I +lived in this moment, squeezing out its ecstasy to the last +drop, as I might the juice of some ripe fruit. It seemed to +me that I was on the brink of finding something for which +all my previous existence had been but one long preparation +and search. I was fumbling at the door of an enchanted +garden: in a moment it would swing open: already the +perfume of unknown flowers and fruits was in my nostrils. +My feeling was deep and pure and clear as a forest pool. +In my mind I went over the story of Shakespeare’s “Venus +and Adonis.” I thought of the shepherd-boy Endymion. +I imagined myself Endymion, as I lay there half naked in +the moonlight. My eyes dimmed and the blood raced +through my veins; it was as if the heart of the summer +had suddenly opened out, like a gorgeous flower, and +brought me some strange rapture....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When I awakened to more commonplace things I knew +that it was very late indeed. I wondered what had possessed +me, and what story I should tell my father standing there +in the hall, holding up a candle, looking at me before he +turned round to fasten the chain. I raced home to the +fulfilment of this vision, but it was already past midnight, +and my father would not listen to my excuses. He was +very angry indeed, but his anger could not come between +me and my happiness. I listened to it in a kind of dream, +and as soon as a pause came, slipped away from it and +on upstairs. In the dark, as I undressed, the delicate scent +of heather still clinging to my clothes filled the small bedroom, +and seemed to bring the whole day back to me from +the beginning. Comfortably between the cool sheets I +went over every incident of it, while the scent of heather +still floated about me; and now I had acquired an extraordinary +bravery; I gave utterance to every thought arising<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span> +in my mind; the embrace which had been so impossible was +perfectly easy. One by one exquisite pictures drifted +in through the windows of my closed eyes; one by one +they opened out before me, like flowers, full of delicious +sweetness, and in the midst of them I fell asleep.</p> + +<p>But my sleep was only a completer realization of my +waking thoughts. I was again with Katherine, and again +we were alone on the mountain-side. We were coming +home and I was a little behind her, when she stooped to +gather a handful of heather. But instead of fastening it +into her dress she turned and flung it at me, and then ran on +down the hill. I followed quickly, and all at once she +stopped running and we stood there, hot and panting and +laughing. Then she impulsively lifted her face, and I +kissed her. I held her close to me and kissed her again +and again.... And the scent of heather floated about +my bed, the heather of reality mingling with the heather +of my dream.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>During the morning my father kept me working in the +garden where he was erecting a kind of arch of trellis-work +above the gate, but after our early dinner I went up to +Derryaghy. Ever since I had awakened, my mind had +been filled with the letter I had written, and with guesses as +to how it would affect Katherine. I hurried along, for our +dinner was at two, while their lunch was at one, and I had +made no appointment, so that when I reached the house, +and found they were all gone out, I was not greatly surprised. +Katherine and Gerald had gone out riding; they would be +back for tea. I left a message to say I would call some +time in the evening and went upstairs to choose a book. +In the silent library the faint sound of my feet on the thick +carpet made little more noise than the rustle of a ghost, +and when I had found what I wanted I paused with the +book unopened in my hand. Through the window I could +look out into the afternoon garden, sunlit and mellow, but +in the house itself the silence of those upper rooms struck +me, as always, with a suggestion of a faint, bygone life, of +spiritual presences, unseen, yet watching and listening. I +walked slowly down the passage, looking at the portraits, +and trying to picture the lives of those who had sat for +them. Were they aware of my scrutiny, of my curiosity, +possibly indiscreet? did I disturb the dust of the past, did +they welcome or, perchance, resent my intrusion into that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span> +delicate dream-life that had fallen upon them? I loved to +amuse myself with such fancies, idle enough, not to be +communicated to others. The air seemed heavy with a +kind of still, intense reverie, through which there came the +vibration of a hidden mysterious life. Were I the true son +of the house, I told myself, a sign of recognition might have +been given to me; but I was a stranger, an intruder, and +my robuster, noisier presence could but disturb their +ethereal existence. There was something almost vulgar in +being physically alive among that shadowy company. I +longed to pass the threshold of their world and learn its +secrets. Perhaps if I were really to love that dark, sweet +lady, Prudence Carroll, to declare my love, to kiss her painted +lips, I might be admitted to it. Would she be jealous when +I left her? To love a dream, a memory, that was very +possible; but to be faithful to it? Through the door I +had left ajar a golden stream of sunlight, filled with floating +specks of dust, swam across the shadowed passage, and just +touched the flowers in her hand. But my ghosts had never +been afraid of sunlight: they were not afraid to walk in the +deserted garden or to pass me on the stairs or in the hall. +Often I had felt them to be there, and some day, I knew, I +should see them. With this thought there came to me a +desire to revisit their own garden, a walled place of dark +green graves, where they wandered undisturbed.</p> + +<p>I went out, forgetting after all my book, and took a short +cut across the fields and down a disused, mossy lane, purple +with tall foxgloves, and sleepy with droning bees, which +brought me out abruptly at the old church. Service was +still held here, and as I came up I saw the door was open. +I went inside, and an old woman who was dusting the pews +wished me good-day. I talked to her for a few minutes +and then began to wander idly about, trying my Latin on +the inscriptions, peeping behind doors and through windows. +A church on a week-day was for me quite a different thing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span> +from a church on a Sunday. Its quiet appealed to me, a +sort of homely, gentle charm that was at once dissipated +by the entrance of a congregation. I went into the pulpit +and imagined myself preaching, while the old woman, +Margaret Beattie, leaned on the handle of her broom and +watched me.</p> + +<p>“You’d make the queer fine curate, Master Peter,” she +said, evidently seeing in this exhibition the betrayal of a +vocation.</p> + +<p>“They’ll never get me, Margaret,” I replied. “The +Church is not what it was. I believe you are an old witch,” +I went on, for she was half-deaf, “and when you have done +your mischief here, you will ride away on that broomstick.”</p> + +<p>I went out into the sunshine and pottered about among +the graves. All were old, for nobody was ever buried here +now. Most of the head-stones were stained green with age +and weather, and the lettering was so worn that it was often +necessary to peer close to read a name or a date. I lingered +in the corner where lay the bones of some of those fine ladies +and gentlemen whose pictures I had been looking at. Well, +it was a pleasant place....</p> + +<p>Margaret came out, locking the door after her. I heard +her shambling feet on the gravel, followed by the clanging +of the iron gate that left me to myself. Had my ghosts +preceded me here, or did they still linger in the upper rooms +at Derryaghy? I threaded my way among the graves to the +low, sun-warmed wall, all golden and green and grey with +velvet moss on weathered stone. Before me lay the broad +open country I must cross to go home, rich and dark in +the late afternoon light. The gleam of water, of pool and +stream, shone palely amid long grass and darker gorse +bushes: and beyond were trees, black and soft against the +western sky, as if rubbed in by a dusky thumb. Distant +hills stood out from the grey clouds and the softer, deeper +background of luminous sky. Everything shimmered and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span> +gleamed in a kind of romantic richness and divine softness +that I was to see later in dreamy landscapes by Perugino. +And over all was a great sea of light and sky—grey, faint +green, and deeper, warmer yellow, with clear silver where +the water lay.</p> + +<p>I turned from it and sat down on the wall, facing the +churchyard. It was a quiet spot, designed for contemplation. +The faint wind in the trees was like a low pleasant +tune, and there was nothing melancholy in its charm. To +me it had a kind of happy beauty which I loved. I had +fallen into a mood when I seemed close to my dreamland. +It lay beyond an enchanted sea, whose shore was that bright +cloud there. I could hear the low, continuous sound of +surf breaking on the pale glistening sand; I could see deep +lagoons, and sleepy rivers winding slowly down through +green lawns and meadowlands. I tried to draw nearer, but +it swam away from me, leaving only a broken cloud, and +beyond that the endless sky. Had it already been, or was it +still to come? Was all this world, apparently so solid under +my feet, but my dream, and should I presently awaken to +that other? I had a sudden temptation to risk everything: +the fascination of death stole over me, quickening my +curiosity to know what lay beyond. Only <em>should</em> I know? +Death might not really solve anything! If I tried to force +an entrance I might lose my only chance of finding one. A +large, splendid butterfly, a red admiral, flitted over the wall +and perched on one of the grave-stones, spreading his +gorgeous wings, black and crimson, flat against the grey, +sun-baked stone. He remained there with the stillness of +a painted thing, drinking in the heat, knowing nothing save +that.</p> + +<p>The afternoon was waning. The sun had crept down +the sky till he was almost hidden, and the violet shadows +were blurred on the tangled grass. Again one of those +strange, breathless silences seemed to wash up as from some<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span> +depth of Time, and I listened—listened for a sign, a word, +for in the stillness the faintest whisper would have reached +me. What were they, these strange pauses in life, in +everything—these feelings of suspense, of expectation? +A kind of ineffable happiness and peace descended upon +me. A delicate spirit of beauty seemed to be wandering +through the unmown grass, which bent beneath its feet, +wandering under the broad-leaved trees, beside the grey old +church. Surely there was something of which all this was +only the reflection! I could feel it; I knew it. What +did it mean? what was I waiting for? what was it I +desired? I thought of my soul as a little candle-flame, +hovering at my lips, ready to take flight. If I blew it +from me it might flicker away over the grass, down into +the graves, up into the air, a tiny tongue of flame, no bigger +than a piece of thistledown. I thought of the old, silent, +listening house, darkening now to twilight, mysterious, +haunted, with its closed doors and brown portraits: a +dream-thing that, too, and all the ghosts who lived there.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was half-past eight when I left home to go to Derryaghy, +but at the corner of the Bryansford Road I met Willie +Breen and stopped to get particulars about our meeting +to-morrow night. I did not mention the Dales because +I was almost sure that in the end Katherine would not +come, and in the midst of our talk he broke off abruptly +with: “Here’s your fine friends,” delivered half-contemptuously. +At the same time he stuck his hands in his +pockets and strolled off whistling.</p> + +<p>I wheeled round to face Miss Dick and Katherine and +Gerald coming towards me. I raised my straw hat.</p> + +<p>“We’re just going as far as the station and back,” said +Katherine. “We thought we’d meet you.”</p> + +<p>I dropped with her a little behind the others and walked +as slowly as I could.</p> + +<p>“I got your letter,” she went on, simply. “It was very +nice of you to write, but I hope you didn’t want an answer. +Letters are beyond me.”</p> + +<p>“You weren’t angry?” I asked, timidly.</p> + +<p>“No. What was there to be angry about? Of course, +I couldn’t make out what it all meant: you didn’t intend +me, I suppose, to take it quite seriously: but it seemed +very flattering and poetic.... I was sorry we weren’t +in when you came for us. Tell me what you did with +yourself all afternoon.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span></p> + +<p>“I walked out to the old graveyard and sat there,” I +replied.</p> + +<p>“How cheerful!”</p> + +<p>“It was rather: at any rate I liked it.... Let us +go along here,” I added. “We can get home round this +way. It is a good deal longer, but— Do you mind?”</p> + +<p>“Not if it doesn’t keep us too late.”</p> + +<p>“I have been thinking about the artist’s apprentice,” +I began. “Do you smell the meadow-sweet?”</p> + +<p>“The artist’s apprentice? Oh, yes! Well, what were +you thinking about him?”</p> + +<p>“That he must paint your portrait.”</p> + +<p>“But can he?”</p> + +<p>“He can try, like other apprentices.”</p> + +<p>“When?”</p> + +<p>“Any time. To-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“Really? Do you paint?”</p> + +<p>“Only a little in water-colours. I’ve not had any +lessons.”</p> + +<p>“And you’ve made pictures?”</p> + +<p>“No, just a few sketches. I never finish anything. +Just something to remind me of—things.”</p> + +<p>“You must show them to me.”</p> + +<p>“If you like; but you won’t see anything in them; +nobody ever does. They’re only meant for myself—and +they’re no use anyway.”</p> + +<p>“What did you really mean by your letter, Peter?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know—burn it. I meant everything that’s +there, but I’m not sure now what <em>is</em> there. After I had +written it I went out and lay down on the golf-links and +listened to the sea.... Would you like me to take you +to my old graveyard? I expect you’ll be going to church +there on Sunday.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean now?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. It’s not far away—just across those fields.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span></p> + +<p>We walked on through the scented darkness.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know that I like graveyards,” said Katherine, +doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“I don’t either—new ones—but this is very old.”</p> + +<p>I helped her across the stile. Out of the shadow of the +tall hedge, the grassy country lay grey and unsubstantial +under the rising moon. The black spire of the church +showed through the trees, and in a little while we reached +the low wall where I had sat all the afternoon. But how +changed the place was! Flooded with fantastic moonlight, +only the shadows now seemed real.</p> + +<p>“You do not want to go inside?” Katherine asked, +dissuasively.</p> + +<p>“No; we can see it from here.” And I leaned over the +low wall. “It is not like a modern cemetery,” I again told +her. “There is nothing horrid here. There are no bodies;—nothing +but a little dust, and a few spirits, perhaps, that +have not gone away.”</p> + +<p>“Ghosts? Are you not afraid of them?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. Not now, at any rate; these ghosts are +friendly; they are so old.”</p> + +<p>“Have you seen them?”</p> + +<p>“No. I saw one at home in my bedroom when I was a +little chap, but it was not nice; it was not like these.... +You are buried here,” I added, smiling.</p> + +<p>But Katherine turned away quickly. “Don’t,” she said. +“Why do you like to be so morbid? Besides, I don’t think +it is right.”</p> + +<p>I could see that I had vexed her, and I changed the +subject.</p> + +<p>Down by the grave just below us the tiny green light of a +glow-worm glimmered, but I did not point it out to Katherine. +A fairy tale of Hans Andersen’s came into my mind, and +I saw Death, like an old gardener, floating over the wall with +a soul, like a baby, folded in his arms; and I watched him<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span> +lay it softly to sleep under the trees. I had forgotten all +the details of the story, but I made a story for myself, and +the moonlight on the grass and on the weather-worn grave-stones, +and the black, lurking shadows, and the still, moon-drenched +church, wove into it a mysterious beauty. It +seemed to me that something might happen now that would +make, for me at least, all things different for ever after, that +would push the boundaries of life infinitely further back, +by bringing a dimmer, vaster world directly into relation +with me. In that world, perhaps, they dreamed of this, just +as I was now dreaming of it.</p> + +<p>I was aroused by Katherine. “We must go, Peter.” +She laid her hand on my arm.</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>I took a last look, and then stepped out briskly beside her.</p> + +<p>“I oughtn’t to have brought you here,” I said, “out of +your way.”</p> + +<p>“I enjoyed coming. I am not in any hurry myself, but +you know how early they go to bed, and it must be getting +late.”</p> + +<p>“Do you like me, Katherine,” I asked, pleasantly.</p> + +<p>“If I had disliked you I don’t suppose I should have +tramped all these miles with you.”</p> + +<p>“You are sure I don’t bore you, or anything?”</p> + +<p>“Not up to the present. Why do you ask?” she smiled.</p> + +<p>“I just wanted to make sure. Girls, as a rule, would +rather have older people than I am—wouldn’t they—fellows +like the curate? I only mention him because you +happen to have met him. You’re seventeen, which means +that you’re grown up, and——”</p> + +<p>“I can’t make up my mind what you are,” Katherine +interrupted, laughing aloud. “The first night I saw you +you were frightened to open your mouth, and now you’re +saying all kinds of things.”</p> + +<p>“That shouldn’t be said?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span></p> + +<p>“No; I like them. I daresay in ten years’ time I won’t +care to be told how old I am, but at present it’s all right.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t mean anything except that there’s a difference +between us. Girls often get married at seventeen.”</p> + +<p>“I think, you know, you’re rather a dear in your own +way,” she said, thoughtfully.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was late, and the house was quiet. When I leaned out +of my window I could hear the sound of the waves, but no +other sound; then I opened my bedroom door softly, and +crept out into the passage. From my father’s room there +came a heavy, muffled snoring as I made my way downstairs. +The hall-door I unfastened with the same elaborate +precautions against noise, but I left it open behind me, only +slipping in the door-mat to keep it from slamming. Once +outside, I felt safe.</p> + +<p>The night was clear and full of moonlight, and my black +shadow danced fantastically before me on the white, bare +road. Not a soul was abroad, and as I walked I had a +curious sense of freedom and exhilaration; old songs of +romance and adventure hummed in my ears, and I wanted +them to come true. Contrary to my expectation and to my +desire, Katherine and Gerald were waiting for me at the +lodge-gate, in the shadow of the hawthorn hedge, and +Katherine held a parcel in her hand.</p> + +<p>We did not talk very much as we went quickly on, +following the same road we had taken on the morning of our +picnic. I kept a sharp look-out, but could see no sign of any +of the other boys. Below us, on our left, the sea murmured +and splashed through the warm delicious night; on the +right, the Mourne Mountains rose, black against the +sky.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span></p> + +<p>“I’m afraid we’re rather late,” I remarked after a while. +Then I added, “You’ll have to take an oath of secrecy.”</p> + +<p>I had already told them all they would have to do, but I +was a little nervous, for I had no idea what kind of reception +they would get, and to help to tide matters over I had +recommended Katherine, if she came, to bring a supply of +provisions, which would always be so much in their favour. +For myself I didn’t care a straw, though I knew what I was +doing would make me unpopular.</p> + +<p>We had walked for about a quarter of an hour and had +left the village well behind us when down towards Maggie’s +Leap I saw the red glow of a bonfire. We turned to the +sea, clambering over the rough ground, till presently, in +a hollow, we saw them, seven or eight boys, sitting round +a fire. Thirty feet below, the sea looked black and strange; +and the mysterious night floated about us, a night of +wonderful beauty.</p> + +<p>There was an awkward moment when we advanced into +the firelight, and before I introduced them. A silence +followed my very lame speech, in the chill of which Gerald +lit a cigarette, and we took our seats, slightly beyond the +main circle. Nobody made room for us, and when Katherine +produced her contributions to the supper I feared at +first they were going to be refused. We seemed to have +dissipated the romantic atmosphere of the gathering, nor +was anything said about the Dales taking a vow of secrecy, +which was, nevertheless, one of the rules of the club. I +could see Sam Geoghegan, a boy whom I had never liked, +but who was the biggest boy there, whispering to his right-hand +neighbour, and I knew he was talking about us.</p> + +<p>However, as supper progressed, the atmosphere thawed +somewhat, and I began to hope things would turn out all +right. Willie Breen, who had been fumbling in his pocket, +now produced a small bottle filled with some bright red +liquid and held it up to the light, gazing at it in silence.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span> +Suddenly, when everybody’s attention was fixed on him, +his face stiffened into an expression of suppressed agony, +and he gasped for breath, drawing his hand across his +forehead.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter, Billy? Stomach bad?” asked Sam.</p> + +<p>But Willie’s eyes were closed. “If I fall down,” he +sighed in a whisper, “an’ a deadly pallor creeps over me, +force open my teeth with a knife, and pour a single drop +of this blood-red liquid down my throat——”</p> + +<p>“How can you pour a drop?” interrupted Sam.</p> + +<p>“Unless it is too late,” said Willie, “you will see the +colour slowly come back to my cheeks and suffuse them with +the glow of life, until at last, when you don’t expect it, I’ll +open my eyes and say, ‘Where am I?’”</p> + +<p>“<em>Does</em> he have fits?” Katherine whispered.</p> + +<p>“No: it’s only ‘Monte Cristo,’” I told her.</p> + +<p>Katherine looked at him wonderingly, but Willie had +already his mouth crammed with bread and sardines, the +sardines she herself had brought.</p> + +<p>Most of the boys now lit cigarettes, which Gerald had +given them. From the darkness below, the sound of the +sea rose up, weird and melancholy, full of an inexpressible +loneliness. The warm, ruddy light of the fire flitted across +fresh young faces. A dim fragrance seemed to be blown +down from the woods, and to mingle with the saltness of +the sea.</p> + +<p>Sam Geoghegan said suddenly, “I’m a socialist.”</p> + +<p>This announcement fell rather flat. The beauty of the +night had cast a vague spell upon the other members of the +club, and they were content to be silent.</p> + +<p>“Do you mean like the chaps who were round last week +with the cart?” somebody asked indifferently, after a long +pause.</p> + +<p>“They gave one of the wee books they had with them to +my father,” said Sam.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span></p> + +<p>“What is it?” asked Willie Breen.</p> + +<p>“What’s what?”</p> + +<p>“A socialist.”</p> + +<p>“It’s not an ‘it,’ it’s a man. It means that everybody +ought to get the same chance. There should be no privileges +nor private property nor anythin’.”</p> + +<p>“But whenever you’ve got things they’re yours,” said +Willie Breen, unconvinced.</p> + +<p>“You don’t have things—isn’t that what I’m saying? +Everything belongs to the State—they belong to everybody.”</p> + +<p>“Socialists are always poor,” put in Sam’s chum, Robbie +McCann, unenthusiastically. “Those lads that were round +here tried to get up a collection.”</p> + +<p>“Of course they’re poor,” said Sam, pityingly. “You +can’t give up every thin’ and be rich, can you? For dear +sake have a bit of wit!”</p> + +<p>“Would <em>their</em> aunt have to give up her place?” asked +Willie Breen, jerking his head toward the Dales.</p> + +<p>“Why wouldn’t she? Does it belong to her?”</p> + +<p>This was a bold idea, and Sam accompanied it with a +glare of defiance at Gerald, from whom, nevertheless, a +minute ago he had accepted a second cigarette.</p> + +<p>“Of course it belongs to her,” said Willie, wonderingly.</p> + +<p>“Not rightly. Man alive, but you’re all thick in the +head. The point is that nobody has a right to anything—more’n +anybody else, I mean.”</p> + +<p>“You know all about it, don’t you?” asked Gerald, +gently.</p> + +<p>“I know more than you, anyway, stink-pot,” said Sam. +Two or three of the bigger boys laughed, and I began to +foresee trouble.</p> + +<p>“We needn’t start a row, need we?” I suggested, amicably.</p> + +<p>“I’m not startin’ a row; it was him. What call has he +to put in his jaw. He wasn’t asked to come.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span></p> + +<p>“He was asked,” I replied.</p> + +<p>“Ay—maybe by you—that’s nothin’.”</p> + +<p>“Let’s tell stories,” Willie Breen proposed. “Do you +know how they make castor oil? There’s a woman told me +she saw it. It was a big round room, and corpses hanging +from hooks in the ceiling; and from the ends of their toes +yellow drops were falling into a basin. That was castor oil.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure. Anybody can blether you up, Billy.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not saying I believe it.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a wonder.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly a deep, low boom rose up from the sea, as if +coming out of the infinite night, swelling, like the heavy +bass note of an organ, and dying away.</p> + +<p>Katherine laid her hand on my arm. “What was that?” +she said.</p> + +<p>“It’s nothing,” I murmured; but a vague sense of awe +had crept over the little group.</p> + +<p>“It came last summer for the first time, didn’t it?” +asked George Edge, a boy who had not spoken before. He +had been lying on his back, looking up at the floating stars, +but he now raised himself on his elbow and looked out to +sea. He was not one of the village boys, but his people +came down every summer for two months, and I had known +him all my life. “My mother gets frightened when she +hears it,” he went on.</p> + +<p>There was a pause, and then the sound came again, +floating up, weird and mysterious, as from somewhere far +out on the water. We drew closer round the fire, and +began again to talk, but the conversation had grown darker.</p> + +<p>“It was here that the murder was,” said another boy, +hidden in the shadow of the rock, so that his voice seemed +a disembodied sound speaking out of the darkness.</p> + +<p>“Just over there,” said George Edge.</p> + +<p>“What murder?” asked Gerald.</p> + +<p>The voice from the shadow spoke again. “It was a man<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span> +called Dewar. There was two of them comin’ home one +winter afternoon from Annalong, O’Brian and Dewar. +O’Brian had been gettin’ money, and they both had their +load of drink. It was dirty weather and no one on the +road, and maybe they fell out about somethin’. Any way, +next day they got O’Brian down below there on the stones, +his face bashed in you wouldn’t know him. Him and +Dewar were seen leavin’ Annalong together, and they got +Dewar lying drunk in his own house, and he confessed and +was hung for it.”</p> + +<p>“But how did he do it?” Gerald asked.</p> + +<p>“He smashed him on the face with a lump of rock, and +then threw him down into the sea. They say there are +nights when you can hear O’Brian. It’s like this.” He +gave a low wail that shrilled up to a cry.</p> + +<p>“I’m goin’ home,” said Willie Breen, rising to his feet.</p> + +<p>“Wee scaldy! You’ll have to go by yourself,” jeered +Sam. “And you’ll meet him as sure as death. You’ll +know him, because he won’t have any face on him, only a +lock of blood. And Dewar with him, with his neck broke.” +Sam’s head drooped horribly to his shoulder.</p> + +<p>Willie Breen sat down.</p> + +<p>“When you talk about ghosts or spirits it’s supposed to +bring them near,” said George Edge. “It gives them a kind +of power over you.”</p> + +<p>“For goodness sake stop all that rubbish,” cried Katherine, +indignantly. “Can’t you see you’re frightening the +child out of his wits!”</p> + +<p>“Go to her, baby. Hold her hand,” mocked Sam.</p> + +<p>Willie turned angrily on his protectress. “I’m not +frightened. It’s you that’s frightened. You shouldn’t be +here at all. There shouldn’t be any women in the club.”</p> + +<p>“Faith, he’s right there!” Sam exclaimed.</p> + +<p>But George Edge, sitting up, pointed out to sea. +“Listen,” he said impressively.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span></p> + +<p>We all sat still, Willie Breen with wide-open eyes. A +moment after, with a blade of grass between his thumbs, +Sam made an unearthly screech in the little boy’s ear. +It was too much, and Willie set up a howl.</p> + +<p>At the same instant Katherine turned to Sam and he +received a resounding slap on his fat face. Instantly there +was tumult. Sam was on his feet, red as a turkey-cock, +blustering of all he would do if Katherine were not a girl. +Then he spied Gerald, and gave him a blow on the chest that +almost sent him into the fire. “That’s for you, you ‘get.’”</p> + +<p>Gerald drew back, neither speaking, nor returning the +blow: the other boys had surrounded them. I saw Gerald’s +face, and it was very white; but he did nothing, he was +afraid. That he should be disgusted me, and at the same +time I was furious with Sam, whom, for that matter, I had +always detested. I waited just long enough to give Gerald +a chance to face him, if he wanted to; then I gave Sam a +slap with my open hand on his cheek. It was the second he +had received within two minutes, and somehow, even in the +excitement, I couldn’t help being amused.</p> + +<p>We stripped to our shirts and trousers and moved out into +the moonlight. Katherine hovered in the background, but +made no attempt either to interfere or to go away. Gerald +had disappeared. I looked at Sam’s big fists. I knew he +was taller and heavier than I was, but I was not afraid of +him; instead, I had a cold determination to lick him. I +felt elated; I was glad Gerald had drawn back, since it gave +me this chance of showing Katherine what a hero I was. +We chose seconds, and there was a time-keeper, though no +one had a watch, for mine was wound up and safe under my +pillow at home. We had little science, but were mortally in +earnest.</p> + +<p>At the beginning of the second round the nervous tremor +of Sam’s mouth as he stepped into the ring gave me a cruel +pleasure. I did not believe very much in his pluck, and I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span> +was now quite confident as to the finish. It was in the +middle of the third round, and we were both panting and +bleeding, when Michael, the policeman, appeared on the +scene, springing up as if from the bowels of the earth. How +he came to be out of bed at such an hour, and in this +particular spot, I never discovered, but he stepped in +between us and stopped the fight.</p> + +<p>“Well now, this is nice goings on! Will you tell me +what it’s all about?”</p> + +<p>“You go quietly to hell,” said Sam in a low voice.</p> + +<p>The others chimed in. “It’s none of your business, +Michael, we’re not in the town.”</p> + +<p>“Do you tell me that, now? Well, I’ll be troubling you +to go home to your beds every one of yous. This is no place +for you, Miss,” he added, having discovered Katherine in +the background, “with a lot of young rapscallions. I’ll +see you safe home.”</p> + +<p>But Katherine did not move.</p> + +<p>“Let them finish, Michael. Nobody’ll ever know you +were here. There’ll be no talk.”</p> + +<p>Michael wavered. The presence of Katherine obviously +both troubled and puzzled him, for of course he knew who +she was. He turned to her again, but she had withdrawn +into the shadow of the rocks, whither he followed her, and +they whispered together in inaudible tones. Then he came +back. Katherine had disappeared; possibly she had +followed Gerald, who would hardly have gone very far +without her; at any rate I could not look after her now.</p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose you’ll be wanting to settle this,” said +Michael, doubtfully.</p> + +<p>His words were received with an outburst of cheers and +laughter. A faint greyness of dawn was already spreading +over the eastern sky. “Time!” called George Edge, and I +noticed that he had actually borrowed Michael’s big silver +watch.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Next morning I got a rowing up from my father. Indeed, +as soon as I saw my face in the glass, I knew it would be +quite useless to try to hide what had happened, and I told +him frankly I had been fighting. Fortunately, it was not +necessary for me to say anything about our club, nor did +I even mention Sam’s name. I simply told him that the +fight had taken place at night to prevent its being stopped, +and after that held my peace. My main feeling, in spite +of my father’s lecture, was that I was extraordinarily glad +it <em>had</em> taken place, for I had come out of it victorious, even +though I was pretty sure I had received more punishment +than I had given. My state of mind absurdly resembled +that of a young cock who gets up on a wall to crow, and +nothing my father could say had the least power to damp +my spirits. My face—especially all round my forehead and +temples—was beautifully and variously marked, yet there +was nothing I more ardently desired than that Katherine +should see me in this condition. I even felt amicably +disposed towards Gerald, who, after all, couldn’t help being +a coward. Perhaps he would come round this morning +to see how I had fared.</p> + +<p>But nobody came, and in the afternoon I determined +to go up to Derryaghy. Willie Breen, who now regarded +me in the light of a hero, accompanied me. When I left +him at the lodge-gate, instead of going to the hall-door,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span> +I went round to the back of the house, hoping to find +Katherine on the terrace. She was not there; nobody +was there but Miss Dick, who cried out at once on seeing +my battered condition. Her tone was certainly far enough +removed from that of Willie Breen to have cooled my +conceit had such a thing been possible, but fortunately +she was too much occupied with a letter she kept folding +and unfolding to bestow any very lengthy attention on +my appearance. “My sister, Mrs. Arthur Jenkins,” she +began, not because I was worthy of her confidence, but +because there was nobody else, “wants me to go and stay +with her. I don’t know what to do. Mrs. Carroll may +not be able to spare me; though I haven’t been there for +a long time.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you ought to go,” I said easily. “Where is everybody?” +I looked round, preparatory to making my +escape. Miss Dick regarded me doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“The last time I was there the youngest child had +croup. They were very anxious about him; indeed the +doctor almost gave him up; though he managed to pull +through in the end, and is quite strong now. Not that +any of them are actually what you would call robust. +They really take after Arthur, Mr. Jenkins that is, though +Sissie, that’s my sister, always says <em>he’s</em> stronger than he +looks. I’m sure I hope so, for he looks wretched. The +whole family, you know, the whole Jenkins family I mean, +are vegetarians, and vegetarians, whatever they may feel, +invariably <em>look</em> ill. When I say that to Sissie she always +gets cross, as if I could help it! But that’s what people +are like. Arthur wants to bring up the children in the +same way, which is silly, and, to my mind, trifling with +their lives. Besides, it’s so difficult when you’ve only one +maid who has to do everything: and they only give fourteen, +and what can you get for fourteen nowadays, even +in the country? You certainly can’t expect a girl like that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span> +to cook two dinners a day, because, you see, Sissie eats +meat.” She stopped suddenly, as if she had lost the thread +of her discourse. “We’re all going to a garden-party at +Castlewellan. I’m just waiting for the others. Except +Gerald—he won’t come. You’ll find him over there,”—she +waved her left hand. “He’s put up a hammock and +he’s been sleeping in it all day. He’s dreadfully lazy. He +won’t even practise. And though he’s so polite and +gentlemanly, I must say he’s really rather irritable: he +got quite cross at lunch. I don’t think Katherine understands +him. People with very artistic feelings, I’m sure, <em>are</em> +more easily annoyed than others. It’s not as if he were +just an ordinary person like you or me.”</p> + +<p>Whether I was an ordinary person or not, I didn’t relish +being told so, even by Miss Dick, and I decided, as I had +frequently decided before, that she was a stupid creature, +and that I didn’t like her. I left her referring to the +epistle from Mrs. Arthur Jenkins, or Sissie, or whatever +she was called, and went to look for Gerald.</p> + +<p>He had heard me coming, for when I found him he +had swung himself out of his hammock and was standing +beside it.</p> + +<p>“Are the others gone yet?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“They’re just starting. I only saw Miss Dick.”</p> + +<p>“They’re going to some party, thank the Lord!”</p> + +<p>“Yes; she told me.”</p> + +<p>A pause followed, for I didn’t know what to say, and +he himself kept silence. What I had intended to do was +to put him at his ease, to let him know that it was all right +about last night, but my magnanimity and sympathy were +evidently quite superfluous, and I was annoyed at this.</p> + +<p>We strolled back slowly to the house. “Wouldn’t it +be rather a good time to play to me?” I said. “You +promised to, and now we have the place to ourselves.”</p> + +<p>“If you like.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span></p> + +<p>We entered by the open window, and pulling the sofa +over beside it, I lay down in supreme laziness among a +heap of coloured cushions. Gerald went at once to the +piano.</p> + +<p>“What sort of music do you care for?” he asked me. +“Or shall I just play anything?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; whatever you feel in the mood for.”</p> + +<p>His head was bent a little over the key-board, and he +seemed to be thinking of what he should play. I watched +a tendril of clematis that waved softly over my head, and +every now and again I breathed in the sweet scent of a +stalk of mignonette I had gathered in passing. My thoughts +floated away through the quiet afternoon, and I began +to wonder what things were like when there was no one +there to be conscious of them.</p> + +<p>I know now that it was the fifteenth Prelude, but at the +time I had never even heard the name of Chopin, and all +I was aware of was that a soft, very delicate tune, was +coming to me across the room, with a curious pallor, suggestive +of the whiteness of water. I half closed my lids +and lay absolutely still. Even in my ignorance I knew +that the beauty of Gerald’s playing was extraordinary. It +may have had many faults; he may have been incapable of +doing all kinds of things that professional pianists can do; +he may have been, and probably was, deficient in power: +I do not know. He seemed to caress the notes rather than +to strike them, he seemed literally to draw the music out, +and the whole tone had a kind of liquid, singing quality, +such as I have never heard since save in the playing of +Pachmann. As I listened, the music gathered force and +sombreness, growing louder and darker in a heavily marked +crescendo, and then once more it passed into the clear soft +tune with which it had begun.</p> + +<p>The sound had stopped. I said nothing; I simply +waited. The cool, pleasant summer afternoon had become<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span> +full of lovely voices which flickered, like waves of coloured +light, across my senses. Pensively, a little shyly even, a +simple, drooping melody breathed itself out on the air with +a strange hesitation and indecision, rising and falling, faltering, +repeating itself, resting on the “F” with a kind of +desire that gathered intensity as the note swelled and died +away, sinking back into “D.”</p> + +<p>Listening to Gerald playing that sixth Nocturne, listening +to him playing all that followed it, you would have thought +he was a youth of the deepest feelings, yet I could never +find any trace of those feelings at any other time. Somewhere, +I suppose, they must have been, somewhere below +the surface, but I was never able to discover them. It +was as if his soul only came into being when he sat down +at a piano. When he played you could see him listening +to his own music, you could see him drinking it up as if it +were the perfume of my mignonette, as if there were some +finer echo audible only to himself. And his playing would +alter, would grow gayer, or a kind of weariness would creep +into it. I offer these only as the impressions I received +at the time; what I should receive now I cannot tell. Yet +I find it hard to believe I was utterly mistaken. It was +never my fortune to hear him in later years, when I had +heard many famous pianists—and I suppose I have heard +practically all those of my time—but I cannot help thinking +he might have been among the greatest had he not chosen +to be something else, something I last saw at a café in +Berlin. The puffed, horrible face, the glazed, sodden eyes—no, +there was no music there. Or if there was, it was +hidden, buried, lost for ever in that desecrated, half-paralysed +body, buried alive, like a lamp burning in a tomb. +Now, I have nothing to go upon save those first impressions +of a boyish, uncultivated taste, and the fact that in after +years the playing of Vladimir de Pachmann brought back +sharply to me the memory of that afternoon.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span></p> + +<p>He played on for nearly two hours. In the end he stopped +abruptly and got up from the piano, while I thanked him. +I knew that he knew he had given me a tremendous +pleasure, and there was no need to say much. He told me +the music I had been listening to was all, or nearly all, by +one composer.</p> + +<p>“And that last thing?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“That was one of the Studies—the one in A flat. I +can’t play anybody else. I don’t mean that other things +are more difficult, but they don’t suit me.” He was silent, +until he added, “I may as well tell you that I’m not as +good as you think.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t told you yet what I think,” I answered, +smiling, for I was still under the glamour of his mood, and +indeed at that moment I could have hugged him. I did +not want to talk of ordinary things. The music had +wakened in me a feeling of melancholy, like a memory of +some delicious thing that had happened long ago, and +would never happen again.</p> + +<p>I tried to explain my very tenuous ideas to Gerald, but +they did not interest him. And already I felt our relation +altering. When he was at the piano he had seemed to me +a kind of angel; now that other element, that element +of latent antagonism, was beginning to re-awaken in me.</p> + +<p>Tea had meanwhile been laid for us upon the terrace. +Tony, who had been asleep outside in the sun, threw off +drowsiness like an outworn garment, and sat up beside my +chair, with raised head, and beautiful, dark eyes that watched +every movement I made, especially those which happened +to convey a piece of bread and butter or cake into my +mouth. When I looked at him he instantly gave half a +dozen quick wags of his tail, and then resumed his former +attitude of motionless expectation, to which attention was +attracted by a variety of queer little highly expressive +noises he produced from somewhere in his throat. Nobody<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span> +being there to prevent me, I gave him about half the cake, +piece by piece, each of which he swallowed almost whole, +and with a wag of the tail to show how he appreciated +this delicate pastime.</p> + +<p>“Did you get much hurt last night?” Gerald asked me +suddenly.</p> + +<p>The question was unexpected, for I looked upon the +whole incident as closed. I glanced up from feeding Tony. +“No; not much,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“And the other—I forget his name—Sam something?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Sam’s all right.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think I should have fought him?”</p> + +<p>“One was enough,” I said carelessly.</p> + +<p>“Did you think I was afraid?”</p> + +<p>I looked away. His question seemed somehow to be all +wrong. “I didn’t think about it,” I answered, after a +slight pause.</p> + +<p>“It must have looked as if I were afraid,” he went on. +“I thought so afterwards.”</p> + +<p>I couldn’t imagine what he was trying to get at. I +wanted to stop him talking like this. It was even less to +my taste than his funking Sam last night had been.</p> + +<p>“Are you working at anything besides music?” I asked +him, jerkily.</p> + +<p>He shook his head. “Not very much. I have a tutor. +Why won’t you talk about last night?”</p> + +<p>“What is there to talk about? I’m sorry it turned out +that way, but I can’t help it, though of course it was my +fault for taking you without letting the others know. I +should have told them beforehand.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not afraid of that lout, anyway. If I see him +again——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, what’s the use of worrying about it?” I +interrupted, disgusted with his persistence.</p> + +<p>The pause that followed was an uncomfortable one. If<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span> +he had deliberately tried to efface the impression his music +had made upon me he could not have succeeded better.</p> + +<p>He gave a strange little laugh. “I see you don’t believe +me.”</p> + +<p>“No: I don’t believe you,” I answered bluntly, “and +I don’t know why you should want me to.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you think it is pleasant to be taken for a +coward?”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure it isn’t pleasant; but I can’t imagine that +it matters greatly to you what I think.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, if I hadn’t done what I did, you wouldn’t +have had <em>your</em> particular little swagger!”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t that rather a rotten sort of thing to say?” I +answered as I got up. “I think I’ll move on. Come, +Tony.”</p> + +<p>Gerald began to apologize.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s all right,” I said, coldly, leaving him there.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Katherine, who had promised to sit to me for her portrait, +kept putting me off from day to day, and it was nearly a +week later when I made my first attempt. By some happy +chance on that particular afternoon I had found her alone, +for as a rule Gerald was there, and even now it was almost +as if he were with us, since she began at once to talk about +him.</p> + +<p>“You must take off your hat,” I said, ignoring her +remarks.</p> + +<p>She obeyed me, and I began to draw in my outline.</p> + +<p>“Gerald likes you,” she said. “I wish you would be +friends with him.”</p> + +<p>“But I am friends with him,” I answered, abstractedly.</p> + +<p>“Not very much. You would rather he was not with +us.”</p> + +<p>“That doesn’t mean I’m not friends with him.”</p> + +<p>“He has so few friends,” she went on, still clinging to the +subject.</p> + +<p>“Has he? I’m afraid, no matter how much I tried, we +could never really be chums.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand him.”</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you understand him?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose because I’m stupid. Besides, what I do +understand I don’t greatly like.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span></p> + +<p>She was not offended; she simply asked, “What is the +matter with him?”</p> + +<p>I feared I had been horribly rude, but the words had +slipped out before I could check them. “There is nothing +the matter with him,” I answered hastily. “I wasn’t +thinking of what I was saying. It is only that—that +we’re not suited to each other: we’re too different. At all +events, it is of very little importance, seeing that you’re +going away in a few days.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll be back again next year, I expect. Aunt Clara +wants me to come. <em>She</em> isn’t very friendly to Gerald either.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you only fancy that; of course she is. And there’s +Miss Dick, who worships the very ground he walks on.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Dick’s too silly for anything.”</p> + +<p>“There you are! And yet you want me to worship him +too!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t want anything of the kind; and you know +that. But of course if you don’t like him I can’t make +you. I think that night—the night we went with you to +your meeting—has something to do with it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh that!” I answered lightly. It seemed to me a long +time ago, though there was a yellow bruise still visible above +my left eyebrow.</p> + +<p>I finished my outline and began to paint. The other +picture had been painted indoors, I reflected. I don’t +know what made me think of it, but I couldn’t get it out +of my mind. It kept floating between me and my work, +and I seemed to see it quite as clearly as I saw Katherine +herself. Still I persevered, though my progress was slow +and from the beginning unsatisfactory. I talked to +Katherine, or rather I replied to her, for what she said +penetrated only the fringe of my consciousness. She had +brought a book out with her, and by and by she began to +read aloud, but I have no idea what it was she read. I +painted away most diligently, yet all the time I couldn’t<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span> +get rid of a foolish impression that I was being watched. +And this fancy, utterly absurd if you like, took possession +of me, grew stronger and stronger, till it seemed to tremble +on the verge of reality.</p> + +<p>“What are you looking at?” Katherine asked me suddenly, +having reached, I suppose, the end of a chapter or a +story.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” I answered guiltily.</p> + +<p>But she wheeled round in her chair, and stared back at +the house. I dipped my brush in water, and remarked +quite quietly, “It’s only that I thought I saw someone at +the window—the third window from the left, upstairs.”</p> + +<p>Katherine shaded her eyes with her hand. “I can’t see +anybody: the sun catches the glass. It must be one of +the maids, for there’s nobody else in.” She yawned and +took up the book again. “If it <em>is</em> one of the maids,” she +added, “she might have had sufficient sense to bring us +out tea. I’ve been simply dying for some for the last half-hour, +only I didn’t like to disturb you.”</p> + +<p>“She hasn’t been there half an hour,” I replied. “I’ll +go and tell them. Promise you won’t look at what I’ve +done while I’m away: it isn’t finished.”</p> + +<p>“All right. I must see it when it <em>is</em> though: you’re not +to tear it up or anything.”</p> + +<p>“No, of course not.”</p> + +<p>I walked back to the house, and not till I was quite close +did I glance up at the windows above me. Naturally there +was nothing. I hesitated in the hall. Had I been really +sincere in thinking I had seen anything or not? I couldn’t +be quite sure, for there was no doubt I often deliberately +gave my imagination a kind of push in a certain definite +direction, started it off, as it were, and then left it to perform +all kinds of antics. Before me lay the broad, low staircase. +Should I go up? I leaned against the balusters and +listened, gazing aloft into the cool shadow. Suddenly I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span> +heard a door open near the kitchen, then the rustle of a +dress, and one of the servants appeared. I told her that +Miss Dale would like tea brought outside, and went into +the morning-room myself for a small folding-table, which +I carried back with me.</p> + +<p>I looked again at my drawing. “Tea will be here in a +minute or two,” I said. Then I handed the drawing to +Katherine, for it was a failure, and there was no use going +on with it.</p> + +<p>“Don’t hold it so close to you,” I cried, and Katherine +obediently stretched out her arm full length.</p> + +<p>“I think it’s quite good, you know, if it wasn’t meant to +be my portrait,—but it’s no more like me than Adam.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be so rude. Of course it’s like you.”</p> + +<p>A servant appeared with a tea-tray, and as soon as she +was gone I seated myself on the grass at Katherine’s feet. +When I had finished tea and had handed her back my empty +cup I still sat there.</p> + +<p>“Do you see that strip of yellow sand down below? It +always reminds me of a certain poem.”</p> + +<p>I knew Katherine was not fond of poetry; she had told +me so herself; but I repeated the verses aloud for my own +pleasure, in a sort of sing-song, laying tremendous stress +on the rhymes.</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“It was many and many a year ago,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">In a kingdom by the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">That a maiden there lived whom you may know</div> + <div class="verse indent3">By the name of Annabel Lee;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">And this maiden she lived with no other thought</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Than to love and be loved by me.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“<em>I</em> was a child and <em>she</em> was a child,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">In this kingdom by the sea;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">But we loved with a love that was more than love—</div> + <div class="verse indent3">I and my Annabel Lee;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Coveted her and me.</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“And this was the reason that, long ago,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">In this kingdom by the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling</div> + <div class="verse indent3">My beautiful Annabel Lee;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">So that her highborn kinsmen came</div> + <div class="verse indent3">And bore her away from me,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">To shut her up in a sepulchre</div> + <div class="verse indent3">In this kingdom by the sea.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“The angels, not half so happy in heaven,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Went envying her and me—</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know</div> + <div class="verse indent3">In this kingdom by the sea)</div> + <div class="verse indent1">That the wind came out of the cloud by night,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“But our love it was stronger by far than the love</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Of those who were older than we—</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Of many far wiser than we—</div> + <div class="verse indent1">And neither the angels in heaven above,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Nor the demons down under the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Can ever dissever my soul from the soul</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes</div> + <div class="verse indent3">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">And so all the night-tide, I lie down by the side</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">In her sepulchre there by the sea,</div> + <div class="verse indent3">In her tomb by the side of the sea.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>I looked up at Katherine and saw that she was smiling. +“It was written about this place,” I declared, “about just +that strip of yellow sand and that blue sea.”</p> + +<p>“And about just this little boy,” said Katherine, stroking +my hair back from my forehead.</p> + +<p>“Just this little boy,” I answered, narrowing my eyes +under her touch, “whom you think such a very little boy +indeed.”</p> + +<p>“Such a dear little boy,” murmured Katherine, lulling +me with her voice, and all the time stroking my hair.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span></p> + +<p>“Is he dear?” I asked eagerly.</p> + +<p>“I think so.”</p> + +<p>“And you like him?”</p> + +<p>“I like him very much.”</p> + +<p>“How much? What do you like about him?”</p> + +<p>She laughed. “I like everything about him?”</p> + +<p>“But what?”</p> + +<p>“The way he is: the way he looks: the way he pouts +when he is cross: the kind of things he says: the way he +asks questions: even the way he hesitates before some +letters, so that you can see what he is going to say in his +eyes before he can get it out.”</p> + +<p>I was intensely happy. I leaned back my head, and +Katherine’s dark blue eyes looked straight down into mine. +I could see nothing but that clear dark blue which seemed +to shut me out from the world, yet I knew she was smiling. +Then she bent lower and her lips lightly touched my forehead.</p> + +<p>Almost at the same moment I heard the swish of petticoats +rustling over the grass from behind. I sat up straight, +but did not look round till the rattle of tea-cups had ceased, +and the servant who was bearing them off had almost +reached the house.</p> + +<p>“Gracious! I hope she didn’t see me kissing you!” +said Katherine, half-laughing.</p> + +<p>“What matter?”</p> + +<p>“Of course it matters; and it’s your fault too, for +pretending to be a little boy and all that nonsense. I’m +sure she’s telling the cook about it at this moment. <em>She</em> +doesn’t think you’re a little boy. Get up at once.”</p> + +<p>I knew Katherine wasn’t really much perturbed, but I +got up and began to put away my colours, and we went back +to the house. I left my painting materials on the window-sill, +and, having made Katherine a present of my drawing, +we strolled down to the shore. As we walked along the +hard sand by the edge of the sea I wanted to tell her how<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span> +much I cared for her. It was an admirable opportunity, +and, if I could only get the first plunge over, I knew it would +be all right. But I couldn’t. White sea-gulls were swooping +and wheeling over the dark blue water, calling their +peculiar lonely cry, and the foam of the waves was white as +snow. “I <em>will</em> tell her: I <em>will</em> tell her,” I kept repeating +to my soul; and all the time I maintained a most discreet +silence on the subject, and babbled instead of the regatta +that would take place on Saturday, and of the chance of a +fine day. I had entered for two swimming-races and a +diving-competition, and Katherine was coming to see me. +I kept on talking about this, though I knew very well everything +would happen exactly as it had happened last year; +that in the swimming-races George Edge would be first and +I should be second, and that I should win the diving-competition; +and moreover I didn’t in the least care just then +whether the regatta took place or not.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>As a matter of fact I didn’t win the diving-competition; +I wasn’t even second; and my defeat was brought about +simply by my own exceeding eagerness to show off.</p> + +<p>On that Saturday the village was a holiday village. The +men and boys perspired freely under heavy, ugly, Sunday +clothes, and the women and girls were decked out in all +kinds of finery—bright dresses, trinkets, ribbons, and cheap +but brilliant hats. Why was it, I wondered, that all these +fine garments should have been chosen apparently for a +mysterious property they had of bringing out in the appearance +of their wearers a coarseness I never noticed on ordinary +occasions? Sam Geoghegan’s salmon-pink tie, Mr. McCann’s +fancy waistcoat, the peacock-blue dress of Annie Breen, +with its white lace collar—these were things positively +bewildering, if one realized that they represented the actual +taste of the persons they adorned.</p> + +<p>Every year the same programme was followed. In the +morning the water-races—boat-races and swimming-races—took +place; in the afternoon there were sports—foot-races, +tugs-of-war, wrestling—held in one of Mrs. Carroll’s fields.</p> + +<p>I drifted about in the crowd with a group of boys. Our +swimming-races came off fairly early, but I was only third +in each, and George Edge second, for a youth, whom neither +of us had ever seen or heard of before, turned up and carried +off both first prizes. This made me anxious about the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span> +diving-competition, which he had also entered for. We +were to go in off the end of the pier, where a platform with +a spring-board had been erected for us. Then, when we +had dived, we swam round to the ladder and climbed up +to take our turn again. It was the last event but one of +the morning’s programme, and had always been the most +popular. When the hour for it came round, having learned +in the meantime from some of the spectators that the +victorious stranger was a poor diver, I had regained +confidence, and, as the crowd drew in closer to watch us, +I was fully prepared to show them what was what. As +a matter of fact, my first two dives were all right, but, before +my third and last, I caught sight of Katherine standing +quite close to me, and the result of this was that I determined +to excel anything ever seen. I took a tremendous +race the full length of the platform, but, just at the end of +the spring-board, my foot slipped and I sprawled in flat on +my belly. The shock knocked all the wind out of me, and +the smack I gave the water could have been heard half a +mile away. It was extremely painful, and it put me out +of the competition; yet when I clambered up the iron ladder +I was greeted by volleys of laughter and humorous remarks. +My accident, indeed, appeared to be by far the most enjoyable +event of the morning. It did not seem to occur to +anybody, except one of the stewards, that I might be badly +hurt, and him, when he came to ask me if I were all right, +I sent about his business. I put on my overcoat and went +to the dressing-shed in a furious temper.</p> + +<p>The field where the sports took place lay about a mile +out of the village. Mrs. Carroll and some other ladies were +dispensing refreshments to all comers, and afterwards the +prizes would be given out. I went up to Derryaghy to +call for Katherine and Gerald, to go with them, but found +they were going to ride over, and were all ready to start +when I arrived. It was the first time I had seen Katherine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span> +on horseback, and she looked to me more beautiful than +ever. In her dark-blue riding-habit, with her sparkling +eyes and rosy cheeks, her radiant youth and health, she +made me think of the girl in the equestrian portrait by +Millais and Landseer, a coloured reproduction of which I +had cut out of a Christmas number and tacked up on the +wall in my bedroom. And straightway I saw in myself +the page-boy who stands by the gateway in that picture, +his eyes fixed in rapt admiration upon his mistress. They +rode away, an amazingly handsome pair, telling me they +would see me later up at the field, and to this I answered, +“Yes.” Mrs. Carroll and Miss Dick had already gone on +in the carriage, so I was left quite alone. I decided immediately +that I wouldn’t go to the sports: if they chose +to leave me like this I wasn’t going to run after them. I +mooned about, building a romance on the equestrian portrait +<em>motif</em>. I imagined myself as dying; some accident +had happened to me, and suddenly Katherine rode up and +springing down from her horse threw her arms round me, +kneeling in the blood and dust of the road. She kissed me +passionately, careless of all the people who watched her, +repeating again and again, “I love you—I love you—I love +you.”</p> + +<p>I gloated over this imaginary scene till I had squeezed the +last drop of colour out of it, and it ceased, by dint of much +repetition, to thrill me even faintly: then I went into the +house and nosed about for a book. A dozen had just come +down from the library in town, and, with a couple of volumes +of “Two on a Tower” under my arm, I made my way to the +shore.</p> + +<p>Gradually, in the warmth of the sunlight, I grew drowsy, +and the beautiful, breaking sea, and the harsh crying of the +gulls, soothed me and seemed to build up an enchanted +world about me, where I was shut in with the romance of +the tale I was reading. By and by, after perhaps two hours,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span> +I closed my book, though still keeping my finger in the place. +I reflected that nobody up at the field had spent such an +afternoon as I had spent, and I compared my spiritual +pleasure with their rough commonplace pleasures, and the +extraordinary superiority of my soul became immediately +apparent. Then my thoughts turned to the story I had +been reading. My sympathies were entirely enlisted by +Lady Constantine and her youthful astronomer, but particularly +by Lady Constantine. Even the fact that she was so +much older than her lover appealed to me. Her gentleness; +her intense femininity; her dark eyes; the softness +of her skin; the perfume of her hair; and the delight of her +caresses—these were present to me vividly, almost physically, +and I rejoiced in the love-scenes in the tower with a +frank and innocent sensuality, filling in the picture, where +it was blurred or vague, from my own imaginings.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>During that last week of August, after the Dales had left, +“I wandered lonely as a cloud.” Up to the eve of their +departure I had been happier than I had ever been in my +life, but as soon as they were gone I became a prey to sentimental +regret. If Katherine had cared for me as I cared for +her I might have found more comfort; but she didn’t, and +I was perfectly aware of the fact. Mingled with it all was +an increasing dread of the new existence I already saw +opening out before me. I distrusted it: I had, indeed, +that instinctive distrust of life itself, which contemplates +anything unknown with uneasiness, and clings with passion +to familiar faces and things.</p> + +<p>When the day of my departure, a Saturday, came round, +and I saw my box all corded and ready in the hall, I felt +extremely depressed. Now that I had said good-bye to +Mrs. Carroll it was as if I had cut myself completely adrift +from the past, and yet I believe I should have been willing +to go had I not been going to the McAllisters. The McAllisters +were our relations; the only ones I knew of. Aunt +Margaret was my father’s sister, and her husband kept a +shop in a street called Cromac Street. I had never been +to their house, but they had been down a good many times +to visit us, and I did not care for them. There were four +children, and I disliked them all, except George, the eldest; +and I disliked Aunt Margaret in particular; while to Uncle<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span> +George I was indifferent, seeing that he did not very much +count one way or the other. But to live with them!...</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll had wanted to send me to a school in England, +but my father would not permit this. He had an idea, and +nothing would ever shake it, that English public schools +were dens of iniquity. This he had gathered from some +article that had appeared in a review, and from the story +“Eric.” I suppose he thought I should fall a particularly +easy victim to the temptations I might be submitted to; +take, like the boys in “Eric,” to drink, “little by little,” or +even quite rapidly; come home disgraced; at any rate +he would not run the risk, when, by sending me to the +McAllisters, he could provide me with the “influence of a +religious home.” For Uncle George was religious, and so was +Aunt Margaret; and so, I supposed, were the children—George, +at least, I had been told, was a communicant—and it +was the thought of all this that now lay heavy on my soul.</p> + +<p>I was not to go up to town till the afternoon, and as we +sat down to our early dinner I could not, though I knew it +was absolutely useless, refrain from again taking up the +tabooed subject. I suggested how much better it would be +for me to go into lodgings of my own choosing. If they +were more expensive, Mrs. Carroll would not mind. “Whether +she would mind or not,” my father answered, “I should +have thought you would not have wanted to put her to any +unnecessary expense.”</p> + +<p>“But she wouldn’t mind doing it,” I repeated, obstinately. +“She told you she wanted to.”</p> + +<p>“You know very well that is not the question,” my +father said, more coldly. “I have explained why I think +it better that you should be with those who will look after +you. You are not old enough to be by yourself.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t like the McAllisters,” I answered, sullenly.</p> + +<p>My father looked annoyed. “Perhaps you think they +are not good enough for you?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span></p> + +<p>“They certainly aren’t,” I replied.</p> + +<p>It was a pity that our last meal together should have been +somewhat embittered by these remarks, but it was not altogether +my fault. For my father had been too extreme in +his measures. Under the impression that what I needed was +to get into surroundings which would more or less counteract +the supposed relaxing influence of Mrs. Carroll’s indulgence, +he had arranged that I was not even to come home for weekends, +but was to submit myself during the entire term to the +bracing effect of the McAllister family.</p> + +<p>No more was said upon the subject, and my father gave +me after dinner a little book, called “Daily Light,” which +I promised to read every night and morning. He came to +the station to see me off, and, as we were far too early, he +was obliged to stand for a quarter of an hour at the window +of the carriage, while I longed for the train to start, and we +both tried hard to find something to say. I was tormented +by an uncertainty as to whether he would expect me to kiss +him when I said good-bye. At the sound of the guard’s +whistle I thrust out my hand. We shook hands; that was +all; and, with the train beginning to move out of the station, +I sat back in the corner of the empty third-class carriage.</p> + +<p>I had a sense of leaving everything behind me, as if I had +been starting for the world’s end; and, curiously enough, as +much as, or more than, by any human face, I was haunted +by a vision of the house. I had forsaken it, and I felt its +low, faint call coming to me through the rain. I could see +the silent, closed rooms upstairs, the long passage with its +rows of brown portraits and the tall window at the end, and +it was as if a dust were dropping down upon these things, +covering them to sleep till I should return. The shadowy +ghosts slipped back into their picture-frames; gradually the +life died out of their eyes; and a cold, unbroken silence, like +the chill of death, closed over all that hidden under-world. +Outside the apples had begun to redden on the high brick<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span> +walls of the fruit-garden, but within the house all was frozen +and lifeless. They were my spirits, my ghosts, and could +live only while I loved them. I loved them still, but I was +too far away, and I might not find them when I came back.</p> + +<p>The landscape gliding past me showed through a fine, +grayish mist. It was cold, and I pulled up the windows, which +almost immediately became covered with the same mist that +drifted in the air outside. I wondered where Katherine was, +and what she was doing. I had not heard from her, though +I had written twice. Then I lay back in my uncomfortable +corner and tried to think of nothing.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>At the other end I was met by my cousin George, a big, +red-haired hobbledehoy of seventeen, with a curiously small +face, bright brown eyes with a reddish light in them, and a +freckled skin. George, I remembered, used to be amusing, +and when I saw him standing on the platform my spirits +rose a little. He proposed that I should send on my luggage, +and that we ourselves should walk, as he wanted to make a +call on the way. When we had arranged this we set out. +I had not been so frequently in Belfast that I did not take an +interest in the streets. Just now, it being Saturday afternoon, +they were full of people, and at the end of the Queen’s +Bridge some kind of noisy meeting—religious or political—was +in full swing, but we did not stop to listen. Presently +we turned to our left into a long straight street lined with +unattractive, unprosperous-looking shops, and so narrow +that in one place there was not room for two trams to pass. +There was a liberal sprinkling of public-houses, of cheap +clothiers and greengrocers, while here and there the gilded +sign of a pawnbroker hung out over the greasy pavement. I +was about to ask why we had chosen such a disagreeable +route, when George touched my arm and said cheerfully, +“Here we are.”</p> + +<p>“Here!” I echoed, with involuntary dismay. “But——”</p> + +<p>“We live over the shop,” George explained. He had +noticed my surprise, however, and had coloured.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span></p> + +<p>I pretended to have been only astonished that we had +reached our journey’s end so quickly, but I don’t know that +George was deceived. Inwardly I was furious with my +father for arranging for me to come to live in such a place, +with a public lavatory hardly ten yards away, and facing the +windows. The crowded street, the mean, dingy houses, the +mean, dingy people, the noise and rattle of innumerable +trams: it was all disgusting, even beyond my expectations! +And I was to live here! I simply wouldn’t do it.</p> + +<p>“We haven’t been here very long,” George continued. +“We used to be round in Shaftesbury Square.” Then, as +I stood motionless on the pavement, “Aren’t you coming +in?”</p> + +<p>I followed him into the shop in silence. As he pushed +open the door a bell answered with a clear, decisive ping. +There was a shop on either side of the passage—one stocked +with pipes, tobacco, cigarettes, and sweets; the other with +newspapers, stationery, and cheap editions of books in +hideous paper bindings. In the tobacco department there +was nobody; in the stationery department a girl was +moving about, fixing things. She turned round on our +entrance and George introduced me: “My cousin, Mr. +Peter Waring, Miss Izzy.”</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy and I shook hands. She smiled brightly upon +me and hoped I was in good health. She evidently knew +all about me, and had no need of George’s introduction. I +observed that she had a lot of glossy, brown hair, which she +wore twisted up in a coil on the top of her head in a way I +had never seen hair arranged before, and which was kept in +its place by long things like skewers, with large coloured +balls at their ends. She wore a pince-nez, and was neatly +dressed in dark blue, with a white linen collar and white +cuffs, rather mannish in type. It was very plain to me that +Miss Izzy had a great deal of style. She had also good +features, but her femininity had been slightly eclipsed by a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span> +tremendous air of business efficiency, and by the severity of +her pince-nez. I had never yet seen anybody nearly so +business-like as Miss Izzy looked, and if I had been an +employer of labour I should have engaged her as manager +at a large salary on the spot. Through the open door there +came the shrill angry voices of small boys playing football in +an alley at the side of the house. There was a squabble in +progress, a cross-fire of abusive language suddenly broken +by cries of, “Start a new match—Start a new match.”</p> + +<p>George was standing against the counter, and had begun +to pick his teeth with a pin extracted from the bottom of his +waistcoat. Miss Izzy went back to her task of arranging a +pile of new books, evidently just come in. She was working +out an elaborate pattern with their pictured covers, and as +she did so she read the titles aloud. “‘The Hour of Vengeance,’” +she proclaimed. “‘In Love’s Sweet Bondage,’” +she added, more dreamily. “‘The Clue of the Broken +Ruby’; ‘Cynthia Cyrilhurst’—it’s well for people that have +names like that!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think much of it,” said George.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy sighed, “It’s better than some, any way.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you like your own name?” I ventured.</p> + +<p>“My Christian name’s all right. But there’s no use being +called Althea, if it isn’t going to be backed up by anything! +Althea Izzy is neither one thing nor another.”</p> + +<p>“You can easily remedy that!” declared George, gallantly, +from the midst of his dental experiments.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy scrutinised him. “It wouldn’t be McAllister +that would do it,” she said.</p> + +<p>But George continued placidly to attend to his teeth. “I +hear Miss Johnson’s getting married at eight o’clock next +Friday,” he remarked.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy bounced round, knocking over a box of note-paper. +“How do <em>you</em> know?” she demanded, glaring at +him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I just heard,” said George, calmly. He carefully +inspected the pin before returning it to his waistcoat.</p> + +<p>“‘Just heard!’—through the key-hole, I suppose. It +strikes me you ‘just hear’ a deal you’re not meant to. And +they don’t want it talked about—mind that!”</p> + +<p>“Why don’t they want it talked about,” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Because they want a quiet wedding. She’s in a bakery, +and he’s a clerk in Nicholl’s, and, if it got out, the church +would be full.”</p> + +<p>The conversation was at this point interrupted by the +entrance of Uncle George, who appeared in the doorway, +coming in from the street. He was a quiet, gray little man, +and his movements always reminded me of those of a small +dog in a strange room, wandering about, sniffing furtively +at the legs of chairs and tables. He was timid, and when +he spoke to you he rubbed his hands together with an affectation +of cheerfulness that was directly contradicted by his +dark, melancholy eyes. He had always struck me as being +kind in his intentions, and I regretted that they had seemed +to count for so little when opposed to Aunt Margaret’s. +Uncle George was afraid of Aunt Margaret. He had an air +of assuming that there was perfect harmony between them, +but I had noticed that he rarely made a remark in her +presence without glancing at her to see how she would take +it. He reminded me of one of those old photographs one +discovers at the backs of frames, their features almost +obliterated from long exposure. His whole face, indeed, in +its pale irregularity, had a suggestion of vagueness, as if it +had been softly sponged over. His manner too—there was +something in it which seemed to blur, to rub out, the impression +of everything he said. His mind was lit by a kind +of twilight in which the outlines of things were lost, in which +opposites ceased to be contradictory, and impossibilities +found a friendly shelter. And this twilight was reflected in +his eyes, in their vague credulity, in the mildness of his<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span> +glance, which peeped out innocently from under ridiculously +fierce and bushy eyebrows. I knew Uncle George had +failed in his business some years ago, and it was difficult to +believe that he could ever be successful. His interest was +not primarily in such things, but in the church, where he was +a more perpetual figure than the minister, and in the church +meetings, which he never missed, and which he sometimes +even got up. I rather liked him; there was something +about him that made it easy to talk to him; and though he +was desperately religious, and held the same severe doctrines +as my father, his nature was so little aggressive that in +practice he was the most kindly and human creature in the +world.</p> + +<p>“How are you?” he asked, shaking my hand. “We’re +very glad to see you. How’s your father?” His left eye +twitched slightly while he talked, giving him a comical +appearance of winking very knowingly.</p> + +<p>“Quite well, thank you,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“Haven’t you been upstairs yet? Haven’t you seen +your Aunt Margaret? Why didn’t you take him to see +mother, George? Well, come along now, it’s time for tea. +I think you might leave the shop, Miss Izzy, and come too—a +special occasion, you know, a special occasion!” he laughed +and patted me on the shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Thanks, I’ve had my tea already,” Miss Izzy returned, +without enthusiasm. “And you’re having yours upstairs +to-night,” she added, somewhat tartly, seeing him move in +the wrong direction.</p> + +<p>“Oh! In the parlour; in honour of this young man; a +special occasion, a special occasion!” He repeated his +pleasantry, chuckling softly and rubbing his hands, while it +was all I could do to keep from returning his friendly and +unconscious wink.</p> + +<p>“I’d rather stay here than run up and down stairs every +time the bell rings,” Miss Izzy continued, the invitation to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span> +tea evidently rankling in her mind. From behind his father’s +back George blew a kiss to her.</p> + +<p>Aunt Margaret welcomed me without effusion. She was +an enormous woman, dark, middle-aged, and with a peculiar +smile that always made me feel uneasy. Her lips parted +and her teeth became visible, but otherwise her face underwent +no change, the expression in her hard, shining, black +eyes did not alter. It was, somehow, not a smile at all, but a +grimace, and disappeared with a startling suddenness, leaving +no trace behind it. When her face was at rest, her lips drew +in, as if by some mysterious suction. She wore a wig, +and it was this I think that helped to make her look peculiar, +and even slightly uncanny. I had been told that she suffered +from some obscure, internal disease, which at times caused +her great pain, but though she was white and fat and puffy, +she presented no appearance of being an invalid. As she +kissed me, a ceremony I would gladly have dispensed with, +I became conscious of a vague, sickly odour, reminding me +of the smell of a chemist’s shop.</p> + +<p>Uncle George asked her if tea would soon be ready, but +she gave him no answer; she only smiled in her strange +fashion, and began to question me about my father and my +journey—one would have thought I had been travelling all +day. Two small boys held her by her voluminous skirts, +my cousins, Gordon and Thomas. They were about six or +seven, I suppose, and singularly unattractive, the kind of +children who have perpetual colds and are never provided +with an adequate supply of pocket-handkerchiefs.</p> + +<p>I shook hands with Gordon and Thomas; I really couldn’t +do anything more; but their mother noticed my omission, +for they had raised damp, red-nosed, little faces to be kissed, +and though she only smiled again, I was convinced that +already she had taken a dislike to me. Possibly her dislike +dated back to an earlier period than our present meeting, +but, with a boy’s subtle instinct, I was certain of its existence.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span> +Just then the door opened and another child entered the +room. This was Alice, a little girl of ten. She completed +the family, though there had been several others, who had +died in infancy. Alice I did not kiss either. Looking up, I +saw my aunt’s hard black eyes fixed upon me. I gave her +back stare for stare, without flinching, and she turned away, +with that curious, grimacing smile I now hated.</p> + +<p>Alice herself did not appear to resent my coldness; she +hung on to my arm and laughed up at me as if we were the +oldest friends in the world. She was a strange, elf-like +child, with a pale face and big black eyes that were not hard +like her mother’s. She looked as if she had been allowed +all her life to sit up too late. She was small for her +age, and extraordinarily fragile; she was like a little figure +cut out of a Sime drawing.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Uncle George, who had been out in the rain, +and had removed his boots, was sitting before the gas-stove, +presenting the soles of two large, gray-socked feet to the red +bars. A light steam began to rise from them, and Uncle +George declared that his new boots must “let in,” and that +he had a good mind to take them back to the man he had +bought them from, and that it was too bad. I sat down near +him and talked to him, while I watched the steam float up +from his feet. Aunt Margaret was getting tea ready in +another room, and little Alice hovered behind my chair. +Every now and again she leaned over the back of it and said +something. She brought a book to show me, and while +I looked at it she put her arms round my neck and kissed my +cheek.</p> + +<p>“Run away, Alice, and quit bothering Peter,” said Uncle +George. “It’s queer the way she’s taken to you,” he added +in a gratified whisper. “She’s usually that shy you couldn’t +coax her out of a corner!” Alice retreated, but almost +immediately came back, and again put her arms round me. +She held her small white face close to mine and looked at<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> +me with her great black eyes and smiled. She gave me +an impression of a little house haunted by queer and not +altogether pleasant ghosts, and yet somehow I felt sorry +for her, and I stroked her thin hand that rested on my +sleeve, delicate and light as a leaf.</p> + +<p>“You’re a lovely big boy,” she whispered in my ear, +rubbing her face up and down against my jacket, as if it +had been the fur of an animal.</p> + +<p>I couldn’t help laughing, and she cuddled close against +me, her chin on my shoulder. “She must be awfully +nervous,” I thought, for the thunderous approach of one +of those hideous traction-engines, that I was soon to find +were a feature of the town, made her tremble.</p> + +<p>When we sat down to tea Alice insisted on sitting beside +me. I had an idea, possibly suggested by Miss Izzy’s +words, that the room we were in was not often used. I +hoped it wasn’t, for it was stuffy and uncomfortable, and +so small that you felt everywhere beneath the table the +warm proximity of other people’s limbs. I hated being +cramped in this way; it seemed to me that all the time +I was breathing other people’s breaths, and once I got this +notion into my head I couldn’t forget it. The furniture +was cheap, flimsy, and uncomfortable. The curtains, the +gaudy vases, the hideous wall-paper, were of the brightest +and least accordant colours, and I even preferred our parlour +at home, where, if the things were not less ugly, there +were fewer of them. Several pictures hung on the walls, +and one hung directly in front of me. It was an engraving, +and represented a young man in armour visibly torn between +a desire for virtue, embodied in a flaxen-haired lady in +floating white drapery, and a deplorable weakness for all +that another lady might be taken as symbolising. This +latter person was a brunette, and rather more scantily, +though quite decently, draped. She held a glass of champagne +in her hand, waving it triumphantly aloft, like a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span> +torch. I confess that the work fascinated me, for it was +my first acquaintance with the type of art it represented.</p> + +<p>“A fine picture,” murmured Uncle George, seeing me +gazing at it. “It’s a Royal Academy picture that!”</p> + +<p>I said nothing. I did not know what a Royal Academy +picture was, nor did I admire this example. It was not +so much that the figures looked like unsuccessful waxworks, +as that the banality of the moral irritated me. It was the +first time I had ever seen art of this extremely ethical +character, and in its spirit it reminded me of my old friends +in the “Golden Ladder Series.”</p> + +<p>I hoped tea would not last much longer. In the small +room, the large yellow slices of an extremely odoriferous +cheese made the atmosphere heavy and unpleasant. Moreover, +when this cheese was offered to me with hard, +pink, sugared biscuits, I didn’t quite know what to do. +I had refused several things already, and I knew Aunt +Margaret thought I was turning up my nose at the food +provided for me, and provided specially, I could guess, +from the behaviour of the others, because it was my first +night. So I accepted the cheese and sugared biscuits, and +struggled through them.</p> + +<p>After tea George asked if we were going to have “worship” +now or later? We had it “now,” and as soon as +we rose from our knees he suggested that we should “go +out for a bit.”</p> + +<p>“Where are you going to?” Aunt Margaret inquired.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know: up the street just. We can’t sit +in the house all the evenin’. It’s quite fine now.”</p> + +<p>I was nothing loath, and clattered down the stairs after +him. As soon as we were outside George’s uncertainty as +to our destination appeared to vanish. “Did you ever +see a boxing match?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“A boxing match?”</p> + +<p>“A fight—a prize-fight—whatever you like to call it.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span> +Come on an’ we’ll go to the Comet, only for the Lord’s +sake don’t say anythin’ about it at home!”</p> + +<p>“Are you not allowed to go?”</p> + +<p>“Allowed! Wait till you know them a bit better. The +boss’s idea of an enjoyable evenin’ is some Sankey and +Moody touch.”</p> + +<p>We turned down a side street, and then another and +another, till I completely lost my bearings; but very soon +George said, “There it is, Coxy. You’re goin’ to see a bit +of life, eh?” and pointed to a small theatre at the opposite +side of the road. Above the entrance, a round purplish +globe threw down a pool of light on the dirty pavement. +A number of men and youths in caps, and with mufflers +round their necks, hung about the door, talking and spitting, +and at the corner some small boys looked on. George +pushed boldly in and I followed. We took tickets for the +front seats from an extremely friendly and pock-marked +person, who wore a black patch over one eye. When we +got inside we found there were not many spectators in our +part of the house, but the pit, at the back, was already +crowded.</p> + +<p>“That’s the thunder and lightning over there,” said +George, jocosely, “in other words, the nuts. How would +you like to be in among them?” But the stragglers who +kept dropping in and taking seats all round us did not +seem to me to be very different.</p> + +<p>A branch of lights hung from the ceiling, and other lights +fell from the flies on to the curtainless stage. A kind of gray +mist, doubtless the accumulated smoke of many nights, +floated in the air, and a sickly-looking youth was hammering +out music-hall tunes on a worn-out, toneless piano. The +stage was quite bare, save for three double rows of yellow +wooden chairs, that composed three sides of a parallelogram, +and within which was a space marked off by a thick rope +stretched about four stout posts clamped to the floor. Over<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span> +this rope, at two diagonally opposite corners, hung towels, +and in each corner was a chair, a heap of sawdust, a basin, +a sponge, and a water-bottle. There was no person on +the stage, and these bare accessories, possibly because I +saw them now for the first time, had to my eyes a most +suggestive appearance. I began to feel excited: this +unadorned stage appeared to me to be distinctly thrilling.</p> + +<p>By degrees the house filled up. The audience, though +mixed, was on the whole a very rough one, and there were +no women.</p> + +<p>“Twig the peelers,” said George, and I noticed half a +dozen policemen lounge in and take up positions in different +parts of the auditorium.</p> + +<p>At about five minutes to eight even the chairs on the +stage were filled, and, at eight sharp, an important person +with a cigar stepped into the ring, and made a short speech +introducing the first pair of boxers. He retired amid loud +applause, but the boxers, to my surprise, turned out to be +a couple of half-grown, ill-nourished, ill-washed lads, no +older than myself. They were naked except for short linen +drawers, and it seemed to me that it would have been no +harm had they been put into a bath prior to their appearance. +They grinned sheepishly at the audience, amongst +whom they evidently recognised “pals”; and these “pals,” +in turn, greeted them with cries of “Go it, Bob,” “Go on, +the wee lad,” “Go on, the stripes”—this last in allusion +to Bob’s unambitious costume, which had all the appearance +of being simply a pair of bathing-drawers. They shook +hands in a nerveless way, without looking at each other, +and began to spar feebly. Bob was so thin you could +count his ribs, and the big gloves at the ends of his long +skinny arms looked like gigantic puff-balls. The “wee +lad” was sturdier, but he seemed to me to be slightly +deformed. Even to my inexperienced eye it was perfectly +obvious that the main concern of both was not to get hurt,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span> +and they hadn’t finished the first round before the audience +was shouting, “Take them off them! Take them off them!” +This was in allusion to the gloves, but they also shouted +other things, most of which I daresay I had heard before, +though never so many at one time, and I reflected that +George had managed to steer fairly clear of the “Sankey +and Moody touch.”</p> + +<p>The referee cautioned the unfortunate combatants, but +the second round was no better than the first, and in the +middle of the third round the fight was stopped. The +sleek, well-fed persons occupying the chairs, and the more +impatient persons occupying the auditorium, had not paid +their money for stuff of that sort. There followed a fresh +pair of boxers, older, more experienced, and this time +things were sufficiently brisk. The battle was a hard, +ding-dong struggle, and it was at least exciting. At the +sight of the first dark ugly streak of blood on one of those +white faces I felt a little queer, in fact my impulse was to +go away; but as round after round passed, and I watched +the blood from the same wound burst out afresh in each, +it began to quicken a sort of unsuspected lust of cruelty +in me, and I took pleasure in it, I wanted the fight to be +a real one, the thud of a blow that got home thrilled me. +It was as if I had undergone some transformation. The +dirty theatre, the low faces, the foul language, ceased to +matter. I was carried out of myself. I longed at the +same time for the fight to continue, and for its climax. +There would be only three more rounds, and I wanted, +before the last, to see somebody knocked out. The man +whose face was bleeding was the heavier of the two, but +I thought he had little chance. He was out-matched, he +must have known it himself, and yet he continued to come +up with a kind of dogged stupidity. His seconds spat +water into his face, sponged him, rubbed him and fanned +him, slapped him with towels and massaged his muscles;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span> +but the artificial invigoration this produced lasted only a +few moments after the beginning of each round, and, as I +watched him weakening, I could feel myself delivering the +blows that dazed him, my muscles tightened and slackened, +I could hardly sit in my seat. “Now he’s got him,” I +said aloud, as he staggered into the ring for the last time. +There was a blow and a crash on the boards. The referee +was counting over him, one—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight; +and then this helpless creature, out of +whose swollen, hideous face all humanity had been battered, +staggered up almost blindly. He did not even lift his +hands to protect himself from the blow that smashed him +down again, and with that dull thud on the floor the fight +came to an end. He lay on after the counting had stopped, +and as I watched him being supported, almost carried, out +of the ring, while the victor received congratulations, a +pang of misgiving assailed me. There was no doubt the +whole thing was absolutely brutal, and there was equally +no doubt that when it had been most brutal I had been +most pleased.</p> + +<p>I should like to be able to add that I got up and left the +theatre. I did not. I reflected that <em>the</em> fight was still to +come: I even waited for it eagerly, and when it took place, +I was disappointed because nobody bled, and because the +decision was given on points at the end of the twelfth round.</p> + +<p>As we walked home I proved to George that boxing +matches were really all right; that they were infinitely +less dangerous than football matches. Every one of my +arguments convinced George, and after I had finished he +found some for himself, which I accepted as equally incontrovertible. +Considering that there was nobody to take +up an opposite point of view, our apologies might have +appeared hardly necessary, but George was able to give +me, in addition, a list of all the good qualities fighting +brought out, or even brought into existence. Most of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span> +these did not exactly fit in with my more superficial +impression of the audience, and there were others I could +not help feeling many of them would be better without—courage, +for instance. I had a dim idea that a little extra +courage might result in a majority of them figuring at the +next Assizes.</p> + +<p>But when we were three-quarters way home I said to +George, “It was all pretty beastly, and that’s why we +liked it—eh?”</p> + +<p>He got quite offended, telling me that if <em>he</em> had thought +it beastly he wouldn’t have waited on to the end, as +I did.</p> + +<p>This was just possible, yet my opinion of George sank. +“If you admire it so much,” I said, “I’ll give you a turn +any time you like.”</p> + +<p>George was silent, and flushed slightly.</p> + +<p>“Well?” I kept on, pugnaciously.</p> + +<p>George mumbled something, I don’t know what, and +I saw that I had actually frightened him. We walked +the rest of the way home in silence. George was angry +with me, but when we were in the house and had sat down +to supper he became friendly again. As I discovered later, +company was the one thing absolutely indispensable to +him; he could have kept on being angry with me, and, +indeed, would have enjoyed doing so, had he had anybody +else to talk to, but solitude he could not bear. And I, on +my side, forgot his having sulked on the way home, just +as, later on, I was to forget more than one unpleasant thing, +simply because he amused me, because he could always +make me laugh.</p> + +<p>After supper I said good-night to the others, and George +and I went upstairs. George went in front of me and lit +the gas in the bedroom. “Is this my room?” I asked, +noticing that there were two beds in it.</p> + +<p>“Yours an’ mine,” George answered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span></p> + +<p>His reply was unexpected. I had never slept with anybody +in my life, and it had not occurred to me that I should +not have a room to myself. I said nothing, but George, +who was far from stupid, saw I did not like the arrangement. +“There is no other room,” he admitted frankly. +“I thought you knew. I thought ma put it in her letter.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t see her letter,” I murmured.</p> + +<p>“Oh, we’ll be all right together, won’t we?” George +went on, pacifically. “You can have your bed moved +wherever you would like it best.” He had already begun +to undress, and, after hanging up his jacket, he took a photograph +from an inside pocket and handed it to me. It was +the photograph of a lady extremely lightly clad. “I’ve +better ones than that,” said George, with a peculiar smile. +He went to a corner near the window and raised a loose +board. From the hollow beneath he drew out a large fat +envelope, but, as he looked at me, he hesitated. “I’ll show +them to you some other time,” he suddenly said, and +returned the envelope to its hiding-place. He undressed +rapidly, and got into bed.</p> + +<p>I took longer, and all the time I felt George’s eyes fixed +on me curiously. I hated this lack of privacy. It wasn’t +that I hadn’t undressed hundreds of times before other +boys, when we were going to bathe; but this was different. +I disliked the feeling of not being alone. I hated to have +somebody watch me all the time I was taking off my clothes, +or folding them. I determined to write to my father in +the morning.</p> + +<p>When I was in bed and in the dark I wanted to think of +Katherine. I did this every night; I looked forward to it, +because it seemed to me that this was the hour when everything +became clearer; besides, there was always the chance +that if I thought of her I might dream of her. But now +George began to talk.</p> + +<p>“Do you know any girls?” he asked.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span></p> + +<p>“No,” I answered, shortly.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you like them?” George persisted.</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“What do you think of Miss Izzy? Not bad—eh?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know anything about her.”</p> + +<p>George was silent a few minutes. Then, just as I was +beginning to think my own thoughts, he began again.</p> + +<p>“She’s nothin’ compared to Miss Johnson—the girl we +were talkin’ about to-day—who’s gettin’ married. Miss +Johnson was in the shop before Miss Izzy came. Ma sacked +her for givin’ lip. Ma sacks them all.”</p> + +<p>George continued to talk until he grew sleepy, and I +had no choice but to listen.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Next morning I was awakened by somebody singing, and +opening my eyes I saw George, in his shirt and trousers, +strutting up and down the middle of the floor, a hair-brush +in his hand. It took me half a minute to realise where I +was, but George, when he saw I was awake, proceeded to +give me imitations of various music-hall artists, until there +was a sharp rap at our door, and Aunt Margaret’s voice +told him to remember what day it was. With that I remembered +myself, and simultaneously made up my mind +that I wasn’t going to church. I determined that now I +was away from home I would be my own master, and do +just what seemed good in my own eyes, and that I would +begin this policy at once.</p> + +<p>Our room was at the back of the house, and from where +I lay I could see through the window a strip of gray, desolate +sky, broken here and there by a chimney, and across which +the dark branch of an unhealthy tree waved. As I watched +it, my mind strayed to a book of Japanese decorations, and +to the library at Derryaghy, and to other things I cared +for. I had already guessed from the little I had seen of +the McAllisters that their fortunes were drooping. It was +not so much that everything in the house was worn out +and patched and on its last legs, that the children were +ill-clad and looked ill-nourished, as that I seemed to scent +that mysterious atmosphere of anxiety, worry, and struggle,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span> +which invariably accompanies a decreasing ability to +pay one’s way. I hated it. I hated all that it implied—sordid +economies and cheap pleasures, a degrading and +enchaining struggle to keep things going. It did not +awaken pity in me, but only disgust. It was like a horrible +monster that clung and squeezed with a thousand slimy +tentacles, sapping your strength, and sucking out your +life-blood. I could even sympathise with those who had +freed themselves from it by some bold decisive action, +that might lie well outside the laws of morality and society.</p> + +<p>In the midst of these reflections George informed me that I +had better get up. He was tying his tie. His red hair was +carefully plastered down with water, and he was examining +his small, freckled face in the looking-glass. George +had not yet begun to shave, but he had long, silly-looking +hairs growing out of his chin, and I thought he looked +extremely ugly and horribly common as he stood there.</p> + +<p>When we went downstairs the others were just beginning +breakfast. The whole family was terribly <i lang="fr">endimanchée</i>. +Aunt Margaret was redolent of cheap scent. Gordon and +Thomas were dressed in green plush with white mother-of-pearl +buttons. Their little, damp, red, snub noses seemed to +have been set that very morning accidentally in the middle of +their round faces, which were of the complexion of fresh +putty, and their eyes were exactly like blue glass marbles. +Uncle George, who was breakfasting in his gray shirt sleeves, +suggested that I might like to go with George to the Bible-class, +but I refused. I added, to prevent all future trouble, +that I preferred to take a walk on Sunday morning.</p> + +<p>“Do you go for walks when you are at home?” Aunt +Margaret asked me, with her strange smile.</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“Doesn’t your father expect you to go to church?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what he expects, I’m sure.”</p> + +<p>“And don’t you think yourself you ought to go?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span></p> + +<p>“No.” I was quite certain about this at all events, and +I added that, once you were familiar with any particular +ideas, no matter how valuable, I couldn’t see that you +gained very much by listening to them being repeated +ad infinitum.</p> + +<p>This explanation, far from convincing, evidently annoyed, +Aunt Margaret, though she only said, “I would rather you +didn’t talk like that before the children. They have been +brought up to look upon religion with respect.”</p> + +<p>I did not reply.</p> + +<p>“I think I’ll go for a walk too,” George announced, with +a wink at me.</p> + +<p>“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” cried Aunt Margaret, +flaring up into a shrill rage. “You see what comes of such +talk! I’ll have no Sabbath-breaking in this house.”</p> + +<p>“Ssh—ssh,” Uncle George mildly intervened. “To +force people to do things against their will isn’t the proper +way to take.”</p> + +<p>“You want your children to give up going to church, +then?”</p> + +<p>“Nobody is giving up going to church. George is coming +of course. Young people very often say things without +meaning them. If Peter is for taking a walk this morning, +I expect he will come out with us this evening to hear Dr. +Russell, won’t you, Peter?”</p> + +<p>But, altogether apart from Dr. Russell, that Sunday was +a dreary day. In the afternoon I accompanied George, and +we loafed about in the Ormeau Park, where he was evidently +accustomed to meet his friends. These friends of George’s +were all in business, and all looked upon themselves as young +men. They smoked cheap cigarettes, wore their handkerchiefs +in their sleeves, and were tremendously knowing and +rakish, while the larger part of their conversation appeared +to be concerned with the merits of professional football +players. I could get on all right with George when he was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span> +by himself, but his friends, among whom he was remarkably +popular, did not improve him. It took no great perspicacity +to discover that they on their side regarded my company as a +very questionable acquisition. This feeling, far from +diminishing, obviously increased as the afternoon advanced. +George described our adventure of the night before with +immense gusto, and gave a burlesque imitation of the knock-out. +To have an appreciative audience was his greatest +delight, and the others, for that matter, left him a fairly +free stage. Now that he had them he ignored me utterly, +so that, in the end, I was left practically alone. I fulfilled +a sort of highly disagreeable rôle of silent hanger-on. I did +it most reluctantly, yet I could not summon up sufficient +moral courage to go away.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>On Monday morning I went to school. I arrived half an +hour before the proper time, and as my classes had already +been arranged, I had nothing to do but loiter about and take +stock of the place. It stood, a long, low, unlovely building +of soot-darkened brick, in its own grounds, not far from the +centre of the town. Just now, on this gray autumn morning, +it presented an appearance of singular, of almost jail-like +dullness, though in summer, as I was to learn, when the +grass was green, and the tall dusty elms waved against a +blue sky, and the sun shone through narrow, small-paned +windows, and splashed on wooden floors, on hacked wooden +desks and forms, on faded maps, and bare, discoloured +walls, it could be pleasant enough, in spite of the complete +absence of anything save the sunlight and the trees that +might appeal to a sense of beauty. Beside the main building +was a Preparatory School, and at the back, separated +from it by a yard, where a score or so of boys were at present +kicking about a football, were the Mathematical Schools, +and beyond these, the larger playing-field. It was really +a day-school, only two masters living on the premises, with +about a couple of dozen boarders: the rest of the scholars, +numbering between a hundred and fifty and two hundred, +were day-boys.</p> + +<p>As I hung about uneasily, not venturing to join the others, +I was painfully conscious of my isolation. Not one of those<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span> +faces had I ever seen before, nor had I the slightest knowledge +of the school itself, for George, who had been at a +National School, could tell me nothing about it. Nobody +took any notice of me. Several masters passed, and disappeared +through mysterious doors, and when, at ten o’clock, a +white-haired, white-bearded patriarch rang a huge hand-bell +in the porch, and I watched the boys scattering with extraordinary +rapidity in various directions, it looked to me as if +I might very easily spend my whole day in the yard. I had +no idea which door to try, yet at the same time I was anxious +not to be late. I was still hovering uncertainly about the +porch, like a soul strayed into the wrong Paradise, when a +boy, running past, glanced at me, stopped, and asked me +where I wanted to go to.</p> + +<p>I told him I wanted to go to Mr. Lowden’s class.</p> + +<p>“It’s the end door on the left over there,” he said, good-humouredly, +and I thanked him and hurried off.</p> + +<p>Coming in, I found the whole class already in their places, +but a boy at the end of the third form moved up to make +room for me, and I sat down. Mr. Lowden, who was standing, +with a piece of chalk in one hand and a duster in the +other, close by the black-board, asked me my name, and +then informed me I was late and that he objected to lateness. +I said nothing, but took down on the slate in front of me the +sum he had just written out.</p> + +<p>I worked at it, and was struck by the animated conversations +that were going on all over the room, in spite of Mr. +Lowden’s efforts to check them.</p> + +<p>“Has anybody finished yet?” Mr. Lowden asked, and +the boy who had moved up to make room for me held up his +hand, cracking his fingers. I glanced at him. He had a +round, merry face, rosy cheeks, bright eyes and dimples.</p> + +<p>“How often have I told you not to crack your fingers, +Knox?” asked Mr. Lowden, discontentedly. “Well, what +answer do you get?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span></p> + +<p>“Ten bob, a deuce an’ a make.”</p> + +<p>“Come in to-day, Knox, at recess.”</p> + +<p>He wrote down another sum, and I had begun to copy it, +when something went off with a sharp report under my feet. +Mr. Lowden was gazing straight at me, and he instantly told +me to stay in at recess.</p> + +<p>I knew well enough what had happened, that I had trodden +on a wax match softened and rolled up with the head +inside. I told Mr. Lowden that I hadn’t done it on purpose.</p> + +<p>“I can’t help that: you must stay in.”</p> + +<p>“But it wasn’t my fault if I didn’t know it was there,” +I argued.</p> + +<p>“You must stay in,” repeated Mr. Lowden, in a silly, +obstinate kind of voice, horribly irritating, “and, Knox, you +stay in after school as well as at recess.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see what <em>he</em> has to do with it, any way,” I +muttered.</p> + +<p>The boy beside me laughed.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes: Knox put it there,” Mr. Lowden said monotonously.</p> + +<p>I had taken a dislike to Mr. Lowden, and at the same time +I thought him a fool. A few days later something happened +to make me dislike him even more. He had read aloud a +problem which we were to work out mentally, putting down +our answers when he gave us the word. My answer was +right, but, unfortunately, when he asked me how I got it, the +problem itself had gone out of my head. For the life of me +I couldn’t remember it; yet I was ashamed to say so, and +simply sat silent while he repeated two or three times, as if +it were some kind of refrain, “Well, now, how did you +work the sum, Waring?”</p> + +<p>As I was unable to tell him, he said, “You must have +copied the answer from Knox.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t,” I protested, angrily.</p> + +<p>“Then why can’t you tell me how you got it?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span></p> + +<p>Again silence.</p> + +<p>“You must be telling a lie, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Lowden, +in his apathetic voice, “and the silliest kind of lie, because +it’s obvious to everybody.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not telling a lie.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Lowden shrugged his shoulders; he never seemed to +get angry, or even moderately interested, no matter what +the circumstances. “If you’re not, then why can’t you tell +me how you worked the sum? If you had done it once, +you could do it again.”</p> + +<p>“I did do it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, how?”</p> + +<p>Renewed silence.</p> + +<p>“You’d better stay in at recess.”</p> + +<p>And I stayed in.</p> + +<p>Yet Mr. Lowden was really only a mild and inoffensive +young man, who had been inspired with the unlucky idea +that he could earn his living by teaching boys, when he had +neither the desire nor the capacity to understand them. The +aversion I felt for him was really founded primarily upon +grounds less rational than those I have mentioned. The +secret of the matter was that physically he was repulsive to +me. He suffered, I imagine, from some affection of the +lungs or throat, for he wore, winter and summer, a thick +white muffler, fastened by an opal pin. His face was pale, +cadaverous, and hollow-cheeked; his moustache scanty; +his hair lank and damp; but what I disliked most was his +peculiar odour. Whether this emanated from his person, +or from the pastilles he was perpetually sucking, I don’t +know. It was something sickly and persistent, and for no +reason that I know of I associated it with death. When he +sat down on the form beside me to work out a sum, I used +to edge gradually away from him, until he would notice it, +and ask me in a querulous voice what I was doing, and +perhaps keep me in. This physical repulsion I could never<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span> +have conquered, even had it not been backed up by that kind +of mental sickliness which characterized him, and which +had made him punish me once at least unjustly. He left +six months later, and nobody among the boys ever knew +or cared what became of him. Perhaps he went to another +school, perhaps the mysterious odour which had sickened +me had been really the odour of death....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When I think now of those who were in charge of my +education, upon my word I cannot help but be filled with +wonder. What did they teach me? What did I ever get +from them that I could not have got, with less trouble, for +myself? Never once did any of my masters show the +faintest interest in me, or make even the most perfunctory +attempt to get to know me, to get to know what I was +capable of, if I had any definite tastes, if I were good or bad, +moral or immoral, intelligent or a fool. What they did instead +was to ask me a couple of questions from a book, and, if +I failed to answer either of these satisfactorily, keep me in to +sit for twenty minutes with my lesson-book open on the desk +before me and my thoughts miles away. Of my masters +only one, Mr. Johnson, had any distinction, and he, unfortunately, +was a mathematician. He had written a “Euclid” +so perfect in its expression that he had managed to get a +kind of æsthetic charm into the dry bones of geometry. He +was an Englishman, but was slightly Jewish in type. He +wore a long, flowing beard and moustache, like an early +northern chief, and he had small, sleepy, gray eyes, which +during school hours were usually closed. Most of his time +he passed, either in reverie or slumber, in his chair on a daïs +at the end of the room; but when aroused he had, for the +unmathematical, a richly terrifying voice, and a disheartening +manner of slashing down a long black cane on the desk, +within a few inches of your nose. His classes were models +of order. Never a faintest sound. In dead silence you<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span> +played your game of noughts and crosses, or did your Latin +composition, or wrote out cricket teams—but you never +spoke, and rarely moved. Of all those whose business it +was to mould my mind his figure remains the least spoiled +by time. I remember the shock I received when, some years +after I left school, I came upon Dr. Melling, the head English +master, in the Campo Santo at Pisa, sucking an orange, and +dressed in garments that Moses or Ikey would have bid for +but languidly. When I spoke to him he seemed so narrow, +so unimaginative, so unintelligent, that I felt half-ashamed, +as one might who has learned by accident a secret he ought +never to have known. Even in stature he was curiously +shrunken, though he neither stooped nor showed signs of +decrepitude or age. But Johnson I can see now, as I saw +him so often then, coming up the path between the two +front cricket-fields, a large black bag in his hand, which one +had been told contained his lunch. I can see him leaning +back in his chair, his eyes closed, like one of those beautiful +owls that ignore from their cage in the Zoo the staring +stranger, his beard spread out over his waistcoat, his hands +folded on his stomach. Johnson was a gentleman, and, +though he knew nothing of, and cared little for, boys, if +chance brought him into temporary relation with one, even +a very small and idle one, he took it for granted that he was +a gentleman too, and in his deep, slow, musical voice, and in +his sleepy eyes, there would come a curious charm.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I had formed no definite conception of what my new school +would be like, but there was a flatness about the reality +for which I was unprepared. I seemed to slip into my place +at once, without attracting the slightest attention either of +boys or masters, and at a week’s end any strangeness there +might have been had completely worn off. I did not play +football, which was the only game played this term. I got +to know a good many boys, but I formed no friendships. +I found my new companions to be, on the whole, little, if at +all, more congenial than the boys at Newcastle, in spite of +there being so many more to choose from. I liked them +well enough, and they were, with one exception, perfectly +decent to me, but it all ended there: that is to say, in my +relation with them I had invariably to approach them on +their own ground, I had to enter into <em>their</em> world, they were +incapable of entering into mine, or even of meeting me halfway. +There was a boy I had felt attracted to, purely on +account of his good-looks, and as our ways home lay in the +same direction I joined him one afternoon just as he was +going out at the gate. But the first words he uttered +shattered my illusions. He had a harsh, loud voice and +spoke through his nose. Almost at once he began to tell me +what he imagined to be a funny story, and before I had been +with him five minutes I said good-bye abruptly, and left +him standing on the pavement, staring after me, nor did I +ever speak to him again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span></p> + +<p>Day by day I went to school, neither liking it nor disliking +it. Yet it was all rather dismal, for life without any kind +of human sympathy, either given or received, is a dreadful, +almost an impossible, thing. I thought a good deal of +Katherine, and wrote to her, but got only an occasional +scrappy note in reply. I did not see much of George, for he +was kept in his business till nearly seven o’clock, and in the +evenings I had to prepare my work for the next day. George, +moreover, had his own circle of friends, none of whom, as I +have said, were particularly eager for my company, while +George himself, when he was among them, was the least +eager of all. Sometimes when I was with him alone I would +remember this and resent it, but he could always make me +forgive him when he wanted to: he could be extraordinarily +pleasant when he wanted to, and it was impossible to be +bored in his company.</p> + +<p>We still shared the same bedroom, and at night he +liked to talk before going to sleep. He had obtained a +considerable influence over me, more than anybody else +ever did or was to do, yet it is difficult to describe what it +consisted in, or why it should have come about. I had an +extremely poor opinion of him: I knew he had not even a +rudimentary conscience: frequently he repelled, and even +disgusted, me: but always, by some instinct, he seemed +to know when he had done so, and he had a special gift for +recovering lost ground. His influence was bad—absolutely—and +yet what was so harmful to me did not, so far as I +know, have any particularly disastrous effect upon George +himself. He had an amazingly licentious imagination, and, +in this direction, a power of vivid suggestion. As I became +more accustomed to him, things that had at first jarred +upon me ceased to do so; but it was doubly unfortunate +that I should have been thrown so intimately into his +society just at this particular time. Had I been either +older or younger, or had I had any other friends, the effect<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span> +would not have been so injurious. It was not that I had +not heard my share of Rabelaisian talk before. This was, +somehow, different. At all events, the other had passed +off me easily, awakening no after-thoughts, leaving my +senses untroubled. It was not so now. My mind became +disturbed, and, above all, my dreams were coloured by +certain obsessions which George took a delight in evoking. +In my dreams his suggestions became realities, and his +imagination seemed to brood over them like an evil angel. +I do not think he was himself conscious of it, conscious, that +is, that what for him appeared to be no more than a sort +of intellectual pastime, which he could shake from him as +easily as one might turn off a tap, assumed with me a darker +form. His words appeared to touch me physically, and +with an appalling directness and persistency. He had a +trick of re-telling stories he had read, twisting them and +altering them with an astonishing ingenuity, so as to introduce +the element he revelled in, and he never became crude +or brutal till he had carefully prepared his ground. And +it was all transformed by a curious gift of humour, which +was in itself something quite inimitable, consisting, as it +did, largely in his personality and manner, in an unquenchable +liveliness, and a faculty of mimicry.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Two months went by in this fashion, and I had begun to +look forward to Christmas and to count the weeks that +separated me from the holidays, when an incident occurred +which was the means of my forming an acquaintance that +was to develop into the most intimate friendship of my life. +It befell in this way.</p> + +<p>A series of thefts had been committed, thefts of school-books. +A boy would leave his books down on a window-sill, +or even in a class-room, and when he came to get them +again, one would perhaps be missing. I had never lost +anything myself, and knew nothing of what was going on +till the afternoon when the matter was divulged to the +entire school.</p> + +<p>It was not far from three o’clock, I remember, the hour +when we broke up for the day, and I was in one of the +English class-rooms, where, every Monday, if you liked +to pay half-a-crown a term extra, you had the advantage +of a lesson in elocution from Mr. (or was it Professor?) +Lennox. Professor Lennox was a fat, pale, absurd little +man, with a high-pitched tenor voice that struck against +the drum of your ear like the blow of a stick. He waxed +his moustache, and greased his hair into carefully arranged, +solid-looking locks, while his skin, by some natural process, +greased itself. Professor Lennox was an amateur of fancy +trousers, of coloured waistcoats, of large breast-pins, of spats<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span> +with pearl buttons, and of rings more striking than precious. +To-day the whole class—some fifty or sixty boys—was reading +after him, line by line, a poem from Bell’s “Elocution.”</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“In arms, / the Aust / rian phal / anx stood,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">A liv / ing wall, / a hum / an wood.</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Impreg / nable / their front / appears,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">All hor / rent with / project / ing spears.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noi">Or, as it sounded according to local pronunciation, shared +impartially by the professor and the majority of his pupils:</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“In arms, / the Orst / rian phah / lanx stude,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Ah liv / ing wall, / ah hue / man wude.</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Imprag / nable / their front / appears,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">All hoar / rent with / projact / ing spears.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>We had just reached “projacting spears,” when Dr. +Melling, better known by the name of Limpet, came in, +followed by an old woman, who paused on the threshold. +Limpet turned round and waved her forward impatiently, +but a couple of yards from the door she stopped again, and +all the time she stared hard at us with small, sharp, gray +eyes. Her bright little eyes and hooked nose, taken with her +air of timidity, gave her the appearance of an innocent and +frightened witch who has been dragged out of her lair +very much against her will. I wondered who she was, +but Limpet did not leave us long in doubt. It appeared +that some boy had stolen a number of school-books, the +property of various other boys, and had sold them to this +woman, who was now here to identify him. Limpet +explained the situation with an air of wishing to get a +disagreeable duty over as quickly as possible, but to us +it was quite exciting. Each of us in turn stood up to undergo +the witch’s scrutiny. She had already, as I afterwards +learned, been round the other classes, and Limpet, who +had accompanied her on this voyage of discovery, was by +now in rather a bad temper. Evidently he found the whole<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span> +business singularly distasteful, and as one boy after another +received her head-shake, he fidgeted and frowned nervously. +She herself looked frightened and bewildered; I expect +she was secretly worried about her own share in the matter, +and considering how she could make the best of it. As for +me, I felt for the first time as if school-life really bore some +faint resemblance to the tales of the <cite>Boy’s Own Paper</cite>. +Here was one of the pet adventures actually taking place, +except that the old woman should have been a man with +a small fur cap. When it came to my turn to stand up, I +had an extraordinary wish that she would pick me out as +the culprit. Sure of my innocence, I had a mind to be the +hero of this adventure, and I stood so long, waiting to be +identified, that Limpet told me sharply to sit down, and I +could see had it on the tip of his tongue to give me an +imposition. My neighbour tugged me by the jacket, and +I resumed my seat abruptly amid suppressed laughter. +One by one each boy rose in his place and sat down again, +and then, in the back row of all, a boy stood up who <em>was</em> +identified. This boy I did not know except by name, though +he was in all my classes. He was called Gill, and I had +always looked upon him as rather odd and unapproachable. +When his turn came, he stood up indifferently, glancing +out through the window at the clock, which could only be +seen when you were on your feet. But next moment I +saw the old woman say something to Limpet, and the latter +instantly told Gill to stand out.</p> + +<p>Gill stood out, his indifference gone, his face flushed and +angry.</p> + +<p>“Is that the boy?” Limpet asked, as if daring her to +say “Yes,” but the old woman mumbled out an affirmative.</p> + +<p>“Do you know anything of this, Gill?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>I was somehow pleased that he had not added the customary +“Sir.” He stood with his head up and gazed straight<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span> +at Limpet and the old woman, with a kind of contemptuous +wrath, his gray eyes dark and very bright, a frown on his +face.</p> + +<p>The old woman was so obviously uncertain and uncomfortable +that the whole thing appeared to me ridiculous, +and I impulsively gave voice to this impression. “She +doesn’t know anything about it,” I called out. “Anybody +could see she’s only trying it on.”</p> + +<p>Limpet on the spot gave me two hundred of Sir Walter +Scott’s bad verses to write out. My remark had the effect, +nevertheless, of drawing a wavering expression of uncertainty +from the old woman herself, which, in his now undisguised +irritability, Limpet pounced on, as a cat pounces +on a mouse. “Why did you point to him, if you don’t +know?” he whipped out, frightening her nearly out of +her wits. “Don’t you understand that it’s a serious thing +to bring an accusation of theft against a boy? Sit down, +Gill. I want to see you after school.”</p> + +<p>He was so angry that he forgot all about the half-dozen +remaining boys, and conducted his companion unceremoniously +from the room.</p> + +<p>Gill sat staring straight in front of him. Certainly he +did not look guilty. He had a dark, narrow face, with a +bright complexion. His thick, rough, black hair grew low +on an oval, narrow forehead, and between his clear gray +eyes there started a high-bridged, somewhat aggressive-looking +nose, the most striking feature of his rather striking +face. He had the reputation of being a peculiar kind of +chap, and he was sometimes made fun of—mildly, for he was +extremely quick-tempered and very strong—but anybody +could see that he was a fine fellow, and that an accusation +such as had just been brought against him would require +a great deal of proof.</p> + +<p>When the bell rang he remained on in his seat while the +rest of us went out, I hung about the porch watching two<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span> +little fellows playing chestnuts, and when they stopped +playing I still hung about with nothing to watch, and with, +indeed, no very definite purpose in view. Presently Gill +emerged, but whether he saw me or not, he took no notice, +as he walked on swiftly down toward the gate.</p> + +<p>Since I had flung about him the mantle of my protection, +however, I had begun to take a lively interest in him, and +before he had gone fifty yards I made up my mind and +hurried in pursuit. He looked round at the sound of my +footsteps and waited, but without smiling. I had an idea +he had passed me deliberately in the porch, and now he +received me coldly enough. As we walked along together +he made no attempt to defend himself against the charge +that had been brought against him; he did not even refer +to it, nor to what had taken place during his subsequent +interview with Limpet, from whom, nevertheless, he received +next morning a public apology. Though I was +simply dying to hear what had happened I couldn’t very +well ask, and as we proceeded I had to talk about other +things. Then, quite suddenly, some change seemed to take +place within him, and he inquired abruptly if I had read +any of the writings of Count Tolstoy. I had never even +heard of Count Tolstoy, but I was not to remain much +longer in ignorance. I like enthusiasm, and I got it now. +Gill had just finished “Anna Karénine,” and offered to +lend it to me, adding that it was in French. I had been +learning French in the way one did in those days, and +perhaps does still; that is to say, I had been learning it +for six or seven years, and was now obliged to confess I +couldn’t read it.</p> + +<p>“Aren’t you coming out of your way?” he demanded +with the queer abruptness that characterized him.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no.”</p> + +<p>“Do you live up the Malone way?”</p> + +<p>“No; I live in the town.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span></p> + +<p>“Then why isn’t it out of your way?”</p> + +<p>“That is only my fashion of telling you I want to come +with you,” I answered meekly. “Pure politeness.”</p> + +<p>He did not smile. “You haven’t been at school long?” +he asked. His manner was the oddest mixture of stiffness +and shyness, and sometimes he frowned portentously, while +at the slightest thing he blushed.</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered. “Have you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—all my life—ever since I was a kid.” He spoke +quickly, one would have imagined impatiently.</p> + +<p>“Have you? I thought, somehow, you hadn’t.”</p> + +<p>I don’t know why I should have made this wise remark, +nor, apparently, did Gill.</p> + +<p>“Why?” he asked me at once.</p> + +<p>I laughed. “You don’t seem to have very many friends.”</p> + +<p>He coloured, and I realized that my remark had been +lacking in tact.</p> + +<p>“I have as many friends as I want,” he answered shortly.</p> + +<p>I saw I had touched him on a tender spot. “Does that +mean you don’t want any new ones?” I ventured, half-laughing, +though I was serious enough.</p> + +<p>His answer was startling. “Perhaps you think you are +doing me a favour by walking home with me?”</p> + +<p>I did not say anything, but I looked at him with some +astonishment. He was so odd that his manner had the +effect of divesting me of all the shyness I usually suffered +from myself on making a new acquaintance, nor did I even +feel angry at his rebuff.</p> + +<p>“I came with you,” I said at length, “to please myself.”</p> + +<p>He turned crimson, began to speak, was silent, and then +apologized.</p> + +<p>At the garden gate I would have left him, but he insisted +on my coming up to the door. “I will get you ‘Anna +Karénine’; then we can talk about it together—if we’re +going to be friends.” He spoke the last words shyly, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span> +I knew that he had found a difficulty in saying them +at all.</p> + +<p>“But I told you I couldn’t read French.”</p> + +<p>“You can if you like. Don’t try to translate it; read +straight ahead.”</p> + +<p>He came back with two books bound in gray-blue paper, +which he handed to me. “It doesn’t matter if the covers +get torn or the books come to pieces. My father gets them +all rebound in any case. By the way,” once more he +blushed, “you needn’t bother about those lines Limpet +gave you.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Because I’ll be doing them.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, rot.”</p> + +<p>He frowned. “You can do them if you like, but it will +be a waste of time.”</p> + +<p>“I know that.”</p> + +<p>“I mean, I’m going to do them in any case, whether you +do or not.”</p> + +<p>I laughed. “Couldn’t we each do half?”</p> + +<p>“I’m going to do them all.”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>He strolled back down the garden path with me. “What’s +your name?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Waring.”</p> + +<p>“I know that. I mean your first name.”</p> + +<p>“Peter.”</p> + +<p>“Mine is Owen. I’ll come part of the way back with +you: I told them inside.”</p> + +<p>“Shall I call you Owen?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t care,” he answered quickly, without looking +at me. But before we had gone another hundred yards +he said: “That isn’t the truth. I told you my name +because I wanted you to call me by it.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” I said, smiling.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>That night, for the first time, I felt George’s fascination +falter, and it is a fact rather melancholy in its significance +that this consciousness came to me in the form of a sense of +freedom, of relief. He began to talk to me, just as usual, +as soon as he had turned out the light, but I told him +brusquely to shut up, that I wanted to go to sleep, and +when he tried to begin again I let him see I was in earnest.</p> + +<p>As I lay there I determined that at Christmas I would +make another effort to get into rooms of my own choosing. +If I wanted to ask Owen Gill, for instance, to come to see +me, how could I do so? For one thing, his people would +not like him to come here; for another, I should not myself +care to ask him. I was by this time firmly convinced +that my aunt was frequently more or less under the influence +of drugs. It may have been on account of her illness; +I could not say; but there were times when she seemed +hardly to know what she was doing, and at such moments +her dislike for me, which she usually more or less successfully +concealed, jumped to the surface. I had no idea how +long she had been in this condition; I was quite sure my +father knew nothing about it; yet she appeared to me to +have already lost something of her hold upon reality. I +had heard her make statements so obviously untrue that +they could have deceived nobody but Uncle George. I +had heard her repeat a harmless remark made by Miss Izzy,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span> +and, by altering it ever so slightly, give it a quite new and +highly disagreeable meaning. But Uncle George never +dreamed of contradicting her, whether it was that he was +afraid of her, or whether he was simply blind, I could not tell.</p> + +<p>On the Sunday after my becoming acquainted with +Owen I was alone in the house with little Alice, who had +been unwell and had not gone out with the others to morning +church. As usual, she had climbed up on my knee, and +was sitting with her thin brown arms round my neck, and +her queer little face close to mine.</p> + +<p>“Ma looked through all your pockets yesterday morning, +when you were at school,” she said.</p> + +<p>“What pockets?” I asked quietly.</p> + +<p>“The pockets of your clothes—every one.”</p> + +<p>“Well, did she find anything?” I murmured, in as +indifferent a tone as I could manage.</p> + +<p>“She found a letter—and some other things.”</p> + +<p>“And did she read the letter?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“How do you know? Where were you?”</p> + +<p>“I saw her.”</p> + +<p>“How did you see her?”</p> + +<p>“I saw her through the key-hole.”</p> + +<p>“Oh; I didn’t think you would look through key-holes.”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t you? I do—often.”</p> + +<p>“You shouldn’t. It isn’t nice, you know. You must +never do it again.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Because it’s not a nice thing to do. It’s spying.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve often done it,” said Alice, with perfect detachment. +“I’ve looked at you through the key-hole.”</p> + +<p>“You must never do it again. Promise, or I won’t +be friends with you any more.”</p> + +<p>“If I promise, will you be friends?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes. But you must keep your promise, remember.”</p> + +<p>I returned to “Anna Karénine.” “I must buy a desk,” +I thought, “or some kind of box I can lock up.” Presently +little Alice began again. “I’ve got a secret.”</p> + +<p>I had lugubrious forebodings in regard to this secret. +“Have you?” I answered dismally.</p> + +<p>“Don’t take any soup to-day,” the child said, softly.</p> + +<p>I laid down my book. There was something arresting +about this injunction, something even startling. I looked +into the strange dark eyes that seemed almost to fill the +small elf-like face, and I knew that a confidence of a highly +unpleasant character was imminent.</p> + +<p>“I put a dead mouse into the soup,” little Alice whispered.</p> + +<p>“Oh;” I exclaimed feebly. I felt inclined to put her +down very abruptly from my knee, and it was with difficulty +that I controlled this impulse. “What made you +do such a thing? Now it will all be wasted.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody knows about it,” the child continued artlessly, +rubbing her cheek against mine. “Once I put something +in before, when people were coming for dinner. It was +fun to watch them all looking so stiff and solemn, and eating +away, and not knowing what was there all the time. I +laughed so much that ma sent me out of the room. But +I wouldn’t do that with you, because I love you.”</p> + +<p>Her strange little face turned to mine, and her eyes were +fixed on me. She must have seen the disgust I felt, for she +began to tremble and her eyes filled with tears. Then she +hid her face against my shoulder and clung to me. I was +frightened to scold her. Even without my having said +anything she seemed to shrivel up like some bruised and +broken plant. I patted her head gently, and at once she +brightened. She got down from my knee and began to +dance about the floor.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile I was left with the problem of the soup. If<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span> +the soup were strained the mouse, I supposed, would be +discovered; but if it were, as it was practically certain to be, +simply turned out into a tureen, the revelation might come +too late. On the other hand, were I to turn informer, little +Alice would most surely be whipped, and, whether she deserved +it or not, the idea of that was as revolting to me as +would be the ill-treatment of a sick monkey. There was a +young girl in the kitchen who looked after the rougher +work, and I thought of explaining the matter to her, after +swearing her to secrecy, but before I had made up my +mind I heard the others downstairs.</p> + +<p>They had evidently got back from church, and now I +didn’t know what to do. Uncle George, preceded by +Gordon and Thomas in their green plush suits, came into +the parlour. Uncle George began to warm himself before +the gas-stove. “You should have come out this morning, +Peter,” he said, in his gentle voice. “You missed a treat.”</p> + +<p>I listened to his comments on the sermon, feeling all the +time most uncomfortable. Gordon and Thomas tried to +climb about my chair, but I kept them off with a firm hand. +The parlour door was open, probably the kitchen door too, +for all at once there came a scream from that department, +not very loud, yet distinctly audible. I glanced at Alice. +The others hadn’t heard it. Uncle George was still in the +midst of his mild enthusiasm, and Gordon and Thomas, +flattening their little round red noses with a finger, were +practising squinting with remarkable success. Alice had +become perfectly still, her big black eyes fixed on mine: +and, as for me, I knew the mouse had been discovered and +felt vastly relieved. Conceive of my amazement, therefore, +when the soup after all appeared at table. Alice and I did +not take any, and Aunt Margaret did not either, so that +there was enough left to do Monday’s dinner; but of the +mouse I never heard again.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>My friendship with Owen was at present the one quite +satisfactory thing in my life. Neither at school nor at home +was I particularly successful. I worked very little, merely +sufficiently to prevent myself from getting into trouble; I +did not play games. I had gone to the School of Art for a +few weeks, but as I was never put to draw anything except +curves and squares and geometrical flowers, I got sick of +this and gave it up.</p> + +<p>I saw a good deal of Owen, though not so much as I +should have liked. Of course I saw him every day at +school, but I had never been inside his house, and I could +not ask him to mine. I did not want to let him see the kind +of people I had sprung from. I was ashamed of them. On +Saturdays and Sundays we usually went for long walks +together, during which we threshed out the affairs of the +universe, and built it over again. It was all quite new to +me, just as was the peculiar type of Owen’s mind, its extraordinary +eagerness in the pursuit of ideas. My head +already swarmed with an amazing mass of unsettled +notions which buzzed in it like bees in a shaken hive. It +seemed to me we never discussed anything less serious than +the immortality of the soul. Owen was not sure of the +existence of God, and I, so far as Christianity was concerned, +was an Agnostic also. But to Owen it appeared to make an +enormous difference, he was positively unhappy about it;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span> +while to me, though I did not let him suspect this, it was a +matter of supreme indifference. Levine’s acceptance of +Christianity, at the end of “Anna Karénine,” was for Owen +an endless source of dissatisfaction and query. We discussed +it by the hour. Yet, when actually reading the book, +I had been far more struck by the appearance in Wronsky’s +and Anna’s dreams of the strange little man, who seems to +pass out of vision into reality just before the suicide. What +did <em>that</em> mean? Why was he there? Had he, like some +added flick of colour in the work of a master, been put in, +not because he was there in Nature, but because he was +needed for the picture? For me, at any rate, he had the +effect of making all the rest more convincing, and, while he +appeared to be purely fantastic, of corresponding to some +esoteric reality. Or was the apparition at the railway +station also only a vision, in that case the vision of a vision? +To Owen such a question was of no interest whatever, and it +was Owen’s questions that we principally discussed.</p> + +<p>Very often I walked home with him and hung swinging +on the iron gate while we finished an argument. At such +moments he exhibited an exhilarating eagerness, and he +was never anxious to get the better of me in merely verbal +dispute, as I frequently was of him. It was the thing in +itself he saw, and he went at it like a terrier at a rabbit-hole, +sending up showers of sand into the air, but never +getting to the bottom. Sometimes, when we were talking, +he would catch me by my arms and swing me slowly back +and forward. Sometimes he would draw me close up to +him till my face almost touched his, and his eyes seemed to +look straight into my spirit, and then he would suddenly +release me. He had a very quick and passionate temper, +and was ridiculously sensitive, so that, though I employed +infinitely more tact with him than I had ever done with +anybody else, I occasionally offended him. Then he would +leave me, his face as red as a turkey-cock, and his grey eyes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span> +dark and bright. Possibly for the rest of that day he +would ignore me utterly; indeed, the first time it +happened, I was sure we had quarrelled for ever. But the +next morning he came up to me with a shy and shamefaced +smile, saying he was sorry. At such times there +would come into his voice so charming a gentleness that +it was impossible to remain angry with him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“Will you come to the opera to-night?” he asked me +one morning, looking up from an old, ink-stained Virgil. +We were sitting in the window-seat, where we always sat +together, and which just held two. As Dr. Gwynn, the head +Classical-master, was very old, very blind, and rather deaf, +it was possible to pass the time quite pleasantly in this +retreat.</p> + +<p>I had not yet been inside a theatre, and Owen had been +but seldom. “What is on?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“‘Faust.’”</p> + +<p>“‘Faust’? All right.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll meet you outside the theatre at a quarter to +seven.”</p> + +<p>“Very well; I’ll be there.”</p> + +<p>I went home straight from school, in order to get my work +done for the next day, but when I pushed open the door I +became conscious that an altercation between Aunt Margaret +and Miss Izzy was in progress in the other shop. +They were so busy that they did not even hear me enter, +though the shop-bell had rung, and, as I lingered on the +threshold, I gathered that the dispute was about a young +man, and I guessed who he was. I had seen him; his name +was Moore; he travelled in the stationery line, and he +admired Miss Izzy.</p> + +<p>I heard Aunt Margaret’s familiar “<em>some</em> people,” with an +accent on the “some.” It was in this indirect manner that +she invariably produced her most disagreeable remarks,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span> +and it was very much in the air just now. Miss Izzy displayed +an icy dignity by stiff elbows, an erect head, and an +elaborate preoccupation with the business of the shop. She +seemed all collar and cuffs and freezing silence, which she +could not quite keep up, for every now and again she threw +out a retort. Aunt Margaret’s ponderous black form filled +up the inner doorway. Her large face, her drawn-in mouth, +her black, shining eyes, her wig, gave her an alarming and +bizarre appearance, but Miss Izzy was not in the least +alarmed.</p> + +<p>I came in, not wishing to be caught listening. Miss Izzy +just cast a glance at me, and tossed her head.</p> + +<p>I brushed past Aunt Margaret and went upstairs to my +dinner, leaving the parlour door open, however, so that I +might still hear the conflict going on below. When the +shop-bell rang Aunt Margaret’s voice would cease; then, +when the customer had departed, it would begin again. +Presently I heard Uncle George shuffling downstairs, and +his entrance on the scene was followed by an outburst of +both feminine voices together. The noise was becoming +exciting, but I could no longer make out the words, though +I hung over the balusters to listen. Then I heard Aunt +Margaret coming upstairs, and Uncle George following her. +She was in a violent passion. “Fool—fool—fool,” she +screamed at him all along the passage. Then came confused +remonstrances in Uncle George’s quiet voice, but they +were interrupted by the banging of a door that shook the +whole house. I came out into the lobby once more. I heard +Uncle George trying to get into the room, but the door +must have been locked from the inside, and through it came +a shrill torrent of abuse. Uncle George’s face was white +and strange as he turned round and caught me staring at +him. He told me to go away, but almost immediately he +came after me into the parlour, where I had sat down again +to my dinner. He told me Aunt Margaret was not well,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span> +that she had had a very bad attack last night, and been +kept awake and in pain all night long. I could see that he +would have liked to know if I had grasped the nature of +several of those words that had come out to him through +the closed door, but I continued stolidly to eat my dinner, +without giving any sign. When I had finished, I got out +my books, but as soon as the coast was clear I slipped +downstairs to the shop. Miss Izzy was there alone, and +affected not to see me.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter with Aunt Margaret?” I asked; at +which ingenuous question Miss Izzy gave a short contemptuous +laugh.</p> + +<p>A blowzy girl, sucking a sweet, came in to buy a novelette, +and when she had gone I informed Miss Izzy that I was +going that night to hear “Faust.” Miss Izzy expressed +not the faintest interest in this project.</p> + +<p>I turned over a book of views in melancholy silence—views +of the Linen Hall Library, and of Donegall Place; of +the Cave Hill, and the Albert Memorial; and I wondered if +it would please Katherine were I to send her a complete set. +I looked at the price, written in Miss Izzy’s secret code, on +the back, and could not make up my mind.</p> + +<p>“When people can’t control themselves there are places +where they can have people to look after them,” Miss Izzy +announced to a bundle of “Horner’s Penny Stories,” which +she next moment swept viciously into a corner.</p> + +<p>This cryptic remark I took as referring to Aunt Margaret, +but, seeing my expectant face, Miss Izzy unkindly refused to +follow it up.</p> + +<p>I was disheartened, and began to read aloud advertisements +of art books from the back of a magazine I had +bought on my way home. The third of these bore the +simple title “Michael Angelo,” and Miss Izzy astonished me +by saying, “That’s one of Marie Corelli’s.”</p> + +<p>I ventured to tell her that Michael Angelo was a great<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span> +painter and sculptor, but the information was lost on Miss +Izzy, who in the midst of it said sharply, “Oh, don’t bother.”</p> + +<p>I waited for a while, digesting this snub. Then, “Was +she talking about Mr. Moore?” I asked, indiscreetly.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy regarded me at first mildly and absently, but as +the sense of my question slowly forced its way through the +meshes of her cogitations, suddenly in extreme wrath: “If +you’d mind your own business,” she snapped, “you’d hear +fewer lies. I don’t know what you’re doing down here at +all!”</p> + +<p>“I’m doing nothing,” I answered, crestfallen.</p> + +<p>“People talk about girls being curious and gossiping,” +Miss Izzy went on, scornfully, “but if other boys are like +you——”</p> + +<p>I retired upstairs without waiting for the conclusion of +the parallel. I worked for an hour and a half, and by then +it was tea-time. Aunt Margaret did not appear, and we +were told she was lying down. George, who had come +home earlier than usual, inquired where I was going to, and +when I informed him, asked if he might come too. I did +not like to refuse, though I did not want him, and knew he +and Owen would not get on together. I told him I was +going with Owen.</p> + +<p>“Is that the chap you’re so thick with? I don’t suppose +he’ll mind me, will he?”</p> + +<p>I introduced them to each other at the theatre door. +We were early, and had nearly three-quarters of an hour to +wait. Owen and I began to talk, but our conversation +evidently bored George, who, in the midst of it, introduced +a characteristic remark of his own, at which I laughed, +though I did not want to. Owen, who did not always see a +joke, and who would have detested the best joke in the +world of the particular kind George most affected, instantly +relapsed into silence. He looked at George for a moment; +then he took a copy of the “Golden Treasury” translation of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span> +Plato’s “Republic” from his pocket and began to read. I +had known well enough something of this sort was bound to +happen, and I made no attempt to bridge it over. George +nudged me with his elbow and closed his left eye. Owen’s +disapproval did not put him about in the least, and he +continued to chatter quite unabashed.</p> + +<p>Presently the fire-proof curtain went up, the lights were +raised, and the band straggled in and began to tune their +fiddles. The conductor followed, a fat little German with a +bald head which shone like a large ostrich egg. He faced +the audience and bowed two or three times to their applause; +then, turning round, he tapped the music stand sharply with +his baton, and the first phrase was drawn slowly out on the +’cellos.</p> + +<p>With the end of the overture the lights were turned down, +and the curtain rose on the lonely Faust, seated before a +skull, an hour-glass, and a large book, in his study. I had +already forgotten Owen, George, and everything but what I +saw before me. I was surprised to find that this old, grey-bearded +man, who looked, in the dimness, like an Albert +Durer print, had a fresh, strong, tenor voice. Outside I +heard the singing of the peasants; then followed the rage +and despair of Faust, and, in a flaming red light, the apparition +of Mephistopheles. Faust pleaded for his lost youth, +and Mephistopheles tempted him; the wall of the study +suddenly dissolved like a mist, and the vision of Margaret, +seated at her spinning-wheel, rose before the unhappy +philosopher; and the swinging, sensual phrase, repeated +again and again in the orchestra, lulled me to a dreamy +languor.</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Faust.</i>—“Heavenly vision!”</div> + <div class="verse indent0"><i>Mephistopheles.</i>—“Shall she love thee?”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noi">There could be but one answer, and I saw Faust yield to +the tempter; I saw his rejuvenescence; and a triumphant +duet between them brought the act to a close.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span></p> + +<p>I had become lost in this appealing melodrama, and +though my mood was broken in the next act, in the third +act, in the celebrated garden scene, it was revived and +intensified. The sugary sweetness of the music had an +almost hypnotic effect upon me, for I had never heard it till +now, and the ecstatic sensuality of the duet rapt me into a +world of love, where everything else was forgotten. It was +all utterly new to me; it thrilled me; it drowned me in +erotic dreams that swept me onward like the waves of the +sea; and through all, subconsciously, as I listened and +watched, I was carrying on another love-making of my +own, with which Faust and Margaret had nothing to do. +Through the next two acts I followed more closely the +fortunes of the unhappy heroine, not without a naïve +wonder why so much tragedy, so much remorse, should +attend on what appeared to me—but for the intervention of +the devil—a quite natural and straightforward courtship. +For some reason, possibly the fault of the libretto, more +probably because I could only catch about half the words, +I could not discover wherein lay the secret of the trouble, +nor why the lovers did not get married. I accepted the +situation however: I accepted, I think, everything but the +absurd “Soldiers’ Chorus,” and the death-scene of Valentine. +This latter nearly made me sick at the time, though I +forgot all about it when the curtain rose to reveal the +wretched Margaret in prison. With enthusiasm I watched +her reject her lover and the demon, and fling herself on her +knees to pour out her soul in a prayer which finished on the +high B. At last I saw her released from all the ills of +life, her body stretched on the miserable straw bed. And +with that the walls of the prison rolled back, and I had a +vision of her soul being borne to heaven by angels. It is +true those white-clad, flaxen-haired creatures, with glistening +wings and golden crowns, bore a not remote resemblance +to several of the livelier persons I had seen mingling with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span> +the soldiers and students at an earlier stage of the drama; +nevertheless I beheld them, in this pause on their way to +heaven, with respect, if not exactly veneration.</p> + +<p>“I doubt they’re as near it now as they’ll ever be,” said +George, cynically, pulling his cap from his jacket pocket.</p> + +<p>And out in the street, under the gas-lamp at the corner, I +had to submit to a deluge of criticism from both my companions. +I don’t know which I liked least, the scorn of +Owen, who revealed the tangible source of Margaret’s woes, +and would have had it adopted by the State, or, after Owen +had left, the ribald jibes of George, who found Faust a +poor creature, requiring a moon, a garden, a casket of +jewels, a devil, and several incantations, before he could +beguile an innocent rustic maiden who was already in love +with him. I resolved that I would go to the opera every +night that week, but that I would go alone. Between the +acts I had eagerly studied my programme, and the delightful, +unfamiliar, romantic names, “Tannhäuser,” “Il Trovatore,” +“Aida,” “Lohengrin,” were like syrens singing to +me through the darkness, with an irresistible and passionate +sweetness.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I went to the opera every night that week, as I had planned +to do, but the edge of my appetite was blunted, and, save +in the case of “Tannhäuser,” and of “Lohengrin,” I was +disappointed. I had already become more critical, and I +now doubted if “Faust” were the admirable work I had +fancied it.</p> + +<p>One evening there came a letter for me, and, when I +opened the envelope, I found inside a card which told me +that Miss L. Gill and Master E. Gill would be “at home” on +Friday, the 23rd of December. My own name was written +at the top of the card. In the bottom left-hand corner +was the word “Dancing,” followed by the numerals 8–12; +and in the corner opposite were four mysterious letters—“R.S.V.P.”</p> + +<p>I knew it to be an invitation to a party, but “R.S.V.P.” +was puzzling. Neither Uncle George nor Aunt Margaret +could throw any light upon these symbols, though Uncle +George pondered over the card half the evening, as if it +had been a kind of magazine competition. Miss Izzy +probably would have known, but Miss Izzy had gone, and +would not be back till to-morrow morning, whereas I +had a keen conviction that action should be taken +to-night.</p> + +<p>“Who are they?” Uncle George asked, referring to the +Gills.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span></p> + +<p>“Mr. Gill is a solicitor. Owen Gill is in my classes at +school.”</p> + +<p>Uncle George examined the card anew, bringing this +fresh light to bear on it. He held it at arm’s length, and +then put on his glasses and peered at it through them. +“Miss L. Gill and Master E. Gill,” he read aloud slowly +and solemnly.</p> + +<p>I laughed. “They’re Owen’s young sister and brother,” +I explained.</p> + +<p>“A solicitor. I suppose he will have some letters after +his name,” said Uncle George, weakly.</p> + +<p>“Oh, they’re not those,” I answered, impatiently. It +seemed to me that everybody was very stupid.</p> + +<p>“R.S.V.P.” Uncle George threw out thoughtfully. +He turned the card round and examined the back.</p> + +<p>“Reply soon: very pressing,” suggested George.</p> + +<p>His father looked at him doubtfully, and laid the card +on the table. “It can’t be so pressing,” he said, glancing +at the calendar, “when it’s a fortnight off.”</p> + +<p>“You see they have to make sure he’s coming before +they ask anybody else,” George explained. “Rippin’ +spread: veal pie.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you think that funny,” I broke in; whereupon +George, seeing I was inclined to be cross, kept +it up.</p> + +<p>“Royal spree: von’t you partake? Refined soirée: +veather permittin’. That’s it, da, right enough; you can +leave the card by.”</p> + +<p>But Uncle George continued to regard it searchingly, +glancing at me every now and again over his spectacles.</p> + +<p>Nothing was done that night, and in the morning, before +school, I approached Miss Izzy on the subject; though +when I saw her examine the card almost as carefully as +the others had done, my faith in her sank.</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to answer on a card,” said Miss Izzy,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span> +loftily, having at any rate settled the first point, and waving +aside the sheet of note paper I held in my hand.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t got one.”</p> + +<p>“There’s a box of them in the shop somewhere. They’ve +been there since the dear knows when. Nobody ever asks +for cards.” She hunted about in a drawer under the +counter, and at length succeeded in finding the box. +Without breaking the pink paper band that held the +cards together she carefully extracted one from the +bundle. I took it and dipped my pen in the ink and +waited.</p> + +<p>“Just answer it in the usual way,” said Miss Izzy, offhandedly, +with the air of one who dashes off at least half +a dozen such communications every day.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know the usual way,” I confessed.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy aggravatingly paused to shake out a paper +lamp-shade. Then she attended to a little boy who came +in to buy a “Deadwood Dick” tale.</p> + +<p>“Tell me what to say,” I begged, humbly.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Peter Waring,” dictated Miss Izzy, with much +dignity; and I wrote “Mr. Peter Waring,” in terror all +the time of making a blot.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy glanced over my shoulder. “You’ve begun +too high up,” she said, reassuringly. Then, as I made a +movement to tear the card, “Oh, it’ll do.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Peter Waring begs to thank Miss L. Gill and Master +E. Gill for their very kind invitation.”</p> + +<p>The shop-bell had rung again. It was the little boy +back to change his story for another he had discovered in +the window, and which it took Miss Izzy hours to extract. +“Corduroy Charlie,” she murmured, as she handed it +across the counter. It was the title of the work.</p> + +<p>“Yes?” I said, trying not to appear impatient.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy came back to my affairs. “Oh! what have +you got?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span></p> + +<p>“Mr. Peter Waring begs to thank Miss L. Gill and Master +E. Gill for their very kind invitation——”</p> + +<p>“Invitation.... And will be very pleased to accept +same for the date mentioned.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p>“That’s all. Don’t be signing your name, stupid!”</p> + +<p>I hastily checked myself.</p> + +<p>“What do those letters in the corner mean?” I asked +timidly. “I suppose I oughtn’t to put them on mine?”</p> + +<p>“Of course not. They’re French, and mean they want +an answer.”</p> + +<p>I read over what I had written and thanked Miss Izzy, +but secretly I was not satisfied. I felt sure there was +something wrong somewhere. It did not read well. I put +it in an envelope, however, and posted it, though immediately +afterwards I became more unhappy about it than +ever. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Carroll for information +when I was at home at Christmas.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I had been asked to the Gills’ for eight o’clock, and at +half-past six I began to dress. After posting my acceptance +my next care had been in regard to the clothes I should +wear. There is no doubt greatly increased opportunities +had tended to develop in me a latent dandyism. At all +events I took the matter of my dress quite seriously, and +had very definite ideas in regard to it. I went to the best +tailor in town, my bills were sent on to Mrs. Carroll, and +that was all I knew about them. I tried to get the soft +greys and blacks and whites I admired in old Spanish and +Dutch portraits, with perhaps a colour-note of olive green +in my neck-tie, but always with the tones kept low and +harmonious. Dandyism certainly, but it was in its way +merely an expression of those same sensibilities that enabled +me to see the charm of the pictures I have mentioned; +that is to say, it was not based on any feeling of personal +vanity, for I had no illusions in regard to my beauty. So, +in this particular instance, I took immense pains to see +that everything should be exactly right, and at the same +time pleasing to myself. The cloth I had chosen was of +the very blackest and finest and softest. Each garment +had to be fitted on me till I could find no fault in it. The +broad braid down the sides of my trousers seemed to me +perfectly decorative. It was really in its use of linen that +modern dress most conspicuously failed: what would Franz<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span> +Hals or Velasquez have thought of the stiff, glazed collar +convention obliged me to wear?</p> + +<p>When I had finished dressing I looked at myself critically +in the inadequate glass, beside which I had set two or three +candles, standing in pools of their own grease. It seemed +to me that the peculiar, sullen expression of my face, caused +by the formation of my forehead and the shape of my mouth, +must always create an unfavourable impression. If I could +recognise it myself, it would probably be a great deal more +striking to other people. It disappeared when I smiled, +but as soon as I stopped smiling it came back again.</p> + +<p>I went downstairs and strutted about before Miss Izzy +and little Alice, that they might admire my fine feathers, +and it was only when I reached the Gills that every other +feeling was swallowed up in a horrible shyness.</p> + +<p>The whole house was brilliantly lit up, and I was shown +to a room already half-filled with boys, who were removing +their overcoats, putting on their dancing shoes, talking and +laughing perfectly easily, just as if the most frightful ordeal +were not staring them in the face. Evidently they all +knew each other quite well, whereas I knew nobody. Owen +came up, indeed, and spoke to me, but forsook me almost +immediately, as people were arriving every minute, two or +three of them, I observed, quite grown-up. I wished Owen +would come back. When I saw a boy I knew slightly and +heartily disliked, I was ready to welcome him as the oldest +and dearest of friends, but, not being in my solitary condition, +he merely nodded to me, and went over to join a +group at the other side of the room. I was left standing +by myself, not knowing what to do; and all the time fresh +guests were arriving, and I felt I was in the way, +but could not summon up courage to make a movement. +I now bitterly regretted having been such a fool as to come. +I noticed several other boys with whom I had a casual +acquaintance at school, but beyond nodding they paid no<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span> +attention to me, and I became filled with rage against them +and against Owen himself. Then I heard a voice saying +over my shoulder, “If you’re ready you may as well come +upstairs.”</p> + +<p>It was Owen, and I followed him obediently. I passed +a group of boys loitering outside an open door, and found +myself all at once in a large room. The light at first half-dazzled +me. With a heart furiously beating I was led up +to a tall, slight lady in black, who was standing near the +fireplace. This was Owen’s mother. I shook hands with +her, and with his father, and with one of his elder sisters. +But when this was accomplished I was again in that horrible +position of not knowing what to do and being afraid to +move. Owen had once more deserted me. All about me +were a crowd of brightly-dressed girls, chattering and +laughing among themselves, and pretending not to look +at me. The boys, with whom I would have liked now to +be back again, were hovering near the door, and I tried to +screw up my courage to the point of crossing the room. +Then somebody—I think it was Owen’s sister—gave me a +programme. I stood clasping it tightly in my hand. It +seemed to me now unthinkably idiotic that I should voluntarily +have placed myself in this position of torture, when +all I had had to do was to refuse the invitation and stay +at home. At that moment a lady to whom I had not been +introduced spoke to me, though I was too much upset to +hear what she said. She had a pleasant smile, a voice soft +and attractive, and she asked me my name, and told me +I must get some partners. Many of the other boys, I +noticed, had begun to ask for dances, and were scribbling +down names in their programmes. My new friend bore +me off to a fair-haired, fair-skinned, demure-looking maiden +in a pink, fleecy dress, and introduced me. Unfortunately, +at this point, one of the grown-up persons, a tall young +man, called out, “Annie, half a mo,” and my protectress<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span> +turned away, leaving me to make my own advances. I +could do nothing. How could I ask this wretched girl to +dance with me when I had never danced in my life? For +an agonizing moment I stood there; then I stammered +out something, turned on my heel abruptly, and walked +away.</p> + +<p>It was dreadful. Before me I saw a conservatory, the +door of which was open, and I escaped into it as my only +refuge. I felt utterly miserable. It occurred to me to +slip out quietly and go home, but to do that I should have +to cross the room, and somebody would be sure to pounce +upon me. Besides, what would the McAllisters think? +The first dance had commenced, and I saw that my golden-haired +maiden had found another partner. He happened +to be one of the boys I knew, and I was certain she would +tell him what I had done, and that everybody at school +would get to know about it.</p> + +<p>In the midst of the dance the lady called Annie bore +straight down upon me, having detected my hiding-place. +But she did not seem angry; on the contrary, she was +laughing. She threaded her way among the palms, while +I felt my face becoming purple.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean by running away like that from the +partners I choose for you?” she asked gaily. “Elsie told +me you wouldn’t ask her to dance, and she says it’s my fault, +that I made you come when you didn’t want to.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t dance,” I answered huskily. Nevertheless, +Elsie’s explanation of my conduct, in spite of the fact that +it redoubled its rudeness, gave me relief.</p> + +<p>The “Annie” lady looked at me, still laughing. Then +she said very kindly, “Oh, don’t mind; it really doesn’t +matter in the least. Come and dance with me.”</p> + +<p>“But I can’t,” I muttered, “I never tried in my life.”</p> + +<p>“Well, come and talk to me then, and we can watch the +others.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span></p> + +<p>She led me back into the room. She asked me all kinds +of questions about myself, and very soon I was chattering +away as if I had known her all my life. I had forgotten +what an extremely small boy I had been only ten minutes +ago, as I looked about me boldly, and gave “Annie” my +opinion on all kinds of things.</p> + +<p>We talked of the opera, and when she told me she preferred +the “Trovatore” to “Lohengrin” I thought her +taste very crude. All the same I liked her. She laughed in +a nice way, and was interested in everything you said to +her. I pulled up my trousers a little so that my delicate +silk socks should be more visible. As I glanced round the +room I decided that I was much better dressed than anybody +there, and this conviction increased my confidence. I would +have liked to ask “Annie” what she thought of me from +this point of view, but instead, she inquired if I was fond of +reading. I replied in the affirmative, and she asked me if I +had read “Tom Brown’s School-days.” I again said, +“Yes,” and asked her if she had read “Anna Karénine.”</p> + +<p>“What a curious book for you to get hold of! I should +have thought you would have preferred ‘The Coral Island,’ +or ‘Midshipman Easy.’ Those are the kind of books <em>my</em> +brothers like. That is one of my brothers there, that fat +ugly boy with red hair, dancing with the little girl in white.”</p> + +<p>I inspected the brother. “‘Anna Karénine’ is a fine +book,” I answered. “Why didn’t she ask for the divorce +at once, do you think? I mean as soon as she went away +with Wronsky?”</p> + +<p>Out of the tail of my eye I saw the young man who had +before interfered between us again approaching. She saw +him too, and immediately called out, “Bertie, we’re discussing +‘Anna Karénine.’ I’m sure you haven’t read it.”</p> + +<p>We didn’t really discuss it, for she changed the subject +directly afterwards, without even having answered my +question, and Bertie, who I heard later was a football<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span> +player of great renown, asked me if my school was going to +win the cup this year. The first square dance “Annie” +insisted on my dancing with her, and, so far as I could +judge, I shuffled through it all right. After that she left +me to my own resources, and I returned to Bertie. There +was something between Bertie and her, I believed. I was +sure he had only come because she had told him she was +going to be there to help to look after the kids. Bertie had +danced all the dances up to this one, but he now told me +that if he didn’t have a smoke he should die, and asked me +to come to the billiard-room with him. We played a +hundred up, Bertie going two to my one, but I beat him, for +I had often knocked the balls about on the table at Derryaghy, +though there was rarely anybody to have a game with. +Bertie said I should make a good player if I practised, and +he showed me a lot of strokes. He was very jolly and I +liked him. Presently he asked me if I didn’t want some +supper, and we went downstairs. Refreshments had been +going on all the evening, but the room happened to be empty +when we came in. There was a great deal of lemonade and +stuff, but Bertie secured some champagne, and by the time +I had had two glasses I began to feel extremely comfortable +and jolly. Bertie’s jokes were twice as good as they had +been before, and my own conversation suddenly acquired +an interest and brilliancy that made me want to talk as +much as possible. After my third glass Bertie suggested I +should try Apollinaris, but I refused. The room had +somehow by this time got full of people. Bertie told me to +keep quiet, but just then he was called away, and I was left +to finish my supper alone.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>When I got to my feet to go back to the dancing-room, +everything swayed before my eyes, and I held on to the +back of my chair till I had steadied myself. I felt now as +bold as a lion, and as soon as I clapped eyes on Elsie, my +golden-haired maiden whom I had insulted earlier in the +evening, I determined to apologize. I went up to her, +looking neither to right nor left, and placing myself in front +of her asked her to give me the next dance.</p> + +<p>She looked at me somewhat timidly, and said she was +engaged already, showing me her programme. I at once +stroked the name out.</p> + +<p>“Now,” I said, “let’s go and sit down somewhere. He’ll +never find us.”</p> + +<p>She hesitated, but only for a second or two. Then she +rose and put her hand lightly on my arm.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think it’s awfully hot in here?” I went on, +with amazing aplomb. “Besides, we have to hide any +way, haven’t we?”</p> + +<p>But outside, the landing was full of people. I glanced at +the staircase before us, seeming to lead up into regions of +dim coolness and solitude, and proposed we should try to +find some place on the next floor.</p> + +<p>There was indeed a seat there, in the dusk, but Elsie +looked at it with misgiving. “I don’t think we should +have come so high up,” she said. “I’m sure we’re not meant<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span> +to. I think we’d better go down: nobody else is coming +up here.”</p> + +<p>“But isn’t that just the reason we came? It’s all right. +If anybody else does come we won’t be the only ones, and +if they don’t who’s to know anything about us?”</p> + +<p>I don’t know whether Elsie was convinced by this +sophistry, but at any rate she sat down. “I want to +apologize to you,” I began softly. “Are you very angry +with me?” I was surprised at the amount of expression I +was able to throw into my voice, and I had a delightful +feeling of not caring a straw what I said or did. It was +fairly evident that Elsie rather admired the mood I was +displaying, though I could see she was slightly puzzled by it.</p> + +<p>“No,” she answered simply. “I knew you were shy.” +She lifted her innocent grey eyes to mine, and it came over +me, very intensely, that she was extremely pretty. She +looked very soft and demure in her fleecy pink dress, and +with her hands folded in her lap.</p> + +<p>“Do you think I’m shy now?” I asked, smiling.</p> + +<p>“No,” she answered sweetly.</p> + +<p>I couldn’t help laughing. At the same time I felt a sudden +tenderness for her, which it seemed most essential that I +should put into words.</p> + +<p>“You’ve forgiven me then?” I went on.</p> + +<p>She laughed. “What nonsense you talk. As if it +mattered.”</p> + +<p>“It matters to me. Say you forgive me.”</p> + +<p>“I won’t. There’s nothing to forgive.” She blushed +and looked down.</p> + +<p>“Say it,” I persisted, bending towards her. “If you +don’t I’ll think you dislike me.”</p> + +<p>She kept her eyes downcast, and I drew closer still.</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t dislike you,” she whispered.</p> + +<p>I kissed her. She blushed a deep delightful blush, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span> +did not move away. The swinging melody of a waltz rose +up to us through the dim cool light.</p> + +<p>“Are you angry now?” I asked.</p> + +<p>She shook her head. I put my arms round her, and as I +felt her yielding I had a strong strange pleasure. I held her +close to me, kissing her again and again, while she closed +her eyes like a cat that is being stroked. For a moment I +felt her lips touch mine, then she struggled away from me, +and without looking back hurried downstairs.</p> + +<p>I followed, but before I could rejoin her Owen caught me +by the arm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I’ve +hardly seen you all the evening. What have you been +up to?”</p> + +<p>I laughed.</p> + +<p>He looked at me, slightly perplexed. “What is there so +amusing?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>But I didn’t try to explain.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” Owen went on, gazing at me.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“Come on upstairs: it’s cooler there. There’s a seat on +the next lobby.”</p> + +<p>“Is there?” I replied, as I followed him.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>“I hope you haven’t been awfully bored?” was Owen’s first +remark after we sat down.</p> + +<p>“No; I think it’s a lovely party.”</p> + +<p>There was a silence.</p> + +<p>“What <em>is</em> the matter, Peter?” Owen asked +again.</p> + +<p>“Nothing, Owen, except natural excitement. Don’t be +suspicious.”</p> + +<p>Owen looked unconvinced, but he decided to change the +subject. “Do you know the part of the book that I really +like best? It is where Levine mows the meadows with the +peasants.”</p> + +<p>I knew we were back again at “Anna Karénine,” but I +couldn’t bring my mind to bear upon it.</p> + +<p>“That is the real kind of life,” Owen pursued, “where +all is simple, and natural; where there are no balls and +clubs and lies and all the rest. I hate towns. I shall always +live somewhere in the country.”</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t suit everybody,” I brilliantly observed.</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t suit people like Anna and Wronsky.”</p> + +<p>“You’re always down on poor Anna.”</p> + +<p>“She’s not poor. She had every chance to be happy. +Why couldn’t she have been content to be friends with +Wronsky? All the rest was pure selfishness.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t understand,” I replied.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span></p> + +<p>Owen hated to be told this. “Understand what?” he +demanded, impatiently.</p> + +<p>“The kind of love Anna and Wronsky had for each other.”</p> + +<p>“Why, then, as soon as she goes to live with Wronsky, +does she begin to talk so much of her love for her son? I +don’t like her. It seems to me that she deliberately spoiled +the lives of her husband and her son for her own gratification.”</p> + +<p>“She didn’t spoil her son’s life. He was only a little boy.”</p> + +<p>“But she forsook him.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t understand,” I was obliged to repeat. +“You never <em>will</em> understand.”</p> + +<p>“Do you want to stick up for that sort of thing?”</p> + +<p>“I’m not sticking up for it; but I don’t think it’s the +kind of thing a person can accept or refuse just as if it were +an invitation to a party. If you knew anything about it you +wouldn’t say they might have been content to be friends.”</p> + +<p>“And do you like the way she makes fun of her husband +to her lover?”</p> + +<p>“What has that to do with it?”</p> + +<p>“Even when she is making her confession to her husband +she thinks only of herself. She tells him that she hates +him. It does not occur to her that he can have any feelings, +because his manner is stiff and he has a habit of cracking +his finger-joints.”</p> + +<p>“It didn’t much matter how she made her confession.”</p> + +<p>“It did. She needn’t have been brutal.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she wasn’t brutal.”</p> + +<p>“And all the lies?”</p> + +<p>“But you never seem to think of her situation!”</p> + +<p>“I do. She deliberately brought about her own situation, +after having been warned by her husband. You admire +her simply because she loves Wronsky; but there is +nothing very wonderful about that kind of love.”</p> + +<p>“I never said I admired her; I said I understood her. +If she sacrificed her husband, she sacrificed herself too.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes—and her lover, and her friend Kitty, and her son, +and everything. Levine’s brother, who drinks himself to +death, also sacrifices himself. And Yavshine, who gambles +away all his fortune.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t see any difference?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see anything fine in the kind of love Anna felt. +And when she says she won’t have any more children, it +seems to me that it becomes simply disgusting. Have you +thought what it means?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I know what it means,” I answered sulkily. Owen +had managed to completely alter my mood, and I no longer +felt pleased with myself or pleased with him. I was irritated +because he seemed, now as always, to try to judge what was a +matter of emotion by reasoning about it.</p> + +<p>“If you had ever loved anybody,” I said, “it would make +you look at such things differently.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps I mightn’t see them any clearer for that.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not. But to judge human beings you require +first of all to understand something about human nature.”</p> + +<p>“Understand! You’re always harping on that! It’s a +very cheap way of arguing. Why should I think <em>you</em> understand?”</p> + +<p>“Because I have felt what we are talking about, and you +haven’t.” I suddenly grew violently excited. “You don’t +know what it is to care for a person so that nothing else in +the world matters, so that it is like a kind of sickness, preventing +you even from sleeping. You know nothing, have +felt nothing, and yet you bring out your miserable little +catechism arguments and pretend to pronounce judgment. +I’d rather have a man who had committed all the crimes on +the earth than one of those cold, fishy, reasonable creatures +you admire, who never did anything wrong, and never made +anybody happy.”</p> + +<p>Owen looked at me in amazement, which is indeed hardly +surprising. But suddenly my excitement passed, and I felt<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span> +only a passion of home-sickness and regret. It swept over +me like a heavy, resistless rush of water. All that was here +around me grew black as night. I longed to get away from +everything that could even remind me of my life of the past +few months. I seemed to have a sudden bright light in +which I saw myself clearly. In these few months I had +deteriorated, the quality even of my love for Katherine had +deteriorated; it had become less of the spirit, more of an +obsession. And now, as I stood there before Owen, I seemed +to hear the soft breaking of waves, infinitely peaceful, +and I had a vision of my own bedroom, where I went to +sleep, and wakened up, with the low sound of the sea in my +ears. I said good-night hurriedly to the astonished Owen. +I told him I was sorry for speaking as I had done, but that +I would explain it all to him another time; only now I must +go. I ran downstairs to the cloak-room, and a few minutes +later left the house, without having said good-night to +Mrs. Gill.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When I reached home I let myself in quietly with a latch-key, +but as I was undressing George wakened up and began +to ask me about the party. I did not feel in the least like +going to sleep, and after I had got into bed we lay talking. +Presently George got up and lit the gas, which I had turned +out. I saw him go to the hiding-place he had shown me on +the night of my arrival, and again take from it that mysterious +bundle of photographs. He came over and sat down +on the side of my bed.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to see them,” I said, pushing him away; +but he may have detected a note of weakness in my voice, +for he only laughed.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be a fool,” he answered brutally. “I’m not going +to do you any harm.”</p> + +<p>He drew them from the envelope and showed them to me, +one by one, while the gas flamed and flared above our heads.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Owen stepped back off the foot-board on to the platform.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye,” I said, leaning out of the carriage window. +“There’s no use your waiting till the train starts. I hope +you’ll have decent holidays.”</p> + +<p>He smiled. “I’m sure I will. I wish, all the same, you +were going to be with me. I thought of it, but then I +thought you would rather go home.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Wouldn’t you really? Don’t you want to go home?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. You don’t seem, perhaps, quite so keen +as you were——”</p> + +<p>Owen still waited, but I had taken my seat.</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll see you again in a fortnight,” he went on, +cheerfully. “Write to me, won’t you, if you aren’t too +busy?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>Another pause followed, while Owen looked up and down +the platform. He seemed to me extraordinarily happy.</p> + +<p>“Well, good-bye again,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>And this time the guard’s whistle blew, the train jolted +forward with a clatter of coupling-irons, and then glided +steadily on. I waved my hand to Owen, catching a last +glimpse of his bright, animated face before I settled down<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span> +to the indifferent contemplation of the staler, and coarser-looking +persons who shared my compartment. What I had +been looking forward to for many weeks had come to pass; +I was on my way home; outwardly nothing was wanting; +yet not even the thought of seeing Mrs. Carroll again seemed +to have power to awaken that joy I had anticipated, though +she had written to ask me to spend part of my holidays with +her, and I tried now to think of some scheme by which to +make this part as large as possible.</p> + +<p>I looked at the people opposite; I looked out of the +window; I turned the pages of <cite>Punch’s Almanac</cite>, which +Owen had bought for me at the bookstall. Then I shut my +eyes and tried to doze.</p> + +<p>When the train drew in at the station I saw my father +standing on the platform. Somehow, I had not expected +him to be there, and he upset my calculations. I opened the +carriage door, and as I shook hands with him I realized how +much easier it is to make plans than to carry them out, and +hoped Mrs. Carroll herself had approached him on the matter +of my going to Derryaghy. His careworn, anxious face was +lit by a smile as he asked me how I was. A porter meanwhile +had secured my box and was wheeling it on a truck +along the platform. But, as we walked behind him, that old +stupid feeling of constraint had already begun to take +possession of me, and my replies to my father’s questions +sounded, for all I could do to the contrary, stiff, and even +reluctant.</p> + +<p>It was after one o’clock and dinner was ready when we +reached the house.</p> + +<p>“The train must have been late,” I remarked, indifferently, +as we sat down; and then I could think of nothing +further to say.</p> + +<p>It struck me that my father was older and dimmer and +shabbier than I had remembered him. He presented the +picture, drab and dreary, of perfectly achieved failure, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span> +I found myself looking out for all his old habits, the peculiar +noises he made with his nose, his fashion of smacking his lips. +I noticed that his hands were not very clean, and that his +coat looked as if he had brushed his hair over it. These +things struck me all the more forcibly, somehow, because I +tried to think how superficial and unimportant they were. +I had a vision of the solitary meals he must have taken for +the past four months, and I was sorry for him, though +subconsciously, at the same time, I was considering how +soon it would do for me to mention my proposed visit to +Derryaghy.</p> + +<p>After dinner he asked me what I wanted to do. “It is +nice and dry for walking,” he said. “We have had quite a +hard frost.”</p> + +<p>It sounded as if he intended coming with me, a thing he +seldom or never did.</p> + +<p>“I was thinking of going up to Derryaghy,” I answered, +with an assumption of carelessness that did not prevent my +noting the immediate change that came into his face.</p> + +<p>“Had you planned anything?” I asked hastily.</p> + +<p>“No, no.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you would like to go for a walk?”</p> + +<p>“No, no. Please yourself,” he replied.</p> + +<p>So I went up to Derryaghy, with a guilty sense that I had +hurt his feelings. It was a pity that I should have begun in +this fashion; that I could not, for once, have been cheerfully +and spontaneously unselfish, but my longing to get back to +my old haunts was intense, and I yielded to it.</p> + +<p>After all, when I reached Derryaghy, Mrs. Carroll was not +there. She had left a message for me to say that she had +been obliged to go up to town, but that she hoped I should +be able to dine with her at the usual hour. I wandered out +into the winter woods, beautiful with the strange and delicate +beauty of naked trees. I loved this place really with a +kind of passion, and I was glad my father was not here, glad<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span> +that I was alone. Dark slender branches traced fantastic +arabesques against the grey sky above my head. The black- +and silver-stemmed birches gave the note that was carried +out through all the colouring. Only the fir-trees, laurels, and +an occasional holly-tree, were green. I loved the woods in +winter; they seemed to me to have then a peculiar grace +they did not possess at any other season. And the wind +whistled so hollowly in the leafless trees, and the darting +birds were so black against the sky, and all was so silent and +solitary, with a sort of frozen loveliness, that I could conceive +of nothing more beautiful even in the green pomp and +splendour of summer. And behind everything was a vision +of long, lamp-lit, fire-lit evenings, with dreamy, delicious +books. The leaves of the laurels and holly were coated +with frost; the dead fronds of the bracken were a dull +brown; here and there the sombre colouring was splashed +with the red leaves of brambles. There was a hint of +approaching snow in the air, there was almost a silence of +snow, and I seemed to feel it drawing closer to me through +the cold, remote sky. The ground was hard as iron. Sometimes +a single leaf, pallid and faded, trembled still at the end +of a twig, but almost all the leaves that were going to fall +had fallen long ago. I saw the flash of fur, brown and white, +in the frozen grass, but Tony, who followed at my heels, was +indifferent to rabbits.</p> + +<p>It was dusk when I returned. A servant preceded me +into the drawing-room, and lit the lamps, and made up the +fire, throwing on another log or two. I sat down in one of +the big, soft armchairs and began to turn over Christmas +numbers—the <cite>Graphic</cite>, the <cite>London News</cite>, <cite>Holly Leaves</cite>—looking +at Caldecott’s, Sambourne’s, and Fred Barnard’s +drawings. I began to read a story by Bret Harte. It was +extraordinarily nice to be here again. This dear old house, +how I loved it! The huge wood fire, the roomy depth of +my armchair, the soft, thick carpet, all the surroundings<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span> +of pleasantness and comfort, appealed to me after +my prolonged and reluctant experience of the McAllisters. +The fragrant China tea that was brought in to me tasted +more deliciously than anything I had ever tasted before, +and when I had finished my story (“The Chatelaine of Burnt +Ridge,” I think it was called) and the servant had cleared +away the tea-things, I sat and dozed.</p> + +<p>I had asked after Miss Dick, but of course she had gone +home for Christmas. I was really to be alone this time—just +myself and Mrs. Carroll.</p> + +<p>As I sat there, looking into the fire, I felt that it would +have been nicer of me to have gone home on this, the evening +of my arrival, but six o’clock, our tea hour, had struck ten +minutes ago, and still I had not budged from my chair. +Curious thoughts, thoughts I should have been ashamed to +tell anybody, came to me unbidden, and for the first time. It +made a tremendous difference just who happened to be one’s +father, I reflected; and I thought of how the Dales were Mrs. +Carroll’s nearest relatives. “She likes me better than +anybody else,” I said to myself. “If I were by myself she +would adopt me. All this—the house—everything will +belong one day to somebody else; but to whom?... +The house?” ... And I remembered she did not care +for Gerald, and that Gerald did not in the least try to make +her alter her opinion. Probably he had only come over last +summer because his people had insisted on it. All at once I +realized that these speculations were not particularly charming, +and tried to put them from me. At the same time I +heard the sharp sound of a horse’s hoofs on the frozen +ground, then the crunch of gravel under carriage wheels, +and I knew Mrs. Carroll had returned.</p> + +<p>She opened the door and came straight to me, smiling +and holding out her hand. “You’ve grown so big,” she +said, lifting her thick veil, “I don’t know whether you want +to be kissed or not, but I think I’ll risk it.” She kissed me,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span> +and then held me at arm’s length to look at me. She moved +me a little so that the lamp-light fell on my face. “My +dear child,” she asked, with a sudden anxiety, “aren’t you +well? How did you get those black lines under your eyes? +You can’t be getting enough sleep. Have you been working +too hard?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered, “but I was up late last night.”</p> + +<p>“You must be more careful: your health is infinitely +more important than any wretched examination. Well, at +all events, I’m very glad to see you.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A couple of hours later, after dinner, she again took up +the subject of my appearance, which evidently did not +satisfy her, though I assured her there was nothing the matter.</p> + +<p>“You’ve altered,” she said, thoughtfully. “It isn’t only +that you’ve grown, but you, somehow, look older. Do you +get your meals properly? I expect you stop to play after +school instead of coming home to your dinner!”</p> + +<p>I changed the subject as soon as I could by asking after +the Dales. “Will they be here next summer?”</p> + +<p>“If you would like it I daresay we can manage it. In +fact I invited Katherine for Christmas, but she couldn’t +come.”</p> + +<p>“I hope they will come in the summer.”</p> + +<p>I inquired after all the other people I could think of: I +felt interested in everything that had happened since I had +gone away. Then I sat quiet, and quite suddenly, when I +thought she had forgotten all about it, Mrs. Carroll said, +“I wish you would tell me, Peter, just what is troubling +you.”</p> + +<p>“But there is nothing,” I answered, smiling. “I was +only thinking how nice it was to be back here again.”</p> + +<p>“Remember you are to come to stay for a few days, before +the end of your holidays. You must stay at least a week. +When have you to go back?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span></p> + +<p>“On the eighth.”</p> + +<p>“And those people you are with—the What-do-you-call-ems—how +do you like them?”</p> + +<p>“The McAllisters?” I hesitated. “Not very much.”</p> + +<p>“Do they look after you properly?”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes.”</p> + +<p>“I think I’ll come and see you there. I would have gone +before this, only your father didn’t want it.”</p> + +<p>“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>I had no answer and she went on: “I must call and have +a talk with your father before you go back.”</p> + +<p>“It won’t do any good so far as that is concerned. He +wants me to be there. Aunt Margaret is his sister.”</p> + +<p>“I know that, but you’d rather be by yourself, wouldn’t +you? I can see there is something you don’t like.”</p> + +<p>“My father wouldn’t let me. He has some idea about a +home influence—but I told you before, and of course he told +you himself.”</p> + +<p>“Home fiddlesticks! You’d have been far better at a +good boarding-school. This, it seems to me, is neither one +thing nor another. I must speak to him.”</p> + +<p>“There is no use really,” I said, for I knew that if she +were to take the matter up again it might end in my not even +being allowed to come to stay at Derryaghy next week.</p> + +<p>“Your father is far too anxious about you. If there had +been two or three more of you it would have been much +better.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t that.” I waited a while before I brought it out: +“He doesn’t trust me.”</p> + +<p>“Doesn’t trust you? In what way doesn’t he trust +you?”</p> + +<p>“In every way. He thinks I’m inclined naturally to—to +do things—”</p> + +<p>“To do things? What sort of things?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span></p> + +<p>“To be bad,” I said abruptly.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll stared at me. “Nonsense, child,” she +answered. “I don’t know what can have put such an idea +into your head!”</p> + +<p>“<em>He</em> did,” I muttered. “There are times when I think +he may be right,” I went on dejectedly, “that he must surely +have some reason. I don’t know.... He is always +thinking about my mother.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll had been on the point of speaking, but at this +she paused.</p> + +<p>“I know nothing about her,” I pursued. “I can’t +remember her at all, and there is not even a photograph at +home. What <em>is</em> there? Do <em>you</em> know nothing?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll hesitated. “Nothing,” she then said. +“Nothing more than you know yourself, Peter dear,” she +added.</p> + +<p>“You have never heard? I should like to go to see her.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?” There was a note of doubt in this monosyllable +which made me look up.</p> + +<p>“I should like to judge for myself,” I continued, impetuously. +But the question was, or to Mrs. Carroll appeared to +be, an impossible one for us to discuss together, and she +made no reply.</p> + +<p>“And how do you like your school?” she asked presently, +holding up a magazine between her face and the blazing +fire. “Tell me all about it—about all your friends and +everything you do.”</p> + +<p>I began to tell her, giving, as I went along a kind of +rough, rambling account of my ordinary day. I told of +how I had come to know Owen; how the real thief had never +been discovered. I described Owen to her; I said he was +the only friend I had made. I told her of the party last +night, leaving out the episode of Elsie.</p> + +<p>“It makes such a difference when you find somebody who +is more or less like yourself.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span></p> + +<p>“I don’t think he is very like me,” I answered. “I +don’t think we’re a bit alike, but—” I tried to puzzle it out: +“I suppose we must have some things in common.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me about him,” she encouraged me.</p> + +<p>“He’s a very good chap,” I said lamely. Then, as this +didn’t in the least express my meaning: “I mean he’s very +straight, and decent, and all that. He’s not like anybody +else.”</p> + +<p>“What is the difference?”</p> + +<p>“Well, for one thing, he’s awfully serious. I don’t mean +dull—but serious about what things really mean and that +sort of thing.”</p> + +<p>“Is he clever?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. He’s very simple.”</p> + +<p>“And George—isn’t that his name? the name of your +cousin?—what is <em>he</em> like? Are you friends with him?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>“Tell me about George too.”</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing to tell. He’s in business. You +wouldn’t much care for him.”</p> + +<p>“Why not? Don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, very well.” And it suddenly struck me as strange +that I did so, that I did not positively detest him.</p> + +<p>“You do not seem enthusiastic. Is he not nice?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, he’s all right. He’s nice enough, I daresay—just +as nice as I am.”</p> + +<p>“Why won’t you tell me what is the matter, Peter?”</p> + +<p>“There is nothing.”</p> + +<p>“You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>I closed my eyes for a minute as I leaned back in my +chair. A silence had fallen on the room with my last +words. Then suddenly my self-control deserted me, and +I hid my face against the arm of the chair, just as if I had +been a child.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was a beautiful, clear, winter night when I walked home. +Over the low wall I looked out at the dark, smooth sea, +stretching away, almost black, save where the moonlight +touched it. I trailed my right hand on the wall as I walked, +heedless of the cold, though it was freezing keenly. The +tide was in, and the chill, listless splash of the small waves, +running through my thoughts, seemed to increase their +sadness. On the verge of the distant golf-links a ruddy +light from the big hotel shone out into the night.</p> + +<p>As I turned up the Bryansford Road, I saw, in the moonlight, +my father standing leaning over the garden gate, and +behind him the house door was open. Unconsciously I +slackened my pace. He was looking for me, perhaps. He +must have already heard me, for the sound of my footsteps +rang out sharply on the hard road.</p> + +<p>“Where have you been all this time?” he asked abruptly, +as I came up.</p> + +<p>There was a hardness in his voice that, in my present +mood, I shrank from more than I should have from physical +violence. I knew he knew where I had been, and I thought +he might have let the matter pass. “I didn’t intend to +stay so late,” I said, apologetically, “but Mrs. Carroll had +gone up to town and left a message for me, asking me to +wait. After dinner she wanted me to tell her all I had been +doing since I left home.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span></p> + +<p>“I hope you were more communicative than you were to +me. You hadn’t time, I suppose, to come back and say +you were staying. I waited tea for you for nearly an hour.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t think it mattered,” I mumbled. “I’m very +sorry. I thought you would understand.”</p> + +<p>I had already climbed half a dozen stairs on my way to +bed, when my father called me back.</p> + +<p>“Why are you rushing off like that, now?”</p> + +<p>I hastily returned. “I was going to bed: I didn’t know +you wanted to sit up.” I went on into the parlour, where +there was a smoky fire in the grate, just large enough to +make you realize how cold it was, and on the table some +bread and butter, a jug of milk and a tumbler. I sat down +beside the fire.</p> + +<p>“I’m not going to sit up; but I don’t want you to treat +your home as if it were an hotel, a place where you come +merely to sleep. I’ve no doubt things are more to your +taste at Derryaghy, but while this <em>is</em> your home, you must +try to make the best of it.”</p> + +<p>I looked at my father helplessly, but I said nothing. I +had an uncomfortable vision of his sitting here all evening +by himself. If he would only make friends with somebody! +I wondered if he had been happy before mamma +went away.</p> + +<p>“Seeing that it was your first day at home,” he went on, +putting down my silence to sulkiness, “you might at least +have been content to be out all the afternoon. Now that +we are on the subject, I had better let you know that Mrs. +Carroll asked me to allow you to spend part of your holidays +at Derryaghy, but I told her you must decide that for +yourself.” He paused, with the intention of letting me say +I didn’t want to go.</p> + +<p>“She told me to-night,” I murmured.</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>“I think I’d like to go.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span></p> + +<p>There was a silence, and I wondered how long we were +going to sit shivering here.</p> + +<p>“I had a letter to-night from your Aunt Margaret. She +says you have made friends with some people called Gill, +and have been to a party at their house.”</p> + +<p>“Yes: it was last night.”</p> + +<p>“Why do you never tell me of any of these things yourself? +One would think I was a total stranger to you!”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know it would interest you.”</p> + +<p>All at once I remembered my visits to the opera, and +I couldn’t understand how my father had not heard of +them. He had not mentioned my laxity in regard to +church either, and both these omissions puzzled me greatly, +seeing Aunt Margaret had made such a fuss about them +at the time.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>After breakfast I screwed up my courage to the point of +broaching the subject I had most on my mind. “There +is something I want to say to you,” I began, and my father +instantly adopted an attitude of motionless attention, so +excessively attentive that it had the effect of putting me +out, and I forgot the phrases I had prepared beforehand, +and could only stammer awkwardly that it was my desire +to leave the McAllisters and choose some lodging for myself.</p> + +<p>A return to this question I saw was not pleasing to him, +and I had hardly expected it to be so.</p> + +<p>“You are very self-willed,” he said, slowly.</p> + +<p>I knew from the tone in which this opinion was uttered +that he had already made up his mind about my request, +yet some obscure instinct of self-preservation still kept +me from giving in. I don’t suppose I could have satisfactorily +explained that instinct to my father, even had I +become perfectly confidential, and certainly no such +thought ever crossed my mind. The result was that he +looked upon my wish as a mere caprice.</p> + +<p>“It seems to me we have already fully discussed the +question,” he remarked unsympathetically.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know then.... I mean I don’t like sleeping +with George.”</p> + +<p>“Why? You have your own bed, haven’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span></p> + +<p>“George is your cousin.”</p> + +<p>“I know he is my cousin,” I answered wearily. “What +difference does that make?” Already I felt the whole +thing was hopeless.</p> + +<p>“It is just this sort of nonsense which makes me object +to your going to stay at Derryaghy,” my father began +impatiently. “You are pampered with every luxury there, +till you begin to dislike and look down upon everybody +who hasn’t had your advantages.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not thinking of advantages,” I muttered, with a +sort of irony.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know when I arranged for you to stay with +them that they would not be able to give you a room to +yourself. On the other hand, I don’t see that it is at all +a sufficient reason for your leaving now you are there. I +told you so when I wrote to you. It is only an excuse to +get your own way. You have always been like that; +though I should have thought you would hardly have +considered it worth while to bring the matter up again +after all these months.”</p> + +<p>I accepted my father’s decision without further protest. +As a matter of fact, a kind of listlessness had come upon +me, an apathetic indifference to whatever might happen.</p> + +<p>It was Christmas Eve. A heavy fall of snow had occurred +during the night, and on the hard, frozen ground it lay +unmelted to the dark border of the sea. All the morning I +spent beside the fire reading “Richard Feverel,” but about +half-past three I went out for a walk over the golf-links. +The snow was several inches deep, but being perfectly hard +was not unpleasant for walking. I had slept badly last +night, a sleep broken by wretched dreams, and I had a +mind to go for a really long walk and tire myself out. In +spite of being at home again, in spite of this beautiful, bright, +exhilarating weather, in spite of the fact that I would be +getting a Christmas-box from Mrs. Carroll to-morrow, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span> +a letter from Katherine, and another from Owen, my spirits +were of the gloomiest. Never before had I looked so +closely into my own soul, and never before had I found so +little there to comfort me. I knew that for months past my +mind had been gradually submitted to a poisonous influence +that had filtered through my blood, like a vapour from some +fever-breeding marsh. Yet certain seeds, I thought, could +perhaps only have taken root within me, could perhaps +only so quickly have sprung to tall dark flower, because +they had found a soil already apt to receive them: and I +remembered my father’s suspicions in the past. I thought +of a book I had been reading lately—a book written for boys, +and all about boys—and I compared myself with its heroes. +I compared the gloom that weighed upon me now with +the troubles they had experienced, and it seemed to me I +must be different, not in degree but in kind, from every +boy in that book, from the bad just as much as from the +good. I remembered hours, whole days, when I had been +like them, like the decent ones I mean, for with the others +I had nothing in common—I had never wanted to shirk +games; and bullying, gambling, dishonesty, and “pubs,” +had no attraction for me. But it was just because there +were bits of the book in which I could see a part of myself +that I was troubled by the absence of other parts, of so +many other feelings that none of these boys shared. I +wondered if I were quite abnormal, but how could I ever +find out even that; for just as nobody knew what I was, +I knew nothing really of anybody else, save what they cared +to show me or took no trouble to hide. I was hopelessly +shut in to the little circle of my own sensations, desires, +and emotions. Owen, whom I knew better than any other +boy,—what, after all, did I know of him? I knew no one +but myself, and of myself I knew much that filled me with +shame.</p> + +<p>A deep silence overshadowed all things, the silence of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span> +the fallen snow. I had come to a stand-still. Around +me was an infinite stretch of whiteness, almost unbroken, +save where the sea was dark and restless under the whip +of the rising wind. Dusk had crept up imperceptibly, and +more light now rose from the ground than fell from the +leaden sky overhead. Snow had again begun to fall. A +few flakes turned and fluttered down out of the darkness, +but I knew this was only the beginning. I walked to the +edge of the black, desolate sea, and watched the waves +rolling in to break at my feet, and at that moment I felt +infinitely alone, and indeed for miles round there was +probably no other human being. But it was as if I were +alone in a dead world. The whirling flakes of snow fell +ever faster out of the winter sky; the barren, frozen land +was wrapped in a stillness that was more like the stillness +of death than of sleep; the only sounds there were came +from the waves breaking at my feet, and from an occasional +sweep of wind forlorn as though no ears were there to listen. +The creeping on of night seemed to be the shutting out for +ever of all life, and one could imagine there would never +be anything more, that the end had at last been reached.</p> + +<p>And the thought of death came to me, without terror, +came, rather, as a solution. All that bound me to existence +seemed now attenuated to the thinnest cobweb. If I +just lay down here and waited....</p> + +<p>Tony, who had grown restless at my long delay, suddenly +broke into my consciousness. He began to urge me to +come on, with a peculiar, eager, discontented note in his +voice. He jumped up with his large paws against me. +I knelt in the snow and hugged him in my arms, while his +warm red tongue passed rapidly over my face. I held him +close, and his black nose was pressed into my cheek, and +he wagged his tail and nibbled at my ears.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Two or three days before, I had sent off a small picture to +Katherine as a Christmas-box. It had taken me a long +time to choose something I thought she might care for, +and which at the same time pleased myself. In the end +I had got her a photograph of Francia’s portrait of the boy +Federigo Gonzaga, the son of Isabella d’Este—the Miserden +Park picture. I had had it framed in a flat, dull, dark +frame, and very carefully packed; and over and over +again I had pictured her opening the parcel, her surprise. +It was two days after Christmas when the postman brought +me a letter from her, but instead of reading it, I put it in +my pocket. It was a fairly thick packet, so, though her +writing was very large, I knew it must be a long letter. I +could feel it as it lay in the inner pocket of my jacket, and +a dozen times that day I drew it out and inspected it, but +no more than that, for I had determined not to read it +till I went to bed. All day long I thought of the pleasure +I should have, and in the end I became so impatient that +I went to bed about nine o’clock.</p> + +<p>I put the letter on my pillow, and placed a lighted candle +on the painted, deal chest-of-drawers beside my bed. I +undressed, got into bed, and only then, with eager fingers, +tore open the envelope and drew out its contents.</p> + +<p>I looked at them as they lay upon the bright, patch-work +counterpane, a single sheet of note-paper, and a New Year<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span> +card in the form of a pocket calendar. My disappointment +was so great that for a little I did not even read the letter, +but lay on my back and stared dismally at the iron rail +at the foot of my bed. My thoughts were bitter. I +recalled the many letters I had written to her, undiscouraged +by her brief replies. Some of these had been pages long; +the one I had sent with my present, for instance, I had +given a whole evening to. I glanced at what she had +written—three sides of a sheet of note-paper hastily scrawled +over in huge characters, about two words to a line. She +thanked me for my picture, which was very pretty. She +would have liked to write me a really long letter, but there +were some people staying in the house, and she had to look +after them, and had only been able to snatch a moment +to wish me a happy New Year. That was all.</p> + +<p>I blew out the candle and lay with my eyes wide open +staring into the darkness. The few, conventional phrases +of her letter were vivid in my mind. To begin with, the +picture was not pretty; if it had been, I shouldn’t have +bought it. If she had wanted me to have a happy New +Year it would have been very easy for her to make it so. +But it had been too much trouble. I thought of how I +had sat up far into the night to finish my Christmas letter +to her. I heard my father’s step on the stairs, the shutting +of his bedroom door. I pulled the bed-clothes up to my +chin, and as I did so my hand touched something—the +pocket-calendar. I tore it in two and flung the pieces at +the opposite wall.</p> + +<p>My mind was divided between despondency and anger. I +pictured her enjoying herself with a houseful of her own and +Gerald’s friends, while I was forgotten. Of course there +was no particular reason why she should remember me. +Still, the irony of those foolish New Year’s wishes might +almost have been intentional had the whole letter not been +so thoughtless. She knew well enough how happy I must<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span> +be now, stuck in this wretched hole by myself; and I asked +myself how anybody could be so completely devoid of +imagination, of sympathy, even of tact? I began to compose +a letter to be written to-morrow, a letter expressing +what I felt. I imagined her reading it in the midst of her +friends, and realizing how she had wounded me. I tossed +and turned till I was almost in a fever. Sleep was out of +the question, for I knew it must be nearly morning already, +and I had half a mind to get up and dress....</p> + +<p>When I opened my eyes it was broad daylight. I sprang +out of bed and hurried into my clothes. The first thing +after breakfast I sat down to write my letter of reproach, +and wrote it at furious speed, a fire burning in my soul. +Yet when I came to read it over, it seemed childish and +stilted, and in my haste I had left out so many words and +mis-spelt so many others that I was obliged to make a fair +copy of the whole. This I posted, but had two days more +of impatience before a reply reached me. When it came, it +had the effect of turning away my anger. Katherine seemed +really sorry; at any rate she said she was. She told me +that she cared far more for me than for any of the people +I imagined she found so delightful, and that I might have +known this by now, even if her letters <em>had</em> been short. She +said it had been horrid of her to write such a miserable +scrawl, but that, if she had guessed I should mind it so +much, she would have written me a whole book.</p> + +<p>I sat down to reply at once, but I cannot account for the +unfortunate tone my letter took. It was morbid and self-conscious, +without being in the least frank. I begged her +forgiveness; I made a parade of a melancholy that bore +no resemblance to the kind of melancholy I really felt; I +talked vaguely about not being as good as she believed me +to be, and the whole production was a little sickening. I +don’t know, or rather I do know, what she made of it. +She replied that she had never for a moment thought me<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span> +good, and that she should prefer not to hear from me at all +to getting letters like the last I had written.</p> + +<p>It was not, perhaps, extremely sympathetic, but I knew +well enough myself I had done the wrong thing. My +letter had been odiously self-conscious. I had accused +myself of not being good, but what on earth did that mean? +It might mean that I went into the pantry at night and +stole the jam!</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>About this time, influenced by Amiel, whom I had come +across in Mrs. Humphry Ward’s translation, I had begun +to keep a diary, or journal, of my “sensations and ideas.” +I unearthed it the other day, with the paper time-staled as +the sensations, and the ink faded as the ideas. On reading it +over I found it so unbalanced, so one-sided, that I can scarce +quote a passage as really expressive of what I actually was. +It expresses only what I was when I sat down to write my +journal, and I never appear to have done this except when +I was in a particularly unhealthy mood. Some of this +journal is descriptive, some of it merely notes certain +thoughts that came to me and that I evidently, the Lord +knows why, imagined worthy of preservation. A single +entry, the description of a dream, will, I fancy, give an idea +of the whole.</p> + +<p>“Last night I went out and wandered about the streets +for a while, and when I came home I went straight to bed. +I did not go to sleep for a long time. I remember hearing +the clock strike two, and when I awoke it was just four, +but of course I cannot really tell how long my dream +lasted.</p> + +<p>“I was in a room with some people I knew very well. My +father was there, and Aunt Margaret and Uncle George. I +was laughing at something, I cannot remember what, only +that it had to do with a question of religion, when suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span> +the figure of Christ appeared, in a long, purple, velvet robe—a +slight figure, with narrow effeminate face, pointed beard, +and a soft treacherous expression in the slanting eyes. +Everybody in the room except myself fell on their knees +in fear, but I stood still. He watched me and then came +closer, holding out his pierced hands and making the sign of +the cross. He did not speak, but I knew what he meant, +and I detested him. He drew still nearer and still I would +not kneel. My defiance filled me with a mingled fear and +exultation, and, as he was about to touch me, I cried out, +invoking Satan, offering myself to him. A horrible look of +baffled rage and malice distorted the face of the Christ. +Outside a storm was raging and the wide window was a +black square. With a shrill scream the Christ vanished, +and a man, naked, superb, the colour of dark, greenish +bronze, shot through the window as though propelled by +some invisible force. (From this on, an undertone of +strange music floated through my dream, rising and falling +with the rise and fall of my emotions.)</p> + +<p>“The face of this dark angel was beautiful and proud. +His forehead was broad and low and slightly overhanging, +giving him a stern and brooding expression, but although I +was afraid of him I loved him, and felt an irresistible longing +to put myself in his power. We were now alone together +in the room, which had suddenly grown dark, and he seized +me. I struggled, but in his grasp I was helpless as a young +bird in the clutches of a boy. He stripped me naked and +rubbed my body over with some kind of ointment that left +no mark. And somehow I knew he was going to send me +down into hell, and that after a while I should return again +to earth, but that I should be his for ever.</p> + +<p>“‘I shall not be tortured?’ I asked him, and he answered +in a deep voice, ‘There are no tortures such as you are +thinking of.’</p> + +<p>“‘When I come back,’ I said, ‘I shall have forgotten all<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span> +I saw there; I shall think I have been only dreaming. Can +you not mark me in some way?’</p> + +<p>“He placed me in front of the mirror that was at one end +of the room, and which seemed to shine in the dark as with +fire. And in the glass I saw over my right breast a red flush, +and upon this a white streak, broad and long as his fore-finger. +He took my hand, and suddenly the room I was in seemed +to be dropping. Down and down it rushed, so rapidly that +the walls glowed red hot, but because of the ointment with +which I had been covered I felt nothing. And we seemed +to be sinking down through a bottomless sea that hissed +in steam against the walls. Then the speed increased a +thousandfold and I lost consciousness.</p> + +<p>“I do not know what interval had elapsed, but it was +evening and I was back again in the room, our parlour at +home. My father was kneeling down and calling upon me +in desperation to pray to God before it was too late—to pray—to +pray. But I would not pray. Mrs. Carroll was there +and she was crying. Then a voice said aloud above our +heads, ‘It was all only a dream,’ and for a little we believed +this; and then all at once I knew the voice was lying. My +father read in my face what was passing in my mind, and +his own face grew white as paper. But I knew; and I +exulted and wept at the same moment. I tore away +my shirt from my breast. ‘Look—look! It is his +mark!’</p> + +<p>“A loud cry rang through the room, and I awoke, bathed +in perspiration, to the silence and darkness of night. I +could hear George breathing quietly in his sleep. Then I +got up and lit the gas and looked to see if the mark were +indeed there upon my breast, but there was nothing.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Could I have been mentally, morally, even physically, +well when I had this dream? Childish and foolish, perhaps, +it had at the time an intensity the effect of which lingered<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span> +on long after I had awakened. There is something disquieting +in the thought that so slender a veil should separate the +world of order and sanity from a world of disorder and +delirium such as my eyes were opened to then. Yet that +other world is always there, waiting, and the veil may be +torn at any moment, letting tongues of the dreadful, flaming +light shoot through. The Christ of my dream was not a +blasphemous creation of my own mind, but a sort of distorted +memory of one or two pictures in a book about +Byzantine wall-paintings I had looked at years before. +The main fact, however, psychologically, is, I suppose, the +fact that I kept a journal at all. Probably what was at +the bottom of it was an idea of confession which now +haunted me. It came to me in several relations. I thought +of Owen, thought it was my duty to tell him everything +about myself, and that in this way we might make our +friendship perfect. At other times I feared that instead of +doing this it might do just the opposite. I was not sure, +either, what my motive really was—whether it really proceeded +from a sense of duty, or only from a desire of personal +relief. It was strange that while in many respects I continued +to have an exaggerated opinion of myself, I should +yet have been so frequently visited just now by hours of +despondency, when I imagined my life as already irretrievably +doomed to failure. I did not look upon myself as an +ordinary person, or the crisis through which I was passing +as an ordinary crisis. I began to ponder over the meaning +of sin and damnation, and I figured this latter quality as a +condition of mind which attracts evil, and from which no +evil can be hidden. When I was with Owen my troubles +grew fainter, and even disappeared. Mentally, morally, +he had upon me much the same effect as, physically, a +draught of fresh air would have had, after long confinement +in a stifling atmosphere. I admired him; I envied him his +freedom from all that made my own life just now so difficult.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span> +I discussed the question of free will with him, but I no more +believed in it than did my Arabian Nights heroes. I was +as closely imprisoned in my own physical temperament +as a rat in a trap. And if I were to die? For the first +time it dawned upon me that one might pass into a spiritual +world as dark and dreadful as any I had ever seen in a +dream. With this appalling thought it occurred to me that +a priest might be the best person to confess to, and I began +to consider to whom I could go.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>The matter, as I soon perceived, was not at all so simple as +in the first flush of discovery it appeared to be. But one +excellent effect it had, and that was to make Sunday, which +had been the dullest, the most interesting, day of the week, +while I went from church to church in search of my confessor. +In almost every case I could tell at once that I had +not found him, and I was on the point of giving up the whole +idea as hopeless, when one Sunday evening I went to St. +Mary Magdalene’s. The clergyman who took the service +was already well past middle-age. He was delicate and +ascetic-looking, with a peculiar expression on his worn face, +as of one who had had to make a fight against something—possibly +it had only been ill-health—and who had come +out of the struggle victorious if not unscarred. He preached +a sermon which may have been slightly vague, but which +appealed to my imagination. Even the weakness of his +voice and the almost colourlessness of his manner had the +curious effect of making what he said to me more real. +Listening to him was like listening to a spirit, to a disembodied +voice; and through all there flickered a kind of +nervous exaltation, like a tremulous, uncertain flame. +There were no signs of that mental and imaginative poverty +which had so frequently discouraged me. But he struck +me, above all, as a man who had been unhappy, and therefore, +if he had found peace, there must be some reason for it.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span> +I returned to hear him several times, and although my first +impression was not strengthened, it was not effaced. I +persuaded Owen to come with me to hear him, but Owen +did not like him at all.</p> + +<p>Far from shaking me in my view, this unfavourable +opinion helped to confirm me. Not through any perversity, +but simply because I knew the person I was in search of +would not particularly appeal to Owen. I did not want a +purely reasonable being, I did not perhaps even want one +whom Owen would consider quite healthy—I wanted one +who would understand. That night I wrote a letter to +Henry Applin, asking if I might come to him, and, if I +might, would he tell me when.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>As I walked home with Owen next day after school I wanted +to tell him what I had done, but it was somehow difficult to +do so quite abruptly. I turned the conversation to Roman +Catholicism, and from that to the general subject of confession +to a priest, but to Owen this idea appeared to be so +distasteful that I did not attempt to introduce my own +particular case.</p> + +<p>On our way we met his mother, who told me to go on in +and get something to eat now, and to stay and dine with +them at seven. I refused, having an idea Owen didn’t +particularly want me. I knew it was only because he wished +to finish an epitome he was making of Herbert Spencer’s +“First Principles” (he had told me he had reached the last +chapter) and as I had a strong desire to stay I felt annoyed. +I came to the door with him.</p> + +<p>“You’d better come in,” he said.</p> + +<p>“What’s the use of my coming in when you don’t want +me?” I replied.</p> + +<p>He laughed. “Of course I want you; don’t be an ass.”</p> + +<p>I came in. While we were having tea I looked over the +epitome. It represented a good deal of work, and I remembered +having asked him to read Blake’s “Songs,” and his +refusing because he hadn’t time. It was the same with +nearly everything I recommended to him, though I was +always reading books to please him. He offered now to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span> +lend me the “First Principles” as soon as he should have +finished it.</p> + +<p>“I don’t want it,” I answered, discontentedly. “I’m +sick of all that stodgy stuff. You’re always complaining +about not being able to be religious, yet you’re never happy +unless you’re reading something against religion.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not anxious for a religion that won’t bear examination,” +replied Owen, coldly.</p> + +<p>“No religion <em>will</em> bear it,” I said, and both speeches had +that infinite priggishness which not infrequently characterized +our conversation.</p> + +<p>“People who have read a hundred times more philosophy +than I have have been able to remain Christians,” Owen continued, +with a naïveté that was quite lost on me. He was +particularly fond just now of talking about people who had +or had not read philosophy.</p> + +<p>“You’re thinking of Levine in ‘A.K.,’” I answered disrespectfully, +a decreasing enthusiasm having led me to abbreviate +the title of this work.</p> + +<p>“I’m not,” said Owen.</p> + +<p>“You are. And Levine doesn’t remain a Christian. +He drops it and then takes it up again, and, as he hasn’t +any more reason for doing one than the other, I don’t see +what it proves.”</p> + +<p>“Why do you say he has no reason?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t call half a dozen words spoken by an ignorant +peasant a reason. If you claim religion to be the most +valuable thing in life, it oughtn’t to be at the mercy of a +chance phrase. At any rate the words that affected Levine +seem far from wonderful to me.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know that they aren’t wonderful,” Owen +declared.</p> + +<p>“‘One man lives for his stomach,’” I jeeringly quoted, +“‘another for his soul, for God, in truth.’ You’d find the +same thing in any tract. And why should it turn you to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span> +Christianity particularly? A man who believed in Pan +could live just as much for his soul as a Christian.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe anybody ever believed in Pan,” said +Owen, “any more than they believe in Father Christmas. +Because certain words happened to help Levine, Tolstoy +does not mean that they will help everyone.”</p> + +<p>“He does. Only you’re nearly as bad as Levine yourself.”</p> + +<p>Owen was not listening; he was working out an argument +he would produce as soon as I had done; but I was beginning +to be tired of Tolstoy, and I wanted to express my own +point of view. “If one were to see a ghost, it would make +an enormous difference,” I admitted. “It would open +your eyes to a new world, to a deeper, finer world.”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t this one deep enough for you? And I don’t see +that it would necessarily be any finer. It might very well +be extremely objectionable. All that would happen if you +saw a ghost is that it would frighten you very much at the +time, and afterwards you wouldn’t believe in it.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think it would frighten me. I don’t think it +would frighten anybody, if it were the ghost of somebody +they had cared for a great deal.”</p> + +<p>Owen considered this. “I don’t suppose the ghost of +your mother would frighten you. <em>Your</em> mother is dead, +isn’t she?” he added, and then stopped short. “I’m +awfully sorry,” he stammered, “I wasn’t thinking of what +I was saying.”</p> + +<p>I laughed. “It’s all right. My mother isn’t dead. +Shall we go out before dinner?”</p> + +<p>Owen got up.</p> + +<p>We walked by the road as far as Shaw’s Bridge, where we +branched off on to the river bank. It was already well on +in April. The brilliant tender green of the opening leaves +had spread like a delicate green flame over the black branches +of the trees. The sky was clear, and there was a sharpness +in the air that made us walk quickly. Owen’s dogs, two<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span> +rough-haired Irish terriers, ran along the bank, sniffing +among the coarse grass, alert, eager to hunt anything, +whether a rat or a stick.</p> + +<p>Owen’s remark about my mother had reminded me that +I had told him singularly little about myself, or rather, +about my people. He did not know anything beyond the +fact that we lived at Newcastle, and, from the way I had +spoken of it, he might easily have imagined that Derryaghy +was my home. I’m afraid an unconscious snobbery had +kept me from revealing the obscurity of my origin, and I +was suddenly struck by the stupidity and odiousness of this, +especially with Owen, for whom such things meant nothing.</p> + +<p>“Why did you think my mother was dead?” I asked him.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I suppose because you never—I don’t +know, I’m sure.”</p> + +<p>“I want to tell you about my people.”</p> + +<p>Curiously enough, though I had been so reluctant to +mention that my father was a National schoolmaster, it did +not trouble me in the least to talk about my mother. I +even had some dim notion that it made me rather interesting; +so I told him all I knew. “I have not seen her +since,” I wound up, “and perhaps my father is not my real +father.” Why I should have thrown in this after-touch I +cannot conceive, as I had never in my life had the faintest +doubts concerning my legitimacy; but I suppose it was to +heighten the romance.</p> + +<p>“Do you think I ought to try to find out something +more?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“You never did try!” exclaimed Owen.</p> + +<p>“Never very much. I don’t know who to ask. I can’t +very well ask my father.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t.”</p> + +<p>“There must be somebody else who knows. Your friend, +Mrs. Carroll.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span></p> + +<p>“She won’t tell me.”</p> + +<p>“Have you asked her?”</p> + +<p>“I asked her the last time I was at home.”</p> + +<p>“And what did she say?”</p> + +<p>“She doesn’t like her.”</p> + +<p>“She said she didn’t like her?”</p> + +<p>“No, of course not; but I know it all the same.”</p> + +<p>“The whole thing,” Owen began, but tailed off abruptly +“—it seems rather queer.”</p> + +<p>We walked on for a long time in silence. I was determined +to tell him about Mr. Applin, but it was not till we +were coming home that I began my explanation.</p> + +<p>“And you’re really going to him!” Owen marvelled.</p> + +<p>“I’ll have to go now. That is, if he does not tell me not +to.”</p> + +<p>“He can hardly do that. You’re not making fun?”</p> + +<p>“Fun?”</p> + +<p>Owen was silent.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know whether you meant it,” he said. +“What are you going <em>for</em>?” he suddenly asked. “Just +to talk to him?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I suppose so.”</p> + +<p>“But what about?”</p> + +<p>“About?... Do you remember talking of confession?”</p> + +<p>“But it’s not that, is it?” said Owen, very seriously. +“You’re not——”</p> + +<p>“Why not?” I smiled dimly.</p> + +<p>“But what is the matter? Why should you? What +have you done? And if you have done anything, what is +it to him?”</p> + +<p>We had come to a standstill on the lonely river bank. +Owen’s eyes were fixed upon me questioningly. I had +nothing to say, or, rather, I could not say it. I stood +before him, looking on the ground, my hands in my +trouser pockets.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span></p> + +<p>Owen hesitated. He put his hands on my shoulders, +but I did not look up.</p> + +<p>Presently I raised my head, but I looked away from him, +and across the fields. “Come along,” I said, quietly. “It’s +getting late, and we must hurry.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When I reached home at about half-past nine little Alice +came running to meet me. Her white face, her bright +black eyes, and long straight black hair, brushed back from +her forehead and spreading out on either side of her face in +the shape of a fan, were vivid in the gas-light, under which +she stood looking up at me while I opened the letter she +had brought me. It was from Mr. Applin, asking me to +call on Wednesday evening between nine and ten, or on +Friday between the same hours, if Wednesday did not +suit me.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Since Christmas I had been working harder than I had ever +done in my life. The Intermediate examinations would be +coming on in June, but it was not any particular anxiety to +shine in them that had goaded me to this unprecedented +industry; merely I had discovered that on the plea of work +I could sit in my bedroom in the evenings, and that the +work itself kept me from thinking of other things. To-night +I went straight upstairs as usual, but after writing to Mr. +Applin to say I would come on Wednesday, I sat idle. So +it was all the next day, and the next night: I had an open +book in front of me, but I read without comprehending +what I read: I was intensely excited: a kind of emotional +cloud had descended upon my mind, and I could think of +nothing but my approaching interview.</p> + +<p>Ideas, words, shot across this mental haze like meteors, +but I could not follow them in their swift flight. On Wednesday +afternoon when I got home from school and had had +my dinner I went out into the streets and wandered aimlessly +about. I had said to myself that I would not think +about the matter any more, but, needless to say, I thought +of nothing else, and so it was that when I came to a Roman +Catholic church and saw the door was open, I could not help +going inside and sitting down before one of the confessionals. +The name of the priest, Father Dempsey, was printed in +large letters above it. I had a faint hope of seeing somebody<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span> +come out or go in, but in this I was disappointed. Three +little girls were busy with their beads, but they suspended +their acts of devotion to cast glances at me, and whisper, +and even giggle. A woman was kneeling before an altar +that shone with ornaments suggestive of decorations from a +Christmas tree. Her eyes were fixed on a bright oleograph +of the Virgin, and her lips never ceased moving. A couple +of lighted candles seemed to sweat ugly yellow tears, which +ran down over dirty candlesticks. And then I saw a fat +little sallow priest, his chin, upper lip, and cheeks, blue +from much shaving, come waddling down the aisle, and I +wondered if this were Father Dempsey. As he passed he +stared at me, and I saw in his dull little eyes that expression +of invulnerable stupidity I had noticed in the faces of so +many of his brothers when I met them in the street.</p> + +<p>The fascination that had drawn me into the church had +disappeared. Everything—the smell of stale incense, the +cheap decorations, the bad pictures, the kneeling woman, +the girls with their beads—had become almost nauseating. +The appalling unintelligence of it all shocked me, much as +the display of a diseased body had now and then shocked +me. It was wrong, it was gross, anything less spiritual I +could not imagine. And my idea of confessing to a priest +was wrong. I got up and left the church, the last thing I +saw being the thick sediment of dirt at the bottom of the +stoup.</p> + +<p>After tea I went up to my bedroom, George’s and mine, +and got out my books to do some work. At first I thought +I would not go to Mr. Applin, but as time passed this +decision grew weaker, and presently, instead of reading, I +tried to make up my mind on the point. Then when it +drew near to nine o’clock I was no longer even uncertain. +What had my impressions of this afternoon to do with the +step I was about to take? Besides, they had been very +superficial, and to be influenced by them would be as stupid<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span> +as to refuse to read a book because its binding happened +to be soiled.</p> + +<p>I walked quickly to Mr. Applin’s house and knocked +boldly at the door. It opened with a startling promptitude; +evidently the servant had been in the hall.</p> + +<p>“Is Mr. Applin at home?” I asked, my stammer suddenly +beginning to manifest itself.</p> + +<p>“He is. Who shall I say wants him?”</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter. He expects me.” I felt reluctant +to give my name.</p> + +<p>The servant did not press me to, but disappeared upstairs. +She came back very soon and asked me to “step this way,” +and I obeyed her nervously.</p> + +<p>I entered a room and heard the door close behind me, as a +man rose from a table near the window, removing a green +shade from his forehead. I was conscious of tired eyes +that looked at me out of a pale, dim, emaciated face, but +the flickering light that had seemed to shine through them +when he was preaching was not there, and his manner of +greeting me struck me as a little distant, a little chilly. I +sat down on the extreme edge of a chair and my impressions +grew clearer.</p> + +<p>“You are Peter Waring, are you not?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I answered.</p> + +<p>He had taken the chair opposite mine, and he leaned a +little forward, the tips of his fingers joined, and blue veins +showing under the loose yellow skin of his hands. He was +much older than I had imagined. He was wearing a threadbare +jacket which I did not like, and I noticed that one of +the buttons near the top was not the same as the others. +My confidence had suddenly drooped. I glanced round at +the unfamiliar room, at the book-shelves which made but +a poor show, and maintained an idiotic silence. It struck +me that he might think I had come for a subscription +towards a cricket club.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span></p> + +<p>“I got your letter,” he said. “You want to speak to +me? You are not a member of my congregation, I think?”</p> + +<p>“No—I come sometimes in the evening.”</p> + +<p>I was glad I had said nothing in my letter but that I +wanted to speak to him, and he evidently hadn’t the least +suspicion of the truth.</p> + +<p>“Yes—yes—I understand. Well, don’t be afraid. If I +can do anything for you I shall be very glad, very glad.”</p> + +<p>I thanked him and again became silent. It would have +been absolutely impossible for me to have said what I had +come to say. He was too old, too far away. It would +have been like stretching out one’s hands to warm them at +the ashes in an early morning grate. I knew he wanted to +be kind, but I felt, somehow, that if I sat very still he +would, in a minute or two, forget I was in the room.</p> + +<p>“I think I had better write,” I murmured.</p> + +<p>“Write? But why? What is it about?” he spoke +almost testily.</p> + +<p>There was a tap at the door, and a thin, middle-aged lady, +possibly a daughter, came in with a little tray on which were +some biscuits and a tumbler of hot milk. She bowed to me +and wished me good-evening. I wanted nothing now but +to get away as quickly as possible, and I envied her as she +went out, closing the door softly behind her. Suppose I +had been in the middle of my confession when the hot milk +came in, I thought. The whole thing was somehow +becoming lugubriously comic.</p> + +<p>“Are you in business or at school?” Mr. Applin asked, +between two sips of milk. “I hope you’ll excuse me taking +this while it is hot, but I had a funeral this afternoon, and +I’m afraid I caught a slight chill.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” I answered hastily. “I’m sorry for disturbing +you. I have really nothing to say. It is only that +I liked your sermons so much, and that I wanted to tell +you so. I hope you’ll forgive me.” I got up.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span></p> + +<p>“Sit down—sit down,” he murmured. “It was a very +kind and charming impulse, and I’m glad you yielded to it.”</p> + +<p>I resumed my seat and he continued to drink his milk. +He was quite pleased with me. He asked me to what +church I belonged; where I went to school; all kinds of +questions. I told him that I thought he must be lonely +sitting here by himself, and that he should have a dog, or +even a cat. I told him about Tony, and all the wonderful +things he could do. Before I came away he made me +promise I would come to see him again. Yet just as I was +going out a sort of vague suspicion of other things appeared +to float into his consciousness. He detained me, with his +hand on my shoulder. “When you first came in,” he said, +“I thought something perhaps was worrying you, that you +had something on your mind.” He paused. For an +instant I had seen in him what I had seen when I had +listened to him preach; for an instant I was on the point of +resuming my seat, and telling him all I had come to tell him, +but he himself broke the charm next moment by saying +good-night. “And when you come again you won’t be +shy?” he added, smiling wanly.</p> + +<p>He did not accompany me downstairs, but stood on the +landing till I had opened the hall-door. And as I pulled it +after me, and ran down the steps, I knew I should never go +back.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Spring gave place to summer, and still I kept studiously to +my books. I saw less of Owen, for in the afternoons I played +cricket, and Owen did not. On the thirteenth of June my +examination commenced, and from the first I did well, +having good luck with the papers. On Tuesday evening +when I went home I had only one more exam. in front of me, +and it would take place the following afternoon. After that +I should be free for the summer.</p> + +<p>It was a hot, breathless kind of night, and I did not intend +to work too much. I loafed about the shop after tea, talking +to Miss Izzy. She had asked me to go to the Free Library +to get her a book, but nothing on the list she had given me, +though it was a fairly long one, was in, and I had come back +with a tale of my own selecting.</p> + +<p>“You might have got one of Annie Swan’s,” Miss Izzy +said, eyeing the work I had chosen, dubiously, “but of +course you couldn’t tell what ones I’d read.”</p> + +<p>“Annie Swan’s?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; they’re all good. Mr. Spicer mentioned ‘Carlowrie’ +from the pulpit on Sunday, and you don’t often +hear <em>him</em> praise a novel.”</p> + +<p>“When he does it’s a spicy one,” said George, who was +going out.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy took no notice.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got to meet the girl at a quarter-to-eight, so I can’t<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span> +stop,” George threw back gaily from the door, which next +moment swung after him, as he stepped into the street, +fixing a flower in his button-hole.</p> + +<p>“You get ‘Aldersyde’ and read it,” said Miss Izzy, “or +‘Across Her Path.’”</p> + +<p>“I thought you said Carl-something-or-other.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll maybe like the others better. If George McAllister +would join the literary society instead of running about +the streets at nights it would answer him better. Who’s +this girl he’s going to meet?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“It’s only talk, I suppose. Girls have more sense than to +bother with the likes of him.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think so?” I murmured sceptically. “The +kind that George cares for I don’t imagine have very +much.”</p> + +<p>“You know nothing about them. If you’d any sisters +you’d know more.”</p> + +<p>“I’m very glad I haven’t,” I replied.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy bounced round. “Why?” she demanded +sharply. “Girls can do everything as well as men can; +only they never get the chance.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all rot,” I said ungallantly. “They’re quite +different. You might as well compare cats and dogs.”</p> + +<p>“And we’re the cats, I suppose? It’s well you’re still a +puppy.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t mean you, Miss Izzy. I know there are exceptions. +But most girls don’t think; or if they do, it’s +only about who’s going to marry them.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t think! Well, of all!—And you and George +McAllister and the others—you think a lot, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“George doesn’t,” I admitted.</p> + +<p>“But <em>you</em> do—especially about yourself. Do you know +this, Peter Waring, you’re about as conceited and full of +yourself as a monkey that’s been taught a few tricks!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span></p> + +<p>“Well, I’m going away to-morrow, and you’ll not see me +again for a long time.”</p> + +<p>This was not fair, as I knew it would soften Miss Izzy, +and it had indeed this result. “I don’t mind seeing you,” +she confessed, with a sigh, “if that’s all. It’s hearing you +talk. You may give me your photograph if you like.”</p> + +<p>I had had my photograph taken quite recently for Mrs. +Carroll’s birthday, and I ran upstairs and brought one +down. Miss Izzy examined it critically. “I’ve got a red +plush frame at home that’s about your mark.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t put me in red plush,” I begged.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy looked up from the photograph to the original. +“Is red plush not good enough for you? You’d like a +gold frame, maybe?”</p> + +<p>“It’s not that,” I said hastily. “It’s only that I don’t +care much for red plush. Can’t you get a plain frame? +I will get one for you.”</p> + +<p>“No, thanks. I always put a plain person in an ornamental +frame: it gives them a better chance.”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>There was never any use trying to get an advantage over +Miss Izzy in verbal skirmishes, so I gave in, and, as the shop +appeared to be comparatively deserted to-night, I sat down +on an empty wooden box, and read aloud to her the first +two chapters of the novel I had brought from the library. +It was Hardy’s “Two on a Tower,” and as I turned the +pages, the circumstances, so different, under which I had +read them before, kept floating into my mind. When I had +finished the second chapter, and drummed for a while with +my heels against the box, I went upstairs, and got out my +notes on French composition to look them over before to-morrow’s +examination. The room, although the window +was wide open, seemed to me unbearably stuffy, and +moreover I had a slight headache and felt tired and irritable. +I put up with the heat for half an hour, and then undressed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span> +and sat down in my nightshirt close to the window, which +looked out on to a dirty strip of back garden, threaded with +clothes-lines, and forming, after dark, a kind of debased +Paradise for dissipated cats.</p> + +<p>At half-past ten or so George stepped jauntily in. +“Hello! Not done yet?” He took the now withered +flower from his button-hole and flung it out among the +cats; then he began to turn over some papers I had laid +down on the table in the exact order I required them.</p> + +<p>“You’ll mix those up,” I said crossly. “Leave them +alone.”</p> + +<p>George threw the papers down. “All right. Keep +your wool on!” Two or three of the sheets fluttered to +the floor.</p> + +<p>I picked them up in a very bad temper, and George began +to whistle—the same few bars over and over again. “Oh, +shut up,” I cried. “Can’t you see I’m working?”</p> + +<p>“Temper! Temper!” said George, cheerfully. “I’ll +have to tell Katherine about this!”</p> + +<p>He was standing before the looking-glass, and had begun +to remove his dickey; but at the very moment of speaking +he knew he had made a mistake. He looked round with a +sort of foolish, apologetic grin. I, too, knew that his words +had slipped out unintentionally, for I had never mentioned +Katherine’s name to him. There were, in fact, only two +ways in which he could have come by his information: +either Aunt Margaret had managed to get hold of some of +my letters again, or else he had read one of them himself.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” I asked coldly, looking steadily +into his eyes as they were reflected in the glass.</p> + +<p>George tried to laugh it off. “I was only joking,” he +said, nervously.</p> + +<p>But I wanted a better explanation than this.</p> + +<p>“Who told you about Katherine?” I asked, getting up +from my chair deliberately, and walking over to him, while<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span> +he spun round to meet me with bright eyes and a forced +smile.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter? What are you losin’ your rag +about? I don’t want to annoy you.”</p> + +<p>“The matter is this: I want to know if you have been +reading my letters? If you have, you must have unlocked +the box I keep them in.”</p> + +<p>“I never unlocked any box.” George backed away from +me, his eyes not leaving mine.</p> + +<p>“You’d better tell me,” I said, but George would say +nothing further. He stood with his back now against the +wall. I struck him on the cheek with my open hand. +“Answer,” I said.</p> + +<p>I saw his eyes turn to the door, and anticipated the spring +he made to get past me. The next moment I had him by +the throat and we were struggling together. Suddenly I +released my hold, flinging him from me. He struck out at +me as I came toward him again, but it was the feeble, half-hearted +blow of a coward, and I felt my fist in contact with +his face, almost as if he had run up against it. He staggered +back, and a crimson stream poured down over his chin and +on to his shirt, making a horrible mess, while he stood +blubbering like a baby. I did not hit him again, but simply +watched him. I knew he was really more frightened than +hurt, for though his nose was bleeding profusely, I had seen +it do that on several occasions before, quite spontaneously. +We must, all the same, have kicked up a considerable +racket, for I heard the sound of quick footsteps in the +passage, and then our door was flung open and a wild figure +rushed in. It was Aunt Margaret, in a stained, red dressing-gown, +her black eyes blazing in her big, puffy face. Her +huge loose body shook and panted with rage as she turned +from George to me. I stepped quickly out of her way, for +there was something rather fearful in the great white mask +of hate she turned on me. She said not a word, but shooting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span> +out an arm, like a shoulder of mutton, gripped me by the +collar of my nightshirt, and began to rain down a torrent of +heavy blows on my head and uplifted arms. I protected +myself as well as I could, and at last, with a violent wrench, +tore myself out of her grasp, my nightshirt ripping down to +the hem, a considerable portion of it remaining in Aunt +Margaret’s hand. “Stop that!” I shouted furiously, but +she came at me again, her fat body panting yet displaying +an incredible activity, her eyes shining with madness.</p> + +<p>I knew there would be mischief done, for I saw her catch +up an iron rod that was part of George’s trouser-stretcher. +I was really frightened now, and made a dive to get past her +and out of the door. I felt her nails tear my naked shoulder; +at the same moment I flung up my arm and, it may be, +saved my life, for something crashed down over my elbow, +striking on the back of my head with a sickening jar that +I seemed to hear as the floor swept up to meet me.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>When I opened my eyes I was lying in bed, with a hot jar +at my feet, and the pungent irritation of smelling-salts in +my nostrils. Uncle George was in the room, and there was +a stranger there also. I knew what had taken place, and, +if I hadn’t remembered, there was an atrocious pain in my +head to remind me. I put up my hand and discovered my +head was bandaged.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the stranger, drawing closer. “How do +you feel now?”</p> + +<p>“My head’s pretty sore,” I answered.</p> + +<p>He mixed me something in a glass and I drank it. Uncle +George came over and began to ask questions, but the +doctor pulled him away. “Leave him to go to sleep now: +he’ll be better able to talk in the morning. It might have +been a nasty thing. I’ll look in to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>I had closed my eyes, and when I opened them again I +was alone and in the dark. A ray of moonlight floated +through the window and lay across the floor where George’s +bed had been, but the bed itself was gone, and I wondered +languidly how they had been able to take it away without +my hearing anything. In spite of an abominable headache +I felt drowsy—perhaps it was the effect of whatever drug I +had taken—and I must very soon have lost consciousness.</p> + +<p>The first person I saw in the morning was Uncle George,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span> +who carried me in my breakfast. My head still ached, +though not nearly so violently. While I drank a cup of tea +Uncle George sat in silence, his eyes fixed on me, with an +expression of anxiety that was almost comic. As for me, +I felt better, and, when Uncle George had removed the tray, +I allowed him to tell me how sorry he was, but without +replying or giving him any encouragement. I could see he +was dying for me to say something, but I thought a little +suspense would not do him any harm, so I maintained a +discreet quiet. Secretly I was glad, for this disagreeable +adventure gave me just what I had needed, but I was far +from letting Uncle George know that.</p> + +<p>“She wasn’t responsible,” said Uncle George, dejectedly, +and plunging straight to the heart of the subject. “You +know she has to take drugs sometimes on account of the +pain she suffers, and they have an effect upon her. I tell +you this in confidence, and that last night she had taken +more than she intended to, and didn’t really know what she +was doin’. But you must forgive her, Peter. And then +she is jealous of you—I may as well tell you everything—she +is jealous when she thinks of the difference between you +and George, and that you will be a gentleman, while George +and the others’ll have to get along as best they can—and +times are so bad, and there’s so few openings for lads nowadays. +This drug she had taken——” He stopped and his +eyes fastened on mine appealingly.</p> + +<p>“What do you want me to do?” I asked, smoothing +down the sheet.</p> + +<p>Uncle George moved nervously in his chair, but did not +reply.</p> + +<p>“I’m going home to-day,” I went on.</p> + +<p>“Home? You’ll be waiting for a day or two—till you +get quit of this pain in your head, won’t you? And then +there’s your examination! Will they take marks off if you +get a doctor’s certificate?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span></p> + +<p>“A certificate for what?”</p> + +<p>“That you can’t go in for the examination.”</p> + +<p>“I’m going in for the exam. And I’m certainly going +home.”</p> + +<p>Uncle George, who had never ventured to remonstrate +with me on any subject whatever since my arrival, and who +treated me as, if anything, slightly older than himself, did +not begin now. “And what will you tell them?” was all +he asked.</p> + +<p>“Would you like me to say I fell downstairs?” I suggested +innocently.</p> + +<p>Uncle George fidgeted. “I don’t want you to tell a lie,” +he made answer, which was a pretty big one for him.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t mind,” I observed, pleasantly.</p> + +<p>Uncle George considered this. “I suppose there’s times, +maybe, when it’s best not to tell all the truth,” he brought +out lamely.</p> + +<p>“This is one when I should think it would be best not to +tell any of it,” I replied.</p> + +<p>Uncle George was silent. I was not letting him off particularly +easily.</p> + +<p>“There must, however, be two lies told,” I pursued. +“The first by me, and the second by you, in a letter saying +you can’t take me back after the holidays—that you haven’t +room—any reason you like.”</p> + +<p>“But won’t you come back?” asked Uncle George, +dolefully. “You were always quite comfortable, quite +happy till—till this accident. And it wouldn’t have happened +if you hadn’t been knocking George about. I don’t +know what he had done on you.”</p> + +<p>“I was never happy,” I said impatiently. “Either you +or Aunt Margaret will have to write as I say, or I’ll tell my +father exactly what happened. This accident, as you call +it, very nearly did for me: and it’s only one thing out of a +lot.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span></p> + +<p>“Your poor aunt wants to come and tell you how sorry +she is.”</p> + +<p>“My poor aunt needn’t bother. I know exactly how +sorry she is. If it had been the ceiling that had fallen on +me and killed me outright, I don’t fancy she’d have minded +much—except for the mess.”</p> + +<p>Uncle George regarded me mournfully. “You’re very +unforgiving,” he said. “I know you’ve a right to say hard +things, but——”</p> + +<p>It seemed to me that this was going a bit too far. “What +do you mean by unforgiving?” I asked. “Haven’t I +promised not to tell?”</p> + +<p>“It’s not that,” said Uncle George.</p> + +<p>“What is it then? Do you want me to sacrifice myself +simply that you may make so much a week out of me? +Don’t you know that Aunt Margaret has always hated me +like poison? Don’t you know she is pretty constantly +under the influence of whatever it is she takes, though you +speak as if this were the first time? I’m not such a fool +that I can’t see what’s going on. She’s always prying about +my things and reading my letters. Besides, in the very +beginning, you know as well as I do that I came to live here +expecting to have a room to myself and not to be stuck with +George.”</p> + +<p>Uncle George did not reply, but he looked as he sat there, +with his gray head bent, the picture of dejection.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings, Uncle George, for +you’ve been always very kind and decent to me, and if there +was no one here but you and Alice I would come back +certainly. But as it is, I can’t; I really can’t. I wanted +to leave at Christmas, only my father wouldn’t let +me.”</p> + +<p>As I watched him lift his mild, sheep-like face, and go out, +I pitied him—almost enough to have promised to do what +he wanted, which would have been idiotic. “If he’d had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span> +any sense,” I told myself, “he’d have clapped Aunt Margaret +into a ‘home’ or an asylum, or whatever it is, long +ago. But he’s too soft-hearted to do anything but make +himself miserable.”</p> + +<p>During the morning little Alice came in several times to +see me. The doctor also called and examined my head, into +which he had put a couple of stitches last night. It was +only a scalp wound, he said, and thought I might go back +to Newcastle that afternoon if I felt up to it.</p> + +<p>At dinner-time George appeared, looking very sheepish, +and shuffling his feet. “How are you?” he asked. “Ma +says you’re goin’ home this afternoon, so I thought I’d drop +in an’ say good-bye. I’m sorry about this. It’s my fault, +an’ it’s rotten for your exam. I only read one letter. I +went to ma’s work-basket for the scissors, an’ I saw it there +lying open, an’ I read it without thinking. That’s the God’s +truth, whether you believe it or not, an’ there was nothin’ +in it you need mind.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s all right,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“All the same it’s damned putrid luck about the exam.”</p> + +<p>“It can’t be helped. Besides, I’m going to have a shot at +it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll have to cut on. So long, Peter.” He grinned +as he held out a big hand, which, like his face, was covered +with freckles.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>My examination was at three, and at two o’clock I got up. +If I hadn’t done so well on the other papers, probably I +should have let it go, but it seemed, in the circumstances, +a pity to spoil my results if I could possibly avoid it. Yet +when I lifted my head from the pillow it throbbed so violently +that I thought I should have to lie down again. I steadied +myself, holding on to the bed-post, but presently I was able +to finish dressing and go downstairs. Miss Izzy was in the +shop, alone, and she gazed at me with keen curiosity. I +smiled, though I was really feeling fairly bad.</p> + +<p>“Are you better?” Miss Izzy asked, for some reason +speaking in a kind of hoarse whisper.</p> + +<p>“I’ve a beastly headache, that’s all.”</p> + +<p>“Not much wonder. <em>She</em> did it, didn’t she?” Miss +Izzy was all eyes and secrecy.</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>“She’s getting worse,” Miss Izzy announced in an awed +tone. “She’s really not in her right senses. I don’t know +what she’ll be doing next. You’re going to-day, aren’t +you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—after the exam. I wish you would ask Alice to +pack my things for me; she can do it all right.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll help her. I’ll tell you this, I’ve been looking out +for another job this while back, and I think I’ve got one. +That’s between ourselves; but I can’t put up with her any<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span> +longer. I’ll drop you a postcard; give me your +address.”</p> + +<p>I scribbled it on a bit of paper she handed me.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy glanced at it and stuffed it in her pocket. +“Right oh! Here’s somebody coming in; they never give +you a minute’s peace—— Are you away?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I think I’ll take a cab.”</p> + +<p>The customer had entered, but Miss Izzy only glared at +her. “I’m sure you shouldn’t be going at all. It may just +give you brain fever or something!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t think so,” I smiled.</p> + +<p>Miss Izzy nodded at me as she advanced reluctantly to her +duty. “I’ll see you later.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. You’ll not forget to tell Alice?”</p> + +<p>“No; that’ll be all right.”</p> + +<p>At the stand by the gas-works I got into a hansom and +drove off. I kept my cap on the seat beside me, for any +pressure on my head was painful. Fortunately I had only +a short distance to go, and once in the cool airy hall I felt +better. But my bandaged appearance created quite a +sensation. Everybody stared at me, and one of the superintendents +came to ask me if I had met with an accident. +I told him I had fallen downstairs, at which he indulged in +a somewhat obvious jest.</p> + +<p>The paper suited me and did not require any great +effort, but when I had finished I was glad. Outside, I +had to repeat my fiction of falling downstairs, and listen +to various versions of the superintendent’s joke, before I +was able to get Owen by himself. We went into the Botanic +Gardens and sat down on the first vacant bench, where +I told him what had actually happened. He did not appear +to realize that I might have been killed, and, in spite of his +sympathy and the questions he asked, I knew his thoughts +were really hovering round the examination, and that he was +weighing the chances of his having retained his last year’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span> +exhibition. We talked of my adventure, but, as we did so, +unconsciously, he drew the examination paper from his +pocket and unfolded it. Owen had not been doing so well +as I had, and a good deal depended on the marks he got +this afternoon. “I wouldn’t mind,” he said, “only there’s +something I’m doing which the pater will make me give up +if I don’t keep my ‘ex.’”</p> + +<p>“If I’d been killed,” I said, “I wonder if you’d have gone +over the questions with Grimshaw or O’Brian!”</p> + +<p>Owen glanced at me to see if I were serious. He had by +this time spread out the blue sheet on his knees. “What +did you put for ‘cane-bottomed chair?’” he asked, +anxiously.</p> + +<p>But my interest in the exam. had vanished. “Oh, I +don’t know—‘chaise cannée,’ or something. Look here, +Owen, will you come and see me off at the station? I +have to go back to the house, of course, to get my things, +but I’d rather have somebody with me.”</p> + +<p>“‘Chaise cannée?’ How did you think of it? I +wonder if it’s right? I put ‘au fond de jonc,’ but I’m +sure that’s rot. ‘Chaise cannée.’ You know, it’s not fair +giving things like that! What do you think?”</p> + +<p>“Of ‘au fond de jonc’? I don’t think much of it.”</p> + +<p>Owen was depressed. “It doesn’t sound right, does it? +What did you put for ‘fire-dogs?’ O’Brian put ‘chiens +de feu.’”</p> + +<p>“O’Brian’s a fool,” I answered, truthfully.</p> + +<p>Owen laughed, but without merriment, and I was pretty +sure he had put ‘chiens de feu’ himself. “You might +drop that beastly paper,” I said, “and tell me if you’ll come +or not.”</p> + +<p>“Of course I’ll come. But tell me just this one thing.”</p> + +<p>“What? ‘Fire-dogs?’—‘chenets.’”</p> + +<p>“‘Chenets?’ Are you sure? You’re awfully clever +at those out-of-the-way words!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span></p> + +<p>“It’s not an out-of-the-way word. ‘Chiens de feu’ are +the sort of things that’ll be chasing you and O’Brian in the +next world.”</p> + +<p>Owen laughed ruefully, but another question, in spite of +his promise, was already hovering on his lips.</p> + +<p>“Come along,” I said, getting up. “What good does +it do worrying over the rotten thing now?” And I tore +my paper in two, and let the pieces go fluttering down the +path on the wind.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL</h2> +</div> + + +<p>In the morning Tony’s familiar scratching at my door +reminded me that I was home again, and this time for two +long, idle months. I was very sleepy, but I struggled out +of bed with half-open eyes, and let him in. As I closed +the door again, I trod on one of his paws. He gave a sharp +yelp, and then a great wagging of his tail to show that he +knew it had been an accident. Jumping on to the bed he +scrambled between the sheets, and I followed, taking what +room he would give me. I lay trying to go to sleep, +while he sprawled over me. Then when he had thoroughly +wakened me up he went to sleep himself.</p> + +<p>I lay listening to the sea and thinking of what I should +do that day. I would bathe after breakfast; I would take +Tony with me, which would mean bathing off the sand, for +Tony could not dive, and had a foolish habit, when on the +rocks, of trying to lap the sea up to the level he wanted it +at. But I had forgotten my plastered head; bathing, I +supposed, would be out of the question for at least a week. +So, when breakfast was over, I stuffed a book into my +jacket pocket, and strolled in the direction of Derryaghy +woods. I had the long June day before me, and perfect +freedom to do just as I pleased with it. The book I had +chosen was “Twelfth Night,” the influence of Count Tolstoy, +so far as I was concerned, having suffered an eclipse. I +had read no second work by him, and the questionings<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span> +stirred up by “Anna Karénine” had sunk quietly to +sleep. Owen, a day or two ago, had got hold of “Katia,” +and “The Kreutzer Sonata,” but I, I regret to say, had not +a line of the master’s in my possession.</p> + +<p>In truth, I was but a degenerate disciple, and moreover +unfaithful. For Owen and I had sent the great man a +letter for the New Year, protesting allegiance, and had +actually received a reply, which, considering it had almost +moved Owen to tears, I had allowed him to keep. He regarded +it with the kind of veneration that, in earlier days, +a devout pilgrim may have regarded some relic of a saint. +I shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he wore it, +tied up in a little bag, somewhere beneath his clothes. +Really it had been quite decent; though that a man of +world-wide fame, who must have been besieged by communications +of all kinds and from all sorts of persons, should +have found time to understand and reply kindly to the +epistle of a couple of youngsters, far away in a benighted +island, I’m afraid did not strike me then as quite the +wonderful thing it was. The letter, however, was not to +me, and Owen, at all events, had found it wonderful +enough. In spite of my share in the matter, the spirit +of our enterprise had been Owen’s. The epistle we had +concocted had expressed Owen, and Owen alone, and it +was delightfully intelligent of the master to have seen +behind its crudity something worth encouraging. He had +actually asked us—that is Owen—to write again—not at +once and under the immediate influence of his letter, but +in a month or two. And Owen had written again. By +that time I had had the sense to recognize that I was only +a shadow in this matter, and to give him a free field. He +had waited the full two months, which I, had I felt his +enthusiasm, could never have done, and had then written +the second letter. This letter I had insisted must be private. +I had refused to take any part in its composition, or even<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span> +to read it when it was finished, though Owen had told me +all that was in it—a complete account of himself, of his +father’s position, of his own acquirements and abilities, +his prospects, his ideals, ending up with a petition for advice +as to the direction his studies ought to take, and as to what +career lay open to him. The reply to this effusion had +not yet come or I should have heard of it, but I hadn’t +the slightest doubt that when it did turn up Owen would +follow its instructions minutely, down to the smallest particulars, +even were that to entail the wearing of peas in his +shoes. It was the sort of thing that was completely beyond +me. I could not have borne to admit, even to myself, that +anybody was so much my superior as all that. And then, +very softly, at the bottom of my soul, I preferred “A +Midsummer Night’s Dream” to “Anna Karénine.” I +not only preferred it, but I was sure it was a work of far +finer genius. Of course I was always sure that the things +I happened to prefer were far finer, but in this particular +instance I have not altered my opinion.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>As I wandered up into the woods, followed by the lagging +Tony, I knew it was going to be a very hot day, though +it was not nearly so hot at present as Tony pretended. +I hunted about till I had found a pleasant place—where the +rising ground formed a kind of natural couch, covered +with golden moss and bracken, and where the sun at noon +would not be too strong as it dropped down through thick +green beech branches. I took my book from my pocket, +but it was only to make myself more comfortable, not with +any intention of reading. I lay there and let the green +summer morning steal into my soul, staining my mind +to its own deep cool colour, while Tony gnawed at the trunk +of a fallen tree, stripping off the bark in sheets, till he was +tired and hot, when he came over beside me and stretched +himself on the bracken, with his red tongue hanging out<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span> +and his eyes nearly closed. And I lay on in the enchanted +morning, my hands under my head, gazing up through the +flat, shady branches, and thinking “long, long thoughts.” +Already I seemed to have cast from me, as a snake his old +skin, the weight and grime of a year of town life; already +I felt better, cleaner, felt the sap of my youth fresh and +strong within me.</p> + +<p>After an hour or two I opened my book and began to +read:—</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“If music be the food of love, play on;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">The appetite may sicken, and so die.</div> + <div class="verse indent1">That strain again! it had a dying fall;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound</div> + <div class="verse indent1">That breathes upon a bank of violets,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Stealing and giving odour....”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>I was lost in that world of poetry and music, of lingering +melodies and songs, dreamy and happy and sad. Romance! +romance! I felt it stirring in my blood, singing within me! +This play of passion, where passion is never stormy, but a +kind of dreaming of love, exactly suited my present mood. +Love was the world I lived in, love was in the rustling +of the beech-leaves, love was in the breaking of the invisible +sea, love was even in the snores of Tony.</p> + +<p>I closed the book, my mind filled with laughter and love +and poetry. Beautiful figures glided before me through +the sun-washed, leaf-green air—Viola in her boy’s clothes—Olivia—moving +in an atmosphere of sensuous sweetness. +I imagined myself a page, visiting Olivia in her palace; I +imagined her falling in love with me; I began to weave +a romance of my own, in which scenes from other romances +lingered, the music of their words....</p> + +<p>The sunlight splashed through the beech-leaves on to +the green moss, and where it fell the green took a hue of +gold. Green arcades opened out into the heart of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span> +summer woods. Rarely came the note of a bird, but the +woods were full of life; the flashing whites and grays of +rabbits appeared on the clearing nearer the house; there +were mysterious movements in the brushwood. I roused +reluctant Tony and we went down to the stream. We +were out in the broad sunshine here, and the rocks were +quite hot. The dark green silky waterweed spread out, +seeming to flow with the rapid, shallow water, and sleepy +summer noon held me spell-bound. In the shadow of the +rocks were deep pools, where the water looked almost black. +Tony waded out into mid-stream and began to lap up the +water. Then he lifted his head, his red, dripping tongue +still hanging out, his dark, beautiful eyes half-closed, and +looked at me while he panted. The woods on either side +were full of green shadow and mystery. We walked home +over soft turf and across a blazing field dotted with fly-tormented +cows. Tony was too hot even to give them a +passing bark. On the right the ground sloped down gently, +forming a vast meadow, with scattered trees and flaming +gorse-bushes; and beyond, under the deep blue sky, the +great glorious sea danced and gleamed, blue also, with a +long white line where the surf curled up over the flat, sun-drenched +sand.</p> + +<p>I felt lazy and contented, conscious only of the warmth +of the sun and the beauty of this world, wrapped in a kind +of sleepy happiness. In the afternoon I would go in search +of some of my old friends; go out, perhaps, with Willie +Breen in his boat, though as a rule boating in any form +bored me to death. Trivial and bizarre thoughts passed +through my mind. I wished the world was the way it is +in old romances and fairy-tales. I was sure that this was +the very day on which some wonderful thing would happen; +when one might find a magic door leading into a strange +world that was yet quite close at hand; for all my life +long I had had the feeling that such a world was there.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLI">CHAPTER XLI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>During the next three weeks I led a solitary enough life, +in the woods and by the sea. I read a good deal, and +dreamed still more. In the mornings, and often in the +afternoons as well, I went for long swims, and, coming back, +lay in the sun on the rocks, sometimes for hours at a time, +so that the skin all over my body had been tanned to a deep +golden brown. And I was growing stronger. I could feel +it; I could even see it in my limbs, which were becoming +more muscular. And with my increasing physical strength +I suppose other alterations took place—alterations in my +outward appearance, marking the passage from boyhood to +adolescence. Annie Breen, for instance, had spoken to me +several times of late in a way that betokened a consciousness +of this change; and more than one girl whom I met on +the road in the evenings, when wishing me good-night, had +put something into her greetings which made it quite different +from what it would have been last year. Several of the +village boys, no older than I, had already sweethearts, and +I knew I had but to give a sign to any of these girls to +have a sweetheart also; and while I held myself aloof, and +responded with the barest politeness, I none the less felt +flattered.</p> + +<p>I received news of my examination. I had done better +than I had expected, getting first place in the school +and third in Ireland. Owen, too, had not done badly; at +all events he had retained his exhibition.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLII">CHAPTER XLII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I met Owen at the station, and, as he jumped out of the +carriage, he cried, “I’ve got the letter. It was waiting for +me when I reached home.” He waved it triumphantly in +my face, beaming with the delight of it and with the pleasure +of showing it to me.</p> + +<p>“I can’t possibly read it here,” I said, grasping his bag.</p> + +<p>“And I say, you know, you did rippingly in the exams. +I knew you would.”</p> + +<p>He had come down by the first train, and I wanted to +take him for a bathe, but he was so excited that he could +hardly listen to me. I had brought our towels, and I +delivered Owen’s bag to a carman outside to take up to the +house.</p> + +<p>“Where are we going now? It was jolly decent of him +writing, wasn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Who? Tolstoy? Not bad. But we’re going to +bathe: I waited for you. It’s some distance away, unless +you would rather wade in off the shore; there’s plenty of +time, however.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do whatever you like.”</p> + +<p>“Then I think we’ll go round to Maggie’s Leap.”</p> + +<p>As we went we talked of his precious letter. “You won’t +like it, I daresay,” he said. “It’s not much in your line.”</p> + +<p>“I wish you would tell me what my line is. I’ve been +trying to discover during the last fortnight.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span></p> + +<p>“I know very well.... There’s one thing he says that +I can’t quite——”</p> + +<p>“Well?”</p> + +<p>“Well, it’s this: He says everything is in the Gospels. +What people have got to do is to read over the words of +Christ, and mark with a red pencil everything that is +perfectly clear to them.”</p> + +<p>“A red pencil?”</p> + +<p>Owen was too eager to notice anything. “Yes. What are +you amused at? Then you cut those bits out, and never +bother about the rest. In what you cut out you’ll find +everything that it is necessary to know in order to map +out your life and your work. The whole teaching of Christ, +all that is essential, will be in those bits. Later on you may +read over the other things, that were obscure, and perhaps +some of them will by then be plain. I am to consider what +kind of work I have a taste for, and at the same time the +work I devote myself to must fulfil certain tests or I am to +have nothing to do with it. Work you do with your hands +is best of all. I haven’t shown the letter at home yet. I +thought I’d think it quietly over down here and talk about +it with you. We’ll read the Gospels together. My father +wants me to be a solicitor and go into his place, but I don’t +want that. On the other hand, I must make up my mind +soon, I suppose. I’m seventeen, you know.”</p> + +<p>I took the letter from him, and read it slowly and with +some difficulty as we walked along. After that, I thought +over it for a while.</p> + +<p>“Will you have to earn your living?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, naturally. There are a good many of us, you +know.”</p> + +<p>“Then I don’t see how the Gospels are going to help you, +no matter what way you mark them.”</p> + +<p>“Why not?”</p> + +<p>“Because you’ll have to live as other people do, unless<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span> +you can afford to be different; and other people don’t live +according to the Gospels.”</p> + +<p>Owen was silent.</p> + +<p>“A carpenter, a gardener, for instance,” he began, +“couldn’t they live in accordance with the teaching of +Christ? Tolstoy says I will never be happy unless I do.”</p> + +<p>“It’s all very well for Tolstoy talking: he is his own +master and has plenty of money. But how can you be a +carpenter or a gardener? Your father would never allow +you to, and the first thing would be a quarrel with him. We +go down here, over this wall.”</p> + +<p>Owen scrambled after me.</p> + +<p>“A man must leave his father and his mother.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Owen dear, but you’re not a bit the kind of man +who does, to say nothing of leaving your brother and your +sisters. At any rate, while you are learning to be a gardener +your father will have to keep you.”</p> + +<p>“I only mentioned those trades because they happened +to occur to me; there are plenty of others.”</p> + +<p>“There are not plenty: that’s just the difficulty I’ve +been finding.”</p> + +<p>We clambered down on to the rocks, from which the sea +stretched away, deep and clear and blue, glittering in the +hot sunshine, moving with a low, smooth swell, like some +huge, splendid, living creature.</p> + +<p>“You will require a profession in which you can be your +own master from the very beginning. It wouldn’t do to be +subordinate to anybody who hadn’t had a letter from Tolstoy, +or perhaps even read ‘Anna Karénine.’ If you go in for +the Church, for example, you will have to do what you are +told until you get a church of your own, when you’ll be +always having rows with your parishioners and elders, for, of +course, you’ll have to preach the Tolstoy gospel or the +tests will get in the way. If you become a doctor you won’t +make a living, because you will want to doctor the widows<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span> +and the fatherless, who are no use in the matter of fees. I +admit the lawyer idea is absurd—even without Tolstoy and +the Gospels it wouldn’t have done—and no doubt your +father only thought of it because he’s a solicitor himself. +You’ll have to be content with something that fulfils perhaps +one or two of the tests. Then, when you get married and +have a swarm of children, your wife will rise in revolt against +them <em>all</em>.”</p> + +<p>“I can choose a suitable wife, and there’s no need to have +a swarm of children. I shall have just as many as I can +afford to bring up properly.... That reminds me, I +brought you down the ‘Kreutzer Sonata.’ It’s in my bag.”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right; but it’s always people like you, frightfully +earnest and moral and all the rest of it, who have +families of twelve or thirteen.”</p> + +<p>“I tell you I won’t have them,” said Owen, impatiently.</p> + +<p>“But Tolstoy himself——”</p> + +<p>“I don’t care a hang about Tolstoy.”</p> + +<p>“Oh—h! Owen!”</p> + +<p>“Tolstoy could give his children a decent start in life; +and if he can do that, the more such a man has the better.”</p> + +<p>During the latter part of this conversation, all of which +Owen was taking in dead seriousness, we were undressing, +and I now dived into the deep, green, glittering water. I +turned on my back and lay watching Owen, distinctly +uneasy, stand hesitating on the edge of the rock.</p> + +<p>“Is it cold?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“No; come along.”</p> + +<p>He pulled his shirt slowly off. “I brought you down +some of the short stories too.”</p> + +<p>I laughed. “All right; I’ll read them when I come out.”</p> + +<p>But Owen was really anxious now only about the +temperature of the water. He floundered in and came up +spluttering. I was a much better swimmer than he, and +circled about him, showing off, delighting in the power<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span> +I felt. We swam out for fifty yards or so, and I timed +my stroke with Owen’s. He looked very funny. His +eyes stared straight before him as if he were set on some +desperate adventure. On our way back I splashed him a +little and he got angry, swallowing a lot of water. I told +him how contrary to the teaching of the Gospels this was; +when I asked him to drink a pint of salt water he should +swallow a quart; etc., etc.</p> + +<p>When we got to the rocks and he had scrambled out, +scraping his knees and one of his elbows in doing so, for it was +not easy to get out unless you knew the way, he was quite +offended, and would hardly speak to me. I was shaking +with laughter, but I said I was sorry and gave him some +sticking-plaster. He took the sticking-plaster, but would +have none of my sympathy, and on the way home I had to +soothe him into a better temper. Then, as usual, the cloud +passed quite suddenly, and he was all right. As we drew +near the house I wondered, uneasily, what he would think +of my father, and what he would think of my home. Before +coming to us he had been staying in Scotland with people +who had evidently possessed yachts and motor-cars and all +kinds of things, whereas we could not even boast a spare +bed, and he would have to sleep with me.</p> + +<p>When we came in, I introduced him to my father, who +was working in the garden, and before dinner was over I +was delighted to see that they were going to get on well +together. Owen seemed to notice none of his peculiar +habits, or, if he did, he was perfectly indifferent to them. +He displayed an extraordinary interest in the school, asking +all kinds of questions, and bringing out his own theories of +education, which may or may not have emanated from the +sage in Russia. I let them talk together without interfering +much. I could see that my father was very favourably +impressed, though the fact that such an admirable youth +happened to be a particular friend of mine was naturally<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span> +perplexing. Owen was frightfully polite. He called my +father “Sir,” and listened deferentially to everything he +had to say, never offering his own opinion as of any particular +value. They talked almost exclusively of education. +Owen told how he was teaching a boy at home in the evenings, +the son of their coachman, and how clever this boy +was, and how he had got Mr. Gill senior to promise to pay +his college fees if he did well at school during the next year +or two. It was the first time I had heard of the matter, +but I supposed it was the mysterious something which had +interfered with his own work, and had made him so anxious +about retaining his exhibition. “Didn’t <em>he</em> do splendidly?” +Owen said suddenly, nodding his head in my direction.</p> + +<p>“Peter can be clever enough when he chooses,” my father +answered dryly.</p> + +<p>This was to prevent me from exaggerating the merit of +my achievement, but I did not care, for in my own mind my +performance was somewhat stale already, and I did not give +a fig for such distinctions. It occurred to me, as I watched +them and listened to them, that Owen and my father were +perhaps more alike, mentally and spiritually, than Owen +and I, though my father had but a fraction of Owen’s fineness, +and none of his generosity. They were related as a +coarse weed and a delicate flower might be, but I was of a +different genus. And then I thought that, though I cared +little for Gerald, and loved Owen, perhaps it was Gerald with +whom I had really most in common.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[253]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIII">CHAPTER XLIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Owen and I were standing by the low sea-wall, looking out +across the wet brown sands, when I saw her. It was a gray, +cloudy day, and the air was full of mist and damp, which +hung in heavy, livid-coloured veils over the black mountain-tops, +and sometimes dropped half way down the slopes. +The tide was out and the noise of the waves sounded remote +and musical. The broad stretch of wet sand and shingle +reached out to the cold, gray-green sea, with its white curling +line of foam; and at the water’s edge, a little bent forward, +her light dress floating out behind her in the fresh wind, one +hand raised, holding the brim of her big black hat, she +moved along, a solitary figure against the broad line of +sea and sky. It was Katherine, and as I watched her it +struck me that the whole picture, from her presence in it, +became curiously like a Whistler water-colour. The next +thing I noticed was that Katherine was quite grown-up, +which had the effect of producing in me a sudden shyness, +so that I made no attempt to go to meet her. Yet here was +the meeting I had lain awake half the night imagining! I +had an almost overpowering impulse to turn tail and slink +away, and perhaps I might have done so had I been +alone.</p> + +<p>Owen, who took no more interest in girls than in octogenarians, +asked me what I was staring at.</p> + +<p>“At Miss Dale,” I answered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a>[254]</span></p> + +<p>“Who’s Miss Dale?”</p> + +<p>“Katherine.”</p> + +<p>“And who is Katherine?”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Carroll’s niece.”</p> + +<p>Then Owen looked at me in surprise. “Aren’t you going +to speak to her? I thought you knew her very well?”</p> + +<p>“So I do.”</p> + +<p>We clambered over the wall and crossed the beach to +intercept her path. My idiotic nervousness was increased +by Owen’s presence. She had noticed our approach now, +and altered her own course to meet us. As she came up +she smiled with her bright frank smile and held out her +hand. She was perfectly natural and easy in her greeting, +while I began to stammer and splutter. I managed to +introduce Owen, saying he had come down yesterday, and +we all three walked on together.</p> + +<p>“I wondered if I should see you,” she said. “We +arrived this morning. Gerald is up at the house, but I had +to come out and get some fresh air after our travels.”</p> + +<p>“There’s p—plenty of it at all events,” I stuttered.</p> + +<p>“I like it. I like wind,” she added, turning her smile +upon Owen. “Don’t you? It’s very nice to be back here +again. I always love coming back to any place I know.”</p> + +<p>“When the tide is out it looks like a Whistler water-colour,” +I went on, thinking it a pity that this should be lost.</p> + +<p>But probably neither Katherine nor Owen had ever +heard of Whistler. “It looks to me very like rain,” said the +former, glancing at the heavy clouds over Slieve Donard. +Owen took no notice at all of my remark. “Conversation +means nothing to Owen,” I reflected, impatiently, +“unless it takes the form of argument. Anything merely +suggestive or decorative is lost upon him.” And I felt +annoyed because they had both begun to chatter commonplaces +about Katherine’s journey—what kind of passage +she had had; as if it mattered!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_255"></a>[255]</span></p> + +<p>Then I became lost in contemplation of her. A year had +certainly made a tremendous difference! “Last winter she +probably came out,” I said to myself, with vague memories +of Miss Broughton’s novels. At all events, in twelve months +she had managed to put at least five years between us. +It was quite conceivable that she was already engaged +to be married, while I was but a timid school-boy, who +could only envy from afar the happiness of her lover. And +the thought that perhaps there <em>was</em> a lover cast a vivid +illumination on my own feeling for her, made plainer than +ever the difference, how carefully veiled soever, between +friendship and love. I loved her with that love which, +idealize it as I might, was really the expression of a simple +law of nature.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile she was talking to Owen, who was explaining +to her some theory of the influence of the tides upon the +earth, and of the moon on the tides. How, in the first five +minutes, he had contrived to get on to such a subject I could +not guess. It was fearfully like him, nevertheless, and +Katherine appeared to be interested.</p> + +<p>No matter in what company he found himself Owen never +talked about anything except the things he was interested +in. Last night it had been a little delicious to hear him +discuss Plato’s “Republic” with Miss Dick, who, though +immensely pleased, was always at her silliest when taken +seriously. To converse with Miss Dick was like trying to +get a definite impression from a kaleidoscope; you no sooner +fixed your attention on one particular idea than it dissolved +into something quite different. And yet Miss Dick had +views—political, religious, social,—derived from a deceased +parent, who had been an apostle of free thought. Only she +would interrupt her expression of the profoundest of these +to wonder if Sissie McIldowie was really engaged to young +Stevenson.</p> + +<p>And now Owen was talking to Katherine about the tides.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_256"></a>[256]</span> +I watched her and knew she liked him. She liked his +rough brown mane, his clear eyes, with their kindness and +innocence, for Owen, in spite of the “Kreutzer Sonata” and +the rest, was as innocent as a child. There was something +fine about Owen, and it was very visible in his face.</p> + +<p>At present he quite monopolized the conversation, turning +it into a sort of scientific discourse; and I knew so well +that he had been reading some little book about tides—probably +in the train on his way down. I yawned two or +three times when he looked in my direction, but I might +have spared myself the rudeness, for it had not the slightest +effect upon him while Katherine kept on asking questions +as if she found what he said absorbing. My apparent +indifference simply had the result of producing a <i lang="fr">tête-à-tête</i> +between them.</p> + +<p>“You ought to become a University Extension lecturer,” +I said, maliciously. “You should write and ask Tolstoy +about it.”</p> + +<p>It was a highly disagreeable remark to make, and as soon +as I had said it I was filled with shame. Owen coloured +and stopped talking at once. I was very sorry. Inwardly +I went down on my knees to him and begged his pardon, but +outwardly I showed only a sullen stolidity. I said something +to Katherine, but she answered coldly, and turned +again to Owen as if to make up to him for my bad manners. +And at this my remorse degenerated into sulkiness.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, as we walked home together, I had the +grace to apologize. “I’m sorry for what I said,” I muttered. +“It was a most beastly thing to say. It’s not so much +because it was rude as because it was rotten.”</p> + +<p>This distinction I cannot undertake here to explain; let +it suffice that in my mind it was a very clearly defined one.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Owen. “I always do talk +either too much or too little.”</p> + +<p>After tea we went for a long walk and discussed all our<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_257"></a>[257]</span> +old subjects. But in my present mood they bored me, +though I was determined not to show it. What I really +wanted just then was to be alone, that I might recall the +past and make plans for the future. We went to bed when +we came in, but long after Owen had dropped asleep I lay +awake, wrapped in beautiful, desolating dreams. I gave +Owen a gentle kick, for he had begun to snore, which +troubled the quiet that was necessary for the perfect enjoyment +of my visions. It woke him up, which was not what +I had intended, but it couldn’t be helped, and, before he had +dropped asleep again, I was myself lost in slumber.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_258"></a>[258]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIV">CHAPTER XLIV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I happened on the thing by the merest accident. My father +had been going through the papers in his desk the night +before, tying up old letters in bundles, and burning many in +the grate. He had been quite absorbed in this dusty task +when Owen and I had come in from our walk, and he had +been still absorbed in it when we had left him and gone up to +bed. This afternoon we were to call for the Dales, and Owen +was waiting for me now in the garden, sitting on the wall, +nibbling nasturtium leaves, whistling, and swinging his legs +to and fro, while I, having broken my shoe-lace, was in the +parlour replacing it. And as I bent down, through the tail +of my eye I caught a glimpse of something white between +the desk and the wall. I laced up my shoe, and then, +pushing the desk further to one side, with the help of the +poker I fished out an envelope. There was no writing on +this envelope, and the flap was loose, but inside I felt something +stiff and flat, like a card or a photograph. I pulled it +out. It was a photograph, considerably faded, and certainly +most astonishing if it had fallen from my father’s desk, as I +supposed it must have. For it represented a person very +much like the ladies in the chorus at the Christmas pantomime +I had gone to see with George—better looking, possibly, +than most of them, but similarly clad, in doublet and tights, +and with a velvet cap, with a cock’s feather stuck in it, set +rakishly at the side of a curly head. The face wore the +conventional simper such faces seem naturally to assume in +the presence of photographers, displaying an admirable set +of teeth. A sword dangled from the waist, a short cloak<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_259"></a>[259]</span> +hung from the shoulders, and the right hand was raised to +the cap in a dashing and coquettish salute. There was +something so comical in the idea of my father, of all persons +in the world, having treasured up this souvenir of what I +took to be a youthful flight of fancy, that I laughed aloud, +and was on the point of calling in Owen to show it to him, +when I turned the photograph round and on the back read, +in a sprawling feminine hand, “From Milly.”</p> + +<p>I stopped short. Owen was still kicking his heels against +the whitewashed wall, still whistling, but I did not disturb +him. I heard my father coming downstairs, and my first +impulse was to cram both envelope and photograph into my +pocket. I heard him in the hall, I heard him turn the handle +of the parlour door, and then I went to meet him.</p> + +<p>“I found this,” I said, “on the floor.” And I held it out +to him.</p> + +<p>My father glanced at it indifferently, but when he saw +what it was a faint flush crept into his face. It was the first +time I had ever seen him change colour. He took it from +me without a word, and, putting it back in its envelope, +unlocked the desk. He opened a drawer somewhere, and +I saw him, still without speaking, slip in the envelope. +Then he pulled down the lid of the desk, which shut with a +sharp click, and turned to me.</p> + +<p>“Do you know who it was?” he asked, abruptly.</p> + +<p>I stammered and blushed. “I’m not sure—I think— +Wasn’t it mamma?”</p> + +<p>He turned away without answering. “Owen is waiting +for you,” he said, as I still hung about nervously. “I +suppose you won’t be in for tea?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I replied, and went out to my friend.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry for keeping you,” I apologized; and as we +walked round to Derryaghy I half thought of telling him of +the incident.</p> + +<p>And my mother? I had known vaguely that she had been<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_260"></a>[260]</span> +on the stage in some not particularly brilliant capacity, but +somehow the real thing, in all its callous actuality, to have that +suddenly thrust upon one, was very different. I did not like it.</p> + +<p>Visions of the girls I had seen in the pantomime kept +rising before me with a disagreeable relevancy. They +strutted before my mind’s eye just as they had strutted, +jaunty and assured, about the stage, their eyes boldly seeking +the male occupants of boxes. They swaggered by me +with a peculiar movement of the hips, a perfect self-confidence; +one of them even winked as she passed. And I +saw their fat legs, their bold eyes; I heard them laugh, and +sing idiotic songs, in shrill falsetto, about Bertie, and Charlie, +and latch-keys, and staying out till three.</p> + +<p>I wished I had never found my mother’s portrait, though +I tried to persuade myself that she only looked like that +because she was dressed up for the theatre, and that in +ordinary dress she must have been quite different. But +my attempts to <em>see</em> her as different failed. I had nothing +to go upon, no memories, no other portrait; for me tights +and doublet would remain her perpetual garb. I was not +disillusioned, for I had had no illusions—that is to say, I had +thought very little about the matter—but I was certainly +shocked. I remembered Mrs. Carroll’s reserve on the few +occasions when I had questioned her. Mrs. Carroll must +have known, and so must Miss Dick.</p> + +<p>It was, doubtless, fortunate that I had never built up +any imaginary and sentimental picture of my mother, as +I might easily have done. Mrs. Carroll’s presence in my +life probably had prevented this.</p> + +<p>“Here we are,” cried Owen, catching me by the arm. +“Wake up. I suppose you don’t know that you’ve been +fast asleep all the way!”</p> + +<p>We found Katherine at the lodge, talking to the gardener’s +wife, a stout, ruddy young woman, with a flaxen-headed +little fellow clutching her by the skirts, one of my father’s<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_261"></a>[261]</span> +youthful scholars, or, more likely, one of Miss McWaters’, +since he was still at the age when problems connected with +“twice times” awaken bewildering difficulties.</p> + +<p>We stopped and joined in the conversation.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t your brother coming?” Owen asked, after a +minute or two.</p> + +<p>“He said he was. He’s up at the house; he’s got some +new music.” Katherine smiled at me. “Do you mind +hurrying him up? It’s a shame to bother you, but if nobody +fetches him he’ll never come.”</p> + +<p>I complied with an extremely bad grace. It seemed to +me I was always chosen for these messages. If Gerald +didn’t like to come himself, why couldn’t he be left behind? +I knew the others wouldn’t even wait for us; in fact, when +I turned round, they had already begun to walk on slowly.</p> + +<p>I found Gerald busy with his music, and not looking in +the least as if he intended to be anything else but busy with +it all the afternoon. “The others are waiting,” I said, +with sulky abruptness. “Are you ready?”</p> + +<p>He raised his head and his brown eyes rested on mine +curiously. “They won’t wait very long,” he replied. “Do +you really want to climb that ridiculous mountain?”</p> + +<p>I looked down sullenly. “Why not? We arranged to +do so, didn’t we? Owen wants to.”</p> + +<p>“Let them go alone, then. They’ve begun to study +botany. Katherine was examining things through a little +lens all yesterday evening.”</p> + +<p>His drawling irony made me furious. “We must go,” +I said, shortly. I knew well enough that he knew what was +passing in my mind, and that I had been fighting against +it for the last fortnight. He was the only one, I fondly +imagined, who <em>did</em> know, and I had begun to think that +the spectacle of my jealousy was pleasing to him, and that +he had his own delicate ways of encouraging it. He did not +like Owen, yet, for some reason I could not fathom, he<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_262"></a>[262]</span> +appeared to regard favourably his friendship with Katherine. +That friendship had made astonishing strides in the past +week or two. When we went anywhere together now, it +was invariably Owen who was Katherine’s escort. Things +seemed to arrange themselves naturally in that way, and +this afternoon was no exception.</p> + +<p>It was not till I told him I would follow the others, and +was leaving the room, that Gerald made up his mind to +accompany me, and even then, about a quarter way up +Slieve Donard, he announced that he had gone far enough +and would wait here till they came down. Owen and +Katherine were not in sight, for Gerald had made the ascent +at the pace of the pilgrims in “Tannhäuser,” and I had had +to keep with him. He stretched himself full length on the +grass, and, as if it were an amusing question, asked me what +I proposed doing. I did not know myself whether to wait +with him here or to finish the climb. I stood hesitating, +with a face like a thunder-cloud.</p> + +<p>“I suppose they’re at the top by this time,” said Gerald, +casually, and his supposition decided me.</p> + +<p>I climbed up alone and full of bitter thoughts. Presently +I saw Owen and Katherine far above me, but they never +once looked back. I remembered that day, long ago it now +seemed when Katherine and I had climbed the hill from the +Bloody Bridge Valley, and how I had helped her over rough +places, as I supposed Owen was helping her now, and walked +hand in hand with her.</p> + +<p>When I reached the summit I saw them standing together +under the lee of a huge gray rock, gazing seaward. They +heard my approach and turned round.</p> + +<p>“Where did you leave Gerald?” Katherine asked, +amused. “I didn’t think he would get very far!”</p> + +<p>“You might have waited for me then,” I answered +gruffly. “You were in a mighty hurry to start.”</p> + +<p>It gave me a sort of stupid pleasure to think I was showing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_263"></a>[263]</span> +by my manner that I considered myself neglected, so I +proceeded deliberately to be as unpleasant as possible. +That I had joined them had obviously not annoyed them +in the least—Katherine had certainly shown no annoyance +when she had greeted me—yet I told myself that this was +only pretence, and that they wished me away. And then, +as I thought how there might have been some secret understanding +between them, and that perhaps Katherine had +arranged to be down at the lodge when we arrived so that +she might send me back to the house for Gerald, I felt—though +I really did not believe in any such scheming—a +violent anger against them both. When she saw the kind +of humour I was in, Katherine ceased to take any notice of +me, and this made me worse. I had not sense enough +to leave them. A kind of perversity seemed to force me to +do everything I could to make myself objectionable. I +had an insane desire to quarrel with Owen, and presently +I contradicted him flatly when he said something I knew +to be perfectly true. He flushed and his eyes brightened +angrily, but he controlled himself. “What is the matter +with you, Peter?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” I muttered.</p> + +<p>I bounded away from them. I ran down the mountain-side +at the risk of breaking an ankle, leaping from one point +to another. I did not pause when I came to where Gerald +lay in the grass, but continued my headlong descent till I +reached the woods. I had come down in an incredibly +short time, and the violence of my flight had relieved me. +I walked now at an ordinary pace, wondering what the +others would think, conscious that I had made a fool of +myself, yet laying all the blame on Katherine.</p> + +<p>The woods were silent save for the occasional note of a +robin or the low twitter of a swallow. I stopped by a +marshy hollow to look at a vivid splash of yellow irises, and +I gathered an armful of them for Mrs. Carroll.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_264"></a>[264]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLV">CHAPTER XLV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Owen and I dined at Derryaghy that night, but all through +dinner I sat very quiet. No allusion was made by the +others to my having left them, which showed, I thought, +that they had discussed it among themselves and had agreed +not to take any notice.</p> + +<p>After dinner Gerald stayed behind to smoke a cigarette, +and I stayed with him. When we followed the others to +the drawing-room, he went to the piano and began to play. +Owen sat by the window looking out. He had not once +spoken to me since I had left him and Katherine at the top +of Slieve Donard; I thought he had even avoided meeting +my glance, but I was not sure. Katherine and Miss Dick +had each some needlework. Mrs. Carroll was not with us. +From my corner of the room I watched Katherine as she +worked, her beautiful head bowed in the lamp-light, and +secretly, in my soul, I knew Owen was more fitted to be her +mate than I. It is true, I did not believe he could love her +so intensely, but the love he gave her would be more unselfish. +I became lost in gloomy thoughts. I knew they +both belonged to a world where I was a stranger, an outcast. +In that hour I recognized my moral inferiority to Owen, and +suddenly I felt how peaceful and quiet it would be in the +thick darkness, with the grass over my head, and everything +finished and forgotten.</p> + +<p>Gerald had begun to play the “Moonlight Sonata,”<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_265"></a>[265]</span> +Chopinizing it, as he did everything, and perhaps this +unhappy vision came to me from his music. At all events, it +hovered before me in an intensity of sadness beneath which +I shut my eyes. I got up by-and-by and crossed the room +to where Katherine sat at her work. I pulled forward a +chair and sat down near to her, and with my back to the +others, so that what I said should be heard by her alone.</p> + +<p>“Will you come out with me?” I asked, in a low voice.</p> + +<p>“Out? <em>Now</em>, do you mean?” She looked up in surprise, +but she also spoke in lowered tones, and with, I +thought, a certain coldness. At this my anger was stirred +afresh.</p> + +<p>“Now,” I answered.</p> + +<p>She seemed on the point of refusing. “Are you afraid?” +I sneered.</p> + +<p>She appeared not to understand me. “Afraid! What +is there to be afraid of?” After a moment she decided. +“I will come in a minute or two; I want to finish this +flower.”</p> + +<p>She returned perfectly calmly to her work. She was +embroidering a table-cloth for her mother’s birthday, and +was always saying she should never have it finished in time. +I, with a burning heart, got up and strolled out on to the +terrace, my hands in my pockets, and whistling below my +breath, which I imagined lent an air of off-handedness to my +exit. Once beyond the windows, however, my whistling +ceased abruptly, and I hurried round to the other side of the +house, where I waited in a fever till she should come.</p> + +<p>She did not keep me long. She had not put on a hat, nor +even a loose wrap about her shoulders; evidently she intended +our interview to be a short one. I hastened from +the shadow to meet her.</p> + +<p>“Do you know what I want?” I began gloomily.</p> + +<p>“You want to speak to me about something, I suppose?” +Again I was conscious of a coldness in her voice.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_266"></a>[266]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes. I have so few opportunities now.”</p> + +<p>“I think you have plenty of opportunities, considering +you see me every day.”</p> + +<p>We walked on slowly, side by side. “Are you angry with +me?” I asked, trying to speak penitently.</p> + +<p>“About what?”</p> + +<p>There was something in her air of calm deliberation that +held me at a distance.</p> + +<p>“Everything—this afternoon, for instance.”</p> + +<p>“I thought you weren’t very nice to your friend.”</p> + +<p>“I wasn’t. Nor to you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it doesn’t matter about me.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” I asked miserably.</p> + +<p>“Well, it doesn’t matter so much. I’m not your guest—and—I +don’t suppose I’m as fond of you as he is.”</p> + +<p>There was something cruel in those last words, though +their cruelty may have been unconscious. For a minute or +two I could not speak.</p> + +<p>“Why have you changed, Katherine?” I said at length, +my voice still not very secure.</p> + +<p>“It is you who have changed.”</p> + +<p>“Have I?”</p> + +<p>“You were not like this last summer.”</p> + +<p>“I think I was.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what it is, but there is a difference. I +suppose it may be only that you are growing up. I like +people to be either men or boys. Why can’t you be natural? +Why can’t you be content to be as you were?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you have treated me fairly.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t help it. Why should you be so jealous? It’s +horrid. Everything is changed, as you say. It is not nearly +so nice. I first began to notice it in your letters, but I +thought when I saw you it would be all right. If I had +known you were going to be like this I wouldn’t have come at +all.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_267"></a>[267]</span></p> + +<p>There was something in her manner I couldn’t understand, +something mysterious, as if her words hid a regret, though +whether it was for our old friendship or not I could not say.</p> + +<p>“Tell me what it is you don’t like,” I said, thickly.</p> + +<p>Katherine’s dark blue eyes rested on me while she hesitated. +“I can’t. I’m stupid. Perhaps I don’t really +know myself.” Then suddenly she broke out, “Don’t +speak to me or I shall cry or do something idiotic. Let us +go back.” Without waiting for me she began to walk +hastily in the direction of the house. I ran after her; I +was lost in wonderment; but I made no attempt to detain +her or to question her.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a>[268]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVI">CHAPTER XLVI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>No allusion was made to our absence when we returned to +the others. Gerald was still playing, but he got up as soon +as we entered, and strolled over to the window, where he +stood beside Owen, looking out.</p> + +<p>“There should be white peacocks here,” he murmured +idly. “I’ve always longed to live in a house where there +were white peacocks. They are the most poetic creatures +in the world. They come over the lawn in the moonlight, +delightful fowls, and knock with their beaks against the +windows to be fed. They love moonlight. They’re extraordinarily +morbid and decadent. Their only quite healthy +taste is that they want to be fed. Shouldn’t you like them, +Miss Dick?”</p> + +<p>Miss Dick, to whom all Gerald’s words were pearls of +wisdom, listened to these with close attention. “I’ll speak +to Mrs. Carroll about them,” she said. “It <em>would</em> be nice +to have them.”</p> + +<p>Gerald smiled sweetly, and Owen moved away from him, +an expression on his face of mingled contempt and disgust, +which, had I not been so miserable, I should have found +highly comic. There was nothing, I knew, irritated him +more than this kind of talk, which Gerald manufactured with +extreme ingenuity, principally for Owen’s benefit. For +Owen’s sake he would talk in a world-weary fashion of the +“colour” of life, and ever since he had discovered that the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_269"></a>[269]</span> +word “Philistine” was peculiarly exasperating, it had +figured more frequently than any other in his conversation. +He dragged it in at every turn, nearly always with absolute +irrelevancy. He began to talk of Philistines now, à propos +of some concert at which he declared he had been asked to +play—a concert he had probably invented for the occasion.</p> + +<p>Owen stood with his back against the chimney-piece, his +eyes bright, his cheeks red. “There is one class, at any +rate, that is a good deal more disgusting than your Philistines—the +people who imagine themselves superior to +them.”</p> + +<p>But Gerald could keep perfectly cool. “These people +you mention,” he began in his most elaborate manner, “I +strongly suspect to be only the commanders of the Philistine +hosts—their Tolstoys, their chief-priests and scribes. +It is the Philistine who imagines himself superior to other +Philistines. This is the one flight his imagination is capable +of. The artist may be superior, but that, I think, is not +what you mean?”</p> + +<p>“You’re right,” said Owen, fiercely, “it’s not what I +mean. And I suppose <em>you</em> are an artist?”</p> + +<p>“My dear Gill, it is apparent.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not your dear Gill,” said Owen, who had lost his +temper.</p> + +<p>“Shut up, Owen,” I interrupted. “What’s the use of +taking everything so seriously?”</p> + +<p>“Because everything <em>is</em> serious. You may say a lot of +chatter about white peacocks and Philistines doesn’t mean +anything if you like, but it does. It is a mask for other +things that are real enough—for selfishness, and immorality.”</p> + +<p>We all gazed at him in silence, almost open-mouthed, +Gerald with a faint smile on his handsome face. Miss Dick +alone found it incumbent upon her to say something, and +she remarked that the Charity Organization Committee to +which she belonged had been able to do a great deal, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_270"></a>[270]</span> +that the lecture with lime-light views had brought in over +three pounds—she meant even after all expenses had been +paid.</p> + +<p>These observations could not fill up the breach. Nobody, +indeed, took any notice of them. Katherine had laid down +her work, and her eyes were fixed on Owen’s angry face, +with, I thought, an expression of admiration and sympathy.</p> + +<p>“What has morality to do with art?” Gerald asked +calmly. “Peter supports you because he is not an artist, but +only a person of taste, who likes to listen to my playing. I +<em>am</em> an artist, and I know. You not being even a person of—I +beg your pardon—you being a person of different +tastes from Peter, and uninterested in art, naturally are at +a disadvantage when you discuss it. I do not mean that +rudely; I say it merely in self-defence. Is anyone coming +down in the direction of the station?”</p> + +<p>He went out, but nobody offered to accompany him.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_271"></a>[271]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVII">CHAPTER XLVII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Owen and I left shortly afterwards. He was very quiet as +we walked home, but when we were in bed he said to me, +“I’ve decided to go back to town to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>I heard the words with a thrill of mingled pleasure and +misgiving. “To-morrow? Why?” I asked. “You must +stay till the end of the week in any case.” Then something +made me add, “Is it because I was rude to you this afternoon?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>I thought for a little. “Has that nothing to do with it?” +I persisted.</p> + +<p>“No; at least, not directly. I may as well be quite +frank about it. I know you would rather I went; that is +my reason. I ought to have seen it before, but I didn’t, +though I had a kind of feeling several times that there was +something wrong. It is partly your own fault that I didn’t +guess sooner. You always mentioned Katherine as if you +were quite indifferent to her; and that first day you seemed +even to hesitate about going to speak to her. I remember +now what you told me on the night of our party, but until +to-day I never connected it with her.”</p> + +<p>“You think I’m jealous?” I said in a low voice.</p> + +<p>“I know you are, but I didn’t know it until this afternoon. +Don’t imagine I’m offended or any silly rot of that kind. +There is no reason why I should be. Of course I should<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_272"></a>[272]</span> +have liked it better if you had told me openly—but—well, +it doesn’t matter. I don’t understand your feeling, but +that doesn’t matter, either; if you have it, it is enough. I +like Katherine, I like her very much, but, after all, it is you +who are my friend.”</p> + +<p>“She won’t want you to go,” I said miserably. At that +moment I certainly preferred Owen to Katherine.</p> + +<p>“She won’t mind very much, and I really can’t knock +about with her brother. I hate the very sight of him.”</p> + +<p>“Couldn’t we knock about by ourselves?”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid it would hardly do to drop them now.”</p> + +<p>There was a silence.</p> + +<p>“Owen?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what to do.”</p> + +<p>“About what?”</p> + +<p>“About anything. About your going away. About +Katherine.”</p> + +<p>“But when I’m away won’t it be all right?”</p> + +<p>“No; it will be all wrong. I’ve been beastly to you as it +is. And she doesn’t like me—I mean she only likes me +middling—not even as much as she did—she told me so, this +evening.”</p> + +<p>“But you will have plenty of time to make it up.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t that—it isn’t that we’ve quarrelled. And the +other—it is no use—it only irritates me. I wish I could +explain. Things—things come into my mind.”</p> + +<p>Owen was silent.</p> + +<p>“And I’ve been beastly to you,” I went on.</p> + +<p>“Oh, nonsense.”</p> + +<p>He was silent again till he said, “There’s one way, but I +know you won’t take it.”</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>“Come back with me, and spend the rest of your holidays +with me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_273"></a>[273]</span></p> + +<p>I lay quiet.</p> + +<p>“Will you?”</p> + +<p>In the dark I shook my head. Then, remembering he +could not see me, I answered, “No: I can’t.”</p> + +<p>“Why not? It is only a matter of will.”</p> + +<p>“But I haven’t any will, except to get what I want.”</p> + +<p>“You could try it for a few days.”</p> + +<p>“No. There are not a great many days altogether. +They will be leaving before the end of the month.”</p> + +<p>“Well, if you should change your mind, come at any time—I +mean without bothering to write.”</p> + +<p>“Very well.”</p> + +<p>Owen was silent so long that I thought he had dropped +asleep, when suddenly he spoke again.</p> + +<p>“Peter?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know if you were asleep or not. It is this. I +wrote to my people about you—about your having to go to +lodgings when you come up to town after summer; and +they want you to come to live with us.”</p> + +<p>I felt myself grow hot with shame.</p> + +<p>“You see there are plenty of bedrooms,” Owen went on, +“and my study, I daresay, would do for both of us to work +in. I hope you’ll come: they all want you to. If you +think of it I’ll speak to your father; but of course if you’d +rather be in ‘digs’ by yourself, it would be better for me not +to mention it to him.”</p> + +<p>“Do you really want me to come?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Of course I want you.”</p> + +<p>“I mean, do you really and truly want me?”</p> + +<p>He laughed pleasantly. “Of course I really and truly +want you.”</p> + +<p>“You’re not doing it out of kindness or anything like +that?”</p> + +<p>“The kindness will be all on your side.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_274"></a>[274]</span></p> + +<p>“No: but I mean it. You must tell me.”</p> + +<p>“I suggested it because I’d like to have you. I wasn’t +a bit sure whether you’d come or not. My reason for asking +you is exactly the same as my reason for asking you every +Sunday to come for a walk with me.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll come,” I said. “Thanks awfully.” But my pleasure +was spoiled by the remorse I felt for my own conduct as +host. It seemed to me I was a fairly second-rate specimen +of humanity, hardly good enough to be taken out and +drowned.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_275"></a>[275]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLVIII">CHAPTER XLVIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I do not know whether Katherine attributed Owen’s sudden +departure to me or not, but I think it extremely probable +that she did, although she never mentioned it. Yet we +sometimes spoke of Owen himself during the days that followed. +In those days we slipped back more or less into our +former friendship, and I tried to feel that it was just the +same. Yet something of the old freedom had gone, and I +could not forget what Katherine had said to me the night +before Owen’s departure. After a few days, indeed, it +came into my romantic mind that there might be another +interpretation of her behaviour on that occasion, one I +hardly dared even to dream of, so much was it what I desired. +But it influenced me nevertheless. I longed to have another +day alone with her—a day such as we had had last +year, and I determined to ask her to come somewhere with +me alone, to come, that is, without Gerald.</p> + +<p>I went up to Derryaghy one afternoon with this intention, +and was shown into the morning-room, where I found Mrs. +Carroll and Miss Dick. Mrs. Carroll informed me that +Katherine had been washing her hair, and was now drying +it at the kitchen fire. She told me to go on in if I wanted to +speak to her, but I hung back bashfully. In the end I +went, all the same, and discovered Katherine sitting on a +stool, a book open on her knee, and her long, thick, dark +brown hair hanging loose in the red glow of the kitchen range.</p> + +<p>“It’s well for you you haven’t to undergo torments of +this kind!” she exclaimed. “I was baked nearly ten<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_276"></a>[276]</span> +minutes ago. My hair was simply full of salt. I don’t +know how it gets in under my bathing-cap.”</p> + +<p>The situation may seem more homely than romantic, but +I thought she looked extremely lovely, and gazed at her in +silent admiration. Perhaps she noticed it, for she coloured +as she laughed.</p> + +<p>“My dear Peter, aren’t you going to say good-morning +to me? I’m not the Sleeping Beauty, you know?”</p> + +<p>“What beautiful hair you have,” I said, in an awed tone, +and involuntarily I touched it with my hand.</p> + +<p>She laughed again, but drew back. “Did you come in +just to admire it? It’s very nice of you.”</p> + +<p>“I came to ask you to go for a walk with me this +afternoon, round by the Hilltown Road—by the road under +the mountains—just you by yourself.”</p> + +<p>“‘Me by myself!’ When do you want to go?”</p> + +<p>“After lunch.”</p> + +<p>“Very well—if it’s not too hot.”</p> + +<p>The readiness with which she consented made me consider +myself a fool for not having asked her sooner, and I began to +regret all my lost opportunities.</p> + +<p>On my way home I met Gerald, who wanted to know if I +had bathed yet.</p> + +<p>“I bathed before breakfast. Where have you been?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, just down to the Club House.”</p> + +<p>I turned back with him. I had made up my mind to say +something he might possibly resent, but I plunged into my +subject without beating about the bush. “Don’t you think +you are rather a fool to go down there so often?”</p> + +<p>“Down where?” asked Gerald. “To the Club House?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; though I was thinking more of the hotel. It +seems to me you go to the hotel nearly every evening now.”</p> + +<p>He smiled, indifferently. “There’s nothing else to do.”</p> + +<p>“It seems stupid to chum up with people about twice +your age,” I persisted.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_277"></a>[277]</span></p> + +<p>“They’re not twice my age. Some of them aren’t very +much older than I am. What harm does it do?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I was only with you once, but I didn’t like what I +saw there, especially towards the end of the evening.”</p> + +<p>“What didn’t you like, Peter?” he asked, good-humouredly.</p> + +<p>“I thought it looked silly—and a little disgusting. There +were you, a chap barely eighteen, calling Captain Denby, +who’s about fifty, by his Christian name. You must know +well enough that he’s as gross as a pig. What does he care +about your playing? And what pleasure, anyway, can it +give you to play a lot of waltzes and popular songs?”</p> + +<p>“He cares as much for my playing as you do.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Gerald, if you think that you’re a fool.”</p> + +<p>“You sat quiet enough at the time. You were afraid to +open your mouth.”</p> + +<p>“That may be so, but it doesn’t alter the fact that I was +infinitely superior to anyone in that room except yourself.”</p> + +<p>“I daresay you were, Peter. I never doubt your superiority. +There’s one thing you forget, however, and that +is that any friendship there may be between you and me is a +pretty one-sided affair.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” I asked, uncomfortably.</p> + +<p>“Only that you’ve never given it much encouragement.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know, I’m sure. Partly, I should think, because +you rather dislike me. That always stands in the way of +such things.”</p> + +<p>His irony rang unpleasantly true. “Why should you +think I dislike you?” I said, very weakly.</p> + +<p>“It would take too long to explain. It never gave me +any particular pleasure to think so—at first, just the reverse—and +I mention it now merely at your request.”</p> + +<p>I didn’t quite know what to say. “Isn’t my speaking +to you about this matter a proof of my not disliking you?” +I risked. “I thought we had always been friends.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_278"></a>[278]</span></p> + +<p>“No, Peter, your friend is a prig called Owen Gill.”</p> + +<p>“Owen isn’t a prig,” I said warmly, glad to have a chance +to put him in the wrong, but my chance did not last.</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon,” said Gerald, “even if he was, I +shouldn’t have called him one to you.”</p> + +<p>“Better say it to me, if you’re going to say it at all. I can +defend him.”</p> + +<p>“I daresay there is no harm in being a prig.”</p> + +<p>“Owen is a good deal finer chap than either you or I.”</p> + +<p>“And yet neither of us would change with him! But the +point is hardly worth discussing.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to discuss it.”</p> + +<p>“You want to give me good advice? Well, fire ahead.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, there’s no use in my saying anything. You know +it all well enough yourself, and if you think it better to go +on as you are doing, I can’t interfere. But it seems to me +stupid to get into bad habits.”</p> + +<p>“Have you no bad habits, Peter?”</p> + +<p>“I’m not talking about myself.”</p> + +<p>“That’s true.”</p> + +<p>“You said the other night you were an artist; but you +know as well as I do, that if you are going to do anything in +that way you will have to work, and that you won’t work +if you begin to loaf about, taking drinks with this person and +that. I can’t even understand why you should want to. If <em>I</em> +had any particular gift I would cultivate it for all it was worth.”</p> + +<p>“Have you no gift?”</p> + +<p>“No. As you also remarked, I am a person of taste.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry if I offended you. I didn’t mean anything.”</p> + +<p>“You believed it all the same.”</p> + +<p>“I’m not sure that I did. You’re clever enough.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you. I’ll not come any further.”</p> + +<p>“Won’t you? It was good of you bothering about me, +and I took it very well, didn’t I?” He smiled.</p> + +<p>“You didn’t take it at all; but that’s not my fault.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_279"></a>[279]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XLIX">CHAPTER XLIX</h2> +</div> + + +<p>It was a cloudless afternoon when I went back to Derryaghy. +Katherine was quite ready and we set out immediately. As +I walked beside her, in her simple cotton dress, and with her +gay parasol, I thought her adorable.</p> + +<p>“Do you remember our picnic?” I asked, for I was for +ever harking back to it in my mind.</p> + +<p>“Which? There have been so many!”</p> + +<p>“I mean our own—the one we went together—the first +of all.”</p> + +<p>“It seems centuries ago. I wonder if Bryansford isn’t +too far for this afternoon? The others were saying something +about driving. That would be better.”</p> + +<p>“It was a day very like this,” I went on, “a perfect +summer day.” And a strange thrill passed through me as I +recalled its incidents.</p> + +<p>The air was as soft as velvet. The August sun streamed +over the fields. We followed a lane which led us past a long, +low house, where an immense cherry-tree, with a trunk nine +or ten feet in circumference, spread its branches in a small +green orchard. I repeated aloud some lines of a poem I +remembered:</p> + +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“I know a little garden-close</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Set thick with lily and red rose,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Where I would wander if I might</div> + <div class="verse indent1">From dewy dawn to dewy night,</div> + <div class="verse indent1">And have one with me wandering.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_280"></a>[280]</span></p> + +<p>Two friendly dogs wagged their tails, and a cat lounging +on the gray stone wall unclosed its eyes in sleepy yellow slits.</p> + +<p>“Can’t we be friends, Katherine, as we were then?” I +pleaded.</p> + +<p>“But aren’t we friends?” she asked, with a shade of +impatience in her voice.</p> + +<p>“You know what I mean.”</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I <em>don’t</em> know what you mean, Peter.” Then +she unexpectedly added: “You’re a very queer mixture. I +often wonder how you’ll come out in the end.”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t an idea,” I replied, somewhat taken aback. +The remark appeared to me peculiar, and I felt as if she had +pushed me farther away; and with this my self-confidence +began to evaporate.</p> + +<p>We walked on in silence. There was, at the particular +point we had now reached, a certain grandeur in the +landscape, which even at that agitated moment impressed +me with a sense of solemnity. From childhood I had +imagined it—quite without historical foundation—as the +scene of ancient Druidical worship. I thought of the dark +soil as having drunk up the hot, sweet blood of human sacrifice, +while the “pale-eyed priest” lifted his gaze to the +clear autumn sky, and watched against it, just that same +dark curving line of quiet hills that I was watching now.</p> + +<p>Yet, when we began to speak again it was of things about +which we were both profoundly indifferent, and I had a +sickening feeling that I was failing to interest my companion, +and that while she was talking to me her thoughts were +elsewhere. Somehow it appeared to be impossible to raise +our conversation out of the rut of deadly commonplace into +which it had fallen. It seemed to me almost as if Katherine +were keeping it there on purpose, and before we came to +Bryansford, I proposed trying to get tea at one of the +cottages, for I felt that any interruption would be a relief.</p> + +<p>When we had finished, and paid for, our refreshment,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_281"></a>[281]</span> +instead of continuing our way round under the mountains, +as I had intended, Katherine decided that we ought to start +for home.</p> + +<p>“Let us at least go back through the woods,” I begged. +“We don’t want to tramp along that dusty road again.”</p> + +<p>She yielded to my persuasion, and we entered the estate +that lay beyond Derryaghy. It was strangely still in the late +afternoon. Not a leaf stirred. On and on we walked, +hardly speaking, and suddenly the dead silence, and our +complete solitude, became, as it were, visible to me; and +with that there rose in my mind, with intense vividness, a +memory—the memory of Elsie at Owen’s party. The +whole thing came back to me almost with the strength of +hallucination: her lips on mine, my own kisses, her yielding +body as she closed her eyes under my embrace. I was +horribly nervous. I felt myself trembling and a faint mist +swam before my eyes. I put out my hand and tried to take +Katherine’s, but she drew away from me at once. I stopped +short, facing her, on the narrow path. “I want to speak +to you,” I said. “What have I done?”</p> + +<p>She made as if to pass me, but I barred the way. I was +conscious once more, through other things, of a smouldering +anger against her. “Why do you draw back when I touch +you? You once told me you cared for me. You wrote to +me that you did.”</p> + +<p>“So I do,” she answered quietly, though her face had +altered. “I don’t know what you want, nor why you +aren’t satisfied.”</p> + +<p>And, all the time, that other vision was acting like an +hypnotic suggestion upon my mind. “You know that I +love you,” I persisted, hoarsely, my voice sounding queer, +though I tried to speak naturally. “Tell me, would you +rather have Owen?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you should speak to me like this. I wish +you would allow me to pass, please.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_282"></a>[282]</span></p> + +<p>Her dark blue eyes were fixed on me; she was very near. +I was passionately conscious of her attraction for me; my +heart was thumping, and the blood began to drum in my +temples, while a sort of shadow veiled my sight. I threw +my arms round her; I could feel her body straining away +from me, her breath on my face. For a moment she seemed +to submit as I kissed her, but the next instant she struggled +from me, and I felt a blow across my face. She had struck +me with her parasol, which now hung broken in her hand.</p> + +<p>Her eyes flashed on me like a withering fire. She was +furiously angry. “How dare you touch me! Let me pass +at once, you—you beast.”</p> + +<p>My arms dropped to my sides. A sudden, bitter shame +overcame me. I saw her pass me with head erect and +flaming cheeks, and then I dropped on my face on the ground.</p> + +<p>When I got up she was out of sight. I did not know how +long I had lain there, but I made no attempt to follow her. +As I brushed mechanically the earth and bits of grass and +twigs from my clothes, I felt almost dazed. It had all passed, +and I did not want to think. I heard the drowsy prattle of +a stream, and became aware that I was hot and thirsty. I +went down to it and followed the bank till I reached a deep +green pool, from which, lying flat on my belly, I drank +greedily. As I raised my head I saw my own image in the +water—my bright eyes, my dark, flushed face, my coarse, +ruffled hair.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_283"></a>[283]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_L">CHAPTER L</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I had told my father I should be dining at Derryaghy, yet he +made no remark when, instead, I came in an hour late for +tea. Fresh tea simply was prepared for me, and again, +while I sat at table, I was conscious of something peculiar +in the way he watched me, so that for an instant it even +flashed upon me that he might have heard of what had +happened in the wood.</p> + +<p>It was only when I had finished eating that he spoke. “I +had a letter from your Uncle George this afternoon,” he said, +and I knew at once, not so much from his voice as from the +face he turned to me, that something serious had happened.</p> + +<p>My thoughts darted straightway to Aunt Margaret, to +vague, gruesome tragedies, murder or suicide. “What’s +the matter?” I asked, uneasily. Perhaps it had to do with +little Alice? Why couldn’t he tell me at once? Then I +noticed that he had pushed a bundle of photographs to me +across the table.</p> + +<p>“Do you know anything of these?” he asked, in a strange +voice.</p> + +<p>I started. A glance at the top one had been sufficient. +I recognized the photographs George had kept hidden in his +room, or others like them. I looked at my father watching +me, not angrily, but in a kind of hopeless way; I looked +into his gray, still face while he went on speaking. “They +were found in your bedroom hidden under the floor. Uncle<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_284"></a>[284]</span> +George says that George knows nothing about them, and, +that being the case, he felt it his duty to tell me. He does +not mention your name. I don’t know what to do. I have +been trying to think.” He looked at the wretched things, +as they lay there, with a kind of horror.</p> + +<p>I sat silent for a moment. “They’re not mine,” I then +said. “I have nothing to do with them.”</p> + +<p>A gleam of relief came into his face, but it faded quickly. +“You never saw them before?”</p> + +<p>I lifted the top one, but immediately put it back again. +“I don’t know whether I saw them before or not,” I +answered. “If I didn’t see these particular ones I saw +others like them.” My father winced. “But they never +belonged to me. Even if I had wanted them I wouldn’t have +known where to get them.”</p> + +<p>“Did you know of this hiding place?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“And of what was there?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Only you and George occupied that room.”</p> + +<p>“And George says they aren’t his.” I looked towards +the window.</p> + +<p>My father hesitated. Then he said solemnly, “Will you +give me your word of honour, Peter, that you had nothing +to do with their being there?”</p> + +<p>“I had nothing to do with it.” I answered quietly. “I +knew they were there, because George showed them to me. +If he was here he would not say they were mine. I knew +what he was like from the first day I went there. Those +things were there then, and on the very first night he wanted +to show them to me, but he was frightened to. I did not +see them till a long time afterwards. I would never have +seen them at all, if you had let me leave when I first wrote to +ask you to.”</p> + +<p>“You gave me no reason,” said my father, sadly. “Do<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_285"></a>[285]</span> +you think I should have allowed you to stay an hour in the +place if I had known?”</p> + +<p>“You might have guessed there was <em>some</em> reason. And +at the time I couldn’t give any—I didn’t know myself.”</p> + +<p>“Had that anything to do with your not wanting to go +back there after Christmas?”</p> + +<p>“In a way—more or less,” I answered. “Not exactly +that, but other things——”</p> + +<p>My father sighed. He tore the photographs in two, and +placed them in the empty grate, where he set fire to them. +It was like an act of purification, and when it was concluded +he turned round and said gloomily, “I’m sorry if I misjudged +you. I accept your word.”</p> + +<p>But he didn’t accept it—he couldn’t. Secretly, and underneath +everything, and, without admitting it even to himself, +he couldn’t help being doubtful, and I knew he was +doubtful. If I had suddenly told him the photographs +were mine, and expressed appropriate remorse, I believe it +would have made him happier than my denial did. As I saw +the wretchedness of his face the injustice of the whole thing +became intolerable. “Do you believe me, or do you not?” +I asked brusquely.</p> + +<p>“I have told you I believe you.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t look as if you did.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t pretend to treat the matter as of no importance. +My believing you means that I must disbelieve George.”</p> + +<p>“Why should you trouble about George? And, at any +rate, though he did have those things, he’s decent enough in +some ways. I’m pretty sure he would have burnt them +himself after a while.”</p> + +<p>I’m afraid this speech did neither George nor myself any +good. It simply made my father think me callous.</p> + +<p>I went out on the golf-links with Tony, and sat looking +at the sea. I began to think of my father and of the failure +of his life. This last incident seemed but to fit with all the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a>[286]</span> +others into its tragic grayness. And I reflected how for +him I must compose a large part of that failure. Thinking +of me could bring him little consolation, probably just the +reverse. It was a pity. I doubtless was not, particularly +from his point of view, much to boast of, but I was better than +he thought me. I might be below the average in most +things, but I was not below it in all....</p> + +<p>And then my natural egotism rose once more to the surface. +My mind turned to Katherine, and it seemed to me +I was making a horrible mess of my whole existence. I got +up and walked slowly back to the town. A wandering +troupe of open-air entertainers had arrived during the day, +and were busy erecting tents and hobby-horse machines in a +large field not far from our house. Most of the natives, both +young and old, were superintending these preparations with +an unflagging interest which had already stretched over +hours, but I was in no mood to join them. I determined to +walk as far as the pier and then go home. I had not gone +above a hundred yards when I felt my face burning. Before +me, coming in my direction, were Katherine and Gerald. +Nothing but a straight stretch of road and footpath lay +between us, and it was certain that they must have already +seen me. I would have liked to turn back, but my pride +prevented such a step, and I walked on, my head up, a +flaming blush on my face. Gerald and I raised our caps. +My eyes sought Katherine’s, but her glance just brushed +mine to rest on some distant point beyond me. The next +moment we had passed. Hot tears rose to my eyes, but I +walked as far as I had intended to. On the pier steps I sat +down and put my arms round Tony’s broad back and kissed +him. If I had committed the greatest crime on earth, I +thought, he would have licked my cheek and pretended to +bite my ear just as he did now.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_287"></a>[287]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LI">CHAPTER LI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>“I want to go up to Belfast to-day,” I said to my father +next morning at breakfast.</p> + +<p>His reply was exactly the one I had anticipated. “What +do you want to go to Belfast for?”</p> + +<p>“I want to see Owen about something.”</p> + +<p>“Hadn’t you a whole fortnight when you saw him every +day?”</p> + +<p>“I want to speak to him,” I answered, very low-spiritedly. +I knew he was thinking of the railway-fare, and if I had had +any money myself I should never have asked him.</p> + +<p>“Can’t you write?” he demanded, querulously.</p> + +<p>“I want to speak to him.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t go on repeating the same thing like a child.”</p> + +<p>“But why can’t I go?” I asked helplessly.</p> + +<p>“Because it is a waste of money.”</p> + +<p>“It will only cost five shillings.”</p> + +<p>“Five shillings is a great deal too much to spend upon +nothing.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t nothing. I want to speak to him. I never +asked to go before.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll be seeing him very soon—in another fortnight—and +you will have plenty of time to talk to him then.”</p> + +<p>“I want to speak to him now,” I persisted. “Can’t I +go?”</p> + +<p>“Peter, you are dreadfully obstinate. What do you +want to see him about that won’t keep for a few days?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_288"></a>[288]</span></p> + +<p>“I sent him a telegram before breakfast, asking him to +meet me, and I can’t very well not go.”</p> + +<p>“It is your own fault if you do things without consulting +me.”</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, in the end, he allowed me to go, and I +caught the first train.</p> + +<p>I had asked Owen to meet me in the Botanic Gardens, for +I did not want to call at his house, and, as I arrived some +few minutes before the appointed time, I began to pace +disconsolately up and down one of the paths, my head +filled with dreary thoughts. Two or three gardeners with +long rakes were raking the walks, and a man with a pair of +clippers was trimming the edges of the grass. As they +pottered over their work they carried on a disjointed conversation, +principally about religion, or rather about the +evils of Roman Catholicism. I listened to their idiotic +remarks, which at another time might have amused me. +The man with the clippers was describing some form of +service which he called “High Rosary,” and the rakers +from time to time interpolated words and grunts. A few +little boys were playing hide-and-seek, and now and then +a nurse passed, wheeling a perambulator. An old pensioner, +sucking an empty pipe, hobbled up to the seat I +had taken a corner of, though all the others were vacant, +and began with much fumbling to unfold a greasy-looking +newspaper. The sight of his futile senility somehow irritated +me, and I stared at him fiercely, but he sat on. I +began to think that perhaps Owen would not come: for +all I knew he might be away from home. Two or three +untidy, vulgar, little girls, with smaller brothers and sisters +in tow, came up to inquire “the right time.” After I had +satisfied their curiosity they still hovered near me, gazing +at me in a silence that it was difficult to construe as flattering. +At a distance of three or four yards they then settled +down stolidly to some obscure game, in which a great deal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_289"></a>[289]</span> +of monotonous, rhymed dialogue was the principal feature. +They intoned this in shrill, unmodulated voices, but all the +time keeping a sharp look-out on my movements. The old +pensioner turned his watery eyes on me and made a remark +about the weather. I pretended not to hear him, but he +only made it again, and I had to answer. He began to talk +politics. His fumbling hands, his foolish, empty pipe, his +bleared and rheumy eyes, depressed me, and I wondered why +he couldn’t be put into a lethal chamber. Then I saw +Owen turn the corner and sprang up to meet him.</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you come to the house? Where are your +things?” he asked. The little girls had suspended their +game to watch us with breathless interest.</p> + +<p>“I’m not going to stay, Owen. I came up just because +I wanted to speak to you about something—— Get away!” +This last remark was addressed to a child who had drawn +nearer, so as not to miss what we were saying. She stared +at me with an expression of solemn idiocy, but without +budging an inch from the position she had taken up.</p> + +<p>“That’s all right,” said Owen, “but of course you’ll +stay now you’re here. I can lend you everything you need, +and I’ve told them at home to expect you.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t. My father would hardly let me come; even +as it was.”</p> + +<p>“Get yer hair cut,” suggested the polite child, putting +out her tongue.</p> + +<p>“Owen, I want to tell you something: I want your +advice.”</p> + +<p>He at once became serious. He took my arm and we +strolled down toward the pond, followed by the whole band +of children, who, captained by the same odious little girl, +screamed now in chorus, “Get yer hair cut! Get yer hair +cut!”</p> + +<p>The din they made was terrific. I waited till we had +turned the corner and were out of sight of the gardeners +and the pensioner. Then I swung round quickly and made<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_290"></a>[290]</span> +a grab at the ringleader. In about two seconds, kicking +and screaming, she was across my knee, and I was administering +as sound a spanking as she had ever received in her +life.</p> + +<p>“I say,” cried Owen, “what on earth are you doing?”</p> + +<p>I released my captive, who with crimson, tear-drenched +face, and open mouth, went bawling back in the direction +she had come from.</p> + +<p>“That’s all right, any way,” I said to the astonished +Owen. “There’s nothing like taking these things in +time.”</p> + +<p>The rest of the children had retreated, moving backwards, +with round eyes fixed on me, but perfectly callous +to the woes of their comrade.</p> + +<p>“You’ll be having someone coming and kicking up the +mischief of a row,” said Owen, uneasily.</p> + +<p>“I don’t care. Can’t we find a quiet place?”</p> + +<p>Owen considered. “Come down the Lagan walk: there’s +never anybody there.”</p> + +<p>I let him take me, and we walked till we were stopped by +a low parapet, over which we had a charming view of the +black mud-banks of the river, for the tide was out, and +beyond this a strip of waste land, dotted with mill chimneys +and the backs of dirty houses. It was neither a cheerful +nor a beautiful outlook, but we both stood gazing over the +wall, as if beyond it lay the New Jerusalem.</p> + +<p>“It’s horribly smelly,” I discovered at length.</p> + +<p>“I thought you wanted somewhere quiet,” Owen +apologized.</p> + +<p>“I didn’t mean this sort of thing. I’m sure there’s a +dead cat or dog in that sack down there. Come away.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know the tide was out,” said Owen patiently.</p> + +<p>But I found it difficult now to begin my story. Those +wretched children had upset everything. I was quite +unreasonably cross, too, with Owen, for bringing me to these +hideous mud-banks, with their litter of old boots, of empty<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_291"></a>[291]</span> +tins and broken bottles. I even had it on the tip of my +tongue to tell him it was just like him, but refrained.</p> + +<p>We retraced our steps and found a seat near the pond. +Here we sat in silence, Owen waiting for me to begin my +tale.</p> + +<p>“Something very unpleasant happened yesterday,” I +murmured, branching off to a secondary subject.</p> + +<p>“Happened to you?”</p> + +<p>“Not to me only—— It was a letter my father got from +Uncle George—the people I was living with in town here, +you know.”</p> + +<p>“I know.”</p> + +<p>“You remember the chap who came with us to +‘Faust?’”</p> + +<p>“Your cousin?”</p> + +<p>I nodded. “He had some photographs which he kept +hidden under the floor in our bedroom.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“So that nobody would get hold of them. They were—that +kind. I don’t know where he got them from.”</p> + +<p>“Bad?”</p> + +<p>I nodded again. “And they were found a few days ago, +and he denied that they were his, so Uncle George wrote +to my father.”</p> + +<p>“Saying they must be yours?”</p> + +<p>“It came to that, though he didn’t actually say it.”</p> + +<p>“But you denied it too?”</p> + +<p>“Yes—only—I don’t know that my father believes me.”</p> + +<p>“Even now?”</p> + +<p>“He says he does, but I’m not sure. At any rate it has +upset him a lot.”</p> + +<p>“He must be an awfully low cad.”</p> + +<p>“George? He’s not up to much. But I expect it +never occurred to him that his people would write, and I +suppose he thought, now I was out of the way, it wouldn’t +much matter to me whether they blamed me or not.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_292"></a>[292]</span> +Neither would it have mattered, if Uncle George hadn’t +written.”</p> + +<p>“Of course it would have. What is your father going to +do?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. There is nothing he <em>can</em> do, except tell +them what I say.” I felt suddenly sad and doubtful—doubtful +of the quality of my own innocence, which had +seemed perfectly clear before. “I’m not sure that I’m +giving you a right impression,” I went on, after a short +silence. “I knew George had these things: I had looked +at them: I knew where he kept them.”</p> + +<p>“It all seems to me very rotten,” said Owen, disgustedly.</p> + +<p>“It is, rather. Aunt Margaret may write to Mrs. Carroll, +for instance, just out of spite.”</p> + +<p>“She can hardly do that now.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. She hates me. And it would be horrible +if she did, though Mrs. Carroll wouldn’t believe her.”</p> + +<p>I was silent a while. “But that isn’t really what I came +up to tell you,” I suddenly began. Then I related what had +happened yesterday in the wood.</p> + +<p>Owen stared in front of him at the drab, seedy-looking, +little ducks, who were paddling about on the dirty sheet of +water. A rat stole out, and seeing us scuttled back again.</p> + +<p>“Why did you behave like that? It was most extraordinary!”</p> + +<p>I made no answer.</p> + +<p>“It wasn’t very gentlemanly, you know,” Owen continued, +“to say the least of it.”</p> + +<p>“I never said I was a gentleman,” I interrupted. “I’m +not one, in the ordinary sense of the word, nor even in the +other, according to you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s rot.” He sat trying to puzzle it out. He +looked at me and unexpectedly smiled.</p> + +<p>I smiled too, but my heart was heavy as lead. “Well, +that’s all I came up to tell you,” I muttered, “—not very +much!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_293"></a>[293]</span></p> + +<p>He saw I was not happy. “I know I’m not very experienced +in matters of this kind,” he confessed, “but if I were +you, Peter, I should go to Derryaghy and ask to see her. +Would you like me to do anything?”</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing you could do. Would it not be better +for me to write?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think so. It might be easier.”</p> + +<p>“It would be. And suppose she won’t see me?”</p> + +<p>“You can only try.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll go back and think it over.”</p> + +<p>“But won’t you stay, really?”</p> + +<p>“No. I must go.”</p> + +<p>“Before this happened she liked you very much—she +told me so herself.”</p> + +<p>I shook my head. “It is all over. She will never speak +to me again.”</p> + +<p>“If she doesn’t——” He stopped.</p> + +<p>“What?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“She isn’t worth bothering about,” Owen concluded.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“What was there, after all, so very dreadful? It’s not +as if you were in any way repulsive!”</p> + +<p>He tried to persuade me to change my mind about going +home as we walked toward the park gate, but I was firm. +“Good-bye, Owen,” I said. “Thank you for coming. I +will write to you if there is anything to write about.”</p> + +<p>I got on a tram, and he stood on the footpath, looking +after me.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_294"></a>[294]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LII">CHAPTER LII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Owen had cheered me up a little; I was glad I had come; +and during my return journey I pondered the advice he +had given me and decided that I must follow it. I waited +till nine o’clock, by which hour I thought Gerald would +probably have gone out, for I wanted to avoid him: then I +went up to Derryaghy. So far as I could see, the only way +was to call just as usual, and trust to luck to get a few +minutes with Katherine alone.</p> + +<p>But at the door my courage failed me, and I stepped +softly round to the terrace, and, standing hidden in the +deep shadow of the house, looked to see who was in the +room. The curtain was as usual undrawn and the room +was full of lamplight. They were all there. Gerald was +sprawling on his back on the sofa; Katherine was working +at her table-cloth, her head bent over it so that I could not +see her face; Miss Dick was writing; Mrs. Carroll was +playing “Patience.” Presently Katherine looked up, and, +for a moment or two, before she returned to her work, I saw +her gaze out into the darkness. The others, except Mrs. +Carroll, had their backs to me; a small fire was burning in +the grate. I stood there under a kind of fascination. The +impression was strange, and even slightly weird. Looking +in upon them, all so silent and so unconscious of my presence, +I had a peculiar feeling that, if I came right into their +line of vision, they would still not see me. I had a strange +feeling that I was actually invisible, and, moreover, that I +was not the only watcher there, and, that if we were invisible +to the inmates of the room, we might not be invisible +to each other. Other faces, pale and dim, peered in at other +windows; the house was surrounded by shadowy presences—shadowy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_295"></a>[295]</span> +forms that hovered outside here on the terrace, +that glided up and down the wide, dark, creaking staircase, +or stood motionless in the upper rooms. I stepped back and +looked up at the long line of black, unlit windows, with just +here and there a glimmering light. And I felt as if I no +longer belonged to the same world as the occupants of +the room I watched. I was but a memory, a ghost; my +place was upstairs; in dim passages; by trembling blinds, +pulled aside for just a moment that we might peep out; in +shadowy rooms; behind doors whose handles the timid +maid, hurrying by in her glimmer of unsteady candlelight, +feared to turn. I was the breath that set the curtains at +the bed’s head trembling; the faint sound as of a chair +pushed back on the upper floor; the draught—was it a +draught?—that made the lamp-flame flicker; the pale +reflection passing across the looking-glass and gone before +there was time to strike a match. I was that mysterious +something one turned one’s head quickly to see, and did not +see; the cold touch that awakened just before dawn; the +gray, ghostly figure sitting by the window in the first wan +light, and that was no longer there when one rubbed one’s +eyes; the tapping on the window-pane as of a leaf—the +tapping that must surely be only a leaf moved by the wind.</p> + +<p>I do not know how long I stood there: it may have been +but a few minutes, yet it was long enough for me to realize +that the simple act of entering the room was become an +impossibility. It would have required too violent an effort, +too sharp and brutal a wrench, an effort I shrank from as +from physical pain. I must write to Katherine. How +could I go in there as if nothing had happened? If she came +out on to the terrace I might find courage to speak to her, +but she would not come. Gerald, on the other hand, almost +certainly would; and if he discovered me prowling about +like this what would he think? I slipped away, then, like a +veritable ghost, my footsteps making no noise upon the +faded grass.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_296"></a>[296]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LIII">CHAPTER LIII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I wrote that night to Katherine, but she did not reply to +my letter, and I had no heart to send a second. Two days +passed, during which I did not go near Derryaghy, but took +to gardening, and when Gerald came down on the second +afternoon I offered this as my excuse for not going with him. +The fact was that I felt uncomfortable in his society, not +knowing how much he knew. He had witnessed my discomfiture +on the night Katherine had cut me, and of +course he must have questioned her afterwards.</p> + +<p>During these days I made one or two attempts to come to +a more cordial relation with my father; yet it seemed to me +that he suspected the genuineness of my timid advances, +and at all events his unresponsiveness discouraged me from +repeating them.</p> + +<p>On the evening of the third day, having nothing else to +do, I strolled listlessly in the direction of the field occupied +by the booths of the steam-circus proprietors. It was +recognizable from afar by a luminous cloud that hung above +it like a curtain of fire against the night. The wind was +blowing from that direction, and, as I advanced, my ears +were filled with the rough music blared out by a couple of +steam-organs, a music broken every now and again by +short convulsive shrieks as of demoniac laughter. Swings, +shooting-galleries, throwing-competitions—all were in the +full energy of life when I approached; but the chief centres +of attraction were the two hobby-horse machines, brightly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_297"></a>[297]</span> +painted and flashing with mirrors and gilding. I mingled in +the outer ring of spectators about the larger of these two +wheeling monsters, and stood gazing at it, as it turned round +swiftly and rhythmically to the throbbing din of brazen +pipes. White puffs of steam shot up against the black sky +in the coloured glare of naphtha lamps. Girls with flushed, +excited faces, tossed hair and shining eyes, leaned sideways +from the horses’ backs, laughed, swayed in a kind of innocent +abandon toward their accompanying sweethearts. Arms +were round waists, the pops of guns mingled with the blare +of the music, the shrieks of the steam-whistle, the shrillness +of feminine voices. Standing there, in lonely contemplation +of all this Dionysian revelry, I felt as hopelessly out of touch +with it, as if I had wandered thither from another planet. +Suddenly I felt a hand laid lightly on my arm, and looking +round saw the laughing face of Annie Breen.</p> + +<p>She asked me if I had seen their Willie, but without +waiting for an answer went on to chatter about all the people +who were here to-night. A whole crowd had come over +from Castlewellan; and there were a lot of excursionists +from Belfast, who had missed the last train, and nobody +knew where they were going to sleep, for there wasn’t a +room to be had in the hotels. Wasn’t it fun? They +would have to stay out all night; and if it rained wouldn’t +it be awful?</p> + +<p>“There’s room for two there,” she cried, “those white +horses. Ellen Gibson and Brian Seery are getting off.”</p> + +<p>I made a half-hearted movement forward, but in my lack +of enthusiasm was ousted by a more eager couple whose eyes +had been as quick as Annie’s. There was no hint of reproach, +however, in the smile the girl turned on me.</p> + +<p>“We’ll get them next time, and I’d just as soon watch, +any way. Wouldn’t you?”</p> + +<p>“There’s Willie over there,” I suggested. “Perhaps you +would like——”</p> + +<p>But she interrupted me. “I don’t care about the horses.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_298"></a>[298]</span> +Only maybe I’m keeping you: maybe you’re waiting for +somebody?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered, hurriedly.</p> + +<p>“Let’s go round the tents then. Will you?”</p> + +<p>We moved over to the one which appeared to have attracted +the largest crowd. In the foreground, just beyond +the barrier, was a long counter or table covered with cheap +ornaments, artificial jewelry, and boxes of unhealthy-looking +cigars; and behind this, set in tiers against the canvas back +of the tent itself, were three rows of grotesque, painted, +wooden busts, waiting to be knocked down. Surrounded +by a group of encouraging spectators, George Edge was +stolidly bombarding these figures with a good deal of success, +though what he intended to do with his prizes it was difficult +to imagine. We stood and watched him, and every now +and again a loud smack was instantly followed by the disappearance +of one of the dolls.</p> + +<p>“Have a throw you,” said Annie. “Go on. I’m sure +you can do it better than him.”</p> + +<p>An obliging lady handed me three wooden balls, about +the size of tennis balls, in exchange for two pence; but in +absence of mind I came within an ace of sending the first +of these at the head of the proprietor himself, which just +then bobbed up close to the dolls, and in features, colouring, +and expression, startlingly resembled them. At my third +shot I was successful, and Annie chose a gold and turquoise +cross. We passed on to the next booth, leaving George still +pegging away, with a perseverance that must have cost him +about half-a-crown already. Annie herself now won a +walking-stick, by throwing a wooden ring over it, and this +trophy was presented to me.</p> + +<p>“Let’s get out of the glare for a minute,” she said unexpectedly. +“It’s that hot with all the lights and things I +can’t hardly breathe.”</p> + +<p>We passed behind the tents, and a few steps brought us +into shadow, and a few steps more to a bank under a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_299"></a>[299]</span> +hawthorn-hedge, where we sat down. I had nothing to say to +her, and, as it did not seem to matter to Annie whether we +talked or not, I pursued my own thoughts. She leaned up +against me confidingly, but I was hardly more conscious of +her presence than of the bank upon which I sat. I was +thinking, and presently I put a question to her, put it perfectly +seriously. “Suppose, Annie,” I began very deliberately,—“suppose +you were friends with somebody—somebody +like me, say. Suppose you knew he was very fond of +you, and, one day, when you were alone together, without +asking you if he might, he put his arms round you and +kissed you—would you be very angry with him, so angry +that you would never speak to him nor look at him again?”</p> + +<p>I kept my eyes fixed upon the ground as I awaited her +reply, and I awaited it with some anxiety. It seemed to me a +long while coming. All at once I felt two warm lips pressed +against my cheek. I was so taken aback by the unexpected +nature of this answer that I’m afraid I drew away from it. +I understood that poor Annie had seen in my question +only a somewhat timid method of courtship. It was +distinctly awkward. She leaned her head sentimentally on +my shoulder, and we sat in this absurd position for several +minutes, while I had time to reflect on the hopeless inconsistency +of feminine nature. As soon as I could, without +hurting her feelings, I got up. “We must try the hobby-horses +now,” I said, with feeble sprightliness, seizing on the +only pretext I could think of to escape from a disagreeable +situation.</p> + +<p>Annie rose too, but with no great alacrity: in fact, she +remarked that she was sick of the hobby-horses. I pretended +not to believe her. We went back to the spot where +she had first spoken to me, and, when the machine came to +a standstill, secured two riderless steeds. Mine was on the +outside and Annie’s of course next to it, but we were no +sooner in possession of them than I became aware of Katherine +and Gerald among the spectators quite close to us. I<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_300"></a>[300]</span> +looked the other way, and I felt my face grow crimson. It +seemed to me that the engine-man would never set us in +motion. Already we appeared to have been waiting for +an eternity. Annie was laughing and chattering, and I +answered at random, though, indeed, to the kind of remarks +she was making, any sort of answer served. Had she, too, +seen the Dales? for her vivacity had suddenly become much +more noisy and familiar, with something about it that +smacked rather of town than of country? I noticed that +all the other riders were obviously in couples, and that most +of the youths were supporting their partners in a strikingly +gallant fashion. Annie had already given me permission to +follow their example by telling me half a dozen times she +was sure she’d fall off. I didn’t care very much whether she +did or not. At last, with a shrill and frivolous scream, the +huge construction began to revolve slowly, and our horses +to move up and down on their polished brass rods. We +swept by within a yard or two of Katherine and Gerald, +but I looked straight before me, my face burning. I +would have liked to pretend that I was there for a solitary +ride, quite independent of Annie, but her manner made any +such hypocrisy perfectly futile. Round we came a second +time, and a third, gathering velocity at every moment. Annie +had taken off her hat and put it on my horse’s head, and her +skirts streamed out behind, and flapped against my right +leg.</p> + +<p>“Peter!”</p> + +<p>It was Katherine’s voice. She had called my name. It +came to me through the night, and an indescribable emotion +shook me. I could not have spoken: my eyes were blinded +with tears: and again the huge machine swept round. But +in the place where Katherine and Gerald had been I could +no longer see them. Where were they gone? The organ +belched its coarse music, the steam throbbed, the whistle +hooted, we rushed on faster and faster. Where were they? +She had called me. Perhaps they had gone home. I could<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_301"></a>[301]</span> +not wait any longer, but slipped from my horse’s back. +Annie screamed; the man who was going round collecting the +fares while the ride was in progress made a grab at me; but +I jumped—jumped and fell headlong, rolling over and +knocking all the breath out of my body, though luckily not +breaking any bones. Instantly there was commotion. +A crowd gathered about me, and everybody seemed to think +I had either gone mad or been seized with a fit. I scrambled +to my feet as soon as I had pumped a little wind into myself, +and, without waiting to brush the dust from my clothes, +without answering any of the questions that poured in upon +me from all sides, pushed my way through the people, who +appeared inclined to detain me by force, and hurried, as fast +as my still rather breathless condition would allow, in pursuit +of Katherine and Gerald. Alas, I could see no sign of +them. They had vanished as completely and mysteriously +as Persephone on that summer morning in the meadows. I +clambered through the hedge out on to the road, but there +was no one there. I ran on till I reached the turning, but +there was no one there either, and I knew I had missed them, +for the road here lay straight and bare in both directions. +I stood still by the sea-wall. I could not go back. The +glare and din were now become impossible, to say +nothing of Annie, whom I had flouted in so unscrupulous a +fashion.</p> + +<p>I took my old path over the golf-links till I reached the +hollow where I always came when I wanted to be quite alone. +I flung myself down on the soft, white, powdery sand, among +the thin gray grasses, in the pallid starlight. My heart was +surging with emotions, at once happy and desolating. I +could not understand what had occurred; only I heard +again and again the sound of my name, as it had come to me +in that loved voice through the night.</p> + +<p>I lay there for a long time. I was crying, I think, but I +did not know I was crying, though I kept wiping my tears +away. I was unconscious of everything around me, I was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_302"></a>[302]</span> +blind and deaf, and it was only when I felt a hand on my +shoulder that I looked up, startled, and saw Katherine +bending over me.</p> + +<p>“Peter, what is the matter? Is it my fault?”</p> + +<p>Her voice was all gentleness; in her face a beautiful +tenderness; but I could not speak.</p> + +<p>“It is nothing,” I stammered out at last. “Only I +thought—you were never going to speak to me again, and—”</p> + +<p>“I was horrid. I can’t think now why I was so horrid. +Forget about it, Peter dear, won’t you? Tell me you +will.”</p> + +<p>“It was my fault,” I muttered. “It was all my fault.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind whose fault it was. Let us forget about it.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t forget,” I said. “It was my fault.”</p> + +<p>“But why—when I want you to? Can’t you forget, +even if you know I love you?”</p> + +<p>I scrambled to my feet and stood facing her. “Do you +really?” I faltered. “Don’t say it if—if it is not true.”</p> + +<p>“It is true.”</p> + +<p>“How is it true?” I asked. “How much? Do you +love me as much as you love Gerald?”</p> + +<p>She hesitated, and it seemed to me that it was because she +feared to wound me. “Yes,” she said at last, in a low voice. +There was something that touched me, through all my longing +and pain, in her desire to be perfectly honest. “Better +than Gerald. Better than anybody,” she pursued, doubtfully, +“better than anybody, I think, except mother.”</p> + +<p>I sighed; I could not help it.</p> + +<p>She looked at me sadly. “Why aren’t you content, +Peter? Why do you always want more than I can give, +when I have given you so much?”</p> + +<p>“And Owen?” I asked, though I was ashamed of myself +for doing so.</p> + +<p>“I like Owen very much. I think he is very nice, but +that is all. And now tell me you are content. I must +go, and I shan’t be happy unless I know <em>you</em> are.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_303"></a>[303]</span></p> + +<p>“I am happy,” I lied most dismally. I saw indeed that +it was all hopeless, and that she would never understand.</p> + +<p>“I will see you to-morrow. I can’t stay now; Gerald +is waiting for me over at the Club House.”</p> + +<p>“Where were you when I looked for you?” I asked. “I +heard you call my name, and I jumped off, but when I went +to look for you, you were gone.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Dick was with us, and she wanted to go home; but +we went round the other way—not by the sea. We had to +go all the way back with Miss Dick, but I got Gerald to come +out again, for I thought, I don’t know why, I might find +you here. And I’m very glad I came. I couldn’t go on +any longer without making it up. But I mustn’t really +wait now. I told Gerald I should only be five minutes. +Good-night, Peter. Come to-morrow morning.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night.”</p> + +<p>She was gone, and I was left alone to whatever felicity I +might be able to discover.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_304"></a>[304]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LIV">CHAPTER LIV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>Of the days that followed our reconciliation I tried to make +the most. Too much time already had been wasted and +spoiled by clouds of jealousy and other troubles. I knew +the kind of love Katherine offered me was very different +from the kind of love I had desired, and in the old days +dreamed of, but more than this I did not know, and some +instinct kept me from trying to find out. We had become +again such friends as we had been last year, and I lent myself +to a certain protective quality in her affection for me, +because I felt that it was in this way she could care for me +most. From her point of view I knew that if I could have +dropped back two or three years nearer to my childhood it +would really have been preferable. She would have liked +to pet me and tell me stories.</p> + +<p>What her brother thought of our quarrel, and of our +making up again, I never heard. He gave no sign of having +noticed anything. I had ceased, indeed, to see very much of +him, for he had taken to knocking about the Club House and +the hotel more and more. This left Katherine and me almost +wholly to each other’s company. I saw her each morning, +afternoon, and evening, and I moved through day after day +in a kind of dream, as if this ideal life were to last for ever.</p> + +<p>One afternoon I went up to Derryaghy as usual, but the +servant who answered the door told me Mrs. Carroll wished +to see me, and when I was shown into the morning-room I +found her there alone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_305"></a>[305]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, I wanted to speak to you, Peter,” she said. “Katherine +is out with her mother, who arrived an hour ago. +They went out after lunch.”</p> + +<p>I stared my surprise. “I didn’t know she was coming!” I +murmured.</p> + +<p>“Neither did anybody else. She didn’t even send a +telegram.”</p> + +<p>From her tone I gathered that Mrs. Carroll was not altogether +pleased by this unexpected visit. “What has she +come <em>for</em>?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“That’s just what I want you to tell me. The woman is +raging with me, and now we’re alone we’d better have the +whole matter out.”</p> + +<p>“But what matter?” I inquired innocently. “What +have <em>I</em> to do with it?”</p> + +<p>“Goodness knows! Sit down, child; I want to talk to +you seriously.... Miss Dick said something to me more +than once, but Miss Dick is a perfect fool when it comes to +questions of this kind, and I paid no attention to her.” +She looked at me. “Don’t you understand? It is about +Katherine—about you and Katherine. Mrs. Dale’s visit +is the result of some letter which Katherine sent to her, and +which I haven’t seen. How was I to imagine such things? +I had always looked upon you as children, and now she +arrives, simply furious, and accuses me of not looking after +her daughter.”</p> + +<p>I had begun to blush.</p> + +<p>“Tell me exactly how much there is in it all?” Mrs. +Carroll continued. “You are the only person who appears +to have any common-sense.”</p> + +<p>“What does she say?” I asked ingenuously.</p> + +<p>“She says— Oh! what doesn’t she say? She says she’s +going to take Katherine home with her to-morrow, and that +she thought she should have been able to trust me!”</p> + +<p>I looked at her helplessly, but made no reply.</p> + +<p>“I knew you liked Katherine,” Mrs. Carroll went on,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_306"></a>[306]</span> +“but it never occurred to me there was any particular +reason why you shouldn’t like her—nor, indeed, do I see any +now. They didn’t expect, I suppose, that she was going to +spend all her time with a couple of old women like me and +Miss Dick!” She paused. “You <em>are</em> very fond of her, +aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I replied, as if I were repeating my catechism.</p> + +<p>“And apparently she is fond of you.”</p> + +<p>I shook my head. Then, as she looked at me interrogatively, +“Not like that—not in the same way,” I murmured.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll continued to regard me. “Not like what? +What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“She doesn’t even understand,” I pursued.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll’s face altered, grew graver, though not less +kind. “Then there <em>is</em> something in it? You really care—very +much?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“But——” her perplexity seemed to increase.</p> + +<p>I waited, twirling my straw-hat on my knee, and only now +and then glancing up. She eyed me thoughtfully. “You +know it is all quite impossible,” she brought out slowly. +“And you’re so ridiculously young!” For a moment she +smiled. Then she put her hand sympathetically upon mine, +which rested on the arm of my chair. Yet I could see she +still more or less regarded the affair in the light of a sentimental +fancy that would dissolve as quickly as dew under +the sun.</p> + +<p>I got up. “I think I’ll go now,” I said, plucking at the +ribbon of my hat.</p> + +<p>“I’ll not keep you, Peter, if you want to go. Remember, +I’m not scolding you, or angry with you in any way,” she +added. “As I told you, I see no reason why you shouldn’t +be fond of Katherine. I can perfectly trust you. It is just +that you are a boy, and of course such things can come to +nothing so far as you are concerned; whereas, in Katherine’s +case, and especially since she is a year older than you, it is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_307"></a>[307]</span> +quite different. Her mother probably has her eye on a husband +for her already. That, I am afraid, is the secret of all +this indignation. However, I’ve taken your part. I told +her exactly what you are—that you are a gentleman, and +would never do anything dishonourable; that a word would +be enough; and that it was perfectly ridiculous to talk of +taking Katherine home before the natural end of her visit, +which will be on Friday or Saturday of this week. If she +<em>does</em> take her, not one of them shall ever enter this house +again. That, at least, is certain. I’m not going to have any +nonsense about it. Will you dine here to-night?”</p> + +<p>I shook my head.</p> + +<p>“Where are you going now?”</p> + +<p>“Out into the woods just.”</p> + +<p>She kissed me. “Well, whatever happens, I’ll promise +that Katherine shan’t go without saying good-bye to you. +Be a good boy, and come to see me to-morrow.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_308"></a>[308]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LV">CHAPTER LV</h2> +</div> + + +<p>When I left Mrs. Carroll I did not go out at once, but +scribbled first a note to Katherine, telling her I had gone to +the summer-house, and should wait for her there all afternoon. +I then went in search of Jim, who had always been +my friend, and whom I could rely upon absolutely. I found +him working with Thomas in the greenhouses, and, as soon +as I could attract his attention, I beckoned him outside. He +was a very different Jim from the one who had climbed a +ladder to see my skin peeling off, though he had the same +round rosy candid face, like a ripe russet apple, and though +he still played doleful tunes on his flute. But he had +developed amazingly: he had grown into a strapping big +fellow, with limbs like a youthful Hercules. When I explained +to him that I wanted him to give a note to Miss +Dale, but that nobody must see him do it, he promised to +try his best.</p> + +<p>I went on to the summer-house and lay down among the +bracken close by. I had been there fully two hours before +I saw Katherine coming. She smiled brightly as I rose +from my ferny bed to greet her.</p> + +<p>“Why did I come without an umbrella?” she exclaimed +gaily. “It’s just going to pour!” And she turned to look +at the heavy clouds that were gliding up rapidly against the +wind.</p> + +<p>“You can shelter in the summer-house,” I said, laconically.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_309"></a>[309]</span></p> + +<p>“I loathe summer-houses, especially when they’re like +this old thing, crammed with earwigs and spiders.”</p> + +<p>“The rain is going to be heavy: you’d better come in +now,” I went on, without attempting to emulate her lightness +of manner. I dusted the rough seat for her with my +pocket-handkerchief, in silence, just as the first big drops +came pattering down on the leaves.</p> + +<p>She sat down, and I stood near the door, looking at her. +“Mrs. Carroll told me your mother arrived to-day, because +of some letter of yours about me.”</p> + +<p>Katherine coloured a little. “I know,” she answered, +eagerly. “It’s awfully silly of mamma. I’ve been talking +to her about it.”</p> + +<p>“And you are to go home at once—to-morrow—perhaps +this evening.”</p> + +<p>She laughed. “Certainly not this evening. How could +we? And at any rate, we should have been going in a few +days. But I told mamma she was taking it all absurdly +seriously, and behaving exactly like a furious parent in a +novel.”</p> + +<p>“It is serious to me,” I said, quietly, “though to you it +may be amusing.” That she should laugh in this way hurt +me deeply.</p> + +<p>It had grown rapidly dark, and now a heavy rain began, +cold and sad, sweeping through the trees, very soon making it +plain that the summer-house was in need of repair. From +the distance there came the crying of a sea-gull, a mournful, +solitary note.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be angry with me, Peter,” said Katherine, coming +to the door and looking out. “I know it was stupid of me +to write, but I never dreamt of mamma coming over like +this.... Why has it got so dark?”</p> + +<p>Before I could answer there came a blinding flash of +lightning, accompanied, nearly instantaneously, by a +hideous din of thunder, which seemed to burst out +just over us. A blank silence succeeded this ear-splitting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_310"></a>[310]</span> +crash, and Katherine said, “Some tree must have +gone!”</p> + +<p>“I wish it had been this summer-house,” I muttered +bitterly.</p> + +<p>She looked at me, her face grown graver. The flash was +followed by no other, but the rain continued in a fierce +downpour, beating through our flimsy shelter, and streaming +down the paths in brown muddy rivulets.</p> + +<p>“I can’t understand why mamma should have made such +a fuss,” Katherine went on, but no longer in the same tone, +though I knew well enough the alteration in it was due +merely to what I had said. “She is usually very +sensible.”</p> + +<p>“How can you be so indifferent?” I asked, in a rough +voice, for her calmness exasperated me.</p> + +<p>“I’m not indifferent. I’m sorry I wrote. But we should +have been going in three or four days, at any rate. You +know that.” Her manner was tinged with a faint reproach.</p> + +<p>I answered nothing, and she went on. “It is getting +lighter—the rain will soon be over.”</p> + +<p>“Do you want to go?” I asked furiously. “Don’t let +me keep you if you do!”</p> + +<p>“Why do you speak like that, Peter? I told you I was +sorry.”</p> + +<p>“This is the last time I shall see you alone.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense.”</p> + +<p>“If you are going to-morrow, will you promise to meet +me to-night somewhere—here—or on the golf-links?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t possibly. There are people coming to dinner. +Won’t <em>you</em> come—or come in afterwards, at least?”</p> + +<p>“Shall I see you by yourself if I do?”</p> + +<p>“By myself?”</p> + +<p>“Will you come out here with me?”</p> + +<p>She sighed at my unreasonableness. “How can I? +You know mamma and the others will be there, and how +can I leave them? But say you’ll come.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_311"></a>[311]</span></p> + +<p>“I certainly won’t,” I answered sullenly. “What does +it matter to you whether I do or not?”</p> + +<p>I felt her lips touch my cheek. Her face was wet and +cold with the rain. I put my arms round her very gently, +and kissed her hair and her cheek, but no more than that, +for I knew her own embrace had been given merely to console +me, and because it was for the last time. Her dark eyes +caressed me, and she smiled a little. She laid her hand on +my shoulder. “Will you walk back to the house with me +now, Peter? You are not angry with me?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“I can’t stay any longer, because mamma knows I came +out, and she will suspect it was to meet you. She is not so +bad about it as she was when she first arrived. I managed +to convince her that she had been alarming herself unnecessarily.”</p> + +<p>“Very unnecessarily,” I thought, but I said nothing.</p> + +<p>I walked back with her, and then on down the drive and +home.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_312"></a>[312]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LVI">CHAPTER LVI</h2> +</div> + + +<p>I was writing to Owen when my father brought me Katherine’s +letter. It was to say good-bye to me, and there was a +veiled reproach at my not having come to the station to see +them off. She had looked out for me up to the last +moment; so that in the end it was really I who had failed! +I smiled dimly.</p> + +<p>As I write it now, in this quiet, gray, autumn morning, +it appears to me that the thought then hovering at the back +of my mind was, after all, not so very foolish. Death, coming +without disease, without weakness, before life has grown +stale, before illusions have been shattered and innocence +marred;—simply upon the bright, fresh comedy of life, the +dropping of a dark, rapid curtain.</p> + +<p>I finished my letter to Owen, and addressed it; but when +that was done I still sat on at the table, holding my pen, on +which the ink had long since dried. Then I bent down and +leaned my forehead upon Katherine’s open letter. When +I looked up the sun was shining in the garden, and shining +in on me through the window; nothing had changed....</p> + +<p>In the afternoon I went up to Derryaghy, where Mrs. Carroll +received me. I spoke quite quietly to her, just as usual; +but all I remember now is that there were some red dahlias +in a bowl on the table, and that Mrs. Carroll proposed taking +me to Paris for my Christmas holidays.</p> + +<p>It was when I had left her and had gone out to walk in +the woods, that I suddenly felt the full reality of what had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_313"></a>[313]</span> +happened. It meant that everything was finished, that I +should never see Katherine again. I was filled with +desolation, with a kind of sick feeling that my love had +been superfluous, wasted, and perhaps distasteful. Last +year I had been sorry to say good-bye to her; I had dreaded +the new life opening out before me; but I had had the +prospect of meeting her again at a year’s end, and the belief +that she cared for me and would remember me. Now there +was nothing—nothing.</p> + +<p>My grief was mingled with a kind of bitter, impotent rage +against I knew not what. I kicked a stick that lay in my +path savagely out of the way, cursing it under my breath. +I flung myself down among the bracken. Sometimes a +kind of blank would come into my mind, and I would find +myself staring stupidly at the trees, while for a few moments +an altogether different thought would slip into my brain; +then my grief would overwhelm me once more, and blot out +the world.</p> + +<p>But was this grief I felt? I do not know. It was +different from what I felt later. It was something violent +and maddening, sweeping over me in paroxysms, leaving me +intervals of cold insensibility. And late that night, when, +thoroughly wearied out, I went to bed, and from sheer +exhaustion would be dropping off to sleep, from time to time +it would pierce through my numbing senses, and waken +me sharply, as if some one had violently pulled me, so that +I would start up, yet for a moment not realize what it was +that had wakened me.</p> + +<p>I did not go back to Derryaghy on the next day or the +next. I took long walks, and it was during these solitary +rambles that the thought of death came irresistibly to me. +I felt that my life was become an intolerable burden, and +in my inexperience I imagined that the pain I felt now I +should feel always. I thought of shooting myself, of taking +poison, only I disliked the idea of other people knowing. +Was there not a better way? I thought of swimming out so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_314"></a>[314]</span> +far that it would be impossible to return, but I dreaded the +pain of suffocation. Then, two days before my time for +leaving home, and when Owen had written saying that +they expected me and that he would be at the station to meet +me, there came a night of wind and rain, and it seemed to +me I had found the solution to my problem.</p> + +<p>Shortly before midnight, when my father’s snores had +become deep and regular, I stole out of the house, as I had so +often done in the old days of our club. I had put on my +overcoat, but under it I wore only my night-shirt, and I +hurried down the road and across the golf-links in the cold, +driving rain. When I reached an exposed spot, I took off +my coat and lay down on the soaking ground, letting the +wind and rain sweep over me. I lay there till morning. +It did not matter if I were seen returning to the house then; +it would simply be thought that I had gone out for an early +bathe. As I staggered to my feet my limbs were so stiff +and cramped that at first I could hardly hobble along, but +after I had gone a little way it became easier.</p> + +<p>I got into bed in my wet night-shirt, but I could not go +to sleep. My head ached and I was shivering; yet a few +minutes later I no longer felt cold; on the contrary, a burning +heat seemed like a fire under my skin. I could not lie +for two minutes without altering my position; and when I +got up to dress I knew I was really ill. At breakfast I only +pretended to eat. My father noticed there was something +the matter and questioned me, when I answered that I was +all right, and presently he left me to go to the school, which +was being whitewashed and made ready for the re-opening +next week. As for me, I was glad I should not have to repeat +my experiment twice, and I had even a naïve curiosity +as to the precise nature of my illness.</p> + +<p>Before night I began to feel much worse. My father went +out to a meeting in connection with church matters, and I +was left alone. I should have gone to bed, had not the task +of climbing two flights of stairs and undressing appeared<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_315"></a>[315]</span> +almost insurmountable; so I half sat, half lay, in a chair, +with my eyes shut and my head leaning back. I was extremely +thirsty, and at every breath I drew my side hurt +me, the pain being increased by the fact that I had begun +to cough a little. It had all come on so quickly that I +wondered if I should die that night.</p> + +<p>When my father came in he immediately saw I was worse, +and sent me to bed, giving me something hot to drink; but +all that night I hardly slept, and in the morning he went +for Doctor O’Brian. By that time I had almost forgotten +the cause of my illness; what had led me to seek it; whether +I desired it to be fatal or not. I was examined, stethoscoped, +asked questions, gazed at. “Acute pneumonia.” +I caught the words through a kind of lethargy into which +I had fallen. They were talking together, my father and +the doctor, but neither could understand how the disease +had developed so rapidly....</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_316"></a>[316]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_LVII">CHAPTER LVII</h2> +</div> + + +<p>And, after all, I failed! I did not die. I got better, though +not quite well, for my lungs remained delicate, and in +October Mrs. Carroll took me to be examined by a specialist. +I was examined, sounded, tapped, a sample of my blood +taken, and other odious things done to me, before it was +finally decided that I must go abroad. I listened to the +discussion that followed, taking no part in it myself, but +simply sitting on the sofa in the consulting-room.</p> + +<p>“For the winter, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“For the winter certainly.”</p> + +<p>“And afterwards?”</p> + +<p>“Afterwards? I’m afraid it is impossible to say. There +is no use making promises which may never be fulfilled. +Would there be anything to prevent his living abroad +always, supposing it should be the best thing for him?”</p> + +<p>“There is only the difficulty of his future—that is, of a +profession. He was to have gone to Oxford next year.”</p> + +<p>“I see. It is certainly unfortunate. But apart from +that, there is nothing?”</p> + +<p>“To prevent his living abroad? Not that I know of.”</p> + +<p>There were such things as tutors, it then appeared; young +gentlemen of excellent scholastic attainments, just fresh +from one or other of the Universities, who could be induced +to combine the rôles of travelling-companion, mentor, and +pedagogue.</p> + +<p>And on this hopeful note we came away. We had lunch<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_317"></a>[317]</span> +in town, and caught the next train home. When we arrived +at Newcastle we took one of the station cars. I was staying +at Derryaghy to complete my convalescence; so Mrs. +Carroll stopped at our house to give my father the news, +telling me to drive on by myself. The October sunlight, +still with a little of the warmth of summer in it, slanted +through the trees, as I drove in at the lodge-gate. There +was a charming autumnal languor in the still air—a kind +of dreamy, happy beauty, which made me think of some +verses of La Fontaine’s:—</p> + +<div class="poetry" lang="fr"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“J’étais libre et vivais seul et sans amour;</div> + <div class="verse indent1">L’innocente beauté des jardins et des jours</div> + <div class="verse indent1">Allait faire à jamais le charme de ma vie.”</div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class="noi">And, far out on the dark sea, a white sail gleamed in the sun.</p> + +<p>The thought of leaving it all behind me, and of passing +the rest of my life in exile, was too painful to dwell upon; +yet I knew that, once I went away, I might very easily never +be back. It had struck me that the doctor had been anything +but optimistic, and I knew this meant that my chance +must be a pretty poor one.</p> + +<p>I went upstairs to my own room. I sat down in my old +window-seat and began a letter to Owen, which I did not +finish, for it occurred to me that, later on, I might have more +definite news to give him; and, at any rate, if I were going +away, he must come down first to stay with me. With my +incomplete letter before me I sat dreaming. I wondered if, +in years to come, another boy would have this room as his +own, and sit in this window-seat; and if his thoughts would +for a moment perhaps touch mine? All <em>my</em> thoughts +would be dead then; my dreams vanished; the life that +had unfolded here be gone out. A feeling of sadness stole +over me. I had been a very little chap when I had first +taken possession of this room. If the ghost of that little +boy, who had been me, could only come back, how I +should have hugged him! For I loved him: he seemed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_318"></a>[318]</span> +quite different from the “me” who was thinking about him +now. Only he was gone, and just one person in the world +knew anything about him, and he, too, I supposed, as years +passed would forget....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“Why are you sitting up here in the cold, child?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll had opened the door and was speaking to +me. “How long have you been here? Come down to +tea.”</p> + +<p>I looked round and saw that the room had filled with +dusk. “Oh, not very long.” I smiled. “I’m not cold.” +But I shivered slightly as I spoke.</p> + +<p>“That means you have been here ever since you came in. +It is really very wrong of you, Peter. The fire is laid, and +all you had to do was to put a match to it.”</p> + +<p>I followed her downstairs. There was no one in the +drawing-room, and I was glad we were going to be by ourselves. +I sat on the hearth-rug, hugging my knees, gazing +into the red, glowing grate.</p> + +<p>“Is Miss Dick out?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“She went out to tea.”</p> + +<p>I waited till the servant had come in and cleared away +the tea-things. Then I said, “I have something to tell +you.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll, her plump, rather large hands moving swiftly +and deftly amid soft, fleecy wool, was knitting what looked +remarkably like an under-garment for me. “Yes, dear,” +she replied.</p> + +<p>But instead of proceeding I asked a question: “Won’t it +cost a great deal, my going away—with a tutor, and all +that?”</p> + +<p>“Not very much. It is of no importance.”</p> + +<p>“But you will be paying for it, won’t you?” I urged.</p> + +<p>“My dear child, why do you want to discuss such things +now?”</p> + +<p>“I have a reason.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_319"></a>[319]</span></p> + +<p>“I don’t think it can be a good one.”</p> + +<p>“If I were related to you—if I were your nephew—it +would be different.”</p> + +<p>“What would be different?”</p> + +<p>“If I were worth it it would be different too. But I’m +not.”</p> + +<p>“Aren’t you?” Her needles clicked placidly.</p> + +<p>“Why should you think me so?”</p> + +<p>“Because, I suppose, from the days when you were quite +a little boy, you have been the principal thing I have had to +think about. There was a time when I tried very hard, +and very selfishly, I’m afraid, to be allowed to look after +you altogether, when I wanted this house to be your home.”</p> + +<p>“Suppose I told you that all this—all my illness—was not +accidental?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll displayed no alarm. “I don’t know what +you mean, Peter, I’m sure,” she said, gently, disengaging +her ball of wool from Miss Dick’s cat, who had stretched +out a tentative paw.</p> + +<p>“I mean that I did it myself,” I answered, bringing it all +out at last. “I did it on purpose.... I wanted to die, to +kill myself, and I thought of this way. I went out and lay +on the golf-links one whole night, in the rain, with nothing +on but my night-shirt; and next morning I took ill.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Carroll said nothing, but she had stopped knitting. +I felt her hand rest on my head.</p> + +<p>“Is that true, Peter?” she asked at last, after a long +pause, and in a low voice.</p> + +<p>“It’s true.” I stared into the fire.</p> + +<p>She was again silent, but she did not draw away her hand. +“Why did you do this?” she asked presently.</p> + +<p>“Because I felt miserable.”</p> + +<p>“But—but it was a dreadful thing to do! Don’t you +know that?” Her voice trembled slightly.</p> + +<p>I got on my knees. I put my arms round her neck and +pressed my cheek against hers. “I have spoiled everything,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_320"></a>[320]</span> +I made a mess of everything,” I muttered +quickly. “I am not very old, but I have made a mess of +any life I have had.”</p> + +<p>She drew my head down on her breast and held me close. +For some time she did not speak.</p> + +<p>“It will all come right, if you try,” she said at last. “The +beginning is not everything.”</p> + +<p>“It is not for myself I care. It is for you.”</p> + +<p>“For me, then.” She paused. “But for me you are +what you have always been and always will be, since I have +no boy of my own. You are my son, the one being whom +I love. Your future is what I think of and make plans for; +and whenever I pray it is that you may be happy.”</p> + + +<p class="p4 noic">THE END</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi works"><i>Wyman & Sons Ltd., Printers, London and Reading.</i></p> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="noi adauthor">SELECTIONS FROM</p> + +<p class="noi adtitle">MR. EDWARD ARNOLD’S</p> + +<p class="noi adauthor">LIST OF</p> + +<p class="noi adtitle">NEW AND RECENT BOOKS</p> +</div> + +<p class="p2 noi adsection">NEW FICTION</p> + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Bella.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By EDWARD CHARLES BOOTH, Author of +“The Cliff End,” “The Doctor’s Lass,” etc. 6s.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">A story of life at Spathorpe—perhaps the most beautiful and attractive +of all the watering-places on the English East Coast. Rupert +Brandor, a young and wealthy man, and a poet with some pretension to +fame, comes to Spathorpe to spend a few weeks of the season. Under +rather amusing circumstances he makes the acquaintance on the beach of +a young and very fascinating little girl, by name Bella Dysart, who is +staying with her mother at Cromwell Lodge—a large and well-known villa +on the esplanade. Bella’s personal charm and the unsophisticated frankness +of her disposition win the poet’s interest and affection. Shortly he +makes the acquaintance of Mrs. Dysart, and with her enters the new, and +deeper, and more dangerous element into the poet’s story. As the days +go by, the poet and Bella and Mrs. Dysart draw into a closer circle of +friendship. Meanwhile, they have come to be noted by Spathorpe’s busy +eyes. This beautiful woman and her scarcely less beautiful daughter, and +the handsome boy, attract a large measure of public notice; and the +inevitable whispers arise. Mrs. Dysart’s reputation suffers tarnish; her +acquaintance with the poet is construed according to the canons of the +world. Their uncloaked intimacy acquires the character of scandal. +From this point onward the action of the story accelerates. In the final +chapters it is a study in temptation, and the story occupies itself with the +youthful and poetic temperament under influence of seductive womanly +beauty and the counter-influences of a pure and girlish friendship.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Following Darkness.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By FORREST REID. 6s.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">A study of boyhood and adolescence. The hero is the son of a +National schoolmaster in a village on the north coast of Ireland, and +the contrast of temperaments between father and son is from the beginning +strongly marked. A domestic tragedy having culminated in the disappearance +of his mother, the boy becomes the protégé of a wealthy lady +living in the neighbourhood. Her influence, and still more the influence +of her surroundings, of the house above all, which occupies a distinct place +in the story, tend to widen still further the breach between him and his +father. The advent of this lady’s niece, a charming girl who comes on a +visit, and by her presence transforms everything, introduces the element +of romance, and is the prelude to a story of first love, really the central +theme of the book.</p> + + +<p class="noic"><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i></p> + +<p class="noi"><span class="adtitle">The Bracknels.</span> <span class="adauthor">A Family Chronicle. 6s.</span></p> + +<p>“A work of rare distinction.”—<cite>Daily News.</cite></p> + +<p>“An admirable novel, from which one has had no ordinary amount of +pleasure.”—<cite>Manchester Guardian.</cite></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Soul of Unrest.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By EMILY JENKINSON, +Author of “Silverwool,” etc. 6s.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">In her new book, “The Soul of Unrest,” Miss Jenkinson amply fulfils +the promise shown in her first novel, “Silverwool,” which was so +favourably received by the public two years ago. Here once again the +author delineates her various characters with great sympathy and understanding, +while her descriptions of their environment is marked by that +quiet strength and charm which so distinguished her earlier work.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Tinker’s Hollow.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By Mrs. F. E. CRICHTON, +Author of “The Soundless Tide,” “Peep-in-the-World,” etc. 6s.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">The story moves in a Presbyterian village in Co. Antrim, in Victorian +days. Here Sally Bruce’s childhood is passed amid the kindly +austerity of old servants and an elderly uncle and aunts. Her acquaintance +with the Beausires, an old Huguenot family settled in the same +county, leads to the discovery of a kindred spirit in Anthony, the last of +the line. Their few meetings are the only outward events of her life, and +one spring morning in the Tinker’s Hollow they realize their love for each +other. Their lives throughout are interwoven with those of the Irish +country people—Rachael, the old nurse, Mrs. McGovern of the post-office, +and the unhappy young school-mistress, Esther Conway.</p> + + +<p class="noic"><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i></p> + +<p class="noi"><span class="adtitle">The Soundless Tide.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>6s.</i></span></p> + +<p>“The book is one to be really read, and by most people to be really +loved.”—<cite>Morning Post.</cite></p> + +<p>“Here is a wholly delightful novel written by a delightful personality. +This story will be read and re-read, and there is much wisdom in it.”—<cite>British +Weekly.</cite></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Tante.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By ANNE DOUGLAS SEDGWICK, Author +of “Franklin Kane,” “Valérie Upton,” etc. 6s. Fifth Impression.</i></span></p> + +<p>“I stand amazed by the qualities of the author’s genius. She really +can create characters, quite original, and, as it were, not fanciful, not +fantastic, but solid samples of human nature. When one lights on something +really good in contemporary fiction one has pleasure in saying how +excellent one finds the rarity.”—Mr. <span class="smcap">Andrew Lang</span> in the <cite>Illustrated +London News</cite>.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Ministry of Poll Poorman.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By Lt.-Col. +D. C. PEDDER. 6s.</i></span></p> + +<p>“A very interesting book, original, strong, and conclusive.”—<cite>Morning +Post.</cite></p> + +<p>“A quarter of a century ago such a book as this would scarcely have +been written or read; but the advance in ideas will cause this account to +be not only acceptable, but highly attractive to most readers.”—<cite>Daily +Telegraph.</cite></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi adsection">TRAVEL AND WAR</p> + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Campaigns of a War Correspondent.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By +MELTON PRIOR. Illustrated from the author’s sketches. +One volume, 15s. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">The late Melton Prior was undoubtedly the most experienced as well +as one of the most gifted artist war correspondents of his time. He +represented the <cite>Illustrated London News</cite> in the field for thirty years.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Holy War in Tripoli.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By G. F. ABBOTT, +Author of “A Tale of a Tour in Macedonia.” With Illustrations +and Maps. 15s. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">This volume is a record of first-hand impressions. Mr. Abbott spent +about four months with the Turco-Arab warriors in the desert outside +Tripoli, shared their hardships, and entered into their spirit as only +a European can who is already familiar with the East and its peoples.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Passing of the Manchus.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By PERCY H. +KENT, Author of “Railway Enterprise in China.” With +Illustrations and Maps. 15s. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">This important book will throw a flood of light upon the intricate and +mysterious chain of events that have disorganized China since the +abdication of the child-Emperor. Mr. Kent has resided in Tientsin for +many years, and has had unrivalled facilities for acquiring information, +which he has turned to the best advantage.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Germany and the Next War</span> <span class="adauthor">(“Deutschland +und der Nächste Krieg”). <i>By General F. VON BERNHARDI. +With Map. 10s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">This book has caused a great sensation in Germany, where it has +passed through many editions in a very short time.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">A Staff-Officer’s Scrap-Book during the +Russo-Japanese War.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By General Sir IAN +HAMILTON, G.C.B., D.S.O. With all the original Maps +and Plans. New and Popular Edition. 7s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi adsection">SPORT</p> + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Trinity Foot Beagles.</span> <span class="adauthor">A History of the +famous Cambridge University Hunt. <i>Compiled by F. C. +KEMPSON. With numerous Illustrations. 10s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">This history of the Trinity Beagles, with which so many sportsmen +and public men first learned the handling of hounds, should appeal +to an unusually wide circle, especially at a time when the sport of hunting +the hare afoot is so much on the increase.</p> + + +<p class="noic"><i>A SUMPTUOUS EDITION IN TWO VOLUMES</i></p> + +<p class="noi"><span class="adtitle">Handley Cross; or, Mr. Jorrocks’s +Hunt.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By R. S. SURTEES. With 24 Plates in Colour and 100 +Black-and-White Illustrations by CECIL ALDIN. Edition de +Luxe, £3 3s. net; General Edition, £1 1s. net.</i></span></p> + +<hr class="r30"> + +<p class="noi"><span class="adtitle">Shipmates.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>by A. E. LOANE. 6s.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">“Shipmates” gives the social and service history of a characteristic +group of naval officers who were born between Trafalgar and +Navarino.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Jock Scott, Midshipman: His Log.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By +“AURORA.” Illustrated by S. VALDA. 5s. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Wellington’s Army.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By C. W. OMAN, Chichele +Professor of Modern History at Oxford. With Illustrations, +7s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Walking Essays.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By ARTHUR HUGH SIDGWICK. +5s. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">Walking is viewed in its relation to other pursuits, to sport and +athletics, to hygiene, to music and dancing, to eating and drinking, +and in its effect on the mind.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Perfect Gentleman.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By HARRY +GRAHAM, Author of “Ruthless Rhymes from Heartless Homes.” +Illustrated by LEWIS BAUMER. 6s. Second Impression.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Memories of Victorian London.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By Mrs. +L. B. WALFORD, Author of “Mr. Smith,” “Recollections of +a Scottish Novelist,” etc. One Volume. 12s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">Mrs. Walford, in this volume of “Memories,” deals with certain +aspects of London social life during the latter part of the last +century. Her anecdotes are excellently fresh and pointed; and, told in +the manner which delighted readers of “Mr. Smith” and “The Baby’s +Grandmother,” cannot fail to attract and charm them once again.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Old Days and Ways.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By JANE CONNOLLY. 6s.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The English Housewife of the Seventeenth +and Eighteenth Century.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By ROSE +BRADLEY. With Illustrations. 12s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">Miss Bradley is a daughter of the late Dean of Westminster and +sister of Mrs. Woods, the well-known novelist.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">An African Year.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By CULLEN GOULDSBURY. +With Illustrations. 5s. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">In “An African Year” the author has endeavoured to depict, month by +month, the domestic side of life on the Outer Fringe of Colonization, +disregarding the heavier political questions, avoiding the weightier matters +of ethnology and native social problems, and laying stress rather upon the +theme that women as well as men may find a congenial place in the +frontier life, provided that they are of the right calibre.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Life of an Elephant.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By SIR S. EARDLEY-WILMOT, +K.C.I.E., Author of “Forest Life and Sport in +India.” With nearly 150 Illustrations. 7s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">A companion volume to the same author’s “Life of a Tiger,” which +was such a success when published a year ago.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Autobiography and Life of Father +Tyrrell.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By MAUD PETRE. With numerous Illustrations. +Two Volumes. 21s. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">The chief aim of the writer has been to describe the part which Father +Tyrrell played in the “modernist” movement, and the successive +stages of his mental development as he brought his scholastic training to +bear on the modern problems that confronted him.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Through Facts to Faith.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By the Rev. J. M. +THOMPSON, Fellow and Dean of Divinity, Magdalen College, +Oxford; Author of “Miracles of the New Testament.” 3s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + +<p class="cap">These lectures form a constructive sequel to the critical argument of +the author’s previous book. Not retracting a word of his former +contentions, Mr. Thompson tries to show that the essence of the Christian +faith is not weakened, but strengthened, by accepting the conclusions of +historical and scientific criticism.</p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Politics and Religion.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By the Rev. GABRIEL +GILLETT. 3s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Church and Nonconformity.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By the +Ven. J. H. GREIG, Archdeacon of Worcester. 3s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Ten Great and Good Men.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By Dr. H. +MONTAGU BUTLER, Master of Trinity College, Cambridge. +New and Cheaper Edition. 3s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Across the Bridges.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>A Study of Social Life in +South London. By ALEXANDER PATERSON. Cloth, +2s. net; paper, 1s. net.</i></span></p> + +<p>“An extraordinarily valuable book on the life of the children of the +poor in South London. In its way it is the most remarkable work seen +for years.”—<cite>Evening News.</cite></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Darling Dogs.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By Mrs. M. L. WILLIAMS, +Author of “A Manual of Toy Dogs.” Illustrated. 5s. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Graven Palm.</span> <span class="adauthor">A Manual of the Science of +Palmistry. <i>By Mrs. ROBINSON. With about 250 Original +Illustrations. 10s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Scottish Gardens.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By the Right Hon. Sir +HERBERT MAXWELL, Bart. With 32 Coloured Plates +from Pastel Drawings by Miss M. G. W. WILSON. New +Edition. 7s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Cottage Homes of England.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>Drawn +by HELEN ALLINGHAM and Described by STEWART +DICK. Containing 64 Coloured Plates. 8vo. (9½ in. by 7 in.), +21s. net. Also a limited Edition de Luxe, 42s. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Sport of Shooting.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By OWEN JONES. +With Illustrations, 10s. 6d. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">The Dudley Book of Cookery and Household +Recipes.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By GEORGIANA, COUNTESS OF +DUDLEY. Handsomely bound, 7s. 6d. net. Fourth Impression.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noi"><span class="adtitle">Common-Sense Cookery.</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>By Colonel A. +KENNEY-HERBERT. Over 500 pages. Illustrated. 6s. net.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="noic"><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</i></p> + +<p class="noi"><span class="adtitle">Fifty Breakfasts,</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>2s. 6d.</i></span></p> + +<p class="noi"><span class="adtitle">Fifty Luncheons,</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>2s. 6d.</i></span></p> + +<p class="noi"><span class="adtitle">Fifty Dinners,</span> <span class="adauthor"><i>2s. 6d.</i></span></p> + + +<p class="p2 noic">LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD, 41 & 43 MADDOX STREET, W.</p> + + + + +<hr class="chap"> +<div class="tnote"> +<p class="noi tntitle">Transcriber’s Notes:</p> + +<p class="smfont">A List of Chapters has been provided for the convenience of the + reader.</p> + +<p class="smfont">Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.</p> + +<p class="smfont">Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.</p> + +<p class="smfont">Inconsistent hyphenation and compound words were made consistent only + when a predominant form was found.</p> +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75675 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/75675-h/images/cover.jpg b/75675-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..aa8c411 --- /dev/null +++ b/75675-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/75675-h/images/cover_sm.jpg b/75675-h/images/cover_sm.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..c5e92a0 --- /dev/null +++ b/75675-h/images/cover_sm.jpg |
