DEVIOUS 
 
 WAYS 
 
 GILBERT C ANNAN 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OP 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013593672 
 
Devious Ways 
 
Devious Ways 
 
 By 
 
 Gilbert Cannan 
 
 -9 
 
 Author of "Peter Homunculus" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 
 
 1910 
 
COFYKIGHT, I9IO, By 
 DUFFIELD AND COMPANY 
 
To B. H. 
 (For a most important birthday.) 
 
 I gave the child an elephant, 
 
 The girl a silver bird, 
 I give the woman all I have — 
 
 My soul writ word by word. 
 
 I take the moon from out the sky 
 
 To make a present rare; 
 I take a handful of the stars 
 
 And bind them in your hair. 
 
 My heart must be most queerly made — 
 
 I think I must have two; 
 For one I give to my good wife. 
 
 And one I give to you. 
 
 For each man loves what he has made. 
 
 And I made you divine — 
 The woman is for all the world. 
 
 The child is always mine. 
 
PART I 
 
David dreamed of soldiery, thousands of them, an end- 
 less line of moving creatures, dazzling in scarlet, with 
 legs swinging, a forest of them. Being barely five 
 feet in height, David was most obsessed with these 
 legs, and the power of them was terrifying; there was 
 such violence in their stride. Legs kicked out into the 
 air, bent at the knee, straightened again, descended, 
 and the scarlet mass moved on. Toy soldiers pleased 
 by their colour, these mighty creatures by their force, 
 and, the world being made for David, he was grateful 
 to the God of Battle, who was also the God of three 
 gentlemen called Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. 
 
 It was chance that had brought him in contact with 
 the military, the chance of his mother's being ill, so 
 ill that for quiet he had been sent out with his sister 
 and small brother to an absurd patch of ground, 
 wherein a handful of men waged perpetual warfare 
 with a grimy and a poisoned air for the life of a few 
 trees, shrubs, and hardy plants. This was called in 
 the neighbourhood " The Park," and to David, who 
 for years had not seen other trees, it was a very splen- 
 !did place, wide enough to contain the largest dragon 
 and the fiercest knight, the mightiest warrior and the 
 most distressed lady that his fancy could create. Here 
 were great battles waged and brave deeds wrought, 
 fierce animals were slain, cities were freed, and sav- 
 ages subdued, and here by the little pond David could 
 gratify his piratical ambitions, or weave mighty spells 
 to summon monsters from the vasty deep. In the 
 grotto by the hill at the farther end of the pond a band 
 
2 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 of robbers would meet and wait upon the orders of 
 their moody chief, Bloody Judas, for, though David 
 w&s a puny child, he held hulking boys in thrall, and 
 his wrath was feared. He had the power of strange 
 words, and by rolling polysyllables could quell the 
 rankest mutiny, though when the soldiers had appeared 
 no power of words nor wrath could keep the rebellious 
 band from desertion, and Bloody Judas was left pale 
 with rage, chewing at the place where his moustache 
 ought to have been, until the shrilling of fifes and rat- 
 tling of drums called irresistibly, and robberhood was 
 cast aside, for David, tingling, to speed as fast as his 
 little legs would carry him in the direction of the dis- 
 play. Yet there was sufficient of the dignity of the 
 outraged captain to make him avoid all his henchmen, 
 and he thrust his way to the front to stand with low- 
 ered head and hands in pockets, surveying his army, 
 for, mighty though the world might be, there was 
 nothing in it that he did not regard as exclusively his 
 own and bom at his birth for his delight. The sol- 
 diers set him in such a ferment that when they had 
 passed he was in no mood for games other than the 
 direction of an army, and when his followers had fore- 
 gathered he fell to drilling them. So slovenly were 
 they, and so unlike the magnificent march of the sol- 
 diers was their walk, that in the end he dismissed them 
 and burst into a flood of angry tears. His case was 
 not improved by the intervention of a kindly old gen- 
 tleman who, finding him alone and weeping by the 
 lake, patted him on the head and said : 
 " Are you lost, my little man ? " 
 David turned angrily with the retort : 
 "Lost? — I have been dreaming of an army." 
 This was in his most precise and mincing English, 
 for he had one speech for his playmates and another 
 for his home and great occasions such as the present. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 3 
 
 The old gentleman gave him a penny, which David 
 flung far out into the middle of the pond, where a 
 duck, marking its descent, dived for it, and came to 
 air again with a rueful countenance. 
 
 " Some day," said the old man, " you will be glad 
 of that penny." 
 
 "I'd be glad of it now," said David honestly and 
 mournfully. 
 
 With that he took to his heels and joined his sister, 
 who, though she was most curious to know what the 
 old gentleman had been saying to him, forbore, so 
 high was the pinnacle on which she had set her 
 brother. 
 
 David, therefore, dreamed of soldiers in the uneasy 
 sleep which was all that was vouchsafed to him on this 
 night, when there was so much stir and uneasiness in 
 the house. 
 
 The thing had happened twice before in David's life, 
 but never had he been so conscious of the greatness 
 and terror of it, never had there been such whispering, 
 such bustle, such solemn conclave, and never had he 
 for so long been kept from his mother. Always she 
 had asked for him, and had him with her during the 
 day, near enough to touch him, to stroke his hair, or 
 suddenly to pull him do.wn from where he sat on the 
 great bed prattling to kiss his ugly little face and smile 
 wanly at him with her soft eyes. 
 
 David's mother was his friend, the great comrade 
 in his exploits, the lady whose trophy he wore in his 
 helmet, the distressed maiden whom his valour rescued 
 from beasts, caitiffs, and base magicians. Together 
 they lived in brave realms of chivalry and fancy, 
 realms of David's creation, into which she entered 
 gladly as a relief from the poor realities of her exist- 
 ence as wife, mother, housekeeper, nurse, servant, 
 drudge; a wretched existence of screwing, scraping, 
 
4 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 constant sickness, constant worry and agitation, of 
 small calamities and joys, mean problems and no suc- 
 cess; a scrambling through life, primitive without the 
 freedom of the primitive. She was the slave of every 
 creature in her house, and ungrudgingly, generously, 
 she strove always to satisfy the demands of her hus- 
 band, her three children, and to bear with ill-humours 
 and injustice. She accepted. There had been so 
 much of calamity in the gradual descent since her mar- 
 riage that she was numbed by it, not crushed so much 
 as dulled in her perceptions of life. She found escape 
 in David. They were sufficient for each other, and 
 this fine intimacy gave the child that self-reliance and 
 splendid audacity of imagination which made him a 
 power among others of his age. 
 
 In his fevered dreams David conceived his mother 
 as a Princess laid under a spell by an enchanter, so that 
 from all others than her knight her beauty was hidden, 
 and with his striding army he marched through half 
 the world, braving dangers by all the elements, to the 
 castle where she lay. Did a forest spring up, then a 
 path was hewn through it, or did a lake lie in the way, 
 then a crystal bridge sprang. Wild beasts were 
 charmed by song, and horrid serpents were strangled 
 • by a Herculean arm or trampled by the hoofs of 
 David's white charger. 
 
 Now the charger reared, for the enchanter himself 
 stood in the path, and in his hand was a great and 
 dazzling light. 
 
 " Out of my path ! " cried David with a great voice. 
 " Out of my path, thou limb of darkness, thou sentinel 
 of evil, or I will assuredly slay thee." 
 
 Fear came upon the magician, and in a quavering 
 voice he said : 
 
 " David, I want you to run and fetch the doctor." 
 
 By some queer divination the boy, though not alto- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 5 
 
 gather clear from his wild imaginations, arrived at 
 knowledge of the urgency of compliance. Half in his 
 dream, half out of it, his eyes blinking up at the magi- 
 cian-father looming above his bed, he groped for and 
 scrambled into his clothes — ^little knickerbockers, thick 
 stockings, jersey, heavy boots — and was soon down 
 the stairs and, cap in hand, out into the street away to 
 the doctor's house. 
 
 There he stood in the raw night, panting under the 
 dim light cast from the red lamp, and scanned the row 
 of gleaming brass bell-handles. They were labelled 
 "Day," "Night," "Visitors," and David wondered 
 whether he were a visitor, and also, because it was near 
 dawn and the sky was overcast with pearly-grey and 
 chill half-light, whether it were day or night. Even- 
 tually he pulled that labelled "Night." He was 
 hard put to reach it, but, standing on tip-toe, he laid 
 his hand on it, hurled himself backward, and 
 evoked in some remote region of the house a jang- 
 ling peal.' 
 
 He stood and shivered, thoroughly roused now from 
 slumber and wild fancies to heavy knowledge that his 
 beloved mother was ill, and that here in this house was 
 the power to dethrone suffering. He was impatient, 
 rang again, and louder than before. 
 
 A window above the door was thrust up in its sash, 
 and a tousled head appeared, from which .there came 
 a peevish voice : 
 
 " Hallo ! " it said, and David made no answer, for 
 he was suddenly afraid, so much fierceness was there 
 in the voice. 
 
 "Hallo!" said the voice again. "Who's there?" 
 
 f Me," said David, now very ready to weep. He 
 would gladly have been anybody else, but there seemed 
 no help for it, and he must be David Brockman, and 
 very small at that. 
 
6 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 "Am I wanted?" said the voice, more loudly and 
 fiercely. 
 
 " Yes," said David. 
 
 "Who by?" 
 
 " Will you come to mother? " 
 
 "Who's mother?" 
 
 " My mother." 
 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 " I'm David." 
 
 "David what?" 
 
 " David Brockman." 
 
 "Is Mrs. Spencer there?" 
 
 David concentrated all his attention on this strange 
 question; There certainly was in the house a large 
 woman with a jolly laugh and red cheeks, a woman of 
 some kindness and much ill-temper who was called 
 " nurse." She appeared at intervals in the house 
 when his mother was a-bed, and she drank stout at 
 supper with his father. He did not remember that 
 she had ever been called Mrs. Spencer. However, if 
 only to answer the question, he was prepared to say 
 that nurse and Mrs. Spencer were one, and that she 
 was indeed in the house. 
 
 By the time he had resolved his doubts, however, 
 the head was withdrawn, and his answering " Yes " 
 was lost upon the cold air. The window was shut, 
 and he was alone in the street, very cold, very miser- 
 able, very helpless, dreams gone, warmth gone. He 
 stared up at the doctor's house, a curious, flat, ugly 
 dwelling of brick, old, shabby, and wondered where- 
 abouts in it was the tonsil which had been removed 
 from his throat in the surgery three months before, 
 and where in it dwelt a bewitching creature with 
 golden hair, braids and tresses of it so thick that she 
 seemed to be all golden. Her name was Helen, but 
 to David she was golden, and, next to his mother, the 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 7 
 
 most beautiful lady in the world. He had seen her 
 just once, and though he had foresworn all woman- 
 kind, the vision of her was ever present with him in 
 all adventures, her golden hair floating always against 
 the black of his mother. He saw them now, the two 
 creatures, starry and splendid, and in a worshipful 
 state he stiffened himself and swung his arms, as was 
 his way at the Iseginning of a quest. 
 
 The door of the house opened, and the doctor 
 emerged, bag in hand. He greeted David respect- 
 fully, and David, as a brave man should, swept low 
 to the healer. 
 
 " How is your mother? " 
 
 " She's in bed," said David lugubriously, as though 
 he could say no worse. 
 
 "Your father at home?" 
 
 " Yes," said David. 
 
 They were silent for a space, the boy trotting by the 
 side of the little grey man. David eyed the bag curi- 
 ously, 
 
 "You don't really bring them in that?" 
 
 " Bring what ? " said the doctor, startled. 
 
 " The babies." 
 
 "E...e...e-h? No. N-0-0. No." 
 
 " Because Tush Williams says that mothers bring 
 them themselves." 
 
 " Who is Tush Williams ? " This was by way of 
 creating a divergence, but David was not to be turned 
 aside from the path of inquiry. 
 
 " Storks and gooseberry bushes, father used to say 
 . . . but . . . I've never seen a stork, and I've 
 never seen a gooseberry bush. I saw the soldiers the 
 other day." 
 
 The swift leaping from one subject to another 
 startled the doctor. 
 
 " Oh ! " He could find no better remark. 
 
8 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " Do you think they were going to a war? " 
 
 " There aren't any wars now." 
 
 " But if there aren't any wars, where were the sol- 
 diers going to?" 
 
 To a man struggling to gather his wits from drow- 
 siness for the practice of his profession this persistent 
 questioning was maddening, and it was a relief to the 
 doctor that these words should have brought them to 
 the house. 
 
 David rattled at the letter-box, and his father, half- 
 dressed, haggard and worn, came quickly to the door 
 and opened it. There was relief in his eyes when they 
 beheld the doctor, but he stood weakly fumbling with 
 his moustache and made no sound of greeting. Lach- 
 rymose he was, lean, hungry; his hair was tossed, and 
 on his chin a full day's beard, red and unpleasant. His 
 eyes were red-rimmed, and the lids of them also were 
 red and swollen, and tiny veins stood out. 
 
 "Man," said the doctor, "what is it?" 
 
 " She's dying ! " said David's father. " She's dying, 
 man ! She doesn't know me . . ." 
 
 He choked, and drew his shirt-sleeve across his eyes 
 and under his nose. 
 
 " Nonsense, man." The doctor brushed him aside 
 and passed up the narrow stairs, David following him 
 with his eyes to see that at the top he was met by the 
 nurse, who might or might not be Mrs. Spencer, and 
 that they stayed for a moment in whispered confer- 
 ence. 
 
 David turned to see his father staring also up at 
 them, a thin swaying figure. David ordinarily was 
 afraid of his father; he was now afraid of something 
 in the man greater than himself. 
 
 The man's eyes turned to find his son's fixed in in- 
 quiry. For a moment he was angry, and wished to 
 dash his fist into the little face with its thin cheeks gind 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 9 
 
 wide, staring eyes; then, shaking with grief, he 
 swooped suddenly, caught the boy up in his arms, 
 lurched with him into the living-room, and fell to sob- 
 bing and wild tears, rocking, rocking, rocking, his face 
 pressed close against his son's. 
 
 David also wept, and clung to his father, awed by 
 this proximity to a man weeping and rent by emotion ; 
 yet, even in this moment his father was a creature re- 
 mote from him — a thing of immense power, not always 
 benevolent, rather fearful, and only the stranger by 
 this display of fallibility. He smelled curiously; his 
 beard was rough and hard upon David's face, and 
 presently in his rocking he hugged the child so close, 
 and pressed his face so hard against the child's face, 
 that in the small mind all else was forgotten but phys- 
 ical pain, sheer pain, so that he struggled to break 
 loose, thrust out with both his tiny hands, beat with 
 clenched fists, wriggled and struggled to be free. 
 
 So he stood while his father, choking down his sobs, 
 stayed in his rocking, and, a hand on each knee, stared 
 and stared. He reached out an arm to touch, and 
 David, in fear, leaped back and broke into a roar. 
 "Hush! Ssh! You little devil. Hush!" 
 David checked himself, and was for a moment ridic- 
 ulous with wide open mouth and hands beating the air. 
 " Hush ! " said the man. " Get to bed." 
 David crawled whimpering from the room, and 
 slowly began the ascent of the stairs. His eyes were 
 blinded with tears, he was shivering, and groped, 
 groped through a thick darkness, out of which, as he 
 mounted, there loomed a wide figure that descended 
 upon him, enveloped him, and, as it stumbled, crushed 
 him against the wall. David strove to cry out, but 
 could not, and presently a heavy hand crashed about 
 his head, a swinging blow with a fat hand twice, so 
 that his ears buzzed, and a sickness came upon him. 
 
lo DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 and blind rage. He kicked, and was seized by the 
 scrufif of his neck and hurled upstairs to drop sprawl- 
 ing, and while he lay he heard the woman's voice. 
 
 " Why didn't you go yourself 'stead of hauling the 
 brat out of bed?" 
 
 Then his father's voice, guttural and so harsh as to 
 be almost unrecognizable: 
 
 "You — I'm — I was tired, and it — it was so cold.'' 
 
 David crawled back to his bed and lay, fully dressed, 
 face down, fists clenched, all his body rigid, shaken 
 with hate and injury. Tears came a,t length, and 
 soon, worn out, he fell asleep. 
 
 When the morning was come he rose, woke Nicho- 
 las his brother, who had been undisturbed by the do- 
 ings of the night, and was in the middle of his scant 
 ablutions, when his father came into the bathroom, 
 and stood for some moments awkwardly shifting from 
 one foot to another, and fingering his silver watch- 
 chain. He was yet more haggard, his eyes were more 
 red, and he seemed curiously shrunken. David turned 
 to look up at him without taking his hands out of the 
 water in the basin. His father held an arm up in front 
 of his face. In a curious thick voice he said : 
 
 "You've — ^you've got another little brother." 
 
 Tears oozed from David's eyes and trickled down 
 his nose into his mouth. He spoke no word, for the 
 whole world seemed black. 
 
 " Mother is very ill." 
 
 Tears came faster and fell. " Father " had been a 
 wot;d of power, of menace, and here was this man 
 shrunken. From a looming thing he had become for 
 David the world's smallest, and yet entangled inextri- 
 cably with the great things of his life, so that though 
 it were no sharing, yet there must be perforce a com- 
 mon interest in the great mother, the shining lady of 
 dreams. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS n 
 
 In his broadest vernacular David said : 
 
 " A'm glad she's not a gttrl." 
 
 This use of the dialect dragged his father from the 
 eminence he had occupied, and relegated him to a 
 lesser world. 
 
 "I think," said David's father— " I think . . . 
 mother wants to see you." 
 
 On that David passed out to the front of the house, 
 and, without knocking, passed into the bedroom. The 
 doctor was still there, and the large woman whom 
 David had encoimtered on the stairs. The doctor was 
 sitting by the bedside ; the woman was busy by the fire, 
 and when she saw David, made to eject him. The 
 doctor held up a finger, and leaned forward to scan the 
 face of the woman in the bed. Her lips moved and 
 her head turned in the direction of the place where 
 David stood. The eyelids fluttered, and then opened, 
 and the eyes smiled. 
 
 She moved her hand, and David came to her, took 
 and kissed it as in their foolish games of chivalry. He 
 climbed, then, on the bed, warily, lest he should hurt 
 her, and buried his face in her thick black hair. Her 
 hand stole to his head, and her fingers twined in his 
 stifif locks; her eyes closed, and there seemed to be 
 much happiness in her. 
 
 " David," she said. " David, it's a little brother for 
 you. For — forgive. . . . Dear, dear David, it has 
 been a foolish game — just, just you and I, and — and 
 the — world. Say — say — it again, just once, David." 
 
 The child, rising to his knees on the bed, recited 
 solemnly the words that she had taught him. Her 
 eyes opened and gazed lovingly in the eyes of her 
 son. 
 
 " You are the most beautiful lady in the world, and 
 stand for truth, honour, virtue, the love of all crea- 
 tures, and the hatred of all wickedness : I am the most 
 
£2 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 unworthy knight, and, strengthened by the great love 
 I bear you, I fight most valiantly for the right." 
 
 A little cry came from the woman — a cry of great 
 gladness and keen sorrow — and they brought to her 
 the new child. David gazed upon it, kissed it. 
 
 " Kiss me, David." 
 
 They kissed, and David was hurried from the room 
 by the nurse. 
 
 His father was summoned, and David was given his 
 breakfast of porridge and milk, and, with Nicholas 
 and Audrey, his sister, set out for the grimy and un- 
 wholesome lauilding which a benevolent city council 
 provided for the education of the young Brockmans 
 and their kind. 
 
II 
 
 Henry Brockman had been for fifteen years on the 
 point of making his fortune, but had never achieved it. 
 He had inherited a small tannery in a Httle town in 
 Cambridgeshire, together with a sum of five thousand 
 pounds. An only son, he had been pampered by a 
 mother who fondled and bullied him by turns, and, 
 with only small education, had been taken into part- 
 nership by an indulgent father, whose interest lay, not 
 in his son, not in his business, but in the translation of 
 the works of Ariosto and the investigation of Etruscan 
 relics, in which pursuit he had so driven his wife and 
 son in early years from pillar to post that they had 
 reason to loathe the name of Italy, and sought distrac- 
 tion in the light frivolities of the town society, wherein 
 they became, by reason of their foreign travel, consid- 
 erable personages. 
 
 While the Brockman family was thus divided, the 
 business which supported them was conducted by a 
 faithful and honest manager, who had come in time 
 so fiercely to resent interference on the part of his em- 
 ployers, father and son, that, to avoid the discomfort 
 of his tart comment on their incompetence and igno- 
 rance of all the lore of tanning, they ceased to take any 
 more active part in the business than to adopt his re- 
 ports and approve all his suggestions for innovation. 
 The elder Brockman retired more and more into his 
 study, while Henry developed into a leader of fashion 
 and judge of manners, and devoted himself to the task 
 of climbing to the ranks of the county society. Being 
 easy of address, adaptable, and of moderate good 
 
 13 
 
14 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 looks, he found no great difficulty in achieving his end, 
 and was fairly installed when romance and business 
 entered into a conspiracy to strike him from his perch. 
 
 Romance attacked the young man first, bewildered 
 him, swept him headlong. 
 
 There were in the town two ladies of mysterious 
 origin and retiring habit. None knew whence they 
 came, nor for what reason they were so little respon- 
 sive to kindness shown and visit of inquiry. Wild ru- 
 mours floated, and there were epidemics of gossip, but 
 no credible theory had ever been evolved, and to all 
 probings both ladies — the elder and the younger, aunt 
 and niece — answered only with the politest of smiles or 
 an exasperating compliance. It seemed that they 
 would fall in with the basest suggestions, and one after 
 another gossiping woman retired humiliated, and, 
 curiously enough, silenced, until want of occupation 
 produced a recrudescence of speculation. 
 
 Mrs. Brockman was piqued, and again and again, 
 more resolutely and valiantly, returned to the charge, 
 fortified by the simplicity of her temper and the shal- 
 lowness of her nature. A woman of small imagina- 
 tion, she was endowed with an easy faculty of inven- 
 tion, that by its very facility flouted probability and 
 every law of nature, and from her vast store of knowl- 
 edge of the more foolish class of fiction she was able 
 to supply in detail a whole -Succession of histories for 
 Miss Andrew and Margaret her niece. 
 
 Her greatest triumph, however, was the occasion 
 when she induced the ladies to visit at her house to 
 inspect her husband's collection, but this triumph was 
 her undoing. The elder lady displayed so lively an 
 interest in all the old man's darling objects and theo- 
 ries, and showed herself so well informed and so sen- 
 sible of all that was most charming to him, as to en- 
 gage an interest such as he had not for years shown 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 15 
 
 in any human creature, and there sprang up between 
 the two a rare friendship. 
 
 Now, though Mrs. Broclcman, like Michal, despised 
 her husband in her heart, and for many years had 
 asked nothing of him, she became in part jealous and 
 in part petulant that he should so abruptly emerge 
 from his hermitage and find happiness again in human 
 relations. 
 
 She became scandalous and something of a terma- 
 gant. Her husband blandly ignored her tongue, as 
 Miss Andrew ignored her ebullitions and foolish in- 
 ventions, and the poor woman was really unhappy. 
 She became so utterly sentimental that upon two occa- 
 sions she engaged in little scenes with Miss Andrew, 
 but retired worsted by that lady's quicker intelligence 
 and wit, which, without being malicious, flickered and 
 stung. 
 
 Henry was away from home, swaggering in London, 
 while these events were destroying the peace of his 
 home and disturbing the smooth running of the ma- 
 chinery; and though his mother wrote him a full and 
 inaccurate narrative, he was too much engaged in 
 repairing a broken heart to give much attention to the 
 matter. Ambition more than a real affection had 
 prompted the foolish young man to propose for the 
 hand of a young lady of high degree. The disparity 
 was so great that he had stood for long gasping on 
 the brink and shivering before he dared to take the 
 plunge, which he never would have done, but that the 
 young lady, possessing a keen sense of comedy, had 
 indulged it at his expense, and by a thousand and one 
 cunningly devised trifles had given him what might 
 be encouragement and yet none. Henry nerved him- 
 self to the encounter, met disaster, almost wept. After 
 confidence of his blighted hopes to his good mother, 
 he had obtained from her fifty pounds with which to 
 
i6 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 purchase balm for his wounds. In London he fell 
 into low company, and laid here the seeds of the ruin 
 of his material welfare in later years. 
 
 He returned to find revolution in his home, and his 
 mother, in the direst extremity, utterly routed by Miss 
 Andrew, and suffering under a new irony which had 
 appeared in his father. Still in a state of injured van- 
 ity, he at first ranged himself on his mother's side and 
 was her champion, but there came a day when he en- 
 countered Miss Margaret Andrew in the street, and 
 fell a victim to the charm of her black hair and brave 
 colour, and though he still strove to lacerate himself 
 with the pleasant torture of the image of his lost 
 charmer, it came to pass that the woman of his dreams 
 took on more and more the features of Miss Marga- 
 ret. Yet, for his wounds were still sore and apt to 
 twinge, he was timid, and dared not woo. Indeed, he 
 fled the goddess, and on their rare encounters he stood 
 fatuous and mumchance in her presence, was wildly 
 sensitive, and, did she laugh, found himself ridicu- 
 lous in her sight, and raged. 
 
 Old Brockman in his new-found jocularity twitted 
 his son, and bore the news of his strange affection to 
 the cause of it, who, poor solitary that she was, found 
 joy in it, and, but that the young man was so very fool- 
 ish, could have been kind to him. With her aunt she 
 liked the father and endowed the son before she 
 learned to know him with all the finer qualities of his 
 sire. Thus, without meeting, interest was bred in 
 each, and seeing all her defences undermined, Mrs. 
 Brockman took her spleen to bed and nursed it, while 
 her menfolk, to the huge delight of the gossips, blindly 
 pursued their whimsies. 
 
 Some miles away upon a hill was a grove of yew- 
 trees, planted in ancient days for bow-wood, and hard 
 by this were traces of a Roman villa, which the elder 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 17 
 
 Brockman had undertaken to exhibit to Miss Andrew. 
 He proposed that Henry and Margaret should be of 
 the party, and the young people, both with much mis- 
 giving, consented. Accordingly, on a fine day in the 
 late autumn, in a nipping air, so that both ladies wore 
 furs, fox and squirrel, they set out in an old barouche, 
 that knew all the tricks and wickedness of generations 
 in the town, and were not long in reaching the desired 
 spot. 
 
 Prudent Margaret had brought a basket for sloes 
 and blackberries, if there should be any, and while their 
 elders prosed about the remains, the young people 
 plunged into the dangerous mystery of the grove, dark 
 yews, and flashing glades. Here the veriest shrew, 
 the basest and most sordid of womankind, were en- 
 trancing. What wonder, then, that there came a spell 
 upon the doltish youth to make himi fearful of this 
 wondrous She. And she, peeping over her brown 
 fur at him, softness in her eyes and dancing merri- 
 ment, how could she but find him a stalwart and a 
 hero? 
 
 So it was; and presently — ^neither had breathed a 
 word as they walked through sweet gloom towards a 
 sky all red — they came upon a jewelled place of black- 
 berries, glossy and fine, sloes, and soft-hued spindle- 
 berry. With a little cry she ran and plucked, plucked 
 and pulled. Henry, coming after, stood behind her, 
 not aiding her, but close to her, gazing down at the 
 rounded cheek so glowing in the keen air, and the tip 
 of the nose, and the soft black hair. She was dis- 
 turbed, and plucked no more. She stumbled, and he 
 caught her in his arms. 
 
 "Oh, Margaret!" 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 There was such pleading in her eyes that he let her 
 go. She wandered from him, and he, fearful, stayed 
 
i8 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 for some moments, but then followed. For long 
 again they did not speak. An envious bramble caught 
 her by the hair as she stooped, and Henry must re- 
 lease her. His fingers touched her glowing cheeks, 
 and touched again. She was free, and, tossing back 
 her head, she laughed. 
 
 " It — -it is like — like silver sounds," said Henry, and 
 was at once ashamed to be so much a poet. He 
 blushed. 
 
 To touch him, for she could not speak, she laid her 
 hand on his arm. He took and kissed it, then caught 
 her to him. Then she clung to him, and hand in hand 
 they wandered through the grove, stealing glances at 
 one another, still afraid of what had conje to them, 
 but happy and rejoicingf in each other. 
 
 The elders found them kneeling opposite each other 
 on either side of the basket, playing a childish game 
 of clapping hands and kisses, and popping blackberries 
 each into the other's mouth. Their lips and even their 
 cheeks were stained with the juice of the fruit. They 
 did not perceive the intruders. Old Brockman shoolf 
 with delighted laughter, and said : 
 
 " Every woman in love is enamoured of an ass." 
 
 " For shame ! " said the gentle lady. 
 
 " True enough." 
 
 He coughed loudly, and they emerged into full view. 
 Henry sprang to his feet, and stood blushing and shift- 
 ing like an awkward boy. 
 
 Margaret came to her aunt, and was chid for 
 kneeling on the damp grass. Margaret dared to 
 laugh. 
 
 During the homeward drive an impish spirit came 
 upon old Brockman, and from his vast store he re- 
 counted anecdotes of love sacred and profane, which 
 Henry much resented. On the brow of a hill the old 
 man declaimed : 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 19 
 
 "I went a-roaming, maidens, one bright day 
 In a fair garden in mid-month of May. 
 I gazed and gazed. Hard task it were to tell 
 How lovely were the roses in that hour. 
 One was but peeping from her verdant shell, 
 And some were faded, some were scarce in flower 
 
 " For when the full rose quits her tender sheath, 
 When she is sweetest and most fair to see, 
 Then is the time to place her in thy wreath 
 Before her beauty and her freshness flee. 
 Gather ye therefore roses with great glee. 
 Sweet girls, or e'er their perfume pass away. 
 I went a-roaming, maidens, one bright day 
 In a fair garden in mid-month of May." 
 
 " That," said the old gentleman, " is Poliziano's, 
 the friend of Lorenzo. ... He knew the music of 
 such things." 
 
 Henry was troubled. This was an aspect of his 
 father that he did not know, save that somewhere in 
 his memory there lingered the image of such a man, 
 and the tones of just such a ringing voice. Margaret, 
 sensible of uneasiness in him, stole her hand to his 
 arm. Henry was glad of her. 
 
 The old man chuckled. 
 
 " Look at the fool ! " he cried. " The eternal fool, 
 the human fool ! " 
 
 Henry reddened. 
 
 " No small thing, Henry. In all the important mat- 
 ters of life it is better to be a fool than an angel." 
 
 This was beyond the young man, and he began to 
 rage inwardly, and though Miss Andrew strove 
 bravely to divert the old man's wit, he was not to be 
 withheld from his sport. 
 
 Nevertheless, the wooing of Henry prospered ex- 
 ceedingly, and under the perpetual taunts of his father 
 there was tapped in him a vein of obstinacy which 
 Margaret took for strength, so that in her eyes her 
 
20 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 lover waxed ever more heroic. During their court- 
 ship she was radiant, and Henry began to believe him- 
 self a fine fellow, and even upon occasion ventured to 
 cross swords with his father. 
 
 Mrs. Brockman was miserable, and took refuge in 
 hypochondria. She retired to her bedroom, and 
 rarely considered herself well enough to see any per- 
 son but her doctor. Margaret was brought for her 
 inspection, and though the girl was all sweetness, she 
 found little favour. 
 
 "Not good enough for Henry," was the maternal 
 verdict, so frequently repeated that Henry began to 
 believe that also, and became so odiously patronizing 
 in his relations with his fiancee as to exasperate his 
 father, who, in conference with Miss Andrew, im- 
 plored her to forbid the match. 
 
 " The girl's green," said the old man. " Green. 
 Henry's a born fool, and the son of a fool; by up- 
 bringing a puppy. It is she who is too good for 
 him." 
 
 " It is their marriage, not yours or mine." 
 
 " It's a plaguey odd one." 
 
 " All marriages are odd." 
 
 Time passed, and the lovers were wed, Henry 
 thinking what a fine thing he was doing for Margaret 
 in taking her into his bosom, and Margaret rejoicing 
 in the winning of so magnanimous and fine a gentle- 
 man. She was a tender and a loving wife, and pam- 
 pered and petted her husband until he was swollen 
 with tyranny. Before long she had wearied him, and 
 he took to prolonged absences on the score of busi- 
 ness. The old manager was fast becoming decrepit, 
 and Mr. Brockman insisted that it was time for 
 Heniy to begin to learn something about the tannery 
 and its ramifications — ^not such a simple matter as 
 Henry supposed — and after a time it occurred to 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 21 
 
 him that it might be as well to make the acquaintance 
 of the firm's connections in London. These visits 
 became both more frequent and of longer dura- 
 tion. Margaret was unhappy, but never uttered one 
 word of complaint. She cherished always the image 
 of the hero-husband, and though she had learned bit- 
 terly how far Henry fell short of this, and in how 
 many mean and small ways, yet she contrived by an 
 adroit blending of the visionary and the real to find 
 him worthy of worship. 
 
 David was bom and her life became full. Her hus- 
 band was incapable of sharing the great things that 
 had come to her, was jealous of the child for a little, 
 and then only peevish. He went his way, and for 
 three years David was the light of her world. She 
 gave her husband all that he asked, and only suf- 
 fered because he did not ask more. 
 
 To Henry the amassing of a fortune became the 
 sole aim and end of life. He had only the vaguest 
 notion of the methods of the builders of fortune, but 
 he applied his wits to it as he had applied them to 
 nothing else. While his father was alive he was 
 bound hand and foot to the tannery, and could indulge 
 his new passion no more than in a few surreptitious 
 operations with Throgmorton Street, very rarely with 
 success; but by the careful calculation of his gains 
 and a total disregard of his losses he both justified 
 himself and fortified his belief in his own astuteness. 
 
 After the death, within a short space of time, of 
 both his father and mother, he was free, and master 
 of a considerable property. No scheme then was too 
 wild for his consideration. From the tannery he 
 was naturally led to wattle, in which, according to his 
 friends in London, there was certainly a fortune, 
 since wattle is the best bark employable for tanning 
 and will only grow in certain climates. Henry flared 
 
22 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 to the prospect, and after a series of visits to London, 
 proudly presented Margaret with a copy of the pros- 
 pectus of the Uganda and Nai Robi First Wattle 
 (Parent) Company, Limited, wherein his name was 
 writ large among the directors. 
 
 He was likely, he told her, to make between twenty 
 and thirty thousand pounds from the business, and 
 with that should breed yet more thousands. She be- 
 lieved this as she believed everything that he told 
 her, but did not exhibit that enthusiasm in the vis- 
 ionary fortune which he had half expected. 
 
 Henry became important, and purchased a fur coat, 
 which he used to don for his fortnightly visits to 
 London. 
 
 ,From one of these he returned in a state of col- 
 lapse, with drawn face and eyes beaming with tears. 
 He refused to speak, was cross with Margaret, and 
 brutal with his children — there were now two. Fi- 
 nally he helped himself to a stiff dose of whiskey-and- 
 water, and then told her that he must sell the tannery, 
 as there was a crisis in the wattle business and ready 
 money was needed. 
 
 Margaret, who wished for nothing but that he 
 should be happy again, made no further inquiry, and 
 did not tell her aunt, who became suspicious, anything 
 of the truth, for she had divined that Miss Andrew 
 had come to detest Henry so cordially that anything 
 concerning him would be twisted to condemnation of 
 him. Not for worlds would Margaret have even her 
 aunt know that the heroic Henry had fallen low. 
 
 Disaster came, and the money that he had from the 
 sale of the tannery followed the rest into the pockets 
 of London rogues, Henry never suspecting but that 
 they also had lost by the liquidation of the Company. 
 The unhappy fool came to his wife for comfort, 
 loudly lamenting and babbling suicide. She saw that 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 23 
 
 he was fed, and so subtly flattered his vanity that soon 
 he was on his feet again, sanguine and full of 
 curses of the law of chance, and vowing that he 
 would quickly win again all that he had lost, and 
 more. 
 
 Margaret very wisely insisted on an examination 
 into what was left to them out of the wreck. Upon 
 this it appeared that they had house property in the 
 town and its neighbourhood to bring them an income 
 of two hundred pounds a year. 
 
 " We must leave this house," said Margaret. 
 
 " We must go to London," said Henry. 
 
 Margaret demurred. London was to her a place 
 of bewildering wickedness and folly, and to it rather 
 than to her husband she attributed their catastrophe. 
 
 " There is no place like London for brains," said 
 Henry. 
 
 "Have you any?" said Margaret, with a rare 
 flash of malice. 
 
 Smarting, Henry turned and railed at her, stormed 
 and flew into a passion. She was sorry, but he would 
 not listen to her words of self-reproach. In tears 
 she left him, and before going to her bed hung over 
 her children where they lay asleep. 
 
 She was for the first time afraid of her husband, 
 and for the first time she permitted herself to see 
 him as he really was — ^just silly. Again and again 
 she told herself that there was no evil in him, that 
 he was just a child, but a terrible child, and as she 
 passed into sleep the vision of his face twisted in 
 rage came to her, and she shivered and moaned a 
 little. 
 
 In these days she was more than ever kind to him, 
 fortifying herself, as was her custom-, with the words 
 of Volumnia, to which her aunt had drawn her at- 
 tention upon her marriage: 
 
24 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " If I had been the wife of Hercules, 
 Six of his labours I'd have done, and saved 
 My husband so much sweat ; " 
 
 and while he took peevishly the poverty which he had 
 brought upon his house, she, who more truly suffered 
 by it, bent to it, and with fine courage adapted herself 
 to all the changes of life to which she was submitted. 
 
 The descent was slow, but in the end the Brockman 
 family joined that nomadic class which lives upon the 
 credit of its gentleness, passing from place to place 
 as the patience of the tradesmen in each is exhausted. 
 In the early passages of the descent living was bitter, 
 for the pride of class was strong in them, but this 
 became deadened or worn away by the discovery of 
 kindness in the coarser folk among whom their lot was 
 cast — kindness so ready and responsive to all need of 
 it that they learned to close their eyes to what had 
 at first disgusted them. Henry was in part assimi- 
 lated by the class; Margaret never was, and though 
 her beauty was faded, her hands coarsened by rough 
 work, and her mind narrowed, the fineness of her 
 perceptions blunted, yet she was ever a rare nature 
 and a bright spirit shining in the baseness of her 
 surroundings. 
 
 Something of this she communicated to her chil- 
 dren, to whom she told, besides her tales of chivalry 
 and true love, stories of the days that were gone, of 
 her dear aunt and Henry's father, of old houses that 
 she remembered, of learned gentlemen and fine ladies, 
 legends of her family and Henry's, and she never 
 tired of weaving romances of the grove of yews, 
 which she peopled with all the simple, honest figures 
 of old folk-stories — a curious dream-world, yet a 
 glamorous, and, to David, certainly the only real 
 world. Audrey was never so much in sympathy with 
 her mother; indeed, though she stood in awe of her 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 25 
 
 father, she inclined more to him, and, whenever he 
 permitted it, sought his company, and often in the 
 evening would sit silent while he smoked his pipe and 
 stared gloomily into the fire. Sometimes, if he were 
 in a good mood, he would take her on his knee, and 
 talk to her of the days in store when he should have 
 made his fortune, and she should ride in a carriage 
 and wear silks, and be given a husband mighty fine. 
 Audrey was so pleased with this husband that she de- 
 manded details of his appearance and possessions, and 
 her father delved in his memory for a suitable sen- 
 timental hero. 
 
 While the family was thus divided against itself, 
 each section living in its own fantasy, the folly of 
 the husband plunged them deeper and deeper into the 
 morass. He tried one occupation after another, only 
 to be ousted by rivals, not always more competent than 
 himself, but more versed in roguery. He was all 
 things in succession, but nothing for long. He be- 
 gan hopefully in association with some of the gentle- 
 men with whom he had come in contact through the 
 ill-fated company, but they, finding his simplicity no 
 more profitable to themselves, soon dropped him, and 
 he was left to wander hither and thither, dragging 
 his family in his train, attracted always by the4)ros- 
 pect of an easily-procured livelihood. He contrived 
 well enough while it was possible to sell a house here 
 and a house there to remedy the periodic deficiencies 
 in his finance; but when the painful truth presented 
 itself that the process made inroads upon his income, 
 and that he was left with only two houses, which, 
 while occupied, brought in fifty pounds a year, he 
 was just bewildered, and made full confession to his 
 wife. 
 
 Upon this she insisted that the houses should be 
 transferred to her name, and that he should seek sgnie 
 
26 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 employment which should bring in a salary and at any 
 rate keep them from starvation. 
 
 This they found not so easy as they had supposed, 
 for Henry set a high value on himself, and could 
 never understand vdiy it should be in the power of 
 coarser men than himself to buy his services so 
 cheap. Those to, whom he applied resented his in- 
 stinctively assumed superiority, and quite reasonably 
 refused to employ a man with so little of the instincts 
 of the employee. 
 
 After one thing and another had been tried and 
 found wanting, Henry at length swallowed some of 
 his pride and became agent for an insurance com- 
 pany, and in the wretched little house in the suburb 
 of a northern town whither they had finally drifted, 
 set up a brass plate with this legend : 
 
 " Rock and Eagle Assurance Company, Ltd., Capital £6,000,000. 
 
 H. Brockman, Agent. 
 
 Here, after nine years' wandering, the family came 
 to rest. Here Nicholas was born, and here were col- 
 lected the remains of the household gods which had 
 been so jealously preserved by Margaret through all 
 their vicissitudes. Some she had had to sell, old cab- 
 inets and heavy pieces of furniture too cumbrous and 
 bulky for the houses in which they must dwell, but 
 small things, such old works of art as had been in the 
 elder Brockman's collection, old jewels that had been 
 for generations in the family, trophies of travel, por- 
 traits, books — these Margaret cherished, and bitterly 
 resented all efforts on the part of her husband to con- 
 vert them into money. 
 
 " I am a Brockman, and I do not care," he said. 
 
 " I am your wife, and you shall not." 
 
 She had some vague idea that there was a rare 
 value in them, and clung frantically to her idea. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 27 
 
 In truth, these treasures, from the atmosphere they 
 gave to her house, were a bulwark to protect David 
 and the children- from the devastating influences of 
 poverty, for they were gracious things. There were 
 books to sow seeds in David's mind, some with pic- 
 tures, to create the first impressions of the world; 
 there was a large Bible in German text illustrated 
 with woodcuts, whereof that depicting the Flood — 
 angels pouring buckets of water upon a barren waste 
 of land — ^most deeply impressed Itself on David's 
 mind, and provided him with the origin of the pond 
 in the Park. On this tome he was allowed to sprawl 
 every Sunday, provided he were clean enough, and 
 Margaret, while he was yet a baby, would explain 
 the pictures to him, and with the true art of the story- 
 teller would talk of the patriarchs as though they 
 were her friends and persons intimately concerned 
 with her welfare and that of all her house. When, 
 after David's infancy had passed, she read aloud to 
 him, she cast this same glamour over the persons in 
 the books she loved, so that even the villains in them, 
 though she made them frightful indeed and of a 
 horrid wickedness, yet were alive and called for pity 
 in their sorrows. Many of these old books, with their 
 benevolence and greatness of heart, were new to Mar- 
 garet, and having a simple horror of all " cleverness," 
 she took to reading them with some misgiving, but 
 forced herself to continue where she had begun, for 
 David's sake. 
 
 The bitterest that she had to contend with was 
 her husband's utter irresponsibility in the matter of 
 the education of his children. Living as they did 
 now here, now there, it was difficult for David to re- 
 ceive tuition. At first she vowed that no child of 
 hers should attend a board-school, and sent David 
 and Audrey, when they were of an age, to various 
 
28 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 little private schools kept by incompetent widows, or 
 poor ladies with husbands to support — places where 
 the ruling word was " genteel." jAt length, however,-^ 
 when they had reached their poorest, she squared to 
 the inevitable, and one by one the children were sent 
 to the nearest board-school, where facts were crammed 
 into them by women so drilled in the science of teach- 
 ing as to have become machines. Here, in a class of 
 sixty, David was shouted at, bullied, clouted, pinched 
 if he were inattentive, and so harassed that he passed 
 through every lesson as in a fearful dream. He was 
 marked even here as a creature of different clay from 
 his classmates, but, unhappily, this very singularity 
 only served to draw upon him the harsh rigour of 
 the master when it became necessary to single out an 
 object for the preservation of discipline. Wretched 
 though the child was, a curious loyalty and stubborn- 
 ness in him closed his lips, so that his mother never 
 knew of the injustice meted out to him, and, though 
 she marked bruises on his little body and shed tears 
 over them, yet she never guessed but that they were 
 from the roughness of his playmates. Audrey suf- 
 fered less. She had more adaptability than her 
 brother, and while she was with the other children of 
 the neighbourhood, became one of them. 
 
 All the greater joy was it to David after the hor- 
 ror of the week's school to share the Sunday with his 
 mother, and, as Don Quixote, to range through the 
 region of La Mancha; as Sam Weller, to attend on 
 the good Pickwick; as Tom Jones, to win gallantly 
 through adversity; or to pass with her into the en- 
 chanted world of Shakespeare and be the Orlando to 
 her Rosalind, the good Duke Orsino to her Viola, or 
 a clown to follow her with dog's devotion through 
 the world. 
 
 Though David noticed no change in her, yet, as 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 29 
 
 the years passed, his mother became even more frail, 
 the burden of adversity weighed more heavily upon 
 her, and there came an evil day when she spoke 
 harshly to the boy — a dire calamity, though she 
 quickly soothed him. 
 
 Then she was ill, and again ill. There was an epi- 
 demic — all three children were laid low. She nursed 
 them and herself succumbed. For months it seemed 
 that there was always sickness in her house. 
 
 Thereafter she was more sorrowful, less interested, 
 less eager in her happy hours, and yet for it all only 
 the more tender. (Word of complaint was never on 
 her lips. Where Henry had lost so much, she seemed 
 only to have gained in virtue and strength to with- 
 stand devastating influences. In the last days he 
 came to offer her an homage which, while it puzzled 
 her, was, for the joy it brought her, reward enough, 
 and, having won this, she was in a stat£ of exalta- 
 tion. 
 
 " Promise me, Henry," she said — " promise me 
 that, whatever happens, you — David shall be free of 
 the world — that — that you won't — make him — like — 
 like these others." 
 
 Heiiry promised. 
 
 " There — ^there has been happiness — ^too." 
 
 " Oh, Margaret ! " He" burst into tears and kissed 
 her hand. " It — it was once so white." 
 
 She smoothed his forehead and made soothing 
 sounds. 
 
 He sat sobbing with bowed head, and seemed to 
 wait for more words to come from her, but she was 
 silent again, and presently she slept. 
 
 Then came the day when David was sent to fetch 
 the doctor, and his mother was lost to him. 
 
Ill ^ 
 
 There were black days for the children. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer, the midwife, stayed on and on. 
 She was as honey to them, but, taking their lead from 
 David, Audrey and Nicholas were suspicious of the 
 woman, and often openly rebellious. Henry was ap- 
 pealed to, but was so busy nursing his grief that he 
 was impotent. 
 
 First impulse had driven him to his children, and 
 they had received him gladly; but Miss Andrew had 
 arrived upon the scene, and, after being closeted with 
 her upon several occasions, Henry had become more 
 morose, taciturn, and unapproachable than ever be- 
 fore. 
 
 The good lady at first begged him to return to his 
 birthplace, and this he refused to do from a horror 
 of ridicule. Upon this she offered to take David 
 off his hands. Unfortunately she had lost her temper 
 with him, had addressed him in such direct terms, 
 and had so roused the devil of obstinacy in him, that 
 he stood with butting head and railed at her. 
 
 " I'll have none of your charity — ^none. I've made 
 my bed, and I'll lie on it. Your own words. I've 
 fouled my own nest, and I'll live in it, I will; and 
 what's good enough for me is good enough for my 
 children. I'm not the first fool in the world — I'm 
 not " 
 
 She was scared by the heat she had aroused in him, 
 and pitied him. In a flash he turned in upon him- 
 self, and took to examination of his own case. 
 
 3° 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 31 
 
 " Send David to be alone? " he cried. " If I'd had 
 brothers and sisters would I be the fool I am?" 
 
 This chance lighting on truth gave him a rare 
 confidence, and he strode up and down the tiny room 
 with his hands on his hips. 
 
 " Do you think it has all been easy for me ? I 
 knew nothing — I was a jay to be plucked — plucked — 
 that's what I was, a jay. If my father — ^but he could 
 never do anything but jeer at me and sneer at me. 
 There was nothing but what he would sneer at it. 
 Even that day when she and I — he sneered then. I 
 never knew him — the sort of man he was, I mean." 
 
 "A good man wasted." 
 
 By this Miss Andrew too was weeping and mopping 
 at her reddened eyes with a flimsy square of cam- 
 bric. 
 
 She waited. Henry strode. 
 
 "You will not, then?" 
 
 " My children stay with me." 
 
 " You will let them visit me? " 
 
 " Margaret never would " 
 
 " There was such pride in her." 
 
 Henry sat, and for some moments they were silent, 
 furtively stealing glances at one another. They were 
 seeking common ground, and could not find it in 
 the dead woman, so different was the image of her in 
 each. 
 
 Then Miss Andrew laughed, suddenly and help- 
 lessly laughed. In Henry, sore in his grief, and sore 
 against this woman, her laughter slammed down on 
 the desire for understanding. He winced from her, 
 and though she saw at once what she had done, she 
 recognized that it was irreparable, and yet to herself 
 would not admit it. She returned to the assault, 
 but so black was the world to Henry, so limited and 
 so frozen, that all that she said scarcely reached his 
 
32 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 ears. Tears blinded him, and he sat leaning forward 
 and rocking from side to side. She spoke to him 
 fair and strove reasonably to set before him his case. 
 
 " You see, life has not been kind to you." 
 
 That touched Henry's imagination, but the exer- 
 cise of it hurt him yet more. Depths stirred in him, 
 and he was tortured. 
 
 Miss Andrew abandoned the assault and stole 
 swiftly from the room. She was angry with herself, 
 bitterly sorry. 
 
 She sought the children, and found them consum- 
 ing tea, bread and jam in the kitchen, under the super- 
 vision of Mrs. Spencer. 
 
 The two women eyed each other, and were at once 
 hostile. Mrs. Spencer bobbed and went on cutting 
 bread and butter, holding the loaf against her bosom 
 and cutting inwards. 
 
 Shyness overtook the three children, and David 
 licked his fingers. For this he was chidden by the 
 midwife in good round terms. 
 
 Audrey, with a rebellious pout, said: 
 
 "I've seen you do it." 
 
 " Oh ! " This was a gasp of indignation, all the 
 more fierce from the inability to give it adequate ex- 
 pression. The midwife's ordinary rubicund coun- 
 tenance took on a purple hue. "Little girls should 
 be seen and not heard." And then she muttered: 
 " Not that you're much to look at, 'cos you ain't." 
 
 Miss Axjdrew kissed the two younger children, and 
 proposed that David should accompany her to the ter- 
 minus of the tramway. On the suggestion the boy 
 produced his cap from some recess of his clothing, 
 flung it on to his head, and, with a large slice of bread 
 and jam in his hand, was already half way out of 
 the door, when he was sternly recalled. He stood 
 sulkily swinging his right leg, and to avoid the cho- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 33 
 
 leric eye that glared upon him, took a large bite of 
 bread, and anointed his pallid cheeks with the crim- 
 son jam. / 
 
 "Ask your father," shrilled the woman — "ask 
 your father if he'd like a child of his to go stravadin' 
 the streets like that — ^and him a gentleman too ! " 
 
 David, thinking that neither Miss Andrew nor the 
 termagant were regarding him, put out his tongue. 
 On this she flew at him, took and shook him until, 
 to Audrey, it seemed that her brother had five heads. 
 
 Pale with rage, David stood, but clenched his 
 teeth, and would let no sound pass. 
 
 " There ! " The woman turned in triumph to meet 
 scornful eyes. On this she cringed, laughed nerv- 
 ously, and said: 
 
 "You — ^you must have a firm hand with them, or 
 — or — ^and their father's that soft with them " 
 
 "Will you wash yourself, David, and come with 
 me?" 
 
 David turned and rushed headlong to hide the tears 
 that had come to his eyes, 
 
 "You see, ma'am, you're not used to children, like 
 I am, though I never had none of my own. You 
 must be firm with them " 
 
 Miss Andrew devoted herself to Nicholas, and won 
 his confidence, so that he held one of her hands 
 tightly until David made his reappearance. To re- 
 lieve the strain of the situation. Miss Andrew asked : 
 
 "You are staying here?" 
 
 "Well, ma'am, there's the baby to be looked to — 
 and a sweet little thing it is — and as I always reckon 
 on a three weeks', I'm as well here as anywhere until 
 my next." 
 
 " I see." 
 
 "And poor Mr. Brockman needs as much lookin' 
 to as any baby — ^he's took it that bad " 
 
34 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "They do say, ma'am, that when a woman dies 
 like that she goes straight to heaven." 
 
 With these words the whole of the woman seemed 
 to change, and a new light came upon her. She who 
 had been coarse, vulgar, shrewish, was for a moment 
 an aspiring creature. 
 
 "It is a beautiful idea." 
 
 Said Audrey : 
 
 " Can I have some more jam?" 
 
 And the question of food replaced celestial thoughts 
 in Mrs. Spencer's mind. 
 
 Miss Andrew fumbled in her purse and presented 
 Audrey with a shilling, Nicholas with a sixpence. 
 She took David's hand, bowed a gracious farewell to 
 Mrs. Spencer, and returned to the unhappy Henry. 
 He was cowering over the fire-grate, thrusting at a 
 large coal. 
 
 "To say good-bye, Henry." She held out her 
 hand, and he, rising, took it. "Forgive me if I 
 have hurt you. I wished only to help. ... I have 
 only little, as you know, but what there is. ... I 
 ask you not to think ill of me." 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 "You will not reconsider?" ' 
 
 "I promised Margaret." 
 
 " David is coming with me a little way." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 5" Good-bye, then. You will not come to Bardon? " 
 
 "Never! Never!' 
 
 " You will let David come some day?" 
 
 " I'll think of it." 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 She and David marched out into the cold air, 
 David, as her guide, assumed an immense dignity. 
 
 "You don't remember Bardon, David?" 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 35 
 
 " Oh, but I know it ! Mother used to tell me about 
 the tolsey, and the great church, and the river, and the 
 old barouche, and the yew grove, and grandfather, and 
 all the people — Starks, and Chews, and Bastables. . ." 
 
 " What do you want to be, David ? " 
 
 This was food for pondering, and David walked 
 with bowed head for some minutes. 
 
 "Rich,". he said. 
 
 The answer found favour, for Miss Andrew patted 
 his shoulder. David looked up into her face. 
 
 "You must be very old." 
 
 "Fifty-nine, David." 
 
 " You're not father's aunt, are you ? " 
 
 " Some day I will tell you about your mother." 
 
 " I'd like to know " 
 
 "When you come to stay with me- 
 
 I — oh, I want to see the house — and father's 
 house, and — and all that " 
 
 David ended abruptly, for the horrible idea had 
 seized him that this sedate lady with the silver hair 
 and gown of sober grey would want to kiss him in 
 the public street. So strong was the presentiment in 
 him that it overwhelmed all other thoughts, and re- 
 duced him to a lamentable state of terror. Several 
 times he was on the point of flight, but, having un- 
 dertaken to conduct her through the maze of streets, 
 he would not leave her until they came to the corner 
 where stood the tramcar. Here she turned, and 
 David shrank out of reach. 
 
 " Good-bye, David, and thank you. Will you 
 write to me sometimes?" 
 
 "Yes, I will." 
 
 She pressed half a sovereign into his hand, and left 
 David gasping at the shining gold. 
 
 " 0-ooh ! Crimes ! " he said, and taking out his 
 handkerchief, he -placed th^ gQJO in the centre of it. 
 
36 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 and wrapping it up, stowed it away in his deepest 
 pocket. 
 
 Then he broke into a shrill whistle, and turned 
 homeward, kicking a stone in front of him as he 
 went. In imagination he bought the universe for 
 ten shillings, and scattered its treasures for largesse 
 among the creatures of his ken. All the same, it 
 was irritating to him when, having kicked his stone 
 with unusual precision in front of him, it came hurt- 
 ling back and struck him on the ankle. He looked 
 up, prepared to battle with an assailant, to find Tush 
 Williams, his chief ally, standing in the attitude of 
 salute. 
 
 "Well met. Captain." 
 
 David was at once lofty. 
 
 " Well met, thrall." 
 
 "What?" said Tush. 
 
 " It's a new word — thrall ;" and David spelled it. 
 
 " I suppose it's all right," said Tush submis- 
 sively . 
 
 "It's in the books. . . ." David dived deep in 
 his pocket. "Tush! I've got gold!" 
 
 Tush took in a hissing breath, and his eyes grew 
 like saucers in his head. 
 
 " I had one once, an' I lost it, an' father whacked 
 me." 
 
 " This is mine." 
 
 "Did you — did you steal it?" 
 
 David was sorely tempted to invent a highway ad- 
 venture. 
 
 "Aunt gave it to me. She's mother's aunt, not 
 father's." 
 
 "I^et's look at the date." 
 
 David shut the coin from his ally's devouring eyes 
 and restored it to his pocket. 
 
 "Aren't you going to spend any of it?" 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 37 
 
 " When the christening's done. We've got a baby- 
 in our house." 
 
 Tush was at once sympathetic. 
 
 " I shall ask father to call it Tush." 
 
 "I was christened Eustace. When are you coming 
 to the Park again? It's not the same without you, 
 Captain. I tried to be captain, but it's not the same." 
 
 " You ! " David was finely scornful and exultant 
 that he had been missed, the more so because he was 
 jealous of Tush, who had a certain romantic glamour 
 from the fact that his father was a policeman. 
 
 On the order of his captain. Tush gave a full nar- 
 rative of all adventures and events during the days of 
 seclusion. Suddenly he said: 
 
 " I'm going to leave school." 
 
 The announcement was calamitous. 
 
 David received it in frigid silence. Tush whim- 
 pered. The pride and pleasure of the prospect were 
 taken from him. 
 
 " I don't want to leave." 
 
 Still David was silent. 
 
 " Struth, I don't. By hemorrhage (this was an 
 oath of David's coining) I don't." 
 
 "You do." 
 
 "I don't. Slit my weasand if I do." 
 
 " Slit your weasand and I'll never know." 
 
 " Stap my vitals." 
 
 Tush's voice,^ just breaking, rose to a squeak and 
 ended in a husky rattle. He was almost a foot taller 
 than David, long, lanky, coltish. His brown eyes 
 looked dog-like in their appeal. 
 
 At length David stopped, and stood facing his 
 henchman. 
 
 " Thrall," he said, " there is a penny at the bottom 
 of the pond. If you fetch it, you don't want to 
 leave school ; if you don't, you do." 
 
38 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Tush set his teeth and accepted the amazing prop- 
 osition, accepted also the connection between the test 
 and the object of it. What was important to him 
 was that David should believe. 
 
 "You'll see me do it," said Tush. 
 
 On this they parted, David promising to rejoin his 
 band at the earliest opportunity. Tush hurrying to 
 fiqd an audience to whom to brag of the feat de- 
 manded of him. 
 
 Audrey met her brother in tears. 
 
 Her shilling had been taken from her by the tyrant 
 Spencer, and she had been given a dole of one penny 
 for spending. A similar fate had attended the gift 
 to Nicholas, except that he had been given twopence. 
 
 David, on these tidings, resolved to say nothing 
 about his treasure, and made the mistake of breaking 
 his habit of aloofness with the intruding woman by 
 a babbling account of his meeting with Tush Wil- 
 liams. She was at once suspicious, and pounced. 
 
 In sweetest tones came the question: 
 
 " What did sjie give you, dearie ? " 
 
 David hated to be called " dearie," and out came 
 his lower lip. 
 
 " I asked you a question." 
 
 She was hanging over the fire stirring a mess in 
 a stewpan. 
 
 David muttered. 
 
 " Eh ? " said the womiin, with a quick turn of the 
 head. 
 
 " I said nothing." 
 
 " What did she give you ? " There was open men- 
 ace now, and though David had a sinking in his stom- 
 ach, he squared to her. 
 
 "She gave Audrey a shilling, and Nicholas six- 
 pence. What did she give you?" 
 
 " Tush Williams is going to leave school." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 39 
 
 " I didn't ask you about the Williamses. What 
 did she give you?" 
 
 " Find out." 
 
 On this there came a volley of shrill abuse. 
 
 " Impudence." 
 
 Audrey and Nicholas were openly rejoicing in the 
 defiant words. Fierce glances were darted at them, 
 and they relapsed into nervous giggles. Mrs. Spen- 
 cer took a deep breath, and seemed to lash herself 
 into a fury. 
 
 "Well? You won't speak, won't you? Ungrate- 
 ful varmint ! Here's your poor mother scarcely cold 
 in her grave, but you will come with your pudgy face, 
 your mealy face, sulky, an' won't speak when you're 
 spoken to. Come on, tell me, will you? . . . I'll 
 tell your father." 
 
 Henry, attracted by the noise, and glad of anything 
 which could break in upon the hard stupor that was 
 upon him, came at this moment into the room. At 
 once the woman turned to him. 
 
 " Mr. Brockman, am I to be insulted in your house 
 by your children, or am I not? Am I to 'ave any 
 authority with them, or am I not ? " 
 
 David surveyed his father with a curious aloof- 
 ness. Audrey and Nicholas trembled for their broth- 
 er's fate, but he seemed reckless. 
 
 " Am I to be obeyed, Mr. Brockman, or am I not? " 
 
 " While Mrs. Spencer is in this house you will 
 obey her." 
 
 Thus went the fiat forth. David heard, but seemed 
 not to hear. 
 
 " Do you hear— David? " 
 
 " Yes. She drops her aitches." 
 
 "There!" said Mrs. Spencer. "There!" 
 
 David saw a long arm stretched out towards and 
 above him, a long, lean hand spread and descend, and 
 
40 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 felt himself lifted clean oflf his feet. He heard a 
 howl of terror from Audrey, and saw Nicholas' face 
 stretch to a yell, and then lost all consciousness in 
 physical pain, ignominy, shame and blind anger. 
 
 The ten shillings were taken from him and banked 
 with the Post Office. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer was thus established as an abiding 
 presence and power in the house, and though there- 
 after his father made overtures of friendliness to him, 
 David withdrew into the wilderness, and the image 
 of his mother was ever more and more present with 
 him. Audrey and Nicholas, though they made a 
 brave show at first, yet were won over by the force 
 of custom as time passed and still Mrs. Spencer con- 
 tinued to sojourn in the house. 
 
 When it came to the christening of the baby the 
 ascendancy of the woman was fully established, for 
 though Henry suggested that the boy should bear his 
 name, and David threw out " Eustace " as a sugges- 
 tion, together with Anthony and Andrew (Eustace 
 Anthony Andrew Brockman rang finely in David's 
 ears), she swept aside all suggestions and took her 
 stand firmly for "John." Further, she squashed 
 Henry's propitiatory desire that Miss Andrew should 
 be asked to be godmother to the infant, and, piping 
 her eye, professed a desire to stand godmother to the 
 child she had nursed and tended from its entry into 
 this wicked world. 
 
 "I've looked after Its precious little body, and who 
 better is there to look after its little soul — bless 
 im ! 
 
 David by this time knew better than openly to pro- 
 test. He made a silent resolve that, come what 
 might, the child should be to him Eustace Anthony 
 Andrew. He expected some sort of protest from his 
 father, but was staggered when, with an immense 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 41 
 
 show of dignity and condescension, Henry acquiesced 
 in every proposition, and gave to the detested woman, 
 with her scolding tongue and her dropped aitches, her 
 blowsy colour and her coarse hands, so intimate a 
 right in a Brockman. Having gained so much, she 
 ventured farther, and suggested the addition of Spen- 
 cer to the name of John. John Spencer Brockman — 
 water and fire were not more inimical than Spencer 
 and Brockman. David looked to his father, but 
 found him insensible to the horror of the juxtaposi- 
 tion. 
 
 With these names the youngest son of Henry 
 Brockman was endowed by his godfather and god- 
 mother in its baptism, during which office, because he 
 failed to accept the tradition that he must cry aloud, 
 he was pinched in the skin of his right thigh by his 
 fond godmother, who held him tenderly in her arms 
 until such time as he must he handed to the officiating 
 clergyman. 
 
 When he did cry under such provocation, he cried 
 lustily and with the full power of his lungs. 
 
 He was a marvellously ugly infant, so that David, 
 with his head full of barbaric stories, was sorely trou- 
 bled about him, and, indeed, succeeded in persuading 
 A'udrey and Nicholas that this was no true brother of 
 theirs, but a changeling substituted by the malevolence 
 of the witch who had forced herself upon them in the 
 guise of Mrs. Spencer. So successful was he in con- 
 vincing the younger children of the truth of this theory 
 that he plotted with them to put the matter to the test 
 in accordance with time-honoured recipe by casting the 
 babe into the fire, when the counterfeit would disap- 
 pear with malicious laughter and the real would be re- 
 stored. 
 
 Unfortunately, Audrey, who was much troubled in 
 her mind about the matter, divulged the plot to her 
 
42 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 father, and David was punished by loss of liberty dur- 
 ing three days. 
 
 At the end of that time he ran amok and was 
 brought home by a sympathetic crowd of boys bleed- 
 ing profusely from the nose, with two of his teeth 
 knocked out, a cut lip, a black eye, and a dislocated 
 thumb. He had done battle with a butcher-boy who, 
 having tormented Nicholas upon several occasions, 
 suddenly found himself surrounded by a horde and 
 challenged to combat. He was at first brazen. 
 
 "There's your cagent," said David, and tapped 
 the lout on the shoulder. 
 
 " Coward ! — coward ! — funk ! " yelled Tush, who 
 was holding David's coat. 
 
 "Who's a coward?" said the butcher-boy. 
 
 " You are," sang the horde. " 'Fraid to 'it one 
 littler than yourself." 
 
 " Yah ! " said the butcher-boy, and put out his 
 tongue. 
 
 David, with an imperious gesture, enforced silence. 
 
 " Leave him to me," he said. There was set pur- 
 pose on his face, his nostrils dilated, and there was a 
 glint in his eyes. He rolled up his shirt-sleeves to re- 
 veal his puny arms. 
 
 "You'll break," said the butcher-boy, and drew 
 back to survey the fierce challenger. 
 
 "Will you fight?" said David, and danced about 
 sawing his fists in the air in the approved fashion. 
 He smote the butcher-boy on the nose, and he, roused 
 to fury by the pain of it, threw out his great fist 
 blindly, and, catching David in the eye, sent him 
 sprawling. Up he got, however, and darted at the 
 butcher-boy's bulk, closed with him, and hammered 
 on his nose until it bled and swelled. So the fight 
 went on, David smiting twice or thrice to the butcher- 
 boy's once. They both blubbered under the pain they 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 43 
 
 were enduring, but still David darted and struck, and 
 still the butcher-boy lumbered and smote, and when 
 he smote, then David measured his length on the 
 ground. 
 
 lAU was in order. Tush was David's second, the 
 butcher-boy found one among the throng, and all the 
 while the boys kept up a volley of cheers as now this, 
 now that, blow told : 
 
 "Go it, Brockman!" 
 
 Tush, with his voice playing him tricks, cried, as he 
 had been taught to do: 
 
 " A Brockman ! A Brockman ! " 
 
 As time was called David came staggering to the 
 fight, while the butcher-boy grew more and more gi- 
 gantic, more looming, more difificult to hit. But ever 
 David cried through the sobs that strangled his voice : 
 
 "Will you give in?" 
 
 This he cried as he struck the giant in the wind, 
 and so incommoded him that at length, partly because 
 there was no rancour in him, and partly because he 
 was long overdue in his return to the shop of his em- 
 ployer, he announced that he would give in. 
 
 "Will you shake hands?" said David. 
 
 They shook hands, and David swooned. He was 
 carried home by his vanquished adversary and the 
 faithful Tush, while the other boys followed and re- 
 counted the whole fight, so that they had quickly 
 swelled the glory of David's achievement, and 
 through the neighbourhood the fame of it was noised 
 abroad, and Nicholas, as brother of the hero, came in 
 for a share of it, the more so as David was for many 
 days confined to his bed and could not enjoy the wor- 
 ship that should have been his. 
 
 On his arrival home he was washed and brushed, 
 his wounds were anointed, and it seemed that all was 
 well with him, for he was able to give a more or less 
 
44 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 coherent account of the adventure. However, after 
 he had been put to bed at his usual hour of nine, he 
 was found wandering about the upper rooms of the 
 house, light-headed and babbling strangely of witches 
 and evil fairies, of magicians and true knights, of 
 homed beasts and fair maidens in distress, of ships 
 and pirates. 
 
 - "Thrall, thrall, thrall!" he cried. "Yield, or I 
 will give thee into the jaws of Zachary Few! " 
 Then he sang: 
 
 " Few, Few the chimney-sweep 
 Steals little children in their sleep. 
 Where does he take them? 
 No one knows; 
 Zachary eats them, 
 And thinner grows." 
 
 He stole into the room that had been his mother's, 
 and standing by her bed, he said : 
 
 " Oh, mother, mother ! — it's so ugly — ^it can't be 
 ours — she's changed it: mother, mother, mother, 
 mother — father's beard hurts so. There's such a lot 
 of things that hurt, mother — oh! — I can't remember 
 it — I want to say it, but I can't remember the words, 
 and they're hurting my head. I am the most valiant 
 knight. . . ." 
 
 He was captured, and while he was drawn from the 
 bewildering thoughts crowding in his head he seemed 
 not to be conscious of the arms that, held him or of 
 how it was that he progressed. His legs kicked and 
 his arms swung in a swimming motion, and he made 
 as though with his head he were shaking through 
 water. 
 
 They had him tucked up in his bed, and his father 
 went for the doctor, who announced concussion of the 
 brain, and insisted on complete quiet. He was ap- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 45 
 
 palled by the boy's battered condition, and investi- 
 gated the cause of it. The tale delighted him, and he 
 regaled his daughter with it, and from that told her 
 what he knew of the history of the Brockmans. The 
 mother he described with enthusiasm. 
 
 " Just that fine spirit," he said, " indomitable, splen- 
 did, even in failure — courage — David." 
 
 "I'm sorry for the father." 
 
 " Just no character. How she ever came to marry 
 him I don't know. But I don't know either how your 
 mother ever came to marry me." 
 
 " You were very handsome when you were a young 
 man, father,'" said Helen. 
 
 "Ugly enough now." 
 
 " Only fairly ugly." 
 
 She came and sat on his knee, and twisted his grey 
 hair, an attention that he dearly loved. 
 
 " You'll be as pretty as your mother was." 
 
 " I'd like to be half as pretty." 
 
 " I'll give you David Brockman for a birthday 
 present." 
 
 " Oh ! Father, how old is he ? " 
 
 " Thirteen, they told me." 
 
 " It will be a very dear present." 
 
 Thus, while David was in his bed, babbling 
 strangely and suffering for his insane combat with the 
 butcher-boy, he began to exist for Helen Crosby, she 
 of the golden hair, a slight wisp of a girl twelve years 
 of age, already imperious, and with her father — a. 
 widower — something of a tyrant. 
 
IV 
 
 When he reached convalescence David's first visitor 
 was Tush. 
 
 He entered the room awkwardly, and stood twirl- 
 ing his cap and grinning. 
 
 " All hail. Tush ! " said David. 
 
 Tush knelt. 
 
 " Nay, do not kneel." 
 
 " I got it." f 
 
 Tush fumbled in his pocket and produced a pen- 
 knife, five sticky and dirty sweets, a ball of string, a 
 handful of marbles, a piece of sealing-wax, and finally 
 the penny. He held it out in the palm of his filthy 
 paw, and broke into a delighted guffaw. 
 
 "I marked the place by the tree and the summer- 
 house, like where you said it was, an' I dived, an' I 
 dived, an' I got it " 
 
 David held out his hand and took the penny. Then 
 he borrowed Tush's knife and scratched on it " T. 
 W." and the date of the exploit. 
 
 " I'll punch a hole in it, and then you can wear it." 
 
 "Ay, I'll wear it." 
 
 Between them they drilled a hole through the 
 penny, threaded it on to a piece of string, and it was 
 hung round Tush's not too clean neck. The simple 
 hobbledehoy was delighted. 
 
 " It'll bring me luck," he said. " I'm going to be 
 a barber, father says. What are you going to be?" 
 
 "I think I'll be a general, but I'm not sure. I 
 expect I'll have to go into an office first." 
 
 "It's in the shop where father has hisself shaved. 
 Old mad Lintott wants a boy to lather, an' father 
 
 46 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 47 
 
 asked if I'd do, an' old Lintott said 'e'ed try me. So 
 I'm goin' on Saturdays until I'm old enough to leave 
 school." 
 
 "Saturdays!" 
 
 David was up in arms at once on this. The occu- 
 pation of Tush meant the loss of him on the day of 
 days. 
 
 " There won't be any more fun then, Tush." 
 
 Tush had not realized this, so enthralled had he 
 been by the prospect of lathering hairy chins. 
 
 " I 'spect there'll be fun in the shop." 
 
 Captain and lieutenant eyed each other sorrow- 
 fully. There was such awful scorn in David's face 
 that Tush could not bear it, and turned away. 
 
 " I can't 'elp it," he said—" I can't 'elp it. Father 
 shouldn't 'ave 'ad me bom quite so soon." 
 
 The effort of thinking over this cause of all the 
 trouble quite exhausted his capacity, and he stared 
 stockishly. Slowly he turned and left the room. 
 
 David called after him, but, though he heard, he 
 lunged desperately down the stairs and out of the 
 house, so weighed down was he by the force of the 
 tragic sense in the absurd boy who had so pompously 
 presented him with his penny. Yet it was not long 
 before he had recovered, and was off blithely with 
 some comrade of baser clay. 
 
 Left alone, David was soon wearied of sitting still, 
 and, though it was expressly forbidden, stole down- 
 stairs into the room which enshrined all his mother's 
 treasures of old days. The history of each had been 
 so often recited that there was comradeship in them, 
 so that David was able completely to forget the loss 
 of Tush, staunch Tush. From mantelpiece and table 
 he took all the fine things, old Italian brass and cop- 
 per, china, ormolu, and lacquer, ancestral silhouettes, 
 and small drawings of fair ladies, and, surroundmg 
 
48 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 himself with them on the floor, he removed himself to 
 an island, where he lived with the gentlemen and 
 ladies, children and loyal servants, who had filled the 
 histories with which he had been enchanted and en- 
 slaved from babyhood. Margery Brockman — she 
 was there, and Stuckey Vyse, her sailor lover; old 
 Hippisley, Andrew the physician, and Henry An- 
 drew, who had lived in the great house at Woovens 
 in the west country; old Martin Brockman, the cur- 
 mudgeonly physician who had given the lie to one of 
 the King Georges; John Scoones, the buccaneer and 
 lieutenant of Paul Jones; and Bessie Andrew and her 
 brother James, who had been involved in the Gun- 
 powder Plot. These all had names and walked in 
 the flesh, but there were others, many of them who 
 thronged upon the island, clustered like swarming 
 ants — a kingdom without order save that in the centre 
 of it David towered and ruled indeed, mighty and yet 
 powerless; for events so crowded in upon each other, 
 adventures trod so closely in upon each other's heels, 
 as to make confusion worse confounded. It was all 
 beginning and beginning, but never in any exploit, any 
 quest, was there an end. David suffered from the 
 bewilderment of the merging of one adventure into 
 another. 
 
 His mother had never known of the island. Her 
 share in the game had been the pouring into David's 
 mind of these personages from the history of both 
 sides of his family, and she never knew that in the 
 early hours of his long nights he transferred them to 
 his island kingdom. So he reigned alone, and 
 though in the Park he sometimes translated into ac- 
 tion events that had happened in the island, he always 
 did it with some queer shame and diffidence, so that 
 never such success attended his efforts as when they 
 were the inspiration of the moment. Nicholas and 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 49 
 
 Audrey were impossible. During the long hours in 
 bed he had endeavoured to translate Eustace Anthony 
 Andrew thither, but had never been able to escape 
 from the fact that the infant's name was, after all, 
 John Spencer. Besides, the island was no place for 
 babes: the dreadful Scoones had been known to eat 
 child's flesh on the high seas; and, Spencer or no 
 Spencer, the life of a Brockman must be preserved. 
 In such turmoil in his island was David when plump 
 out of the troubled skies descended Helen into it. In 
 the case of an ordinary addition to the population, 
 the person, he or she, just sprang no man knew 
 whence, and, upon obeisance to the Towering King, 
 was admitted to the throng, and wandered in and out 
 of now this, now that, adventure. 
 
 With Helen it was far otherwise. No sooner was 
 she perceived than a mighty shout ascended to reach 
 the ears of the King, and he, glancing down, saw her 
 being drawn in a carriage, golden as Napoleon's or 
 the Lord Mayor's. Upon this, mounting his favour- 
 ite charger, he ran at full gallop to meet her, and, 
 handing her from her carriage (her hair was so 
 golden that the stm, for the first time in the history of 
 the island, sulked behind a cloud), stooped to kiss her 
 hand, and then and there proclaimed her his Queen. 
 
 Cheer upon cheer rent the air. 
 
 " That is," said His Majesty, stooping to the shell- 
 like ear of his new-found consort, "if you are not 
 already married." 
 
 " I would rather be a Queen than married." 
 
 The crier proclaimed the match. There were uni- 
 versal rejoicings, during which the vile Scoones was 
 pardoned for all his villainies, and the king made a 
 grand progress through his domains. As the cortege 
 neared that pinnacle of the island where formerly the 
 monarch had stood, he realized with hideous force 
 
so DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 that he had forgt)tten to provide a palace, and stole a 
 nervous glance at his consort to see whether she had 
 noticed the omission. She was calm and smiling. 
 The King sotto voce ordered Henry Andrew of Woo- 
 vens to procure a palace, and at once, such is the power 
 of Royalty, there stood a golden mass of buildings, by 
 whose drawbridge were rows of bowing lackeys in 
 red plush and powder. 
 
 During these magnificent events Mrs. Spencer saw 
 only a small boy and a small girl rather shyly regard- 
 ing each other. 
 
 '" This is Miss Helen Crosby come to see you, 
 David." 
 
 But the boy heard nothing. He bowed to her as 
 Sir Walter RaJeigh bowed to Queen Elizabeth to lay 
 his cloak in the mud for her golden-shod feet. It 
 was a curt little nod that he gave her, but he had never 
 any doubt of the magnificence of his salute; neither 
 did he dream that there was in her no conception of 
 the exalted rank to which he had raised her, nor of 
 the words which he had put into her mouth. 
 
 She was all friendliness, and while Mrs. Spencer 
 removed from him all that was fragile and left him 
 only surrounded by gleaming brass, she stood survey- 
 ing with the closest interest his honourable scars. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer left them, and David was just about 
 to enter the palace when his consort turned to him, 
 eyes brimming with tears of love, laid her hand gen- 
 tly on his arm, and said : 
 
 " Let me see your teeth." 
 
 Island, palace, lackeys, countries, and mob all van- 
 ished, whisked away, except for Scoones, who lin- 
 gered for a moment to make a hideous grimace and 
 to shake his fist, so that David noticed for the first 
 time that on his wrist were tattooed two serpents and 
 the skull and cross-bones. Then Scoones also van- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 51 
 
 ished, and David turned to inquiring Helen, and 
 grinned to display the gap in his teeth. 
 
 " Did you swallow them? " 
 
 " No. Spat 'em out, with lots of blood." 
 
 " 0-o-oh ! . . . You look so pale." 1 
 
 " Nothing to what I have been." 
 
 " Which eye was it ? " 
 
 "They were both black, and yellow, and purple — 
 and this one was bloodshot." 
 
 This delight in realistic detail was too much for 
 Helen. 
 
 " I'm glad I didn't see you like that." 
 
 " It was nothing," said David airily, and was then 
 seized with a sudden bashfulness, for he looked at 
 Helen for the first time fairly. His awkwardness in- 
 fected her, and for some moments neither spoke. 
 
 "Squat," he said, having mentally tried first 
 "Won't you sit down? " and then, " Will you take a 
 chair?" only to find both impossible of utterance. 
 He plumped down on the floor himself. 
 
 " She's not my mother," he said, with a nod in the 
 direction of the door by which Mrs. Spencer had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 "I know," said Helen. 
 
 " That's mother." And he jabbed in the direction 
 of a portrait in pastel, the work of some vagrom artist 
 who had dwelt for a time in Bardon. 
 
 " She's lovely," said Helen, and David warmed to 
 her. 
 
 "How many brothers have you?" he asked, purely 
 by way of making conversation. 
 
 "None," said she. 
 
 David thought for some time. Then he said 
 slowly : 
 
 " I dare say Audrey wouldn't mind sharing with 
 you." 
 
52 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Helen accepted this in silence, and David, unused 
 to any challenge of his ordering, passed on from this 
 informal adoption to the thing nearest in his mind. 
 
 " It's a pity you're a girl." 
 
 " I'm glad I'm a girl." 
 
 " You can't be a lieutenant." And David mourned 
 the loss of Tush, mourned in true Biblical fashion, 
 turning his face to the wall. 
 
 Helen was with him in a moment. 
 
 "You — you can't understand, because you're a 
 girl." 
 
 "Girls," said Helen, "can understand anything." 
 
 Then and there David revealed to Helen the mirac- 
 ulous island, and brought its chief inhabitants one by 
 one to do homage. She was gracious, and extended 
 her hand to everyone except Scoones, who was pre- 
 sented to her in such lurid colours, with so full and 
 particular a description of all his horrid achievements 
 by land and sea, that she was affrighted, and could 
 not let his lips touch her. 
 
 " Scoones, begone ! " thundered David, " and be 
 for ever banished ! " 
 
 The craven Scoones spat venomously, and crawled 
 from the throne-room, vowing vengeance. 
 
 " Ha ! " said David, " he will come back with great 
 ships to lay waste our shores." 
 
 Helen shuddered, until David ordered that twenty 
 galleys should at once be built, and a special barge 
 with silken sails to bear the island's queenly treasure. 
 
 Upon this phrase Helen cried, and clapped her 
 hands in ecstasy. 
 
 " Oh, David, you are splendid ! " 
 
 In his heart David agreed with her. 
 
 " Nicholas and Audrey will be back from school." 
 
 "Do they play?" 
 
 " They ! No. This is my game." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 53 
 
 " And mine." 
 
 David' s face fell, and Helen thought it must be 
 for her. 
 
 " I love it so." 
 
 " It's not that. ... I can't ask you to tea because, 
 you see, we're poor." 
 
 This was letting in reality with a vengeance. And 
 David winced as Helen seemed to notice for the first 
 time the great age of his clothes. It was a relief to 
 both when Audrey and Nicholas came shyly in to see 
 the pretty girl. 
 
 Nicholas seemed to have some doubts as to whether 
 she were real or not, for his mouth and eyes made 
 three round "O's," and he edged to her nearer and 
 nearer until he could touch her, and then, horror of 
 horrors! she stooped awkwardly and kissed him, 
 though she made no attempt towards a similar salute 
 with Audrey. It was because Nicholas was so little. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer came then with the baby in her arms, 
 and thus Helen made the acquaintance of all the 
 family. 
 
 " I came to ask if David and Audrey might come to 
 tea on my birthday next week; but — I should like 
 Nicholas to come as well." 
 
 Mrs. Spencer thought they might, and said she 
 would ask their father. 
 
 Upon this Helen took her leave, and was whirled 
 away in her father's brougham, which, to the great 
 excitement and envy of the neighbours, had been 
 waiting in the street for her during the whole of her 
 visit. 
 
 Events in the Brockman household had drawn the 
 attention of the inhabitants of every house, from the 
 golden-haired lady at Number One to the dirty old 
 music-master at Number Fifty-seven. " Them 
 Brockmans" had always been an enigma since early 
 
54 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 days when Margaret had gently but firmly repulsed 
 all advances. They called her haughty, and though 
 in a sense they respected her, yet it took very little to 
 set their tongues wagging maliciously, and often some 
 wicked story had come home to Margaret to set her 
 chafing against the environment to which Henry's 
 folly had brought her and her children. When she 
 lay ill gossip ceased, and kindly overtures were made, 
 all the more touching for their very ineptitude. 
 
 In his raw state Henry had savagely beaten back 
 all offers of assistance with his children, and with a 
 firmness rare in him had forbidden Mrs. Spencier to 
 hold intercourse with any person in the street. With 
 this, out of the curious respect she had for him, the 
 woman complied, though not without protest. 
 
 " One must be affable," she said. 
 
 "I fail to see the necessity," said Henry, and de- 
 clined to enter into further argument, but went about 
 his business. 
 
 She was terrified of his silence and did his bidding, 
 though she suffered agonies from the -consciousness 
 of what things began darkly to be whispered of her. 
 The curious interest of the yellow-haired lady as she 
 passed or met her in the street maddened her, and 
 dearly would she have loved to flout her. She was 
 often tortured, but if she could only win a word of 
 approval from Henry, if he would only listen to her 
 with some show of interest while she talked, she knew 
 content and peace. She had a horror of those hours 
 when, the children being long since in bed, he would 
 sit brooding, brooding over the fire, and not speak 
 one word or seem to hear anything that she said, 
 while the clock tick-ticked and she could hear every 
 scurrying mouse in the wainscotting, every sound in 
 the house next door, every flicker of a flame and 
 every stirring of a coal in the fire, until she was al- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 55 
 
 most at screaming-point. Sometimes she would rise 
 to steal away so that she might know if he were aware 
 of her, for almost always when she did this he would 
 turn in his chair and follow her with his eyes. Some- 
 times he would frighten her with grim chuckles or 
 wild laughter, though what sad joke it was that 
 tickled him he never would divulge; or he would sit 
 with a vacant eye cocked at her so steadfastly and un- 
 winkingly scanning her as to cause her to fidget and 
 to pat now this, now that, part of her person or cloth- 
 ing. So dreadful did this vacant eye become to her 
 that she involuntarily crooked her finger in the in- 
 stinctive and wild desire to pluck it out. Most ter- 
 rible was it when in the end of its scrutiny it winked, 
 slowly winked at her, as though to invite her to par- 
 ticipate in some jest, grim and fathomless. There 
 was fascination in the terror of it, for nothing in her 
 life had so brought her to a sense of the abysmal 
 depth of humanity. At its most fearful it made her 
 giddy, and yet the man enslaved her, enveloped her, 
 and so illumined the world for her that she was to 
 herself new, strange, and large. In these hours there 
 was with her A rare sense of space, sometimes so chill- 
 ing that she ached to touch the man — ^just to touch 
 him, his hand, his face, or his neck, or the hair of 
 him, but never, never did she dare. To escape from 
 it she forced herself to talk, and talk, and talk — rem- 
 iniscence, old tales, stories of her wedded life, of her 
 dead husband — a. clerkly soul, small, incomparably 
 small now in her recollection — of her work and the 
 weariness of it, of the tragedy and comedy of life as 
 she conceived them, of domestic detail and finance, 
 of anything, anything only to blot out the formless 
 thing that filled all her being. Sometimes she would 
 succeed in striking an answering note in him, and he 
 would emerge from his glbom and so charm her with 
 
56 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 his ease and, as it seemed to her, his infinite variety, 
 as to send her wildly rejoicing to her bed, where she 
 would lie long gazing at the child sleeping in its cradle 
 by her bedside. If he let her steal away from him 
 with the full iciness and horror upon her, then she 
 would take the babe and hold it close to her for con- 
 tact and warmth, and long into the night she would 
 lie staring into the darkness, dry, parched, aching, 
 starting at every sound in the house, listening for his 
 tread upon the stairs, waiting for the inevitable stum- 
 ble in the dark and the muffled oath, just to hear his 
 voice and to know that he was no longer sitting there, 
 just sitting, brooding; for while she knew him to be 
 there she could not sleep, so vivid was the image of 
 him in her mind. 
 
 There was no strife in her, for she offered no re- 
 sistance to the stream that swept her along. There 
 was never in her any effort to investigate the nature 
 of the thing. What came to her she accepted, and 
 asked no more, and though a change was wrought in 
 her she had no suspicion of it, no idea that, where 
 she had been harsh, coarse, and overbearing, she was 
 now gentle and kind, and where hard and mean, now 
 soft and generous. Though the children, even 
 David, were won over to her and now came gladly to 
 her, gave her confidence, she took this for inevitable, 
 and had no thought of connection between her easier 
 relations with them and the thing that possessed 
 her. 
 
 As the children came to her, she grew closer to their 
 father in sharing them with him, and, though there 
 were the baleful hours, yet she grew stronger to win 
 through them, suffered less under torment, was less 
 chilled, and came in time to catch glimpses of happi- 
 ness. These she snatched and hugged to herself, cry- 
 ing aloud for very joy. Only in these moments did it 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 57 
 
 seem to her that the man was conscious of what was 
 in her, and then he loomed most fearfully and shook 
 where he sat, and was so ghastly that the little singing 
 voice in her quavered and died, and all the horror 
 came again, new, crushing. 
 
 IThrough it all there was in her no thought of es- 
 cape — none. She watched the man and learned his 
 ways, learned how to make him comfortable, how to 
 bring him ease, and how best to drag from him those 
 moments of graciousness which were so precious to 
 her. She learned what in herself most jarred on 
 him, and brought new soothing notes into her voice. 
 She marked the moments when it seemed that he most 
 realized her presence and to perceive well what man- 
 ner of creature she was, how gowned, how coiffed; 
 and yet she never forced herself upon him, never 
 strove to draw his eyes upon herself. Just that noth- 
 ing should hurt him and she was content, almost glad ; 
 yet, when with childish bluntness Nicholas said to 
 her, "You're nicer than you used to be," she was in 
 a flutter and had a new timidity in Henry's presence. 
 The growing sense of purpose wavered in her, and 
 gave birth to a straining this way and that, of what 
 she had been and what she dimly saw. In this tussle 
 custom and old habits of mind gained, and she was 
 left craving, with the new light that had dawned upon 
 her fading. There was relief in this, and she as- 
 sumed a masterful control, against which Henry first 
 rebelled impotently, in peevish outbursts of railing 
 temper, and finally accepted. 
 
 He was comfortable, and did not know how much 
 he had come to lean on the rude strength of the 
 woman until the hour came for her departure. They 
 had never spoken of her going, and she had stayed 
 long past her usual period, receiving her weekly fee. 
 
 Then came the summons. From habit she pre- 
 
58 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 pared to go at once, sent messages to the client, and 
 packed and had all prepared before there was in her 
 any troubling of the mind. It was late afternoon. 
 She sought a neighbour who would look after the 
 children until Henry's return, and then found that 
 she could not go. One excuse and another she made 
 to herself, ran to her room on pretence of seeking 
 something left behind, set all in order in the kitchen, 
 and turned from one room to another, from this to 
 that, and back again. 
 
 At length she heard his footstep and the sound of 
 his key in the latch. She was dressed in her cloak 
 and bonnet, smart in her uniform of blue linen. On 
 an impulse she flung her cloak from her, and after 
 some fumbling at its strings, for her fingers trembled 
 so, she removed her bonnet and left them in the room 
 — ^the drawing-room— whither she had strayed in her 
 restlessness, and ran to prepare his evening meal for 
 him. Almost magically she made the kitchen spick 
 and span, thrusting the children's litter into drawers, 
 coaxing the fire into a bright blaze, drawing the cur- 
 tains, so that when he entered all was bright and com- 
 fortable — the kettle sang and belched clouds of steam, 
 while she, buxom and comely, stood with the red glow 
 of the fire on her face. 
 
 He crept silently to his corner and began to remove 
 his boots. The fire warmed him, and he broke into 
 muttering, then into a boisterous mood. He began to 
 whistle, and seemed so surprised to find himself doing 
 anything so blithe that he ceased, and his jaw dropped. 
 There was a sort of snap in his head, his whole body 
 shook, he gasped, and gasped again, with two fingers 
 eased the collar at his neck, then rubbed his knees, 
 sat rubbing so, gazed into the fire, up into the woman's 
 face, back to the fire, then half up, and into his eyes 
 came an expression of wonder; then he was quizzical 
 for a flash again, in gloomy depths, and finally, pull- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 59 
 
 ing the end of his meagre moustache, he said slowly 
 and with infinite deliberation, "I'm — an — ass," and 
 laughed thinly. A queer, crackling laugh it was, 
 rusty. It hurt her, for she was used to the man 
 numbed. 
 
 "One would think," she said — "one would think 
 that — that you was — were glad I'm going." 
 
 She waited for the effect of her words, but they 
 had been as futile as all her babbling talk had been in 
 the strange evenings. He was engrossed in the con- 
 templation of himself. 
 
 " I met a man," he said, " who called me ass, and 
 I've been wanting to laugh ever since." 
 
 Then he ate as she had never seen him eat — wolf- 
 ishly, hungrily, and with great relish. He drank, and 
 called for more and yet more. He seemed to swell, 
 his face shone, and his eyes darted hither and thither. 
 It seemed as if there was much in the room that they 
 had never seen. 
 
 The woman's heart beat wildly, and then sank. 
 She dwindled and was small, and when she spoke all 
 the new refinement had left her voice; it was thick 
 again. She stiffened herself and drew on her pro- 
 fessional manner, alert, quick, and a little hard. 
 
 "You'll be wanting a woman for the baby," she 
 said. 
 
 Henry sat chuckling, and his eyes twinkled as 
 though they were answering the winking of some dis- 
 tant star. Some cloud came between him and the 
 thing he wished to see, for with both hands he 
 brushed away. 
 
 This passing of Henry from her world into some 
 region unknown and incomprehensible to her roused 
 the woman to anger. She stood above him, and at 
 her shrillest almost bawled into his ear: 
 
 "There's David, and Audrey, and Nicholas, and 
 John, What are you going to do with them? " 
 
6o DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 If she had hit him in the stomach he could not have 
 collapsed more utterly. A chuckle passed into a 
 moan, he ceased to seek inspiring light, wincing and 
 shivering under the sharpness of present affliction. 
 
 "I — I — I dunno. There they are, bless 'em! 
 Little — little bellies to be filled, and — David to be 
 made free of the world. Free of an empty stomach 
 — free to be a worse fool than his father. Free! 
 There's no freedom — and no comfort in prison — ^and 
 — and it is very funny." 
 
 "I'm sorry, Mr. Brockman." 
 
 "Wait. Just you wait. I'll get back— I'll . . . 
 I know — I know — wait ! " 
 
 He passed swiftly from the room, but quickly re- 
 turned. He gave the woman money, and an old 
 jewel, which at first she would not have from him; 
 but under persuasion finally she took it, murmuring 
 thanks. Then she said : 
 
 " I'll come back any time you want me, Mr. Brock- 
 man." 
 
 Henry wagged his finger in her face, turned 
 abruptly from her, and, seizing hat and coat in his 
 flight, passed out into the night — a night of rough 
 weather, driving rain and gusty wind, that tossed and 
 whirled the rubbish in the dingy streets through 
 which he fled. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer burst into a storm of tears, gathered 
 her belongings, and, after extinguishing all the lights, 
 left the house to seek that in which her services were 
 required to bring yet another human creature to his 
 heritage of laughter and tears, hope, and foolish cour- 
 age. From time to time she fingered the jewel in 
 her pocket, and the vision of Henry as a man among 
 men, valiant, strong, and pitiably weak, glowed before 
 her. 'She found herself talking, and recognized the 
 words in her mouth for these: 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 6i 
 
 "Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, good 
 Lord." 
 
 Light and Henry were inextricable ideas, and never 
 were more luminous than when she came to the house 
 of Edward Bailey, a bald little salesman in a draper's 
 shop, an honest man, a good citizen, a churchwarden, 
 an ornament to Church and State, but common, freely 
 and without revolt breathing the grimy and sunless 
 air of the place. This man gave Mrs. Spencer a 
 warm welcome, treated her in all things as an equal, 
 and oppressed her by his formal cordiality and easy 
 assumption of a consuming interest in all his affairs. 
 
 Henry meanwhile was striding savagely through 
 mean streets, miles and miles of them, black, grimy. 
 He was clutching at an idea, the first real idea born 
 of his own consciousness that had ever come to him. 
 It was elusive, came near, then swiftly darted back 
 into rolling mists. Henry threw back his head, 
 squaring to the buffeting wind, and rejoicing in the 
 beat of the rain upon his face, for it brought comfort, 
 dulled the pain of the new thoughts stirring in him. 
 
 iHe came to the public-house which had for years 
 enjoyed his patronage. He stayed on the threshold, 
 and pushed open the door. He heard a voice raised 
 in argument, a thick guttural voice, dogmatic, raucous : 
 
 "These 'ere pensions: wot good do they do? Six 
 millions, an' where's it all to come from, I'd like to 
 know? Tell me that. That's what I want to know." 
 
 " From the same place as the sixty-six millions for 
 the army and navy, I guess." 
 
 "'Oh, that! That's necessary. This 'ere coun- 
 try's done, down, flummuxed. We got no men to 
 govern us " 
 
 Henry let the door swing to, and turned away. 
 The voice of the dogmatic creature had grated on his 
 ears, and he shivered when he remembered that he 
 
62 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 had met this man on terms almost of equality, had 
 eaten and drunk with him, visited him in his house, 
 had even presented him to Margaret. He translated 
 the man to Bardon, and was at first sore, then trou- 
 bled by the sorry spectacle he made in the gentle 
 atmosphere of old days. He laughed ruefully, and 
 so passed into a frenzy of recollection and correlation 
 of past and present. He continued his solitary 
 march. 
 
 He was for the first time keenly conscious of the 
 dinginess of the place in which he was wandering, 
 the place which he had made his home, ^nd of the 
 dead weight of it upon his spirit. The idea was stir- 
 ring in him, but could not find shape. His thoughts 
 were blurred, confused, inconsequent. He was con- 
 scious as he had never been of the stir of human life 
 all about him, but could find no central point, no clue 
 to elucidate the whirl of it all. He wanted to think, 
 but thinking hurt him. 
 
 "David, Audrey, Nicholas, John — little bellies to 
 be filled. Escape — Margaret — ^poor Margaret! — 
 poor, poor Margaret! Poor Henry! — oh, wretched 
 Henry! Escape — ships — sea, air, trees— air — sweet 
 air, wide air. . . . Music — sea again, always the 
 sea — meadows. . . . Dull, dull, dull. . . . 
 Why? . . ." 
 
 (This arrival at the interrogation which is the hu- 
 man privilege was the worst shock that he had yet 
 suflfered. He glared, and for a moment was blank, 
 so that even his legs refused to perform their fvmc- 
 tion. A mongrel which for long enough had been 
 dogging his footsteps, seeking to adopt him, seized 
 the opportunity to sniff at the ends of his trousers for 
 trace of other dog, and, finding none, leaped about 
 him, and yelped to command attention. 
 
 Henry welcomed the interruption, patted the dog, 
 wondered why it had the head of a retriever and the 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 63 
 
 legs of a spaniel, and when it followed him, bade it 
 go to its home. The dog eventually succeeded in 
 making him understand that it had no home worthy 
 of the name, and refused to leave him. 
 
 "I cian't afford to pay for your licence," said 
 Henry. The dog wagged its stumpy tail in contempt 
 of the exchequer, and Henry amused himself on his 
 homeward way with finding a fitting name for such a 
 cur. He eventually pitched on "Jones." 
 
 When Henry reached his house, Jones raced in to 
 the kitchen, shook himself, curled up, and went to 
 sleep. 
 
 From force of habit Henry found himself slinking 
 into his comer by the fire, but sprang from it, discov- 
 ered that he was wet through and very hungry. He 
 foraged for a meal, which he shared with Jones, 
 whom he woke for the purpose, and went to bed think- 
 ing that the house was empty, cold, and no abiding- 
 place. Then came the " Why ! " 
 
 The answer sounded pat from the darkness : " Mar- 
 garet." 
 
 Jones slept in the kitchen all night, while Henry 
 lay awake in his bed, turning and turning over in his 
 mind what next he should do. Eventually he fell 
 asleep, dreaming that he had just made out a cheque 
 for fifteen hundred pounds to buy Jones a collar. 
 
 In the morning there was a new vigour in him, and 
 he shared in David's delight in Jones, who, waking 
 early upon the arrival of the charwoman sent by Mrs. 
 Spencer to tend the Brockman household, had then 
 thought it advisable to explore the house, and coming 
 to David's room, had forthwith leaped upon his bed 
 and awakened him by frenzied licking of his face. 
 
 Nicholas was terrified, but David leaped to his feet, 
 and in a trice had Jones submissive and adoring. 
 
 " Such," said David, as he made Jones lie down — 
 " such is the power of the human eye." 
 
Room was found for the dog on the island, where he 
 was set to guard the treasure-house, and was taught 
 to snarl and show his teeth, to crouch for a fearsome 
 spring at the mention of Scoones, or Mrs. Scoones, 
 who was none other than Mrs. Spencer, thrown to 
 the buccaneer when he had come brazenly to demand 
 the hand of Helen of her rightful lord. Thenceforth 
 Mrs. Spencer was ranged in the minds of both David 
 and Helen on the side of evil, and they shunned the 
 poor woman as a noxious and menacing thing, an 
 ever-present peril. She paid periodic visits to the 
 house in her afternoons of leisure, and stayed long 
 hours for Henry, who was not often in the house of 
 an evening, for he was away in pursuit of the materi- 
 alization of his idea; but she clung doggedly to her 
 self-imposed task of oiling the machinery of the house- 
 hold, which, under Audrey's direction, was apt to 
 grow rusty and creak ominously. 
 
 It had not taken Audrey long to develop matronly 
 qualities. John was her especial care, and the satis- 
 faction of his physical needs her prime duty, after 
 which she would, with the assistance of the char- 
 woman, see that David and Nicholas were fed. She 
 was stem in the matter of cleanliness, and enforced 
 the use of the tooth-brush, in accordance with the prin- 
 ciples she had imbibed from her mother. She was 
 particularly adroit in her handling of David; never 
 questioning his supreme authority, but, by sheer in- 
 
 64 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 65 
 
 sistence and tactful abnegation of self, bringing him 
 to the conclusion in every matter which she in her 
 own mind had fore-ordained. This was especially the 
 case in the matter of John, with whose welfare David 
 considered himself equally charged. He was proud 
 of the charge, swaggered about it, and was conse- 
 quently as wax in the hands of his sister, and of 
 Helen, who joined with Audrey in her base decep- 
 tion. 
 
 Helen was a two-fold traitress, for not only did she, 
 with Audrey, cozen the heroic David into the duties 
 of an under-nursemaid, but she recounted all his island 
 exploits to her father, to whom thgy brought great 
 joy and much laughter, though his manner of re- 
 ceiving the adventures was as solemn as Helen's re- 
 cital of them. 
 
 He was glad that Helen should have such a play- 
 mate, but at the same time he never lost sight of the 
 practical issue and the difficulties he foresaw for Da- 
 vid and his family, but was content to let well, or ill, 
 alone for the present, though from his charity he was 
 sorely tempted to enter upon the task of redemption 
 at once. Henry was difficult. He saw little of him, 
 but the man was so raw and sensitive that upon any 
 attempt to deal practically with the question, he 
 scented condemnation, and rose at once in loud pro- 
 testation. It seemed that there was nothing to be 
 done! but to await the outcome of the stir and up- 
 heaval in Henry, whether he would retire bruised and 
 crushed before the weight of adverse circumstances, 
 or would, with the strength of roused dormant quali- 
 ties break through and wrest from the world security 
 and peace — the peace of strength. 
 
 " It must be," said the physician, to his reflection 
 in the mirror. " It must be with all of us, the peace 
 of strength, or the peace of weakness resigned." 
 
66 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 He was not a little surprised to find that he had 
 gained Henry's confidence. 
 
 Henry first scented the man under the professional 
 gentleman on the night of Helen's birthday-party, to 
 which David, Audrey, and Nicholas, in their finest 
 raiment, repaired. There had been some difficulty 
 about John, but Mrs. Spencer, arriving during the 
 conclave, had found a kindly neighbour to take charge 
 of the infant on the auspicious evening. 
 
 She herself arranged to be present for the dressing 
 and equipment. 
 
 David had seen a brooch in the window of a small 
 jeweller's shop, and had set his heart upon acquiring 
 it for his Helen. He revealed the project to his father, 
 and, with some misgiving, asked for some of the ten 
 shillings that Miss Andrew had given him. To this 
 Henry demurred, and David sulked until a more glo- 
 rious present was given to him in the shape of a 
 brooch that had been his mother's, old filigree of sil- 
 ver set with paste. This she had worn most con- 
 stantly, and Henry gave it grudgingly and yet with 
 a joy almost as great as that with which David took 
 it, for Helen had been a delight to him also since her 
 coming. The thought that the gift would not be 
 wholly his brought some chagrin to David, but this 
 was quickly swallowed in the contemplation of its 
 splendour; and it was with pride that he gave the 
 little packet, and watched the excitement of its open- 
 ing, and the dancing light of glee as Helen showed 
 the jewel to her father, and came to David that he 
 might pin it to her frock. This he did awkwardly 
 and with little grace, and a sudden shyness overtook 
 him. This Helen swiftly overcame by an appeal to 
 him as of right as to what games they should play, 
 and David devised such sport as to keep the little 
 gathering hilarious and excited. He glowed with 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 67 
 
 pleasure in the newness of his devising. And from 
 this and that, one game to another, plunged to the 
 revelation of his island that Helen might be truly a 
 Queen. The game was hot and swinging mightily 
 along when David suddenly realized what he had 
 ■done, and flung himself full length upon the floor 
 and mourned. This was taken for some new turn in 
 the game, and Helen frowned for silence, until it 
 should appear what next there was. 
 
 Pale, and with lips quivering, David rose to his 
 feet and moved with such detemiination that the 
 throng parted before him, and admiring eyes followed 
 him when he moved; for there was no suspicion of 
 disaster, or that this was other than the outset of a 
 new play. Audrey was the first to scent the trouble, 
 for she knew this aspect of her brother. She turned 
 to Helen, found that she had just divined the truth, 
 and from these two the knowledge spread so that the 
 life died out of the party, and Nicholas, who had been 
 thrilled and quivering from a fight with a savage 
 tribe, set up a howl, and was only induced to cease by 
 a plentiful ofifering of cake, which he anointed with 
 his tears as he devoured it. 
 
 Upon this scene Jones entered with his lumbering 
 trot, smelt once, twice, paused at Nicholas, and made 
 straight for David, leaped upon him, licked his face, 
 and so roused him that the boy, who had just vowed, 
 like the English King upon the loss of the White 
 Ship, never to smile again, leaped to his feet, knelt to 
 Helen to crave pardon, and plunged into a riotous 
 game. 
 
 The maid came to announce that Henry was below, 
 come for his children ; and Dr. Crosby went with her 
 to seek him, forgetting that on his head he wore a 
 fool's cap of green paper, spangled. 
 
 The melancholy Henry stared at him in amaze- 
 
68 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 ment, and took the hand proffered to him, wondering 
 at the warmth with which it gripped him. 
 
 " They must stay a little longer. Such a splendid 
 boy! I've never had such fun." He chuckled and 
 fixed his pince-nez. Henry's pallor struck him, and 
 the coldness of his hand. 
 
 " You are cold. Is it wet out of doors ? " 
 
 " My dog," said Henry awkwardly, and looked 
 round towards the door as though he were anxious 
 to escape. 
 
 " He came straight to David. Come and be warm." 
 The doctor took Henry by the arm and led him into 
 his consulting-room, where a bright fire burned, cast- 
 ing a warm light on great chairs, instruments, and 
 books, shelves on shelves of them. Here they sat, 
 and Henry was drawn little by little to talk of him- 
 self. 
 
 First he told how he had come by Jones, of the wild 
 walking, and his most miserable solitude. 
 
 " It's killing me," he said. " I don't know, I'm 
 afraid of thinking, but I must. It is as if — as if there 
 was something that I must think about, and I don't 
 ... I don't know what it is." 
 
 He shivered and gulped. 
 
 " And . . . and over and over again I keep saying 
 to myself . . . it's something I learned at school. 
 ... I was at a public school, you know. . . ." 
 
 There was no reason why the doctor should make 
 any remark on this, but Henty waited until there 
 came: 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " It's Shakespeare, I think. . . . 
 
 " ' As thinking on no thought I think, 
 
 Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.' 
 
 Do you know that? . . ." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 69 
 
 The doctor rose and paced about the room; an ab- 
 surd enough little figure, with his fool's cap now 
 dropped over one eye. He took and crumpled it up, 
 and cast it into the fire. Both watched it flare and 
 blaze away, and the light ash of it soar up the chim- 
 ney, shedding sparks. 
 
 " Those sparks, they say," said Henry, " are pass- 
 ing souls." 
 
 The doctor came and laid his hand lightly on 
 Henry's shoulder. 
 
 " Ten years ago," he said, " my wife also died." 
 
 A sharp little cry was wrenched from Henry, 
 and then stifled. He lunged with his foot and 
 smashed a great coal, so that the fire blazed and 
 roared. 
 
 " I dragged her down and down," he said. " We 
 had everything. If I'd been drunk, it could not have 
 been worse; but I was just a fool. I never saw my- 
 self until . . . until . . . and now, I don't know. 
 . . . I've no friend, and those that know me think of 
 me with a pity more damnable to bear than if they 
 flouted me. . . . I'm nothing ... a fool, a coward. 
 ... I'd put an end to myself if I could . . . if I 
 weren't ..." 
 
 " I'm glad you've told me this." 
 
 " Much good it is to you. . . ." 
 
 " You must come again and tell me more." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " I never knew an ill but there was some remedy 
 for it." 
 
 " But I'm— I'm so rotten." 
 
 "Bosh!" 
 
 There was asperity in the voice. The doctor was 
 more than a little exasperated by Henry's complete 
 despair. 
 
 " It's true, I sit and sit and sit by the fire until 
 
70 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 I'm heavy. ... I see the thing I want to do, but it 
 is out of reach. , . ." 
 
 " Stretch for it." 
 
 " I'll never touch it." 
 
 The little doctor flew at Henry, shook him by the 
 shoulders, and when he rose to his feet took on a 
 pugilistic attitude, and punched away at him until he 
 was breathless. 
 
 " Better for that ? " he cried, and gave Henry a 
 swinging blow on the ribs. "And that ? And that ? " 
 This last was a stinging slap on the face, which stirred 
 Henry so that he smote vaguely, and sent the little 
 man flying against the book-shelves. Then he broke 
 into a roar of laughter, and arm in arm they mounted 
 the stairs to the scene of revelry. 
 
 Nurses and mothers had arrived for the other chil- 
 dren, and there was a huddling on of wraps and 
 cloaks, a bidding of farewells, a collection of trophies 
 and illicit spoils, a kissing. From all these David, 
 holding Jones by the collar, stood apart in awful 
 dignity. 
 
 Helen came to him. 
 
 "Oh, David, what is it?" 
 
 "The island's gone, and you . . . and everything. 
 I killed it all." 
 
 " It don't matter. You're still David." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 There was ringing contempt in the exclamation, 
 and David turned loftily on his heel. 
 
 Helen stamped her foot. 
 
 "Oh! oh! oh! If you weren't so conceited, you'd 
 see that it doesn't matter a bit about your old island." 
 
 David left her without a word. She turned to 
 Audrey, and kissed her with such warmth as to as- 
 tonish her and drown in her all the envy that she 
 held of Helen's ease and manifold graces. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 71 
 
 As they walked home she sang the praise of Helen, 
 with Nicholas piping an echo to her words. David 
 chafed, turned to his father, only to call forth still 
 more ringing praise. They twittered so of Helen — 
 Helen this and Helen that — that the bumptious boy 
 took umbrage, and, deeming Jones to be the only ra- 
 tional member of the party, marched ahead with him 
 until they came to the house of that neighbour who 
 had taken charge of John. 
 
 Audrey knocked and asked for her brother, to be 
 told that Mrs. Spencer had called an hour ago and 
 taken him with her. She came to the rest with the 
 intelligence. Henry swore. 
 
 " She's Mrs. Scoones," said David to Nicholas, and 
 filled the child with apprehension. 
 
 " Will he be there? " he asked. 
 
 " We'll make Jones eat him — and her." 
 
 She was there, in cloak and bonnet, to be sure, but 
 showing no sign of immediate departure. She was 
 greedy for news of the party, and asked how Miss 
 Helen had been dressed, what cakes there had been 
 for tea, what games had been played. She examined 
 all the little gifts brought home by the children, and 
 was loud in exclamation. She, too, lauded Helen, 
 and brought David's frown upon her, but was in- 
 sensible to it, for all she said and did was directed 
 to Henry — ^was, indeed, done with an eye cocked upon 
 him. 
 
 She packed the children off to bed, and, finding 
 Henry foraging, reproved him, and bustled to pre- 
 pare his meal. She was all smiles, ingratiating, and 
 found great delight in Henry's responsiveness, while 
 her talk was of Helen and her father. 
 
 From that in her floundering confidence she passed 
 to Mr. Bailey, her client, his wife and baby, and 
 openly contrasted his house, manners, and customs 
 
72 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 with those of the Brockman family, and, worse still 
 for Henry, protested her devotion to him and all that 
 was his. The purport of her remarks was cunningly 
 conveyed, and a few weeks earlier might have weighed 
 with Henry, brought him something of the comfort 
 and assurance of which he had so sorely stood in 
 need. Now it revolted him, and he saw the woman 
 coarser and more vulgar that she was. He remem- 
 bered David's flouting, " She drops her aitches," and 
 forgot all the rest, all that she had done for him in 
 his most helpless hours. 
 
 " Much obliged to you, Mrs. Spencer. I don't know 
 what we should have done without you." 
 
 " Very kind of you to say so, I'm sure, Mr. Brock- 
 man. I ^aven't been very 'appy since I 'ad to go." 
 
 The honest creature glistened with emotion-, and the 
 dropped aitches rang ominously in Henry's ears. He 
 shifted uneasily in his chair, and only wished that the 
 woman would be gone. 
 
 ■She fell to an absorbed study of her boots, so that 
 Henry's attention was attracted to them. He saw 
 that one of them was cracked, and that added to his 
 irritation- 
 
 " I want to come back, Mr. Brockman." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " The children can't look to themselves ; they're not 
 like common folk's children." 
 
 " H'm." 
 
 Henry lit a pipe, and sucked at it for the space of 
 some minutes. 
 
 " It's such a 'ome," said Mrs. Spencer with great 
 fervour, unconscious of another dropped aitch. 
 
 " Home ! " said Henry, startled at this view. 
 
 "'Ousekeqper to a gentleman, a widower," said 
 Mrs. Spencer, and stared abstractedly into the fire. 
 Had she thought of herself as of the Heavenly Host, 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 73 
 
 there could not have been in her countenance an ex- 
 pression of greater beatitude. 
 
 " I'd take general's wages," she said, as though 
 self-sacrifice could do no more. 
 
 "When do you leave Mr. Bailey's?" said Henry. 
 
 " He wants me to stay on, but I'd leave if she was 
 dying to come to you and them sainted children, Mr. 
 Broekman." 
 
 Henry was tempted to enter into explanation of 
 his circumstances with her, but could not, and sought 
 refuge in prevarication. 
 
 " I — I don't know," he said. " I must think it over. 
 Next week. I'll let you know next week." 
 
 Mrs. Spencer beamed. There was hope, and Henry 
 had been so courteous, so unlike what she had known 
 of him before. She beamed upon him, and after 
 some exchange of commonplace and further rhap- 
 sodic praise of every Broekman possession and qual- 
 ity, took her departure. Henry escorted her to the 
 door, and to the gate of his little patch of garden 
 (like all the other gardens in the street, it contained 
 an elder-tree, a hawthorn-tree, and a little grimy 
 lawn), and then bade her good-night. As he 
 mounted the steps of his house the brass plate of his 
 present small vocation caught his eye and roused 
 rebellion. ^ 
 
 At once he strode into the house, after sorne search 
 found a screwdriver, and removed the offending brass 
 with its mocking inscription, proclaiming him 'repre- 
 sentative of so huge a sum of money. His first 
 thought was to bury it, and all the past along with 
 it, but he recollected that the plate was the property 
 of the company, and that, for the present at least, 
 until some opportunity should come, he must fulfil 
 his bargain or drop to a yet lower state. 
 
 He had at least the satisfaction of prompt action. 
 
74 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 of having taken the first step in a new direction; but 
 he was fearful lest David should question him. He 
 hid the plate under his bed, and invented a lie to 
 account for its disappearance on the morrow. 
 
 He went to bed chuckling, but was quickly under 
 the inquisition of the new questioning spirit, and 
 though he slept, he slept uneasily and in snatches, 
 turning this way and that and moaning. Mrs. 
 Spencer was to him a question in the flesh, and in 
 the glimpses he caught of her among the shadbwy 
 persons that haunted him her figure bore a re- 
 markable resemblance to a mark of interrogation. 
 Just so portly and rotund it was, and just so cabal- 
 istic. 
 
 On the morrow, after the business of the day, he 
 betook himself to the doctor's house, and was wel- 
 comed. 
 
 " I more than half expected you," said the doctor, 
 and thrust out his hand. Henry eyed it uneasily, as 
 though he more than half anticipated another blow. 
 
 "Tut," said the doctor; "sit down." 
 
 Henry sat uneasily on the edge of a chair and 
 stared about the room. 
 
 " It's — it's long enough since I was in a room with 
 so many books," he said. " My father loved books, 
 and so — and so I hated them." 
 
 " My father," said the doctor, " made soap, and 
 never read anything but the most pessimistic utter- 
 ances of the prophets of Israel. . . . You'd like a 
 cigar? " 
 
 Henry took the tobacco, and fell to smoking, still 
 sitting bolt upright on the edge of the chair and 
 watching the little doctor as he flitted about the room. 
 There was something comically birdlike in his car- 
 riage, in the cocking of his eye as he looked over 
 his pince-nez, in the cooing and fluting of his care- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 75 
 
 fully controlled voice. Henry was pleased by the 
 alertness of the man and his keenness. 
 
 After some time, during which the little man had 
 flitted hither and thither in the room, obviously wait- 
 ing, it occurred to Henry that he was expected to 
 make a remark. He sat more bolt upright than ever, 
 opened his mouth two or three times, and then, in 
 a voice devoid of all expression, he said: 
 
 " Life is so difficult." 
 
 He was at once fearful of the consequences of this 
 remark, and more than half expected a torrent of 
 platitudes. To his surprise the doctor skipped a little 
 more vigorously and broke into a chuckle. 
 
 "There is no authority either in the law or the 
 prophets for our expecting to find it easy. My good 
 sir, why should it be easy? . . . It's all striving, 
 striving, striving, first to get bread, and then to be 
 men and women. I was romantic once. My father's 
 soap factory was not good enough for me, not honest 
 enough — such things they put into the soap. I vowed 
 that I would do something to benefit the human race, 
 and, casting about, I came to think that there could 
 be nothing nobler, nothing more honest, nothing 
 purer, than the life of a physician. I braved the pa- 
 rental wrath, flung away from soap and into the study 
 of the human frame. Well, I had almost finished 
 my course when the awful truth was forced upon me 
 that here also was no honesty, that I should be pre- 
 tending to knowledge and powers that no man can 
 have. With elaborate preparations I stole away, and 
 hid myself from all my friends to brood over the 
 problems of life. I found infallible reasons to jus- 
 tify suicide, but somehow I did not come to the act. 
 That restored my sense of humour, and I saw then 
 that what we think and what we do are two widely 
 different things, and that there is something in us, 
 
76 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 some sense of life which impels us to dive through 
 and through even what we know to be rotten, assur- 
 ing us that on the other side of it is right waiting 
 us — right and peace of mind. I have pinned my 
 faith to this sense of life, as I call it, and I have 
 striven to live by it, to keep it from being overlaid 
 by prejudice and conceit, and my own intelligence. 
 Tut, man! It is the thing in us that is bigger than 
 ourselves ; it does not answer questions, but it is that 
 which makes it possible for one's life to run full cir- 
 cle, and in all these books. . . ." 
 
 Here he waved his hand round the room, and then 
 cleaned his pince-nez. 
 
 "In all these books I have been able to find no 
 systematized philosophy which can do that. . . . 
 You see, we live by what we don't know just as much 
 as by what we do. It does not do to despise intel- 
 lect — whether you have it or no — ^but it is just as well 
 to keep it in its place, the second. Sense of life first, 
 intellect second. Intellect first, sense of life second, 
 and you make a man a machine, a fascinating, effi- 
 cient machine, but a mischievous, smashing its own 
 and the happiness of all those with whom it comes in 
 contact. It is the horrible fate of the philosopher 
 that no one understands his philosophy but himself. 
 . . . Probably this philosophy of mine is all wind 
 to you. . . ." 
 
 "Well," said Henry, "I don't quite follow it. 
 You talk so fast." 
 
 This seemed to tickle the little doctor hugely, for 
 he threw his head back and shouted with laughter. 
 He sat opposite Henry, and, holding his right knee 
 in his two hands, peered at him, smiling over his 
 pince-nez. 
 
 "Well, let us come to the practical common sense 
 of it." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS ^7 
 
 "I've had a rotten time of it," said Henry. / 
 
 " I know ... I know." 
 
 " I mean lately. I never thought about it at all 
 before. It seemed natural somehow that I should 
 sink, and sink. I was always thinking what I would 
 do when I had made the money. It never occurred 
 to me that — that I shouldn't make it until I had lost 
 nearly all that I had. Well ... I'm thirty-eight." 
 
 He threw up his hands as though the worst had 
 been said — ^the final word. 
 
 " How much have you left ? " 
 
 " I could scrape together a thousand pounds." 
 
 "Tut! Start again." 
 
 "If I lose that?. . ." 
 
 " You won't." 
 
 " I don't think I am quite like other men." 
 
 "Ha! ha!" 
 
 Henry tugged at his moustache. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Brockman, if you don't wish to 
 sell yourself as a machine you must'supply your fel- 
 low-men with something that they want." 
 
 The blood rushed to Henry's head, and he began 
 to sweat, for this was his idea, the idea that in its 
 conception had so tortured him, set forth in plain 
 terms, alive, vivid! He hugged it to him — his first- 
 bom. There was such promise of fertility in it that 
 it dazzled him. 
 
 " Ye-es," he said. " Yes. That came to me when 
 I began to think about myself. . . . But, I don't 
 know — ^what " 
 
 " Feed the brutes." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " As I say. Feed the brutes. I don't often go to 
 town, but I would rather eat a potato from a barrow 
 than enter any of their eating-houses." 
 
 "But I don't know. . . ." 
 
78 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 "You can buy the knowledge." 
 
 " But, but . . ." 
 
 "It is the one thing in this town that is conspicu- 
 ously ill-done." 
 
 Henry took another cigar. The linking of his 
 splendid idea to an eating-house hurt him not a little ; 
 but he had given himself into the hands of the doctor, 
 and must follow whithersoever he might lead, for so 
 soon as he strove to break away he found himself 
 floundering in fog. 
 
 " Granted that you know nothing about it. But 
 does any man know anything about any venture? I 
 think failure is almost always the result of cocksure- 
 ness and-unwillingness to learn. If you don't like to 
 think of yourself as an eating-house keeper, call your- 
 self a restaurateur; it sounds just as well as — as 
 
 What are you now ? " 
 
 " Insurance agent," said Henry. " But — but 
 how ■" 
 
 " Jewdwine." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "Jewdwine is a man — a fat, corrupt, overfed man 
 — dishonest, unscrupulous, bankrupt. He has spent 
 his life in trying to persuade people to buy wha't they 
 do not want. An honest venture will be a refresh- 
 ing change for him. What he is doing in this vile 
 little town I do not know ; but there he is, pat to our 
 purpose. He has a wonderful knowledge of the 
 psychology of advertisement. ... I will send Jewd- 
 wine, to. you, and he and I will soon have you on 
 your feet as a restaurateur — unless you can think of 
 another and more exalted calling." 
 
 Henry had some misgivings, but did not confess 
 to it. He consented to meet Jewdwine in a few 
 days, thanked the doctor, and took his leave in a 
 state of violent depression. He had some vague no- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 79 
 
 tion that he was too thin to ply such a calling suc- 
 cessfully, conceiving the arch-type of restaurateurs to 
 be a veritable Bung. 
 
 He harked back to his idea, and rejoiced in the 
 magic of it. For the first time in his life he felt 
 solid ground beneath his feet. Some of his old vi- 
 sions of what he would do with the boundless wealth 
 that should be his came back to him, and they were 
 vain and comfortless in the light of the new ideas 
 and the practical sense which the day's interview had 
 infused in him. 
 
 By way of preparing himself for the advent of 
 Jewdwine, he shaved his moustache, and was pleased 
 with his distinguished appearance without it; but, in 
 studying his profile, wished that he had been en- 
 dowed with a little more chin. However, he speedily 
 forgot the sight of his profile, and, if he ever thought 
 about it, supplied himself with a chin larger even than 
 Wagner's. (A portrait of Wagner hung in his bed- 
 room, though that master's works would have been 
 torture to him.) The children commented on the 
 absence of the brass plate, and duly received the con- 
 cocted lie. They were given no hint of the impend- 
 ing change which was so materially to aflfect their 
 fortunes one way or the other, up or down. As to 
 the sacrifice of the moustache, David alone made a 
 remark, though Nicholas was so obsessed by the tre- 
 mendous change in his father that he haunted him, 
 staring with goggling eyes. 
 
 Long before the advent of Jewdwine — there was 
 some delay — Henry had made up his mind to follow 
 the advice given him. He was sufficiently accus- 
 tomed to the idea to feel that he was in very truth 
 a heaven-sent restaurateur, and he frequented the 
 grubby cellars which were all that the town could 
 boast, and took stock of all their arrangements with 
 
8o DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 a keen professional interest and no small contempt. 
 He even inspected shops and other premises with a 
 view to their conversion to his purpose. 
 
 Finally he wrote to Miss Andrew, and, recollect- 
 ing the circumstances of their last parting, had some 
 difficulty in finding words. He was at first flippant, 
 beginning " My dear aunt, I have shaved my mous- 
 tache," and, though he was delighted with this hu- 
 morous gem, yet had sufficient delicacy and tact to 
 feel that it was mal a propos. At his second attempt 
 he contrived to strike a truer note of repentance, re- 
 morse, and confidence in the future, begged her par- 
 don, hoped that in the near future she would invite 
 David to stay with her as she had promised, avowed 
 his purpose of selling all his remaining Bardon prop- 
 erty, and declared that in the very near future he 
 would be able to write her a cheque for many thou- 
 sands of pounds, as some small return for all the 
 kindnesses and benefits showered by her in the dark 
 and dismal past upon himself and all his family. 
 
 This done, he felt himself in a position to flatten 
 all upstarts who might arise to question his suprem- 
 acy in the art of supplying food to the slaves of 
 industrialism. Having proclaimed himself for what 
 he intended to be, he thought that there was very 
 little left to be done, and that the creation of a large 
 and lucrative business was as easy for him as the 
 producing of rabbits from a hat for a professional 
 conjurer. 
 
VI 
 
 Jewdwine had very much the air of a professional 
 conjurer. His appearance was majestic, but greasy. 
 He was jocular, and in laughter robustious. 
 
 His face was almost purple in hue, and his eyes 
 bulged crab-like from under his bushy eyebrows; his 
 ears were forced out by the grossness of his neck, 
 in which, at the base of the skull, was always a pro- 
 nounced crease. 
 
 He took a humorous and simple pleasure in him- 
 self. As he panted and wheezed his way into the 
 chair which Henry offered him, he said, "I'm a 
 bloomin' advertisement, I am," and crowed with de- 
 light. 
 
 Henry was at his most gauche, and sat surveying 
 the wonderful creature, who blew out his checks until 
 it seemed that they must crack, then suddenly loosed 
 and collapsed like some india-rubber toy. 
 
 " I 'ave to do that at times," he said, " to free the 
 toobs, otherways I 'ave the asthma bad. It's wonder- 
 ful 'ow I live, but I do, you see. That's 'ow I come 
 to see the doctor, through the asthma." 
 
 An inquiring eye roved round the room, a plain- 
 tive eye it was. It roved, and presently came round 
 to Henry, who divined its question and produced 
 whisky. He was for procuring soda, when out of 
 the immense flesh of Jewdwine issued a little husky 
 voice uttering one word: 
 
 " Neat." 
 
 Henry did not join him in his libations, but sat 
 wondering how he should broach his purpose. He 
 
 8i 
 
82 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 was conscious also that his visitor was taking stock 
 of him, and of all that was in the room. 
 
 "Yes," said Jewdwine, and his voice was cleared 
 of its huskiness by the raw spirit — " yes, you do 
 want a hadvertiser." 
 
 "Oh!" said Henry. 
 
 " This 'ere commerce," said Jewdwine — " this 'ere 
 commerce is a scramble. It ain't no glove fight, an' 
 there ain't no time to stop to wipe yer nose when you 
 get yer claret tapped. You've got to start in fair, 
 an' think yerself so big, an' look so big that no one 
 '11 dare to 'it yer. If anyone spite in yer face, ye've 
 got to spit, and spit straight in 'is eye, so's 'e can't 
 see while you steal 'is job. 'Tain't a bit o' good 
 talkin' about honesty — sing 'ymns out o' business. 
 You can't be honest if the others won't. Straight. 
 I been all over the world. I been in India, whicli is 
 purgatory; I been in America, which is 'alf-an'-'alf ; 
 I been in London, which is 'eaven ; an' I'm stuck 'ere 
 in the north of England, which is 'ell. Can I 'ave 
 a little more whisky? Thank you, Mr. Brockman." 
 
 Henry plied the monster, now panting and at his 
 huskiest, and still could find nothing to say. Mr. 
 Jewdwine came to business : 
 
 "About this 'ere little do, Mr. Brockman. It's 
 a good idea — a. restaurong, a real restaurong, a bit 
 o' London in the provinces, a bit o' light in the murk. 
 You know London, of course, Mr. Brockman?" 
 
 " I used to go to London a good deal," said Henry, 
 striving in vain to force into his voice something 
 of Mr. Jewdwine's ecstasy. 
 
 " Not— not for Exeter 'All, I 'ope." 
 
 " No," said Henry. " Oh no. Where is it? " 
 
 " Where indeed ? " said Mr. Jewdwine, waving his 
 hand airily to indicate the passing of that excellent 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 83 
 
 institution. "Gone, Mr. Brockman— gone." He 
 tapped with a fat finger impressively on his knee. 
 
 Henry began to be annoyed with Mr. Jewdwine. 
 With a firmness surprising to himself he said: 
 
 " I'/m going to start quietly. The important thing 
 is to give good food." 
 
 "You can feed 'em out of your 'and with swans 
 orf the King's table for all they'll come to you if 
 you don't give 'em something to talk abaht. There's 
 all sorts of advertisements, Mr. Brockman: there's 
 polite advertisements like a doctor's carriage, and 
 there's vulgar advertisements like all those pictures in 
 the streets. People is vulgar, and 'arf blind, an' deaf, 
 so that you 'ave to flap a bloomin' rainbow in front 
 of their eyes an' blow a bally band o' trumpets in 
 their ears for 'em to know what's goin' on in the 
 world. Well, I'll 'ave that rainbow, an' I'll 'ave that 
 brass band, an' I'll 'ave all these 'ere insecks in this 
 'ere coal 'ole runnin' to us with their 'ands in their 
 pockets to buy a bit o' 'eaven in 'ell." 
 
 Here Mr. Jewdwine caressed his shining pate with 
 his fat hand. 
 
 "Where are you- to be found, Mr. Jewdwine?" 
 
 Mr. Jewdwine produced a card. 
 
 "That's my 'umble 'abitation and my name." 
 
 He studied Henry's appearance, garments, boots, 
 and then, with a wistful expression in his eyes and 
 a compassionate note in his voice, he continued : 
 
 " What do you say to fifty pounds an' ten per cent, 
 of the first year's profits? " 
 
 He pulled his nose and waited. 
 
 " By all means," said Henry, having no wish to 
 haggle with the man. 
 
 " Done ! Mr. Brockman, you're a gent. Put it 
 there." 
 
84 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 He rose wheezily and held out his hand. He shook 
 Henry's hand up and down for some time. 
 
 He tapped his nose with his hat, then noticed that 
 he had left a little liquor in his glass, and drank it 
 oflf. 
 
 " Glad to have met you, Mr. Jewdwine," said 
 Henry. 
 
 "We'll knock 'em. I'll think it over, an' directly 
 any inspiration for the restaurong comes to me, you 
 shall 'ave it." 
 
 He paused, and revolved slowly in his mind all 
 other possible subjects for discussion, and though he 
 made several attempts to open fire again, cut himself 
 short, and finally left abruptly. 
 
 Henry heard no more of him for some days, dur- 
 ing which he impatiently awaited news of the sale 
 of his Bardon property from the agents who had re- 
 ceived his instructions. From them at length he re- 
 ceived the intimation that a purchaser had been found, 
 and that, after deduction of fees and commission, he 
 would receive a sum of just over eleven hundred 
 pounds. 
 
 By this time he had selected his shop, at the cor- 
 ner of two of the main thoroughfares in the centre 
 of the town, and close to all the principal warehouses 
 and offices. 
 
 Henry was disposed to give Jewdwine his fee at 
 once, but was persuaded by Dr. Crosby to withhold 
 until there had been some sign of a disposition to- 
 wards useful activity. Henry accordingly wrote, but 
 evoked no reply. He called at the address, but saw 
 only the Anglo-German landlady, who, breathing 
 stertorously from her laboured ascent of the stairs, 
 stared blandly for a little, and then said: 
 
 " Mr. Yoodvine iss not to house." 
 
 "Where is Mr. Jewdwine?" 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 85 
 
 "I know not. He is like dat. He iss gone, and 
 den I do not know if he iss always gone or for only 
 a liddle time. Den he comes again and pays always. 
 He is a peaudiful man is Mr. Yoodvine." 
 
 Henry had come to pin his faith on Jewdwine, 
 and, conscious of his solid presence, had soared to 
 heights of activity and initiative never before possi- 
 ble to him. He had the floating of the restaurant 
 well in train, had contrived to come to all manner 
 of decisions without any too fearful qualms, simply 
 because he had the feeling that whatever he did would 
 become pregnant by the booming foreshadowed by 
 the facile and splendidly confident filibuster, as Dr. 
 Crosby had called him. And now Jewdwine had van- 
 ished into thin air. It was as though he had never 
 been, and, himself — Henry Brockman — felt that the 
 ground had been cut away from under his feet, and 
 the liabilities he had undertaken with so light a heart 
 filled him with sickening dread. He could not turn 
 back, and he had no strength to go forward, so 
 trenchantly did Jewdwine's dictum as to the need 
 of setting people talking come home to him. Stand- 
 ing there on the doorstep face to face with the Ger- 
 man woman, Henry laughed nervously. 
 
 "It's — it's of no consequence," he said, turned tail 
 and fled. He plunged home, making a mental cal- 
 culation of all that he would lose if the venture should 
 be abortive. 
 
 The disappearance of Jewdwine was fraught with 
 serious consequence for the luckless Henry, for it 
 chanced that on this same evening Mrs. Spencer re- 
 turned to the charge. In the new assurance of the 
 wider outlook and hard work Henry had gently but 
 firmly declined all her overtures, and as often as she 
 broached the subject declared that his plans were very 
 undecided, and that his present domestic arrange- 
 
86 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 ments, unsatisfactory though they might be, must con- 
 tinue until he could see some light ahead. He could 
 not refrain from dark hints of tremendous change 
 in store, but gave no clue to the direction from which 
 it should come. All this mystery only strengthened 
 Mrs. Spencer in her purpose, and gave confirmation 
 to her conception of latent and wonderful force in 
 this man among men. 
 
 On this evening, filled with misgiving as he was, 
 he met her more cordially, and listened with a show 
 of interest to the gossip with which she invariably 
 prefaced her statement of her dear ambition. En- 
 couraged by this, she came more directly to the point. 
 "If things goes well with you as you hope, Mr. 
 Brockman, you must have someone for the children 
 — and why not me?" 
 
 "If— if " said Henry. "It is all if " 
 
 " But you are doing so much, Mr. Brockman ? " 
 Henry had imagined that all his movements were 
 secret, and that, if change there was in him, it was 
 within him and invisible. 
 
 " You're a changed man, Mr. Brockman." 
 Then he told her all that he had done and what 
 he h(^d to do. 
 
 " I have everything in order. It's just — just clock- 
 work now, and I must see that everything is properly 
 fitted together. There'll be mistakes in the begin- 
 ning; there must be." 
 
 He was quoting Dr. Crosby, but all the same there 
 was masterfulness in his voice. In persuading Mrs. 
 Spencer that he was a fine fellow, he was also per- 
 suading himself, and this was his undoing, for with 
 extraordinary swiftness of mind she possessed her- 
 self of all that he had done, bound it together, and 
 gave it back to him as a living and important thing. 
 Thus he was delivered into her hands, and almost 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 87 
 
 before he was aware what had happened she was 
 again installed in the house, and as firmly as Jones, 
 who quickly recognized her authoritative position, 
 and more than any other in the house accepted her 
 as a dispensing providence. She was humble and 
 meek in all that she did, but none the less was she 
 all-powerful, and what she willed, though he might 
 have no idea of it, Henry did, and did it with con- 
 fidence and alacrity. Not only was he controlled in 
 the conduct of his domestic affairs, but in all the 
 business of the restaurant hers was the guiding hand 
 that brought all to a successful issue. 
 
 Jewdwine also was enslaved. Henry had made ex- 
 haustive inquires, for him, but in vain. He reap- 
 peared abruptly, without any explanation of his de- 
 fection, exactly the same in appearance except that the 
 light of war was in his eyes. He wagged his head 
 as portentously as ever did Lord Burleigh, tapped 
 his nose, and winked, while all the time he swelled 
 with what he called inspiration. 
 
 In these exciting times he was perhaps a little more 
 asthmatic than he had been, and certainly his capac- 
 ity for neat whisky was by no means diminished by 
 his unrecounted adventures. 
 
 He was here, there, and everywhere, bristling with 
 suggestions and inventiveness. 
 
 It was Mrs. Spencer's habit at their conclaves to 
 be seemingly engrossed in some other occupation, so 
 that her presence had always the air of being adventi- 
 tious, and yet, in spurring Henry's diffidence and dis- 
 sipating the bombastical and impractical from Jewd- 
 wine's inspirations, she contrived that no discussion 
 was unprofitable. 
 
 Jewdwine boomed. He appeared in all public 
 places in the town more and more startlingly dressed, 
 talking in clubs and bars, in offices and outside the 
 
88 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 various exchanges, of how he was going to wake the 
 place to life, give it some colour in its grime and the 
 dim light under its pall of smoke; caused paragraphs 
 to appear in the papers and sandwich-men to parade 
 the streets. He caught a drunken scene-painter, and 
 for a miserably small sum persuaded him to design 
 a flaring poster of a turbanned Indian presenting a 
 steaming dish of curry to Ideal Women — ^the Ideal 
 being Jewdwine's. By sleight-of-hand he produced a 
 real Indian, whom he christened Ali Baba, and 
 paraded him in a costume .more gorgeous than that 
 of any rajah, borrowed from the wardrobe-mistress 
 of the local theatre, and the Indian, as Jewdwine had 
 foretold, produced the desired glamour. 
 
 Had he had his way the restaurant would have 
 been a veritable Indian temple. Indeed, he commis- 
 sioned the drunken scene-painter to make designs for 
 panels depicting elephant hunts, polo, bazaars, and 
 other features of Indian life; but Mrs. Spencer was 
 so adamant in her refusal to consider the scheme that 
 he had reluctantly to countermand his order. She 
 thought him an old fool, and when he was at his 
 most absurd rated him and told him that his extrava- 
 gance would wreck the whole venture. This would 
 sober him a little, but never for very long, and he 
 would break out again more wildly than before, until 
 Henry would be roused to quivering pitch of irrita- 
 tion. Had the two men been left to work together 
 they must have quarrelled and brought their flimsy 
 fabric about their ears. The woman fused the over- 
 sensibility of the one and the vulgarity of the other, 
 and by her incisiveness and prompt decision time and 
 again staved off catastrophe and brought what seemed 
 to be hopeless confusion to a clear and definite issue. 
 She saved Henry much waste of energy — ^and he 
 worked frantically — ^by directing his efforts upon the 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 89 
 
 point where they were most needed, so that there 
 was always a steady progress being made behind the 
 flaming erection which Jewdwine builded with such 
 immense enjoyment. 
 
 The opening was a success, and the account of it 
 in the press next day,- and by those who had been 
 present at it, brought a horde of visitors, more than 
 could be accommodated. Henry was elated, sanguine, 
 and almost equalled Jewdwine in his fertility in the 
 conception of other schemes. 
 
 Mrs. Spencer, with a half-knitted stocking on her 
 clicking needles, said: 
 
 " Wait. This will die away, and you may or may 
 not be left with a steady business." 
 
 Henry laughed and rattled the money in his pocket. 
 
 "I've been looking out for a new house," he said. 
 "What are we to do with Jewdwine?" 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Spencer, counting her stitches 
 to make sure she had not dropped one. "Drown 
 him-^except that he wasn't born to be drowned. He'd 
 float." 
 
 Henry laughed again. 
 
 " It was a fine idea of mine," he said, " to start 
 a restaurant." 
 
VII 
 
 John Spencer Brockman was more than a year 
 old, and had already several teeth, when the tide of 
 his father's aflfairs turned. His appearance steadily 
 improved, and in the new circumstances he vied with 
 his father as to which should grow the stouter. The 
 lean moustachioed Henry was altogether lost in a 
 plump, clean-shaven gentleman of the middle classes 
 by the time that the infant was of an age to clothe 
 his progenitor in the respect and awe which were 
 his due. The stouter Henry was altogether an easier 
 and more amiable, more appreciative and more gen- 
 erous parent than any of the elder three could re- 
 member, and Audrey and Nicholas, in the brighter 
 surroundings, the larger house and more comfort- 
 able life that he provided for the'm out of the pro- 
 ceeds of the restaurant, speedily forgot all fear of 
 him that they had ever had. David never did, and 
 grew ever more fanatical in his devotion to his 
 mother's memory. 
 
 In this he had been fed by Miss Andrew, with 
 whom his father had consented that he should stay 
 during the period of domestic upheaval, when it was 
 felt that success was assured. He was furnished 
 forth with, new clothes, his father allowed him to 
 draiy some shillings from the savings-bank, and pre- 
 sented him with a shining piece of gold for spend- 
 ing in Bardon. He donned one of his new suits, and 
 swaggered forth to show himself to Helen, for he 
 had come to lead a dual life, dwelling as much in 
 the doctor's house as in his own, and Jou.es followed 
 
 90 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 91 
 
 him in this as in all things. The old life of maraud- 
 ing in the Park had long been abandoned in favour 
 of the gentler attractions of Helen's company, and the 
 possibility of long hours spent among the books in 
 the consulting-room. The passing of Tush had ren- 
 dered the old sports tedious, and, in the end, when 
 the mockery of it had become intolerable, David, after 
 full palaver and the smoking of many pipes of peace, 
 formally disbanded, laying upon each of his followers 
 the charge of defending the fame of the fair Helen. 
 This they swore to do with mighty oaths, though 
 the majority of them were in complete ignorance of 
 the existence of the lady. 
 
 After a painful interview with Tush Williams, 
 David renounced the world and all its vanities, and 
 betook himself to a cell by a winding river over 
 against a nunnery, and devoted himself to the study 
 of the sages. The nunnery was invented to account 
 for the presence and incursions into his solitude of 
 Helen, who came often to disturb his peace from sheer 
 irritation with his new delusion, the exact nature of 
 which was not divulged to her, for she had never 
 won complete reinstatement after her base conduct 
 with regard to the island. Sometimes, when she 
 came upon him in his monkish posing, David would 
 totally ignore her; at other times he would beam 
 benignantly upon her, blinking through imagined 
 spectacles of horn, and give her wise sayings and 
 instruction in the way that a maid should grow. She 
 bore with him, but on one occasion he rose, blessed 
 her, and declaimed: 
 
 " ' Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye ; 
 In every gesture dignity and love.' " 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Helen. "Don't stand there 
 blinking like an old owl," and was so boisterous and 
 
92 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 violent with him that she shook all the strange dreams 
 out of his head, and brought him again to earth. 
 After that painful experience, David refrained from 
 all didacticism with her, and emerged from whatever 
 strange employment he might be at only to tell her 
 stories which she swallowed greedily. 
 
 This feasting upon dreams was not good for the 
 boy, and he grew more and more unwholesome in 
 complexion, more difficult in temper, and in all things 
 more vague. His father, busied with his scheme, 
 noticed no change in him, and though Mrs. Spencer 
 marked it, she ascribed it to perverseness and some 
 devil in him that made the governing of him impos- 
 sible. 
 
 Helen told her father of David's strangeness, im- 
 pelled thereto by an impassioned denunciation of all 
 womankind. 
 
 " Begone ! " David had thundered. " I will keep 
 my mind and all the precious gifts with which Heaven 
 has enriched my soul inviolate. Begone! for I will 
 never set eyes upon thee more." 
 
 With that he looked upon her so steadfastly, and 
 with such a queer light in his eyes, that the child was 
 terrified, and clung to him, then shook him, shook, and 
 shook until he was dazed and lost his thread. 
 
 " What's the matter, Helen? Helen? " said David. 
 " Oh, my head is hurting so ! " 
 
 "Oh, David, you said — ^you said I was — I don't 
 know what, only you said it so — so fearfully." 
 
 David was at a loss, for he could remember nothing. 
 
 Upon this report the doctor hurried to Henry, and 
 warned him that David must be looked to. 
 
 " He is such a strange boy," said the doctor. " I 
 think he must be a poet." 
 
 " Good God ! " said Henry, and was so appalled 
 that the doctor broke into ribald laughter. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 93 
 
 "It is a thing that may happen to any man — to 
 have a poet for his son. God help us all! . . . It 
 seems that the butcher boy has knocked him clean 
 into another world." 
 
 "His mother and he," said Henry, "they were 
 always " 
 
 "I remember " said the doctor. "Are you 
 
 prospering? " 
 
 " We shall leave this house," said Henry, with a 
 wide gesture to indicate the greater space that he 
 had chartered. 
 
 "And Jewdwine?" 
 
 Henry laughed. 
 
 " Jewdwine has been up to London and come back 
 bursting with notions." 
 
 The doctor returned to the discussion of David's 
 plight. In the upshot Henry declared his readiness 
 to send the boy away. 
 
 He wrote to Miss Andrew, and after David had 
 swaggered for many days as an experienced and 
 dauntless traveller, he and his little baggage were 
 placed in charge of the guard, and after many hours 
 of travelling, he arrived at his destination, where he 
 was met by a trim little maid, who said that her name 
 was Susan, and that she belonged to his aunt. The 
 old barouche had been chartered, and in this they 
 jolted over the three miles that lay between the little 
 town and the station, David eagerly gazing for known 
 landmarks, while Susan and Robert Pollard, the 
 driver, beamed upon each other, and carried yet 
 further the most engrossing business in the world. 
 
 " This," said Susan, " is Master David Brockman." 
 
 Robert touched his hat. 
 
 "I knoo yer father. Master David, and I knoo 
 yer grandfather, and my father knoo 'is father." 
 
 " My grandfather," said David, " wrote a book." 
 
94 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 "My grandfather," said Robert, "kep' a public- 
 'ouse, same as my father." 
 
 "My father," said David, not to be outdone, 
 " keeps a restaurong." 
 
 " Times is changed," said Robert, looking wise. 
 
 " Yes," said Susan. " Things is not what they 
 was." 
 
 They entered the town; David rose excitedly to 
 his feet, and asked to be shown this building and that. 
 He saw Miss Andrew's little white house with its 
 green door and shutters long before they came to 
 it, and cheered lustily. As they crossed the river he 
 showed Susan where his father had caught a great 
 fish, and Robert slapped his thigh. 
 
 " A Brockman," he vowed ; " every inch a Brock- 
 man ! " And Susan, rising to his enthusiasm, hugged 
 David to her bosom. In the gladness of his heart 
 he suffered her. _ 
 
 Robert pointed to a house. 
 
 "That's where you was born, Master David." 
 They came then to the little white house, and David 
 knocked on the green door with the shining brass 
 goblin who hung there. Miss Andrew admitted him, 
 divested him of his overcoat and hat, and brought 
 him into the little sitting-room, where all the chairs 
 were covered in flowered chintz, and bowls of laven- 
 der scented the place. Susan retired to make tea 
 for the traveller, and David was made welcome, sit- 
 ting in the largest chair round-eyed, taking in all his 
 surroundings. Ever)rthing was smaller than he had 
 imagined it to be, but the neatness and the fragrance 
 had not at all been in his dreams. 
 
 He was awed by Miss Andrew, and, because he 
 was tired, tongue-tied. She wisely forbore to pester 
 him with questions, and treated him at once as though 
 he had always been her housemate. He was shown 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS _ 95 
 
 his room: a little white room that had been his 
 mother's in old days — a portrait of her hung where, 
 from his bed, he could see it — and was delighted to 
 be in it. He was solemn, and went about the house 
 caressing things with his hands. 
 
 " I suppose," he said, " there are many things of 
 mother's that are no more — living things, I mean." 
 
 "Yes, many," said Miss Andrew. The boy with 
 his white, pinched face, and his eyes sq like Mar- 
 garet's, troubled her. " I'm glad to have you, David. 
 We must send you back with a brave colour.'' 
 
 This brave colour came soon to David's cheeks. 
 He was supremely happy. He met all the Starks, 
 and Bastables, and Chews, and many more who had 
 known his mother and father. He wandered over 
 all the country-side. He visited the yew-grove, and 
 wrote of it to Helen. He bathed and learned to 
 swim lustily. He played games and learned to row 
 and ride. He made friends with all and sundry, 
 from the ostler at the Blue Pig, kept by Robert's 
 father, to Captain Scoones, a descendant of the buc- 
 caneer, at the old house on the Lynn Road. He was 
 up and about from early morning to late evening, 
 hot-foot on the quest of adventure, which he found 
 in abundance. Among the boys of the place he com- 
 pelled just the same admiring loyalty as from those 
 in the park at home, and led them into even braver 
 regions of romance. 
 
 He had a sycamore-tree by the river, in the top of 
 which he made a retiring-place and tower of obser- 
 vation, from which to spy upon the manoeuvres of 
 beleaguering hosts. The yew-grove was to him the 
 home and harbourage of a race of hostile giants, 
 from whose oppression he had been sent to deliver 
 Bardon. 
 
 In the evenings he gave an embroidered account 
 
96 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 of all the day's doings to his aunt, when she was not 
 deftly drawing from him an account of all the changes 
 in his family. 
 
 " Father has shaved his moustache," said David. 
 
 "M-p-p-p!" said his aunt, and her lips worked 
 in and out. 
 
 " John," said David, " is not nearly so ugly as he 
 was. I used to think he must be a changeling. Audrey 
 is going to another school, now that father has such 
 a lot of money." 
 
 " Would you like to go to another school, David? '' 
 
 " I'd like to leave school like Tush. Tush is in 
 a barber's, but they don't let him shave anybody yet. 
 Father's much fatter now." 
 
 " M-p-p-p! You wouldn't like to live with me 
 here always, David ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 This was disconcerting. 
 
 " Do you remember my asking you what you 
 would like to be ? '' 
 
 " Yes," said David, though he had forgotten. 
 
 " It would be better for you not to stay at home — 
 in that place." 
 
 " Oh, the new house is much bigger." 
 
 Miss Andrew had divined how the land lay with 
 regard to Mrs. Spencer; indeed, she had quietly 
 marked traces of the Spencerian atmosphere in David, 
 and had devoted herself to their eradication; no very 
 difficult task, for David sucked up greedily all the 
 family tradition which she added to his store, and was 
 quickly at home in the new serenity in which he 
 found himself. His great achievement was that he 
 translated all his family into it, and Helen, and her 
 father, and Jones, and even Tush lathering chins. 
 He fenced all these round about with the great tra- 
 dition, barring out Mrs. Spencer and all that was 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 97 
 
 hateful to him in the northern town. He was 
 mightily content, and had no suspicion but that all 
 must be well. 
 
 A rude shock awaited him. He had letters from 
 Helen, and from Audrey, and occasionally a note 
 from his father, telling him how matters were pro- 
 gressing with the new house. 
 
 One night, after he had told his aunt quite solemnly 
 how a great serpent had arisen from the river and 
 had been slain by himself, with a little assistance from 
 Basil Stark, his doughtiest henchman, she produced 
 from the pocket of her black apron a letter, adjusted 
 her spectacles, and in a most awesome tone said: 
 
 " I have news for you David." 
 
 David waited. 
 
 " Your father " 
 
 A wild thought crossed David's mind that Jewd- 
 wine might have murdered his father for his much 
 gold. 
 
 " Your father is going to be married." 
 
 David's jaw dropped. This was worse, far worse. 
 He foresaw what was to follow. 
 
 " He and Mrs. Spencer are to be — to be married 
 next week, and they want — ^they want me to keep 
 you for three weeks longer, until — until they return." 
 
 " I — I can't ever call her m — mother," said David. 
 Then he saw that tears were trickling down his aunt's 
 cheeks. He dared not speak, for there was such a 
 lump in his throat. He stole away. The great tra- 
 dition had crumbled. Mrs. Spencer had broken in 
 through the tall fence that should have kept her out. 
 
 For some days neither David nor his aunt referred 
 to the subject. He strove manfully to conceal his 
 tragic mood from his playmates, and above all from 
 his aunt. The poor lady was so crestfallen, so com- 
 pletely mournful, that she reduced David to the low- 
 
98 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 est "pitch of gloom. In the evenings they sat talking, 
 if they talked at all, at random, skirtingly, until there 
 came a letter from Helen conveying the news, which 
 had just reached her through Audrey. 
 
 " Father has said nothing about it, but I can tell 
 he is angry, because he sat tapping with his foot on 
 the ground, and sent me away when I wanted to pull 
 his hair. Oh, David, if it had been my father in- 
 stead of yours ! " 
 
 Miss Andrew read the letter, and at once broke 
 into talk of David's mother and of his grandfather. 
 
 " Has your father ever told you about your mother ? 
 I think you are old enough to understand. . . ." 
 
 " Helen says I am two hundred years old,'' said 
 David, sighed, adjusted himself in his chair as if to 
 show that he was conscious of it, and felt the burden 
 of his years. 
 
 "You know that men and women love?" 
 
 " Yes," said David stoutly, his thoughts aflame 
 with stories of lovers tender and true, all the lovers 
 in the likeness of himself, and all the ladies in the 
 likeness of Helen. 
 
 " My sister," said Miss Andrew, " was your 
 mother's mother ; this is her portrait." She indicated 
 a picture that David had taken for a portrait of her- 
 self as a girl. He looked up at it now, and then 
 gravely across at his aunt. 
 
 " You are like her, too, sometimes. She was very 
 dear to me, and I have never seen any girl more beau- 
 tiful. We were poor girls in Scotland. Our father 
 had been a minister, and in those days there was noth- 
 ing for girls to do but to go out as governesses. I 
 went straight from home to a family in London. The 
 boys who were my pupils are great men now. The 
 father of these boys was kind to me, and gave me a 
 freedom in his house and a consideration that girls in 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 99 
 
 my position rarely received. My sister, Mary, was 
 allowed to stay with me when she came to London 
 to seek a situation with another family related to this. 
 I do not know — I saw nothing, knew nothing, until 
 she came to me, beside herself, weeping, for she did 
 not know to whom to turn. . . . Your mother was 
 born, and Mary, my sister, lived in France with her 
 for many years. Our relations would have nothing 
 to say for her; she was condemned; and, because I 
 took her part, I, too, quarrelled with them. . . . 
 When Mary was dying she sent for me, and gave 
 Margaret, your mother, into my keeping, together 
 with the money that had been given to her — for your 
 mother's father had been kind and generous, and 
 
 given not money only We wandered from place 
 
 to place, seeking no company other than our own, 
 until we came to Bardon, when Margaret fell in love 
 with this little white house because of its green door. 
 . . . . We came here, and rejoiced in our home, 
 and still we were to each other all in all. ... I was 
 perhaps wrong ; I don't know. The world has changed 
 so much — changed even then more than I knew. Poor 
 Mary, and poor Margaret! And yet Mary's was a 
 happier life than Margaret's. . . ." 
 
 She seemed to have forgotten David's presence, 
 and to be musing to herself. David leaned forward, 
 and strove to find a tale out of his store to sort with 
 this. He thrust out his little thin legs. It was rather 
 a dull story. Only the word France in connection 
 with his mother had touched his imagination. He 
 knew much of France, and the stories of her wars. 
 He placed his mother in the France of Napoleon, and 
 began to weave adventures for her, with himself as a 
 humble but dashing lieutenant in the Guards. He 
 introduced the boys who had been Miss Andrew's pu- 
 pils as his comrades in the regiment. 
 
loo DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " How many boys were there?" he asked, and his 
 aunt laughed. 
 
 " Four," she said, and going over to the old bureau 
 in the corner she produced a sketch and gave it to 
 David. It was a rough portrait of the artist's father, 
 and was subscribed : 
 
 " Lord St. Justin, by his son John Fielding," and 
 to this was added in a neat hand, " aged' twelve." 
 
 The healthy snob in David grew big. 
 
 " Did you teach lords ? " he asked, almost incredu- 
 lously. 
 
 " Why — yes — ^John is my lord now." David's re- 
 spect for his aunt was visibly increased. He regarded 
 her with a sort, of wonder. 
 
 " I say. I never saw a lord." 
 
 " They are much more like other people than is gen- 
 erally supposed." 
 
 " Tush saw a lord once, and he said he had a red 
 cloak and white fur on it." 
 
 "M.p-p-p!" 
 
 " I say, I wish mother had married a lord. Who 
 were the other boys ? " 
 
 "John's brothers — Geoffrey and Anthony and Mi- 
 chael." 
 
 "No sisters?" 
 
 "Eh? No-o-o— no." 
 
 "Who was mother's — mother's father?" 
 
 " Lord St. Justin." 
 
 " 0-o-h ! — ^Jiminy ! " David wagged his arms in 
 excitements " Then I'm a lord. Is he dead ? " 
 
 " Long ago." 
 
 David turned to John's handiwork. 
 
 " Fancy a lord being able to draw." 
 
 " They all did something, and did it well.'' 
 
 " I say, I'm not really a lord, am I ? " 
 
 " Not really, David." ; 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS loi 
 
 " Oh ! " He was disappointed. What he had made 
 of his mother's story Miss Andrew could not divine. 
 To circumstantiate it she rummaged among her treas- 
 ures and old relics, showed him sketches of her own, 
 of the house in London; old daguerreotypes of the 
 various Fieldings, and of Mary, and one of David's 
 mother as a girl; old letters showing the Fielding 
 crest; a sketch by herself of Monkshood, the great 
 house in Lincolnshire; pieces of brass and china 
 brought from various places in France during the so- 
 journ there ; a ring that had been the gift of her lover 
 to the unfortunate Mary; a necklace too, and brace- 
 lets; and all the time that David was fingering these, 
 tales of the life in the great houses sounded in his 
 ears, until he was gorged with them, and so excited 
 that .'there was no holding him. He was stuffed so 
 full that he could not shape the wonderful tidings, 
 and had only the vaguest notion as to who was who in 
 the narrative. His mother stood out clearly enough, but 
 Mary was shadowy; Lord St. Justin was immense, 
 and John Fielding by his handiwork was cognizable; 
 but for the rest they were as indistinct and filmy as 
 ever the unnamed characters had been on the island. 
 That these great personages were his, bound up with 
 his existence, was solid fact, and in th;e contemplation 
 of it David felt himself growing, and presently he 
 fingered his chin as if to make sure that there was not 
 a beard coming. 
 
 David turned pale at the thought of the greatness 
 that was his. The only doubt in his mind was as to 
 how the matter would affect Helen. Then he found 
 that she also was changed, that there was an acute 
 pleasure, almost a pain, that he had never known be- 
 fore in the thought of Helen. 
 
 He nursed this painful pleasure for some days, and 
 then found that his thoughts were all upon matri- 
 
102 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 mony, which had never seriously been within the re- 
 gion of his contemplation. Helen — Helen — and a 
 marriage feast. . . . The thought roused suffocating 
 emotions in him. 
 
 He attempted on the Thursday to write to Helen, 
 but found he could not, that words would not flow. 
 Thoughts came into his head that he dared not think. 
 He found himself blushing for no reason, and was 
 for the first time conscious of the singularly brazen 
 love-making that had been between Susan and Rob- 
 ert Pollard ever since he had been in Bardon. 
 
 He fled from all mankind, and took refuge in the 
 yew-grove, where sweet torture awaited him, for he 
 remembered all his mother's old tales of lovers in this 
 very place. 
 
 He strode manfully through its glades and dells, 
 crying, " Helen — Helen ! '' and then wishing that he 
 might catch the word again; it seemed such a sacri- 
 lege to utter it. He treasured her letters, and when 
 it chanced that Susan, finding one of them, had burned 
 it, he abandoned himself to the blackest despair. 
 
 Yet he was capable of thrusting aside the whole if 
 there came some employment more engrossing and 
 fruitful, aind all his tenderness evaporated at the pros- 
 pect of a meal. He gave little thought to the story 
 that his aunt had told him, being content to leave it 
 blurred, and to swagger in the light of the noble name 
 into the wooing of Helen. He was a blustering lover 
 until in the circle of his thoughts he came to the pro- 
 jected alliance of his father with Mrs. Spencer. He 
 was ashamed that such a thing could be, but did not 
 grapple with the problem of the attitude he should 
 adopt until there occurred to him the ghastly word, a 
 word to chill the bones more than any incantation : 
 
 " Stepmother." 
 
 In David's lore there were so many villainous step- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 103 
 
 mothers. He was haunted by that frightful woman 
 who had given the heart of her Httle stepson to her 
 husband in a stew. He frequented the fliour-mill by 
 the bridge to ponder the possibility of taking home a 
 millstone to drop upon Mrs. Spencer's head, until it 
 occurred to him that the penalty for such an act would 
 be rather severe, and that it would be a pity if a fair 
 young life were cut short. Still, resentment burned 
 in him, and would not be assuaged. The flame of it 
 was fed by his aunt's stories of the precious life of 
 his mother's childhood, which, though David had 
 lived in it in imagination, was by the new light cast 
 on it yet more startlingly in contrast with the mean- 
 ness of the surroundings in which he himself had 
 grown. In the old life there were the lord and his 
 son, the Honourable John; in the dull little street 
 were Mrs. Spencer and the charwoman, the dirty old 
 music-master, and the golden-haired lady. Here in 
 Bardon were great trees and a wonderful river; in 
 the dull street were the starved elderberries and the 
 hawthorn, and all that there could be for contrast with 
 the lovely river was the canal where the barges were, 
 a ditch so foul and oily black that the notice forbid- 
 ding bathing was a mockery. The canal and the river 
 were not more startling in contrast than Spencer and 
 Brockman, with all its tender associations. He set 
 his teeth. 
 
 " What can I caU her ? " he said to his aunt. 
 
 " She will be Mrs. Brockman." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Miss Andrew had marked how the boy had brooded 
 on the question, and she admired his spirit, but was 
 curiously helpless. She longed to keep him with her, 
 but dared not broach the subject to him. She was 
 not friendless, but often she sighed for some bright 
 creature to bring life into her little house, to break 
 
I04 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 its ordered neatness, to dispel the preserving scent of 
 lavender which was over all. This David had done 
 in the few weeks of his stay with her, and she was 
 loath to let him go, and once more to sit old-maid- 
 ishly prim, with no immediate creature for tending. 
 
 She spent many hours twisting the problem this 
 way and that, looking at it from every side, anxious 
 only for the best for David. To take him from broth- 
 ers and sisters, father, and this woman, who, though 
 she might be common through and through, was yet 
 good-hearted, and had shown herself generous, and, 
 from what she had gleaned, capable, might be dan- 
 gerous. Life might be hard for David, but if he were 
 to grow to full strength, would not such a tempering 
 be finer than the soft air of Bardon and the close pro- 
 tection, the too tender atmosphere, of her house? 
 David had touched her to a knowledge of the half- 
 life she had known, living, as she had always done, 
 in the tragedies and emotions of others. She was re- 
 minded bitterly of her failure with Henry, of her 
 failure to give Margaret strength, and the rude sense 
 of life which should have made her close with Henry 
 at the outset of his folly, and preserve herself and 
 him from the. utter wreck of their fortunes. She 
 blamed herself, and for long hours in the night she 
 cast and recast her life, Mary's, and Margaret's, only 
 to come back to this — that she had hidden herself 
 away, and from horror of all that had been had 
 striven to encase herself and Margaret so that noth- 
 ing hurtful should ever enter in. The result had 
 been disastrous, and yet so deeply was the instinct 
 rooted in herself that even now she found herself 
 wrapping David round with sentiment to preserve 
 him from all hurt — David in lavender. 
 
 Notwithstanding this realization of disaster sprung 
 from tenderness, what she desired more than any- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS J05 
 
 thing else in the world was that David should not be 
 taken from her, and when his father wrote that he 
 must return to resume his schooling, she answered 
 with a plea that he should be allowed to stay. Henry, 
 swollen with his small success and the adoration of 
 his new wife, "curtly reminded her of the remarks he 
 had made on a previous occasion with regard to this 
 subject; a little malevolently he gibed at the poor 
 woman, and reminded her that he was now, or hoped 
 soon to be, independent of such offers of assistance. 
 
 " Commerce," he said — " commerce is the note of 
 the age. I establish a business which should be 
 enough for David; it is good enough for me. I'm 
 done with being a gentleman. . . ." 
 
 This struck ominously, and David found his aunt 
 in tears. She explained to him the full story, rebuk- 
 ing herself for a foolish old woman. 
 
 " I've lost touch with it all," she said over and over 
 again. " This is no place for you, David. It is out 
 of the world. It is a refuge. Let it be that for 
 you." 
 
 David was embarrassed by the old lady's emotion, 
 and did not know what to say. He did not wish to 
 relinquish all that the little northern town held for 
 him, but Bardon also was sweet; between the two it 
 was for the great powers to decide, for he had little 
 or no appreciation of free will in his affairs. Yet at 
 home there was Mrs. Spencer, but there were also 
 Helen and John; in Bardon there were trees and the 
 river, beasts and birds, but also there was Miss An- 
 drew's enormous age. , 
 
 When he realized that his time was come, and that 
 he must return, he spent his every penny in buying 
 presents for his relatives and Helen. Susan attended 
 him, and, giggling, suggested that he might like to 
 purchase a wedding-present for herself. He bought 
 
io6 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 her a salmon-hued pin-cushion of velvet, and was 
 publicly embraced for it. 
 
 " If you'll wait," he said, " we will be married on 
 the same day." 
 
 " Robert," said Susan, " is in a 'urry ; he's that 
 fond of me.'' 
 
 Two days later David was loaded with gifts — 
 among them John Fielding's drawing of his father, 
 which he had coveted — and despatched in the old 
 barouche. Miss Andrew standing at her little gate to 
 wave her handkerchief until they had disappeared 
 across the bridge and round the corner into the sta- 
 tion road. 
 
 Basil Stark and many others of David's new friends 
 assembled at the station. He promised that he would 
 write to them, and bade them all to the joint wedding 
 of Robert and Susan and himself and the fair un- 
 known. Robert threw back his head and roared de- 
 lightedly, and Susan burst into happy tears. 
 
 The train moved out, and David hung long out of 
 the window, gazing and gazing, torn with angry re- 
 gret that he could not take the place with him. Then 
 it occurred to him that in his last words to his friends, 
 his last burst of eloquence, his voice had played him 
 tricks, and made sounds like those of Tush at his 
 most erratic. His voice was breaking! Delight in 
 this discovery banished all other thoughts of regret 
 and disquiet from his mind, and he fell to talking 
 aloud to see of what his voice was capable. When 
 his voice rose in a squeak and was lost he was de- 
 lighted; when it suddenly leaped to a bass note his 
 joy was almost unbounded. 
 
 He was beaming and mightily pleased with him- 
 self when his father met him at the station, and con- 
 veyed him to the new house. It was wonderful, but, 
 compared with the marvel of his new voice, just noth- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 107 
 
 ing. He beamed as he had never beamed, even on 
 his stepmother. 
 
 " My word," she said, " but you 'ave grown." 
 
 David did not wince at the dropped aitch. Delib- 
 erately forcing his voice down, he said in his very 
 gruffest : 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He could not trust himself to say more, but gig- 
 gled nervously. 
 
 Audrey took him to display all the wonders of the 
 new house. 
 
 " I'm going to a new school," said Audrey. "And, 
 oh! David, they're going to send you away." 
 
 David received the announcement in blank silence. 
 
 The new house was semi-detached, the very height 
 of Spencerian ambition, but its atmosphere damped 
 David's spirits, and he chafed against it. It was 
 filled with new furniture, and though David could 
 here and there recognize an old friend, all that was 
 new reeked of Spencer and set him longing for 
 Bardon. 
 
 He told Audrey about the lord, and later showed 
 her the drawing of the Honourable John, whose con- 
 nection with herself lay altogether beyond her com- 
 prehension. 
 
 , She took the story to her father for elucidation. 
 He looked across at his. new wife, swore tmder his 
 breath, and told Audrey she would understand by- 
 and-by, in such a tone that she shrank from him. In 
 these days Henry had grown fat, proud of himself, 
 of his work, and of his new wife. In attaining the 
 semi-detached house she had set the crown on her 
 ambition. She was inordinately house-proud, and had 
 laboured to create her ideal of a home. Henry was 
 as wax in her hands; she moulded him, and before 
 David's return had everything about to her liking. 
 
io8 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Audrey and Nicholas were happy enough, and John 
 was not of an age to care about anything so only 
 that he was properly fed. All was well, and all 
 wheels ran smoothly until David returned. 
 
 Dr. Crosby had divined that there would be trouble, 
 and had skilfully bred in Henry's mind the idea that 
 it might be as well if his strange and incomprehen- 
 sible first-bom were sent to school. 
 
 Discussing the project in his nuptial bed, he said: 
 
 " It would be better for both of you, my dear. 
 You know how he used to try your temper. . . . 
 They will perhaps whip the damned poet out of him." 
 
 "I was thinking," said Mrs. Henry Brockman — 
 " I was thinking that perhaps we might take in one 
 of the rooms over the shop next month, and start it 
 as a vegetarian room; there are so many Socialists 
 nowadays." 
 
VIII 
 
 The school selected for David was a second-rate pub- 
 lic school, built on a dismal hill in North-East York- 
 shire. He hated it so much that he came to conceive 
 hell as a treeless waste wherein some fiend had erected 
 a massive pile of grey stone. Almost as unhappy 
 was he in his holidays, for he lost touch with his 
 brothers and sisters, and even with Helen, who sud- 
 denly grew into a tall and dashing young woman, 
 beside whom, in spite of the fluffy down upon his 
 cheeks and chin, he felt miserably small. The change 
 took place during one Easter term. They had wept 
 at parting, had broken a silver ring, and lo! upon his 
 return she received him with gracious but cold con- 
 descension, and when, obstinately butting against such 
 a cruel change, he strove to interest her in his ex- 
 ploits and his sinister yarns of school-life, she turned 
 from him, and was off with Audrey upon some purely 
 feminine search. Utterly bereft, David was forced to 
 turn to John, for Nicholas by this had his own circle. 
 John was four years old, and very speedily reduced 
 David to a condition of thraldom. David, the mighty 
 hunter, the invincible knight, the magnifico, slunk 
 miserably ,in the train of the baby mind, and was 
 most agonized lest it should be discovered to what a 
 plight he was reduced. Audrey scented his degrada- 
 tion. John was deserted, and for days David moped 
 miserably until he bethought him of Tush. 
 
 The shop in which that stalwart had begun to lather 
 chins was close by the scene of David's historic battle 
 with the butcher-boy. He repaired thither, and sat 
 
 109 
 
no DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 for some time upon a hard chair reading a copy of a 
 vile comic journal, over the top of which he studied 
 the shop. 
 
 It had two basins, two operating chairs ; it was un- 
 tidy, frowsy, and smelled of soap and cheese. It was 
 decorated with advertisements of various brands of 
 tobacco and portraits of actresses of a bygone gener- 
 ation. On a card it was announced that hair-cutting 
 would be performed for threepence, shaving, sham- 
 pooing, singeing for twopence; chiropody and mani- 
 cure were both offered at a moderate price, though 
 the words must sorely have puzzled the clods who 
 were old Lintott's patrons. Two of these were now 
 in the shop, a ferrety fool and a greasy bully — an at- 
 torney's clerk and a butcher. Old Lintott was clip- 
 ping the hair of the one, while Tush was shaving the 
 other. 
 
 Tush was a man. He wore trim little moustachios 
 waxed to points, and his hair was waved and greased 
 in a monstrous curl through which a comb was thrust. 
 He twittered as he plied his, craft, and parleyed with 
 the butcher of things that were of no interest to either. 
 Yet David was envious of the flow of words, of the 
 easy assurance, the light poise of Tush, the airy con- 
 fidence with which he discussed this and that measure 
 promoted by Government for the welfare of the 
 masses. 
 
 " Yes,'' said Tush, as he skimmed the butcher's fat 
 chops with his razor. " Yes, we must keep an eye 
 on Germany." 
 
 " These is hard times for the meat trade," said the 
 butcher. 
 
 Old Lintott turned on this, scissors and comb in 
 hands, and brandished both. 
 
 " Germany ? Fiddlesticks ! Keep your tongue in 
 your head, Williams, or talk of things you under- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS iii 
 
 stand. I say, give us a governing class that don't 
 want to govern — ^better than a governing class that 
 can't. That's what I say." 
 
 " I'm a Tory, I am," said the butcher, starting up, 
 lathered as he was and with the towel round his neck. 
 " Gimme the British Empire.'' 
 
 "I would give you," said old Lintott — "I would 
 give you anything to keep you quiet. What'd you do 
 with it if you had it?" 
 
 " I'd — I'd eat the Germans," said the butcher. 
 
 "You'd sell them as mutton in your shop." Old 
 Lintott chuckled over this grisly fantasy, while the 
 butcher, scenting insult, pawed the air and growled 
 ominously. His little eyes started from his head, and 
 he licked his lips. 
 
 " I'd take all Little Englanders and crack their 
 heads," he said at length. 
 
 " I could not crack yours with one of your own 
 choppers," was the quiet rejoinder. 
 
 " My 'ead's as good as yours." 
 
 " Better, because it's thicker." 
 
 The attorney's clerk chimed in here, and demanded 
 that the cutting of his hair should continue. The old 
 barber returned to the operation, and the butcher sub- 
 mitted himself once more to Tush. 
 
 David was disappointed. He had been excited by 
 the violence of the battle of wits, and had hoped that 
 there would come a bloody conflict, had indeed had 
 visions of the butcher holding the old barber by the 
 throat and cracking his head with pounding fist. He 
 admired the huge breadth of the butcher, the girth 
 of him, and the bull-neck. Pitted against such a man 
 the little barber was puny and almost inconsiderable. 
 To his great astonishment they parted most amicably, 
 and without rancour. The butcher paid his twopence 
 and rolled out of the shop, wiping his chin in his blue 
 
112 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 apron. Tush busied himself with his shaving tackle. 
 
 "That's a fine man, Mr. Lintott," said the attor- 
 ney's clerk. 
 
 " As good as another. How is business with you? " 
 
 " Well. But there's trouble in the office." 
 
 "Oh?" 
 
 " Too many partners, and partners' wives, and 
 partners' daughters, and partners' nieces, and part- 
 ners' widows. . . . Nothing for us chaps. I do all 
 Mr. Vaughan's work; he gets fifteen hundred for it, 
 I get a hundred and fifty. . . . It's crool." 
 
 " Birth," said Lintott cryptically. " Birth. You're 
 born to have or not to have, and there's no way out." 
 
 ." Give everybody a chance, I says." 
 
 " Everybody is given a chance." 
 
 The words rang in David's ears. He had come to 
 the shop in Ishmaelitish brooding on the hardness of 
 his lot. He dropped the paper from his hand and 
 leaned forward to catch what more might be said. 
 The rustling of it drew Tush's attention. He ad- 
 justed his chair, took out the comb from his curl, re- 
 placed it, folded his hands, and said : 
 
 "Next, please." 
 
 David rose "to his feet and passed over to Tush; 
 then, when he found himself the taller, and was glad 
 of it, he drew himself up and held out the hand of 
 patronage to his "old boon companion. 
 
 " Tush, how are you? " 
 
 This was not at all what he had meant to say. 
 Tush dropped his scissors, gasped, and in a moment 
 had taken David's hand in both his and was pumping 
 it up and down, laughing. 
 
 Old Lintott turned an inquiring eye. Tush slapped 
 his thigh. 
 
 " It's David, guv'nor — ^David Brockman — ^gi-owed, 
 guv'nor. Look at 'im! Ain't 'e a masterpiece? " 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 113 
 
 All this time he was- pumping David's hand up and 
 down, and patting it and gurgling. 
 
 "David, guv-nor. 'Im as licked the butcher-boy." 
 
 The old barber scanned David. 
 
 " Shave him," he said, and turned to the attorney's 
 clerk, who was now bending over the basin with his 
 head white with shampoo suds. 
 
 David felt his chin. The prospect of being shaved 
 was dazzling. 
 
 " Will you? " said Tush. "Lord, to think of Da- 
 vid with a beard. Let's look. . . . Ay, there's a 
 beard coming." 
 
 He drew his fingers caressingly along David's chin. 
 
 " Soft yet ; but they come quickly. You'll 'ave a 
 chin as blue as a slate. 'Ow's Nicholas, eh? 'Ead 
 back, Mr. David. You're away now ? " 
 
 "At school," said David most miserably. He laid 
 his head back on the rest which Tush lowered for him. 
 His neck was swathed in a towel and a little square 
 of paper laid on his shoulder. The lathering began. 
 Tush beamed. David opened his mouth to ask a 
 question, but the lather smothered him, and the taste 
 of it was noxious. Tush's professional pride was in- 
 jured, and he set aside personal interest in David, 
 and applied himself firmly to the shaving. The razor 
 flashed down one cheek. Tush drew back to survey. 
 
 " Your nose has grown, Mr. David." 
 
 Mindful of the lather, David spoke no word. The 
 other cheek was shaved, sponged, and powder ap- 
 plied. 
 
 " Soft — soft, Mr. David. There ! Shaving makes 
 it grow." 
 
 David looked at himself in the spotten mirror. By 
 this time the attorney's clerk also had taken his de- 
 parture, and old Lintott was free to watch the splen- 
 did operation. He leaned against the chair vacated 
 
114 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 by his patron and folded his arms. He combed his 
 sparse little grey beard and watched the two boys 
 with winking eyes. In their red rims they glowed 
 and danced in merriment. They were not conscious 
 of his scrutiny, but pursued their business absorbedly 
 and with delight. He contained himself for a time, 
 but when David demanded to see the lather and the 
 hair in it he clapped his hands to his side and broke 
 into a chuckle. On this David turned, but old Lin- 
 tott was in a paroxysm of coughing and busied with 
 arranging bottles of the hair tonic, his invention and 
 especial pride, on the shelves above the basin. It 
 seemed that he would take no notice of them. Reas- 
 sured, David turned to Tush. 
 
 " How is your father. Tush?" 
 
 " Bad, Mr. David, bad. 'E's not been well since 'e 
 'ad to leave the Force." 
 
 "Leave the ?" The catastrophe was almost 
 
 beyond belief. 
 
 " Yes. My dad's that kind. It was these 'ere un- 
 employed. They was out ill the square, out to smash, 
 they was, an' dad was told off to go out agin. Well, 
 they was that 'ungry an' ragged an' wretched-lookin' 
 that dad, 'e couldn't 'it 'em. The Serjeant, 'e ups an' 
 'e clouts a woman. Dad, 'e got so mad that 'e ups 
 with 'is truncheon an' fetches the serjeant a whack on 
 the 'ead. Then a nipper, 'e ups and is off with the 
 Serjeant's 'elmet. Now, you can do a'most anythink 
 to a p'leeceman, Mr. David, but if you offs with 'is 
 'elmet 'e goes mad. So the serjeant, 'e goes mad, an' 
 all the p'leece goes mad, 'cept dad. The p'leece 
 charges in an' whacks an' beats an' kicks the unem- 
 ployed, until dad could stick it no longer, an 'e turns 
 agin the p'leece. To save talk, they just turned 'im 
 out o' the Force. But it's agin 'im, Mr. David — it's 
 agin 'im, an' no one'U 'ave 'im. There ain't nothink 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 115 
 
 more sad than a p'leeceman wot's turned agin the 
 Force. . . ." 
 
 Tush shook his head sadly and stropped his razor. 
 He brightened, however, in a moment. His voice 
 dropped to a whisper. He looked furtively across at 
 his employer; then he stooped to David's ear and 
 hissed exultantly: 
 
 " Mr. David, I'm coortin'." He giggled and nod- 
 ded his head thrice, preened himself, and strutted. 
 Queerly, the tidings made David angry, but he pro- 
 fessed interest. Tush fumbled in a pocket behind his 
 apron. " This," he said—" this is 'er." 
 
 He held out in the palm of his hand a photograph, 
 the size of a postage-stamp, of a plump-faced girl, 
 foolishly smiling to show poor teeth. She had the 
 hair, the hat, and the pose of a wanton, crying aloud 
 against the stupid innocence of her face. 
 
 "Ain't she beautiful, Mr. David? That's not a bit 
 like 'er really — not 'alf good enough. It's 'er figure, 
 an' 'er walk, an' the way she 'olds 'erself. Sometimes, 
 Mr. David, I'm sick with it, an' can't see to shave, an' 
 sometimes I want to 'it 'er. . . . Ah ! '' , 
 
 David returned the photograph. Something of his 
 old lordliness returned to him. 
 
 " Cleave to her," he said. 
 
 Unknown to them, old Lintott had crept up, and 
 had listened to their last words. David's admonition 
 was too much for him, and he broke into a loud guf- 
 faw. Both David and Tush cringed as though they 
 had been caught in some forbidden act, and Tush 
 hastily thrust the photograph away in the recesses of 
 his person. 
 
 "Ay," said the barber, "tuck her away! Tuck 
 her away! Hide your treasure from vile eyes. Hide 
 her, and be sure that you'll bring her low, and she 
 you. . . . Blind! . . . Cherish your blindness for 
 
ii6 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 the little that you have it — cherish it, hug it, for 
 they'll not let you have it long. The worid of fools 
 that run and run and run, the world of cowards ! " 
 
 His voice rose to a shriek, cracked, and he stood 
 looking more than a little foolish, blinking owl-like 
 from one young face to the other. \ 
 
 " Heuh ! " he said. " Frightened you, did I ? Mad ? 
 I was mad once, but that was years ago, before either 
 of you came into the world. Here in this very house. 
 But that's all over. I am no longer a man, but a lit- 
 tle machine, to snip and snip at hair, scrape chins — 
 threepence one, twopence the other — old, cramped, 
 twisted, worn ! That is I — in a dirty shop in a dirty 
 street in a dirty town, where you never see the 
 sky ^" 
 
 Tush broke into a nervous giggle, but David stared, 
 fascinated, at the little withered face, twitching and 
 mouthing. The old man moved towards him. 
 
 " You, my dear — ^my dear, you must out of it. 
 Don't be starved and smoked — smoked like a herring 
 — ^young, so young as you are. What's your name ? " 
 
 " David — David Brockman." 
 
 "Old— how old are you?" 
 
 " Seventeen.'' 
 
 " He ! he ! And you fought the butcher-boy twice 
 your size. He! he! He's told me — ^the butcher-boy 
 and Bloody Judas. How I've laughed! Here, let 
 me touch you." 
 
 He came to David, and ran his hands over his arms, 
 squeezing his muscles. 
 
 "Thin! Thin! You thin thing! David — fine! 
 Oh! the brave boy! Did you hear what the butcher 
 said? He'd eat the Germans! You! — eat butcher- 
 boys? Eh?" ; 
 
 All this time he was fingering David's person and 
 peering up into his face. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 117 
 
 " Yes, yes, it's there — ^the fine spirit. Brave boy — 
 bully boy ! Be a man — not like the rest of us. Wait 
 —wait ! " 
 
 He went away into the parlour behind his shop, 
 fumbling at his mouth and muttering to himself. Da- 
 vid and Tush eyed each other ruefully. David was a 
 little ashamed of, and a little angry with Tush, who, 
 therefore, when he broke again into his giggle, was 
 sternly rebuked. 
 
 " 'E was always a bit mad, but I never seed 'im 
 like this before, 'cept once when a young girl came 
 into the shop — ^pretty as a fairy, she was. . . ." 
 
 David blushed. He ran from the shop — ran, and 
 did not stay until he came to the Crosbys' house. He 
 saw Tush for what he was — little, mean, a barber's 
 assistant, scented and curled: assistant to an old man 
 strangely mad, babbling of butcher-boys and things 
 already so distant that it was as though they had 
 never been. Butcher-boys — smoked, smoked like a 
 herring. There was a brewery . near the Crosbys' 
 house, the chimney of which was belching smoke, 
 while the sickly smell of the stewing vats came ofifen- 
 sively to the boy's senses. The steam and the smoke 
 of the place made his eyes smart. He turned sick and 
 green, staggered and reeled, but presently was steady 
 enough to pursue his way. He came to the red-brick 
 house, and was admitted. Helen came to him. At 
 once she divined the trouble in him. 
 
 " Oh, David! what is it? You look so ill." 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 "Are you ill?" 
 
 " No. I'm shaven and shorn." 
 
 "What, then?" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " Why did you come, then, if only it was to stand 
 there so stupidly?" 
 
ii8 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 ■" Sit down." 
 
 She was so imperious that David sat, and looked 
 utterly woebegone. 
 
 "Is it your head again?" 
 
 " My head. No ; my head is — ^yes, my head is 
 right enough." 
 
 " I never saw you like — like this. Where have you 
 been ? ' 
 
 " To the barber's." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " To be shaven and shorn." 
 
 " I shall shake you." 
 
 "Do! Anything to escape." 
 
 "From what?" 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 "Oh! oh! oh! I must call father to you." 
 
 "No. Shake me!" 
 
 "David! I " 
 
 " Shake me ! Shake me ! " 
 
 " What have you been doing ? " 
 
 " Nothing; but I hate it all. I hate school, and I 
 hate home. They're not kind to me. They bully me 
 at school, and she never lets me be." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " She." 
 
 " Audrey likes her now." 
 
 " Audrey ! " He waved his hand deprecatingly, 
 weakly. "It is horrible, our house — ^all the things 
 in it, and my father " 
 
 " You must not talk ill of your father." 
 
 "I hate him, too!" 
 
 "Oh, David! . . ." 
 
 "Well, it's true." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 119 
 
 Now Helen was half laughing at him, half crying 
 with him. 
 
 " You — you're away so much, you see, David." 
 
 "You're such a fine lady now — you and Audrey. 
 . . . I'll run away. . . ." 
 
 He had never contemplated this before, but now he 
 brought it out plump, as though it were long premed- 
 itated. He wished somehow to hurt Helen, the sedate 
 girl with her golden hair so ridiculously puffed out, 
 and her skirts so unreasonably long. He failed, 
 and was conscious of failure, retiring from the 
 encounter chafing and angry. He stood confronting 
 her. 
 
 "Very well. You will understand some day, and 
 you will be sorry. Good-bye. You will not see me 
 perhaps for years — perhaps never again." 
 
 " Don't be absurd, David ! " 
 
 " I mean it." 
 
 Dr. Crosby came in at this moment. He came to 
 David and patted his shoulder. The boy's mood 
 softened a little, and he began to be sorry for these 
 people, who would be sad when he had gone out into 
 the cold world. Already he saw himself tramping 
 along the bleak roads, seeking adventure and finding 
 it in abundance: consorting with vagabonds and 
 mountebanks, starving — perhaps even stealing — living 
 a free life of outlawry, to emerge in the end more 
 splendid and triumphant than ever before, a very Jo- 
 seph providing for the welfare of his brethren — 
 Joseph garnering com for the famine-stricken Egyp- 
 tians, and waxing more and more great for the hard- 
 ships he had borne. Towards his stepmother he was, 
 in the first days of his greatness, implacable, but soft 
 later for the sake of his brother John, who played the 
 part of Benjamin in the saga. 
 
 " David has been scolding me," said Helen, , 
 
I20 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " The shadow of school, eh ? Is he to dine with 
 us, Helen?" 
 
 " If he will." 
 
 " I will not," said David, and left them. 
 
 " Have you been teasing him? " 
 
 " No. He said he was going to run away." 
 
 Crosby chuckled. 
 
 "What is it, father?" 
 
 " You, my dear, are growing up, and David can't." 
 
 Helen busied herself with the making of clothes 
 for sundry infants of the slums whom she had taken 
 under her protection, while her father sat admiring 
 her. 
 
 " I always knew there would be bad times for Da- 
 vid. The rest of them are well enough, and the 
 woman, she is a good soul — but she makes them all 
 fat and stupid. Even the dog is fat, and has lost all 
 quickness." 
 
 "What do you think David will do? " 
 
 ," David is such an uncertain quantity that I can- 
 not say." 
 
 " Is he clever at school ? " 
 
 " ' Intelligent, but grossly inattentive,' was the last 
 report." 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Brockman is making money ? " 
 
 " Piles of it ! He and his wife will run the town 
 soon.'' 
 
 " It is all very queer, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Much — ^much more queer than you know, my 
 dear." 
 
 " I want David to be . . . something." 
 
 " You are fond of David? " 
 
 " Why, of course. What does his father think?" 
 
 "Mr. Brockman never thinks. They will none of 
 them have much help from hirri." 
 
 Helen plied her needle for a space. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 121 
 
 " It certainly is interesting. David is like a baby, 
 isn't he?" 
 
 " That day when his mother Did I ever tell 
 
 you?" 
 
 "What happened?" 
 
 Her father told her. Helen kissed him. 
 
 " She must have been very beautiful." 
 
 " Yes. That is why we must look after David." 
 
 " I will,'' said Helen ; and, foolishly, during the re- 
 mainder of David's holidays, made desperate efforts 
 to mother him. David scented the effort, resented it, 
 and avoided her. 
 
 On the eve of his departure for the bleak York- 
 shire hill , Henry called David into the little room 
 which he called his study. He stood by the fire, rat- 
 tling money in his pockets, and indulged in little 
 pleasantries at David's expense. 
 
 " Well, my boy, where's the wool you've been gath- 
 ering these days?" 
 
 David was mum. 
 
 " Been counting the stars in the sky, haven't you ? 
 How many are there, eh ? " 
 
 Mrs. Brockman came quietly into the room and sat 
 knitting. Her lips were tightly compressed; she sat 
 bolt upright, rigid and determined. The ugly ormolu 
 clock on the mantelpiece tick-ticked, and seemed to 
 keep time with the clicking of Mrs. Brockman's 
 needles. 
 
 David scanned the woman while his father talked. 
 
 " A rolling stone gathers no moss. . . . Grossly 
 inattentive." 
 
 " She is wonderfully ugly,'' thought David. " Why 
 does she screw back her hair like that ? " 
 
 " A waste of good money if all that is told you 
 goes in at one ear and out at the other." 
 
 " Her bosom is like a platform." 
 
122 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " Here am I slaving like a nigger to keep you and 
 your brothers and sisters. . . ." 
 
 "She breathes horribly — snorts!" 
 
 " Every penny that I spend on you is made by the 
 sweat of my brow.'' 
 
 " She drops her aitches." 
 
 " I send you to school to have the nonsense whacked 
 out of you, so that you can carry on the business " 
 
 " Businesses," said Mrs. Brockman, and went on 
 knitting. 
 
 "Businesses," said Henry, and rattled exultingly 
 at his money. 
 
 " She is common," thought David, and he looked 
 round the room at the antimacassars on the chairs, 
 the stupid prints on the walls — "common!" 
 
 "At the end of the term," said Henry, "you will 
 leave school and go into my office. You will begin 
 at the beginning. You will lick stamps and address 
 envelopes, and you will be paid seven shillings and 
 sixpence a week. Are you listening?" 
 
 This came so fiercely that David started. 
 
 " Yes," he said, though he had not heard a word. 
 
 " You will be given a fortnight's holiday in the 
 year, like the other clerks. . . ." 
 
 David grasped the truth. He flushed and trembled, 
 but made no sound ; only he thought of old Lintott. 
 
 " Smoked," said David — " smoked like a herring.'' 
 
 " The boy's mad ! " This from Mrs. Brockman. 
 
 "May I go?" said David — waited not for an an- 
 swer, but plunged out of the room, striving to un- 
 derstand the blow which had fallen upon him. He 
 was stifled by it, and the next day said good-bye to 
 his kin and friends in a dream. Dr. Crosby gave 
 him three pounds; his father gave him one. 
 
 He sat in blank misery in the train. At one end of 
 the line was the detested school, at the other the 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 123 
 
 loathed office, the home which was no home, the town 
 of grime and squalor. His thoughts flew to Bardon 
 and the sweet memories of his sojourn there. He 
 corresponded with his aunt, and she sent him presents 
 and good things to eat at school. She had invited 
 him again and again, but Henry, mindful of her offer 
 to adopt the boy, and still smarting under it, and 
 under die sway of his wife, who had never forgotten 
 or forgiven the scorn which she had encountered at 
 Miss Andrew's hands, had always made some such 
 excuse as that, now that David was so much away, 
 his family could not aiford to lose him during the few 
 weeks in which they could enjoy his society. 
 
 The train drew up at a little station. David re- 
 membered the occasion with Helen when he said that 
 he would run away. He glanced round the carriage. 
 It was full, but none of the passengers seemed to take 
 any notice of him. He looked out, up and down the 
 platform. The guard had raised his green flag. Da- 
 vid seized his little bag, his overcoat, and straw hat, 
 opened the door, and slipped out. . . . The engine 
 shrieked and the train moved on. . . . 
 
 There was a commotion in the Brockman house- 
 hold when there came a telegram from the school 
 asking for news of David. Henry swore;, and his 
 wife broke into abuse of everybody and everything — 
 of the school, of her husband for having such a son, 
 of Miss Andrew for stuffing him with romantic non- 
 sense. She had given Henry many bitter hours after 
 she had wormed from him all that he knew of the his- 
 tory of the Andrews. Search was made, and inquiry 
 along the line. David was remembered at the sta- 
 tion, for after a disappearance of some hours he had 
 returned and bought a ticket for Liverpool. . . . He 
 was traced to Liverpool, but was there lost on the 
 quay, and it could not be known in what ship he had 
 
124 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 made his escape. Advertisements were inserted in 
 the papers in England and in America. 
 
 No word reached them for long enough, until Miss 
 Andrew wrote that she had heard from him from 
 Rio de Janeiro, where his ship — ^he did not say what 
 ship — was for a few days in port. He asked her to 
 let Helen know, but none other. ... He had appar- 
 ently intended only to let her know that he was alive 
 and had some thought of her, but the magic of expe- 
 rience had been too strong for him, and he broke out : 
 
 " Oh, the world is so wonderful ! On the ship it is 
 horrible, for the men are drunken and foul-mouthed; 
 but there is always the sea, so vast it is ; and these 
 places, with their hot sun, glaring blues, parched yel- 
 lows, and blinding light, are glorious. I have been 
 drunk once like the rest, but I am always drunk with 
 the miracle of it all. . . . We carry coals and wood, 
 and we have a fine assortment of animals. They are 
 nicer in their habits than the pigs in the fo'c'sle. But 
 I love England, and Bardon, and you. . . ." 
 
 This letter was sent to David's father, and was 
 given by him to the Crosbys. The doctor was de- 
 lighted. 
 
 " Darling, he'll be a man." 
 
 " But — but if he should never come again." 
 
 " My dear, you might roll the world on the likes of 
 David, but you could not crush him." 
 
 "It is so hateful to think that that woman has 
 driven him out." 
 
 "I think the honours are with David." 
 
 Indeed, it was so. For his flinging free raised a 
 shadow between Henry and his wife, and there was 
 little peace in their house. Slowly they drew apart, 
 neither confessing it, and Henry was more miserable, 
 his wife more shrewish, than they had ever been. 
 Audrey became her father's companion, and stood be- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 125 
 
 tween her two younger brothers and the fury of the 
 termagant when she lashed herself beyond control. 
 
 Business increased exceedingly. New establish- 
 ments were opened. Henry became a member of the 
 City Council, and a light of the Progressive Party. 
 He introduced all manner of changes in the lighting, 
 the drainage, the water-supply, the tramway-service 
 of the place. One by one pet schemes of Dr. Cros- 
 by's were introduced and carried to a successful con- 
 clusion. 
 
 The Brockmans moved to a yet larger and wholly 
 detached house in the most fashionable suburb of the 
 town. 
 
 Nicholas became an unpleasant young man, and 
 swaggered about with various popinjays and nincom- 
 poops to whom the habits of the young men of Lon- 
 don were the form and pattern of the highest and 
 best. As Audrey came to womanhood, she more and 
 more fell foul of her stepmother, and conflict raged 
 between them. In the end she flung of? with a young 
 gentleman engaged in the cotton trade, and their mar- 
 riage was a pitiable failure. 
 
 In John only of the family was David a living mem- 
 - cry. His childish hero-worship fell upon this absent 
 brother seeking adventure in the world. All David's 
 possessions became his, and he, in his turn, lived most 
 fully and most truly in the tradition of Brockman and 
 Andrew and Fielding. The portrait of Lord St. 
 Justin was to him as a holy picture, as an eikon to a 
 Russian peasant. 
 
PART II 
 
In eight years David had essayed more trades 
 and professions than ever Jewdwine had done. He 
 had wandered through America, Canada, Japan, Aus- 
 tralia, India. He had starved in all of them. He 
 began in New York, when he had become weary of 
 the sea, by working in a boot factory. He had pushed 
 a trolley, and pushed it so well that he ha,^ been given 
 a larger trolley to push. He had quarrelled with the 
 foreman because he was cruel to his wife, and had 
 been bundled out neck and crop. He was then suc- 
 cessively bar-tender, lift-man, clerk, reporter; nothing 
 for long and nothing successfully. His beard grew, 
 as Tush had foretold that it would, and by the time 
 he was twenty he had a chin as blue as a slate, hard 
 and firm, queerly denying the softness in his eyes. 
 He wandered up and down the social scale, and every- 
 where came into close and sometimes dangerous con- 
 tact with the women, for shrew, wanton, prude, liar, 
 slut, termagant, baggage, jade, fool, all won from 
 him a gentle chivalry, which roused some to tender- 
 ness, while it inflamed others. He did not wish for 
 any of them, and only at his blackest — in the moments 
 when he had lost faith, hope, and courage — did he turn 
 to them for comfort and strength to face the utter 
 misery of his position. He consorted with thieves 
 and conspirators, vagabpnds and ruffians, but wher- 
 ever he might be, he was invariably appealed to as a 
 fount of honour, as a being outside and above the cir- 
 cle in which he found himself. He had some quality 
 which compelled friendship from all types, and with 
 
 139 
 
I30 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 the growth of his beard there came into him a wide 
 embracing humour and sympathy which enslaved, 
 and procured for him everywhere the means of liv- 
 ing. It seemed, however, that he was determined to 
 starve. He was possessed by a, demon of restless- 
 ness and a horror of being shaped and moulded which 
 made him, so soon as he was settled, surrounded with 
 friends and engaged upon some employment which 
 held out every prospect of advancement and ultimate 
 stability, kick away all that supported him and topple 
 headlong into the morass. His imagination leaped 
 ahead, and he saw himself as others, happy enough, 
 but small, .limited, and poor in spirit. In America 
 he had some experience of the rich and governing 
 classes, and found them as small as, and rather more 
 vulgar, .certainly more dishonest, and with less sense 
 of fellowship than the people who lived in dark 
 squalor. His happiest months in America were those 
 when he lived with a notorious woman who picked 
 him out of the gutter, drunk, ill, and on the point of 
 collapse. She fed him, nursed him, gave him health, 
 and wept bitterly when he came to her with a sum of 
 money to repay all that she had expended for him. 
 They quarrelled violently, and he left her, and New 
 York. 
 
 He drifted south to New Orleans, to Texas, up to 
 San Francisco, and for a year he loafed in Hawaii. 
 He worked his way to Manila, where he distinguished 
 himself in defending two luckless railway platers who 
 had been imported from England, in contravention 
 of the American Imported Labour laws, and were 
 mobbed by an infuriated gang of American workers. 
 With these two men, John Booker and Bill Tidd, the 
 one of Poplar, the other of Battersea, he made his 
 way to Shanghai, where, being without means, they 
 were incarcerated as common vagrants, and only re- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 131 
 
 leased on the intervention of the British Consul. 
 Booker and Tidd were lachrymose, and breathing 
 fiery oaths and vengeance against the fool of a secre- 
 tary who had exported them to Manila. David rather 
 enjoyed the situation, and so won the admiratioji of 
 the Consul by his humorous narration of the affair 
 that he found work for him in his office. Booker 
 and Tidd were sent back to their beloved London, 
 vowing they would never again leave it. They gave 
 David their address, and prayed that if he ever came 
 to London and were hard pressed, he would come to 
 them. David promised, and left them to pursue their 
 pleasures, and returned to the house of the Consul, 
 dressed himself in the Consul's second-best dress suit, 
 and dined magnificently. 
 
 Now, the Consul's lady was a woman restless and 
 ill-content, and David lent a sympathetic ear to the 
 incoherent tale of her woes. She had no children, 
 and the glamour was gone out of her man. She 
 laboured to attract, but having no test to which to 
 bring her efforts, she overshot the mark, and was just 
 overdressed, overpowdered, too much beribboned, too 
 much bedecked with little jewels on her fingers, in 
 her ears, round her neck. Her face was faded, 
 drawn, and strained, her eyes were hard, and there 
 was no light in them. Between her and the Consul 
 was a sort of cold comradeship, no more. He was 
 notoriously enamoured of the fat wife of a German 
 silk merchant, and, if he saw, did not remark the 
 attentions, the little kindnesses, which his lady be- 
 stowed upon David, who, for the hard times that he 
 had gone through, rejoiced for a time, cat-like, in 
 the comforts of this house, and pushed aside the 
 promptings of his honesty which bade him go. He 
 rode with the lady, talked with her, walked with her, 
 listened while she played and sang soft love-ditties to 
 
132 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 him. He thought these ditties foolish and sickly, and 
 was of opinion that the Consul's lady hit the piano 
 too hard. He gave an ear always to her complaints, 
 and was genuinely sorry for the woman. He gave 
 no thought either to the past or the future, but just 
 enjoyed the comfortable present. The Consul's lady 
 seemed happier, and little by little she shed the pre- 
 posterous in her outward appearance. There came a 
 softness into her face, and she was young again. 
 
 David did his work well, and was given more to 
 do, more money also. He moved in the society of the 
 place, and disliked it, was not happy in it, and came, 
 for this reason, to the Consul's lady for the fellowship 
 which he could not find among the men in the club or 
 in the offices and banks. He took a room in a board- 
 ing-house, but dined frequently at the Consul's house 
 in response to the invitations conveyed in the little 
 notes which came daily to his lodging. 
 
 The Consul was summoned away, and his lady 
 sought David for her escort to a great ball given by 
 the bachelors. Here David flirted outrageously with 
 a boisterous girl fresh from England. Her home was 
 in Putney, and she had come out on a visit in order 
 that the sea voyage might distract her thoughts from 
 an unfortunate love affair. She confided the matter 
 to David, and was so arch and foolish with him that 
 he bent to her mood and was as frivolous as she. 
 
 The Consul's lady was furious, and watched David 
 with the large eyes of jealousy. He escorted her to 
 her house, and she bade him enter. 
 
 It was early morning, and the stewing heat was 
 gone. There was a fresh, reviving air, and David 
 broke into a boisterous mood. He talked to her ab- 
 surdly, and caricatured the queer people who had been 
 at the ball. She gave him to drink and smoke, and 
 he sank into a chair. She stood behind him and 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 133 
 
 stroked his hair. Suddenly she broke into tears, 
 and, taking his hand, kissed and kissed it. 
 
 "My boy, my boy! . . ." she said. 
 
 David sprang to his feet and away from her. She 
 stood trembling a little but her hands moved towards 
 him. Her head was bowed. 
 
 " I cannot look at you," she said. 
 - " I am sorry," said David. She laughed excitedly. 
 He came to her, took her by the shoulders, and shook 
 her. Still she laughed. 
 
 "Is it ... is it .. . that?" said David. She 
 nodded her head slowly. 
 
 " I must go." 
 
 " No ... no ... it is such a little thing." 
 
 " The mightiest thing in the world." 
 
 "Oh . . . yes." 
 
 David left her standing there, white, trembling, 
 and humble. 
 
 Two days later he gathered up his goods and chat- 
 tels, all that he had saved, and took ship for India. 
 
 David wished to see the Buried Temple and the 
 wonders of Ceylon. He roamed on foot through the . 
 country, quartering himself on tea-planters in villages, 
 and finally with an old Buddhist priest who dwelt by 
 his temple, remote and almost solitary in the jungle. 
 
 David loved the old man, and passed many splendid 
 hours of fruitful silence with him. They talked and 
 contrasted their lives, and laughed over the lives of 
 other men, so foolish here in the jungle did the race 
 and scramble, the feverish production, the unjust dis- 
 tribution of the lives of men under civilization seem 
 to them. One day David described for the old man 
 how a nigger in New Orleans had " got religion." It 
 was in a little mean street, and the man was em- 
 ployed in mending the road with a gang of four- 
 teen others. 
 
134 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " They dug," said David— r" they dug and they 
 sweated. I watched. This man was the blackest of 
 them all, fine, big, nude to his waist. Suddenly he 
 seized his mattock, hurled it high in the air, thirty 
 feet up, squared his great chest to it, and let it come 
 down thud, whack. It left a gaping wound, and he 
 dabbled his fingers in the blood. . . . Then he 
 screamed aloud — screamed, yelled, beat his head with 
 clenched fists, thrust out his tongue and bit it . . . 
 his eyes rolled — ^then up he leaped from the trench, 
 and flew, blood streaming from his wound, down the 
 street, shouting. At the corner he stood in the sun 
 and held out his arms and stretched on tiptoe, rigid, 
 like one crucified, and sobbed and blubbered in agony. 
 ' Christ is de Lord,' he said. ' De glory ob de Lord 
 is a-comin', is a-comin'. Heaven's gates is open wide, 
 open wide. Christ is de Lord ! ' Then he doubled 
 up and stamped, danced wildly, and flung his arms 
 ... he darted away, crying aloud, * De way ob de 
 Lord is froo de wilderness. . . .' The odd thing is 
 that no one seemed to take any notice, and four hours 
 Jater, when I came down the little street again, there 
 he was, working away as though nothing had hap- 
 pened. . . . Do you understand that ? " 
 
 There was no shadow of interest in the narrative 
 on the old priest's face. He sat as he always sat, 
 motionless, impassive, with his little eyes under parch- 
 ment-yellow lids fixed steadfastly on David's face. 
 His hands he always held concealed under the wide 
 sleeves of his garment, and David, when he was 
 irritated by the impassivity of the creature, had an odd 
 feeling that conversation would be so much easier if 
 only the hands would appear and be used in gesticu- 
 lation. 
 
 "You have lived in many lands," said the priest, 
 after a silence of three-quarters of an hour. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 135 
 
 " In England, in America, in the Pacific, in Japan, 
 in China, and now here." 
 
 " I have lived in one monastery after another, and 
 now here." 
 
 "Which of us," said David, "is the wiser?" 
 
 " I am a very old man. There is much that I 
 have forgotten. I am content." 
 
 " I also am content . . . here." 
 
 " But a little while, and you will go." 
 
 " Yes, a little while, and I will go." 
 
 " You are not like the other men of your race — so 
 thick and blind." 
 
 "Are they?" 
 
 " Self-deceivers." 
 
 There was another silence of an hour, during which 
 David revolved this criticism of his fellow-country- 
 men. He found it true enough; and for England 
 there stood in his memory, as in imagination he raced 
 back, the figure of the presiding genius of that grey 
 pile on the bleak hill in Yorkshire — a fat, self-con- 
 tented, swollen, middle-class tyrant, bloated with the 
 little power of his position; fat-faced, small-eyed, 
 rotmd-headed, fresh-complexioned, with a little wife 
 as weary, timid, and humble as her husband was loud 
 and swaggering. David saw himself as the thin, 
 reedy boy just descended from the train, and sick, 
 half with fear, half with the fluttering sense of free- 
 dom, as the train moved on without him. . . . The 
 memory of the puny thing he had been brought a smile 
 to his face, and he thrust out both his arms to look at 
 the strong brown hands and wrists. . . . Then and 
 now. . . . Then the horrible little town with its 
 smoke-pall through which the sun could hardly pierce 
 — now in green wilds, in this hot sun, by the temple of 
 a strange god, opposite an old, withered, yellow man. 
 . . . Then a puny boy, almost crazy with revolt, now 
 
136 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 a man of strength, with almost no possession in 
 the world, lost kindred, lost friends — to himself 
 enough. . . . 
 
 Suddenly came the night. The old man rose. 
 
 " You have the sense of the infinite." 
 
 His voice rang in the darkness of the forest. 
 
 David ate largely of rice and bananas, and lay for 
 long gazing up at the stars, wondering why the South- 
 ern Cross should be so lauded. A great moon hung 
 like a lamp and shed her soft light through the palms. 
 The night was still and oppressive. Night sounds 
 came from the forest, and David became amorous of 
 the world, forgot himself, and was so stirred, so mar- 
 vellously swayed to the rhythm of the night that he 
 cried out in the delicious agony of it. He crawled 
 from where he lay, snuffing the scents of the earth, 
 touching lovingly trees and stones, clutching great 
 handfuls of reed, until he came to a great rock, and, 
 clenching his fist, beat upon it until his knuckles were 
 raw and bleeding. 
 
 "Oh, God!" he said. "Ho! ho! I've got reli- 
 gion. Good — good — oh, good ! " 
 
 Next day he wandered for miles through the jun- 
 gle, and saw monkeys, parrots, small deer, wild cats, 
 birds, and lovely darting insects. He saw strange 
 trees of twisted shapes — trees ominous and poisonous, 
 fruitful trees, and some strangled by their parasites, 
 or lovely orchids, or rich tangled growth. The damp 
 earthiness of it all, the rich overpowering scents, were 
 good to him — choked and strangled all rebellion, all 
 revolt, all restlessness in him. He was content to 
 move slowly, aimlessly, to wander without question- 
 ing, as he had wa/idered in these years of exile over 
 half the world, seeing strange sights, meeting with 
 small adventures. He returned to the old priest two 
 days later, haggard, weary, tattered, and torn, and 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 137 
 
 then for many days was fever-stricken, and lay toss- 
 ing, while in a shrill voice he babbled of Helen^ 
 Helen, of Margaret, of Mary, of Tidd : he lived again 
 through fights and passionate scenes; he spoke caress- 
 ingly, and tenderly to this woman and that ; he broke 
 into a torrent of weeping because a certain Jean had 
 been beaten by her man. In the end he cried like a 
 child, and proclaimed that the world was good, in a 
 solemn and confidential voice. 
 
 With that he came to his senses, saw the priest 
 bending tenderly over him, and in his white hands 
 took the old man's yellow bony fingers and caressed 
 them. 
 
 " I knew you could not die," said the priest. 
 
 " Bless you! " said David. " I must be going." 
 
 " There is a plague and pestilence in Colombo and 
 in many villages." 
 
 "How long have I been like this?" 
 
 " Thirteen days." 
 
 " Heuh ! It was three weeks last time." 
 
 The old man squatted by his side, and was silent. 
 
 " Women," he said at length, " are cows." 
 
 " You know nothing at all about it." 
 
 "I was born of woman." 
 
 " But — but," said David, " my old friend, you have 
 never lived with them. I have lived with the lowest 
 of them, and I know that a man can touch them to 
 saintliness ; and I know that a man can leave them as 
 malignant as hell ; and I know that all peace and happi- 
 ness hang from what men choose to make of 
 women. . . ." 
 
 The old priest was staring into the distance. To 
 David there was something deliciously comic in prat- 
 ing to such a half man as this of women and the 
 world of women. 
 
 "By God, yes!" said David. "What men make 
 
138 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 of women is too horrible to think on — brutes, fools, 
 cowards ! . . . Oh, the cowardice of them ! I knew 
 a woman once, a poor woman and a beautiful, and 
 life had used her hardly. There came a slinking 
 lover, sly and crafty, a man with no back to his head, 
 a flabby fool, and was inflamed with her, swept her 
 off her feet, gave her what, poor wretch! she took 
 for the highest, was ashamed of what he had done, 
 and left her. . . . That is like them all — all. . . . 
 By God! there is no other source of wickedness in 
 the world; a man honest with women is a true man 
 . . . and there is no meanness in him." 
 
 " You talk too much," said the priest. 
 
 David put his thumb to his nose and extended his 
 fingers. The action had no significance for the old 
 man. 
 
 A few days more, and David was strong enough 
 to roam about again. He found that he was weary 
 of the perpetual green of the jungle, and that the 
 humidity of the place exhausted him. He bade the 
 old man farewell, and expressed a conventional hope 
 that they might meet again. The old man spoke 
 no word, bowed monkishly, and passed into his 
 temple. 
 
 David stayed in several villages on his way down, 
 to Colombo, was set upon, attacked, and robbed of 
 all that he possessed. He was left stunned by the 
 wayside, where he was found by a Samaritan woman, 
 who slung him like a sack over her horse and con- 
 veyed him to her house. 
 
 "Look what I have found," she said to her hus- 
 band. " Which bed can I give him ? " 
 
 David was put to bed and restored to consciousness. 
 
 " Good God ! " he said, and started up in bed. 
 
 " I found you with a lump like a pigeon's egg on 
 the back of your head, and brought you here." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 139 
 
 " I am obliged to you," 
 
 " Not at all." 
 
 "I say I am." 
 
 "Very well; you are. Where are you from?" 
 
 " Shanghai." 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "That is the road from Shanghai to here. I 
 jumped like a grasshopper to Singapore, and from 
 Singapore to — to where you found me. I am going 
 to get up. ..." 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I'd be glad if you would lend me some clothes. I 
 have some at Colombo." 
 
 " Have you been ill ? " 
 
 "Yes. Off my head. I am like that sometimes." 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " David Brockman. And yours ? " 
 
 " Fielding — Clara Fielding. My husband's name 
 's Anthony. We grow tea, and sell it to a millionaire 
 grocer." 
 
 "May I get up?" 
 
 " I'll have some clothes sent to you." 
 
 A coolie came with a suit of fresh ducks, of a size 
 just too large for David in his wasted state. He 
 wallowed in a bath, shaved himself, and restored his 
 hair to something like order. It was woefully long, 
 and David, who had a wholesome horror of poets — 
 be had had many unpleasant encounters with the tiny 
 breed in various parts of the world — asked the coolie 
 if he would not cut it. 
 
 " No can," said the coffee-coloured boy. " Missis 
 can." 
 
 While he was at his toilette came Anthony Field- 
 ing, a brown healthy man with a lean countenance 
 and a merry eye. He sat on the bed and watched 
 gravely while David wrestled with his hair. Looking 
 
140 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 at him in the mirror, David noticed that his nose was 
 familiar. 
 
 " Look as if you had had a hard time." 
 
 " Fever," said David. 
 
 " Ah ! My wife says you leaped up to heaven from 
 Shanghai, and dropped senseless in the road." 
 
 " Not quite that. I left Shanghai and came ashore 
 at Colombo because I — there was no reason. I don't 
 think I ever have a reason for anything I do. . . ." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "There is a sort of fear — I do not know if you 
 have it — a fear of being chained down." 
 
 "I have always been a domestic animal." 
 
 " I was staying with an old priest up there — such 
 a place, such a man ! He was like a part of the for- 
 est, and his silence was the most informing thing in 
 the world. Like an old tree, half dead, he was. . . ." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Have you always lived out here ? " 
 
 "Fifteen years. . . ." David was almost dressed 
 by now. " Come and see my offspring. . . . Two 
 here, two at home. . . . Old Bertram is clamouring 
 to see the man that his mother found. . . ." 
 
 David stood looking at his host. There was no 
 doubt about the nose. 
 
 " Do you know," he said, " I have an idea that you 
 are a sort of uncle of mine." 
 
 Fielding was leading the way to the door. He 
 spun round. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " Aren't you a brother of Lord St. Justin ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Your father was my grandfather. Queer, isn't 
 it?" David grinned. 
 
 They passed out and into Fielding's study. On the 
 wall hung a portrait of old Lord St. Justin. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 141 
 
 "Yes," said David; "I had a portrait drawn by 
 John Fielding, aged twelve. I cannot remember the 
 story very clearly." 
 
 He narrated what he could recollect of it, and also 
 the bare facts of his own history, omitting all that 
 was too disreputable. In return. Fielding produced 
 reminiscences of Miss Ahdrew as she had been. He 
 spoke of her with great affection, and delighted David 
 with an account of the two visits he had paid to Bar- 
 don, where he had seen and admired Margaret, 
 David's mother. 
 
 Clara was called to share the amazing discovery, 
 and together the three of them went to watch Ber- 
 tram and Nan have their bath. David was so full of 
 delightful games with soap, sponge, and loofah that 
 he was at once adopted and revered as one of the 
 chosen people. 
 
 The evening passed delightfully in exchange of 
 anecdote and story. Anthony reproached himself 
 with long neglect of his old governess, and by the next 
 mail both he and David wrote long letters to her. 
 
 Both the Fieldings were anxious that David should 
 stay with them, and work either in the counting-house 
 or on the plantations, but he would consent only to 
 stay with them until his health was fully restored. 
 He was happy with them, and they rejoiced in him 
 almost equally with the children, but the society of 
 the neighbouring planters oppressed him, and he knew 
 that here was no abiding-place. He was quite frank 
 about it, and amusing. 
 
 " You see," he said, " I am like that. It is not that 
 I dislike work — I am not that sort of rolling stone; 
 nor is it that I do not like the accretion of money. 
 Nor is it that I am possessed by a devil of curiosity 
 and a desire to see the world; I have seen the king- 
 doms of the earth and the glory thereof. ... It is 
 
142 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 not that. I think really I am a domesticated animal, 
 and want all — all this sort of thing. . . ." 
 
 He waved his hand to indicate the Fieldings' house- 
 hold and its precious atmosphere. 
 
 "And I do know that I suffer agonies of desola- 
 tion and loneliness at times. But if I stay anywhere 
 and allow myself to form any ties, I am happy enough 
 for a little; then I begin to feel them closing in upon 
 me, stifling me. Desperately I break the whole fabric 
 and uproot-myself. ... It is a very painful process, 
 and I go stark, staring mad, drunk with some virgin 
 place in the world, am washed, clean and whole, and 
 seem to begin life all over again. ... It is a queer 
 way of living — selfish, I suppose . . . but at present 
 I know no other." 
 
 "Wait," said Clara. 
 
 David turned quickly to look at her. There was 
 radiance in her eyes, and pity. 
 
 " Ah ! " said David, " you think there is something 
 that I do not know. . . . You are not the first . . . 
 to — ^to hint darkly at some mighty thing beyond my 
 reach. Does Anthony know?" 
 
 " No," said Clara ; " Anthony knows nothing at all 
 about it. Anthony is a very skilled planter of tea, 
 but he is altogether a man." 
 
 "And I?" said David. 
 
 " You are almost half woman." 
 
 David smiled. 
 
 " And yet I have a fine beard, if I wish it." 
 
 "Some day you will be caught up by a big wind, 
 whirled away, and jammed tight down into a little 
 corner from which there will be no escape." 
 
 "Then," said David — "then I shall surrender up 
 my soul to God." 
 
 " Then," said Clara — " then you will begin to think 
 life worth living." 
 
II 
 
 Three months by the calendar did David stay with 
 his half -uncle, and in that time amassed more wealth 
 than he had ever before had in his possession — an hun- 
 dred and ten pounds. 
 
 He had been happier than ever before, and had 
 revelled in the books which were in every room in 
 the house. His appetite for them was insatiable. Of 
 novels he would read two or three in a day; Darwin 
 he ^Iped down, while he swallowed Huxley at a 
 mouthful. He made new acquaintance with the 
 Bible, Bunyan, and Don Quixote, and vowed that 
 with these three there was no need for other books. 
 He made Don Quixote his property, and was never 
 v/ithout one volume or another in his pocket. Poetry 
 he could not stomach, and vowed the Shakespeare of 
 Falstaff was a finer man than the melancholy author 
 of " Hamlet," with his cry of " vanity of vanities." 
 
 The letters to Miss Andrew provoked an answer of 
 the most touching delight at the coming together of 
 her David and her Anthony, and she prayed that 
 David be kept on the plantation, or fettered and de- 
 ported to England, there to be bound apprentice to a 
 respectable profession, and to take the station in life 
 to which his talents entitled him. 
 
 She also had communicated her knowledge of 
 David's whereabouts to his family, for there came 
 a whole budget of letters: from his father, telling of 
 new projects and the success of Nicholas in business; 
 from Audrey, a doleful plaint; and from John, a 
 boyish screed expressing his intention of coming out 
 
 143 
 
144 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 to join his brother. There was no word from Helen, 
 nor in the other letters was there mention of her, and 
 for three days David was moody, silent, and unap- 
 proachable. 
 
 Finally he announced his intention of going. 
 
 "Home?" said Clara. 
 
 "Never!" said David. 
 
 "Where, then?" 
 
 "Anywhere. . . ." 
 
 " I think you should go home — or, at any rate, to 
 London." 
 
 " I've never been to London." 
 
 " I will tell my brothers," said Anthony. " Geof- 
 frey is in the House, and directs companies; old 
 Michael is at the Bar — ^just taken silk." 
 
 "Why should I go to London?" 
 
 "It is the finest place in the world. We shall be 
 going home next year, and if you ai;e quite determined 
 not to stay here. . . ." 
 
 " Quite," said David. 
 
 " As to money. . . ." 
 
 " No," said David firmly. 
 
 " Why not stop playing the fool ? . . . Go to your 
 father and say that you are weary of the husks that 
 the swine do eat — ^you and I, Clara — and that you 
 want money to be a lawyer, or a publisher, or a baby- 
 farmer. . . ." 
 
 " I'll not have a penny from my father ; and as to 
 doing or being something . . . I — well, I do not see 
 things like that. ... I am going. ... I may, or 
 I may not, eventually arrive in London." 
 
 They abandoned argument, and saw him safely on 
 board a dirty little tramp steamer bound for Delagoa 
 Bay and any port in which she could pick up cargo. 
 She was a disreputable craft, but not more battered 
 and more villainous than her skipper, Cap'n Blunsdon, 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 145 
 
 his Chief, Mr. Cocker, and the mixed crew of all 
 colours. 
 
 Clara pointed out the superior beauty of the P. and 
 O. steamer lying in the harbour, but David would 
 have none of her. 
 
 " I ? — I go to the sea with gloved hands ? " he said. 
 
 " The sea will eat you up, David." 
 
 "And then . . .?" 
 
 "And then we shall all be sorry. ... I suppose 
 you had not thought of that." 
 
 " You have been very good to me." 
 
 " Tut ! . . . If you are not in London by the time 
 we arrive there, I shall be very angry with you." 
 
 "It is eight years since I left England. I, have a 
 curious shyness of going there again." 
 
 The Henry Orchardson was to set sail in the early 
 morning, and David must be on board overnight. 
 Already his belongings were conveyed to the ship. He 
 had wished only to go with a handbag, and "Don 
 Quixote " in his pocket, but Clara insisted, and he 
 was presented with a trunk of Anthony's, which s]ie 
 filled with garments and everything that a gentleman 
 can need to make his person have the appearance of 
 cleanliness. At the bottom of the trunk she concealed 
 a bag of English gold. They dined royally, and 
 David loaded Clara and Anthony with presents of the 
 most foolish and useless character for themselves and 
 for Bertram and Nan, who had howled dismally the 
 whole day through when the news was broken to 
 them of their hero's departure. 
 
 As they stood on the quay David heaved a sigh. 
 
 " You are a little sorry, then, David ? " 
 
 " I was thinking with relief that there will be never 
 a woman for perhaps — ^months." 
 
 In this surmise he was wrong, for old Blunsdon had 
 arranged to take two passengers besides himself, who 
 
146 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 were equally desirous of crossing the Indian Ocean, 
 and cotdd not by any of the great ships for sheer lack 
 of means. Delightful company they were-^real mop- 
 sies in draggle-tailed and outworn finery, reeking of 
 patchouli. After his three months' sheier comfort 
 the scent of these women was as invigorating as the 
 smell of the sea, and he delighted in them, flattered 
 them outrageously, and treated them with an elaborate 
 courtesy which at first caused them to titter and finally 
 wearied them, 
 
 Mamie Bird and Kate Driscoll were their names, 
 and they had been decoyed to the East to tour with a 
 decade-old musical comedy the towns of the China 
 coast. They had come straight from the Caledonian 
 Road and joined the company at Hong-Kong, their 
 passages being paid. For five weeks their salary had 
 been given them. When it became apparent that no 
 more was forthcoming, and that the advertisement of 
 appearing on the boards was considered remuneration 
 enough, they had cast themselves adrift as recklessly 
 as ever David had done, and from port to port had 
 come at length to Colombo, where they touched low 
 water indeed. The chief mate had found them, and, 
 viewing their case from the practical point of view, 
 had suggested Johannesburg as a very El Dorado for 
 ladies in their plight. He had put the case to them 
 with admirable directness, so that they saw the futility 
 of remaining in the East. He introduced them to 
 Blunsdon, and the bargain was sealed. 
 
 They were a strange party gathered at the table 
 in the cabin : old Blunsdon, with a short grey beard, 
 swivel-eyed, red-nosed, and with round shining cheeks, 
 red-veined; Cocker, the chief officer, sallow, dark, 
 with broken nose and thin, hard mouth; Tremblett, 
 the second mate, a pallid- faced boy with a large head 
 and sunken, red-rimmed eyes; the engineer, a Scots- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 147 
 
 man from Renfrew with an altogether unintelligible 
 accent; the two women, and David, of whom the rest 
 were for the first days more than a little afraid. They 
 were abashed in his presence, and kept guard upon 
 their tongues until, to their immense relief, David pro- 
 duced a story of very doubtful morality. They leaped 
 to this, and abandoned all constraint. Hereafter their 
 relations became so amicable that one and all, with the 
 exception of Cocker, who, having marked the fair 
 DriscoU for his own, was jealous of the soft eyes she 
 cast upon David, unbosomed themselves, and confided 
 all their scandalous history.- To escape from nightly 
 persecution, David devised a sort of general meeting in 
 the cool of the evening, when he would continue a 
 sentimental and improper narrative which he had be- 
 gun originally for the delight of the little second mate, 
 whose cabin he shared. In its origin the story had been 
 begun to win through the nights when the stifling heat 
 made sleep almost impossible, but the characters had 
 so haunted the pallid boy that he had retailed their ad- 
 ventures to the ladies and to old Blunsdon, and when 
 the thread was taken up in the evenings, one by one 
 they had come and joined the circle, until it became a 
 part of the day's routine. Later there was, by the way 
 of prelude, an old song which David taught them. 
 
 On the Henry Orchwrdson there was no voice that 
 could rightly be called tuneful, but from the tripping 
 melody of the old catch the party contrived to make 
 some sounds which, if they did not, Orpheus-like, 
 charm the fishes of the sea, gave much satisfaction to 
 the creators of them, and, however they might have 
 quarrelled and wrangled during the day, set them in 
 the right mood for the evening's instalment of the 
 story. 
 
 Kate DriscoU worshipped David, and, while he 
 spoke, sat mouse-quiet, open-mouthed, an expression 
 
148 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 of the most holy adoration in her eyes. Her sister in 
 misfortune, Mamie Bird, who had been adopted as his 
 property by old Blunsdon, twitted her openly with her 
 strange affection, and often reduced her to tears. 
 Cocker looked black, and, being a little afraid of David, 
 visited his vengeance upon the luckless second mate, 
 who had written a series of execrable verses to the 
 charmer. The more indifferent _David was to the 
 woman's worship, the more lamentable did her state 
 become and the more inflamed was Cocker. 
 
 David spied the drama, and was amused by and in- 
 terested in it as though he were no party to it. The 
 guileless second mate was used as a decoy, and in all 
 innocence brought to his hero covertly worded invi- 
 tations, which, if he had divined their meaning, would 
 have plunged him in an agony of jealousy. 
 
 The storm gathered slowly as the ship ploughed her 
 way through oily seas. 
 
 One night after the evening's entertainment, there 
 was a scene and a scuffle. David was aft, glorying in 
 the moon and the phosphorescence in the sea. The 
 ship left a wide white track. ... A sound of 
 running caught his ear. He turned, to see Kate rac- 
 ing along the deck, screaming, Cocker after her. She 
 stopped and was at bay against the bulwark. Cocker 
 seized her in his arms. She screamed again, and beat 
 with her clinched fists on his face. He held her, 
 laughed aloud, and kissed her. . . . 
 
 David knocked out his pipe and walked towards the 
 pair. The woman saw him coming, and redoubled her 
 efforts to be free; but for that the man only held her 
 tighter, and kissed her only the more furiously. 
 
 In a trice David flung his arm round Cocker's neck, 
 knocked up his chin, and had him flat on the deck. 
 Only for a second, for he bounced up again and came 
 butting. Kate stood, weeping hysterically. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 149 
 
 " E-eh ! " she cried. " A knife— he's got a knife ! " 
 
 The knife flashed and David dodged, so that it 
 pierced only the cloth of his coat by the shoulder. He 
 gripped the man's wrist, took him by the throat, and 
 soon he was bellowing. 
 
 " Kill him," screamed the woman — " kill him ! " 
 
 " Go ! " said David. But she stood there. 
 
 " Go ! " said David again. Her hands moved out 
 towards him in appeal. She turned and went slowly 
 away, sobbing. 
 
 So soon as she went out of sight David took 
 Cocker's knife and flung it into the sea. Then he al- 
 lowed him to rise to his feet and shake himself. He 
 spat on the deck at David's feet. 
 
 "Well," said David, producing his pipe again and 
 lighting it — "well, is the madness gone out of you? " 
 
 "Oh, you go to hell! " said Cocker. 
 
 " Have some tobacco ? " said David, and held out his 
 pouch. 
 
 Cocker fingered his throat and gulped. His face 
 was more than ever sallow — almost grey. 
 
 "I believe," said David, "that to making of a 
 drama there are needed three persons and one pas- 
 sion." 
 
 " To hell with your smooth talk ! " 
 
 David looked wistfully back at the moon. 
 
 "If I adopted your own dialect to tell you what I 
 think of you, you would not like it." 
 
 Cocker growled inarticulately. 
 
 " Do have some tobacco," said David persuasively, 
 "so that we can continue our conversation." 
 
 Cocker took David's pouch ungraciously and filled 
 his pipe. 
 
 " I didn't think you were so strong," he said at 
 length. 
 
 " Fortunately for Miss Driscoll," 
 
I50 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " Kate ? . . . a drab, a common drab, out of the 
 streets." 
 
 "A woman and worth fighting for. ... Do 
 you know, Mr. Cocker, we are very primitive. . . . 
 We do not change. . . . Have you considered the 
 events of this voyage since we left Colombo? . . . 
 No, you have not. . . . You h'ave had your work to 
 do, and, quite rightly, do not use your mind outside 
 that. . . . There are two women to more than 
 twenty men. ... I count the Lascars, Chinese, 
 and coolies as men, for indeed they are such. . . . 
 One woman is given to the almighty Blunsdon by di- 
 vine right. The other is to the best of us — c'est moi 
 — and I do not want her. . . . But, Mr. Cocker, I 
 am so peculiarly constituted that I think it my duty 
 to protect her from attentions which she does not de- 
 sire — ^not from any dislike for yourself, but from a 
 stern sense of right and wrong. ... If the lady 
 on any terms accepts your attentions, it is not my af- 
 fair, but The whole of my argument is in that 
 
 ' but.' Good-night." 
 
 He turned on his heel and left Mr. Cocker, who 
 paid a visit to the foc's'le and beat an unfortunate 
 Lascar, who took it all in good part as an unpleasant 
 element in the work he was called upon to do in this 
 world of tyrannous white men. 
 
 Cocker smouldered inwardly^ but to all appearances 
 he forgot his defeat, and was almost slavish in his at- 
 tentions to David, who, while he watched the Chief 
 Officer carefully, took more trouble than ever before 
 to be kind to the unfortunate Kate. She played the 
 wanton with him, but he dealt with her with a firm 
 hand, never referred to anything that had passed, and 
 laughed with her over the sentimental verses of the 
 second mate. This youth relapsed into a maudlin con- 
 dition, and his eyes followed the fair Kate with dog- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 151 
 
 like devotion. Often of a night David would wake 
 to find him sobbing. 
 
 In the end devotion had its reward. The charmer 
 melted, and in melting slaughtered the delicate flower 
 of the youth's devotion. 
 
 David found him at the stern, gazing at the water. 
 He laid a hand on his shoulder, and Tremblett started. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Brockman, sir . . ." He sniffed. 
 
 " The sea is inspiring." 
 
 " I wish I was dead." 
 
 "There is the sea." 
 
 " Don't laugh at me. . . . I wish I never had joined 
 this 'orrible ship." 
 
 " She's a dirty little beast." 
 
 Tremblett shuddered, and David broke into a shout 
 of laughter. 
 
 " I mean the ship." 
 
 Tremblett sniffed again, and screwed at his red-rim- 
 med eyes with his fists, for all the world like a baby. 
 
 " May I tell you something, Mr. Brockman ? " 
 
 David said nothing. 
 
 "1 . . . when I was at 'ome in Bermondsey. . . 
 I — I arst a girl to marry me. . . . This is 'er." 
 
 He fumbled in his pocket and produced a photo- 
 graph. The action reminded David curiously of 
 something. He cast about in his mind for it, and 
 there leaped to his vision Tush in the barber's shop. 
 While Tremblett was pouring forth a medley of praise 
 of his inamorata, self-reproach, self-question and 
 damnation, David was back in England with Helen, 
 recalling vaguely scenes with her — the scene of her 
 first coming, and the scene when, beside himself, he 
 had bidden her begone. He had a desire to be with 
 her, to know how she fared, to know what manner of 
 woman she had become, though of that he had no 
 doubt, and endowed her with all the graciousness of 
 
152 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Clara Fielding, all the saintliness with which his 
 mother lived in his memory. 
 
 Then he chuckled at himself. 
 
 "I, too, O Tremblett, am a sentimental ass." 
 
 " Such a figure she 'as, Mr. Brockman, as you never 
 saw — an' lively — she said it'd be a bit of all right 
 bein' a sailor's wife, because she'd be 'alf a widow." 
 
 This threw such a light on the circle from which 
 Tremblett had issued that David shuddered. 
 
 " Ought I to tell — ^to tell 'er, Mr. Brockman, about 
 . . . about this." 
 
 " A ship, Mr. Tremblett, is much like a monastery. 
 . . . The visions that come to men are much more 
 terrible than the reality " 
 
 *' She's — she's so pure." 
 
 " Then she is the greatest of earth's treasures." 
 
 "Oh! Thank you, Mr. Brockman. I'll— I'll tell 
 'er you said that. . . . just from 'er photograph. She 
 will be pleased." 
 
 " M-p-p-p-p! " said David. 
 
 " I suppose," said Tremblett — " I suppose you 
 been in love yourself, Mr. Brockman?" 
 
 " Never out of it, Mr. Tremblett — never out of it." 
 
 " She must be very beautiful." 
 
 David looked out over the sea to where a school 
 of porpoises were playing. 
 
 " I think, Mr. Tremblett, you would be disappointed 
 with her looks. . . . Shall we join the ladies?" 
 
 "Ladies? . . . Them?" There was an expres- 
 sion of horror and sheepishness on the foolish face. 
 
 " Mr. Tremblett, you have the soul of a very bad 
 poet. . . . We are to be a week more at sea unless 
 Cocker blows the ship and all of us to pieces. . . . 
 You must be polite. ..." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Brockman, I can't ever speak to 'er 
 again." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 153 
 
 David took him by the arm, and led him to where 
 old Blunsdon was sitting exchanging heavy pleasant- 
 ries with the women. Cocker skulked and scowled 
 at them from the bridge, and every now and then the 
 disreputable old man hurled a taunt at him, while 
 the two women giggled. 
 
 Old Blunsdon was either drunk, religious, or ob- 
 scene. On this day he was the last, but when 
 David appeared the flood of his vile humour was 
 stemmed. 
 
 " Fine weather, Mr. Brockman." 
 " Shall we make Delagoa Bay in a week ? " 
 " I been tellin' the ladies Delagoa's no place for 
 English girls." 
 
 " Oh, go on ! " said Miss Bird. " If we can look 
 arter ourselves with you about, we can look arter 
 ourselves anywheres." 
 
 " I been reading the Bible to 'em," said old Bluns- 
 don. " An' I been singin' to 'em the 'ymn for those 
 at sea." 
 
 "Voice like a raven," said Miss Bird. 
 Tremblett turned his back on Kate Driscoll. He 
 was quivering. 
 
 David sat on the deck by Miss Driscoll's side. 
 " Cocker knows," said Kate. 
 
 David looked up at 'the bridge, and found Cocker 
 scowling down at the little group. Out of sheer mis- 
 chief he grinned, took Kate's hand, and fondled it. 
 On the instant he regretted it, for she moved nearer 
 to him. 
 
 Old Blunsdon took from his pocket a thumbed 
 and tattered copy of the New Testament, fixed spec- 
 tacles on his flat nose, and began to read: 
 
 " ' Render therefore to all their dues : tribute to 
 whom tribute is due: custom to whom custom; fear 
 to whom fear : honour to whom honour. 
 
154 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " ' Owe no man anything but to love one another : 
 for he that loveth another hath fulfilled the law. 
 
 " ' For this. Thou shalt not commit adultery, thou 
 shalt not kill, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not bear 
 false witness, thou shalt not covet; and if there be 
 any other commandment, it is briefly comprehended 
 in this saying, namely. Thou shalt love thy neighbour 
 as thyself. 
 
 " ' Love worketh no ill to his neighbour : therefore 
 love is the fulfilling of the ' " 
 
 " Oh, chuck it ! " said Miss Bird, grabbed the book, 
 and sent it flying along the deck. 
 
 Old Blunsdon rose in his wrath, denounced her 
 piously for the thing that she was, quoted chapter and 
 verse, and likened her to all the disreputable women 
 of the Old Testament — ^Jezebel, Deliah, and the lady 
 of the Philistines whom Samson visited. He spoke 
 of blasphemy, and called down the Divine wrath upon 
 her head. He bade David witness the fearful deed, 
 and strode away puffing and gobbling like an outraged 
 turkey. 
 
 " Well, I'm . . ." said Miss Bird. " Tm of all men 
 . . . wicked old . . ." 
 
 " And yet," said David — " and yet no doubt there is 
 much virtue in him." , 
 
 "Virtue! ... I wouldn't give twopence for 'is 
 chances of 'eaven. . . . Drunken old . . ." 
 
 David succeeded in smoothing her ruffled feathers, 
 and before nightfall she was pardoned. 
 
 In the same hour there was trouble with Cocker 
 again. The Lascar whom he had beaten had seized 
 a convenient moment to run amok, and had made a 
 violent attack on the chief officer. He was over- 
 powered, and thrown into durance vile in the Henry 
 Orchardson's foul-smelling hold. Cocker's temper 
 was disturbed, his blood roused by the episode. He 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 155 
 
 sought out the unhappy Kate, and in David's sight 
 smacked hter twice across the face. Before David 
 could reach the place of assault the woman, roused by 
 pain, had flung herself at her tormentor, and scratched, 
 bit, and tore at him until he was a woeful sight. 
 
 He caught her to him. 
 
 " Little cat ! " cried the man. " Blast my eyes, little 
 hell-cat!" 
 
 He overcame her by sheer strength and masterful- 
 ness. Sobbing, she yielded, jmd he carried her 
 away . . . 
 
 David encountered Tremblett, attracted by the 
 noise. 
 
 " Come away," he said. " That is the very lowest. 
 .... Come away." 
 
 He led the little mate to where the moon shone 
 full, casting a broad pathway over the soft sea. 
 
 " She smiles even on that . . ." he said. 
 
 " The night is far spent, O Tremblett,; the day is at 
 hand : let us therefore cast oiif the works of darkness, 
 and let us put on the armour of light. . . ." 
 
 He patted Tremblett's shoulder. 
 
 " We are such silly little things," he said. 
 
 Mr. Tremblett was called away for his watch. 
 
 A week later they made Delagoa Bay. They had a 
 mighty orgy on shore, and with the two women David 
 took train for Johannesburg. 
 
Ill 
 
 Everybody in Johannesburg speculates. David set 
 his hundred pounds breeding, and wrote to Clara 
 to return the money and to protest against the mean 
 way in which she had forced it upon him. 
 
 " This is surely the most sordid collection of human 
 beings in the world," he wrote. " And it is for this 
 that we have wasted men and money got by the sweat 
 of our brows. ... I suppose money is got with 
 the sweat of our brows, but those who have most of 
 it seem to do little enough. . . . You have spoiled 
 me, my dear half-aunt. ... I am being tamed. I 
 am discontented, and if I had any strength of mind 
 I should take Anthony's advice, and go to my father 
 and say unto him . . . what Anthony suggested. 
 But from my childhood I have only a loathing for the 
 idea of home, and perhaps because other people's 
 homes seem so perfect. It is surely the only thing 
 worth doing, to create that atmosphere, sane, jolly; 
 and if a man and a woman cannot make it they have 
 failed as man and woman. . . . There was a time 
 when I denounced home unreservedly. . . . Horror 
 of it kept me wandering. ... I am not sentimental 
 about it. I think I shall go to England in time to meet 
 you there. . . . The voyage was horrible ; shook my 
 taste for low company. There was a poor little devil 
 of a second mate; ought to have been an elementary 
 school teacher. Queer how many people drift into 
 the wrong calling. . . . Do not be offended at 
 my returning the money. ... I do not know where 
 
 156 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 157 
 
 I shall go next. I cannot bear this for long. . . . 
 Too many Jews. I don't mind your Jew if he is a 
 good Jew, but these are a wretched little mean race. 
 . . . Pure East End, I suppose. ... I want to see 
 London before the big wind seizes me. . . ." 
 
 As always, the image of Clara brought hini to 
 thoughts of Helen. He sealed the letter, took an- 
 other sheet of paper, and wrote to Audrey asking 
 news of her. 
 
 " That means," he said aloud, " that I shall stay in 
 this infernal hole for at least anotl;ier six weeks." 
 
 From the other side of the desk at which he sat — 
 he was in the writing-room of the Rand Club — came 
 a chuckle, and, looking up over the screen, David 
 found quizzical eyes peeping over at him. 
 
 Both laughed. 
 
 Said David : " I'm glad you don't like it either." 
 
 "Nothing but money ... the place stinks of 
 money." 
 
 " I believe there is an English church here, and a 
 theatre." 
 
 " Polite religion and bad art. . . . Are you here 
 for long?" 
 
 " I don't know. . . . Do you live here ? " 
 
 "At Doornfontein. ... I am at the Bar. I 
 practiced in England until I had only one lung left. 
 ... I brought that out here, to preserve it. . . . 
 My name is Mortimer." 
 
 " Mine is Brockman." 
 
 "Shall we lunch together?" 
 
 They passed into the great dining-room, where hun- 
 dreds of men of all nationalities were feeding and 
 discussing in divers tongues gold mines, tin mines, 
 copper mines, diamonds, antimony, railway, shipping, 
 shares. Waiters black and white flitted hither and 
 thither, conveying food and drink. 
 
iS8 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " Whiskey and champagne," said Mortimer. " No 
 business without these two." 
 
 "What a crew!" said David. 
 
 " They might be worse." 
 
 " How many English are there in the place ? " 
 
 " Perhaps one in ten. . . . There are good men 
 here — men who came up from the Cape in early days 
 before the great companies. . . . Some of them stay 
 from a queer loyalty; others because they cannot af- 
 ford to go. . . . The whole thing is mushroom, only 
 since 1886. . . . The rush to Barberton first, and 
 then the discovery of the Rand in 1887. . . . The " 
 Transvaal was moribund until then. . . ." 
 
 Mortimer became encyclopaedic. David began to 
 think him rather a bore, ceased to listen to the stream 
 of facts concerning local politics, the native question, 
 the Chinese question, the attitude of the Imperial 
 Government, and fell to studying Mortimer's face. 
 
 The amiable disquisition on the history of the Trans- 
 vaal continued, and words like Bantu, Hottentot, 
 Bechuanas, Griqua, Matabele, sounded strangely in 
 David's ears. As a final display of his knowledge 
 and accomplishments, Mortimer pronounced some 
 words of Zulu, and explained how the clicks were 
 produced. 
 
 " You see," he said, " I have a brother in Pretoria 
 in one of the Government offices: . . . His work is 
 with the natives." 
 
 " Certainly," said David, who had not been listen- 
 ing, and was under the impression that a question had 
 been put to him. 
 
 " I'd like you to know my brother." 
 
 David expressed willingness. 
 
 " The trouble all over Africa is irrigation." 
 
 David was interested in a little group of three men, 
 sitting at a table close by— an old Jew, a Boer, and a 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 159 
 
 spare), clean-shaven man, thin-lipped, small-eyed, 
 sharp-nosed. It was this man particularly who en- 
 gaged David's interest. He was of finer stuff than 
 either of his two companions, spoke to them and 
 listened to them with a manner in which contempt 
 and deference were curiously blended. The old Jew 
 treated him with a smooth respect, the Boer with a 
 sort of self-assertiveness. They had some vital mat- 
 ter in common, and it seemed that the thin man had 
 given an ultimatum, and, while he was amused by 
 the effect of it on his companions, was npt to be 
 ' budged. 
 
 He called for cigars and liqueurs, and gave to his 
 guests in accordance with their desires. 
 
 They smoked in silence for a little. The Jew 
 and the Boer exchanged glances, and the thin man 
 watched the two. He smiled a little, and his smile 
 was not pleasant. . . . 
 
 A queer face diverted David's attention for a mo- 
 ment, and he heard Mortimer's smooth tones: 
 
 " Of course, it should be established that all rivers 
 and streams in a country like this are national prop- 
 erty. . . ." 
 
 When he returned to the study of his little group, 
 the old Jew was leaning across the table, talking volu- 
 bly, and prodding with a Si|;umpy forefinger to em- 
 phasize his remarks. The Boer nodded his head 
 to express agreement with each point as it was 
 made. 
 
 The Jew ceased. He threw out both hands, then 
 combed his beard with his dirty fingers, lolled back in 
 his chair, and waited, his little eyes winking and 
 watching. The thin man sat imperturbable. He 
 drew long at his cigar, blew out a stream of smoke, 
 shrugged his shoulders, and then, without a word, 
 he rose, walked to the desk, paid the bill, and left 
 
i6o DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 the room. Consternation was in the faces of the 
 two. . . . 
 
 " Splendid," said DaVid. 
 
 " I'm glad you are interested," said Mortimer. " It 
 is a hobby of mine . . . irrigation." 
 
 "Who's the old Jew sitting there?" 
 
 Mortimer turned. "Carl Brandt . . . copper and 
 tin." 
 
 " And the man with him ? " 
 
 "Erasmus Kolb . . . one of the big men of Het 
 Volk." 
 
 "And the . . . the thin man?" 
 
 " Barclay James. . . . No one knows much about 
 him, except that he has a hand in the dirty business 
 of the Companies. . . . Nominally, an engineer." 
 
 Another man came to the Jew and the Boer, and 
 David judged that the upshot of the conversation was 
 being imparted to him. He was a little map, with a 
 weather-beaten face, sunken heavy eyes, and a bald 
 head, which he caressed repeatedly with his flat hand. 
 
 "That's Wilkinson. ... He does for Brandt 
 what James does for the other. I wonder what 
 James was doing with old Brandt. Old Brandt is 
 always fighting tooth and nail against the big people. 
 . . . He runs native labour from Portuguese terri- 
 tory. . . . There are fe,w things, pleasant or unpleas- 
 ant, that he doesn't touch. He started a newspaper 
 against the Imperialist rag, but they squashed him. 
 Just now he's interested in local government, and he 
 has a big drainage scheme. . . . He came out to 
 Africa with the regulation twenty pounds. . . ." 
 
 " I suppose," said David, " it is really only a mat- 
 ter of caring enough about money " 
 
 " Everybody herei cares about it, but they don't all 
 have it. There is nothing else to care about. The 
 place is not beautiful. The dust-storms are ghastly. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS i6i 
 
 It is no place for women. And yet there is a fascina- 
 tion in it. Just the recklessness of it all. . . . They 
 die young. It's a plague-stricken country. . . . 
 Stock-breeding is no joke when every other fly or 
 tick in the place brings a disease. . . ." 
 
 Mortimer became encyclopaedic again on the sub- 
 ject of diseases, and David fell to ruminating. 
 
 " They say," said Mortimer, " that sleeping sick- 
 ness is coming south. It is in Rhodesia. . . . Noth- 
 ing to be done. . . ." 
 
 He enlarged upon the tsetse fly, upon beri-beri, 
 upon blackwater fever, upon the prevalence of pneu- 
 monia in the Rand, upon the spread of syphilis among 
 the natives." 
 
 "That?" said David. "Not among themselves?" 
 
 " Oh no ! . . . The white man brought it," said 
 Mortimer in his naive way. " Civilization brings new 
 diseases. ..." 
 
 David laughed. 
 
 "Civilization is a pretty thing," he said. "It de- 
 velops the brain. ... I wonder if there was ever a 
 time when all men died by violence or of senile decay. 
 . . . And " — he chuckled — " I should like to know 
 what the first man thought of the first disease. I 
 expect he was proud, and made a new religion of it." 
 
 " My brother says that the end of it all will be that 
 there will come a new Chaka or Cetewayo to slaugh- 
 ter all the whites and drive civilization from 
 Africa. . . ." 
 
 " I doubt it," said David. " The amusing part of 
 civilization is that nothing can stop it. . . . It cor- 
 rupts and corrodes; it makes the few bloated and 
 starves the many ; it brings horrors innumerable, more 
 than are recounted in the Litany ; it refines and sharp- 
 ens the vices and the base instincts of mankind, but 
 also it refines and sharpens the perceptions and the 
 
i62 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 desire for the best and the highest. ... It is prog- 
 ress, and progress is an upward movement. ... I 
 feel the movement, and therefore I am glad." 
 
 " I . . ." Mortimer opened his mouth in protest 
 against this flat optimism. 
 
 " You don't agree ? " said David. " I beg your par- 
 don. I have not known you long enough to air my 
 views." 
 
 " I want to know more about you," said Mortimer. 
 
 "I arrived here," said David, "with two irieclaim- 
 able ladies from the Caledonian Road in London." 
 
 Mortimer broke into a shout of laughter. 
 
 " They chose my company," said David ; " I did 
 not choose theirs. . . . There was a time when I 
 should have taken them under my protection, seeing 
 myself as a sort of knight-errant. There was a time 
 when all my actions were based on that sort of foolish 
 raw imagination . . . theatrical. ... I loved to see 
 myself as a magnanimous and unselfish gentleman, 
 pursuing the ideas of chastity and poverty. . . . 
 Chastity went by the board first, and I am only just 
 beginning to overcome my sentimental glorification 
 of poverty. . . ." 
 
 " But — ^but — who are you ? " 
 
 " Nobody in particular. I ran away from home 
 when I was seventeen, and have wandered sentimen- 
 tally ever since. ... In Ceylon I found the best 
 thing in the world. . . . Here in Johannesburg I 
 seem to have found the worst ..." 
 
 "Where are you living?" 
 
 " Down by the station — with the irreclainiables." 
 
 " This is a town of strange people, but you are the 
 strangest thing that ever came into it." 
 
 " It has always been my pride," said David, " that I 
 am the only ordinary man of my acquaintance." 
 
 " Then the world is mad ? " 
 
DEVIOUS JVAYS 163 
 
 "Undoubtedly," said David. . . . "There they 
 go." 
 
 Brandt, Kolb, and the bald Wilkinson had come to 
 the end of their confabulation. They filed out. 
 
 " Let us watch them," said David. 
 
 They wrangled amicably as to who should pay the 
 bill, finally spun a coin, and David won. 
 
 They found their three hanging round the tape 
 machine in a knot of other men. 
 
 " If I stood among those men," said David, " I 
 should shine as an ordinary being." 
 
 Mortimer was waylaid by a young man, and David 
 was left to his own devices. He strolled from group 
 to group, eavesdropping, while all the time he kept 
 an eye on Brandt and his companions. In everything 
 that he heard not concerned with Randfonteins and 
 Robinson Deeps and Rhodesian Bankets there was 
 the queer note of hard jocularity which is in the air 
 wherever men with men foregather, and seems to be 
 the result of a compromise between many different 
 senses of humour. It was not comradeship, not good 
 fellowship, but something lower, a light bridging of 
 the gulf between man and man. " Truly," said David 
 within himself, " the gulf between man and man is 
 wider than that between man and beast." 
 
 He approached a group of men gathered round a 
 long-haired creature. This man was talking volubly, 
 excitedly; he ran his hand through his black greasy 
 locks, then waved it gracefully in the air. In his eyes 
 was an expression almost holy, almost of worship. 
 The men round him were hanging upon his words. 
 David drew near to catch the words of wisdom that 
 should come from such a soulful face. There came a 
 titter and a guffaw. The man had finished his narra- 
 tive, and David sickened, for he knew it for a foul 
 story which he had encountered first in his school-days 
 
i64 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 in Yorkshire, and subsequently in various forms in 
 different parts of the world. There was no wit in the 
 thing, nor real humour, and yet there was life in it, 
 or how should it have had so long and so august a 
 history as to have been on the lips of so many of the 
 great? For this long-haired man was accounted 
 great in his art. 
 
 " Another bridge," thought David. " It is a world 
 of knaves and fools and dirty little cowards." 
 
 " Hello ! " said a voice. " Watch Wilkinson ! " 
 
 The group turned and David with them. 
 
 At the bottom of the stair the little bald man stood. 
 He was gazing upwards and biting his thumb. His 
 face was twitching, and he shook his right foot im- 
 patiently. 
 
 Brandt and Kolb, no Ibnger together, were watch- 
 ing him. 
 
 Presently James came down slowly and calmly. 
 He stopped for an instant to look down into the hall 
 and survey the position. He saw Wilkinson waiting 
 for him, ran quickly down, and passed the man. On 
 the instant Wilkinson turned, gripped him by the arm, 
 and spoke hurried words. 
 
 James shook free. His face was livid and his teeth 
 set, his lips drawn back. He raised a hand, his fist 
 shot out, there was a click like the kissing of billiard 
 balls, and Wilkinson staggered back. . . . 
 
 " Gott ! " said a voice. " Nicht zum ersten mal." 
 
 There was some commotion, and a general move- 
 ment to the scene of the encounter. . . . David's eyes 
 were fixed on James. . . . The man was all fire. He 
 shook, controlled himself, and, without either looking 
 to the right or to the left, passed through the throng 
 and out into the street. 
 
 " Did you see it ? " Mortimer was back at David's 
 side. " What's happened ? " 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 165 
 
 " No," said David. " I don't know." He looked 
 round for Brandt and Kolb, but they were both 
 gone. 
 
 Wilkinson was being conducted to the lavatory, 
 there to bathe his eye. 
 
 The stir was gone, and the little groups of men 
 were dispersing, some going upstairs to the card- 
 rooms, others returning to their offices. The long- 
 haired pianist was wandering disconsolately in search 
 of an admirer, for someone on whom to impress the 
 glow of his personality. . . . Something in David 
 attracted him, for he prowled, and stood now in this 
 attitude, now in that — now Napoleonic, darkly brood- 
 ing, now angelic and inspiring. David appreciated 
 each manoeuvre while he continued to talk to Morti- 
 mer, who plunged suddenly into intimate confession, 
 and, after expressing the great pleasure it had been to 
 him to make David's acquaintance, hoped that they 
 might dine together that night, and go either to a 
 theatre, where a performance of " Zaza " was an- 
 nounced, or to a music-hall. 
 
 David promised, the matter was arranged, and Mor- 
 timer returned to the Law Courts. 
 
 The long-haired pianist fixed David with a heavy 
 eye, and came skirmishing. David dodged and es- 
 caped. The pianist followed, and ran him to earth. 
 He began, not very auspiciously: 
 
 " I feel sure we have met before. . . . You know 
 that curious elusive feeling ... a foreknowledge — 
 a friendliness " 
 
 " Of course," said David, " I know your face." 
 
 The man bowed. "Ah! these posters . . . these 
 posters. ... I am always in revolt, but my agent, 
 you know, my agent — such a tyrant ! . . . He forces 
 me to travel, to come to these God-forgotten places. 
 ... I am from Brussels. . . . You know Brus- 
 
i66 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 sels? Yes? . . . The centre of civilization. Every- 
 thing in it is rotten." 
 
 He paused here to mark the effect of this brilliant 
 observation. David smiled politely. 
 
 " I must travel, he says — my agent — so that I can 
 begin afresh with London and Paris and Berlin after 
 my phenomenally successful tour in Africa, or in 
 America, or in Australia. I say, 'Well, let me hide 
 away in Italy, when they are sick of me. . . .' But 
 no; I must all the time make money. He is killing 
 me, my agent. What will you drink ? " 
 
 He rang for a waiter, and ordered two American 
 cocktails. 
 
 "You also are an artist? Hein? A votre sante." 
 
 David was beginning to be amused, and thought 
 that if he played the piano as whole-heartedly as he 
 drank he must be a very great man indeed. 
 
 "Ah! but I can talk to you as to no other man in 
 this whirlpool. . . ." 
 
 " Perhaps because I have no business in it." 
 
 "You have heard me play? ... No? Ah! ten 
 years ago I played like a god, with the soul of a god, 
 with the soul of the world and all mankind. . . . 
 Now — ^awful — shocking ! It is because my agent mar- 
 ried. He married, and he must have money. . . . 
 Now I am a buffoon for the— for the men-monkeys. 
 It is tragic . . . the struggle . . . between men and 
 nature. . . . Nature, she was jealous of me. . . . 
 She attacked me through my agent. . . . Ah! but 
 the children are angels — adorable. Will you come to 
 — to see them ? . . . Yes, I — I will announce you to 
 them as ' Le Roi des Sauvages, des Chasseurs, et des 
 Sportsmen d'Afrique, et L'Empereur des Tueurs 
 d'Elephants.' " 
 
 He shouted with laughter as he rolled forth this 
 portentous title. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 167 
 
 "Charmed," said David. "But remember also 
 that I am betrothed to the Princess of the Baboons." 
 
 " The friend of friends," said the pianist. " Your 
 name ? " 
 
 " David Brockman." 
 
 " My name is Jean Blest-Gana." Then with child- 
 like simplicity, he said : " Oh, King David, I am glad 
 of you." All his airs and graces were gone. He was 
 like a child, and already his mind was leaping to elab- 
 oration of the great games wherein David, only too 
 gladly, was to figure as King of the Savages, Hunters 
 and Sportsmen of Africa, and Emperor of the Slayers 
 of Elephants. They had both forgotten the ugly club 
 in which they were, forgotten the town, the crowd, 
 the Wilkinson- James fracas. 
 
 ;Suddenly there came to David the story which he 
 had heard upon the lips of Jean Blest-Gana, the poet's 
 poet, and he fell headlong from his height. Blest-Gana 
 was at once conscious of the change, hurt by it, and 
 cried out: 
 
 "Oh! . . . you do not then like me . . . King 
 David?" i 
 
 -The cry was so genuine that David in kindness 
 could not but respond to it. 
 
 " Allons 1 " he said. Blest-Gana boomed a rattling 
 march of Brahms, and to that they strode away. 
 
 " If," said the pianist, " we could mount on a 
 winged horse." 
 
 " We do," said David — " we do." They crossed 
 the square in front of the post-office, and a rickshaw- 
 boy leaped and clowned to proclaim to them that he 
 was a flying bird. 
 
 "Then," said Blest-Gana, "there is our winged 
 horse." 
 
 They hired the rickshaw, and rolled along tn the 
 hotel where Blest-Gana had his apartment. They 
 
i68 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 passed a hoarding on which was a gigantic picture of 
 the pianist at his most Napoleonic. He shuddered. 
 
 "Oh, my friend," he said, "believe me, it is not 
 I, this monster; it is the puppet of my agent." 
 
 He reiterated this, so anxious did he seem that 
 David should realize that he, Jean Blest-Gana, was not 
 such as his tyrannical agent would have the world 
 think. Yet undoubtedly he was bloated, he was fat, 
 he was unpleasantly hirsute. 
 
 "But," thought David, stealing a glance at him, 
 "Napoleon also was bloated, and Napoleon also was 
 fat. . . . Did Napoleon also have an agent?" 
 
 The idea of Napoleon being " run " on modern lines 
 tickled him, and he put the question to Blest-Gana. 
 
 " Certainly. . . . He was advertised, was Napo- 
 leon. . . ■. So was King Solomon — to the ends of 
 
 the earth, so far as he knew it There are more 
 
 of us nowadays, that is all. . . ." 
 
 They descended at the hotel, and were conveyed in 
 a lift to the fourth floor. 
 
 " Stay," said Blest-Gana, his hand on the door, " I 
 will announce you. . . ." 
 
 Stealthily he opened the door, and crept in on tip- 
 toe. There were cries and the sound of scurrying 
 feet. 
 
 Presently a little Frenchwoman with soft brown 
 eyes came to the door and bade David enter. On the 
 floor, prostrate in obeisance, were Blest-Gana and 
 two children. 
 
 " O Majeste . . ." said Blest-Gana. 
 
 " O Majeste . . . said the smaller of the two chil- 
 dren. 
 
 "Vos sujets si chetifs vous suppHent." 
 
 Both children repeated : 
 
 "Vos sujets si chetifs vous suppHent." 
 
 "Oh! pardon, Majeste." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 169 
 
 "Pardon, Majeste . . ." 
 
 " De ce que nous avons, nous mechants et hardis 
 que nous sommes. . . ." 
 
 Blest-Gana groaned, and then came shrill emula- 
 tions of his groans. 
 
 " De ce que nous avons tue et mange un des parents 
 pauvres de votre illustre. . . ." 
 
 "De votre illustre. ..." 
 
 " De votre merveilleusement belle." 
 
 " De votre belle. . . ." 
 
 " De votre si douce et compatissante princesse. . . ." 
 
 " What ! " said David in a fierce voice. " What, O 
 base and treacherotis people, O low^er than the 
 baboons, O more lying than the jackals, which, then, 
 of the poor relations of my consort, fairer than the 
 moon, have you dared to . . . dared to " 
 
 He caught the eye of the little Frenchwoman, and 
 could not contain himself. He laughed aloud. 
 
 Blest-Gana howled, shivered, and shook. The chil- 
 dren howled, shivered, and shook. 
 
 David laughed and laughed. 
 
 Blest-Gana leapt to his feet and danced wildly. 
 
 " Le Roi rit ! O compatriotes. . . . Nous sommes 
 pardonnes. ... O Joie, Le Roi rit! C'est le soleil 
 quit parait apres la tempete. . . . Majeste, permittez 
 que je vous presente. Let me present to you, most 
 illustrious of kings. . . ." 
 
 " I must," said David — " I must set foot on all your 
 necks." 
 
 One by one they came to him, lay prone, and he set 
 foot on their necks to mark their thraldom. 
 
 Said Blest-Gana: "The wife of my agent. . . . 
 Mrs. Higgs." 
 
 Mrs. Higgs bowed. 
 
 " My agent," explained the pianist, " is an Ameri- 
 can. . . . My friends are Louis and Maurice." 
 
I70 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Louis and Maurice were overcome with bash ful- 
 ness, and to save the situation Blest-Gana plunged into 
 fresh extravagance. . . . David smiled at Mrs. 
 Higgs. 
 
 " My three babies," she said. 
 
 "'Four," said David, and joined the mele&. 
 
 They went hunting, and spent hours pursuing hip- 
 popotami on the Limpopo. When they had each a 
 leviathan to his credit David suddenly remembered 
 his appointment with Mortimer. He was allowed to 
 go on condition that he came again the next day. 
 This he promised, and he was conducted down the 
 many stairs by his three new comrades. 
 
 In the hall they found commotion, hurrying,, scurry- 
 ing, policemen, and outside the hotel the street was 
 crowded. 
 
 " What is it ? " said David to a man in the door- 
 way. 
 
 ** Old Brandt . . . Carl Brandt has been found in 
 his room shot — dead." 
 
 David turned to Blest-Gana. 
 
 " Get the boys out of this." 
 
 "Yes. I knew the old man. It is not a nice 
 story." He turned and led Louis and Maurice away. 
 
 " When was it ? " said David to his man. 
 
 " Aibout half an hour ago — ^they found him. They 
 will bring in suicide, but it was not that. . . ." 
 
 David elbowed his way through the crowd, and re- 
 turned to his lodging. 
 
 " I wonder," he thought — " I wonder where James 
 is ... or ... or .. . Wilkinson? . . . But — ^but 
 it is not my affair. . . . Which is the more real, the 
 Princess of the Baboons or the dead Jew ? . . . That 
 is the eternal question." 
 
 To his astonishment Kate Driscoll met him with a 
 full and circumstantial narrative of the whole affair, 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 171 
 
 relating even the distance of the pistol from the body 
 at the moment of discovery. Later Miss Bird came 
 with the news that Wilkinson had been arrested. 
 
 "Wilkinson?" said David. 
 
 " A little bald man," said Miss Bird. 
 
 " But he . . ." 
 
 "It was all about that there Mrs. Berriedale that 
 the trouble was. . . ." " 
 
 "I might have known," said David. "Who is 
 she?" 
 
 " A scorcher," said Miss Bird. 
 
 From the two women David received such an in- 
 sight into the underworld of the Rand as to quite con- 
 firm his impression that hell is everywhere in the 
 world, and not one step removed from heayen. 
 
 He leaned back in his chair. 
 
 " Hell and heaven, my dears. I know of no region 
 between the two but, tihat where mean souls shiver 
 from knowing neither good nor evil — and that, I sup- 
 pose, is the world we Uve in." 
 
 " Oh, do give us a rest," said Miss Bird. " Your 
 sort o' preachin' is worse than old Blunsdon's." 
 
 "Mamie," said David, "I adore you." 
 
IV 
 
 Nothing could be proved against Wilkinson when 
 put upon his trial, and the name of Mrs. Berriedale 
 was not mentioned in court, for she was a powerful 
 lady and high in favour with the great ones of the 
 community. 
 
 Talk ran high, and David received many and varied 
 accounts of the lady's history. Kate Driscoll had it 
 all pat, and though she spoke with veneration of this 
 great light of her profession, yet she took exception 
 to certain alleged episodes as beyond the pale. 
 
 The identity of Mr. Berriedale did not appear, for 
 nothing was known previous to his wife's conquest 
 of Cape Town during the war. She had come, no 
 man knew from whence, had then bided her time until 
 a transport brought a moon-calf rich enough to be 
 worth the slaying. Straight then she wove garlands 
 for him, and led him to her shrine, at which he wor- 
 shipped religiously, until an irate General whipped 
 him off, spanked him, and sent him to the front, where 
 he was shot. There were others, and offerings were 
 left at the shrine as numerous as at the shrine of a 
 healing saint. Dark whisperings spread, and Mrs. 
 Berriedale, as a much maligned woman, went up coun- 
 try and did splendid work in a hospital commissariat, 
 with only occasional flights to Cape Town. 
 
 On the declaration of peace she sought rest and 
 quiet in Durban, and eventually descended upon 
 Johannesburg, where she was more magnificent than 
 ever before, and began then to weave her web. She 
 
 172 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 173 
 
 span deftly and busily, and presently the young gen- 
 tlemen in the Colonial Office in London began to be 
 aware of a political force which they did not under- 
 stand. They knew to their cost, however, that it 
 was a force which had no respect for the Imperial 
 Government, either Conservative or Liberal, a force 
 which knew not parties. In Johannesburg in every 
 direction it became necessary to reckon with IVfrs. 
 Berriedale. She juggled with millionaires, and Gov- 
 ernment officials were her puppets. There were al- 
 ways men at her beck and call, and it was impossible 
 to say which, if any of them, was her lover. She 
 was splendidly beautiful. 
 
 This was the information that David gathered be- 
 fore he saw the lady. 
 
 Kate DriscoU's narrative was detailed and scandal- 
 ous. 
 
 From the Brandt mystery she wove such a story of 
 base intrigue and vulgar passion as sickened David of 
 the whole business of sex, and made him desire that 
 human beings should take on the character of fish or 
 worms. The final stroke of Kate's story shocked and 
 startled him: 
 
 " And they say now that she has that there pianner- 
 f eller at her feet." 
 
 Now, David had not heard Blest-Gana so much as 
 mention Mrs. Berriedale; indeed, in all their inter- 
 course — ^and they had been much together — it had 
 been tacitly agreed that the topic should not be touched 
 upon. 
 
 " It is not a nice story," Blest-Gana had said, and 
 for David that had been enough. The two men had 
 become friends, and had come to count upon each 
 other for relief from the atmosphere which so op- 
 pressed them both. Blest-Gana had touched in David 
 the pure spring of idealism, and came to him for relief 
 
174 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 from the posturing and attitudinizing which his pro- 
 fession thrust upon him. 
 
 " It is those posters," he said, " and I must always 
 be trying to look like them." 
 
 " Better," said David, " than trying to look like 
 someone else. I knew a young man once, an actor 
 in America, who was ruined by the ceaseless effort 
 to look like Beethoven " 
 
 " Beethoven ? " said Blest-Gana, " The poor wretch 
 haunts me. I have tortured him for so many years 
 . . . oh, cruelly . . . horribly. I am to play him 
 to-morrow night, this giant . . . and I will play him 
 like a giant, like a giant in love. . . ." 
 
 He waved his hands. 
 
 " It is that. What would you? . . . Men are 
 not alive but when they are in love . . . hein?" 
 
 David was haunted with a vision of the "pianner- 
 feller" at the feet of the notorious woman; Blest- 
 Gana, garlanded, fatted, and led to the slaughter; 
 and because he was attached to the man he was angry, 
 and more than angry, that in such an affair he should 
 take a high tone and prate like any young gaby in the 
 early throes. 
 
 "What have I done? I am not altogether dead. 
 My agent has not altogether killed me. . . . With 
 Maurice and Louis I have found the heart of the 
 world . . . simplicity, mon cher. When one is sim- 
 ple it is a world of fairies, of giants, of princesses. 
 ... Eh! bien ... I have found a princess. Here 
 in this wilderness I have found. . . . You shall see. 
 ... It is because of her, of her beauty, her purity, 
 that I have found again my soul which was lost. Ah ! 
 but — ^but it is worth while to be a man. . . ." 
 
 He was in wild spirits, and nothing would content 
 him but that they should hire a carriage and with the 
 two boys drive out to a place of solitude. They 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 175 
 
 should take food and remain until they were cleansed 
 of all contamination. 
 
 "Where is the sun? We will drive straight to- 
 wards the sun." 
 
 Mrs. Higgs was alarmed at the prospect of the 
 four driving out into the unknown, unattended by any 
 responsible person. She enlarged upon the dangers 
 of the country, instanced the murder of store-keepers 
 by escaped Chinese, the stories of desperate white men 
 wandering through the country, the roughness of the 
 roads, the possibility of a storm. 
 
 Blest-Gana brushed aside all her objections. 
 
 " We four," he said, " are enchanted ; there's a spell 
 over us. It is impossible to kill us." 
 
 In a cart drawn by six mules they drove out along 
 rough veld roads into a great country, wide and 
 silent. They passed the house of one store-keeper, 
 then another and another, until they came to a place 
 from whence they could see no habitation save, far 
 away on the slopes of a round hill, a kraal like a clus- 
 ter of beehives. 
 
 " Tiens, Louis," said Blest-Gana. " This is the 
 Kingdom of Nowhere." 
 
 " I am not afraid," said Louis. 
 
 David descended, and lifted Maurice down. At 
 once the child ran and stood crowing on a hillock, an 
 odd little figure, with his plump naked legs, and his 
 suit of red and white striped linen. 
 
 The mules were unharnessed and tethered. 
 
 David ran after Maurice to his eminence, and Blest- 
 Gana came racing with Louis. 
 
 " Here," said Louis, " we must have a fire. Hey ! " 
 
 He called to one of the Kaffirs tending the mules, 
 and they lit a fire, round which they squatted while 
 the kettle boiled for coffee. This was exciting 
 enough, to drink coffee and eat eggs boiled over a fire 
 
176 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 of their own making, but when the Kaiifirs produced 
 a mess of mealies, nothing would satisfy but that 
 they also must eat of it. The Kaffirs grinned pleas- 
 antly, were glad enough to share, and offered also 
 to drink of their beer. The four drank, and though 
 they vowed that never was such nectar, none accepted 
 a second draught. 
 
 They basked in the sun and told stories. 
 
 "There was once," said Blest-Gana — "there was 
 once " 
 
 " A' man," said Louis. 
 
 "A girl," said Maurice. 
 
 "There must be for all stories a man and a girl," 
 said David. 
 
 "Why?" said Louis. 
 
 " Because without them there is no poetry." 
 
 " There was once a time in the world when there 
 were no priests . . . when man knew the soul of 
 everything, and was not afraid of death. Then the 
 world gave freely to each man in return for his 
 labour. ..." 
 
 "Don't say that there was never unhappiness in 
 the world. That is all nonsense." 
 
 " Have patience, David. This is to be the story of 
 the first lie. ... In this time there was no instinct 
 of possession. There were no rich men, and there- 
 fore no poor. All was well in the world until there 
 was born a woman more beautiful than any that there 
 had ever been. Her name was " 
 
 "Marie," said Louis, for that was his mother's 
 name." 
 
 "Helen," said David. ' 
 
 " Her name was Nina," said Blest-Gana, " and she 
 was very beautiful. So much more beautiful was she 
 than other women that . . . that ... oh, there was 
 a man could not rest because of her ! . . ." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 177 
 
 He paused for so long that Louis said : 
 
 "Is that all the story?" 
 
 " He hunted, and he arranged the political business 
 of his tribe; he wandered alone in the wild places for 
 many days. He took the trees into his confidence, 
 and the birds, and a dog, but they could not under- 
 stand him. He sought out the woman, and told her 
 of his plight. He told her that she must wear a 
 veil, and that no other man must ever see her. . . . 
 She obeyed him, and . . . and ... I am no story- 
 teller." 
 
 David took up the parable. 
 
 " The man was called John, and he had no need of 
 any goods until this trouble came upon him. Then, 
 that the most beautiful woman might smile upon him, 
 he took that which was not his. He slaughtered many 
 beasts, he killed many men, to show his strength. . . . 
 He had slaughtered ten beasts, but he told her that he 
 had slain a thousand; he had killed five men, but he 
 told her that he had slain fifty. He possessed by 
 plunder three houses and two acres of land, but he told 
 her that he possessed nine houses and five thousand 
 acres of land. . . . The woman knew that he was 
 lying, but she did not withhold herself from him 
 . . . and since that day that has always been the way 
 of women. . . . He made her wear a veil, and she 
 obeyed him. He bade her keep to the house while 
 he was away, and she obeyed him. . . . This also 
 has always been the way of women since that day. 
 In the end he forgot that she was very beautiful . . . 
 and he killed her." 
 
 " How did he kill her?" said Louis. 
 
 " He starved her," said David. 
 
 The story was not a success, and Louis was disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 " Now," said Blest-Gana, " we will kill a lion. . . . 
 
178 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 We men do not understand. We are all children. 
 ... I am sure this is the track of a lion. . . ." 
 
 They followed the track, and presently split up into 
 two parties, David taking Maurice, Blest-Gana Louis. 
 They wandered for long, keeping each other just in 
 sight, moving against the wind. 
 
 Maurice's talk was all in praise of Louis. He was 
 quite sure that Louis coiild kill a lion, or two if .need 
 be — even nine. Louis had been to America, and 
 Louis was going to be President of the United 
 States. . . . 
 
 There came a shout from Louis. 
 
 "Ah! he has killed one," said Maurice, breaking 
 into a trot. 
 
 Louis came to meet them. 
 
 " There's a dead man," he callied. 
 
 David hastened. He found Blest-Gana kneeling by 
 the body of a man in rags. He lay like one asleep, 
 his face turned to the ground, his knees drawn up. 
 In one hand was a little phial, in the other a scrap of 
 paper. Blest-Gana took this, read it, and handed 
 it to David. On it was written: 
 
 " I have lost my health, and therefore the savour of 
 life, for I had nothing else. If it is possible, I pray 
 that I may remmn unknown." 
 
 " Think," said Blest-Gana to Louis— "think that he 
 is asleep." 
 
 There was that in his voice which silenced the boy, 
 and stopped the question upon his lips. 
 
 David restored the scrap of paper to the dead hand. 
 They left the man, and, without a word, returned to 
 their fire. 
 
 High in the air above them a vulture flew. He 
 circled, poised, and swooped. . . . 
 
 Blest-Gana broke into a stream of nonsense. The 
 position was difficult, and though the boys had soon 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 179 
 
 forgotten, to all appearances, neither of the two men 
 could trust themselves to speak. 
 
 At length David said: 
 
 " I have an odd feeling of having gained a friend." 
 
 "Yes. It is almost intolerable, to have the world 
 so — so stripped." 
 
 David looked towards the kraal. 
 
 " I wonder," he said, " which is the more acceptable 
 to the Lord, that or the town. ... I wonder, also, 
 if the Lord has a sense of humour." 
 
 " What I am thinking of," said Blest-Gana — " what 
 I am thinking of is, what are we to say to the mother 
 of these children? . . ." 
 
 " It is nothing to them . . . little savages ! " 
 
 " It has been a failure, our expedition." 
 
 " For us. Not for them. Look at them now." 
 
 The children had made friends with the Kaffirs, 
 and were being shown how to harness a mule. Louis 
 clamoured to mount, and was set astride one of the 
 brutes, a strap through its teeth for reins. He kicked 
 and whacked his animal, not at all disposed for 
 frolic, into a trot, and away he flew, the Kaffir 
 after him. Maurice took the whip and posed as ring- 
 master. 
 
 " It is no more than if they had found the jaw- 
 bone of a sheep, or the skull of an ox. ..." 
 
 "All the same, it has shaken me." 
 
 "We must go if we are to be back before night- 
 fall." 
 
 "Yes. Better. . . . For the first time I shall 
 be glad to be back among rotten people." 
 
 " What really is strange," said David, " is that this 
 man, whom we never knew, should have shaken us 
 more than " 
 
 " Ah ! that — shut up in a little room. But think : 
 here in this solitude, with the hills out there ... in 
 
i8o DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 the burning sun . . . alone. It is too great. But 
 
 for the other " He shrugged. "There is not 
 
 always majesty in death. . . ." 
 
 " Shall we go? " said David. 
 
 They bade the Kaffirs harness the mules, and pres- 
 ently were rocking and swaying along the way by 
 which they had come. 
 
 Louis bragged of his exploits, to the open-mouthed 
 admiration of his brother. He lost count of time, 
 space, and probability, and the tale of his doings was 
 more marvellous than the romance of any paladin. 
 In the middle of a story in which he had slain a 
 crocodile by jabbing his thumbs into its eyes, it was 
 discovered that Maurice had fallen asleep. Louis 
 turned, laid his head against David's shoulder, and 
 slept also. 
 
 The mules pattered along, the long whip flew, and 
 the cart rocked and swayed. Blest-Gana hummed, 
 and then broke into gay little French songs, chuckling 
 rather than singing them. 
 
 " Of what are you thinking, my friend? " 
 
 " It was our friend out there. . . . Nothing but 
 health. It is not enough. I have seen cities and men, 
 but I have been always outside. ..." 
 
 For the first time in his life David indulged in inti- 
 mate confession. He rummaged through all his wan- 
 derings, through hardships, through dissipation, 
 through danger. 
 
 "Looking back on it all, I can find no satisfying 
 moment, save only those of wild ecstasy (he had re- 
 counted his experience with the priest in Ceylon), and 
 those are blurred in the memory. . . . Ridiculous 
 things are sharp and vivid. . . . No, there is noth- 
 ing satisfying. . . . Even of suffering I cannot say, 
 ' It is enough.' " 
 
 He laughed. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS i8i 
 
 " I am like the daughters of the horseleech, crying, 
 ' Give, give ! ' . . . and I should like to know more 
 of Agur, the son of Jakeh, and what manner of 
 woman it was had so tortured him as to make him cry- 
 out, ' Such is the way of the adulterous woman : she 
 eateth, and wipeth her mouth, and saith, I have done 
 no wickedness.' . . . She had twisted the world for 
 him, for he begins his writing : ' Surely I am more 
 brutish than any man, and have not the understanding 
 of a man. . . .' She must have been a wonder." 
 
 " You shall see her. . . . She is here in Johannes- 
 burg — Mrs. Berriedale. I have talked to her of you. 
 It will be droll to see what she makes of you." 
 " "I wonder," said David. 
 
 " I am to play there one evening. She is — ^but 
 you will see what she is. . . . Hard and shallow." 
 He continued to talk of Mrs. Berriedale, but never 
 touched on the Brandt tragedy. "Quite lately," he 
 said, "she has imported from England a daughter. 
 ... It is a miracle." 
 
 They came into the outskirts of the town. 
 
 "We are being swallowed," said Blest-Gana. 
 " Don't you feel it ? There is no escape. My Higgs 
 is waiting for me, and my ten wonderful fingers ; for 
 you there is waiting. . . ." 
 
 "All and more than the things that were past the 
 understanding of A^ur." 
 
 "You will come to Europe with us?" 
 
 " When do you go? " 
 
 " In a month. . . . Kimberley, Bloemfontein, 
 Maritzburg, Durban, and Cape Town are to be sucked 
 dry by the insatiable Higgs, and then for London." 
 
 It was just nightfall when they drew up outside 
 the hotel. Mrs. Higgs was anxious. 
 
 "What horrors has she not imagined!" 
 
 Already Louis and Maurice had commenced a joint 
 
i82 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 history of the day's doings, in which David was 
 unable to recognize any single episode as having hap- 
 pened. 
 
 " Chanson de geste de I'heros Louis Higgs," said 
 Blest-Gana. He sat at his piano and improvised a 
 musical narrative, flamboyant and defiant. 
 
 " Chanson de geste de I'heros Jean Blest-Gana." 
 This was a mock love-motif. 
 
 He turned to a doleful plaint in a minor key. 
 
 " Chanson de geste de I'heros David Brockman." 
 
 David knew nothing of music, but the thing was 
 such a delicious parody of his mood that he was 
 shaken out of it. It ended in a marvellous discord. 
 It pierced David and rent him, so exact and true it was. 
 
 " He casts out devils," he said to Mrs. Higgs. 
 
 " I do not know what has come to him lately," she 
 said. 
 
 Blest-Gana heard this. He turned round on his 
 piano-stool, laid a hand on each knee, tossed his mane 
 back. 
 
 "Voila!" he said — "voila! What has come to 
 me? This man ... he has given me back my 
 youth. Your Higgs, he will sell it for much money, 
 my youth. . . . You see, and there is nothing that 
 he v/ill not sell, your Higgs. . . ." 
 
 He returned to his playing, and elaborated the 
 " Chanson de geste de I'heros David Brockman." 
 
 David was pressed to stay, but would not. Blest- 
 Gana told Mrs. Higgs that David would come to 
 Europe with them. 
 
 " I am glad." Blest-Gana wrenching comic dis- 
 cords from the piano, she said : " You have made him 
 so much happier. . . . He had such terrible despair 
 — oh, terrible ! . . . I like it so much better that he 
 shbuld be happy." 
 
 She just touched David's arm with her hand, and 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 183 
 
 by the caress she told him more than words could have 
 done. He took her hand and kissed it. 
 
 He looked in on Louis and Maurice in their bath. 
 Maurice splashed. 
 
 " It was Louis who killed the biegest lion, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Ah!" said David, "but you killed two." 
 
 Maurice looked to see the effect of this on his 
 brother. Apparently he was fearful of having any 
 virtue which might diminish Louis's glory. 
 
 " Two very little ones," he said at length. " But 
 — but — Louis killed the man." 
 
 It was out. This, then, was what they had made 
 of the tragedy, of the lonely creature out there on the 
 veld. 
 
 David saw again the vulture swooping. 
 
 " S-sh, Maurice," said his mother. " It is terrible 
 what things children will imagine. . . ." 
 
 " Yes," said David, " terrible." 
 
 All that night the vision of the dead man haunted 
 him, and over and over again his last testament spelled 
 itself out before his eyes. . . . He could not rest, 
 and walked out under the stars, out of the town to- 
 wards the mines, with their gaunt white heaps of slag, 
 stark-white under the moon. . . . He had a sensa- 
 tion of standing on the threshold of the unknown. 
 He v/as in a state of half -knowledge, of feeling that 
 only just through the darkness in front of him was 
 that which should flood with light the place where 
 he stood. He groped, but could get no farther. He 
 saw clearly, in the moonlight now, the long hills in 
 the distance, and on the swelling bosom of the veld 
 the man lying there . . . rags and a body ... a 
 scrap of paper. 
 
 " That is to be a master," he thought — " to ask lit- 
 tle, and, when that goes, to make an end; tQ be un- 
 
i84 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 known, to have no touch with that which has been, 
 or that which will be; to be free. . . ." 
 
 On this there came to his mind Blest-Gana's lugu- 
 brious strains and the last discord. David stood still. 
 He could not laugh, he was so filled with wonder at 
 himself. 
 
 "Free?" he thought. "To be free— free? Is it 
 possible? ... I think ... I think. . . ." 
 
 He turned dizzy and icy cold. His thoughts 
 stopped . . . and he went whirling away, up, and 
 up, and up. He shivered and moaned, and his hands 
 went out, groping like the hands of one stricken 
 blind. He was in agony, and he sweated. There 
 were no words. He could see nothing, visualize noth- 
 ing. He fell forward on to his face. . . . 
 
 When he came to himself, blood was streaming. 
 He leaped to his feet and hit out with both fists: 
 
 " Will you give in ? " he cried — " will you give in ? " 
 and there sounded in his ears, thin, as though it came 
 from a great distance, a voice crying : " A Brock- 
 man! A Brockman!" 
 
 Out of the mouth of the butcher-boy came these 
 fruitful words: 
 
 " I tell you there is no freedom but in sharing the 
 common lot ! " 
 
 " By God ! " . said David. " You lie — you — 
 you. ..." 
 
 But the butcher-boy had vanished, and David stood 
 there under the stars, mopping with a crumpled hand- 
 kerchief at his bleeding head. 
 
 It was no great matter, and soon ceased, though 
 there was a painful bruise above his left eye. 
 
 "Now, how the devil," he said — "how the devil 
 did the butcher-boy know that ? " 
 
 He turned his face towards the town again, an-i 
 gravely pondered this question of the miraculous 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 185 
 
 knowledge of the butcher-boy. Suddenly he shouted 
 with laughter. 
 
 . " Oho ! " he thought. " It is I— I myself who 
 know it. In my own head was this gem of wisdom 
 born. It is I who was a fool, and am become a wise 
 man in the wilderness. . . . And, oh! my lonely 
 friend, sleeping out there on the veld under the moon, 
 it is more foolish to make of you a master than openly 
 to say that I slew you. . . . What had you in the 
 world, my friend? Things more precious to you 
 than health? You were born of woman. That is 
 fine, to begin with. You were suckled at her breast. 
 That is a mighty thing. You have eaten and drufik, 
 and women have smiled on you. . . . You have been 
 buffeted by the wind, scorched by the sun. ... Ye 
 gods, you have been a man. That is enough — that 
 is enough : a man, in the world, sharing the common 
 lot. Free ! You died that I might be a man. It is 
 well done, my friend. . . . Are you cold out there? 
 It is finished. . . . Soon there will be no trace of 
 you ... no trace — ^nothing. We pass." 
 
 He sat by the roadside. 
 
 " If I had stayed," he thought—" if I had stayed 
 there in England, what would there have been for 
 me? Something I wanted then, something thaf I 
 cried for . . . something to reconcile what I dreamed 
 with what there was. ... It is here : this man — ^this 
 dead man whom I never knew. . . . Simple. . . . 
 The common lot : we live and we pass. ... I had to 
 know. . . . To live honestly. . . . Such liars I 
 have known that passed for honest men. . . . Such 
 light women that passed for virtuous." 
 
 He looked up at the stars. 
 
 "Jupiter, they tell me, has eight moons. I won- 
 der if he is eight times as crazy as this world . . . 
 and if in all this world there is another man as crazy 
 
i86 DEVIOUS :WAYS 
 
 as myself. . . . Truth, honour, virtue, the love of 
 all creatures, and the hatred of all wickedness. . . . 
 And I, while I am here moping and groping, there 
 in the town are men and women making love, men 
 gambling and fighting ; there are new men and women 
 brought into the world, there are others passing from 
 it ; there are fine things and vile things. . . ." 
 
 He looked up at the glare of the town lights, and 
 rose to his feet, craning towards the glare. 
 
 " Oh ! but we are clever little animals, we men. . . ." 
 
 With that he broke into a run, and had almost 
 reached his lodging when down the street there came 
 clattering a carriage, drawn by two horses, scared and 
 galloping at full stretch. The driver was hauling at 
 the reins, throwing his full weight on them; he was 
 shouting and cursing. The carriage shot by him, 
 and David saw seated in it two women, clinging to- 
 gether, huddled and frightened. He turned, raced 
 and caught one of the beasts by the rein, was dragged 
 some distance, but at length, by tugging and throwing 
 up the brutes' heads, he brought them to a standstill, 
 plunging and kicking. The driver slipped down from 
 his box, and David came to the women. He doffed 
 his hat and bowed. 
 
 " I wished to make sure that it was well with you." 
 
 "It was brave," said the elder woman. The 
 younger held out her hand. 
 
 " I am afraid," said David, " that my thought was 
 for the horses. They were so terrified. You are 
 not hurt?" 
 
 He wished to make the younger woman speak. She 
 had a natural graciousness which was very sweet to 
 David, and made him linger. She was pale, and 
 most wonderful to see in contrast with the hardness 
 of the powdered face of the elder woman, in whose 
 voice also there was a queer metallic quality. She, 
 
DEV^IOUS WAYS 187 
 
 too, was beautiful, but David's eyes were for the 
 younger woman. Hardly more than a girl she was, 
 but she was mysterious and enchanting as the moon. 
 She accepted David's homage. 
 
 " Your head," she said, and her voice was full, soft. 
 
 "It is nothing ... to have been of service to 
 you. . . ." 
 
 "We are grateful." 
 
 " Indeed, yes," said the elder woman. " My man 
 is a fool." 
 
 The fool came to say that they might proceed. 
 The younger woman held out her hand again. 
 
 " We shall meet." 
 
 The carriage was turned. David stood aside, and 
 they clattered away up the street. 
 
 " Oh," said David, " she is rare ! " 
 
 He stood for long gazing after the carriage. Pres- 
 ently there came slouching a ragged man, meagre and 
 wretched. He eyed David hungrily. 
 
 "My friend," said David, "would you like to be 
 drunk?" 
 
 The man licked his lips and stood hitching his 
 shoulders. 
 
 They proceeded to a bar, and there the man drank 
 himself into a maudlin state, and proclaimed aloud to 
 the assembled company that David was a gentleman, 
 and offered to fight any man who should say the con- 
 trary. 
 
The coming of the rare woman produced in David 
 an uneasiness which he had never known before. In 
 all his dealings with women, he had been sure of his 
 understanding, and certain in his handling of them. 
 He could not rid himself of the haunting tones of her 
 voice, and until he saw her again he was rebellious, 
 struggled against the thing that possessed him, but 
 always came back to worship of her image. He was 
 angry; he clutched at the common, the coarse, the 
 depraved; he sought the lowest creatures to be met 
 with in the town; but always he found himself 
 turning to the promise of great things unknown, things 
 incomprehensible, that the few moments in her pres- 
 ence had held out to him. He made no effort to dis- 
 cover her identity, so sure was he that they would 
 meet. Each day was begun with certainty that it 
 would compass the wonder, and each day ended with 
 blank disappointment. He avoided Blest-Gana and 
 the children, and rather sought Mortimer and the 
 sedative of his outpouring of facts concerning South 
 Africa. However, when Mortimer left the subject 
 of the paucity of good harbours, and solemnly asked 
 whether it could be justifiable for a man with one 
 lung to offer himself in matrimony, David felt that 
 he had been betrayed, was sore and unnecessarily im- 
 polite. He was at once contrite. 
 
 " I am sorry," he said. " I do not know what 
 has come to me. I think the Rand is wrecking my 
 nerves •" 
 
 "That does not matter while it fills your pockets. 
 Why do you stay ? " 
 
 " I wish I knew," said David. 
 188 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 189 
 
 "Have you heard that Mrs. Berriedale has cut 
 Barclay James since the Brandt suicide?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "The odd thing is that James and Wilkinson are 
 as thick as thieves now." 
 
 "Does it matter what thiey are?. . . I sup- 
 pose they will make money whatever happens to 
 them. . . ." 
 
 "Yes. But it would be interesting to know what 
 the Berriedale thinks of it all She is the storm- 
 centre." 
 
 " I am beginning to be sick of the name." 
 
 Mortimer laughed. 
 
 "That is what everybody has been saying these 
 eight years past. ... I should also like to know 
 what the girl thinks of it." 
 
 "The girl?" 
 
 "You have not seen her?" 
 
 " Blest-Gana told me of her. A miracle." 
 
 " She hardly spoke a word to me when I met her, 
 but she overpowered me." 
 
 David turned the conversation by taking up a news- 
 paper. He read idly the report of a meeting of the 
 South African National Society, and glanced at "a 
 leader abusing the Imperial Government. His eye 
 travelled over the ill-printed sheet. 
 
 " What a shame ! " he said. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 He read aloud a paragraph headed " Pathetic Sui- 
 cide." They had found the man on the veld, and 
 efforts were being made to identify him. Mortimer 
 seemed to be unmoved by David's story. He took 
 the newspaper, and read the paragraph without com- 
 ment. 
 
 "You are wanted," he said. 
 
 "What!" said David. 
 
I90 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " ' Brockman. — If David Brockman, son of Henry 
 Brockman, of Braydale, in the county of Lancaster, 
 England, now believed to be in South Africa, will 
 communicate with Messrs. Beak, Bird, and Betts, of 
 7, Joubert Street, Johannesburg, he will hear of some- 
 thing to his advantage.' " 
 
 "M-p-i>-p," said David. "They have tried that 
 before." 
 
 "You may as well go," said Mortimer. "They 
 are good clients of mine. Beak's. ... If you don't 
 go, I shall tell them that you exist, that I have seen 
 you, and that you are incapable of looking after your 
 own interests." 
 
 David decided to go then and there. 
 
 He was received by a Hindu clerk, and passed over 
 to a pasty-faced English boy, who whistled when 
 David gave his name. 
 
 " My word ! " he said ; " you're in there now, talk- 
 ing to Mr. Beak." 
 
 " The devil I am ! " said David, and laughed. 
 
 "Yessir. You're more like yourself than t'other 
 fellow." 
 
 A door opened, and there emerged from it an out- 
 at-elbows gentleman, crestfallen and slinking. 
 
 " No go? " said the boy. 
 
 " Go to hell ! " said the crestfallen gentleman, and 
 flung out of the office. 
 
 " Will you come this way, sir? " said the boy. He 
 opened the door and announced, " Mr. David Brock- 
 man." 
 
 "Another?" The attorney threw down his pen 
 and broke into expostulation, which was cut short 
 by David's entry! The boy vanished. 
 
 " Take a seat," said the attorney gruffly. He was 
 a large man, with a husky voice that occasionally rose 
 to a squeak. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 191 
 
 " I am afraid," said David, " that I cannot prove 
 my identity." 
 
 Mr. Beak threw himself back in his chair. 
 
 " Have you come here for a joke, sir ?'. . . I have 
 had twenty liars here over this business. I am not 
 in the mood for more." 
 
 "Your advertisement has only just been pointed 
 out to me. I want to know what you have to tell 
 me to my advantage." 
 
 " You are the son of Henry Brockman, of Bray- 
 dale, in the county of Lancaster?" 
 
 "The eldest son," said David, "by his first wife. 
 I ran away from home ten years ago." 
 
 " Yes— yes." 
 
 " I am twenty-seven years of age. I have a sister 
 and two brothers. When I left home my father kept 
 an eating-house. I believe that he has extended his 
 business since then. Do you represent my father?" 
 
 "No. . . ." 
 
 " What is it that you have for me ? " 
 
 " There is no one here who can swear to your 
 identity?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " One has to be careful. It is a question of money 
 left by a Miss Andrew. . . ." 
 
 David said nothing. He could not. 
 
 " How long have you been in Africa, Mr. — Mr. 
 Brockman ? " 
 
 " Not a couple of months. I came from Ceylon." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 "For what?" said David. 
 
 " Our London agents had last news of you there." 
 
 " I heard from my aunt while I was there." 
 
 " Her estate is valued at six thousand pounds, and 
 I am instructed that there is some small house prop- 
 erty in Cambridgeshire. . . . We will cable our 
 
192 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 agents, Mr. Brockman, and if you should be in need 
 of money " 
 
 "Thank you," said David. "No; I am much 
 obliged to you, but — but Thank you." 
 
 Mr. Beak offered a fat hand, which David took. 
 
 " Where are you to be found?" said the attorney. 
 
 David gave his address, and the fat man made a 
 note of it. 
 
 " The next David Brockman," he said, " will be 
 ejected with violence." 
 
 David returned to his lodging, and on an impulse 
 of disgust with his mode of living gave notice to his 
 landlady. He began to feel that there was a con- 
 spiracy against him. He had come to Johannesburg 
 blithely enough, and irresponsibly, desiring to shake 
 off the longings — sentimental, as he judged them — 
 roused in him by his long sojourn with Anthony and 
 Clara Fielding. An unkind fate had pitched him into 
 a relationship almost as unsettling with Blest-Gana, 
 and had brought him face to face with stark truth. 
 It had arranged the encounter with the rare woman, 
 and now, by this cruel stroke, had insisted that he 
 should be a gentleman of fortune. 
 
 He had never in his life given thought to the mor- 
 row, or doubted the truth of the saying that one 
 day is like unto another. He had been without pos- 
 sessions, asking no more than that a livelihood, how- 
 ever meagre, should be forthcoming. In all his wan- 
 derings he had watched and been absorbed in the tragi- 
 comedies everywhere being enacted. He had taken 
 the world as a spectacle for his delight, had often 
 been" drunk with the joy of it, had probed and delved 
 for the secret of it. It had been good, and he had 
 evaded his share of the burden. He had seen traps 
 laid for him, but had dodged them, and cried aloud 
 for sheer pleasure in his own cleverness in dodging. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 193 
 
 He had given much and asked nothing, because he 
 had seen that the majority of mankind ask much 
 and give nothing. He had been in revolt — at first 
 shrilly, peevishly, even passionately, then gently and 
 humorously — against the ways of the rest of the 
 world. He had begun by setting before himself 
 ideals of asceticism, but experience had soon shattered 
 them, and he had taken unto himself a gospel of kind- 
 ness, which, through his youthful lack of discrimina- 
 tion, had brought him into the most doleful difficulties, 
 from which, however, he had extricated himself like 
 an eel. This gospel remained with him. 
 
 Now for the first time he was obliged to think of 
 the future. One thing he clutched at — ^his promise, 
 made half in joke, that he would be in London to meet 
 the Fieldings. That was something to do. Do — 
 that was the word that bothered him. Looking back 
 on it all, he realized that he had never done anything, 
 that, as he had said to Blest-Gana, he had no business 
 in the world, and did not stand firmly on his legs. 
 
 There had been a time when he was content to 
 say to himself that he was not as other men are. That 
 was done with, exploded. Here in Johannesburg he 
 had learned that he was of the same stuff as all the 
 rest. 
 
 He lay on his bed and pondered the doings of the 
 past ten years : 
 
 " It has taken long to learn it. . . . I wonder, do 
 the others take so long, or ... or ... do they 
 never . . .? A gentleman of fortune at twenty- 
 seven. It is too ghastly. . . . And I dreamed once 
 that I would be as Joseph. . . ." 
 
 He came to Bardon in his thoughts, and lived again 
 through the happy weeks there by the river and in 
 the yew-grove; to his home, and there came back the 
 last time that he had seen his mother. He wondered 
 
194 DEVIOUS ,WAYS 
 
 then what she would have thought, and doubted not 
 that she would have believed in him. He remembered 
 clearly enough what she was like, pale and very 
 weary. . . . 
 
 John — of course, John. That was something to 
 do. He wondered what they had made of the boy, 
 John Spencer Brockman. He remembered the 
 scrawled letter received in Ceylon, healthy and boyish 
 enough. . . . 
 
 David had made up his mind to return to England 
 at once, when he was confronted with the knowledge 
 that he could not go. 
 
 This day, like every other, had been begun with 
 the certainty that he should meet the woman with the 
 soft voice. Now, for the first time since the en- 
 counter, he remembered Helen, that he had written 
 to Audrey for news of her, and that it was for this 
 alone that he had stayed in the unpleasant town — 
 Helen on the one hand, vague, misty, but still golden, 
 still through all changes real; and on the other the 
 woman seen once, but compelling and unforget- 
 able. . . . 
 
 "No, certainly," he said. "I cannot go. I'll be 
 a fool like_the rest of them. . . ." 
 
 With that he abandoned himself to the pleasure 
 of recalling the woman's voice and the words she 
 had spoken to him: 
 
 " We shall meet." 
 
 "I wonder," thought David, "if her state is as 
 grievous as my own." 
 
 For all that it was so gpevous he rejoiced in it, 
 and had reached singing point when there came a 
 knock at his door and his landlady entered with a 
 note. It was from Blest-Gana, to bid him hold him- 
 self in readiness to be taken that evening to the house 
 of Mrs. Berriedale, as he had promised. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 195 
 
 " I have so sung the praise of you that Nina has 
 smiled upon me and I am in heaven, but if you fail 
 me to-night I shall be lost. La Berriedale vows it 
 must be you who saved them from disaster five nights 
 ago. Is it so? Nina has said nothing, but then she 
 is so strange. — ^J. B.-G." 
 
 Nina! O divine name! And to-day was the day 
 of days, this was the day when the earth should stop 
 in her course and the moon stand still in the heavens, 
 when the stars should dance and new worlds be born. 
 
 David read the note again. 
 
 " Nina has said nothing, but then she is so strange." 
 
 If she had been proclaimed saint, or had performed 
 some deed that should send her fame ringing through 
 the ages, David could have known no greater de- 
 light than came to him from these words. That 
 she had said nothing had in it something miraculous, 
 most wonderful, and of an adorable purity. 
 
 The idea of purity brought him to that which 
 knocked him from his perch — ^the history of her 
 mother, courtezan, cheat, liar — and from his exulta- 
 tion he was brought to the blacktest despair. He 
 cursed and cursed the woman that she should have 
 brought stain and the taint of wickedness, the dust 
 and foulness of the market-place, to the most holy. 
 That a thing so lovely should live in such a poisoned 
 air was to David most damnable, and he wept for it, 
 howled his lament to the dingy wall of his room. 
 When the fit was done he lay and laughed at himself, 
 pawed the air with his fists, and gargled like a baby. 
 
 " Oh, what an ass, what an ass ! . . . Long ears, 
 long enough to reach from here to the moon. . . . 
 But in this little body of mine to feel, to feel, to feel 
 so much infinity . . . endless. . . . What have we 
 done, good Lord, that we should have so much? . . . 
 and what have I done, good Lord, that I should have 
 
196 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 had to wait so long ... to wander blindly through 
 the world ? And I thought I knew so much. I have 
 known, I have seen, nothing — nothing at all." 
 
 Words failed him. He kicked, and he thumped 
 on his body with all his might. 
 
 He lay exhausted. 
 
 " Surely," he said — " surely there is not in all the 
 world another man so crazy as myself." 
 
 With that he rose and collected his belongings, bade 
 his landlady an affectionate farewell, and drove to 
 Blest-Gana's hotel, where he announced that, as a 
 gentleman of fortune, he had come to stay. 
 
 Blest-Gana received him delightedly, and insisted 
 that they should dine as magnificently as possible to 
 celebrate the good chance, and the auspicious moment 
 of the meeting of David and Nina the peerless. 
 David was inclined to resent Blest-Gana's extrava- 
 gant praise, and was mum when the pianist asked for 
 an account of the adventure of the runaway horses. 
 
 " I have elaborated the * Chanson de geste de 
 I'heros David Brockman,' " said the pianist. " It has 
 made Louis weep. I am to play it to-night. 
 And Nina shall weep for the Weltschmerz of the 
 hero." 
 
 "It is my duty," said David — "it is my duty to 
 return to Ejigland immediately, but I shall not go. I 
 shall wait for what this night shall bring forth." 
 
 " Have you been to the mines ? " said Blest-Gana. 
 
 " To the Simmer and Jack." 
 
 "Did you see the hammers? Stamp, stamp, 
 stamp . . . thud, thud. ... I imagine sometimes 
 that life is much like that. . . . The ceaseless ham- 
 mering crushing us, to bring the true gold out of 
 us. . . . You know what it looks like when it comes 
 from the crushing?. . . Thick black ooze. ... It 
 is an idea. But ideas are not life." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 197 
 
 "I like the idea that the universe was created for 
 the benefit of man," said David. 
 
 " I think that the universe was created entirely that 
 you and I might dine together to-night." 
 
 " It is as good an explanation as any other." 
 
 " They killed Galileo." 
 
 The quick leap was too much for David, and it 
 was some moments before he could follow. 
 
 "What did he do?" 
 
 " He produced the restlessness and self-conscious- 
 ness of the modem world. They were right to kill 
 him. . . . Before men had lived comfortably, un- 
 questioningly, and mightily pleased with themselves, 
 for it was assumed that this earth was the cen- 
 tre of the universe. . . . Those were the days of 
 darkness and content, the days of swaggering 
 folly." 
 
 "There were giants in those days." 
 
 " Then came this confounded Galileo with the idea 
 that the earth moves round the sun. . . . The be- 
 ginning of inductive reasoning and eternal question- 
 ing, the everlasting Why ? . . . It is tragic, because 
 we still wish to think ourselves lords of creation. . . ." 
 
 "It is all so cleverly hidden from us. I am told 
 that it is impossible to measure the velocity of the 
 earth through space. . . ." 
 
 "Life is to be lived, and the race is still to the 
 swift. . . . Progress?" — ^he snapped his fingers — 
 " that for progress. We are richer, some of us are 
 fatter, more of us are discontented. . . . We still 
 make an end of our Galileos. Plus qa change, plus 
 c'est la meme chose. I have been a poor man, I am 
 rich, but only when I am a child with Louis and 
 Maurice am I happy. But I tell you this. Art is no 
 trade for a man." 
 
 He took his cognac at a gulp, _, 
 
198 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " And you, with your new fortune, what will you do 
 in the cause of progress? " 
 
 "I shall marry a wife," said David. 
 
 " That," said Blest-Gana, " is all that one can do. 
 Shall we go?" 
 
 They walked to the house of Mrs. Berriedale. The 
 night was hot and oppressive, thunderous, and light- 
 ning flashed. 
 
 " There will be a storm," said Blest-Gana. " These 
 storms at this height are wonderful." 
 
 The house was a small palace built on an eminence 
 in Park Town. It was brilliantly lighted. Before the 
 gateway were standing carriages, and a throng of 
 men and women was streaming through and up the 
 steep pathway to the house. 
 
 " It is a great night." 
 
 As they turned in at the gate two men were stand- 
 ing there. The light of a carriage lamp was cast 
 upon their faces. One of them David recognized 
 as the man to whom he had given drink. The other's 
 face was as lean and hungry, but of a finer cast. 
 
 " Two more for the house of Rahab," said the man. 
 "Anything in a dress-coat." 
 
 The other sniggered. 
 
 " I'm a Legh of High Legh I am, and a Master 
 of Arts of the University of Oxford . . . left to rot 
 in this blasted hole while a Piccadilly siren fleeces the 
 Jews who fleece the country. . . ." 
 
 He went on talking. 
 
 The savage comment on the house seemed ominous 
 to David. 
 
 " There are thousands like him," said Blest-Gana. 
 The house was of a magnificence such as David had 
 never imagined. At the head of a marble staircase — 
 a copy in miniature, it was said, of a famous staircase 
 in a great London house — stood Mrs. Berriedale, gor- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 199 
 
 geous in purple. Diamonds and amethysts were her 
 jewels. She was very splendid. She had to perfec- 
 tion the air of the great hostess, just the fine shade 
 of warmth and the subtle distinction between man and 
 man. She greeted Blest-Gana warmly and with the 
 faintest shade of familiarity, and yet with homage 
 to his greatness. Turning to David, she was all dig- 
 nity, and yet conveyed to him that she was interested, 
 and that for her he stood out of the crowd as mark- 
 edly as Saul among the young men. 
 
 Standing in the gallery, David watched her, and 
 was delighted to find that she was the same to all 
 the young men, and that they left her with a new as- 
 surance, a new squaring of the shoulders. 
 
 Of women there were many and various, some ag- 
 gressively modest, and others flaunting, but toned 
 down to the right key of respectability. 
 
 "Wonderful," said a voice. "Nothing wanting 
 but a Bishop." 
 
 " I bet old Ada would twist the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury to her way if she could be. let within a 
 yard of him." 
 
 David found it impossible to move from his corner 
 in the gallery. Blest-Gana had been swept away 
 from him, and he was beginning to weary of the 
 pastime of watching his hostess, after he had per- 
 ceived that the changes in her manner were no more 
 than six, turned on as mechanically as though some- 
 one behind her pressed a button for each. Yet the 
 woman was fascinating ; she had such skill. She was 
 like some work of rare artifice, and David could not 
 recall her like. Round him he heard the buzz of con- 
 versation, and from the rooms came a hum and a 
 clatter. 
 
 "Looks well to-night. . . . Younger than 
 ever. . . ." 
 
200 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " Trust old Ada for that. ... I wonder what she 
 is thinking of. . . ." 
 
 " What a lot of fools we all are. ... I once 
 heard her talk about men: not much she don't know 
 about us." 
 
 " I wonder who pays now. . . ." 
 
 " Have you seen the girl ? . . . They say she sings 
 divinely." 
 
 David pricked up his ears. 
 
 " That's what we're all here for." 
 
 " Is it true about old James ? . . ." 
 
 " And Brandt ? . . . They say so. . . . I sup- 
 pose it'll die out." 
 
 Here the group which hemmed him in broke up, 
 and David made his way into a room opening from 
 the gallery. This was patriotically decorated with 
 festoons of red, white, and blue flowers. At one end 
 of the room in an alcove was a band, and already a 
 few couples were waltzing. Mortimer was there, and 
 came to greet David. 
 
 "You also among the prophets?" he said. 
 
 "And bored with them," said David. 
 
 "My brother is here. . . ." 
 
 David was presented to another and a fatter Morti- 
 mer. He also was encyclopaedic, and enlarged upon 
 polygamy among the natives, with some reference 
 to the effect of missionary activity upon their morals. 
 
 " Fusion of the races is impossible. The loca- 
 tion system is the only practicable solution if we are 
 to remain here at all ; but I say . . ." 
 
 What he said further was lost, for there was a 
 general movement, and Mrs. Berriedale appeared with 
 her attendant court. 
 
 From the other end of the room Nina came to 
 meet them. She was gowned in white, and was with- 
 out ornament. Men and women craned to look at 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 201 
 
 her. David thrust his way through until farther pas- 
 sage was impossible, so close was the circle about 
 her. Blest-Gana had joined them, and was being 
 presented'to the two men with Mrs. Berriedale. He 
 bowed, then turned to Nina, and seemed to be making 
 some effort to please her, but she was cold. 
 
 At her mother's bidding, they moved towards the 
 piano. Blest-Gana sat and broke into a rippling ac- 
 companiment. 
 
 The girl turned quite simply to the crowd of men 
 and women. She was grave, still. Words died 
 away, and all stood straining. The music rose and 
 fell. On a soft chord the girl opened her lips, and 
 there came forth sweet sounds, full as the notes of a 
 bird.. The song was of love and death, and came to 
 a close on a note deep, thrilling, marvellously true. 
 
 She bowed to the applause in conventional fashion, 
 and made some remark to Blest-Gana, who thereon 
 looked round the room, and, seeing David, nodded in 
 his direction. Nina looked, and for the first time she 
 smiled. 
 
 David came to her. 
 
 " C'est le Roi des Sauvages, des Chasseurs, et des 
 Sportsmen d'Afrique, et I'Empereur des Tueurs Ele- 
 phants." 
 
 " I am glad," said Nina. 
 
 "And I." 
 
 " I saw you before I began to sing." 
 
 " Your song was wonderful." 
 
 "If it pleased you, I am glad." 
 
 "It is difficult to say anything. Among all these 
 people I feel so small." 
 
 "And yet you are larger than any here. ... Is 
 your head better?" 
 
 "Oh yes!. . . I must confess. ... I had the 
 bruise before I met you." 
 
202 " DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 She clapped her hands. 
 
 " Honest," she said. 
 
 " I had to tell you." 
 
 Mrs. Berriedale bore down on them, expressed 
 again her great pleasure at seeing her deliverer in her 
 house, aind, with admirable dexterity, deprived David 
 of Nina. 
 
 Blest-Gana played with fantastic depth of feeling 
 the " Chanson de geste de I'heros David Brockman," 
 which he subsequently described to an earnest ad- 
 mirer as an early work of Schumann. 
 
VI 
 
 David lay dreaming of what things he should do to 
 bring pleasure to Nina, and making wild plans for 
 snatching her from the captivity in which she lay, 
 when it was announced that a lady wished to see 
 him. Being more than half asleep, the strange idea 
 came to him that it must be Nina, and that she had 
 sought him in great need. He was for girding on 
 his armour when Kate DriscoU entered the room, 
 sat plump by his side, and burst into tears. 
 
 He was wide awake on the instant, and soothed 
 her. She sobbed only the more for his kindness. 
 
 "It's — it's — it's this 'ell of a place," she said at 
 length. " I didn't mind it so much while there was 
 you. . . . But — ^but them men from the mines. . . . 
 Oh, it's too 'orrible ! . . . Mamie, she don't mind. 
 She always was 'arder than what I was. . . ." 
 
 "Poor little devil!" said David. 
 
 She took his hand and fell to kissing it until he 
 drew it away from her. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Brockman, if you'd only let me stay with 
 you, sir. ... I'd go anywhere with you, I would. 
 You're not like other men. There's something about 
 you almost 'oly-like. . . . An'' I've 'ad such a 'ard time 
 of it. . . . I've got the 'errors of this place, sir; 
 there's somethink about it so cruel, sir — 'ardly 'uman. 
 I've got the 'orrors of it, I 'ave." 
 
 She took off her gloves and tugged at them, twisted 
 them up into a ball, and let them fall at her feet. 
 She was not weeping now, but sat with hard, glitter- 
 ing eyes, staring vacantly. . . . 
 
 203 
 
204 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 "My word," she said in a dry, dull voice — "my 
 word, if I 'ad a girl, I'd tell 'er somethin', I would! 
 I'd tell 'er what it all was. . . . It's crool not to let 
 'em know. . . . Jest a bit o' fun, Mr. Brockman, 
 jest a bit o' fun, or — or suthink as you can't' 'elp, 
 an' down an' down you go to 'ell. . . . I'm not a 
 bad un', Mr, Brockman — I'm not a bad un'. . . . 
 There's things that other girls do that I never done — 
 that's truth. ... I never been on the drink — ^that's 
 one thing. I never stole — that's another. I never 
 tried to take another girl's feller — ^that's another. An' 
 there's lots o' things I never done what I couldn't tell 
 y' about. ... I got the 'orrors of this place." 
 
 She shuddered. 
 
 " I'd go anywheres with you, Mr. Brockman." 
 
 The proposal was so outrageous, and yet so simply 
 and so sincerely put forward, that David could find 
 nothing to say in answer to it. He was for so long 
 silent that she began to fear that she had offended 
 him. 
 
 " I 'ope I 'aven't done wrong. Only — only — ^when 
 I could bear it no longer, I 'ad nowheres else to go." 
 
 "Will you stay here for a moment while I am 
 gone ? " 
 
 "What are you goin' to do with me?" She had 
 risen in alarm. 
 
 "I don't know yet. I feel helpless. It is not — 
 not a man's business." 
 
 He had bethought him of Mrs. Higgs. Her he 
 now sought, and left the wretched Kate in a state 
 almost of panic, fearful that David also was going 
 to fail her. His fantastic chivalry had bred in her a 
 confidence in him to which in her stricken state she 
 had clung: at first to the idea of it, and then in her 
 frenzy she had sought him out. 
 
 He explained matters, so far as he had been able 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 205 
 
 to grasp them, to Mrs. Higgs, who consented at once 
 to go to the girl, and do what she could for her. 
 David sought Blest-Gana. 
 
 "My friend," he said, "truly I am more brutish 
 than any man, and have not the understapding of a 
 man." 
 
 "What now?" 
 
 " The hand of God has taken me by the scruff of 
 the neck, shaken me, and sent me sprawling. . . . 
 I have just picked myself up, and I am trembling in 
 every limb. I am stifling. I do not know what has 
 happened." 
 
 "Are you ill?" 
 
 " No." , 
 
 "What is it, then?" 
 
 " I do not know. ... I know that I have lost all 
 that I had, that the whol^ form and colour of the 
 world is changed. I know that I was happy, sure, 
 rejoicing in everything. I know that now I am afraid, 
 that I cannot look forward, that I dare not look 
 back. . . ." 
 
 " II faut avoir ces moments," said Blest-Gana, look- 
 ing wise. 
 
 " It may be that I cannot breath freely the air of 
 this place. . . ." 
 
 " Then leave it. . . ." 
 
 " I cannot go." 
 
 " Weltschmerz again ? " 
 
 "No, I am not weary. Indeed, I know all, and 
 more than I ever knew of the splendour of it all. . . . 
 I am more sure of the life, and the force of it . . . 
 but . . . but I am ... I am crusted over. I cannot 
 feel. . . ." 
 
 He told Blest-Gana then of Kate's visit. 
 
 " It was that made me realize to what a pass I have 
 come. Th^re was some barrier, something I could 
 
2o6 DEVIOUS .WAYS 
 
 not break through. ... I could not find words to 
 say to her. . . ." 
 
 " I am sorry. ... It is so terrible that, in all the 
 crises, in all the turning-points of growth, no other 
 man or woman can help. It is a matter then of going 
 out into the wilderness. . . ." 
 
 " This is wilderness enough," said David. " Like 
 Kate, I've got the 'orrors of this place. ... I have 
 never felt so shrivelled as the other night in thai 
 house!. ..." 
 
 " It takes very little to dislocate the world for a 
 man, and the finer his temper, the less it takes. . . . 
 It occurs to me once a week, generally on a Friday. 
 I believe it occurs to women every other day." 
 
 " You certainly have the power to drive out devils." 
 
 Mrs. Higgs came to seek David. She had been 
 weeping. 
 
 " She says that if she can go back to England, she 
 thinks she will be able to find her friends again. . . . 
 She cannot stay here. It is too horrible what she has 
 suffered, and worst of all is that she does not know 
 how horrible it is." 
 
 David remembered the scene with Cocker on the 
 deck of the Henry Orchardson, and the trouble waxed 
 great in him. 
 
 They discussed ways and means, and it was decided 
 that the unhappy Kate should be given a passage back 
 to England. 
 
 " I think," said Mrs. Higgs, " that you had better 
 leave it in my hands. It would be wiser for you not 
 to see her. She is like a dog that has been beaten." 
 
 With that she left them, darting at David a glance 
 almost savage. 
 
 " I have done nothing," he said in protest. " It is 
 not I who have brought this girl so low." 
 
 " Mon cher, you are a man. To Mrs. Higgs, in her 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 207 
 
 indignation and burning sympathy, you are Man, and 
 the author of all evil. ... If all virtuous women 
 were given the thoughts that are in her head now, 
 they woiild sweep us from our perch, neck and crop. 
 . . . The revolt of women is the most absorbing 
 phenomenon of the age. . . . But may God deliver 
 me from the commercial woman — for she is mean." 
 
 " The truth is," said David, not listening to the 
 words of wisdom, but still pondering the problem of 
 himself — " the truth is that I am not a gregarious ani- 
 mal . . . but neither am I a true vagabond." 
 
 Blest-Gana took and shook him until he was breath- 
 less. 
 
 " Go," he said — " go ! Take a horse, and ride until 
 you come to water. . . . Swim, -kick, and splash in 
 it; then lie in the sun." 
 
 " If I go, I shall go for many days. . . ." 
 
 " Stay until you are cured and in your right mind 
 again." 
 
 " There is so much to forget." 
 
 " I will tell Nina that you are gone." 
 
 " I beg that you will say nothing." 
 
 " She always asks for you." 
 
 " It, is for that that I wish to forget." 
 
 "Tiens! there are not many like her. You are a 
 fool if you pass by on the other side." 
 
 " I told you the hand of God had taken me by the 
 scruff of the neck. ... I must see clearly before I 
 take a step forward. ... I am fearful of impulse." 
 
 With that he left, and was not heard of in Johannes- 
 burg for many days. 
 
 He returned on the eve of Blest-Gana's departure 
 for Bloemfontein. He was baked brick-red by the 
 sun, and glowed with health. 
 
 His first inquiry was for Kate Driscoll. He was 
 told that she had already taken her departure, and had 
 
2o8 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 written from Cape Town, with words of gratitude for 
 the three of them. 
 
 His next was to ask if there had come a letter for 
 him from England. There was such a letter. It was 
 from Audrey. 
 
 " It was a great surprise to hear from you again, 
 and from Africa of all places. You will be sorry to 
 hear of Aunt Lucy's death. She only was here once 
 or twice after you went away. She wished to be kind 
 to John, but they would not let her. For some rea- 
 son, I think she did not like me. I have not been 
 very well lately, and James, my husband, has been 
 doing badly in business. Father is extraordinary: 
 everything he touches seems to turn to money ; but he 
 is growing grey, and looks old and tired. She does 
 not improve with years. 
 
 " You ask for news of Helen. Poor Helen ! She 
 has come back to live with her father. She married 
 most unhappily five — ^or is it four? — ^years ago. The 
 man was a brute. I cannot understand it, as she is 
 so pretty. I think she was very pleased that you 
 wrote about her. She will not divorce her husband. 
 I believe that she thinks he cares for her. Person- 
 ally, I don't think he ever did. We are all so glad 
 that you are to have Abnt Lucy's money, and hope 
 that you will come home soon ; but how queer of you 
 to leave Ceylon, where you must have been so very 
 comfortable ! " 
 
 There was more of the letter — inconsequent, foolish, 
 prattling. 
 
 "Well?" said Blest-Gana. 
 
 " I have been living in a kraal," said David, as he 
 tore up the letter. " The world has been delivered up 
 to me as a plaything." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 209 
 
 From his pocket, he produced a collection of Kaffir 
 bangles, beads, and snuflf-boxes, which were passed 
 over to Louis and Maurice. 
 
 " I will join you at Cape Town." 
 
 " Ten days from now." 
 
 "No longer?" 
 
 "Not a day. I am hungry for London. It has 
 a stale, hot smell in summer which is incomparably 
 satisfying to the modern man." 
 
 David sniffed. 
 
 " I shall smell nothing but Kaffir for long enough. 
 Oh, but I have been primitive — a hunter ! " 
 
 " And David is himself again ? " 
 
 " I have won my title." 
 
 " Did you kill elephants ? " said Maurice, who had 
 been staring at the new brown David with round 
 goggling eyes. 
 
 " Five, Maurice, and carried them home round my 
 neck. I saw springboks and hartebeest, and elks and 
 ostriches, and jackals and baboons; I saw snakes and 
 carrion crows, and I saw a white man turned savage — 
 that was the only evil thing I saw." 
 
 On the pretext of having business to arrange with 
 Mr. Beak, the attorney, David escaped, and made 
 directly for Mrs. Berriedale's house. 
 
 He found Nina alone. She came towards him 
 most graciously. 
 
 " How fine you look ! " she said. 
 
 "And you ..." said David. 
 
 " I thought — I hoped you would have come sooner. 
 There was always so much to say to you." 
 
 " There were never words for you." 
 
 " Where have you been? " 
 
 " Out into Nowhere. Now that I am here, what 
 is there to say to me? " 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
210 DEVIOUS ,WAYS 
 
 " I am going with Blest-Gana." 
 
 "So soon?" 
 
 " We have ten days. What shall we do with 
 them?" 
 
 "We?" 
 
 " You and I." 
 
 Their eyes met, and they became grave. They sat 
 and talked of trivialities until she said : 
 
 " I think you must not see me again." 
 
 "Nina!" 
 
 She looked up at him, a little scared ; there was the 
 smallest twitching of her fingers, and her lips trem- 
 bled. She was pale. She was clad in white, and in 
 her bosom was a deep red rose, all the colour that 
 she had. 
 
 "There is an old tale," said David, "of a young 
 chief who visited another tribe, and the Princess was 
 very beautiful. The young chief thirsted, and the 
 Princess was bid to go to the well for water. No 
 sooner was she gone than the young chief crept away 
 and followed her. At the well he stood behind her, 
 and she saw his face mirrored close to hers in the 
 water. She turned to chide him. ' Why, O 
 chief, did you have me sent for water, when you 
 come to the water for which you thirst?' Then 
 said the chief : ' You are the water for which I 
 thirst' ..." 
 
 David waited, but from the girl there came no 
 sound. 
 
 " That night they stole away, the chief and all his 
 henchmen, with the Princess, and they say that in that 
 country the moon is larger than in any other, for the 
 great happiness that they had. . . ." 
 
 Again David waited, but still she made no sound. 
 
 "Nina." 
 
 " 0-o-o-h ! " A little moaning cry came from her 
 
DEVIOUS ,WAYS 211 
 
 lips ; her hand rose to her breast, and the white fingers 
 closed on the red rose, crushed it, and its petals fell. 
 
 " Yes," she said. " Yes ... I think you must 
 not see me again. You see ... I am only a girl, 
 and young, and in the end I shall forget that — ^that 
 there was ever a man like you. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, Nina, Nina ! I have been to the first things 
 in the world to ask them if it was true . . , what I 
 had dared to dream of you. . . ." 
 
 " And what I had dreamed of you is something that 
 is not in the world. . . . Not here." 
 
 " It is here. It is everywhere in the world, for 
 every man and woman, only for the brave going out 
 to meet it. . . ." 
 
 "It is foolishness." 
 
 " Then nothing is wise. . . ." 
 
 " If you had not come again. . . ." 
 
 "How could I not? . . ." 
 
 ,She seemed not to hear this, or, if she heard, not 
 to feel the protest in his voice. "I should have had 
 then just the memory of you. ... If you had not 
 said such things as you have said; and yet I longed 
 so for you to say them. . . . Your coming was like 
 the clear air from a mountain, like the sun after 
 rain. ..." 
 
 " When first I saw you, I said, ' She is rare ! ' " 
 
 " I dare not look at you. . . . Let me speak. . . . 
 I must say to you what I could say to no other." 
 
 There was a sudden passion in her voice, but all 
 the while she did not stir. David sat gazing at her. 
 
 She beat twice on her knee with her hand, she 
 swayed and her eyes were clouded. She wrenched 
 the words out: 
 
 " When I was a tiny child I knew ... I knew what 
 my mother was." 
 
 David's heart leaped within him, and he made a 
 
212 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 movement, almost imperceptible, towards her. Hastily 
 she spoke again: 
 
 " Before I knew anything of the world I knew what 
 my mother was, and I was ashamed. ... I never 
 knew my father. I have only once seen tears in my 
 mother's eyes. . . . That was when I told her that 
 I knew. . . ." 
 
 David began to speak. 
 
 " Please, no," she said. " Let me end. . . . That 
 was cruel, but — ^but it was at the dawn of womanhood, 
 and it was more than I could bear. . . . There were 
 tears in her eyes then, and she has always been gener- 
 ous to me. . . . We have been friends. ... I have 
 been free until she needed me; then I came. ... I 
 never dreamed that in her house I should find. . . ." 
 
 " What have you found ? " said David. 
 
 She turned on him, tenderness in her eyes. 
 
 " You." 
 
 " Dear, my dear, I am not fit to touch the hem of 
 your garment." 
 
 He knelt by her and took her hands in his. 
 
 "David," she said, and again " David," and on this 
 he looked so puzzled that she laughed at him. 
 
 "Why," she said — "why are you so wonderful?" 
 
 " I came to tell you that I was going, and to ask 
 if you would ride with me to-morrow. ... I had 
 an idea that this might happen then. . . ." 
 
 " We will ride none the less." 
 
 " To-morrow, then. Ahd we will see the aspect of 
 the world in the light of this new truth of ours. . . . 
 Oh, the softness of your dear eyes! . . ." 
 
 " Oh, the dear honesty in you. . . ." 
 
 "Is it you?" 
 
 "Is it you?" 
 
 They kissed. 
 
 "Nina." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 213 
 
 " David." 
 
 "What now?" 
 
 " I am all song." 
 
 " Bless you, dear." 
 
 Without knowing why, David told her then the 
 pitiful story of Kate Driscoll, and from that he went 
 back and back through all his wanderings until he 
 came to his home, to Bardon, and all that it had 
 stood for in his childish days, to the gentle lady of 
 the little white house, and to Helen. There he stum- 
 bled. . . . 
 
 "Helen?" 
 
 " She was golden," said David, " and the vision of 
 her was with me for so long. . . ." 
 
 "And is she — is she, then, waiting? . . ." 
 
 " When I had seen you, that was my fear. She 
 married. . . ." 
 
 "Golden Helen?" 
 
 " There was no happiness for her." 
 
 "Poor Helen!" 
 
 " Clara was right." 
 
 "Clara?" 
 
 " My cousin Clara — our cousin Clara. She fore- 
 told that this would come to me, and she said " 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 " ' Then, David, you will begin to think life worth 
 living.' " 
 
 "And is it so?" 
 
 "It is at the beginning — young and most wonder- 
 ful. You shall see Clara. You and she will love 
 each other; you will be glad of each other, and, as 
 women do, you will twitter over each other." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . Am I a twittering woman ? " 
 
 " You are the most beautiful thing in the world." 
 
 Blest-Gana was announced. He was at his most 
 impish. He sat and tossed and ran his fingers through 
 
214 DEVIOUS ,WAYS 
 
 his mane, and made the soft eyes at Nina. He was 
 so preposterous that presently David flung away, after 
 promising to bring horses for the morrow. 
 
 " Already," said the pianist — " already he is jeal- 
 ous of me. But we artists. . . ." He waved his 
 hands airily. Then his mood changed. "Oh, ma 
 Princesse," he said, " but you are happy. . . . Come, 
 sing it — sing it." 
 
 He led her to the piano, and together they made 
 music. Tears rolled down Blest-Gana's cheeks, and 
 he was altogether maudlin. He took Nina's hands, 
 and pressed them to his bosom; he kissed them, he 
 patted her cheeks, he stroked her hair. 
 
 "Oh, ma mie," he cried, "there is nothing else in 
 the world — ^nothing, nothing! Art! What is Art? 
 Nothing but the song of it. Life! What is life? 
 C'en est I'instrument. . . . Oh, but it is so precious 
 — youth and love, the love of youth! . . . Come, 
 sing it — sing it ! " 
 
 He made her sing again. 
 
 " The love of youth. . . ." He plunged into an 
 improvisation, brilliant, light, gay, that brought Nina 
 to laughter and tears. 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! " she said, " but how you under- 
 stand!" 
 
 Blest-Gana rose from the piano and bowed over 
 her hand. 
 
 " It is for that that there are poets. They are the 
 evangelists. Oh, ma Princesse, what will you do with 
 David?" 
 
 " If I can be to him what he would have me be. . . ." 
 
 On this Mrs. Berriedale came into the room. She 
 was followed by Kolb. He and Blest-Gana disliked 
 each other, and bowed distantly. 
 
 Mrs. Berriedale was in a high mood, and a little 
 shrill. 
 
DEVIOUS ,WAYS 215 
 
 "Soon, my dear," she said, "we shall shake the 
 dust of Africa from off our feet, and set about the 
 conquest of London." 
 
 "It is I who will conquer London," said Blest- 
 Gana. 
 
 " Pooh ! there is room for all of us. . . . You 
 they may stand for perhaps a month; me they will 
 have always with them." 
 
 "Miss Berriedale is more than ever charming 
 to-day," said Kolb, with lumbering flattery. 
 
 " I saw your Mr. Brockman up the road. Nice- 
 looking young man." 
 
 " He also is to conquer London," said Blest-Gana. 
 
 " Dear me. I think you had better also make the 
 attempt, Mr. Kolb." 
 
 Kolb bowed. 
 
 " I am content with what we have already achieved," 
 he said. 
 
 Tea was brought, and over this Mrs. Berriedale 
 chattered and bandied words with Blest-Gana blithely 
 and cheerfully enough. 
 
 Nina sat watching her. 
 
 A remark of Blest-Gana's was cut short with the 
 entry of the butler, a Swiss. 
 
 "Mr. James, madame." 
 
 Mrs. Berriedale sat bolt upright. She looked from 
 Blest-Gana to Kolb and to Nina. She dabbed at 
 her lips with her little handkerchief. 
 
 " I am ... I am . . . not at home." 
 
 " Mr. James says that he will wait until you will see 
 him." 
 
 " I am . . . I am . . . not at home." 
 
 The butler bowed and withdrew. 
 
 She turned to Kolb. 
 
 " I can't very well ... I couldn't see him with 
 you here." 
 
2i6 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Kolb said heavily " No," and he and she eyed each 
 other uneasily. 
 
 Blfest-Gana signalled to Nina, " Shall I go or 
 shall I stay?" 
 
 She nodded her head towards the door. He made 
 his adieux, and expressed the hope that they might 
 meet in London. Mrs. Berriedale replied vaguely, her 
 eyes fixed anxiously on the door. She kept dabbing 
 at her lips, and her eyes were never still. She 
 watched Blest-Gana until he had gone ; then she turned 
 to find Nina gazing at her. 
 
 " Why do you. sit there with your white face . . . 
 staring ? " 
 
 Nina could make no answer. This, coming so 
 swiftly upon the gladness that David had brought to 
 her, had touched the old wound, and set her throbbing, 
 and yet by the new strength and courage it had 
 brought to her, seen from the height to which David 
 had taken her, all this was so small. As she watched 
 her mother she saw that she was hard, vulgar, over- 
 dressed; that Kolb was coarse, heavy, and cunning. 
 
 She had never inquired into her mother's affairs. 
 She had been conscious of a gathering storm, and of 
 the clearing of the air which followed on the death 
 of Carl Brandt. She had seen that her mother was 
 happier and more gay, and that Kolb came more and- 
 more to the house, and that the old order had changed. 
 James came not at all, and for that she was glad, 
 for the man had forced unwelcome attention upon 
 her. 
 
 Then had come the day of the meeting with David, 
 and she had ceased to watch the march of events, 
 thinking only, "Here is a man," and to long and 
 hope that he would come again. He had come, and 
 what he had said was what she had longed that he 
 should say, and now there was this — her mother and 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 217 
 
 this man sitting there, each watching the door as 
 though they were fearftxl of what might be on the 
 other side of it. It was so queer to sit there watch- 
 ing these two, while near at hand was David — David 
 who loved her, David who had gone so childishly and 
 so dearly because of crazy Blest-Gana's antics. 
 
 " Why do you sit there with your white face . . . 
 staring ? " 
 
 Nina rose and smiled down at her mother, and 
 moved towards the door. She opened it, and there 
 stood Barclay James, sullen, with set jaws, his eyes 
 blazing. . . . He grinned at her horridly, and 
 lurched past her. 
 
 She heard a scream from her mother. 
 
 "Oh, my God! . . ." 
 
 She half turned, and saw the two men fighting like 
 beasts. . . . 
 
 She fled to her room, and lay racked and sob- 
 bing. . . . 
 
VII 
 
 There is a valley near Johannesburg where the weary 
 spirit may find rest — a valley of pines and gum-trees. 
 
 Here is a place for lovers, a place of soft lights and 
 tender colour, of mystic glades and long rides leading 
 into blue mystery. Down from the dust and glare 
 come the lovers into their own land of enchantment, 
 where tree and bird and beast meet them in com- 
 radeship. There is music in the place. 
 
 Down through the pines came David and Nina rid- 
 ing, their horses pacing together. They spoke no 
 word. 
 
 On the summit of a rise they drew rein and came 
 close. 
 
 "My Nina, you are pale to-day." 
 
 "My David. . . ." 
 
 "Shall we stay?" 
 
 " For ever, and for ever be out of the world? . . . 
 Oh, if we could! . . ." 
 
 " My love, it is not possible." 
 
 " But if the world should hurt you, my David. . . ." 
 
 " Then I shall come to you for balm." 
 
 "And I to you." 
 
 David dismounted and tethered his horse. He took 
 Nina and held her in his arms, and above them the 
 trees swayed and birds broke into song. 
 
 "Oh, you woman of songs, sweet dew to a fam- 
 ished son of earth! . . ." 
 
 "And you — life-giving. . . ." 
 
 " My dear . . . my dear." 
 
 He held her close. 
 
 218 
 
bfivious ,wAys 219 
 
 "This is a great mountain rising out of life, and 
 we in our tiemple stand remote and loving, nothing 
 between ourselves and earth. . . . Here in the 
 friendly woods. . . . They are ours, dear, by the 
 right of I and Me. . . ." 
 
 She cltmg to him. 
 
 " What are gold and silver, jewels and precious 
 stones, when I can hang upon you the sun, moon, and 
 stars? ... I give you a handful of stars. . . . Oh, 
 the face of you, eyes of you, and the great spacious- 
 ness of you ! . . . All the darknesses and deep stains 
 in us from contact with base people are illumined, 
 and so vanish. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, it is the beautiful you in me that you 
 love! . . ." 
 
 " There is this for you that my mother taught me. 
 You are the most beautiful lady in the world, and 
 stand for truth, honour, virtue, the love of all crea- 
 tures and the hatred of all wickedness. I am the 
 most unworthy knight, and, strengthened by the great 
 love I bear you, I fight most valiantly for the right." 
 
 "Your mother was very dear to you?" 
 
 " We lived together in strange dreams," said David. 
 
 They walked then under the pines hand in hand. 
 
 " The dreams were true," said David. 
 
 "And I," said Nina, "I never dreamed one-half 
 the truth." 
 
 " This day is ours, and all the days." 
 
 They wondered, delighting in tiny things, and every- 
 thing they saw, each sound they heard, was a wonder. 
 
 They feasted frugally, and never was there a feast 
 of such delight. 
 
 They shrank from the midday sun into a grove of 
 sheer magic. 
 
 " Almost," said David — " almost we might encoun- 
 ter Scoones and Henry Andrew and old Martin 
 
220 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Brockman, and all the people of the yew-grove. . . . 
 Stuckey Vyse and Margery. ... It is such a 
 place. ..." 
 
 He revealed to Nina all his childish lore that had 
 been for so long forgotten and laid aside, but when 
 it came to the island, there was this difficulty, that 
 there Helen had been enthroned and acclaimed, and 
 when to comfort Nina he strove to create another 
 island for her, he found the power of conjuration had 
 left him, and called he never so loudly, the surface 
 of the sea remained untroubled. 
 
 " That is all long ago," he said. 
 
 " I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine," cried 
 Nina. " We have no need of dreams." For that 
 saying David worshipped her, and while he knelt in 
 homage there came crashing, tearing, cursing, raging 
 through the woods a man, wild, unshaven, foul of 
 clothes and foul of flesh, and most evil-smelling. He 
 reeled and staggered, leaned against a tree, hawked 
 and spat. 
 
 Nina gave a little cry. David sprang to her, and 
 flung an arm about her shoulders. 
 
 Again the man spat and leered crazily. 
 
 " Spill the jade," he said—" spill the jade. Tumble 
 her, leave her before you know the rottenness of 
 women. Ay, she'll take your love-words, and your 
 love-tokens, and your love-serivice, and then she'll 
 turn and break you. . . . Ay, she'll smile, and smile, 
 and smile, and then she'll sell you. ... Ay, she'll 
 be honey-sweet, and all the while her rottenness will 
 eat away your heart, and then she'll pitch you back 
 into the dung. ..." 
 
 He broke off suddenly in his tirade, and came close 
 to David, peered into his face ; to Nina, and stretched 
 out his filthy hand to touch her. She shrank from 
 him. He broke into foul abuse, drew himself up with 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 221 
 
 crazy dignity, took his broken hat from his head, 
 and swept a bow to her ; then off he went madder than 
 ever, running, crashing, tearing, and far off they heard 
 him babbhng curses of all womankind, breathing 
 mighty oaths, and crying out that he loved the woman, 
 though she might be ten times a whore. . . . 
 
 Nina wept for it. 
 
 Later, when they sought their horses, they found 
 him prone on the ground, drunk and sleeping. 
 
 David laid money by his side, and they left him, 
 riding in silence, for the heart of each was troubled. 
 Turning to Nina, David found tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Don't, my dear," he said, touching her arm — 
 " don't. It is nothing. This is a crazy land, a land 
 of fearful passions. . . . We will soon be gone from 
 it. . . ." 
 
 " I was thinking ... if you should come to that." 
 
 "You are like the silly girl in the tale who let 
 the beer run to waste while she wondered whether it 
 should come to be that she should have a child and 
 slay it with the hatchet that hung on the wall." 
 
 "Did she?" said Nina. 
 
 "There is reason to believe that she lived happily 
 ever after, like the rest of the world." 
 
 " Does happiness continue ? " 
 
 " No," said David. " But neither does unhappi- 
 ness." 
 
 " To-day has been so wonderful." 
 
 They had breasted the rise, and issued from the 
 woods to the dusty road, 
 
 " I am afraid to go back. . . ." 
 
 " Dearest, only for these few days." 
 
 She told him what had happened in the house, and 
 how, after the first outburst of emotion, she had lain 
 listening to the voices; how they had risen in 
 anger, and how then there had been stillness; then 
 
222 DEVIOUS ,WAYS 
 
 footsteps ascending the stairs, then a tap at the door 
 of her room. She told him how she had at first lain 
 still and made no sound, and then how she had 
 opened it to find her mother worn out, haggard, 
 almost numbed, standing there and saying over and 
 over again: "Nina, Nina, Nina, Nina. . . . What 
 have I done? . . . What have I done? . . . What 
 have I done? . . . Nina, Nina, Nina." 
 
 " I could not tell you down there in the woods. . . . 
 I could forget there. . . . That poor crazy wretch 
 made me remember. . . ." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 " She went on like that, on and on and on, and her 
 hands were cold. There was a mark on her cheek, 
 and her lip was bleeding ; her wrists were bruised and 
 her gown torn. I led her, and made her sit, and I 
 chafed her hands, and all the while her voice went on 
 and on saying, ' What have I done ? . . . What have 
 I done ? ' I was choking, so that I could say nothing. 
 Then something gave way in her, and she clutched me 
 to her, and her tears fell upon my face. She told me 
 nothing of what had happened, nor of any reason for 
 it. I think she could not think coherently; places, 
 times, and persons were confused. ... It is hurting 
 me to tell you. . . ." 
 
 " My dear, my dear. . . ." 
 
 " She wanted that I should not think ill of her. 
 She blamed herself for bringing me out here. She 
 said she would not have done that, but that she was 
 starved. . . . She told me what her life had been. 
 . . . My father was cruel, withered her up . . . 
 made her reckless; then one man, then another. 
 Hatred of them all. Her own cleverness, riches and 
 power . . . but chiefly hatred of men, and at last 
 she had lost faith even in her own cleverness. . . . 
 That is all." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 223 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 " I have promised that I will not leave her." 
 
 She stole a glance at David, then looked away, so 
 much had her words hurt him. He said nothing. 
 
 "We have had to-day," she said timidly. 
 
 " Did you tell her what had come to you ? " 
 
 " No. . . . How could I, when she was brought 
 so low? . . . Dear David, we have had to-day, and 
 is it too much for you to wait for me ? " 
 
 " I am not first with you." 
 
 She cried out on that. 
 
 " Unjust." 
 
 David knew that he was unjust, but injured vanity 
 leaped in him, and though he wrestled with it, would 
 not be still. He would rather that his tongue should 
 be torn out than that he should utter the words, but 
 they were out, forced from him. TKey rapped out. 
 
 " I am not first." 
 
 " But to-day, David, to-day." 
 
 " You should have told me in the beginning." 
 
 " But I knew — but I knew. ... I wished to for- 
 get. ... Is it -wrong — is it wrong to be happy, to 
 have wished to make you happy ? " 
 
 " It is wrong. . . ." 
 
 " No— no." 
 
 " It is wrong to take such happiness when there is 
 that in your mind must sooner or later destroy it. . . . 
 I am not first with you." 
 
 " Indeed, indeed. . . ." 
 
 She turned to him between laughter and tears. 
 
 " Dear David, what would you have me do ? " 
 
 "If you had loved me, you must have told me in 
 the beginning." 
 
 He knew the unreason of it, he knew that he was 
 cruel, foolish, over-nice, drawing impossibly fine 
 shades, acting entirely in disaccord with all that he 
 
224 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 had gleaned from experience and the loves of other 
 men and women ; but then this whole business of love 
 was so contrary to all theory, so unlike all that he had 
 expected to find in himself on its coming. He knew 
 himself for an ass, and yet he could not resist the 
 force that drew him on from one wild idea to another. 
 His mind twisted the thing this way and that. He 
 strove to look at the matter, at Nina's position, at 
 her relation with her mother, and her relation with 
 himself, from a detached point of view, only to realize 
 and to chafe at the realization that detachment was 
 impossible. There was a savage pleasure in the wil- 
 ful doubting of that " if " — a pleasure that made him 
 ashamed and angry with himself. And yet only the 
 more for that did he hug it to himself. He hugged 
 it, and waited for what she should say, turned to her 
 the hard face of the just man such as he was strug- 
 gling to make of himself, while through it all, in his 
 heart of hearts, he was glad of this fine creature, re- 
 joicing in her warmth and generosity, wishing, long- 
 ing only to hold her close and keep her from all hurt, 
 and crying out that she was rare and beautiful, and of 
 all things in the world the most to be desired. 
 
 She brought her horse to a walk, and David also 
 drew rein. 
 
 " It is unlike you," she said. 
 
 "Then you do not know me." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . what would you have me do ? " 
 
 " Hold nothing from me." 
 
 "That I have not done." 
 
 "If you had told me. . . ." 
 
 " I was afraid. ... I wished only to have the 
 wonder of it. We have that. . . ." 
 
 David was torn; his heart thumped, ^nd the blood 
 beat in his temples. 
 
 " It has gone for me. . . ." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 225 
 
 " David ! " She gave a little bitter cry, flicked with 
 her whip, and galloped ahead, he after her. She was 
 a little the fleeter of the two, and by the time that 
 he had caught her the rushing through the air and 
 the violent action had dissipated his wilfulness, and 
 he came to her ashamed and contrite. 
 
 The gallop had brought colour to her pale cheeks; 
 her eyes flashed, and a tress of hair had escaped. This 
 she caught and wound under her veil. In this, as in 
 all her movements, was a grace that made her wor- 
 shipful. 
 
 "What now?" 
 
 " I am a fool," said David, " a vain fool, and I 
 wished that you should think me masterful." 
 
 He was so dismally comic over this that she laughed. 
 
 " Is it so much, then, that I should ask you to wait 
 forme?" 
 
 David protested, and made great vows of the years 
 of service meet to be done for so much loveliness. 
 
 " I cannot leave her." 
 
 With that they came from their realm of wonder 
 to earth again, and planned that nothing should be 
 said until there seemed to be a clear issue from the 
 disasters of the unhappy woman, that no arrangement 
 should be altered, and that David should proceed, as 
 he had promised, to England, there to take up his in- 
 heritance, and to enter upon a career worthy for her 
 to share. 
 
 " I will not have a do-nothing for my husband." 
 
 "You shall not," said David. 
 
 " In that you shall be as masterful as you please." 
 
 They were happy again, and builded busily. Into 
 the great world of London David was to descend, and 
 there, by the right use of his talents and the adroit 
 application of his masterfulness — Nina insisted on the 
 use of this word — to win an abiding fame. 
 
226 DEVlOuS WAYS 
 
 " I want all the world to say, ' This is a man.' " 
 
 "And if they will not say it?" 
 
 "Then I shall cast shame to the winds, and cry it 
 from the housetops." 
 
 "And if it is not true?" 
 
 " Then, like Dido, I shall build me a pyre." 
 
 Nina had even chosen the house in which they were 
 to live, in Swan Walk, by the Apothecaries' Herb 
 Garden, in Qhelsjea. Shp had a great love for Lon- 
 don, and laid its beauty before her lover. 
 
 " Some day we shall possess London." 
 
 " I will give it you for a wedding gift." 
 
 " You have given me so much." 
 
 " But the great thing that you have given me. . . ." 
 
 They came to the house, and Nina dismounted. 
 David stooped to kiss her. 
 
 " It has been good," she said, and stood to watch 
 him as he rode away. 
 
VIII 
 
 Blest-Gana was furious. He had counted on an 
 elopement. 
 
 " What ! " he said to David — " what ! you a hero ? 
 Why have you done this thing? Wait? Wait? 
 For what?" 
 
 David muttered. The only word that reached 
 Blest-Gana's ears was "... common sense." 
 
 The pianist flung his hands wildly into the air, and 
 strode about the room, giving vent to snorts and 
 growls of indignation. He darted at his trunk — ■ 
 David had come upon him packing — and hurled his 
 belongings in all directions. 
 
 " Common sense ! " he cried. " What will you do 
 — what can you do — with your common sense . . . ? 
 Nothing — nothing at all. . . . What are your great 
 men but men who have none of this — this common 
 sense? . . . But she — mon Dieu, but I will take her 
 myself! . . . Common sense! — ^to leave her here, 
 here in this rotten hole, here in that house. . . . Oh, 
 but . . . but . . . but it is not possible. It is not 
 you! You, the preux chevalier; you, the hero of 
 whom I have made the 'Chanson de geste'! . . . 
 You who can be a child with me and Louis and 
 Maurice. . . . You whom I have loved ! You have 
 the eyes to see, the ears to hear, and you will do this 
 thing . . .?" 
 
 " After all," said David, " it is our affair." 
 
 Blest-Gana ignored this. 
 
 " Wait ? " he cried. " Wait in a thing so wonder- 
 ful as this? Remember Garibaldi?" 
 
 227 
 
228 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 "What did he do— Garibaldi ? " 
 
 " He saw his Anita. ' Tu devi esser mia,' he said, 
 and they two fled to the forests. That is the way of 
 heroes. But you — ^you are prudent ! " 
 
 He sat suddenly on his bed, clapped his hands to 
 
 his thighs, and sat blinking across at the fallen hero. 
 
 " They say always that romance is dead. I have 
 
 denied it most passionately. Oh, David, almost now 
 
 you make me believe it ! " 
 
 " In Garibaldi's day," said David, " there were still 
 corsairs and pirates, fair Circassians, and hot patri- 
 ots. . . ." 
 
 He saw that his flippant tone hurt his friend. ' 
 
 " She would not be happy if she came with me 
 now." 
 
 "Well, then, it is the end of the world." 
 
 Blest-Gana abandoned his protest, and drew David 
 into praise of Nina. Nothing loath, David expounded 
 her virtues, and set forth their adventures of the 
 woods. He explained also his plans for the future. 
 
 "It is the first time in my life," he said, "that I 
 have had plans. It is the first time in my life that 
 I have been dependent on another creature. ... I 
 like it. Also, it makes me feel that all our talk is 
 rather absurd." 
 
 " But " — Blest-Gana wagged his head impressively 
 — "do not forget that without the talk and without 
 the thought you could not have this thing." 
 
 "The common lot " said David. 
 
 " This is beyond the common lot;" 
 
 A feeling of exultation came over David. He 
 strove to compose himself to meet the solemnity in 
 his friend, but could not. He smiled, then grinned, 
 then broke into delighted chuckles. 
 
 "If you are not a hero," growled Blest-Gana, turn- 
 ing once more to his packing, " you are certainly mad." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 229 
 
 "It is the big wind," said David, and went away 
 without explanation of the remark. 
 He wrote to Clara, in Ceylon. 
 
 " It has happened, and truly I have begun for the 
 first time to see that life is worth living. Her name 
 is Nina. She is pale, and her hair is of honey colour, 
 but wonderful. Her eyes. ... Do you know that 
 the most remarkable feature of this young woman is 
 that she does not inspire poetic rhapsody, but some- 
 thing deeper, wider, and altogether beyond that? I 
 never thought it possible that a man should change 
 so quickly, and yet here I am groping after my old 
 self, for in that old self was much that delighted 
 me, much that I am reluctant to lose. She has lived 
 in the vilest air, but is undefiled, and I am sensible of 
 inferiority. I have been arrogant: she has whipped 
 that out of me. I have wished to seem masterful, 
 and how she has mocked that word! ... I have 
 looked back: she has set me with my face to the sun, 
 and bade me look squarely forward. She has re- 
 vealed to me the future, endless and glorious, because 
 it is without end. She has brought me into fellow- 
 ship with the four things which are little upon the 
 earth, but are exceedingly wise — ants, conies, locusts, 
 and the spider. I also am exceeding wise. In short, 
 my dear, it is the big wind, and I am in love, but we 
 are curiously bound up with a sordid tragedy, and 
 cannot break free from it. I would, but she will not. 
 The waiting may be indefinite, but I have such faith 
 in her that I am content and of a light heart, until I 
 think of the utter callousness of the gods, who may 
 snatch her from me, and then I am faint and sick 
 at heart. I have this to torture me now that my per- 
 turbed spirit is at rest and my wander-years are at an 
 end. . . . Indeed, it is so. I am tamed. I am to 
 
230 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 be led to the fair, which is London, put through my 
 paces, and sold by auction to the highest bidder. We 
 are to live in London, and I am to become a respecta- 
 ble citizen of the Empire on which the sun never sets; 
 and I am to enter into it in company with a long- 
 haired musician who is here, and has become my 
 friend — a romantic baby. I am not sure that you 
 can know him, for he will certainly make love to 
 you. 
 
 " Anthony will have heard of the death of my aunt. 
 I only knew her as a child, but she has always been 
 the most fragrant memory to me, linked with all the 
 best that I have known." 
 
 He gave the address in London of the firm of solic- 
 itors who had placed themselves in his affairs in com- 
 munication with Messrs. Beak, Bird, and Betts, and 
 expressed a hope for the joy of bringing Clara and 
 Nina together; then he laid down his pen and fell to 
 musing. It was very hot; there was no stir of wind, 
 no sound of man or beast abroad. On the table in 
 front of him stood a little Tanagra figure, which 
 Blest-Gana carried everywhere with him for a talis- 
 man. Through half-closed lids he scanned the grace- 
 ful lady lazily, and fell to wondering why her hands 
 were covered. 
 
 " You are very charming," he said ; and was not at 
 all surprised when the Tanagra lady smiled up at 
 him. 
 
 "I have been complimented these three thousand 
 years." 
 
 " Dear me ! I should not have thought you to be 
 so old." 
 
 " If you looked at me closely, you would see that 
 my robe had once been a beautiful blue." 
 
 David looked more closely, and indeed it was so. . 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 231 
 
 " I expect you are very unhappy in a modern Colo- 
 nial town." 
 
 " It is much nicer than old Greece." 
 
 " I beg your pardon." 
 
 " It is much nicer than old Greece." 
 
 "Nice is hardly the word I should use for a mod- 
 ern Colonial town." 
 
 " It is certainly not the word to apply to Greece as 
 I knew it. The philosophers discussed seriously the 
 question whether slaves had souls. Most of the men 
 were slaves." 
 
 " I remertiber once in America hearing a monkey 
 talk. He said : ' It is uncanny how like us these men 
 are!'" 
 
 The Tanagra lady looked puzzled. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said David. " That was ir- 
 relevant." 
 
 " Helen is unhappy," said the Tanagra lady. 
 
 "Of Troy?" 
 
 " No. Your Helen." 
 
 "My Helen? I have no Helen. Helen mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " She does not for that cease to be your Helen." 
 
 " There is Nina. I am Nina's." 
 
 " Are you so sure of that ? " 
 
 David began to feel uncomfortable. 
 
 " I am quite sure of it. Helen was never more than 
 a boyish vision. Nina is a woman, flesh and blood, 
 and that is more than you are." 
 
 " I am of more enduring stuff than flesh and blood. 
 I also am a vision." 
 
 " I am troth-plight, promised, betrothed — which- 
 ever word you like best — to Nina." 
 
 The Tanagra lady was quite undisturbed by his in- 
 dignant protest. 
 
 " Helen is unhappy," 
 
232 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " I warn you, I can wipe you out of existence by 
 just opening my eyes wide." 
 
 "You will be sorry, because you are very anxious 
 to know more about Helen." 
 
 "I wish to know nothing more. I know that she 
 is married to a brute. I know that he is unfaithful 
 to her. I know that she clings to the hope that he 
 will come back to her. I know that in her heart of 
 hearts she thinks that he cares for her." 
 
 " You know also that in your heart of hearts there 
 is only the golden vision of Helen. Have you for- 
 gotten the yew-grove? " 
 
 "Yes; I have entirely for . . ." 
 
 He did not finish the sentence, and the Tanagra 
 lady smiled sadly. David's heart sank within him, 
 for he saw himself again as a boy, all legs and arms, 
 thin and awkward, striding through the yew-grove, 
 through its glades and dells, crying, " Helen, Helen ! " 
 and again " Helen ! . . ." 
 
 " No," he saidf — " no ; it is not true. Nina is 
 mine. I have said it, and it shall come to pass. You 
 are entirely wrong. It is always a mistake to meddle 
 in other people's affairs of the heart. . . . Surely in 
 your three thousand years you have learned that much 
 wisdom. . . . No. . . . No. . . ." 
 
 His head nodded, and he brought himself up 
 with a jerk, to find that he had, in saving himself, 
 swept the Tanagra lady from the table and decapitated 
 her. 
 
 He laid head and trunk in a secure place. 
 
 " That comes," he said — " that comes of meddling 
 in other people's affairs of the heart." 
 
 He read again what he had written to Clara, and 
 was so pleased with his description of Nina as a young 
 woman beyond poetic rhapsody that he contrived to 
 dispel the uneasiness roused in him by the interview 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 233 
 
 with the Tanagra lady by reading it aloud over and 
 over again. 
 
 " I am vowed to her service," he said, and was re- 
 morseful that even in a somnolent, fanciful state he 
 should have had one thought away from her. 
 
 " Helen and the yew-grove, indeed ! " he said. 
 " That, when I have Nina and the woods ! . . . 
 Nina!" 
 
 With that he addressed and sealed the letter to 
 Clara, viciously thumped a stamp on it, and went to a 
 goldsmith's, where he purchased a ring set with sap- 
 phires. 
 
 iWith this in his pocket he sought Nina. 
 
 " My stones. How did you know ? " 
 
 " I am he from whom no secrets are hid." 
 
 He then told her of Blest-Gana's displeasure. 
 
 " He would have liked a serenade, rope-ladders, 
 and a wild gallop to the stars." 
 
 They laughed. David, to ease his conscience, told 
 her then of the broken Tanagra lady. Nina was 
 alarmed. 
 
 "Helen is still with you, then? " 
 
 " Only the boyish vision of her." 
 
 "But ... but ... if I cannot. . . ." 
 
 Her hands moved helplessly in despair. David came 
 to her. 
 
 " Nina, Nina, my Nina . . . why should we 
 wait? . . . Why should we wait? . . . Old Jean is 
 right. . . . 'Tu devi esser mia.' . . . That is true, 
 that is right. . . ." 
 
 " My dear, my dear . . . you promised." 
 
 " Nina. . . ." He took her by the shoulders, and 
 their eyes met. " Nina ... I love you." 
 
 'She bowed her head. 
 
 " Nina. . . . You love me ? " 
 
 She trembled. , ^ 
 
234 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Behind them the door opened softly. Mrs. Berrie- 
 dale appeared, was for withdrawing, then stood, eager, 
 stretched to listen. She made no sound. . . . David's 
 hands closed more tightly on Nina's shoulders. 
 
 " Nina, my dear, my love. ... I am a man who 
 has lived strangely : I have been a seeker for this thing 
 which I have found in you. . . . You hear me?" 
 
 Nina raised her head, and her eyes were brimming 
 with tears. Her hands came up, and she laid them on 
 his arms. 
 
 " Nina ... I promised, but my promise is 
 broken. . . ." 
 
 " I think she knows," said Nina. " Dear, I think she 
 knows what has come to me. . . . She has been 
 strange and so gentle. ... I think she understands. 
 . . . Dear David, only the more for that I cannot leave 
 her." 
 
 From the woman listening came a little cry. 
 
 " Nina ... if it should be that by my going we 
 lost each other. . . ." 
 
 She shook her head, and her lips, pressed together, 
 stifled her cry; but David divined the agony within 
 her. It fired him, and he caught her to him, sought 
 her lips, and she yielded. . . . 
 
 The woman stole from the room. The latch of the 
 door clicked. 
 
 Nina sprang from him, turned. She said nothing, 
 nor he. Her hands were held out towards him; he 
 turned, took them. They were cold. 
 
 " If she heard . . . David ... if she heard. . . ." 
 
 "But if she, knows. . . ." 
 
 " She has been so strange ; I must tell her . . . 
 take you to see her. . . . David dear, she has no other 
 creature. . . ." 
 
 " It is beyond argument now. . . . My need of 
 you. . . ." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 235 
 
 She was for so long silent that he fell to kissing her 
 hands, and the ring that he had placed upon her finger. 
 
 " Man and wife," said David. 
 
 " The dear words. . . ." She whispered the words, 
 and whispered them again caressingly, as though she 
 sought comfort in them. 
 
 " I must go to her. . . ." 
 
 " I will wait." 
 
 She left him. 
 
 He waited; she did not come. He paced up and 
 down the room; he fell to gazing out of the window. 
 The sun was low in the west, and beyond the garden 
 in the street were carriages and rickshas, women gaily 
 dressed, men clad in white. He remembered the man 
 who had stood by the gate gibing bitterly : 
 
 " The house of Rahab. . . ." 
 
 In David the echo came : 
 
 " Rahab, Rahab the harlot." 
 
 Still Nina did not come, and the refrain haunTfed 
 him : " Rahab, Rahab." He remembered the scene 
 that had taken place in this room, the two men fight- 
 ing like beasts, and old Brandt, and the story of the 
 woman told him by Kate DriscoU, words of Nina's: 
 " Riches and power. . . . Hatred of men. . . . Her 
 own cleverness. . . . Lost faith even in her own clev- 
 erness. . . ." The pity of it seized him, and then 
 more mightily the injustice that such an one should 
 deny to Nina the best. 
 
 The house was still. He listened. ^ Far away he 
 heard a long cry. He did not connect the sound with 
 Nina. 
 
 It came nearer. Still he thought only that Nina 
 was long in coming. 
 
 He passed out of the room to see if there were sign 
 of her. . . . 
 
 There she stood on the stairs above him. Her face 
 
236 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 was drawn and her lips parted. All her body was 
 rigid. She seemed to stare out and beyond him. She 
 did not move. 
 
 David waited for her to speak. 
 
 She opened her lips, but they could not frame her 
 words. She thrust out her tongue to moisten her lips. 
 She was brave. She forced out the words, and they 
 came hard, dry, dead. 
 
 " I was too late. . . ." She swayed, flung up an 
 arm as if to shield herself, and pitched forward at his 
 feet. 
 
 David carried he^, and laid her on the sofa. He 
 hung over her, chafing her hands. 
 
 Presently she opened her eyes, smiled up at him, 
 and then closed them again. 
 
 She broke into a storm of weeping, and David 
 strove to bring her comfort. 
 
 " Let us go away," she said — " let us go where we 
 can forget. . . . Horrible, horrible, horrible. . . . 
 She lies there. . . . Such an end to it all. . . . If 
 I had known ... if I had only known. . . ." 
 
 " Courage, Nina — courage." 
 
 " She had clung to me so much in these last days. 
 . . . She watched me, and cried for me if I left 
 her . . . and she seemed always to be wanting to 
 tell me. . . ." 
 
 " Let us not talk of it. . . ." 
 
 "What, then? . . ." 
 
 " Let us have done what is to be done, and go. . . . 
 Let us go. . . ." 
 
 " Oh, David, but what she might have been ! . . ." 
 
 " My dearest, what we all might have been. . . ." 
 
 She was grateful to him for those words, and to 
 spare him she broke free from the horror that was 
 upon her, closed her eyes to the vision that haunted 
 her, and ceased to mourn. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 237 
 
 In the succeeding days she was possessed with a 
 demon of energy. She was thin, and her eyes were 
 weary, but in the empty house she gathered her posses- 
 sions, busily preparing for the day when she should 
 be free to go. 
 
 David left her for hardly a moment, and in all 
 things did her such acts of service that she cried out 
 against him. 
 
 " It is so easy to perform miracles for you," he said, 
 and devised yet more for her pleasure. 
 
 They left their affairs in the hands of Beak, Bird, 
 and Betts, and after a month David and Nina, man 
 and wife, took ship at Cape Town. 
 
 As they steamed out of Table Bay they stood 
 looking back at the mountain. 
 
 " How much I have lost in Africa," said David, 
 " and how much I have gained ! " 
 
 "What a pity it is that we could not have a deck 
 cabin," said Nina. 
 
 David groaned. 
 
 " Detestable woman ; you are so practical ! " 
 
 " Nonsense ! Je t' adore. And you shall consider 
 what you have gained and lost to your heart's con- 
 tent." 
 
 " That absurd Mortimer is popping in and out of 
 my memory : * My brother says that the end of it all 
 will be that there will come a new Chaka or Cetewayo 
 to slaughter all the whites, and drive civilization from 
 Africa.' " 
 
PART III 
 
I 
 
 Jean Blest-Gana reconquered London, and the 
 Napoleonic poster spread like a disease over its face. 
 He groaned, and protested that Higgs was overdoing 
 it. Higgs was laconic. 
 
 " I don't interfere with your part of the business ; 
 keep your fingers out of mine." 
 
 Realizing the futility of his efforts, Blest-Gana re- 
 lapsed into severe depression of spirits, from which 
 he sought relief in a visit to the rooms over the under- 
 taker's shop in Berwick Street which had been his 
 earliest home. On this expedition he was accompa- 
 nied by Louis. 
 
 They lunched at a German restaurant in Regent 
 Street, the especial Haunt of musicians, writers, and 
 frugal Bohemians. It had this merit for its clientele 
 — ^that, though expensive for one, it was cheap for 
 two, since the portion of Wiener Schnitzel or of 
 Kalbsbraten served for one was ample for two per- 
 sons. 
 
 Louis drank his beer like a little man until his 
 face shone. 
 
 "Maurice is not old enough to drink beer, is he?" 
 Blest-Gana did not hear the question. He was scowl- 
 ing at a portrait of himself which hung on the wall 
 by the bar. 
 
 He called a waiter. 
 
 "Take that away," he said. 
 
 "But. . . ." 
 
 " Take it away." 
 
 The waiter summoned his superior, and Blest-Gana 
 
 241 
 
242 DEVIOUS .WAYS 
 
 explained his objection. The little Italian bowed and 
 scraped. That a man should desire the removal of 
 the signs of his greatness was incomprehensible. He 
 shrugged, and waved his hands, and paid elaborate 
 compliments. 
 
 "But, sir," he said, "you see it is good for us. 
 They see the portrait, and they see you, and they say, 
 ' Ah, we drink beer with the great ones ! ' and they 
 come again, and hope to drink again beer with 
 the. . . ." 
 
 Blest-Gana broke into a torrent of abuse. 
 
 " Mon Dieu! . . . Take it away." 
 
 The Italian' bowed to his wrath, and the offending 
 picture was removed; but already the pianist had 
 drawn all eyes to himself, and was the topic of con- 
 versation in the place to a degree that would have 
 delighted his agent. Blest-Gana perceived this, and 
 became more and more angry. 
 
 Louis waited until the storm had subsided, and 
 returned to his question. 
 
 " Maurice is not old enough to drink beer, is he? " 
 
 " Nor I." 
 
 "I like London." 
 
 "I hate it." 
 
 "But . . ." 
 
 " Louis, since we lost David I have hated the 
 whol6 world. Come." 
 
 Louis drained his beer-mug, and they passed into 
 the street, Blest-Gana saluting this and that acquaint- 
 ance on his way. 
 
 They passed through a courtyard and up a dirty 
 little street, so squalid and mean that Berwick Street, 
 itself no Paradise, was wide and luminous by com- 
 parison. The names over the shops were for the 
 most part Jewish, and a butcher's window bore the 
 word " Kosher " and certain Hebraic characters. It 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 243 
 
 was a street of Levys, Cohens, Hermanns, Solomons, 
 Isaacs, Rosenthals, and Rosensteins, and their off- 
 spring — dirty little creatures with eyes like boot-but- 
 tons and noses too large for their faces — were play- 
 ing in the gutters. 
 
 " Louis," said Blest-Gana, " it was so that I played 
 when I was a child — I, Jean Blest-Gana. Nothing 
 is changed. The street is narrower, the houses are 
 taller, but it is the same. The men and women loaf- 
 ing in the doorways, the old women with their wigs, 
 the smells, the shop-windows, are the same. ..." 
 They stopped by the undertaker's shop. " This, also, 
 is the same — so much the same that I would swear 
 that nobody has needed a cofKn since. ... I come 
 here always when I am in London." 
 
 Louis had lagged behind to watch an absorbing 
 game of marbles played with blood-alleys by a little 
 German and a little Jew. The little Jew was the 
 more skilled of the two, but whenever he claimed 
 the marbles he had won the little German cuffed him 
 and rolled him in the dust. It was this more than 
 the game that delighted Louis. 
 
 " But," said Blest-Gana, " when they are men the 
 Jew will buy the German." 
 
 " Why? " said Louis, wondering that the Jew should 
 wish to buy anything so uncouth. 
 
 " Because," said Blest-Gana, " the Jews are indeed 
 the chosen jof the Lord." 
 
 They passed into the shop. There was little light 
 in it, for the window was blocked with a pile of cof- 
 fins of all sizes, for giants and for babes. There were 
 brass plates on which the virtues of departed ones 
 were set forth briefly and with a suitable text from 
 the Scriptures; there were metal crosses and wreaths 
 of artificial flowers with silver leaves; there were 
 examples of the silk furniture of the inside of the 
 
244 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 most expensive coffins, and black-edged cards inti- 
 mating the demise of various imaginary personages. 
 All these had their effect on Blest-Gana, who, from 
 lugubrious and morose, had become gay and expan- 
 sive. 
 
 " This," he said to Louis, " is the most useful serv- 
 ant of the public." 
 
 " I don't like it," said Louis, fidgeting. 
 
 " It is here that I was a child. ..." From the 
 rooni behind the shop, dimly lit with a single gas-jet, 
 came blinking a little old man, wrinkled, bent. He 
 came forward rubbing his hands together and smil- 
 ing. He had an air of sympathy, and he moved on 
 tiptoe. Laying his hand on a coffin, he said in a dis- 
 creet whisper : 
 
 "What can I do for you, sir?" He recognized 
 Blest-Gana, and peered up at him. "Ah! I saw in 
 the papers that you were come back. The room is 
 swept, and all in order. . . ." 
 
 He groped in a dark corner for a key. In doing 
 so his head was brought into light, and Louis saw 
 to his horror that it bore not a single hair, that the 
 skin of the old man's face hung loose on his bones, 
 and that his neck was stringy. Louis cried out in 
 astonishment. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the old man, seeing the boy for the 
 first time, "your son? The grandson of my 
 friend?" 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 Louis shrank from him. 
 
 " Come, my little man," croaked the undertaker. 
 " See. Come and see the largest coffin we have ever 
 made — for a man who weighed twenty stone." 
 
 " That indeed is glory." 
 
 It was insisted that they should visit this marvel. 
 
 "With plumes and cloths, the funeral is to cost 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 245 
 
 forty-five pounds," said the old man, rubbing his 
 hands together. 
 
 " Business is business. Come, Louis." 
 
 They left the shop, and went up a creaky narrow 
 stair, dark and perilous. After some fumbling with 
 the key, Blest-Gana threw the door open, and they 
 entered a little room, neat, clean, with old Victorian 
 furniture. Over the fireplace was the portrait of 
 a man like Blest-Gana in face, but harder, and thin 
 almost to emaciation, and in his eyes was a smoulder- 
 ing fire. 
 
 " It is my father," said Blest-Gana. " He had too 
 much genius." 
 
 On the walls of the room were signed portraits of 
 musicians in costumes strange to Louis's eyes, 
 framed programmes of old operas, and drawings. 
 In one corner was an old piano. Blest-Gana opened 
 this, and Louis saw that the keys were yellow. 
 
 The instrument was worn, cracked, and out of 
 tune, but Blest-Gana drew from it rare music. He 
 seemed oblivious of Louis, who, accustomed to the 
 man's strange ways, stood at the window and looked 
 out into the street, where he could see the little Ger- 
 man and the little Jew at their game. 
 
 The musician came to an end of his playing. He 
 bowed his head over his hands. 
 
 " Oh, my father ! " he said, " you have said that 
 the world is a fine place, and love the pure essence 
 of it. What have I done with my life, with this little 
 life that you have given me? . . ." 
 
 " The Jew's nose is bleeding," said Louis ecstat- 
 ically . 
 
 " To be led around and around the world like a per- 
 forming bear, held as fast as though I wore a nose- 
 ring, what sort of a life is that ? Better to be starved, 
 as you were, than to be stifled. . . ." 
 
246 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " The Jew has sold his marbles to the other boy." 
 
 " Here in this room, out of all the world, here only 
 can I find peace. . . ." 
 
 Louis turned. 
 
 "Why are you talking to yourself?" 
 
 "Don't you ever talk to yourself, Louis? " 
 
 " I tell stories to myself to make myself laugh." 
 
 " I was telling stories to myself to make myself 
 cry." 
 
 "How funny! Why?" 
 
 " It is good for men to cry." 
 
 "Maurice has not been here, has he?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " What is that lady? " Louis pointed to a portrait 
 of a lady in a crinoline, with her hair oiled, parted 
 in the middle, and gathered into a net. 
 
 "That is my mother. She lived here." 
 
 " Does she still live here ? " 
 
 " No. No one lives here now." 
 
 Louis had opened his mouth for another question, 
 when a barrel-organ stopped under the window, and 
 crashed into the refrain of a popular melody. Louis 
 clapped his hands and rushed to the window again. 
 
 " My father," said Blest-Gana, " that is the music 
 of these days, ... I am become almost as vulgar." 
 
 He caught the refrain, embroidered it to the utmost 
 pitch of its coarseness and inanity, and then, in bur- 
 lesque of his own mannerisms, stood bowing to the 
 portrait of his father, while Louis shouted to the 
 children who had come to dance round the barrel- 
 organ. 
 
 "Do you like that, Louis?" 
 
 " Just bully," said Louis, lapsing into American. 
 "Look at them dancing." 
 
 Blest-Gana came to the window. The Italian turn- 
 ing the handle caught sight of him. He flashed 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 247 
 
 a smile and touched his hat. Louis was given some 
 coppers to throw. For these the Italian's wife came, 
 a baby in her arms, a little brown scrap of humanity. 
 
 A splash of colour came into the gloomy street 
 with a man pushing a barrow of oranges. 
 
 The dirty little children danced the more wildly, 
 and the Italian ground out the refrain in frenzy. 
 Louis clapped his hands. 
 
 "That is Hfe," growled Blest-Gana— " that is life; 
 but it is vulgar — life! " 
 
 They groped their way downstairs, and restored 
 the key to the old undertaker, who bowed them out 
 of the shop. 
 
 The Italian smiled and smiled upon them, and the 
 woman dandled her baby. It crowed and held out 
 its arms. Blest-Gana pressed a piece of silver into 
 its tiny fist. 
 
 "I also, madame," he said — "I also am a musi- 
 cian." 
 
 " But, sare," said the woman, " my 'usband 'e is 
 a roadmender, but dere is no employment." 
 
 " You will observe, Louis," said Blest-Gana, " that 
 he has taken refuge in the arts." 
 
 Louis said nothing. 'He was weaving the after- 
 noon's adventures into such a form as should make 
 Maurice green with envy. Coffins were not enough 
 for Louis's purpose. He filled them with corpses. 
 
 He developed his story so much to his satisfaction 
 that presently he was bursting with it, and ran ahead 
 when they came in sight of the. hotel at which they 
 were staying. He raped upstairs and into the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 "Maurice, I drank. . . ." 
 
 He stopped and gave a shout of joy, for there was 
 David. He leaped on him, hugged and pummelled 
 him. I 
 
248 DEVIOUS ,WAYS 
 
 "I've been drinking beer." 
 
 Maurice flung himself on the floor, and burst into 
 tears, and would not be consoled with any blandish- 
 ment or promise of treats in store. 
 
 Upon this scene came Blest-Gana, who, when he 
 saw David, was as wild in his joy as either of the 
 boys had been. He patted David as though he were 
 some sort of prize animal, then took him by the 
 shoulders, shook and held him at arms' length. 
 
 "But ... but ... it is well with you?" 
 
 " Splendid." 
 
 "And Nina?" 
 
 " Wonderful." 
 
 "Where is she, and when did you come, and 
 whence ? " 
 
 "Yesterday, from Paris. Europe has been un- 
 folded before us for our delight. . . . Nina in 
 Italy! . . ." 
 
 i" You torture me." 
 
 " She was hungering all the while for London." 
 
 " There is no understanding a woman." 
 
 " None. . . . We are to stay in London." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 " I am in Nina's hands." 
 
 "She has friends?" 
 
 " There have already been clucking women, friends 
 of her student days. I have been exhibited as Nina's 
 husband — ^no small thing. I came to you for escape. 
 What is there in London ? " 
 
 "I am in London." 
 
 " Your "presence is shrieked at every corner." 
 
 Blest-Gana groaned. 
 
 " London is mad," he said. " There is nothing 
 but politics, for the women are politicians in these 
 days. Even I have been made to address a meeting." 
 
 He flung his hands deprecatingly into the air. 
 
DEVIOUS .WAYS 249 
 
 " It is the old cry that the world is not inhabited 
 altogether with poets. Let us rather give thanks 
 that they feel as much as they do. . . ." 
 
 " Man that is bom of woman . . ." said David. 
 
 " That," said Blest-Gana, " is what I said to the 
 meeting of women. When we have discovered a bet- 
 ter way of propagating our species, then, and not 
 till then, can we begin to be ashamed of Nature's." 
 
 David was delighted with this. 
 
 "Did they swoon away?" 
 
 " Oh no ! ... A singularly unprepossessing female 
 thanked me feverishly for my brave advocacy of free 
 love. . . ." 
 
 David remembered the crazy barber at Braydale, 
 and he quoted him. 
 
 "I say, give us a governing class that don't want 
 to govern, better than a governing class that can't." 
 
 "Where did you hear that?" 
 
 " At horne, when I was a boy. Odd how a word 
 can fling a man back into a past scene in his life." 
 
 " The past is never dead." 
 
 " I am going back to meet the past." 
 
 " I, too, have been to visit ghosts to-day." 
 
 "Your ghosts are in London?" 
 
 " Those whose society I most desire to culti- 
 vate. . . . The dead and the unborn are alone im- 
 portant." 
 
 " That may be a charming fancy," said David, 
 " but it is not true." 
 
 "No. . . . Why should it be?" 
 
 Blest-Gana called to Maurice, sulking in a corner, 
 and bribed him to show a smiling face. Sixpence 
 was offered first, but was not enough; one shilling, 
 one shilling and sixpence, two shillings, and Maurice 
 smiled. 
 
 "He will have no morals." 
 
2SO DEVIOUS, WAYS 
 
 " I hope he will have no conscience." Maurice 
 seemed to take little interest. His sole anxiety was 
 that the florin should be forthcoming. 
 
 When he received it, nothing would suffice but that 
 they should all sally forth to spend it. 
 
 "What will you buy?" said David. 
 
 " Beer." 
 
 They were all prepared for the expedition when 
 Mrs. Higgs came upon them, and, scenting mischief, 
 demanded their purpose. She put her. foot down, 
 and rated Blest-Gana for his corruption of her family. 
 
 The pianist was helpless in her hands. He made 
 no attempt to excuse himself, but looked ruefully 
 across at David. 
 
 " My tail is between my legs," he said. " Let us 
 crawl away." 
 
 "I am glad you have come, Mr. Brockman," said 
 Mrs. Higgs. " He has been terribly difficult." 
 
 " Come, my friend," said Blest-Gana, " let us go 
 out and smell London — the thick air of the streets 
 and the foul air of the stews. . . . Then let us dine 
 more magnificently than ever, and after count the 
 number of men and women starving. . . . It's 
 a brave sight that, to see huddled men and women, 
 wreckage . . . waste . . . men and women down 
 there by the river. . . . That is fine, too, for it is 
 the river that has made this place rich, and richer 
 than any in the world. . . . Come." 
 
 He was excited at the prospect of adventure, and 
 clutched David by the arm. He was at his maddest, 
 and David turned to Mrs. Higgs for approval or dis- 
 approval. She laid finger on lips and nodded her 
 head; then she led Louis and Maurice away. 
 
 " Come, then. I said that you must see London, 
 you that have the eyes to see. You must smell it, 
 hear the beat of it, the stir, and feel the bosom of the 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 251 
 
 earth rise and fall beneath the weight of it . . . hear 
 the mad music of it. . . . Ssh ! " 
 
 ■He held a finger up, and stood on tiptoe. He beat 
 slowly up and down, and under his spell it seemed 
 to David that he could, indeed, hear dimly mighty 
 tones, a volume of sound, majestic and terrible, but 
 distant, faint, and chaotic. . . . 
 
 " It is seething. It is like a foul garment. ..." 
 
 The simile was sickening, and David set his teeth 
 and shook away from his friend. 
 
 " Fat rich and wretched :poor. Gorged shining 
 beasts, and hungry beasts lean and mangy. . . . Oh, 
 but it is fine! . . ." 
 
 He clasped his hands together, and gripped them 
 until they shook, and he stood wagging his head 
 from side to side, his eyes dilated, his lips open, his 
 jaw thrust out. 
 
 "Come, then." 
 
 Together they left the hotel, an old family establish- 
 ment in Curzon Street, so old and exclusive that it 
 had almost the close, repelling air of a club, and 
 passed along into the Park. 
 
 It was an evening of early June, and there was 
 yet freshness in the air. The first green had not left 
 the trees, and by the Row was a blaze of colour of 
 rich and rare flowers. Ladies drove slowly by in 
 their carriages and motor-cars, some with men by 
 their side, others with dogs. There were men and 
 women, boys and girls, sauntering, passing, and re- 
 passing — ^men of all sorts, women of all classes — ^and 
 presently through the throng there came an old man 
 bent and bowed. Long grey hair hung to his shoul- 
 ders, and upon his chin was a ragged beard. With 
 his thin palsied hands he pushed in front of him the 
 ruin of a child's go cart, on which was a placard 
 bearing the inscription: 
 
252 DEVIOUS ,WAYS 
 
 " Christ has saved me." 
 
 Blest-Gana turned and gazed long after this queer 
 figure, and David vsratched him. His eyes were 
 troubled, and he seemed to be casting this way and 
 that in his mind. His fingers twitched and he shifted 
 uneasily from one foot to the other. He watched 
 the faces of those whom the old man passed. A girl 
 behind him broke into a silly giggle. 
 
 On the instant he swung round and glared at her. 
 The girl clung to the arm of her swain, a little scared. 
 She giggled again. 
 
 Blest-Gana turned to David. 
 
 " I suppose to the girl we are both old — ^he and I. 
 But I expect the old man is more the slave of habit 
 than I. . . ." He resumed his walk. 
 
 "He pushes his go-cart ... I make music. We 
 both wish for the same end. Queer." 
 
 For long enough after this he spoke never a word. 
 
 They came to the little pool at the end of the 
 Serpentine, where are a cascade, trim lawns, a rock- 
 ery, waterfowl, and rabbits. Here they leaned upon 
 the railings and gazed at the place. 
 
 " How silly it is ! " said David. 
 
 "Those rabbits, plumped there at the nation's ex- 
 pense; do they breed, I wonder, or does the nation 
 condemn them to sterility?" 
 
 The idea of the citizens of the greatest Empire the 
 world has ever seen busying themselves with the 
 domestic relations of a pair of rabbits tickled David 
 so that he laughed. 
 
 " My dear Jean," he said, " the girl was right. 
 You certainly are odd." 
 
 "Then I thank God for it. I am what I am." 
 
 " And yet," said Daivd, " do you know that I like 
 all this? I mean, even suppose that the nation is 
 concerned with your rabbits, it is just as important 
 
DEVIOUS .WAYS 253 
 
 as its concern with the natives in Africa, except that 
 there is no money forthcoming from the rabbits." 
 
 " In either case, it is no particular concern of ours." 
 
 " Are we concerned with anything but our two 
 selves ? " 
 
 "I push my go-cart." 
 
 "Are you, then, saved?" 
 
 " Say, rather, damned. I think we are all 
 damned." 
 
 "Rags, and a body, and a scrap of paper," said 
 David. 
 
 Blest-Gana stole a glance at him. David was look- 
 ing away into the distance. 
 
 "I was thinking of that too. ... I was bred in 
 the Catholic faith. It was said that the only man of 
 whom it is certain that he is damned is Judas Iscariot. 
 . . . Poor wretch! . . . There have been many 
 who have sold Christ since for more than thirty 
 pieces of silver . . . myself among them. . . . 
 Blessed is the womb of Mary ever Virgin, that bore 
 the Eternal Father's only Son. Blessed are the 
 breasts that gave milk to Christ the Lord. . . ." 
 
 He clutched David's arm. 
 
 " David, nothing in this world matters but fruit- 
 fQlness. There is no other source of happiness. The 
 fruitfulness of the Virgin is the symbol of the high- 
 est and best — Mother inviolate: Mother undefiled; 
 and the four last things to be remembered are Death, 
 Judgment, Hell, Heaven. The first thing to be re- 
 membered is Life. ... I beg your pardon. We are 
 at the wrong end of the Park for this sort of thing." 
 
 "It is all very much what I have been trying to 
 grasp." 
 
 , " It is what the old man wishes to tell the world 
 with his old go-cart. It is what the priests do not 
 tell their flocks," 
 
254 DEVIOUS .WAYS 
 
 " You are no longer Catholic? " 
 
 " No. In France a priest offended me by gabbling 
 through Vespers. At intervals he spat on the floor 
 of the church. 'But — but — it is impossible to express 
 a religion." 
 
 With that he cast off the serious puzzling mood, 
 and stood posturing to catch the eyes of the passers- 
 by. He was delighted when a pretty nurse smiled 
 coyly at him, and David remembered the first moment 
 of his meeting with this man, and the offensive words 
 that had fallen from his lips. 
 
 Blest-Gana was gay, and preened himself. In- 
 deed, he was a remarkable object, with his long hair 
 floating out from under his slouch hat, his flowing 
 tie of black satin, his velvet coat and Quartier Latin 
 peg-top trousers. He had rings on his fingers, and 
 carried in his hand an ebony cane, surmounted with 
 a large gold knob. He carried gloves, cinnamon 
 coloured, and dandled them as he walked, swept them 
 through the air to point his jests and witticisms. He 
 talked unceasingly as they passed by the Serpentine 
 westward towards the bridge. On the grass slopes 
 lay ragged men — some face downwards, flattened to 
 the earth, others resting on their elbows and gazing 
 blankly out over the water. Some were smoking. 
 
 One of the filthiest and most unkempt of them 
 rose languidly to his feet and slouched to intercept 
 them. 
 
 He touched his hat and stood appraising the two 
 men. Eventually he pitched on David as the likelier 
 for his purpose. He snuffled, shifted to draw atten- 
 tion to his boots, through which his feet, swathed in 
 white calico, protruded. 
 
 " Beg pardon, guv'nor," he said in a whining voice. 
 "You don't 'appen to 'ave a bit 'o bread abaht yer? " 
 
 David expressed regret. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 255 
 
 " If you could give me a bit o' bacca . . ." 
 
 David produced his pouch, and shook a handful of 
 tobacco into the grimy palm outstretched. The man 
 blinked, and filled a foul clay pipe. David struck 
 a match and gave it him. 
 
 The man drew, and breathed the smoke out again. 
 
 "Ah!" he said. "Lord love a duck! that's all I 
 want. . . . Go' bless ye." 
 
 He shuffled away, fell upon the grass, and lay 
 prone. 
 
 David and Blest-Gana crossed the bridge and set 
 their faces east. Blest-Gana was in a state of pro- 
 found dejection. He plunged his hand into his 
 pocket and brought up a handful of gold. 
 
 " ' What shall I render to the Lord for all he hath 
 rendered unto me? I will take the Chalice of Salva- 
 tion, and call upon the name of the Lord. . . .' 
 Watch!" 
 
 He ran down to the water, and sent one sovereign 
 after another skimming over the surface, to disappear 
 in the depths. 
 
II 
 
 There was great to-do in the Brockman family when 
 it was known that David, married and apparently — 
 from the hotel at which he was staying in Lon- 
 don — opulent, was returned to England, and likely 
 at any moment to descend upon them. 
 
 His letter was passed from hand to hand, read and 
 reread. 
 
 It reached them at an unhappy moment, for Nicho- 
 las had set the crown on a wild youth by taking unto 
 himself as wife a girl engaged to play the part of 
 Singing Fairy in the local pantomime. 
 
 Accustomed to conquer by sheer swagger, the hap- 
 less youth had been piqued by the girl's adroit evasion 
 of any direct encounter, had pursued, and finally been 
 caught. She played him skilfully for a time, then 
 whipped him up and landed him. 
 
 In dread of his stepmother, Nicholas had contrived 
 to keep the marriage secret, and for this his bride set 
 herself to make him wish that he had never been 
 born, played on his jealousy to keep him enslaved, 
 and swallowed all and more than he had. He bor- 
 rowed right and left, and found himself delivered into 
 the hands of moneylenders. Finally, when hard 
 pressed, having asked his wife to sell some jewel 
 that he had given her in the days of courtship, and 
 she having declined abruptly and with words of violent 
 abuse, he slapped her face and flung away from her, 
 vowing that she might starve before he would ever 
 come to her again. He was gone from the house 
 before she had realized the calamity that she had 
 
 256 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 257 
 
 brought on herself. Then, in desolation of spirit, she 
 collapsed, and for a day and night she wept tears of 
 repentance. In the gentleness of exhaustion she wrote 
 long letters of self-reproach — four a day — implored 
 his forgiveness, and set out her intention to mend her 
 folly and be to him a worthy wife. 
 
 Nicholas, smouldering with the heat of injured 
 vanity, and possibly with the realization of the ass 
 he had made of himself, and the mess he had pro- 
 duced in his afifairs, burned the letters unopened. He 
 became haggard and ill, but to all inquiries vouch- 
 safed no reply, save, gruffly, that he was worried and 
 overworked, and that he was beginning to think that 
 the air of Braydale did not suit him. 
 
 He sought the old palliative of wild nights with 
 boon companions. Like his father before him, he 
 sought cure in the excitements of London; but his 
 condition for that became only the more lamentable. 
 Like his father, also, he said, " I'm — I'm so rotten ! " 
 and strove to grapple with the problem of himself, 
 but floundered deeper and deeper into the mire. 
 
 One thing he gained from his agony — ^the con- 
 sciousness of being fouled and dirty ; but for that, in 
 rank injustice, he blamed the woman, and saw her 
 for more common, mean, and worthless than indeed 
 she was. He developed a sort of conscience, and did 
 penance in torturing himself with it. By the fulness 
 of sham repentance and the bitterness of faked re- 
 morse, he contrived to justify his past conduct, and 
 won to some sort of self-approbation. This brought 
 him to the need of confession, and for confessor he 
 pitched upon Helen, for she, if any, would be able to 
 understand the unique character of the trouble which 
 had come upon him. 
 
 Helen received him graciously, and expressed re- 
 gret that her father was not at home. That Nicholas 
 
258 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 had come to see herself did not occur to her, for his 
 awkwardness with women was notorious. He sat 
 where his father had sat on the momentous evening 
 of his consultation with Dr. Crosby. 
 
 " I came to see you," said Nicholas, drooping, and 
 not daring to look at her. 
 
 He looked vacantly at the bust of Napoleon on the 
 bookcase, rubbed his hands together, sighed. 
 
 " You may have noticed, Helen," he said — " I don't 
 know if you have noticed that I am not like other men 
 of my age ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Nicholas, no." 
 
 This was ambiguous. The young fool took it to 
 confirm his own view of himself, and, with the con- 
 fidence it gave him, plunged into his narrative. He 
 glossed over his early acquaintance with the lady, and 
 quite cleverly distorted facts to cast a chivalrous light 
 on his own conduct. 
 
 " I have spared nothing, neither myself, nor money, 
 nor — ^nor anything, to make her happy . . . and, you 
 see, I am ill with it." 
 
 "And she . . .?" 
 
 Nicholas was taken aback. His thought was only 
 for himself, and that Helen's should be for the woman 
 was so much outside his calculations that he was 
 almost shocked. He looked up at her, but she was 
 gazing down sadly and wistfully. He thrust out his 
 foot, and as she marked the vivid hue of his purple 
 sock a mocking expression crossed her face. 
 
 He plunged ahead as though she had said nothing. 
 He described the final scene, and worked himself into 
 such a passion of spite, vindictiveness, and hatred 
 against the woman that he set the whole affair vividly 
 before Helen : the vulgar, garish room in the lodging- 
 house in which she. lived; the deshabille in which in 
 the late afternoon he had found her; the mocking 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 259 
 
 words she had flung at him; the words in which he 
 had set forth the bare facts of his plight — request, 
 command, objurgation; the quarrel, and the final 
 rupture. 
 
 He brought his hand down on his knee. 
 
 " I left her," he said. 
 
 Nicholas rose and paced about the room ; he folded 
 his arms, and gulped down the indignation and ex- 
 citement that his narrative had aroused in him. 
 
 "You see — ^you see how terribly easy it is for 
 a man to — ^to — make a mess of his life? . . . Yes, 
 yes; it is horrible. . . . Cruel. . . . You see, you 
 see. . . . 
 
 " I see only the woman. . . ." 
 
 Nicholas turned. His little eyes blazed fury; his 
 hands went up and beat the air. 
 
 " I — I — I . . ." he stammered. " You — ^you — ^you. 
 . . . What — what am I to do? It's so — so diffi- 
 cult." 
 
 " Where is she now ? " 
 
 " I — I don't know. I don't know." 
 
 "You must tell me. . . . How long is it? . . ." 
 
 " Six — seven weeks." 
 
 " What do you want me to do? " 
 
 Nicholas stuttered more on this. 
 
 " I — I don't know. What is there to do ? You sit 
 there so calmly. You sit there so " 
 
 "Has she relations . . . friends?" 
 
 " None that I know of." 
 
 "No one to whom she can turn? You have been 
 cruel, Nicholas." 
 
 "By God! I. ..." 
 
 He broke into violent protest, and recounted all 
 that he had given, and all the pleasure that he had 
 provided for the woman. 
 
 " How old is she ? " asked Helen. 
 
26o. DEVIOUS ,WAYS 
 
 " Nineteen." 
 
 " Oh ! . . . The poor child ! . . . Have you no 
 thought for her? " 
 
 The question was lost upon Nicholas, nursing his 
 wrath and battering against the wall that rose in 
 front of him. He saw himself hemmed in by mon- 
 strous shapes, leering and menacing, threatening de- 
 struction. He was pale and afraid. He turned the 
 eyes of despair upon Helen, then collapsed, and sat 
 crouched and huddled. He was in a pitiable state, 
 and Helen, though she had but small fondness for 
 the man, sought to comfort him, and, in comforting, 
 to bring him to some sort of understanding. 
 
 " Nicholas," she said, coming to stand above him, 
 and to lay a hand on his shoulder, "women are so 
 foolish, and men so blind, and so — and so — there is 
 misery in the world — and, living as we do in this 
 place, where we never see the sun, when sorrow comes 
 it is all the harder to bear. But it is queer how, stifled, 
 starved, cramped, imprisoned as we are, we yet have 
 courage, and almost welcome disaster as bringing to 
 us a scene of greatness and breadth. The — ^the 
 knowledge that we are men and women. . . . Do 
 you understand?" 
 
 " You help a fellow." 
 
 " I am glad. ... It is only a little time since I 
 had to wrestle and fight, to find some spark of truth 
 by which to live, some light in the darkness of utter 
 misery. My father gave it me . . . and it was not 
 till then that I grasped fully the meaning of what he 
 had told me ever since I was a child — sense of life, 
 and the knowledge that to be a man or to be a woman 
 is glorious, and in itself enough. When I came back 
 to my father, and it seemed that everything was lost to 
 me, I found the true strength of his words. . . . 
 But, Nicholas, we need to be so clever to be human 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 261 
 
 and to understand, and so often those men who are 
 called clever are the most cruel . . . and oh! that 
 sort of cruelty is so much more shattering than what 
 is only stupidity. . . . There is so much to say, and 
 I do not know how to say it. We women ask for 
 love, and you give us folly, or worse. We ask for 
 tenderness, and you give us only a small place in 
 your lives — even the best of you. We ask that we 
 may help you, and you are fearful that we wish to 
 usurp your place and privilege." . . . Woman is 
 a helpmeet, and we ask no more. That, least of 
 all, will you let us be to you. We accept. ..." 
 
 She shook her head, and with a sad little smile 
 said again: 
 
 " Women are so foolish, and men so blind." 
 
 "What am I to do?" said Nicholas; and with that 
 Helen turned from him, knowing that what she had 
 said had fallen upon deaf ears. 
 
 " I cannot help you. You still think only of your- 
 self." 
 
 This was denied with indignation, and protestation 
 of thought for his family and the good name of all 
 concerned with him. Nicholas further declared the 
 purity of his devotion to his wife until it had been 
 shown that she was unworthy of his so great love. He 
 was so earnest in this, and seemed so genuinely moved 
 by the contemplation of his own magpnanimity, that 
 Helen was hard put to it not to laugh outright at 
 him. From this humiliation his woebegone appear- 
 ance saved him. 
 
 " I've made a fool of myself," he said. " It all 
 seemed so easy, and then it all became so difficult. 
 I'm not the first fool in the world. If my father . . . 
 if my father ... it has been so queer since ... I 
 don't know . . . since David went. . . ." 
 
 "David?" 
 
262 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " You were fond of David. I don't know ; there 
 was no peace in the house ever. Always getting dn 
 and getting on, and how they quarrelled ! . . . That, 
 and living in this smoky hole. ... A fellow has 
 to find some sort of life somewhere. . . . But a 
 woman can't understand that. . . ." 
 
 This was too much for Helen. She laughed. 
 
 Nicholas writhed. 
 
 " Yes. 'It is a thing to laugh at. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, Nicholas!" 
 
 " All of us in the stew one after another. Audrey's 
 finely placed, isn't she? Heh? And I . . . and — 
 and. . . ." 
 
 He remained gasping and looking up at Helen. 
 The laughter died in her. 
 
 " And — ^and — ^you ! " he said. 
 
 She caught her breath. 
 
 Nicholas seemed to be making an effort to think. 
 He beat with one finger in the air. His lips opened, 
 and worked to speak. At length he pronounced these 
 words : 
 
 "We were children, and we are men and women 
 . . . and David's out of it all. Oh, lucky devil, 
 lucky devil ! " 
 
 Helen covered her face with her hands. 
 
 " Nicholas, Nicholas ! I want you to go back to 
 her; be kind to her, and make her what you would 
 have her be. If she loves you, there is nothing that 
 she cannot be to you. . . ." 
 
 "But ... but ... my father. . . ." 
 
 "You must tell your father." 
 
 "I cannot. I have never been able to tell my 
 father an)rthing. I do not know what manner of man 
 he is. Audrey does not know, and I . . ." 
 
 " There is nothing else to be done." 
 
 She argued with him, made him see the hopeless- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 263 
 
 ness of his position, and that there was no other con- 
 ceivable issue from it. 
 
 In the end he said: 
 
 " I've been hke a man tortured in prison." 
 
 He kissed her hand and left her, tears of gladness 
 in her eyes for that she had been of use to him. 
 
 Armed with the new courage she had given him, 
 Nicholas sought his wife, made his peace with her, 
 and announced what it was that he would do. She 
 was humbled, and fed his vanity with an adoration 
 which he had never before won from her. A new 
 light came upon the two of them, and they entered into 
 a region unknown. They were, as they had never 
 been, lovers. 
 
 Helen visited them, and rejoiced to see them so 
 happy, but the girl was after a time moody, and, 
 finally, seizing the moment when Nicholas had left 
 them, burst into tears, and confessed that she had 
 betrayed her husband; had in the first wild angiiish 
 after the quarrel flung out and away to the house of 
 the Brockmans, and had announced herself as the wife 
 of Nicholas. 
 
 She had been received by Mrs. Brockman, who sat, 
 terrifying, plying her needles, stern and unbending 
 as the picture that hung over her head — " Faithful 
 unto Death." 
 
 " What did she say? " asked Helen. 
 
 "Nothing. Her. lips moved in and out, and she 
 said nothing." 
 
 " And nothing since to Nicholas ? " 
 
 " He has said nothing to me ; and I am so fearful." 
 The poor creature wailed. " But if — but if ... if 
 it should be that she is hard, and if it should be that 
 Nicho turned from me again. . . ." 
 
 "No — no— no," said Helen; and though all that 
 she had known and herself had suffered rose to mock 
 
264 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 her words, she vowed bravely that such a thing was 
 impossible, unthinkable, past contemplation, and, in- 
 deed, a most rare happening. 
 
 At the very moment of her saying it Mrs. Brock- 
 man had broached the subject to Henry, after turn- 
 ing it over and over in her mind for many days, to 
 find where lay the sharpest sting in it. 
 
 She had a manner that Henry knew and dreaded — 
 a certain trick of taking up her needles and jabbing 
 with them fiercely. Then a deep furrow appeared 
 in her brow above her nose, through which she 
 breathed heavily, and her lips worked in and out. 
 Her eyelids blinked, and occasionally with her needle 
 she scratched her head. Her lips worked in and out, 
 and she gobbled. Her eyes flashed, then blinked 
 again. 
 
 She was clad in her customary gown of black, 
 adorned with blue facings and beads of brass. 
 
 Henry was for stealing away, but she jabbed with 
 her needle in the direction of the red velvet chair 
 opposite her, and said abruptly : 
 
 " Sit down." 
 
 Henry blushed, and his neck under his ears red- 
 dened and swelled. He rattled the money in his 
 pocket, and played with the watch-chain which 
 adorned his paunch — for in ten years Henry had 
 grown stout, gross almost, and in some subtle fashion 
 he had come to bear in face a vague yet unmistakable 
 resemblance to his wife. 
 
 "I . . . I . . ." He stammered, realized that 
 any sort of prevarication were worse than useless, 
 and, on an ominous click from the needles, sat down 
 heavily, and cast about for what it might be that had 
 now roused her displeasure. For some moments she 
 was silent. Henry loathed and feared her silence, 
 for it was more cutting and more sharp than any 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 265 
 
 words that she might use. She was for so long silent 
 now, clicking, blinking, gobbling, that at length he 
 could endure it no longer, and broke into a discussion 
 of affairs at a new hotel which he had just opened at 
 Blackpool. 
 
 " It will draw the five shillings a night people," 
 he said. " Not much competition to face. . . . 'All 
 the clubs and small shopkeepers . . . the midday din- 
 ner, meat-tea, and supper sort of people. . . ." 
 
 The thread of his words snapped, for he found a 
 steely eye fixed upon him. He shifted and fidgeted, 
 and yet more furiously rattled the money in his 
 pocket. He gaped up at the ceiling, and then said 
 suddenly : 
 
 " It is very hot." 
 
 The needles clicked more viciously than ever. He 
 stared blankly in front of him, then returned from 
 the weather to his original topic. 
 
 " I did what you suggested about having a bar off 
 the entrance-hall." 
 
 Mrs. Brockman gobblgd. 
 
 "Nicholas," she said — "Nicholas is married." 
 
 "Good God!" 
 
 " To a dolly-mop kiss-me-quick-and-run." 
 
 Mrs. Brockman rolled out this remarkable descrip- 
 tion of her stepdaughter-in-law with hissing emphasis. 
 Her back stiffened, and her nose wrinkled as though 
 she were suddenly aware of an offensive smell. 
 
 Henry had leaped to his feet. 
 
 "When?" he said. "When? Where? And 
 where is he?" 
 
 " They married for a lark, scratched each other, 
 and he left her ..." 1 
 
 "Good God!" 
 
 " She came' here, and was announced— i/ you please 
 — as Mrs. Nicholas, . . . She tried all her tricks — 
 
266 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 giggled, ogled, prattled, sighed, tittered, talked, chat- 
 tered, wept. . . . Not a bit o' use with me. I said 
 nothing." 
 
 " No," said Henry. 
 
 " The place reeked after she had gone — reek.ed." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Henry innocently, and rather 
 fatuously. 
 
 " You know what of. . . ." 
 
 The spite of this remark altogether silenced Henry. 
 
 "Is — is that all?" he said, after some hesitation, 
 and shifting about from one foot to the other. 
 
 " The man's a fool," said Mrs. Brockman, clicking, 
 and Henry, accustomed to the remark, accepted it 
 without protest. 
 
 " Nice lot o' children," she continued — " nice lot 
 o' children. . . . One daft, and roaming loose over 
 the world, doing' no good to himself or to anybody 
 else; one married to a reach-me-down; and Nicholas 
 taking up with a walk-the-streets-at-night." 
 
 She gobbled furiously. 
 
 "And John — John's nearly as daft as ever David 
 was over them there wrong-side-o'-the-blanket lovers 
 of yours. . . ." 
 
 Henry resigned himself. Once on this subject, 
 there was no end to his wife's eloquence and power 
 of vituperation. On this night she surpassed her- 
 self. She waxed shriller and more shrill, and, heap- 
 ing abuse upon all the Brockmans living and dead, 
 came at length to Margaret. She flicked Henry on 
 the raw, and flicked again, until her venom became 
 intolerable. 
 
 "Will you cease?" he cried. "You never were 
 * fit to breathe the same air with her." 
 
 " Ay " — the needles clicked — " the dead are always 
 saints." 
 
 '" It was an ill day that you came to my house." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 267 
 
 " Who picked you up, and set you making money ? 
 Who gave you this fine house, and made you chair- 
 man of this, that and the other thing?" 
 
 Henry was livid. He did not object to being 
 called a fool, but any suggestion that he was other 
 than the builder of his own fortunes roused fury in 
 him. 
 
 "Will you cease? . . . Hold your clacking 
 tongue ! " 
 
 She clacked only the more, and dragged up from 
 the past this, that, and the other offence against her- 
 self. 
 
 Henry stormed. 
 
 " Don't shout ! " she said. " The servants will hear 
 you." 
 
 He railed upon her, but might' as well have spoken 
 to the wall, so unshakable was she. All that he had 
 from her was a contemptuous sniff. 
 
 In the end he said: 
 
 "I believe that I am lower now than ever I was 
 then." 
 
 " Ay. 'You with your women." 
 
 Henry spun round and gaped at her. She was 
 impassive and inscrutable. 
 
 " It always was a difficulty with you," she said, 
 " to make you keep to the business in hand." 
 
 With that she rang for a servant, who, when she 
 came, was sent in search of the luckless Nicholas. 
 
 The young man, flushed with his newly-won happi- 
 ness, came swaggering. He stood by the door, hands 
 in pockets, slouching, and grinned pleasantly. 
 
 Without looking at him, his stepmother said : 
 
 " I've seen your draggle-tail. Why did you marry 
 her? . . . Fool!" 
 
 All the swagger oozed from Nicholas, and he sat 
 plump on the nearest chair, gasping and groping. 
 
268 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Mrs. Brockman screwed up her eyelids, and peered 
 first at him, then at her husband. 
 
 "A pair of you," she said; and Henry thanked 
 his gods that the purport of the remark was lost upon 
 his son. 
 
 "Well," said Nicholas — "well — are you going to 
 kick me out ? " 
 
 Mrs. Brockman opened her mouth to speak, 
 Nicholas recognized the expression on her face, and 
 brought his flat hand down on the table in front of 
 him. 
 
 " You will speak no ill of her," he said ; and, to 
 his surprise, and more to Henry's, Mrs. Brockman 
 was silenced. 
 
 Nicholas jumped to the advantage he had gained, 
 and, turning to his father, began a more or less honest 
 and accurate confession — it is doubtful if ever prod- 
 igal has given the full tale of his indebtedness — set 
 forth his financial embarrassment, and some, not all, 
 of the follies which had brought him to this pass. 
 Having thus nailed his colours to the mast, he de- 
 clared his intention of standing by his wife in all 
 circumstances. In short, Nicholas saw himself in 
 a heroic light, and did, in fact, behave rather well. 
 He had mentally rehearsed this scene with his father 
 and stepmother over and over again, and had always 
 seen himself as the hero bearing up against bluster- 
 ing and brow-beating. In truth, the matter was so 
 simple and so entirely without any of the unpleasant 
 complications which he had foreseen that he was dis- 
 appointed, although at the same time immensely 
 relieved. 
 
 None the less, Mrs. Brockman had her sting for 
 him. When it had been arranged that he should be 
 promoted to a more responsible and lucrative position. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 269 
 
 he was told that he might bring his wife to supper 
 on the following Sunday. 
 
 "After all," said Mrs. Brockman, taking up her 
 knitting again — she had laid it down while she made 
 a calculation^" after all, she can't be any worse than 
 Audrey's reach-me-down." 
 
 Nicholas fumed, but, catching a warning glance 
 from his father, was silenced. Rather awkwardly he 
 expressed gratitude, and declared that, of course, as 
 a married man, he would in future live a blameless 
 life, and be in all things not as other young men. 
 
 ■He was really in earnest, and succeeded in moving 
 his father considerably. Like two honest men who 
 have come through a fearful trial, or like wrestlers 
 after a bout, they shook hands, and in that action each 
 said to the other: "After all, you are not a bad 
 sort of fellow." 
 
 It was at this moment of happy issue from Nicho- 
 las's afflictions that David's letter arrived. 
 
 Once more Henry said, " Good God ! " 
 
Ill 
 
 By some extraordinary process which David never 
 quite understood, Nina obtained the coveted house 
 in Swan Walk. He enjoyed London so much that 
 he postponed time and again his visit to his family. 
 
 London with Nina was one thing — entrancing, be- 
 witching, softening, and chastening; London with 
 Blest-Gana was stirring, exciting, exalting, wild; 
 London with neither was food for melancholy. With 
 Nina it seemed that all was right, that the poor no 
 less than the rich were happy, and that great houses, 
 slums, and suburbs were alike the scenes of unending 
 poetic drfeima. With Blest-Gana the city at night 
 took on a hellish aspect, and though the face of it 
 all was admirable and compelling, yet on all sides 
 was the most damnable cruelty. There were sights 
 to rend the soul of man, and make him say, " This 
 truly is God-forgotten," and yet there was a certain 
 delight in the horrible. Blest-Gana worshipped such 
 things. 
 
 "Life at its rottenest, at its most corrupt, at its 
 most debasing and debased, but still life stirring and 
 striving upward, upward, my David — that is magnifi- 
 cent and always worshipful." 
 
 In this mood he delighted in the abnormal. He 
 talked for a whole of one evening about the extraor- 
 dinary beauty of a loathsome, shambling half-wit 
 whom they had found trundling a barrow of bananas 
 in the shadow of the Bethlehem Hospital, and it was 
 his constant lament that the once-foul region of Seven 
 Dials had been opened up and robbed of its villainous 
 
 270 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 271 
 
 charm. He frequented police-courts and the Old 
 Bailey, not from any morbid love of sensation, but 
 because it seemed to give him a sense, very dear to 
 him, of the depths to which human kind can descend. 
 
 " You cannot know the heights unless you know 
 also the depths." 
 
 That a nian should be a thief, a perjurer, a liar, 
 a forger, an adulterer, a murderer, covetous, or blas- 
 phemous, was to him less dreadful than that he should 
 stand by borrowed virtues and a faked morality, 
 smugly larded with his own satisfaction. 
 
 " Such men," he said to David, as they prowled 
 in the^ squalor of the Harrow Road— "such men are 
 of all the most cruel; such men will set their own dig- 
 nity, their own honour — ^rot the word — ^their own 
 puffiness and self-esteem before the happiness of any 
 other creature; such men cannot love, cannot be gen- 
 erous. They know not truth, and fudge the facts 
 of life to justify their own cruelty. ' Not I,' they say, 
 ' but the world is cruel,' and so without scruple, with- 
 out one thought, they shatter, crush, and numb. It 
 was from such cruelty as this that I found the secrei 
 of the world. . . ." 
 
 He took David's arm. 
 
 " Love, David. I was in love, and still there is in 
 it the power to torture me. ... It is pitiful to love 
 like that — never to have peace, never to feel the 
 strength that love should bring, knowing that it is 
 to hand, but out of reach; never to feel the joy in 
 all things that love should bring; never to wake but 
 to the heavy knowledge of long hours to come of 
 twisting, turning, thinking on no thought, but driv- 
 ing, driving into a state of nothing, a stupor, through 
 which the world and all that it has of splendid and 
 true are seen but dimly and remotely, as in a vision; 
 never truly to feel the sun and his warmth; never in 
 
272 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 the holiest presence of the beloved to be face to face 
 with love. . . . Oh, David, that there should be such 
 rottenness in men and women, that cowardice should 
 make them lower than the brutes, and they should 
 cling in terror to their brutishness. . . . Better to 
 be damned than to live so, than to cry 'Love,' and 
 plunge into cramping folly. . . ." 
 
 David was back in the woods with Nina, seeing 
 the crazy man come crying out upon the rottenness 
 of women. 
 
 He could say nothing. What was there to be said ? 
 To suffer, and only the more for that to know the 
 goodness of the world, only the more to be alive to 
 the sights and sounds of it, was? indeed, to be a man, 
 and he was glad of his friend. He cast back over 
 his own experience, to find in it nothing comparable 
 with this, and now, more than ever before, he felt, 
 as always he had felt with Blest-Gana, a curious 
 dwarfing, an almost painful sensation of ignorance 
 and inexperience. There was comfort in it, too. He 
 counted himself happy- That Blest-Gana never was, 
 but always seemed to be listening and watching for 
 something outside and beyond the moment. . . . 
 
 " Jean," he said, " there is so much that I cannot 
 see." 
 
 ''All of us are blind, and those of. us who peer 
 through the darkness are damned in the beginning, 
 for the veil is impenetrable, and because we dream, 
 common things lose their savour." 
 
 He stayed in ecstasy over a frowsy girl staggering, 
 jug in hand, to the pot-house at the corner. As 
 she reached it a man lunged out and dashed the jug 
 from her hand, and after him flew a woman, scream- 
 ing and spitting. She caught him and clawed his 
 cheek with her nails. They fought, and presently 
 a policeman rounded the comer and took the man into 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 273 
 
 custody. The woman turned the stream of her abuse 
 upon the constable. . . . 
 
 " Fine," said Blest-Gana. 
 
 David had been repelled by the low fury of the 
 scene. 
 
 " That," said Blest-Gana — " that is marriage." 
 
 They pursued their way out into the region of 
 Maida Vale until they came to a little grey house al- 
 most hidden behind trees. 
 
 "It was here that she lived. I said to you once, 
 David, that there is no other source of happiness than 
 fruitfulness. Sterility breeds tragedies — the sterility 
 of the spirit. Sterile, sterile, sterile. ... In a 
 woman it is pitiful, but in a man the most devastating 
 force. Evil is born in sterility of spirit, and by their 
 very cruelty such men win power, for kindness is to 
 them only waste of themselves. . . . Waste of them- 
 selves, they who are the earth's waste." 
 
 He plunged then into praise of the woman. Most 
 beautiful she was, soft, tender; but by the waste of 
 herself upon the devastating man, warped, and with 
 her vision of the world clouded and obscured. She 
 was made for warmth, colour, brightness, happiness, 
 the joy of children — a creature of the sun and of the 
 air, bright, gay, bird-like in her grace and lightness. 
 Never was such music as the soft notes in her voice, 
 and the earth cried out against the waste of her. 
 
 The woman shone in the passionate words, and 
 again by his friend David felt himself dwarfed. Such 
 a woman, and such a lover! The story was not told 
 to him, neither the beginning nor the end, but that it 
 had been a mighty and a splendid thing was clear, 
 and David was awed, and could not speak in answer 
 to the bitter words: 
 
 "These men and their lies, and their worship of 
 the lies in themselves." 
 
;274 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 David knew that be was in the presence of the 
 mightiest, of more even than had been revealed to 
 himself, and for some moments he was sick at heart. 
 
 Words flevv^, bitter and more bitter, and Blest-Gana 
 strode savagely, fists clenched, and at moments lung- 
 ing out. 
 
 For long they walked in silence, David hugging 
 this new great thing to himself, rejoicing in the illu- 
 mination that it brought. It kindled all his life, and 
 set it glowing, brought to his mind the proud games 
 of chivalry; gave life to the romantic story of Mary 
 Andrew and St. Justin; showed the pure stream of 
 it through his mother talcen into the dark places of 
 his childhood in Braydale, then to be lost ; set clearly 
 forth the purpose of his flight, and years of wander- 
 ing through the world, the encounter with Nina; and 
 showed the be-all and end-all of existence, inevitable. 
 He was exalted in the new strength and sureness of 
 footing that the revelation brought to him. Fruit- 
 fulness! That word shone, pure gold. Upward 
 from it were the glorious things of the world — love, 
 kindness, generosity, truth, charity, and hope; down- 
 ward from it meanness, envy, malice, cruelty, unchar- 
 itableness, and despair. ... It shone starry before 
 him. . . . 
 
 " I find the world almost intolerably beautiful," 
 he said. 
 
 " If we could make it so for all. . . ." 
 
 They passed through mean streets and dreadful 
 places, saw horrors to confirm the most outrageous 
 pessimist in his gloom, and yet by nothing was either 
 shaken in his faith. 
 
 David had come by a religion. 
 
 The germ of it had been sown in Africa with the 
 discovery of the lonely man on the veld; love had 
 warmed him for it; friendship and the\tragedy of his 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 275 
 
 friend brought full knowledge of its growth, and the 
 towering height to which it might reach. 
 
 Something of this he managed to convey to Blest- 
 Gana as they stood by the river watching where the 
 flashing lights smote the swollen tide to gold. 
 
 " To the making of a man there is needed most a 
 religion. . . . Without this he is nothing." 
 
 Blest-Gana threw his arm around David's shoulder 
 and hugged him. 
 
 " And with it surely he is no great thing." 
 
 Behind them, huddled on a seat, the wreck of a 
 woman stirred, shivered, stirred again, and the life 
 died out of her. Tv/o men also were on the seat — 
 one asleep, one picking crusts from a bag of refuse 
 that he had. Neither gave heed to the woman, and 
 in the friends seeing her there was no thought but 
 that she was asleep. 
 
IV 
 
 For some days after he began his rehgion David was 
 a sore trial to his wife. Accustomed as she was to 
 have him gay, light-hearted, and even at times irri- 
 tatingly irresponsible, Nina was alarmed that he should 
 be so mood-stricken. 
 
 There had never been any shadow between them, 
 and here she found him watching her with strange 
 eyes, silent, puzzling, solemn. He relaxed in none 
 of his attentions to her, but was curiously and sorrow- 
 fully aloof. He was turned in upon himself as she 
 had never known him to be, and in her pride and 
 joy in their life in London, in the house which she 
 had made so delightful an abiding place for the two 
 of them, she found this new thing difficult to bear. 
 He did not seem to her unhappy, but rather happier 
 and more content, and she was very properly jealous 
 that he should find a source of goodness in the world 
 outside herself. Often she had resented his long ab- 
 sences with Blest-Gana, and was now thankful, though 
 she loved the man, that the pianist had come to an 
 end of his English engagements, and was returning 
 to the Continent. AI true woman, she had come to 
 dislike the idealist in David, to be distrustful of his 
 enthusiasms, and she made little attempt to understand 
 them. She had loved them because by them he was 
 marked out from other men, but, once embarked upon 
 life with him, she set herself to make him a little 
 more like the rest. A husband who could not be fitted 
 into the social machine was not in her scheme. There- 
 fore, she took great pains with his dress, and her first 
 
 276 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 277 
 
 anxiety upon their arrival in London had been that 
 he should visit a tailor who knew his business, and 
 from the most unpromising material could turn out 
 a man who^for a time, at least — should not offend 
 against fashion. 
 
 For herself, she had flown to old friends and de- 
 manded of them what she must wear to be in the 
 mode, and there had been such a buying and choos- 
 ing, such a bargaining and consulting, as for days 
 together had robbed David of his spouse. The re- 
 sult of this had been that he had been driven to 
 seek Blest-Gana and the excitement of crazy wander- 
 ings, and moved in even more disreputable circles, 
 while Nina, seeking this and that old friend, was swept 
 into polite and mildly artistic society. 
 
 Her friends, to whom her sudden disappearance had 
 been a mystery, a wonder of nine days, and then for- 
 gotten, had, on her return, scented romance, and, 
 hearing that she had come from the unknown hus- 
 banded, were all agape and thirsty for the history of 
 it all. There was great chatter. 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "Brockman . . . David Brockman. Never heard 
 of him or any of the name.^* ~ 
 
 "No?. . . What is he?" 
 
 " Nothing, or one of those African people. You 
 know what they are, or, rather, you never know." 
 
 " It is really very queer. She was such a sweet girl. 
 But they say he is quite a nice man. Have they 
 money ? " 
 
 That was the vital, the absorbing question. Nina's 
 actions, her dress, and her house seemed to satisfy 
 it, and tongues wagged concerning Nina's mother. 
 
 " Of course, they say. . . . But then things in 
 the Colonies are so different — I mean so much easier. 
 You may meet a murderer at dinner any day," 
 
278 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " That may also happen in London. You never 
 know. . : . They seem to have money, and she is 
 very beautiful, and Mr. Brockman has wonderful 
 eyes . . . and they know Jean Blest-Gana." 
 
 Their acquaintance with such a celebrity set the 
 seal on the acceptability of David and Nina with the 
 wives of barristers, journalists, writers, painters, 
 musicians, among whom Nina found her friends. And 
 when it was found that she was prepared to adopt 
 the manners, customs, and prejudices of the little 
 tribe, and to enter with them into the absorbing game 
 of exploitation, all doubts were cast aside, and the 
 whispering of romance gave only an added glamour 
 to the pair. Nina took to the game as a duck to 
 water, and set herself to study and master the methods 
 of her sisters. 
 
 They were busied with the blowing out of the glory 
 of their husbands. Well, then, she set her teeth, and 
 vowed that her man should be the most glorious of 
 them all, for among these others she could find none 
 to equal David. This man could be labelled lawyer, 
 this artist, this actor, this journalist, and all were set 
 in grooves, broken in to the various limits of their 
 calling. But for David, what label could there be 
 found? She sa[d of him, as he had said of himself, 
 though she knew it not, that he was not as other men 
 are. David was just a man, and, more wonderful 
 than that, her man, so large and strong that he might 
 take whatever he would just for the holding out of 
 his hand. So he had taken her, and so, she doubted 
 not, he would grip the best in London, in all Eng- 
 land, and be that one of whom all should say, " This 
 is a man." In Africa at the time of their wooing 
 she had vowed that it should come to pass, and when 
 he had teased her, had sworn to cry it from the house- 
 tops, casting modesty to the winds. She had made 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 279 
 
 so sure that it should be, that almost upon their set- 
 ting foot upon Dover Pier she had looked to see the 
 great ones of the land 'come forth to hail him con- 
 queror. None had come, but she had swallowed that 
 disappointment easily enough, and laughed at her in- 
 flated dreams. 
 
 So in London she had set herself to take the great 
 world — ^the world of fine people and controlling men 
 — and hold it by the throat until it should gasp the 
 words she longed to hear. She plunged, then 
 watched, and soon she knew what movements were 
 alive and the men of whom there was beginning to 
 be talk; took pains to meet them, and marked the 
 true men from the false, those who had sought and 
 made the talk from those who had risen by the buoy- 
 ancy of fineness in their nature. 
 
 In her own world of music she quickly took up 
 again the threads, won some fame as a singer, and set 
 that as a step for David's climbing. All that she had 
 — beauty, charm, and talent — she builded for his as- 
 cent, only to find that he v/ould not climb, but watched 
 quizzically what she was at ; allowed himself to be led 
 into polite circles, where it was found that he was 
 charming and altogether worthy of such a wife, but 
 then plunged again into the group of shiftless, heed- 
 less men to whom Blest-Gana had introduced him in 
 the first days. They were all scatterbrains, and he 
 loved them: men of talent, most of them, and spend- 
 thrift of it — living from hand to mouth here and 
 there, lending when they had, borrowing when they 
 had not ; generous and free, almost, even in the matter 
 of wives, communistic. David lent freely to all of 
 them, and had them all quickly at his feet. He 
 asked none of them to his house, but kept them as a 
 life apart, rarely talked of it; but, when he was stifled 
 with the close air of the little drawing-rooms and 
 
28o DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 the too charming' studios to which Nina led him, re- 
 turned to these men, and came back refreshed. Of 
 this Nina could not complain, for she was glad that 
 he should not be as the other men — " confined be- 
 tween his hat and his boots " — ^but should find where- 
 soever he might that which should feed his largeness. 
 To her David was so large that it could seem no 
 wonder if he picked all the city up and held it in his 
 hand, or with one noble gesture razed it. Distress 
 came to her because he seemed disposed to accomplish 
 neither of these wonders, and in neither circle to oust 
 any champion from his eminence. That he should 
 be supreme among the little men of the half-world 
 was no food for her desires, for in that world noth- 
 ing was done — nothing which was marked, nothing 
 which could set tongues babbling, and rouse the buzz 
 of admiration. Chatter might be won from it, but 
 chatter of David was for Nina unthinkable, and not 
 to be endured. David was glorious, and the glory 
 of him must be known and shared; for Nina knew 
 this for true : that what is most dearly loved must be 
 shared, if only to make wider the lover's power of 
 loving. 
 
 Things had come to this pass : that she had ali pre- 
 pared, the way cleared for his march to the goal she 
 saw for him, but found that David would not budge. 
 He watched the struggle among Nina's friends — the 
 grabbing and snatching at power, the hustling and 
 bustling for it, the jealousy and the shrill chitter- 
 chatter of the women, as now this, now that, man 
 broke and won fresh ground, and he made sport of 
 it all. When he was wearied of it, he plunged among 
 those friends who had no thought of struggle, or 
 lower still, where was the sterner, finer, and more 
 bitter fight for bread. Everywhere he sought for 
 the human quality, for that 'which raised men and 
 
DEVIOUS [WAYS 281 
 
 women out of and above the machine in which they 
 whirled. As in old days out in the world, men and 
 women worn, cramped, and fighting against the 
 forces that hemmed them in, came to him for comfort. 
 Always in their tales and plaints was proof and con- 
 firmation of the thought to which all his experience 
 had driven him, that all p^ace and happiness hang 
 from what men choose to make of women. 
 
 Stories were told to him that brought him almost 
 to despair, so pitiful were they in their revelation of 
 the crassness of men and the foolishness of women — 
 the dear foolishness of women, so soft and gentle in 
 their bolstering of men, in their worship of the lies 
 in themselves. 
 
 "These men and their lies, and their worship of 
 the lies in themselves." 
 
 So Blest-Gana had said, and to David now each 
 new experience, each tale of misery, brought fresh 
 proof that herein was touched the heart of the trouble. 
 Men will swagger, and women are so fond to take 
 pride in their crowning; and for the good that issued 
 from the dear pretence, all that could be asked was. 
 How did it weigh with the ill? Further, if there 
 were freedom and no chains in mating, would there 
 be needed such pretence ? Would not still eacli woman 
 think her man more mighty than all others, and would 
 not each man still swell and glow, cluck and grow 
 fat under the pretence? And again, further, would 
 there ever be equal mating? Could it, indeed, be that 
 there should ever be a man the equal of his woman 
 in their love? 
 
 To that last question came the ringing " No." 
 "The power of women," thought David, watching 
 Nina, " is in their forgetfulness of self, in their full 
 giving of themselves. What man can give himself 
 utterly? Aind yet — and yet, if men could be made to 
 
282 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 see, could be made to surrender as completely and 
 as wholly as women have ever done, would there not 
 then be an end to all this wretched chafing, all the 
 waste, and all the withering of love? If men could 
 be got to give themselves as simply, purely, and with 
 such sweet honesty of purpose as women have ever 
 done, would not then the truth spring forth blazing, 
 good triumph over evil, and light over the powers 
 of darkness? Would not then the world be a very 
 paradise, free once more?" 
 
 David had been much exercised with the doctrine 
 of original sin, and the lies that it had spread. He 
 had striven to be done with it, to master it, but to 
 follow the thread of its influence and devastating ef- 
 fect had been too baffling. He could achieve no more 
 than this: 
 
 " There is no virtue but it is also a vice. Chastity 
 also is often a hideous and cruel vice.*' 
 
 He reached out to take his pipe and pouch of to- 
 bacco from the little table by his chair — it had been 
 one of Nina's £rst purchases for the house — and, look- 
 ing up, found Nina sitting staring at him with great 
 eyes. There was that in her face that shocked him, 
 shattered all the complacency of his groping after wis- 
 dom. She was puzzled, and her eyes were probing; 
 she seemed to be hurt, and chafing against the hurt. 
 For him it was as though there were a stabbing and 
 a tearing in his heart. The pipe fell from his hand 
 and clattered to the hearth. 
 
 So they sat there staring at each other, the mind 
 of each leaping to the other, only to fall back hurt 
 and bruised. Her hand went up to her bosom, .and 
 the white fingers tugged at the chain she wore round 
 her neck — ^the first gift that David had made her after 
 their marriage-day. Down went her hand again and 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 283 
 
 plucked at the stuff of her gown — man and woman 
 wondering at the mystery of each other. 
 
 Absurdly there flashed into David's mind the scene 
 on the veld, Blest-Gana, the two boys and himself 
 sitting round the fire, and the story: 
 
 " He bade her wear a veil, and she obeyed him. 
 He bade her keep to the house while he was away, 
 and she obeyed him. ... In the end he forgot that 
 she was very beautiful . . . and he killed her." 
 
 Gazing at Nina now, he knew that she was very 
 beautiful, that he had not forgotten this, nor anything 
 of all that they had had — ^not the first meeting, nor 
 the first love-words, nor the moments of wonder, nor 
 the sweet voice of Nina through the first glory of it 
 all saying: 
 
 " Before it was so much, but now . . ." 
 
 That was nearly a year ago. Nothing could alter 
 that. It remained, and would remain, the topmost 
 leaping of life's flame. . . . There had been that 
 and the thousand moments of tenderness, all the sweets 
 of closest meeting of spirits in union; there had been 
 the dearest comradeship and completest human fellow- 
 ship; there had been delicious quarrels and the more 
 delightful repairing of the breach; there had been 
 gusty irritations and fond accusations ; there had been 
 always the steady meeting of eyes in the most bound- 
 less love, asking more and more of the true gold. 
 
 And now . . . and now, eyes met steadily enough, 
 but in each was the question, "What are you?" In 
 neither was there fear, in neither was there doubt; 
 but in each was agony from this cutting edge of the 
 inquiring spirit. To David it seemed that he saw 
 Nina for the first time clearly as a thing separate 
 and even remote from himself; to Nina it seemed 
 that she saw David as a thing removed — far removed 
 
284 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 — from herself, grown mountainous, too large for her 
 embrace ; David, who had been to her as a little child, 
 held in her arms. He was vague, misty, but still 
 David — most wonderfully her David. 
 
 She stirred a little and moved towards him; al- 
 most imperceptibly her hand moved out towards him. 
 She moved into the sunlight streaming through the 
 window, through the old lime-tree in their garden, 
 and under the golden light for the first time David 
 saw her clearly — saw the beauty of her face, the wide 
 brow, and the clear eyes under the brow, the soft eyes, 
 the tender red mouth, the lips now parted, the teeth 
 so white, and over all the pale hair, honey-coloured, 
 that was so sweet and soft to the fingers. He saw the 
 pure line of her neck, the brave line of her shoulders, 
 her arms, and her hands now held out towards him. 
 Soft she was, and so beautiful: 'woman, and his! 
 The brute rose in him — the sheer savage desire to 
 hurt. He leaned towards her, to hold her gaze, then, 
 with eyes staring into hers, he stooped, picked up his 
 pipe, filled, lit, and sank back into his chair. 
 
 Agony in her would not be controlled. A cry 
 leaped from her: 
 
 "David!" 
 
 Already the hurt had recoiled upon himself, but for 
 that he was only the more helpless. There v/as a 
 weight upon him, and he could not move, could not 
 stir even a finger to help her, nor comfort. He could 
 not take back what he had done, nor could he grasp 
 the nature of it, so subtle was it and intangible. His 
 own words, all that he had been thinking and trying 
 to grasp, rose to mock him. Blest-Gana's love, too. 
 There was torment in that. He saw again his friend 
 in his passion of remorse and fury for the waste of 
 the woman and of himself; and the mocking thing 
 in David, the damnable spirit of cruelty that was in 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 285 
 
 him, cried out : " Ay, but most for the waste of him- 
 self." In the saying of it David came to the bitter 
 knowledge that in one moment he had betrayed both 
 his wife and his friend, and his teeth closed on the 
 stem of his pipe and bit through it. 
 
 Nina came to him. 
 
 "Oh, David, David, my dear — ^my very dear! 
 What is it? What have I done ? " 
 
 He held her for a moment, caressed her, and 
 smoothed away the hurt in her; but it was gone, and 
 all thought of it, so soon as she perceived the bitter- 
 ness in him. 
 
 " I don't know, Nina ... I don't know." 
 
 "What is it, then? Not I?" 
 
 " No— not you." 
 
 "Why, then, it can be nothing. For if I do not 
 hurt you, what other hurt can matter?" 
 
 " I don't know ... I don't know. ... It is 
 simply that I do not understand. . . ." 
 
 " Then no one can understand." 
 
 " That is truth." 
 
 " David, we have everything . . . everything." 
 
 " It is a world of knaves and fools and cowards, 
 and I have shown myself more knavish, foolish, cow- 
 ardly, than all of them." 
 
 "But how, David— but how? I love you." She 
 held to it, and would not let him go until he could 
 laugh at himself, and even then she followed him with 
 the eyes of fear as he strode to the window and looked 
 up into the lime-tree at a fat pigeon drowsing on a 
 branch. He took a nut and shied it at the bird, hitting 
 it on the head. It cocked a red, reproachful eye at 
 him. He whistled up at it, striving to make a note 
 that it could understand. He was unsuccessful, and 
 succeeded only in driving the bird away. 
 
 "It is all curiously linked with Mrs. Spencer," he 
 
286 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 said. "And I can't drive her from my mind — her 
 nor my father. She stands for something that I don't 
 understand. Worlds removed stands jny mother. . . . 
 The upward and downward movement; the vision of 
 the world and the real; the thing seen and the thing 
 done; those who know and those whose chief pride 
 is their ignorance. . . ." 
 
 Nina came and clasped her hands about his shoulder, 
 Even at his most ponderous her David was adorable. 
 
 " Oh, but . . ." she said — " but, if you would do 
 something," and was then fearful of her audacity. 
 For a moment that seemed an age to her David's 
 face was blank, stern and set, and he looked out, 
 and seemed to see nothing. She watched, and still 
 there was no cnange in him. The shoulder under her 
 hands trembled. 
 
 Then he laughed, she, too, her silver notes chiming 
 through his great shout as he flung his head back. 
 
 He swept her from her feet, held and hugged her. 
 
 " Woman, woman, wicked, audacious woman ! you 
 snuflf out man and reason with your finger and thumb." 
 
 He kissed finger and thumb, then set her down 
 again. 
 
 " Come," he said ; " I have yet to give you London 
 for your wedding-gift." 
 
 So Nina won her David to her will. She had him 
 by leading-strings. The half-world — the world of 
 borrowers and lenders — knew him no more, and since 
 it is needful for a man to have some label, David, for 
 his much knowledge of the world and the dark places 
 of it, was dubbed " Explorer." And among men and 
 women constitutionally incapable of leaving England 
 behind them in their travels abroad he became an 
 authority on all sorts of foreign and colonial questions. 
 When it was discovered that he had begun life as a 
 common sailor before the mast, he was a figure more 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 287 
 
 than ever clothed in romance. In time it came to 
 pass that he could hardly open his lips without " Ro- 
 mantic " greeting him, and when in protest he de- 
 clared tfcat nothing in his experience was one half 
 so romantic as modern London, he was greeted with 
 the still more irritating " Paradox." 
 
 "Of course," said an earnest woman to him one 
 night at a dinner-party — " of course, coming new to 
 it from the killing of lions, or was it tigers . . . ? " 
 
 " Women," said David gruffly ; and the earnest 
 woman looked arch, then continued: 
 
 " Tigers . . . you cannot see it all. I know that 
 foreigners are at first appalled, then fascinated, by 
 the greyness of it." 
 
 " It is so queer to see the sun like a red lamp, 
 hanging." 
 
 "Ah! but you cannot see, cannot appreciate, until 
 you have the statistics, the hopeless misery that under- 
 lies the glitter and pomp. . . ." , She paused to let 
 this phrase sink home, and to look round the table to 
 see how many others were eager to catch her 
 words. 
 
 " Fat rich and wretched poor." 
 
 " I seem to have heard that before," said David. 
 
 " Ah ! you hear it on all sides. The country is at 
 last awakening to the awful condition of its affairs. 
 Public penury, private ostentation." 
 
 " Is that necessarily worse than public ostentation 
 and private penury?" 
 
 " Ah ! " — the gloomy lady sighed — " that shows that 
 you have no understanding of the problem, or you 
 could not laugh." 
 
 " Organize the Theatre." This came from a yearn- 
 ing woman on the other side of the table placed near 
 Nina. _ •.- — - 
 
 At once they were plunged into a general discus- 
 
288 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 sion of the province of the Theatre in the life of the 
 community. The yearning woman, having drawn at- 
 tention to herself, took full advantage of it, and aired 
 cranky theories, according to which it seemed that 
 the theatre should be a sort of cathedral, to which only 
 chosen souls were to be admitted. For these plays 
 were to be written and performed which they, and 
 only they, could understand, and thus the country, 
 even the world, was to be reformed. Plays dealing 
 with sex, otherwise than from the point of view of a 
 police-court reporter, were to be taboo, and only ur- 
 gent sociological problems to be discussed — strikes, 
 labour exchanges, trade unions, religious education, 
 solitary confinement. . . . 
 
 ^' I would suggest," said David, " that an excellent 
 drama might be written upon the subject of the rinder- 
 pest." 
 
 "Of course," said the yearning lady, "any prob- 
 lem of colonization should be discussed." 
 
 TSTow, it happened that there was an actor at the 
 table, who, during the harangue and the discussion, 
 had been growing more and more angry, fidgeting and 
 muttering to himself. At length he could endure it 
 no longer. 
 
 " I am an actor," he said. " I say that this dis- 
 cussion business is all very well, but it is not drama. 
 I have acted in your discussion plays, and I know that 
 it is all wrong. What happens? I come on the 
 stage ; I have the audience by the throat — because I'm 
 an actor, and know my trade — and the first words I 
 have to say are all wrong, so that I lose grip, and have 
 to spend the rest of my time struggling to regain it. 
 I am left floundering about with a mess of words 
 that have no dramatic significance, because the drama- 
 tist imagings^the world to be agape to know what he 
 thinks'/ — ^he fixed an eyeglass and glared at the 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 289 
 
 yearning lady — " of the rinderpest, or the true art of 
 toasting cheese, or the establishment of gin-shops on 
 the Embankment, or any of the topics that they froth 
 about in these days of sentimental socialism. . . . 
 I'm a Tory. . . ." 
 
 He flung himself back in his chair, and rolled his 
 head from side to side, puffing and muttering, while 
 through his eyeglass he glared fixedly at the yearn^ 
 ing woman, as though she were the original enemy 
 and temptress of mankind. She, in her turn, looked 
 scornfully in his direction. In a low though per- 
 fectly audible voice, and at her most acid, she said: 
 
 " it is curious how unintellectual all actors, are. 
 For some actresses there is hope." 
 
 The actor swung about in his chair. He was heard 
 to mutter: 
 
 " Let them try to manage a theatre — ^just for a 
 week. That is all I ask. Let them try it." 
 
 "Is everything wrong in England?" asked Nina 
 in mischievous innocence. 
 
 " Everything," said David's neighbour. " We are 
 hypocrites, Pharisees, sentimentalists, vain-glorious, 
 Sabbatarians, hysterical, money-grubbing, sordid, 
 mean, dishonest, filibustering. . . . We use words 
 that have lost their meaning ; we foster old institutions 
 that have lost their efficacy; we permit of a feudal 
 tenure of land without feudal service for it. We have 
 no art, no literature, no music, no culture, no leisure. 
 . . . We are moribund." 
 
 This last word came with a ring of ghoulish glee, 
 and the yearning woman yearned the more. 
 
 From the head of the table came a quiet voice, say- 
 ing: 
 
 " It is so easy to abuse." 
 
 The actor applauded, and the malcontents eyed each 
 other uneasily. 
 
290 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " Nothing is sacred to them," said the actor — 
 "nothing. They wish to slaughter shams? Very 
 well, then: that is right — that is laudable; but it is 
 necessary first to know the real from the sham, and, 
 in their passion for slaughter, these men — and women 
 — go for the real as though that were a sham. All 
 reformers are blind." 
 
 " Indeed, yes," came the quiet voice ; " for if they 
 were not blind, they would not be reformers. It is 
 a good blindness, that of the intoxication of preju- 
 dice. What do you think, Mr. Brockman ? " 
 
 David, who had been watching his neighbour with 
 delight in her exasperation, startled to find himself 
 addressed by name, looked up, and, under the steady 
 eyes that sought him, could not for some moments 
 speak. The eyes were set under a high brow, round 
 which was clustered soft grey hair. The face was 
 quiet, clever, and bore the marks of brave suffering. 
 In the moments while he was gathering the thread 
 of the discussion, and pursuing it to the point when 
 it should fire his imagination, he thought of all that 
 he knew of this woman, who had shown herself so 
 good a friend to Nina, both in old days and now under 
 the new order — Mrs. Sacret. She was a woman with- 
 out marked talent, save that for friendship, but she 
 was known as the helper of the weak, and the cham- 
 pion of the romantically distressed. It was said of 
 her that, if she had no children, she had made ample 
 amends to society by the number of happy marriages 
 she had brought about by her skilled handling of 
 elopements. She was also invariably kind to scally- 
 wags and ne'er-do-wells. 
 
 Now she compelled silence, and, by the turning of 
 her own attention upon David, forced that of all her 
 guests to him. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 291 
 
 " What do you think, Mr. Brockman ? " Even the 
 actor ceased to think of himself and the number of 
 years that he had been upon the stage. 
 
 Nina was anxious. It was right that David should 
 so be the central figure, right that all should wait for 
 the moment when he should speak. She watched him 
 narrowly, anxiously, and it seemed so long before 
 words came. She wondered why he should never take 
 his eyes from Mrs. Sacret. She saw a dancing light 
 come into his eyes, then die again. She looked round 
 at the faces, all turned to watch David; then back 
 she came to him and Mrs. Sacret. His eyes met hers, 
 and smiled. 
 
 " Both sides are here. Is there more to be said ? " 
 
 There was relief expressed in the face of his neigh- 
 bour, who had brought the argument about their ears. 
 Mrs. Sacret marked it, and only the more urged David 
 to enlarge upon them, and rallied him upon his recal- 
 citrance. 
 
 "Your silence is very impressive; but, believe me, 
 Mr. Brockman, it will not last long. I have known a 
 number of reputations built upon a stern and intel- 
 lectual silence. Many have been shattered at the first 
 word. . . ." 
 
 Nina trembled, until David laughed. 
 
 "And if the first word shatters? ..." 
 
 " Pooh ! you are romantic. No one has yet con- 
 sidered you interesting. Now is your opportuni ty." 
 
 " The Theatre," said the yearning woman, " is the 
 pulpit of the world, the voice and the machine of 
 peoples." 
 
 " But," said David, " the Theatre must remain the 
 Theatre. If you must preach in it, then your sermon 
 must be dramatic." 
 
 " Just what I say ! " °aid the actor, " They deny 
 
292 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 art. Just what I say! Dramatic! Breaking away 
 from convention is one thing; breaking away from 
 art is another." 
 
 David then borrowed frankly from Blest-Gana and 
 what he had said during their walks abroad. 
 
 "As for educating the public, it cannot be accom- 
 _plished through the intellect, for it has no intellect." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " The yearning woman threw 
 up her hands in despair, and roused David to warmth. 
 
 " It is true," he said ; " we share nothing but the 
 universal and the fundamental — the first elemental 
 human things. We must build upon those, or we 
 build in vain. From what I have seen, all your clever 
 people are so anxious to avoid the commonplace that 
 they sweep these very first things into the category, 
 and hardly consider them at all. All that links one 
 man to another they shun in this curious terror, bred 
 of self-consciousness. They must all the while be 
 persuading themselves of their own cleverness, and 
 talk glibly of abolishing institutions, property, mar- 
 riage, and the family. Am I right?" 
 
 He looked towards Mrs. Sacret for confirmation. 
 She nodded. 
 
 " They talk of these things without ever consider- 
 ing seriously what they are, how built, and how 
 sprung, and from what original needs. My own 
 view is — I give it for what it may be worth" — ^the 
 yearning woman folded her arms to convey her esti- 
 mation of the value of what might be forthcoming — 
 " my own view is that we must go back always to 
 these first things to be able to understand anything at 
 all, and certainly to be able to appreciate another's 
 „ ooint of view. There is no going straight from one 
 __igoint to another. It is a matter of going down and 
 up again. It is, to me, a matter of feeling just as 
 much as of thinking — of feeling more than of think- 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 293 
 
 ing. Well, in the Theatre, that is what you are try- 
 ing to do — ^to make points of view intelligible, to re- 
 veal the springs of conduct, to win sympathy, and so 
 to breed understanding and the right sort of int elli- 
 gence. Dogma cannot do that; that is why the 
 Churches have failed. Everybody with the desire for 
 illumination is turning towards the Theatre; every- 
 body in London has his or her pet scheme for re- 
 claiming the Theatre from the grasp of commer- 
 cialism. . . ." 
 
 " I have twenty schemes," said Mrs. Sacret. ., — 
 " Well, then, make it a place for the breeding of 
 sympathy, not a sort of undergraduate discussion so- 
 ciety. Show the infinite capacity of human nature, 
 and, above all, that men are men and women women, 
 and that neither can hope to be anything finer than 
 that. Why, what does it help to show the meannesses 
 and selfishnesses? We are all capable of the worst 
 and of the best, but from too many the best is hidden. 
 Here you have a machine to show the finest, to throw 
 light upon dark places, and, from all that I have seen, 
 all that is done is to exhibit the drab, dull, sordid, 
 mean in our life as we must live it; and because the 
 stage must heighten and enlarge, these things are 
 shown as more hopeless, inevitable, and joy-ki lling , 
 than in truth they are. Deliberately to set to work to 
 make people think is to breed misconception, error, 
 and to make confusion worse confounded; but to 
 make them feel and fully to grasp the guiding princi- 
 ples of the world and of life, to make them see the 
 dividing-line between good and evil, between light and 
 darkness, right and wrong, is truly evangelists' work : 
 it is to breed thought. The poets are the evangel- 
 ists. . ." ." ^ 
 
 He had his hearers all attention. He paused and 
 looked round to mark the effect of what he had said ; 
 
294 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 then, seeing the flush and gladness in Nina, he plunged 
 again : 
 
 " I mean that — ^that we cannot set back time. We 
 cannot ignore history and all that has been. We can- 
 not decide that the world would be a very splendid 
 place without this, that, and the other element in our 
 nature to which we think we can trace the source of 
 all our evils. We cannot cease to be men and women ; 
 we cannot begin again upon new lines, simply because 
 what makes life worth living are the forces which 
 are greater than ourselves, and of their nature we 
 know nothing at all. We do not know their purpose ; 
 we do not know their origin — neither whence they 
 are sprung nor whither they are tending. We have 
 only the present and the little moment of our lives, 
 splendid only when they are linked with the past which 
 we cannot sound, and with the future which we can- 
 not see. We have that given to us which alone can 
 bring us this fulness of quality and sense of purpose ; 
 and while there remains to us so much that is splendid 
 yet unexplored in this world of ours, it is shameful 
 foolishness to gird at what we have, or, as has been 
 for too long taught, to sacrifice anything that there 
 is in this world for the sake of such a future as we 
 "can imagine. ... If your Theatre, if any art, can 
 jteach men and women to be human, it is enough. 
 And — and I do not think I have said anything which 
 was not already said five thousand years ago. Let 
 that be my excuse." 
 
 There was complete silence as he finished. He 
 made the mistake of breaking it with some irrelevant 
 reminiscence. Mrs. Sacret was at once alive to his 
 blunder, and saved the situation by rising to give the 
 ladies the signal to leave the gentlemen to their wine 
 and tobacco. 
 
 Success or not, the other women contrived to send 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 295 
 
 Nina away radiant and rejoicing — ^the depths in David 
 had been sounded, brave things brought to light — 
 what they had said of him— " Simple," "Honest," 
 "No other man could without affectation have said 
 such things." 
 
 The yearning woman, holding fast to her idols, 
 had, indeed, hinted at pose; but Mrs. Sacret had 
 flouted her, and, turning to Nina, asked! for the tale 
 of David's life, whence he had sprung, and how he 
 had come by what he had of truth. 
 
 " He must have suffered." 
 
 " He has starved," said Nina. 
 
 " It is something to have met him," said Mrs. Sacret. 
 " But it is difficult to see what place he can take in 
 the world. He should be doing something hopelessly 
 unpractical — ^be writing impossible, unpublishable 
 works, or conducting clubs for working-men in the 
 slums. If he could write!" 
 
 She turned a little vindictively upon her yearning 
 friend. 
 
 " But his hair is quite distressingly short ! " 
 
 With that she took to exhibiting the latest of her 
 treasures, and would say no more; but already Nina 
 had enough, and more than enough. What she most 
 desired had been brought about so suddenly as almost 
 to be beyond belief : just the beginning of it, but, once 
 begun, who could tell where it should end? 
 
 Over their port the actor was already suggesting 
 to David that he should write a play, in which the star 
 part should be made to say what David had said. 
 The scenario had been sketched as far as the second 
 act, and delighted David as he perceived how gro- 
 tesquely all that he had tried to express was distorted 
 to the making of an heroically " fat " part for the 
 actor. 
 
 "Then, when Sir Dominick has perceived the in- 
 
296 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 fidelity of his wife, in the third act he brings about a 
 dramatic meeting between the lover and the wife. 
 He forgives, and then he might say all that about 
 not knowing much of the past and the future. By 
 Jove, sir, that would get them, that would ! " 
 When David told Nina about it later, he said : 
 "These actors must be happy, for, like no others, 
 they are convinced that what they are doing is the 
 most worth while of anything in the world." 
 
V 
 
 Nicholas was the first of the family to meet David 
 after his return to England. Having won through 
 the difficulty of the announcement of his marriage, 
 his courage failed him, and he left his financial quan- 
 dary unconfessed. 
 
 His father presented him with a house and furni- 
 ture, and Nicholas was settled with his wife, now 
 tamed, docile, and almost irritating in her excellent 
 intentions. His creditors came about his ears. He 
 dared not turn to his father after his unexpected and 
 unwonted generosity, and, fortunately, though he Avas 
 sorely tempted to issue a bill of sale on the furniture 
 as the easiest way out, he had the sense to see that 
 this was only to leap from one shaky foothold in 
 the bog to another. 
 
 Twisting and turning, he came at length to the idea 
 that David might help, for, though no definite news 
 had reached them of his condition, yet there had fil- 
 tered to them a vague knowledge that David and Nina 
 were living in some state, and moving in rare com- 
 pany, and certainly, whatever else might be, there 
 was the money of the old lady of Bardon. In any 
 case, there was no prospect of help from any other 
 quarter. 
 
 Upon the first announcement that David would 
 come to visit his family, there had been great prepa- 
 rations, and a fatted calf had been slain. The family 
 foregathered — Nicholas and his bride, Audrey and 
 her James. Henry prepared a speech of generous 
 welcome in his best City Council manner, and his 
 
 397 
 
298 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 wife added a piece of lace to her usually austere garb. 
 They made valiant efforts to be cheerful, and to create 
 a comfortable atmosphere. Mrs. Brockman quite dis- 
 tressed Mrs. Nicholas with the politeness of her at- 
 tentions (she had already reduced the young woman 
 to despair by her firm ordering of the new house- 
 hold), and was even griacious lyith the luckless James, 
 a lean, romantic-looking yotmg man, whom hard 
 times had reduced to extremity and abjectness. 
 
 He had never been allowed to forget that he was 
 indebted to his father-in-law for all that he had, and 
 for the bare livelihood of himself, his wife, and their 
 two weakly children. A place had been found for 
 him in the general counting-house of the catering 
 business when, through no fault of his own, other 
 than constitutional incompetence and unfitness, he 
 had been cast out neck and crop from the small posi- 
 tion that he held in the cotton trade. It had been 
 necessary for him to understand the causes of the 
 fluctuations in the price of cotton, and this had been 
 altogether beyond his capacity, so that, when some 
 greedy financier in New York had inflated the price 
 and dislocated the machinery of the business in South 
 Lancashire, and economy had become necessary, 
 James had been pitched on as the most obviously dis- 
 pensable stone in the fabric. He had been met by 
 Mrs. Brockman with stony silence and an infuriated 
 click of the needles, and nothing had induced her to 
 relent until the arrival of the second bom, when she 
 melted, and set him on his feet again. The spirit was 
 crushed out of him — he was of true Braydale stock, 
 dried and withered from the earliest hours — and al- 
 ways in his rare visits to the Brockman house slunk 
 and hung aloof in comers, and never ventured upon 
 a remark unless it were forced upon him. Mrs. 
 Brockman had both James and Audrey screwed down 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 299 
 
 to the right pitch of submissiveness, so that they 
 dared conceal nothing from her, or, if they dared, so 
 persistently avoided her that presently, scenting defi- 
 ance, she would don her most formidable bonnet — 
 that wherein jet spangled feathers swung and bobbed 
 — descend upon them, and, by adroit cross-examina- 
 tion, extort what thing it was concealed, and leave 
 them more completely abased than before. 
 
 With Nicholas, as a bachelor, she was indulgent. 
 It was part of her theory that men are beasts, and 
 therefore there was no call to interfere with anything 
 that he might do, so only that it were not so flagrant 
 as to cause open scandal or the throwing of mud at 
 the name of Brockman. When, however, he was 
 married, and to such a wife, she set herself to scotch- 
 ing all that there had been in her view of wanton in 
 the relation of the pair of them by keying them down 
 also to the true note of respectability. There had been 
 terrible scenes when his pretty fool had come crying 
 to Nicholas, declaring that the tyranny was no longer 
 to be endured, and that in her own house she must be 
 allowed to have some things arranged after her own 
 fashion. Nicholas had at first sided with her, and 
 with a wretched little swagger had hinted as boldly 
 as he dared that his stepmother's attentions were not 
 altogether welcome. This had been met with a glare 
 and a sniff, and the indomitable woman had passed 
 over him and his objections like a great wave rolling 
 over and engulfing a castle of sand. Without the 
 support of Nicholas, the poor child had been unable 
 to resist, and she, too, and all her life were delivered 
 up to the controlling p/esence. 
 
 Mrs. Brockman's boots were symbolical to this lit- 
 tle fluffy mind of all that was most hard and crushing. 
 They were of kid, thin-soled, so as to be worn in- 
 doors and out. They were elastic-sided, and before 
 
300 DEVIOUS ,WAYS 
 
 and behind a tag stuck out. They were square-toed. 
 This species of boot, so she learned, was known to 
 the world as the " Jemima." They exercised a hor- 
 rible fascination upon Mrs. Nicholas, and the creak- 
 ing of them as their owner walked haunted her ears. 
 
 There was not much happiness for the pair of them, 
 but then happiness was not in the philosophy of Mrs. 
 Henry Brockman. She was convinced of the recti- 
 tude of her own mode of living — that which she 
 adopted when she had come to know her husband 
 through and through and to love him not at all — and 
 also of the iniquity of all others. Almost in a mis- 
 sionary spirit she set about the regeneration of her 
 immediate world by bringing all the lives within her 
 reach uilder her control. For peace she let H«nry go 
 his way, but thought only the more, and, whenever 
 possible, had him writhing under the contempt which 
 she let him see that she had for him. She would not 
 bend to new influences, but moulded all that came to 
 conformity with the rigid and inexorable principles 
 which she had evolved in the long years of musing 
 over her knitting. By what process she arrived at 
 these it is impossible to divine, for she was incapable 
 of clear thought. She was blind to every point of 
 view not her own, and if she realized qualities in 
 others not in her own nature, set them down for 
 wickedness, light and vain things. 
 
 Knowing the weakness of her husband, and his ab-. 
 solute reliance upon herself, she had come in time to 
 confuse that refinement which had once brought her 
 to fondness with the weakness in him, and hated it, 
 as she hated everything that she imagined to have 
 come to him from his old life. What she knew of 
 the Andrew story she had dismissed as rotten, cor- 
 rupt, and immoral, and the source of all the wicked- 
 
DEVIOUS IWAYS 301 
 
 ness and folly in her stepchildren, and it was in part 
 to whip these ofifending qualities from .them that she 
 imposed so severe a discipline upon them. 
 
 Upon one occasion, coming upon the boy John in 
 his rites of worship of the shades of St! Justin and 
 Andrew, and reading of the old books that had bred 
 such madness in the erring David, she had taken and 
 burned all the treasures that had been brought from 
 Bardon. She had found the boy poring over an old 
 letter. This she had snatched from him and read, 
 and as she read her lips came tighter together and 
 her face grew more livid. 
 
 " Poisonous," she said, but kept the letter until an 
 evening came when Henry was at home. Then she 
 brought the ofifending document from her pocket, and 
 without prelude or forewarning read aloud: 
 
 " ' My very Dear, 
 
 " ' There is wonder in it still, and what we have is 
 all the goodness in the world. The herons and all the 
 birds in mating-time will know, and all that country- 
 side will always be for me Mary-country, from the 
 pinewoods to the sea. . . . Oh, if I could find words 
 for it all, only to make you glad again as you were in 
 the beginning, and help you to forget the foolish 
 hours of misery and torture that I have brought to 
 you ; to make you remember always the best, the shin- 
 ing truth of the world, joy, and all good things ! To 
 see so clearly — there must be happiness in that, and 
 strength for you and for me. You have said to me 
 in the last written words I had from you, " Hold me 
 close to you." That I will do. Always, always I am 
 at your call, ready to come hotfoot. Mary, all that 
 she has, and has made — these should be sung with 
 no piping voice, but gloriously and with a great shout. 
 
302 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 I only pray that I may be large enough to sing your 
 praise. . . .'" 
 
 She read in a dull, dead voice, so that the words 
 sounded grotesque. Henry gaped at her, wondering 
 what she might be at. He was puzzled, and his mem- 
 ory was touched. He was straining after something 
 that he had forgotten, and yet because he could not 
 grasp what thing it was, he listened as though in a 
 dream while she droned on, nothing to lend colour 
 to the sounds she made but spite, and to that she gave 
 full play. 
 
 " * In praise of Mary. Why, there is ringing music 
 in those words, calling up sights, scents, sounds, col- 
 our, hills and valleys, trees and rare water. . . . 
 Gallant. That's the word, and there are more and 
 more crowding in, all eager, little words and great 
 words tumbling over each other, pell-mell, helter- 
 skelter, rushing, running, crying out, "I am here to 
 serve in praise of Mary." ... I am glad of you — 
 glad, glad, glad, glad of you whom I must not love. 
 Why, that is neither here nor there. What is there 
 can stay it, or ever come between, save only weakness 
 in our two selves? There are you and here am I — 
 great people, towering over the pigmy race . . .'" 
 
 Mrs. Brockman snorted, then continued: 
 
 " ' . . . Pigmy race, hands clasped high in the air 
 above them. They come, prick us, and sting. It is 
 nothing. Brush the flies away. ... Is this madness ? 
 Then show me one sane who has half this treasure. 
 Show me a sane man. He is craven, shaking in his 
 shoes, dried, withered, cramped, starved, cold, shrill, 
 peevish, blinking with night-clouded eyes that 
 know not the sun, watching always his neighbour to 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 303 
 
 see that he advances no foot farther forward than 
 himself, and, for upward movement, leaping sunward 
 — why, he turns sick and dizzy at the thought of it. 
 Give me a world of glorious madmen. Mary, there 
 is courage in me again. Glorious sun, a glade in 
 woods, woods on a hill, our hill, and on the siunmit 
 stand you, dazzling. ... By God, I can laugh! 
 Laugh, too, Mary. So, then, nothing is lost, and the 
 world wags busily for our delight. The words come 
 trippingly again, and the melody and the music from 
 which they come — Mary-music, more pure, more 
 sweet, more all-possessing and expressing than ever 
 before. . . .'" 
 
 Mrs. Brockman folded the letter and held it far in 
 front of her with delicate finger and thumb; then she 
 dropped it into the fire. 
 
 " That," she said — " that is what your son has been 
 reading. . . . Disgusting. , . ." 
 
 The blasphemy and sacrilege of this performance 
 revolted Henry, who astonished her by leaving her 
 without a word. All the same, she was well satisfied 
 with herself, and watched the paper curl up, glow, 
 burst into flame, and, charred, float up the chimney, 
 with an intense complacency, as though in the burn- 
 ing she had destroyed all the evil in the world. 
 
 The reading of the letter acted curiously and un- 
 expectedly upon Henry in making him less sensitive 
 and more impervious to his wife's barbs, and there- 
 after she must lash herself to vixenish fury if she 
 were to rouse him at all. 
 
 In John, the burning of it and the confiscation of 
 his treasures bred an unutterable hatred and detesta- 
 tion of the woman. Whenever he was from school, 
 she set herself to the task of redeeming his wretched 
 little tainted soul. , 
 
304 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 In spite of all these difficulties, and of the rousing 
 of so much irritation against herself, she yet con- 
 trived to maintain her position as the hub and centre 
 of the little group which surrounded her. Her op- 
 erations were extended through the chapel, which she 
 devoutly attended, outside the family, but these ex- 
 cursions only affected them in so far as they afforded 
 momentary relief. 
 
 Henry knew that without her the fabric they had 
 built must topple and fall, and therefore never made 
 show of open revolt. Neither son nor daughter dared 
 to move against her. John showed defiance upoin oc- 
 casion, but, being inarticulate, she could squash him 
 flat, and bring him to angry tears by telling him the 
 most awful tales of the wickedness of David. In his 
 rebellious mood the boy was encouraged by his 
 brother and sister, who afforded counteraction against 
 the woman's tales of David by showing the hero in 
 most splendid light — all the story of the robber-bands, 
 the butcher-boy, and the other mighty deeds, was set 
 before him. 
 
 So they were gathered for the coming of David in 
 the ugly and uncomfortable drawing-room which was 
 Mrs. Brockman's chief delight. She called it par- 
 lour, and for the working days of the week the fur- 
 niture in it was shrouded in dust-sheets. On Sun- 
 days and great days such as the present, or for the 
 reception of any distinguished visitor, such as the 
 minister, it was unveiled, and revealed in all its won- 
 derful ugliness of mahogany and cretonne, of anti- 
 macassars and wax fruit, of glass gaseliers, mirrors, 
 and everlasting grasses, of innumerable china orna- 
 ments, of crude oil-paintings, whose merit in Mrs. 
 Brockman's eyes lay in the fact that they were hand- 
 painted. The room was unerringly arranged io suit 
 the taste that demanded such things. Everything in 
 
DEVlOuS (WAYS 305 
 
 it was right, though everything in it was cryingly 
 wrong. In this it exactly reflected its mistress, and 
 as she was completely and unshakably satisfied with 
 herself, so she was fully and immutably content with 
 her parlour, and blind to any jarring effect that it 
 might have upon her visitors. 
 
 James, on his entry, made directly for the most 
 obscure corner of the room, and would not budget 
 Mrs. Brockman sat by the fire with her knitting. 
 Henty stood toasting his coat-tails, while Nicholas 
 and Audrey and Mrs. Nicholas sat funereally mute. 
 
 " I wonder," said Audrey, " if he will bring his 
 wife." 
 
 " I wonder," said Nicholas, by way of airing his 
 humour, " if she is black." 
 
 Henry cleared his throat. 
 
 " Of course," he said, " we let bygones be by- 
 gones." 
 
 Mrs. Brockman grunted. 
 
 " I mean," he explained, " that we make no refer- 
 ence to his long neglect of us all. After all, it is not 
 as though he had come back to ask anything of us." 
 
 " It is queer," said Nicholas, " how like John is to 
 David sometimes." 
 
 " What is his wife's name ? " This was from 
 AHadrey. 
 
 " Nina ; and beyond that he says nothing." 
 
 Nicholas again became jocular. 
 
 " Perhaps she was someone else's wife." 
 
 Mrs. Brockman glared at him until he was confused 
 and blushing. 
 
 " Will you kindly remember where you are?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said ; and they were silent 
 again, all looking at the clock with the exception of 
 Mrs. Nicholas, who never for a moment had taken 
 her eyes from Mrs. Brockman's boots. 
 
3o6 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Henry took out his watch, and compared its show- 
 ing with that of the clock. 
 
 "He should be here by now," he said, "if he is 
 coming." 
 
 "Shall you take him into the business, father?" 
 said Audrey. 
 
 " No." This came like the popping of a cork from 
 Mrs. Brockman, and effectively stopped that line of 
 communication. 
 
 " But . . ." said Henry. 
 
 "What was not good enough for him then will 
 certainly not be good enough for him now." 
 
 "No — o — " said Henry. 
 
 " Do you suppose he will come to live in Bray- 
 dale ? " asked Mrs. Nicholas, more from a desire to 
 make some remark than from any wish for informa- 
 tion. Nicholas turned on her. 
 
 " Now do you suppose any man in his senses 
 would come to live in such a place without some obli- 
 gation ? " 
 
 "What is wrong with it?" said Mrs. Brockman, 
 putting away her knitting. " I have lived here all my 
 life, and I see nothing wrong with the place." 
 
 This time Nicholas refused to be squashed. 
 
 " Wrong ? Everything. It is dirty, it is dark, it 
 is squalid, its climate is foul, its streets are a disgrace 
 to any self-respecting town ; the air is thick and pois- 
 onous; some people will make money in it, and the 
 rest starve. Will David come to live in it? . . . 
 My goodness! . . ." 
 
 His harangue was cut short by the arrival of a tele- 
 gram from David to say that an indisposition of 
 Nina's made it impossible for him to come. This 
 was read aloud, and they all faced each other blankly. 
 
 Mrs. Brockman took up her knitting again, and 
 almost without a word the party broke up. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 307 
 
 This fiasco bore fruit in Nicholas by filling his mind 
 with thoughts of David, which in the upshot sent 
 him upon some' flimsy excuse to London, while he 
 recommended his wife to the care of Helen, who 
 throughout had shown herself a staunch friend. To 
 her, after the capitulation of her husband, Mrs. Nicho- 
 las had turned for courage to face the tyranny of the 
 Jemimas ; and, grateful for this seeking of fellowship 
 in herself, Helen had brought the child to a greater 
 realization of wifely privilege and power. 
 
 In London, Nicholas first succumbed to the tempta- 
 tion to indulge in the light and easily procured pleas- 
 ures of the place, but found, rather to his dismay, that 
 his young delight in them was gone, and that, in truth, 
 they were not a little mean, and unworthy of a man. 
 In this new spirit he took a savage joy in passing by 
 the lawless acquaintance of earlier days. 
 
 He sought his brother at the hotel named in his first 
 letter, and was there given the address in Swan Walk. 
 Thither he repaired, clad as he was in tweeds, and, 
 to his horror, was shown into a room full of wonder- 
 ful and fashionable women, all more beautiful than 
 anything he had ever conceived or dared to imagine. 
 He was announced: 
 
 " Mr. Nicholas Brockman " ; and the most beautiful 
 of them all, clad dazzlingly in white and mauve, came 
 to greet him. Nicholas stood rooted, confused and 
 blushing; he bowed and stammered. 
 
 Nina led him, and introduced him, to this and that 
 great lady. He wished to escape, but longed also to 
 stay, and to be able freely to breathe this fine air. 
 The scent of the women intoxicated him, and the 
 scent of the lime-tree coming through the open win- 
 dow, filling all the room. 
 
 " Braydale and — this : smoke and sun " 
 
 To have in a town a green tree so close to your 
 
3o8 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 window — a green tree with cheeping birds — ^this was 
 to Nicholas nothing short of a miracle; and that it 
 should be linked up with David altogether incredible, 
 for, after all, David was his brother. Bred together 
 they had been, and here was a house more delightful 
 than any he had ever known, a room more charming 
 than any he had ever seen, filled with bright silver, 
 charming things, old things, sunlight and fragrant 
 scents; bewildering women and men, whose smooth- 
 ness and well-groomed ease roused him to envious 
 anger. That all this should belong to David, his 
 brother, was beyond belief. 
 
 He stood there gaping, and not hearing the com- 
 fortable words that Nina spoke to him. She had him 
 soon sitting by her, gave him to eat and to drink, 
 and leaving that guest who had most engrossed her 
 attention, gave herself to the task of setting him at 
 his ease. 
 
 He asked news of David. She gave a glowing ac- 
 count, and declared her sorrow that he should not 
 have fulfilled his promise to visit them. 
 
 " It was my foolish fault at first," she said, " and 
 then David became lazy, and, also, there was so much 
 to do." 
 
 Nicholas could not take his eyes from her face, 
 and in the end she smiled at him, and so set him 
 in a flutter that he dropped his teaspoon, then, bend- 
 ing to reach it, toppled cup and saucer, and stained 
 Nina's gown with tea. 
 
 Nicholas was for instant flight, but she comforted 
 him, and the mishap had this of good for him, that 
 it broke up the party, and one lady having gone, an- 
 other followed, and so all. 
 
 Alone with Nina, when she had changed her gown, 
 Nicholas gleaned further news of David, and more 
 and more devoutly worshipped at Nina's shrine. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 309 
 
 Without one word of questioning from her, he plunged 
 into confession, and revealed the woeful state of his 
 affairs, each word, though he was little aware of it, 
 casting light for Nina upon that from which David 
 had escaped. 
 
 When he had come to the end of his narrative, and 
 won from her the sympathy for which he craved, she 
 asked for news of Helen, and in her praise Nicholas 
 waxed warm. 
 
 " But she has been unhappy, too," he said, " and is 
 not half so beautiful as she promised to be. Where 
 did David find you?" 
 
 " We met in Africa." 
 
 "And what will he do?" 
 
 " We are waiting. You will stay with us ? " 
 
 " I ... I ... I am here for only so short a 
 time." 
 
 She persuaded him that David's brother could only 
 stay in David's house, and then showed him all the 
 rooms, the treasures they had brought from Africa, 
 and those that had come from Bardon, whither they 
 had lately been to take possession of the little white 
 house with the green door. 
 
 In the bedchamber hung the portrait of Margaret, 
 David's mother, which had been so great a joy to him 
 when he had stayed in the little house for the first 
 time. 
 
 " We are so glad to have it," said Nina. Nicholas 
 stood gazing at the girlish face. 
 
 " I had forgotten," he said, " what she was like. 
 I do not remember that she was ever like that." 
 
 "But David knew," said Nina. "This and the 
 portrait of your grandmother. You know the 
 story?" 
 
 Nicholas confessed ignorance, and Nina perceived 
 in this the gulf that lay between the brothers. 
 
3IO DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " There were old things at home," he said. " John 
 had them, but my stepmother destroyed them all." 
 
 "She . . .?" 
 
 "Yes. She hates all that. She says it is all so 
 soft and weak." 
 
 " It is the strength in David." 
 
 To Nicholas, unaccustomed to seek the cause and 
 origin of things, Nina was unintelligible. However, 
 he contrived to show an intelligent interest, and, pass- 
 ing from one thing to another, he managed to bring 
 her back to that which was of paramount importance 
 to him — his own sorry plight. Almost in spite of 
 himself, he plumped out his need for money and the 
 object of his visit. 
 
 "But, surely," said Nina, "your father " 
 
 " You don't know my stepmother." He said this 
 without bitterness, but entirely in dreary acceptance 
 of the inevitable. 
 
 Nina had all the details of his case set out before her 
 when David came rushing, calling out, boyish and 
 wild with joy: 
 
 " Nina," he said — " Nina, they've come — Anthony 
 and Clara, Bertram and Nan!" 
 
 He stopped as he saw the strange man sitting there, 
 and then shouted again: 
 
 "Nicholas!" 
 
 Nicholas rose shamefacedly, . and stood facing his 
 brother. David took him by the shoulders, shook 
 him, and scanned his face. 
 
 Nina, watching them, wondered that David should 
 be so much tlje younger of the two — a boy, while 
 Nicholas was tired, jaded, a man. David was from 
 the sun, while Nicholas came groping from the murk 
 and the dim light of the industrial North ; David was 
 a man of full stature, while Nicholas was dwarfed 
 and stunted. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 311 
 
 " He is to stay with us," said Nina. 
 
 "Of course," said David, and, clapping Nicholas 
 on the shoulder, had him telling news of all the fam- 
 ily. And during the telling Nicholas was gazing at 
 his brother, amazed, astonished, shaken with little 
 gusts of jealousy that all should be so well with him ; 
 angry that what was here so rare and beautiful should 
 show with such blasting clarity the otherness of what 
 himself had made of life. 
 
 He hovered and came near to expression of his pur- 
 pose, but ever drew back on the point of its declara- 
 tion. Finally he came to it, and said : 
 
 " I want two thousand pounds." 
 
 This was by three hundred pounds in excess of his 
 needs, but, having to make the humiliating request at 
 all, he had reasoned it out with himself that he might 
 as well profit by it; and now, when the words were 
 out, and what he asked immediately acceded to, he 
 wished that he had set the figure higher, and sat 
 imagining what he might do with so much wealth. 
 One thing was certain : that his wife should know 
 nothing of it, and should not directly profit by his 
 cleverness; for now that he saw success crown his 
 expedient, he took it to himself for a source of pride, 
 and planned what he might do to extend the advantage 
 he had gained. That there was any meanness in his 
 exaggeration did not occur to him; rather, he saw it 
 as an act of justice that David, who had so njuch, 
 should be despoiled. He saw himself laying up store 
 for the future, and power to break free from that 
 which bound him to his present slavery. He thought 
 his brother also not a little of a fool so easily to part 
 with money, without security, and — ^this to him was 
 the most inconceivable folly — without demand for 
 interest or any sort of note of hand. 
 
 With the cheque safely laid in his pocket-book, he 
 
312 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 rejoiced in his new feeling of security, and at dinner 
 that night drank overmuch wine, and let his tongue 
 wag. He swaggered about his father's position in 
 Braydale, and declared his own intention of coming 
 as soon as possible to London, either to extend the 
 operations of the parental concern or to make a begin- 
 ning on his own account. Restored after so long a 
 period of humiliation to his normal condition of self- 
 satisfaction, he preened himself, and revelled in it, 
 and though both David and Nina strove to head him 
 off to that which they really desired to know, he 
 plunged ahead in his revelation of what he took to 
 be his own astuteness, and, at first amusing, finally 
 came to irritating them. His song was in praise of 
 industrialism, and himself was the hero of it. 
 
 David succeeded at length in bringing him to John 
 and the boy's future. As to this Nicholas was hazy. 
 He had not considered the question, nor had ever 
 thought of the possibility of his younger brother's 
 growing to man's estate. Nina repeated what he had 
 already told her of the confiscation of the Bardon 
 treasures, and David looked black. 
 
 "Is it so?" 
 
 "Why, yes," said Nicholas. "All those things 
 of yours, you kkiow, she took and burned, and what 
 she did not burn she sold. John's a little like what 
 you used to be — not so crazy, though. Always writ- 
 ing tales and stuff of that sort, and wild about the 
 theatre. Talks like a book, and has his head full of 
 romantical notions. They say he's clever at school, 
 and wafit him to go to the University. He and Helen 
 are tremendous pals." 
 
 "And Helen?" 
 
 "It was Helen pulled me through " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She seems awfully alone. Of course, she never 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 313 
 
 says much, but Audrey says it has never been the 
 
 same between her and her father since — since 
 
 She's the last person in the world one would have 
 thought would go and make a mess of it." 
 
 David made no response to this. Nicholas drank 
 yet more port, and waxed yet more egoistic and warm 
 in enlarging upon what he should do. 
 
 They sat for long afterwards, while Nina played 
 and sang to them, and when she was gone Nicholas 
 stretched his legs and said: 
 
 " It's a rum go." 
 
 " What is a rum go?" said David. 
 
 " Your coming back like this. Such luck, such 
 blazing luck! Money and a house like this, and a 
 wife like that. And you need never do a stroke of 
 work for it, by Jove! . . ." 
 
 David's face took on an expression of profound 
 gloom. 
 
 " It ain't right," said Nicholas. 
 
 "No," said David; "it is all wrong." 
 
 Nicholas whistled and rubbed his knees. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " he said. " What have you to com- 
 plain of?" 
 
 " Sometimes," said David, " I'd give anything to 
 be down and struggling. Life is a poor game with- 
 out fighting." 
 
 Nicholas scouted this idea, and David gave him 
 something of his experience. 
 
 "It is the worst thing to befall a man that he 
 should come by everything that he can desire to make 
 him comfortable. It makes him fat, and eats away 
 his brain. Each new possession that he has not di- 
 rectly by the sweat of his brow is a new barrier be- 
 tween himself and other men, and so the rich man is 
 often poorer in the good things of this world than 
 the meanest wretch in the streets, who among his 
 
314 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 kind can find always comradeship. I do not believe 
 in any social regeneration which views only pov- 
 erty. . . ." 
 
 Nicholas yawned ; but David was not paying atten- 
 tion to him. 
 
 " They say this age is vulgar. Why, it is the most 
 splendid, romantic, glorious period since the world 
 began, with all its rising against old lies and rotten 
 tyrannies. False religions are crumbling right and 
 left, and only that faith is true which shall give to 
 each man and each woman the right to live most viv- 
 idly, to wrest from the world what is best and most 
 satisfying — a faith in which there is no element of 
 fear. . . ." 
 
 He expounded further, and became so vehement 
 that Nicholas went to bed vowing that his brother's 
 mind was certainly unhinged, and filled with an emo- 
 tion that was almost pity for a man who could have 
 so much and set so little store by it. 
 
 David remained brooding by the fire, and occasion- 
 ally throwing out a remark to the lime-tree, always 
 a sympathetic auditor. He came back and back to 
 the dissatisfaction in himself, the unrest, the uneasi- 
 ness, the anxiety, and the craving. 
 
 The unhappiness had grown in him since the mo- 
 ment of his first deliberate cruelty to Nina. She 
 seemed to have forgotten, to have brushed it aside, 
 and with the healing of the wound to have left all 
 thought of it. She was even more tender, watchful 
 for his good and adroit in the procuring of it, than 
 ever before; but still the unhappiness had grown in 
 him, the vague desire. He had hated himself for it, 
 had for weeks at a time succeeded in persuading him- 
 self that it was no longer in him; he had contrived 
 also to conceal it from Nina, and then had only found 
 new torture in the idea that perhaps she had divined 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 315 
 
 it in him, and only for that was the more gentle with 
 him. So the whole thing came back upon him more 
 than ever bitterly, and, for any cure that he had de- 
 vised for it, though there might be temporary re- 
 lief, only the more surely did thie ghostly thing loom 
 and cloud his existence. He knew that if he could 
 but touch the cause of it, it would be instantly 
 dispelled. And so without end he was groping, 
 reaching out, but never finding that which he 
 sought. 
 
 To-night, with the coming of Nicholas, he had 
 been troubled with it more than ever before, and the 
 more because, upon the encounter with Anthony and 
 Clara, he had felt gladness and freedom again, and 
 had been for them the old David of the months on 
 the plantation in Ceylon. They had written to warn 
 him of their arrival in London, and for days he had 
 been excited, and, as rarely happens, had found the 
 actual pleasure of meeting them greater than the an- 
 ticipation of it. For a time, then, his devil had left 
 him, and he had come back happy and freely light- 
 hearted, only to be dashed by the encounter with his 
 brother to a worse state than ever before. The mem- 
 ory of Braydale in all his experience had always had 
 the power to depress him, and it had come over him 
 now as he had perceived its effect in the development 
 of Nicholas, who reminded him oddly of the grimy 
 elderberry-tree in the patch of the garden of the 
 house where there had been such stirring events so 
 many years ago. 
 
 Those years of his childhood, and especially that 
 night when he had been sent out into the raw cold to 
 summon the physician, remained with David more 
 clearly than any more recent event. The childish 
 horror of the place that had overtaken him on the 
 visit to Bardon, and after the 'revelation of past glo- 
 
3i6 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 ries, grew never less, and was almost overwhelmingly 
 brought home to him now with the advent of Nich- 
 olas and the telling of his sordid little story, which 
 had grown all the more small and mean in the telling 
 from the man's ridiculous pride in his unworthy 
 achievements. David was ashamed that there should 
 be such rottenness in his kin. Why, even Tush — old 
 Tush Williams — ^had been a better thing than that, 
 and had made a braver show in his sentimental ado- 
 ration of the foolish-faced young woman whose por- 
 trait he had exhibited with such fond pride. 
 
 Sitting there, pondering all the circumstances, the 
 condition of his family, the queer tangled history of 
 them all, his own odd tale of unprofitable years, he 
 came in the end to this: that if the relation of man 
 and woman be not rightly ordered, then nothing is 
 right ; that on this only is: it possible to build ; that 
 there had never been any other truth than this; that 
 it had been the teaching of all religions since the be- 
 ginning; that, indeed, all religious feeling had its 
 roots in sex; that it was all so simple. . . . But 
 then . . . but then, was not that explanation too 
 easy? If that were true, why, then, was there mis- 
 ery in the world? and why, if the key to it all lay so 
 near at hand, was not the gaze of all men and women 
 fixed stea-dfastly on it from the first moment to the 
 last? Why was the thing hidden and smothered up, 
 and why was there so much of cowardly and base in 
 the approaching of it? Again, was it the fault of 
 men or women? . . . 
 
 He sought relief in tobacco, but still he was tor- 
 tured with reflections and questionings. 
 
 The wind rustled in the lime-tree. Outside the air 
 was thick and heavy, and the wind seemed to be the 
 forewarning of the brewing of a storm. David's 
 mood answered to the storm. Thoughts were stirring 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 3 1 J' 
 
 lazily in him, clashing with each other, striking 
 sparks, rolling this way and that, but bringing no 
 illumination. The unhappiness stirred in him again, 
 and to avoid facing it, for he knew it for an ugly 
 thing, he turned again to his vague musing. . . . 
 
 He remembered that geologists had said that the 
 world was two hundred thousand years old, and that 
 a chemist had declared that man first appeared in the 
 world twenty-six thousand years ago. The first man 
 and the first woman, what had they made of it? Back 
 he flew to the story that he had made out on the veld 
 in Africa, sitting round the fire with Blest-Gana, 
 Louis, and Maurice. . . . From whom had come the 
 lie, from the man or the woman ? No doubt the man 
 had despised the woman. . . . And the woman? No 
 doubt she had loved the man. . .~ . That was devilish 
 amusing — oh, very funny! . . . The woman had lied 
 because she loved the man. The woman must have 
 lied, because it is quite certain that no man has ever 
 known the truth. . . . But Blest-Gana knew it, the 
 sly dog! . . . Oh yes! he knew it. . . . These men 
 and their lies, and their worship of the lies in them- 
 selves. They lie because they think their own little 
 affairs so much more important than the purpose of 
 the world. . . . Comradeship between men and 
 women ? . . . Not possible, because ... oh ! be- 
 cause women will never consent to let men know how 
 much the cleverer of the two they are. . . . 
 
 The storm broke, lightning flashed, and the lime- 
 tree groaned and creaked under the gusty wind. The 
 rain came rushing. . . . 
 
 The lime-tree was a healthy tree, the elderberry 
 choked. ... So Nicholas was choked. ... So all 
 of them were choked — ^the life strangled out of 
 them. . . . 
 
 The frenzied rush for wealth had made that place 
 
3i8 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 unspeakably ugly. . . . Johannesburg, too — that had 
 been ugly. And yet in the one Helen had grown, in 
 the other Nina. . . . The loveliness of the world 
 shone through all that men do to choke it. . . . Bless 
 'em! Clever little beasts! There had been a gra- 
 cious England once — an England which could produce 
 the atmosphere of Bardon and Fielding. . . . An- 
 thony and Clara, these belonged to the old time before 
 the money-fever came. ... In London there were 
 still old comers, nooks and crannies, old squares, about 
 which the old sweetness lingered. The fragrance of 
 old England: the fragrance of Bardon — these were 
 precious things, but they must pass like everything 
 else. . . . Romance was not dead with them. Ro- 
 mance was never dead. That man was blind who, 
 walking from Temple Bar to Charing Cross, can 
 declare that Romance is dead. . . . Blest-Gana had 
 said that nationalism is dying. . . . What was com- 
 ing? ... 
 
 There was stir and life in the air, and beyond the 
 wild effort, through all the confusion of ideas, through 
 the tangle of the new with the old, the new strug- 
 gling to break free from the old, there lay a new 
 nobility, a new order: not the millennium, indeed — 
 please God, never that, for how shall good be meas- 
 ured without evil, or truth without dishonesty? — ^but 
 an opening up of the way for truth, a making of it 
 accessible to all sorts and conditions of men; a new 
 order wherein the strong shall still triumph, but the 
 weak shall not be utterly destroyed. ... So David 
 thought. All very interesting, no doubt, but the im- 
 mediate concern was sleep. ... 
 
 He stretched himself, yawned, said good-night to 
 the lime-tree, and went upstairs. 
 
 Nina lay with her hair loose over her pillow, her 
 cheek resting in her hand. David leaned over her, 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 319 
 
 marvelling at her. He took a tress of her hair and 
 kissed it. 
 
 She stirred uneasily. Her eyes opened, and she 
 smiled up at him. 
 
 " Dear love ! " she said. 
 
 " My dear, my very dear ! " said David. 
 
 She had that to tell him which made the two of 
 them glad, and swept them upward to a great height, 
 where they stood sure-footed. 
 
 Thereafter there were glorious days, and the lime- 
 tree was not again burdened with David's specula- 
 tions on the past, present, and future ; nor was he ever 
 again reduced to that abject and futile state which 
 comes from too much pondering of those great things 
 that must remain for ever hid. 
 
VI 
 
 That which had come to them was so great that 
 neither dared to speak of it. Each sought always 
 the other's eyes to sound and know the depth of glad- 
 ness. In Nina there was a new softness that made 
 David almost fearful, and marvel that ever he had 
 been allowed to come near to her. She soared above 
 him and beyond, almost out of reach, and yet they 
 were closer than they had ever been. She shed her 
 imaginings, and seemed to lose interest in the circle 
 which had first absorbed her. There was in her no 
 urging of David to that which she would have him 
 do; she seemed to be content to share to the utmost 
 all that they had of this most rare joy. 
 
 David told the lime-tree of it, and for Nina in- 
 vented what it had said in answer. It had rustled, 
 and there had been a song in it, and some mockery: 
 
 " I knew," it had said — " I knew ! I have looked 
 in on you both these many months. I knew that this 
 must be before either you or the beautiful pale woman 
 was aware of it. . . . You are not the first " 
 
 Nina protested : " We are. We are the very first." 
 
 It chanced then that a gusty wind caught in the 
 branches of the lime-tree, so that he tapped at the 
 window. 
 
 " You see," said David. " He protests. Listen 
 further to what he says." 
 
 Nina sat at his feet. 
 
 "You are not the first. I am very old, though I 
 am very young . . . old and young: what do you 
 
 320 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 321 
 
 little creatures know of old and young? You are 
 better than others that have lived under my shade, 
 for you see, and wish to see, the full wonder of 
 it. . . . You are brave, and go out to seize it with 
 both hands. . . . You little things, men and women, 
 are the most foolish of all creatures; but we are 
 envious, for more is given to you than to any of us — 
 trees, birds, beasts . . . and how you waste and spoil 
 it!. . ." 
 
 " No tree," said Nina — " no tree ever knew all 
 that . . . and oh, David, I am sorry! . . ." 
 
 " Sorry, my Nina?" 
 
 " There is so much that you do not know, so much 
 that I cannot tell you. . . . My dear, my dear, there 
 is everything, everything, everything that I cannot 
 share with you, and therefore I am sorry." 
 
 She took his hand, and kissed it tintil he drew it 
 from her. 
 
 That Nicholas was present in the house during these 
 first days of a happiness almost beyond endurance lent 
 a certain strangeness to it, and a certain fearful joy, 
 for he was altogether blind to it. He was to them 
 like some monster, strayed into their land of enchant- 
 ment — a monster not malevolent. Indeed, he was 
 monstrous only in his complete unconcern with all 
 the brave happenings that were there, in his com- 
 placent absorption in himself, while under his nose 
 were miracles. His insensible blundering was comic, 
 and for David and Nina on their height there was a 
 certain sport in watching him, and wondering what 
 in his heart of hearts he made of them. 
 
 David was gleeful when it transpired that all 
 Nicholas's close watching of Nina meant only that 
 he considered her attire perfect, and wished that his 
 own wife might come more nearly to that ideal. Es- 
 pecially he admired the mauve and white in which he 
 
322 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 had first seen her, and he told them that, in writing 
 home, he had been careful to describe each garment 
 that she wore. 
 
 He had shown himself curious as to their history, 
 but came up against a blank' wall whenever he tried 
 to probe either of them. He displayed considerable 
 ingenuity in bringing them from the discussion of 
 Africa in general to their meeting, courtship, and woo- 
 ing, and amused them vastly as soon as they divined 
 what he was at. He made no headway, and some- 
 times, when merriment would not be controlled, he 
 was sore and injured, thinking that they were laugh- 
 ing at himself. 
 
 When Anthony and Clara arrived for the few days 
 that he stayed before his return to the North, he was 
 magnificent, playing the part of the home-bred Eng- 
 lishman condescending to the benighted Colonial. 
 They met him in this mood, and were delighted that 
 he should show them the inner glories of London, 
 and all that was new in it since their last retreat into 
 exile. 
 
 For David the meeting between Nina and Clara 
 had been at first disappointing, and then a greater 
 thing than he had ever dreamed that it should be. 
 As he had foretold, they twittered over each other, 
 and so much were the two women drawn together 
 that he was in part robbed of Nina. They were mys- 
 terious, perpetually in confabulation and engaged in 
 the exchange of such weighty secrets as Anthony and 
 David were made to feel were altogether past their 
 comprehension. They ,took their humiliation in good 
 part, and Anthony, disapproving of David's present 
 acquaintance among persons whom he considered new 
 and rather vulgar, took him among men of inherited 
 privilege, and presented him to the actual Lord St. 
 Justin, his eldest brother, an ornament of the House 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 323 
 
 of Lords, and a champion, on paper, of innumerable 
 lost or hopeless causes. 
 
 He was a gentleman of much dignity, and when 
 it was explained to him who David was, extended 
 to him two fingers. To his brother he gave his whole 
 hand, ancf for a flash was quite human, and even ven- 
 tured upon a joke, carefully chosen to meet the oc- 
 casion from his small store of five. It was a poor 
 thing, but it sufficed, for among his own kind this 
 peer with five jokes was counted something of a wit. 
 In his own estimation he stood for all that was of 
 the finest in the Island Race (this was one of his 
 phrases: he had seven such). The occasion of being 
 presented with the son of his half-sister was difficult, 
 for there was no pigeon-holed method of treating 
 it, but with some assistance from jovial Anthony, he 
 came through it creditably enough, and maintained 
 his dignity. 
 
 With his Countess it was otherwise. She was a 
 good-tempered and good-natured body, notoriously 
 easy, and notoriously unfaithful to her lord, though 
 she was clever enough never to let her position with 
 regard to him become sufficiently defined to offend 
 against his dignity, which, as she knew, was to him 
 the dearest of his possessions. Hers had been the re- 
 mark which had brought the great man low upon the 
 one and only occasion of his life. It had been 
 wrenched from her by his perpetual thrusting at her of 
 the sanctity of all that pertained to their loftiness. 
 " When a man begins to think of his dignity, he loses 
 it." In time the noble lord had contrived to flounder 
 back to his serenity, but his condition had for long 
 been pitiable, and though the Countess wished to repair 
 the havoc she had wrought, at first from thoughtless- 
 ness and then from malice, she had been unable to 
 stir a finger. So they went their ways. He climbed 
 
324 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 to his perch, and she sought in that wherein she saw 
 no wrong warmth to drive away the chill that came 
 upon her at Riggs.and in the great house in Carlton 
 House Terrace. 
 
 It was to this house that Anthony took pavid, and 
 in the study that my lord received his relative. The 
 three men had come to an awkward pass, and An- 
 thony's jocularity was becoming forced when the 
 Countess swept in on them. She had come hot-foot 
 and boiling with ind^nation upon the discovery that 
 St. Justin had been making secret inquiry into her 
 household finance, and had made a resume of the items 
 and amount by which she had exceeded the stipulated 
 sum. The words bubbled from her lips as she thrust 
 under his nose the offending slip of paper. 
 
 " Look here, St. Justin, either you trust me or. . . ." 
 
 St. Justin's back stiffened, and his nose was cocked 
 into the air. Down came his eyelids, and he looked 
 away from her at his brother and David. She be- 
 came aware, then, of their presence, and, mightily 
 glad to see Anthony, she forgot her purpose, bounced 
 at him, and kissed him on either cheek. 
 
 "My word!" she said; then, turning to David: 
 " Good heavens, don't say this is the Snodger grown 
 into a man ! Not that, or I shall dye my hair grey in 
 order to feel old enough. . . ." (The Snodger was 
 Anthony's first-born.) 
 
 Anthony guffawed. 
 
 " Betty, my love, of a mad family this is the mad- 
 dest — David Brockman." 
 
 The Countess wrinkled her pretty forehead as she 
 gave David her hand. 
 
 " My father's grandson," said Anthony, The 
 Countess, though ignorant of the story, quickly 
 grasped the relationship. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 325 
 
 "A cousin," she said. "Then he will certainly 
 stay to lunch. Are you to be in, St. Justin?" 
 
 " I am not," said the noble lord, who never for 
 a moment allowed himself to relax from the rigidity 
 which he had assumed upon her first entry. 
 
 Very soon he left them. The Countess doffed much 
 of her boisterous mood, and devoted herself to the 
 task' of setting David at his ease. 
 
 " My dear," said Anthony, " he is worse than ever. 
 Why do you let him be so ? " 
 
 " He would not be happy otherwise." 
 
 " He might almost as well be a piece of furniture." 
 
 " Why, so he is — a piece of furniture. Fine to 
 put at the head of a table when men are to talk Im- 
 perially. We are shocking our little cousin." 
 
 "Yes," said David. His frankness delighted her, 
 and then and ever she avoided word or mood which 
 might prove distasteful to him. Not that she adopted 
 any pretence with him. She was honest, and con- 
 cealed nothing in the first months of their friendship; 
 for they became firm friends, and she snatched him 
 from all the others who wished to make use of him 
 or to feed upon his freshness. David saw in her only 
 the capacity for good fellowship and true friendship, 
 and was blind to any design that she might have 
 upon him, as he always was with the women vv^ho 
 sought him out. There were many such in the days 
 after he was caught up into the society of his rela- 
 tives. Some were clumsy, and made their thoughts 
 so patent that even he, approaching them with all the 
 openness of his idealism, could not be blind to it, and 
 drew back, not blinking the distasteful fact of obliquity 
 in them, but finding a thousand reasons for it in their 
 circumstances and the twisted course of their lives. 
 They pursued him into his retirement, but, finding him 
 
326 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 stubborn, turned to the pursuit of easier, if less stim- 
 ulating, quarry among their own kind. 
 
 For the tame men of this class Anthony was wont 
 to bubble over in wrathful contempt. The pretty silky 
 creatures who were to be met with at Carlton House 
 Terrace should, he said, be soused in a horse-pond 
 daily until the scent had left their bodies and the sticky 
 grease their hair. He protested with Betty, the 
 Countess, against the circle of her friends, and against 
 one man in particular — a pink and cream little gentle- 
 man, who was sparrow-minded as any woman in a 
 harem. 
 
 " Good Lord," said Anthony, " I've seen them ! . . . 
 Nothing to do but to eat sweets; nothing to talk of 
 but the one " 
 
 "The poor dear is quite ill with work," said the 
 Countess. 
 
 "What does he do?" 
 
 " Once a fortnight he attends a board-meeting, and 
 he pays the bills at the Stores." 
 
 None the less, David and Anthony found the house 
 an amusing place of call, and if the Countess collected 
 round her all that was most foolish and vapid among 
 the secure class, she had also the trick of gathering 
 in the great men of the .professions and the arts. 
 Genius invariably found its way to her salon, and to 
 be invited to her dinners was the mark' of success in 
 London. 
 
 These were remarkable functions. St. Justin sat 
 at the head of the table, ornamental, automatically 
 ringing the changes on his five jokes and seven phrases. 
 At the other end sat Betty, radiant, alive, flashing to 
 meet now this, now that mind, striking sparks, watch- 
 ing always to see where there might be flatness and ill- 
 assortment of persons, weaving talk, and sending the 
 shuttle of it bobbing and darting this way and that 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 327 
 
 round the table, in the fullest sense presiding. What 
 pleasure she could have from it all was not appar- 
 ent. She gained nothing from it; she had nothing 
 to gain. There was no hope that St. Justin would 
 ever be more than he was. His own ambition was 
 satisfied; indeed, he oozed satisfaction. Her own am- 
 bition for him was dead, if it had ever been keenly- 
 alive, and that way was nothing to be won. 
 
 The labour of it all, even with such smooth-running 
 machinery as she had at her disposal, must have been 
 enormous, and a tax even upon her so great vitality. 
 Whether she ever thought upon the worth while of it 
 all was never known to David for long enough. That 
 she was weary was often patent, but, battling with it 
 bravely, there was never any sign that she sighed for 
 the less rigorous life of a smaller condition. 
 
 She called upon Nina, but the intimacy of the young 
 wife and Clara repulsed her, and while David became 
 ever more her friend, serving her in all that was 
 possible to him, Nina never reached out a hand to 
 her. In this rejection of the Countess Nina fortified 
 the barrier between herself and David, though neither 
 she nor he were conscious of it. In the new order- 
 ing of their lives since the coming of Ainthony and 
 Clara their days had been so full that, with the great 
 gift that bound them together, it seemed to them that 
 they were impregnably secure from attack. They 
 had been floundering, finding their feet in the society 
 of London. Now David shot upwards, and Nina, 
 busied with her wonder, remained rooted. 
 
 Through the Countess, St. Justin was made to oc- 
 cupy David, and at Riggs factor's work was given 
 to him. He was gloriously happy prowling over the 
 estate, exploring the house, and finding in it those pos- 
 sessions which had become magnified and hallowed in 
 his mother's legends. 
 
328 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 The life suited him also, with its days in the 
 country, balanced by its weeks in London, when he 
 took on secretarial work, and was fired chivalrously 
 by many of those hopeless causes of which St. Justin 
 was the august paper-champion. 
 
 He flung himself into them with an energy which 
 they had never had brought to them, and by his efforts 
 in these various interests won for himself a certain 
 reputation as an administrator. There was talk of 
 him sufficient to satisfy even Nina, but that her atti- 
 tude towards him was so changed. Where before she 
 would have been proud and able hardly to contain 
 her gladness, now she seemed to be no more than 
 pleased that he should have so much to engross him; 
 and when Mrs. Sacret came to her lamenting the 
 dissipation of the energies of so fine a man, she smiled 
 almost pityingly, and said that David must best know 
 his own business. 
 
 " But," said Mrs. Sacret, " he might do so much, 
 and here he is doing no more than tame cat's work 
 — fetching and carrying for that pouting baby of a 
 Countess." 
 
 " He is happy," said Nina. 
 
 Mrs. Sacret threw up her hands in despair. 
 
 " Oh, my dear! " she said, "where is he now? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Nina. 
 
 "What has come to you?" 
 
 Nina seemed not to hear, and Mrs. Sacret let loose 
 her indignation. 
 
 "Why, I did think that here, with you two, if ever 
 in the world, was the perfection, the best and finest, 
 the undying, the imperishable. Such a man and such 
 a wife. Forgive me, my dear — forgive me, but such 
 things as they are saying of him. . . ." 
 
 " I trust him," said Nina. 
 
 "I know — I know, but ..." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 329 
 
 The more impossible it seemed to shake Nina's 
 serenity, the more heated and indignant did Mrs. Sa- 
 cret become. 
 
 " He must be free," said Nina. " I have asked too 
 much of him, held him too close, and he was un- 
 happy." 
 
 "Was?" 
 
 " We have everything now," said Nina, " and I 
 trust him. What more is there ? " 
 
 Mrs. Sacret clung to her task of reclaiming David 
 from what she held to be the unworthy confinem.ent 
 and taming of him, but could make no impression at 
 all upon Nina, who, though she made every effort 
 to understand, could not grasp wherein lay the horror 
 of David's case. All the idea that she had of I\Irs. 
 Sacret's objection was that David was so peculiar and 
 rare a man that he must for ever remain outside, pin- 
 nacled above the rest of men, and to this she could 
 bring no sort of sympathy. She knew — none better 
 — the rarity of the man, but that he should remain 
 for ever aloof was to her wrong, and in itself a waste. 
 For Mrs. Sacret, the waste lay in his going into the 
 world, and finding common ground with it, and there 
 seemed to be no bridging of the divergence. 
 
 More than ever, then, was Nina turned to Clara 
 and the all-absorbing business that she had. She 
 turned her face thitherward, and met only those who 
 would follow her in the great glory of it. She be- 
 came self-sufficient, and found it difficult to be inter- 
 ested in the small things which so much engaged 
 David. 
 
 Neither knew nor thought whither they were tend- 
 ing. Clara guarded Nina so jealously that David 
 could never approach her nearly enough for her to 
 perceive the new things growing in him, nor could 
 she tell him of the infinity of new capacities for joy 
 
330 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 that had come to her; for as she became more primi- 
 tive and simple, he, under the taming influences, grew 
 more complex, and was shedding the fresh frankness 
 which had carried him so lightly and easily through 
 all vicissitudes down to the uttermost and up to the 
 highest. She had fed upon this source of strength 
 in him until there came to her the new strength in her- 
 self. He did not become less dear to her for it, but 
 his place in her idea was changed. For so long she 
 had seen David, and only David, and she had had no 
 other purpose. Now that she was purposeful, he had 
 become smaller, and in a way curiously merged with 
 the rest of the world. He had come, the greatest 
 thing in her life, and had remained so until there came 
 the greater thing. The change came so slowly, so 
 •almost imperceptibly, as to bring pain to neither. It 
 was impossible for either of them to be dishonest with 
 the other, to conceal anything, or to fob the other off 
 with sham or any sort of faked tenderness. Nina, 
 giving all that she had to give, suspected not that 
 what she gave was less than what she had before 
 given. 
 
 David was nearer to suspicion of the' truth and of 
 the change, but, while there was such gladness in her, 
 he could not but be happy, and all the more blithely 
 for it he applied himself to the tasks set him, and all 
 the more vigorously did he join with the Countess 
 in her business. 
 
 The arrangement was very well for Nina, very 
 well for David, both delighting to find themselves on 
 the threshold of new and seemingly infinite experi- 
 ence. David was rejoiced to find himself in a position 
 wherein he felt himself to be a part of some greater 
 thing than himself, driving to some certain end. In 
 the first days, when he had been floundering to find 
 his feet, he had often been weary of London, feeling 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 331 
 
 it a cage, and a weight upon his spirit, and he had 
 often found himself sick for the world and the old 
 free days. In this mood he would haunt that row 
 of shops in Cockspur Street where are models of 
 great ships, maps, charts, and plans of the lands he 
 had known and loved, where the sun does truly shine, 
 and men and women, if wild and rude, are at least 
 more honest in their dealings one with another than 
 in London, where, as had been written, each man 
 watches his neighbour to see that he advance no foot 
 farther forward than himself. Very well for Nina, 
 very well for David, each at the beginning, the future 
 most gloriously open and free before them, but for 
 Countess Betty it was far otherwise. 
 
 She had clutched at David's friendship so soon as 
 it was offered to her. She held it close, and found 
 in it a warmth and satisfying quality that she had 
 never in her life possessed. 
 
 She had been denied and had denied herself noth- 
 ing, so that she was in truth, as Mrs. Sacret had 
 divined her, a pouting baby, chafing always against the 
 discontent and unhappiness that possessed her, but 
 utterly incapable of perceiving or divining the cause 
 of it, incapable also of arresting or changing any- 
 thing in her circumstances. She had seen other 
 women of her class, placed very much as herself, cast 
 aside honour and virtue, and come, so far as could 
 be seen, to no hurt. Therefore, when it had become 
 clear to her that St. Justin was for giving nothing, 
 she had, when occasion served, plunged without ask- 
 ing the truth of what was offered to her, glad to have 
 even so small and wretchedly mean a thing as it was. 
 Whether St. Justin ever knew she did not know, 
 though she had been troubled when upon the bureau 
 in her boudoir she had found an open book wherein 
 this passage was marked : 
 
332 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " Take heed of the pretences of men, and their af- 
 fections, for they last not but in honest and worthy- 
 men, and no greater misery can befall you in this life 
 than to become a prey and afterwards to be despised." 
 
 She had been uneasy, and had watched St. Justin 
 with frightened eyes, but never was there any sign 
 in him that he had known. The words had little 
 meaning for her, for she had pretended that what she 
 had done was no less than pure and honest, and never 
 doubted but there had been love, nor would she ever 
 face the rottenness in the man who had indeed des- 
 pised as he had left her. 
 
 There had been another and another, and though 
 the words at moments haunted her, yet could she not 
 grasp their significance. Of misery she had enough, 
 and more, but accounted it to the cruelty of circum- 
 stances, and never to inherent falsity in what she gave 
 and what was given to her. 
 
 Her third and worst experience had ended just 
 six months before David's coming. She had thought 
 herself at first utterly broken, had been ill, and brought 
 to weariness. Slowly then she had begun to pick up 
 the threads of her life again, and to figure as the 
 great hostess and to devise gaieties more wild and 
 reckless than before. Still, she never would admit 
 wrong in herself, but clung fiercely and resentfully 
 to her conception of herself as a woman never fallen 
 from the state of grace. So life was colder than ever 
 before until there came David, a man utterly unlike 
 any that she had ever known. The difference was so 
 great between the one and the other that she could 
 never discover wherein it lay. She was fearful of 
 contemplating it, for instinctively she felt that there 
 was danger in it for herself, and the pouting baby's 
 instinct was ever for self-preservation by the nearest 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 333 
 
 and most obvious means. She could not escape from 
 it. The more she sought David's company the more 
 glaringly was the difference seen, and slowly there 
 dawned on her the words, " Honest and worthy." 
 
 The revelation was startling and devastating. She 
 closed her eyes to it, but still it shone before her, and 
 would not be denied. She fought always against 
 it, and would not come to contempt for herself, would 
 not see herself as she had been, but must continue the 
 pretence and sham by and with which she had lived 
 so long. 
 
 She had not the spiritual courage by which men 
 and women are enabled to face the discovery of fraud 
 in themselves, but must be for ever claiming honour 
 for the virtues that she had not rather than for those 
 that she had. 
 
 There was a pretty battle in her between the new 
 happiness that she had and the unhappiness caused 
 by this dishonesty in herself. Often she was on the 
 point of telling David all that she had been, but from 
 a sick fear that he should turn from her, and, from 
 his loftiness, condemn, withheld what she would say. 
 She clung to him, wringing from each moment with 
 him full happiness, successfully deluding herself to 
 the belief that the past was dead, and that here she 
 was at a new beginning with a bold and fearless cham- 
 pion. For long there was between them no hint of 
 a nearer relation than cousinship and comradeship. 
 David, confident in Nina and all that she stood for, 
 took from Countess Betty guidance and the opening 
 up of the new world, the gracious and fine life, of 
 which he had had in childhood a glimpse, and always 
 had hugged the vision. 
 
 Through his great joy in all that she had, in Riggs,"" 
 in all that related to Fielding and St. Justin, in the 
 tale of heroes, scholars, and blackguards of the line, 
 
334 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 in the splendour with which she was surrounded, she 
 was able to find new and unsuspected wonders. He 
 had much to tell her of the romances of old days, 
 and she had won from him his own story from its 
 beginning in the tragedy of Mary Andrew. Upon 
 everything he shed new light for her, and made vivid 
 things that her eyes had scarcely seen. He took 
 her to mean streets, and made her see life as it was 
 lived at the point in society most removed from that 
 where she was born, nurtured, and had existed with- 
 out thought. He made her see that even in squalor 
 there is not evil unredeemed, and what in these same 
 places Blest-Gana had revealed to him he now set 
 before her. 
 
 Now for the first time dimly perceiving, and be- 
 ginning to grasp the splendour of the world, she took 
 it all for virtue in David, and set him so high that 
 she could hardly see wherein he could claim kinship 
 with the common run of men. The tender chivalry 
 with which he approached her made her almost afraid, 
 gave her a dizzy sense of unreality, and yet made her 
 cling to him only the more desperately. 
 
 She never asked anything that he might not give, 
 and was so circumspect that he did not conceive her 
 desire for more than she asked. She furthered rather 
 than hindered him in his movement towards the group 
 of controlling men, and, indeed, first directed him to- 
 wards the theatre as a field for his energies. 
 
 He had dabbled with it through the actor whom 
 he had met at Mrs. Sacret's. The man had sought 
 him out upon learning that besides ideas he had also 
 money, and came to him almost each week with a 
 fresh scheme for making a fabulous sum ; but always 
 the plays that he brought as a foundation for this 
 fabric were so incompetent, so dull, or so foolish, that 
 David, with mind not yet ossified by contact with 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 335 
 
 the theatre ajid its world, could not perceive any 
 reason why time and money should be wasted on them, 
 and, indeed, thought that, if they should succeed, it 
 were almost dishonest so to gull the public in the name 
 of drama. The actor had been obstinate and per- 
 severing, but David would not budge, and could never 
 understand what point of view was in the man's head. 
 He seemed to have perfectly rigid ideas: this was 
 funny, this tragic, this pathetic, and this heroic : above 
 all, his mind was ever centred on the laugh, and the 
 dullest play, however tragic in intention it might be, 
 so only it contained one line or situation certain to 
 produce its laugh, seemed to him worthy of the ex- 
 penditure of a fortune. He spoke always of the pub- 
 lic as " They " ; declared that there was never any 
 knowing what "They" wanted; but in another and 
 more sanguine mood was quite positive that This 
 (whatever it might be) was what " They " wanted. 
 He was constantly urging David to write the great 
 play for him on the lines suggested. Finally lie be- 
 came such a nuisance that David made a titanic ef- 
 fort in the direction of rudeness (no ordinary Snub 
 could reach him), succeeded in getting rid of him, 
 and made a lifelong enemy. 
 
 In Carlton House Terrace he met Peter Davies and 
 Stephen Clough, who had made a little stir with their 
 little theatre in Soho. Davies had written plays which, 
 though |:oo rawly reactionary from the conventional 
 school, yet had a certain quality of life, and had been 
 taken up by Clough, then out at elbows, hungry and 
 chafing against an unseeing and unthinking world, 
 which would not let him find his feet, and reveal the 
 treasure that he had for its delight. Long sojourn 
 in the wilderness had made him crazy and a little mor- 
 bid, but the force pent up in him had fed upon itself 
 and grown. 
 
336 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 Davies had found him sitting under a flowering 
 chestnut by the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens 
 reading, brooding, and mapping out scenes for the 
 theatre which was his dariing vision. Davies was 
 also sore, for his first play had been rejected on all 
 sides. They plunged into talk, each thinking only 
 of himself and the injurious treatment put upon him, 
 but each contriving to fire the imagination of the 
 other. They met again and yet again. Davies read 
 his play. Clough was rude. Another play was writ- 
 ten, and, without thpught of consequences or of what 
 further they should do, the young visionaries took 
 their theatre, gathered a loyal company of players, 
 all accustomed to starvation, and prepared to endure 
 more rather than turn to a.ny other trade. They 
 dragged wearily through one season, and half-way 
 through the next, when they found that they had be- 
 come a cult. They had their devotees, but were not 
 yet able to bear the brunt of complete failure, and 
 it was upon. such a crisis that they came in contact 
 with David. 
 
 Davies he was inclined to dislike — thought him 
 something of a poseur — ^but Clough was arresting, 
 so completely absorbed did he seem to be in his ideas, 
 and so fiercely prepared to sacrifice everything and 
 everybody, even himself, to the furtherance of them. 
 He was furious when Davies confessed their plight 
 to David, taking it as a reflection upon his ideas ; but 
 when an offer was made to him of reconstruction 
 upon admittance of this new man to their concern, 
 he grasped at it. 
 
 "I've tasted blood," he said. "By God, I want 
 more ! " 
 
 As it proved, the intervention saved them from 
 utter wreck, and David served as a check upon their 
 wildness. They were little, if anything, younger than 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 337 
 
 himself, but in business they were callow and inno- 
 cent as babes. Success had gone to the head of Peter 
 Davies, while it had made Clough, with his larger 
 vision, more savagely resentful against the public than 
 ever. David was able to make the two of them have 
 some glimmering of the unreason of expecting the 
 public to be more interested in art than in the question 
 of bread and butter. They became, therefore, more 
 good-humoured about their work, and proportionately 
 more successful. The two young men were grateful, 
 though they were completely baffled by David's toler- 
 ance even of bad art, and neither could ever under- 
 stand why he who had seen so much should have no 
 desire to express it. 
 
 Both adored the Countess, and they both vied with 
 each other as to who shotild be the more attentive to 
 Nina when they met her, though she never could be 
 brought to take any vivid interest in the doings at 
 the little theatre. 
 
 With the Countess it was otherwise. She saw in it 
 the occasion of being more with David, and worked 
 unceasingly to procure success, and to extend the cult 
 from the pseudo-artistic circle to the fashionable world. 
 St. Justin was induced to countenance the endeavor, 
 and the " Little Theatre," as it was called, was dock- 
 eted in his mind with the various Imperialistic and 
 philanthropic societies of which he was chairman. 
 
 They were in the first flush of new success, and 
 David" was up to his eyes in work, when Nina took 
 it into her head that she must no longer stay in Lon- 
 don, and, with Clara, betook herself to Bardon, there 
 to find peace and quiet. 
 
 It was impossible for David to go also, and though 
 he said nothing, he was a little hurt that she should 
 contemplate leaving him, until Clara explained that 
 indeed she was not well, and must above all things 
 
338 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 be careful. David was made to feel that he was small 
 and lacking in consideration. He journeyed down 
 to Cambridgeshire, and saw them comfortably in- 
 stalled. He stayed for two nights, and on the third 
 day there came a letter from the Countess. It held 
 a sprig of rosemary, which fell to the ground as he 
 opened it. He let it lie as he read : 
 
 " David, David, I can no more look into your dear 
 eyes. You see now to what this foolishness has 
 brought me." 
 
 It was as though a great light had been flashed upon 
 him. He crumpled the letter in his hand, and let it 
 fall. 
 
 He sat watching Nina where she plied her needle, 
 but she paid no heed to him. 
 
 He stooped, picked up the letter again and thrust 
 it into his pocket. 
 
VII 
 
 When he returned to town again he made no attempt 
 to see Countess Betty. She wrote to him almost 
 daily, but he burned her letters unopened. 
 
 All the same, he could not drive her from his 
 thoughts. He cursed himself for a fool not to have 
 seen, not to have marked the great difference between 
 what she had been when he had first met her and 
 what she was now. The old unhappiness came upon 
 him. 
 
 He was glad of the work that he had to do, though 
 it could not altogether relieve him from the torment 
 that he was in. 
 
 He surprised Nina by rushing down to see her by 
 train or motor-car without giving her word of warn- 
 ing. She had no thought of trouble in him, but took 
 his visits as solicitude for herself, and was glad. 
 There was some comfort in that for him, but not 
 enough. With only the slightest sign from her that 
 she had thought for him he must have told her all 
 that was troubling him, but as it was, so intangible 
 was it, and so absurd did it seem upon translation 
 into words, that he could not out with it. 
 
 In Bardon, indeed, the thing almost disappeared, 
 so full was the place of tender and dear memories. 
 He took Nina to the yew-grove, and peopled it with 
 all the figures of boyish romance for her. He visited 
 Robert and Susan Pollard, proud, indeed, to show 
 him their apparently innumerable apple-cheeked chil- 
 dren. They made him feel that the whole folly was 
 visionary and unreal, and brought him to a decision 
 
 339 
 
340 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 to ignore the Countess's letters, and to treat her as 
 though there had been no open change in her attitude 
 towards him. But no sooner did he approach London 
 than it came upon him with more stifling force than 
 ever, making him choke and long only to be free. 
 
 He thought queerly of the Consul's lady, but knew 
 that himself then was far different from himself now : 
 that the light, free, wandering, careless David was 
 no more : that what that David had done was impos- 
 sible for the man as he had grown, and was shaped 
 by the narrower yet more satisfying life in London. 
 
 He had given so much to the Countess in these days 
 when Nina had ceased to ask, that not to give, not to 
 be able to give, was an actual hurt. 
 
 Then he met her. Outwardly they met on the old 
 footing. He made no mention of what she had done, 
 nor did she. He was not for a moment alone with 
 her. Yet in the crowded brilliant room in which they 
 were she made him know that she saw nothing, and 
 was conscious of nothing, in all the throng but him- 
 self. 
 
 Such a thing he had never known in his life, and 
 he was afraid, and hating the softness that had come 
 over him with the knowledge. 
 
 Thereafter she made no attempt to see him, nor 
 did she write again. He was left with nothing but 
 his torture, and the softness that seemed to eat away 
 his strength. He strode for long hours through the 
 night, wrestling with himself, to arrive back in Swan 
 Walk spent and too weary to sleep. 
 
 All that he had ever thought came back and mocked 
 him. The easy solutions of great problems, the words 
 he had spoken to other women, what in his masterful- 
 ness he had said to Nina — all ranged themselves be- 
 fore him and mocked. They seemed to take shape 
 as little gnomic things crying out; 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 341 
 
 " You begat us to shape the world, to give it form 
 for yourself. Why? Here we are. It will have 
 none of us — none of us — none of us. . . . You must 
 take us back again — ^take us back again." 
 
 Then Cocker came to haunt him — Cocker and Kate 
 DriscoU: the thing that he had called the lowest. 
 
 He shunned loneliness; caught desperately at any 
 sort of companion to cloak the misery that he was 
 in, but ended always in gusty irritation. Davies was 
 intolerable, and only in Clough for a time could he 
 find that which could bring him ease — things of the 
 intellect, without more; and yet even here he was 
 brought to desperation by the man's absorption in him- 
 self and complete disregard of all the great things 
 — of all that makes for warmth and generosity in 
 this world. 
 
 There had been many letters asking him to visit 
 Braydale, but he had still postponed, from an ineradi- 
 cable distaste for the memories that it had, and be- 
 cause he never could forget that last occasion upon 
 which he had seen his father, jingling the money in 
 his pockets, and his stepmother sitting there, knitting. 
 Nicholas had reminded him of that with dreadful 
 force, and he could not bring himself to go. His 
 vision of his childhood in that place had taken a 
 blacker and blacker complexion the more he came 
 into contact with the brightness and fairness of life. 
 The ugliness of industrialism and its products came 
 home to him the more he saw of what had been at 
 Riggs and in the countryside, where the disease had 
 not left its mark. Nowhere in the v/orld could he 
 remember to have found anything comparable to the 
 dingy, depressed, and depressing squalor of South 
 Lancashire. What came nearest to it was South Lon- 
 don, Lambeth, Southwark, Camberwell. But, black 
 as these were, they had not for him the inky and 
 
342 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 impenetrable hue that coated his memory of those 
 streets wherein he had commanded his battalion of 
 brigades and waged battle with the butcher-boy, or 
 that where old Lintott's shop reared its striped and 
 dirty pole. The thought of that stirred memory in 
 him, and he came back, groped his way through the 
 mists that covered it, until he saw clearly the barber's 
 shop, Lintott, Tush, the lawyer's clerk, and the 
 butcher, and smelled the smell of it — soap and cheese. 
 Out of the scene came words, pell-mell, indistin- 
 guishable, a torrent of them, until these reached his 
 ears: 
 
 "Brave boy — ^bully boy! Be a man: not like the 
 rest of us. . . . Smoked like a herring. . . ." 
 
 The words died away, and the scene was hidden 
 from him. " Not like the rest of us. . . ." 
 
 He had fled from it all, and for what ? . . . a sort 
 of freedom, flavourless after a time, and barren. . . . 
 Men and cities^he had seen, but had never been more 
 than a sojourner. ... So much there was that he 
 must have missed; so much that his eyes could not 
 see, nor his ears hear. . . . These days of wonder, 
 days of delight, when it had seemed that there was 
 nothing hidden, no sound, scent, sight, or colour that 
 did not find its answer in himself. . . . Revelation, 
 and each moment, therefore, seized and lived to its 
 fullest. . . . Then London and captivity: near at 
 hand the revealing light, near at hand the beautiful 
 presence that illumined all dark places. . . . Slowly, 
 then, the drifting away from it, the veiling of the 
 vision : the glimpses seen of things greater than any 
 yet ; then the slow power drawing him in to the ways 
 of common tread, rubbing shoulders with men pur- 
 suing blindfold the business of the moment ; the suck- 
 ing down and down, changing the whole form and 
 texture of his life; the growth of unsuspected powers 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 343 
 
 and capacities; the hemming in, the fixing, the shap- 
 ing and whittling of himself. . . . 
 
 The sense of being held captive while all around 
 him twisted and whirled a crazy thing called London, 
 whirling fast and ever faster until he was giddy, 
 sickened and tortured him. ... In himself, that 
 which was in the world around him: movement on 
 and upward, from the old peace and contentment, 
 through crazy, ill-directed activity to a new and nobler 
 peace beyond. ... He saw that ahead for himself 
 and for the world, but the present held him; he was 
 encompassed, bound, fettered, gripped by a choking, 
 stifling present — ^by a thing called London, a patch 
 of ground, seething, seething like a foul garment . . . 
 of Life — glorious, abounding Life. . . . This held 
 him. . . . Where he sat he shook, and something 
 snapped in his brain. His vision of it all changed; 
 he lost the forward cast, and no longer saw himself 
 in the pool, but was actually in it, fighting, longing, 
 tearing, jostling, seeing no issue, but hurting because 
 he was hurt, gasping for breath, and handing off the 
 creatures that crowded in upon him. . . . This state 
 was worse than the first, and he cried out in agony, 
 for the helplessness of it and of all creatures. . . . 
 There came to him then the vision of Nina. He cried 
 out to her in a loud voice that she should aid him, 
 but she heard him not. He cried again, and she 
 looked down at him from her height with serene 
 eyes, then slowly turned and busied herself with the 
 white bundle that lay upon her knee. . . . 
 
 He staggered, and, reaching, clutched a tree, and in 
 the clutching came to his senses. 
 
 Where he might be he did not know. Where, in 
 his agony, he had wandered, by what strange and de- 
 vious ways, he never knew, nor for how long. He 
 was cold and utterly alone under the stars on a height 
 
344 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 above London. The sky was warm and wondrous 
 blue, and through the black' mass of the city wound 
 the river like a silver snake, bearing on his bosom 
 the secrets of men who have lived and loved upon 
 his banks, bearing them down to the sea — ^bearing 
 their souls down to the sea to be washed and made 
 whole. A cloud of smoke hung over the city, and 
 upon this cloud the lights of the streets smote their 
 glare. . . . 
 
 It was very wonderful, that great city: most won- 
 derful to David standing there — cold, utterly alone, 
 all ties for the moment broken. To be in it and to 
 find it so vast : to be .out of and above it, and to find 
 it so tiny that a man might almost hold it in the cup 
 of his hand for scrutiny. ... A man free and of 
 great stature : such a man as he had been, such a man 
 as he was not, and never could be again. . . . There 
 lived the rich folk: there the poor: there the mean 
 souls that were neither one nor the other; foolish 
 most of them, selfish all of them; turning all aside 
 from the road to growth, love, and the fullest life — 
 the rich to gain power, the poor to gain bread. . . . 
 One way or the other, the end must be always the 
 same. 
 
 David held out his arms towards it, and plunged 
 back again. He confessed not to himself what thing 
 it was that had driven him out, nor did he see or know 
 that he was hastening back to it. Every fibre of him 
 cried out to be back again in the throng, and that he 
 should stand no more outside and above. . . . 
 
 This night was the strangest of his life, the death 
 of all that he had been; and out of the turmoil in 
 him sprang new things to light: new seeds were 
 planted in this madness and desperate struggle in his 
 soul. . . . 
 
 During a week he applied himself busily to his work 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 345 
 
 at the theatre, and astonished both his associates 
 with the new energy that he brought to bear, and the 
 new fertility that he showed in suggestions. 
 
 " He makes me feel such a child," said Davies. 
 
 " M-p-p-p-p-p-p," said Clough. 
 
 For five days there were no letters from Countess 
 Betty. David wrote to Nina words that puzzled her, 
 and yet brought her no uneasiness; but when he did 
 not go to Bardon, she wrote reproachfully, and said 
 that he must come soon, very soon. . . . The same 
 post brought also a letter from Braydale, to which 
 his new celebrity seemed to have penetrated. There 
 was a fawning note in his father's letter which amused 
 him, and on a sudden freak he took train to Braydale, 
 and telegraphed to Nina what he was about. 
 
 This time there was no preparation for his advent, 
 and no slaying of a fatted calf. 
 
 He arrived early of an afternoon, and found his 
 stepmother sitting there almost exactly as she had been 
 when last he 'had seen her — a little stouter, a little red- 
 der in the face, a little harder in the lines of the mouth, 
 a little more bristling and prickly. 
 
 She evinced no surprise upon his announcement and 
 entry, gave him her hand, and bade him sit. She 
 handled him firmly, and treated him as though he was 
 still the boy she had known, and, according to her 
 lights, had striven to bring to reason. 
 
 " Well," she said, " as you are here, you may as 
 well give an account of yourself." 
 
 "Nearly twelve years," said David. 
 
 " Nicholas has married a fool, Audrey a reach-me- 
 down, and you ?" 
 
 "How is John?" said David, reverting to his old 
 habit of parrying her questions with others not at all 
 pertinent. 
 
 She glared at him. 
 
346 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " I've been having trouble with my knee," she said, 
 flying off at a tangent. 
 
 David drummed with his fingers, and surveyed the 
 room. He found the air of it curiously stifling, 
 though the windows were thrown open. The Roman 
 soldier, " Faithful unto Death," still grimly and 
 stolidly guarded Mrs. Brockman from the powers of 
 darkness. 
 
 " You'll be staying a few days now you are here? " 
 she said. 
 
 She pronounced the aitch without any sort of diiifi- 
 culty, and David marked that for a change in her. 
 
 "Not for long," said David. "And my father?" 
 
 " Hm-m-m-m." She took her knitting and jabbed 
 savagely. " There's no end to a fool's folly." 
 
 With that she became dumb, and would hold no 
 further converse with him. 
 
 When he was wearied of looking from her to her 
 Roman soldier and back again, he asked where 
 Nicholas might be found, and set out on his visit to 
 that household. 
 
 He passed, according to the directions given him, 
 through a region of terraces of little red-brick houses 
 newly built, each street of them like unto another, 
 until he came to a pair of stucco semi-detached villas, 
 ugly in themselves, but remaining to protest against 
 the greatest ugliness of the handiwork of the jerry- 
 builder. 
 
 Here he found Nicholas and his wife. The little 
 woman treated him at first with exaggerated respect, 
 but gradually thawed, and ventured timidly to ask 
 after Nina, of whom it appeared Nicholas had so sung 
 the praises as to bring her to jfealousy. 
 
 They were so queer in their habits, so oddly re- 
 stricted, that David wondered what he was doing in 
 that galley. His stepmother he could understand and 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 347 
 
 meet more or less on terms of equality, or, at any 
 rate, of frank and flat antagonism. These little peo- 
 ple would not admit of equality, but insisted on look- 
 ing up, while at the same time they were filled with 
 resentment at having so to approach their distin- 
 guished relative. For that he was distinguished was 
 never a doubt in them; for had not his portrait ap- 
 peared in the illustrated papers, and was there' not 
 Nicholas's own testimony to the magnificence of his 
 living ? 
 
 It was a trying experience for David. He could 
 not meet them with sympathy, and was angry with 
 himself that he could not do so. Nicholas in London 
 had been not a little comic, but here he was pathetic, 
 even tragic, and the pretty fool seemed to be 
 so admirably his mate. In that, too, there was 
 tragedy. 
 
 He was relieved when Helen came, though this, 
 too, made him sorrow, for the golden vision of her 
 that still lingered with him was on the instant dis- 
 pelled. It seemed that she had divined his presence 
 in the house, for she stood on the threshold of the 
 room peering through the dim light, unable to move. 
 David came to her: 
 
 "Why, Helen . . ." he said. 
 
 " David ! " This came not above a whisper, and 
 she hung her head. "I never dreamed that you 
 would come like this . . . and I thought after so long 
 that you would never come." 
 
 David could find no words to say to her. He drew 
 her into the room. 
 
 At once she asked for Nina, and was she wonder- 
 ful as Nicholas had said? but of course she must be; 
 and was she well, and in London? 
 
 David told her, and for what he told she asked al- 
 ways more. When she came to the end of this she 
 
348 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 asked for the fine people who were his friends, and 
 made so much of him. 
 
 Then for long she was silent, and gazed out up at 
 the threatening sky. 
 
 " I think it will rain," she said. She moved to 
 go, and David offered, then asked, then begged to be 
 allowed to accompany her. 
 
 The rain came just as they turned out of the street. 
 David held an umbrella over her, and bade her take 
 his arrji to be the more secure under it. 
 
 " I am glad you are here," she said. 
 
 "I am glad to be of service to you again," said 
 David. 
 
 So they walked in silence under the beating rain, 
 until they came to the house with its plain red front 
 and its row of gleaming brass bell-handles. About 
 it there was still the smell of brewing. 
 
 " Nothing is changed," said David. 
 
 " So much and yet so little. Will you come in out 
 of the rain? I know my father will be rejoiced to 
 see you — such a man as you have become." 
 
 She took him to the study, which David found 
 hardly at all changed from the day when he had 
 last sat there with her. There were more books, 
 and the colour of the walls was changed. 
 
 Far otherwise was it with Helen. She was changed 
 almost out of recognition. Her hair was still golden, 
 and still the masses of it clustered and shone about 
 her head, but she was worn, and her eyelids v/ere 
 weary, and under all her graciousness and tenderness 
 was the curious hardness of terror, as though suffer- 
 ing had overwhelmed her, broken her spirit and cour- 
 age to face more. It seemed that she was fearful 
 always of that lurking in the depths which might 
 spring out and crush. 
 
 Even now with David, glad though she was to have 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 349 
 
 him again, she was timid, and seemed to avoid direct 
 contact with him, and he, sensitive and high-strung 
 as iie was still from his dreadful days, felt this in 
 her, but dared not reach out a hand to help her, or 
 to break through what bound her. He saw that her 
 shoulders were bowed as though with the weight of 
 a great burden, and that her hands were very thin. 
 That she had been brought to this from the radiant 
 creature that he remembered was to him more pitiful 
 than anything he had ever known. 
 
 She told him nothing of her story, nor could she 
 tell him, but from the bald facts given him he v/as 
 able to divine much, and the more clearly the pity 
 of it was seen the more impossible it became to offer 
 her aid. 
 
 They talked lightly of old days, she reminding him 
 of his oddities, and he her of her scorn of him. 
 
 "Yes," she said; "we were children, and we are 
 men and women. Nicholas said that." 
 
 "Nicholas?" 
 
 "He was in great trouble; and when we are most 
 in anguish I think even the least of us catches at truth. 
 There is no other source of comfort. . . . He is 
 happy enough now. He revolted against this place. 
 I have seen so much of that. They beat against it 
 until they are bruised and sore, and then they are 
 resigned to it. . . . Not many can break free as 
 you did." 
 
 She told him then how his family had fared: of 
 their continued prosperity ; of the iron rule of his step- 
 mother; of her excursion into religion, and appear- 
 ance as a patroness of Gospel teaching; of her fashion- 
 ing of Henry into a civic magnate and a philanthropist. 
 
 "The odd thing is," she said, " that only since then 
 has my father refused to know Mr. Brockman. He 
 will not talk of him nor see him." 
 
350 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 David remembered then that Nicholas had always 
 been a little shy in talking of his father; he remem- 
 bered also the grimness which had come upon his 
 stepmother at the mention of him. He had a curious 
 uneasiness, and in tacit agreement they left the sub- 
 ject and came to John. 
 
 " Such a dear boy ! " said Helen. " Much what 
 you were, David, only — only more normal." 
 
 "At school?" 
 
 "At your school. He is quite happy there — ^hap- 
 pier, he tells me, than he ever is at home. Indeed, it 
 is a grim place for a child. He is clever, too, and 
 they say would certainly do well at the University 
 if they could be got to let him go." 
 
 "Why, then, he shall." 
 
 " It is not so easy done as said." 
 
 She asked then for more of Nina, and seemed to 
 find comfort in the thought of so much happiness. 
 
 " You must come to stay with us," said David. 
 
 "I? Oh no, David— no!" 
 
 " But you will come. . . ." 
 
 He saw then that tears were in her eyes, and so he 
 left her, promising that he would come again before 
 his return to London. 
 
 Though he knew not half the grief and sorrow that 
 were hers, David was humbled by this meeting with 
 her, ashamed of the almost baseless conflict that had 
 been in himself, and keenly alive as he had never been 
 to the injustice of the ordering of the world. That 
 he should have so much while this so much finer, 
 gentler, and more generous spirit should be starved 
 and wasting in such mean environment brought him 
 to railing, helpless anger, and again to that vision 
 of the furious blind energy which had fouled the air 
 and defaced the countryside to enrich the few and 
 starve and blight one generation after another. He 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 351 
 
 did not know that already the first fury had spent 
 itself, and that even here, under the smoke-pall, men 
 were beginning to cast rueful eyes upon what they 
 had done, upon the lives they had wasted, and to 
 discover remedies for the most patent evils that they 
 had brought. He did not know that his foolish father, 
 coming at the tail of the effort towards the creation 
 of wealth, and profiting by it, was already an instru- 
 ment in the movement towards regeneration and re- 
 pair. Still less did he know that he himself, in aid- 
 ing Davies and Clough, was for the first time giving 
 expression to the new spirit of humanity that had 
 sprung in. England, and not alone in England, but 
 everywhere in the civilized world. 
 
 The industrial fever had brought money; the new 
 spirit, groping after social justice, was moving to- 
 wards the right use of it. 
 
 The old wandering David might have perceived it, 
 but this, with his new pride of work and pride of 
 place in the world, was a man less apt to perceive 
 fine shades, but, by the very blunting, an instrument 
 the more effective for the power that moved them all 
 towards the same goal — ^the creation of that order- 
 ing of the world under which the strong should still 
 triumph, yet the weak be not wholly destroyed. It 
 is not given to any man to know the purpose of his 
 work, nor rightly whkt place it holds in the great 
 purpose of the world. 
 
 In the face of such wicked waste as this of Helen, 
 it was difficult to perceive the new spirit, or to break 
 free from the sense that there never had been, and 
 never would be, any movement save that from chaos 
 to chaos to the end of all things. 
 
 In such a mood David was able to see only the grim- 
 mest and most dismal aspect of the position of his 
 family. The dull and deadly monotony of their ex- 
 
352 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 istence, their wilful blindness to all things gracious 
 and fair, their acceptance of an alraos tnegaitve state, 
 resenting any unusual event, and seeing in any un- 
 wonted happening a catastrophe. 
 
 Mrs. Brockman had no faith in human nature, no 
 eye for its possibilities, and, being the strongest crea- 
 ture in her little group, she drew a hard-and-fast line 
 beyond which none of them might step, and if she 
 ever allowed herself to contemplate the existence of 
 a region beyond that line, scorned and despised it as 
 a place of light and vain things. In this spirit she 
 contemplated all that had to do with Fielding and St. 
 Justin. The romance was to her a dirty scandal, and 
 a taint in the family which must be eradicated. 
 
 The result of this treatment for Audrey and 
 Nicholas had been disaster. David was resolved that 
 at all costs John must be saved from it. He dropped 
 the broadest hints of his will and intention in the 
 matter during the three dull days that he spent at 
 Braydale — days remarkable only for their lack of in- 
 cident — ^but met only with the stern silence of disap- 
 proval from Mrs. Brockman. 
 
 David had found it impossible to deal with his 
 father ; the man had become so fat, foolish, and vulgar. 
 He had a sort of confidence, but cringed to his son, 
 and seemed to entertain a sort of envious dislike of 
 him. He exhibited his offices and restaurants — there 
 were, now three — with some pride, but out of sheer 
 swagger bullied certain of his employees, and therein 
 showed his meanness. 
 
 An effort was made to discover Tush Williams, but 
 he was not to be foimd, and the barber's shop had, 
 through innumerable vicissitudes, come into the hands 
 of a small stationer and newsvendor. . . . 
 
 It was with relief that David set his face homeward, 
 pondering the strangeness of the tie of blood which 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 353 
 
 should bind him to these people for whom he had small 
 affection and no real sympathy. This much his visit 
 had done for him, that during the days of his sojourn 
 he was altogether free from the uneasiness and the 
 disquieting obsession which had before brought him 
 to so strange a pass. 
 
 No sooner, however, did he set foot in London 
 than it came upon him with greater force than ever. 
 
 He found much arrears of work to be cleared, and 
 for two days was successful in keeping clear. 
 
 On the third day he walked back to Chelsea, making 
 a long detour over Vauxhall Bridge, down Nine Elms 
 Lane, and up again through Battersea Park. 
 
 In Swan Park his man met him with the announce- 
 ment that Lady St. Justin was waiting to see him. 
 
 She met him frankly, and at once came to what it 
 was she had to say. 
 
 " I am sorry," she said — " I am sorry. It was 
 foolishness — nothing more. I have written it again 
 and again. You would not come. I must have you 
 for my friend — I must. . . ." 
 
 "After the first," said David, "I did not read 
 them." 
 
 " That was unjust." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "that was unjust." 
 
 " I am honest," she said. " I must have you for my 
 friend — I must, I must. I must ... oh, you don't 
 know what it means to me ! . . ." 
 
 She would not leave him until he had promised that 
 he would come again to see her. 
 
 This done, she seemed content, but could not keep 
 the note of triumph from her voice. 
 
 David took her to the gate of the little garden, and 
 watched her march away down towards the river. 
 She was very beautiful to see. 
 
VIII 
 
 Clara wrote to David to say that she thought he 
 ought to be at Bardon, but he was so embroiled with 
 theatrical politics that he could not go for more than 
 a day or half a day — ^just enough to see that all was 
 well. 
 
 Anthony had taken a house in the neighbourhood, 
 and installed himself with his family, while Clara 
 stayed at the little white house with Nina. Susan 
 Pollard was drawn into the conspiracy, and her 
 Robert was added to the number of husbands de- 
 serted in the cause of this miracle that was to happen 
 behind the little green door. 
 
 He met David wandering disconsolate by the river, 
 and glancing up at the sycamore, where still was 
 to be seen the little seat he had made on the top- 
 most branch, and the initials D.B. cut deep into the 
 bark. 
 
 Robert Pollard was of the opinion that it would 
 be all right, that these things had to be, and that 
 David must cheer up. " Gawd bless yer, Mr. David ! 
 The first time wi' Susie I bit through my thumb to 
 the bone. 'Ere's the mark of it. She got used to 
 it, and so did I. Power of 'abit, Mr. David — ^power 
 of 'abit. . . . There was a man over 'ere in Bardon, 
 never to the last could keep away, an' 'e 'ad thirteen. 
 A little chubby, -pinkie-faced and pinkie-eyed chap, 
 'e was. Well, when there was the fifth, up 'e crep', 
 an' stood outside the door a-shiverin' an' a-shakin'. 
 Out comes doctor, an' ' Run away, my little man,' 
 
 354 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 355 
 
 'e says, thinkin' 'e was quite a lad. Then up 'e 
 squeaks, an' says : ' Father o' the child, sir — father 
 o' the child.' " 
 
 Robert paused in his narrative, and was delighted 
 to find David chuckling. 
 
 " My word, Mr. David, there's nothen like it to 
 fill a man out an' ripen 'im, and set 'im squarely on 
 'is feet." 
 
 Such blunt wisdom, coming from this purblind 
 friend of his, set David wondering. Truly the world 
 had run smoothly for this man, who had taken sim- 
 ply all that he had come by, and, according to his 
 nature, had tasted of all things in their fulness. 
 
 He was envious. What he had travelled half the 
 world to seek this man, living as his fathers had 
 lived, in. the house of his fathers, and plying the 
 same honest trade, had found near at hand, to be had 
 only for the reaching out for it. And yet there must 
 be treasures that were not, and could not be, in his 
 vision, else all the stir and movement of the world, 
 the grasping after fresh wonders beyond and ever 
 beyond what already had been seen, were illusion and 
 a vain blinding of strife and misery. . . . Robert 
 had brought comfort by his droll story, but by his wis- 
 dom had shattered it, and let loose again the flood 
 of torturing inquiry. There was no coming at Nina, 
 for Clara and Susan were stem in their guard of 
 the precious woman, and, if they had been allowed, 
 would have banished all mankind from the holy place. 
 
 More than ever disposed to despair of it all, and 
 of the power even to understand (most troubling of 
 all was the memory of the youthful days, not so very 
 far distant, when he had seemed to himself in his 
 oocksureness to understand and possess the secret of 
 all things), David returned to London prepared to 
 win through the three weeks that remained as best 
 
3S6 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 he could. He was caught up by Countess Betty, and 
 in his leisure whirled into a round of gaieties. 
 
 She was circumspect with him, and never gave him 
 a moment of uneasiness, lulled all his senses, and 
 smoothed away the ruffled meifiory that he had of 
 her. He toiled unceasingly, and grew pale and 
 weary. She was ever ready with some new plan for 
 his delight and refreshment. In her motor-car they 
 dashed to Kew, and lounged about the green lawns 
 of the place, and drank eagerly the brave colours of 
 the flowers. David, in his thoughts, was ever away 
 in Bardon, though in some curious way he was glad 
 of this beautiful creature who was ever at his side. 
 He gave never a thought to her needs, and never 
 guessed that she was, or could be, less content with 
 what they had than himself. She watched him, met 
 every mood in him, was gay when he was gay, mum 
 when he was sad, eager and ready to listen while he 
 talked of what should be done in the future. She 
 was with him every day, but never let it appear that 
 they were together more than intermittently. She 
 was singularly adroit in making it seem that what 
 they had was to her, as to him, just a thing of odd 
 moments. 
 
 He talked often of his family and Bray dale, espe- 
 cially of John, and how the boy must be taken out of 
 all that dinginess and narrowness, and how the step- 
 mother must not, must never, be allowed to count 
 another wasted life to her credit. He talked of 
 Helen, and the pity of her story, so mean and sordid 
 as it was. She listened, and, though she had neither 
 sympathy nor imagination to understand the small 
 tragedies of such lives as he set before her, she man- 
 aged subtly to convey that she was moved and 
 distressed by it all. 
 
 He never once spoke to her of Nina, and she so 
 
DEVIOUS WAY§ 357 
 
 bemused the power of self-criticism in him that he 
 never accounted this strange, \iever even came to the 
 idea of it, though never for a monient did he lose 
 consciousness of Nina, and the thing that was to 
 come down there. He budged never an inch from 
 his attitude towards the rare woman, and never 
 doubted of his strength. He forgot that Betty had 
 ever thought foolishly of him, and took her warin 
 fellowship gladly, as the thing that he most needed. 
 She gave as gladly, but watched unceasingly, losing 
 never a moment in the snaring of him to a false 
 security. 
 
 For her part, she had no thought of evil. She 
 only knew that she was wakened to a tenderness 
 and a lovely joy that she had never known, and on 
 she went, giving no thought to the future, nor to 
 the warning voice that sounded in her ears that she 
 must be hurt in the end, and hurt as she had never 
 been. That she brushed aside, and, hugging her 
 happiness, missed never a moment for the feeding 
 of it. Right, Wrong, Good, Evil, Honour, Dis- 
 honour — these mattered not at all. Here in herself 
 was the treasure that all her life had been withheld 
 from her, that in her blindness she had asked of base 
 and foolish men, who had given her nothing at all, 
 and she hugged it,' cried over it, laughed aloud and 
 sang, and every day grew more beautiful for it. . . . 
 
 Blind David met her in her whims, and light- 
 heartedly they sought odd pleasure in all sorts of 
 queer nooks and crannies of the city. Their greatest 
 delight came when, in the early morning of a fine 
 July day, they met, and wandered through empty 
 streets to Covent Garden Market, • where they bought 
 flowers — arms full of them — and a basket of straw- 
 berries. With (their prizes, after they had drunk 
 coflfee in the dingy parlour of a small hotel by the 
 
358 ^DEVIOUS WAYS i 
 
 market, rousing sleepy wonder in the blear-eyed 
 waiter who attended to their wants, they passed down 
 to the Embankment, and there devoured the fruit, 
 sharing it with a group of ragged men and women 
 who gathered about them and stared. When the 
 basket was empty, they gave the frowsy crew money 
 enough to keep them all happily drunk for a week, 
 and set off back to Carlton House Terrace. 
 
 Here they breakfasted under the stern eye of the 
 butler, and after, utterly worn out, the Countess fell 
 asleep. 
 
 David stole away. 
 
 They had more days of foolishness, and then it 
 came that she had business to be done at Riggs, and 
 must go by road late in the evening, and stay the 
 night, and return next morning. She won from 
 David a promise that he would go with her — indeed, 
 the prospect of speed under the high July moon was 
 not to be resisted, and together towards midnight 
 they set out. 
 
 The car, with the great lamps gleaming, lighting 
 all the road, set out northward, shot through the thin 
 edge of London into the country, and roared and 
 rattled, eating up the road, on into the night under 
 the great hanging moon. There was a soft warm air, 
 and even at their great speed they were hardly at 
 all cold. David gave himself up to the sheer pleasure 
 of the swift rushing, and when a little hand touched 
 his, his closed on it, and so for each the pleasure was 
 the keener. 
 
 Neither spoke until the car turned into the long 
 avenue leading up to the great house. Then David 
 said : ' 
 
 " I love this place." 
 
 "And I." 
 
 In the sheer pleasure of this wild dash each had 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 359 
 
 cast ofif all that held them to the world. Betty was 
 triumphant. She had a brave colour, and her eyes 
 flashed. 
 
 She cast off her cloak and veil, and she was very 
 beautiful, clad lightly in brown silk. 
 
 " Such a night," she said, " and ours ! " 
 
 " It is dawn," said David. 
 
 " Let us watch the dawn." 
 
 She took him to her chamber in the east wing, 
 with its window hanging low over the little river 
 that washed the very walls of the old house. The 
 river sang and murmured. 
 
 They sat in the window and looked out. The sky 
 was pearl and silver, and the trees were still dark 
 and looming. 
 
 David gazed out, and Betty watched his face. He 
 listened for the sounds of the world stirring after 
 the night. Night-sounds were dead, and there was 
 a rustling and a faint chirping — ^the new birth of the 
 world. He thought not at all, but was given up to 
 the emotion of the moment. The woman moved 
 towards him, so that her knee touched his. She held 
 his hand again, and her bosom rose and fell. 
 
 Still the sky was pearl and silver, and still the 
 trees were dark and looming. The little river sang 
 and murmured. 
 
 The woman opened her lips and spoke. She began 
 to tell of her first disastrous love, and in the telling 
 made it seem a beautiful and a glorious thing, such 
 as it had never been in truth. She wove deftly, and, 
 watching the man's face, saw that she had roused 
 pity, followed this, and fed it, and to the soft sadness 
 of the waking hour brought her tale of woe, of love, 
 and loss of love, the coldness and chill of life. . . . 
 
 Then, when pity could go no farther, and the sky 
 was become faintly overcast with the rosy first beams 
 
36o DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 of the sun, when the black mass of the trees took 
 form and life, and banks of glowing flowers shone 
 under the dew, when the rusthng and faint chirping 
 grew and swelled into a mighty song from a thou- 
 sand throats, she came then to the dawning of 
 the new love in herself, and, drawing nearer and 
 nearer to the man who still gazed out and drank the 
 wonder of the new-bom day, laid first her hands on 
 him, drew nearer, ever nearer, so that her breathing 
 came upon his face, and never ceased to watch him. 
 So close she was, and still he gazed out at the chang- 
 ing sky. Closer still she came, until the sun cast 
 forth his first full light, and then he turned, met eyes 
 seeking his, lips seeking his, and took. 
 
IX 
 
 David never was of those who seek to justify the 
 evil that they have done. 
 
 Right was to him still right, wrong still wrong, 
 judged by no law but that of his own nature and 
 instinct for the truth. 
 
 This that he had done was damnable — an offence 
 against this woman whose love he had taken with- 
 out having love to give ; an offence against that other 
 whom he had chosen for his mate ; an offence against 
 himself, but most an offence against Love, against 
 Truth, Honour, Justice — ^all the virtues that are com- 
 prised in that most sacred and all-embracing word. 
 But until the offending he had never known the ful- 
 ness of it and the so much that it stood for. 
 
 He thought no shame of the woman, and never 
 even at the lowest to which he was brought in the 
 after-days of that sudden and swift descent did he 
 think of her otherwise than with anger against him- 
 self for his blindness and fool's security. 
 
 There never was in him any doubt of what he 
 should do. 
 
 They had driven back in silence — she happy, radi- 
 ant; he numbed, chilled, almost no longer sentient. 
 
 He had left her without a word, and gone about 
 his business tranquilly and capably enough, having 
 no thought beyond it. So for two days he lived. 
 Then had come a letter from Nina, and the full 
 horror of what he had done came upon him. 
 
 He sought out Betty, instinctively knowing that 
 there could be nothing done, nothing to repair, noth- 
 
 361 
 
362 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 ing to make good. He stood abased and humbled 
 before her, and told her as clearly as he could what 
 thing it was that he had done, and how great was 
 his offence against her, that therefore he must break, 
 that they two could and must have nothing, since 
 what they had was worse, far worse, than nothing. 
 She could not understand, sadly shook her head. 
 
 "The joy of it!" she said. 
 
 Then David left her, and, poor wretch! brought 
 himself almost to madness in the vain effort to under- 
 stand the wherefore and purpose of this thing. He 
 cast back and back through all his life to fmd the 
 springs of it, the source of weakness in himself, but 
 vainly. There was no moment at which he could 
 catch to bring it into relation with this so sudden 
 devastation and laying low of all that he had thought, 
 believed, and known of himself. 
 
 He knew that he had never wavered in allegiance 
 to the image of Nina, that in spirit he had never for 
 the tiniest moment turned from her; but this knowl- 
 edge magnified only the more and cast in the most 
 dreadful light his offence against the other wretched 
 woman. She had thought — she must have thought — 
 that he had much to give her, and what he had given 
 was so mean and despicable a thing that he was 
 brought to she^r contempt of himself, and was left 
 helplessly groping, blind, dumb," and insensible to 
 all that was going on about him, alive only to his 
 anguish. Life seemed to stop, and he was left looking 
 backwards at himself, at all that he had been, from this 
 vantage-ground by the nothing that he was. 
 
 He seemed to himself to have been a man stum- 
 bling always by a stony way, but never falling, and, 
 as he saw now with hideous clarity, despising those 
 who fell and lay by the wayside and gave up the 
 quest. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 363 
 
 Now himself had fallen, but the way ran on. He 
 was not fallen so low but that he could see that the 
 way ran endlessly on towards the goal; but he was 
 so broken, so worn, so weak by the heavy knowledge 
 that had come to him, and by the crushing realiza- 
 tion that he could not budge, but must look back upon 
 the way by which he had come. 
 
 He saw marching up behind him tottering some, 
 falling others, and far, far back the very young strid- 
 ing bravely, head in air, drunk with the wonder of sure 
 striding. . . . They were all there, on the road, 
 behind or ahead of him, all the creatures with whom 
 he had sojourned or had come in contact; and so 
 many of them came blindly on for a little way, then 
 wandered from the path, choked with lies, wasted,, 
 rotten and dead, eaten away with their lies. Old 
 men ahead, the young behind, and himself lying there 
 stricken, but no longer blind. That, at least, he had, 
 that he had not lied, nor sought the false comfort of 
 lies, and the drawing of veils over the truth that 
 must be faced unflinchingly or not at all. ... As 
 he lay there, it seemed that some he had left behind 
 came up, and, gazitjg at him, did not know him lying 
 there for the man they had known . . . and this was 
 the worst of all to bear. 
 
 Slowly he came out of his madness, and ceased 
 to be haunted by this vision of the endless way. The 
 memory of old deeds of kindness done to him came 
 to bring him comfort, faith, and hope — ^and espe- 
 cially he remembered that strange woman, who in 
 America had picked him from the gutter and set him 
 on his feet again. From America he passed in rapid 
 survey all his wanderings, and was with the old 
 priest again in Ceylon. So vividly did this scene 
 come before him again that he said, as he had said 
 then : 
 
364 ' DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " I know that a man can touch them to saintliness ; 
 and I know that a man can leave them as malignant 
 as hell ; and I know that all peace and happiness hang 
 from what men choose to make of women. . . . 
 Brutes, fools, cowards. Oh, the cowardice of 
 them! ..." ^ 
 
 He broke off, for there was such bitter and intoler- 
 able mockery in the words and in the idea of that 
 young raw David so setting down the truth, and 
 surely taking it unto himself for righteousness, claim- 
 ing honour for it. . . . So it was with all that he 
 had been, with every relationship into which he had 
 entered. . . . 
 
 And yet, and yet, he knew now that all that he 
 had known so instinctively was true — more true, more 
 glorious, and more shining than ever before; for 
 now it was known in all humility, by the shedding 
 of every shred of honour that he had ever taken unto 
 himself. . . . True it is that only selfishness, arro- 
 gance, and insistence upon self can lead love astray. 
 He came also to what Helen had discovered in her 
 sorrow. -Women are so foolish and men so 
 blind. ... 
 
 Just as hope sprang newly to life in him there 
 came grave news of Nina, and off at once he must 
 go to Bardon. 
 
 The same night that he returned to Nina his son 
 was born, heir to this strangely begotten line. 
 
 He was met at the station by Clara, who seemed 
 to find comfort in the sight of him,; for, as the train 
 drew up, her eyes were anxiously watching for him, 
 and, lighting on him, became happier. 
 
 " If you could have come earlier," she said. 
 
 " I came at once on your news. How is she ? " 
 
 "So ill . . . suddenly. It must be right: it must, 
 it must." 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 365 
 
 She clutched David's arm and clung to him. 
 " Susan is with her. She is so good." 
 
 It was late as they drove to Bardon, and already 
 the people of the little town were abed. Only here 
 and there was a light in the window, and only in one 
 window of the little house was there a dim light. 
 
 At once, as they entered, Susan appeared at the 
 top of the stair, whispered greeting, and asked that 
 he would come. 
 
 He came softly into the room, and stood by the 
 bedside. Then he knelt, took Nina's hand, and kissed 
 it, and this, in his great need for prayer, was all 
 the prayer vouchsafed to him. He could no more, 
 and still he knelt until her soft voice sounded: 
 
 " Mine, my love, and ours." 
 
 Then, "Ours," he said, and in agony stole away 
 and out into the night to the yew-grove, where, in 
 its blackest corner, he stood in hiding, seeing nothing, 
 feeling nothing, utterly helpless, utterly weak, utterly 
 ashamed in the knowledge that he came to the great- 
 est wonder of the world stained and unworthy. 
 
 To the wonder of mating he had come not free 
 from stain. In the miracle of it he had become clean 
 and whiter than snow, but before love had run its 
 full course with him there had been the swift descent, 
 the sudden leaping to bring him down. 
 
 So the strength in him was sapped, and in this 
 hour of need, that most appalling and yet most glori- 
 ous hour of a man's life, when he knows the much 
 that has been vouchsafed to woman, the little that 
 has been given to man, he was weak, and knew only 
 the suffering of the weak, devastating, destructive, 
 not that of the strong, purifying, ennobling, crushing 
 the pure gold out of man and woman. And yet 
 vaguely, through all the blackness that was upon him, 
 he was conscious of being not altogether without 
 
366 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 comfort, of being close to new and greater things 
 than he had ever known. 
 
 The sources of his misery lay in the knowledge 
 that what he had done rose like a wall between him- 
 self and what was to hand, and that, however much 
 he might hurl himself against it, it must be only to 
 fall back bruised, injured, faint, and weak. 
 
 As if to woo him from his torment, the yew-grove 
 had taken on its loveliest aspect under the moon. The 
 yews were black, velvety, soft, and beech, and oak 
 by contrast were fanciful things, fairy-fashioned, 
 things of light and air. Owls were abroad, moths 
 flitted, bats hovered ; far down the valley sheep cried ; 
 a fox barked. The peace and magic of the night 
 brought no balm to the wretched man there in the 
 yew-grove, for whom the world had ever been so fair ; 
 now, though in his soul he cried that the world was 
 fair, he had lost his lordship of it, lost the lovely 
 knowledge of its truth, because, in this hour of great- 
 est need for sharing, there was this thing that 
 hemmed him in, bound him down, and was a drag 
 upon the power to give himself. . . . 
 
 •So in the blackest corner of the grove he stood 
 in helpless misery, until tears came and sweet grief. 
 Then the night was beautiful to him, and he climbed 
 to the summit of the long ride through the grove, 
 and gazed out over the long valley, tender now under 
 the moon and her shroud of fleecy mists. 
 
 More than ever before he was alive to sounds and 
 sights and all the wonders of the night, and, gather- 
 ing strength from them, could give out and out. . . . 
 
 In the early dawn he came again to the little house, 
 to find Clara sitting in lonely vigil, waiting, listening 
 to every stir and sound in the house. ... 
 
 She was glad when he came again, and gave him 
 to eat and drink. 
 
DEVIOUS WAYS 367 
 
 They sat, not speaking, each waiting. . . . 
 
 There came a great cry. David leaped to his feet 
 and stood with hands clenched, until words were 
 wrung from him. 
 
 " That . . . that . . . that . . ." he said. " Is it 
 well? ... Is it well? . . ." 
 
 Clara stole to the door, to listen. . . . Then she 
 crept away, and David stood alone, waiting, all the 
 hideous possibilities rushing through his mind. . . . 
 There had been the cry: that was well. . . . 
 But after silence, and in that what might there not 
 be? . . . Terrifying as the moment was, yet there 
 was greatness in it from the very humility to 
 which it brought him, for in it all was lost or 
 gained, himself helpless, and by no reaching out 
 of the hand able to bring the issue one way or the 
 other. . . . 
 
 In his nakedness is man most great. 
 
 Clara came again and bade him come, for it was 
 well with Nina, well with the boy. 
 
 "By God!" said David— " by God!" and stood 
 reiterating the two words, babbling foolishly, unable 
 to move for the great gladness that was in him. Then 
 he clapped his hands together, laughed aloud, ran 
 from the room, and left Clara weeping. Susan met 
 him with a little white bundle in her arms, and David 
 took the little thing, warm with its new life, wrinkled 
 and bald, sleeping with its eyes screwed up, and again 
 he laughed. Then he laid it by Nina, where she lay 
 white and weary. ... To see her again was so 
 wonderful. 
 
 He took her hand and kissed it. Her -lips 
 moved. . . . 
 
 "Ours," she said — "ours, my David." Then her 
 eyes closed again, and through the night David sat 
 with her hand clutching his. . . . 
 
368 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 The little white house with its green door was three 
 hundred years old, and many and great were the 
 wonders that it had known, but never surely under 
 its roof had there been such a marvellous night as 
 this. 
 
 In the succeeding days there was no thought in 
 David but of Nina and the great gift that was theirs. 
 He spared nothing to bring her pleasure, and every- 
 thing not immediately concerned with her was remote 
 and strange. The life that he had had in London 
 was so remote as to seem almost as though it had 
 never been. Every moment of his life was brought 
 to this, and in the fire of it purged and new strength 
 wrung from it. In all those hours when he had gone 
 from the turmoil of men and their affairs to virgin 
 places, there had never been for him so full a new- 
 ness and rebirth as in this. He tried to tell Nina of 
 it, and what it, had wrought in him. . . . 
 
 '' If there is that for you," she said, " for me there 
 is . . . oh, if you could understand. The life of 
 a woman is so great a thing. ..." 
 
 " Greater than the life of a man? " 
 
 " It must be, David, for, since the beginning, we 
 have suffered most." 
 
 David was for so long silent that she became afraid 
 almost. . . . 
 
 " Since you came you have never kissed me." 
 
 " My dear, my dear ! " said David. And up went 
 his hand to his eyes. Then quickly without word of 
 excuse or plea for forgiveness, he told her of the 
 thing that he had done. He told her how ill and 
 twisted had been the life of poor Betty, of its cold- 
 ness and poverty, and how in every seeking she had 
 failed to find, with himself, perhaps, the most disas- 
 trously of all. He told her what he had said to the 
 
< DEVIOUS WAYS 369 
 
 unhappy wpman, and how he had left her with those 
 words on her hps: 
 
 "The joy of it!" 
 
 Then he was silent again for long, and Nina turned 
 her face from him and wept. . . . 
 
 " Nina," he said, but no word came from her. He 
 knelt by her side and took her hand. . . . 
 
 "If this has spoiled it all," he said. 
 
 " No, no," she cried. 
 
 ."What, then? What, then?" 
 
 " It is the bitter knowledge. . . ." She could say 
 no more. 
 
 "Of what?" 
 
 "The ... the bitter knowledge that if I had not 
 so turned from you to live in this, and for this, it 
 never would have been. ... It could not. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, Nina. . . ." 
 
 " I think I never loved you until now . . . never, 
 never. There was so much that I did not know. 
 ... I love you. . . . Kiss me." 
 
 So they came together, and set their faces to march 
 sunwards in the strength of the greatest happiness 
 that is in the world. They had found their heaven, 
 by such devious ways as are ever appointed by that 
 whimsical power that begat the world, and made men 
 and all living things to spring from it. 
 
 The new lord of the world was baptized in the 
 names of John and David. His godfathers were Jean 
 Blest-Gana and Anthony Fielding, and Helen was 
 his godmother. 
 
 Already, when he was a fortnight old, there were 
 pretty quarrels as to whether he was more fitted to 
 be a soldier or an explorer. 
 
 "Of course," said Clara, "he will be a hero." 
 
 " That," said David, " is hardly a profession." 
 
370 DEVIOUS WAYS 
 
 " I mean," replied Clara, " that he should be a 
 man ■' 
 
 " That," said David, " it is very difficult to be. But 
 already he has shown a healthy dislike for being 
 clothed. . . . There is every reason to hope." 
 
 THE END 
 
PR6005.A61D4""'™"""""''="^ 
 Devious ways. 
 
 3 1924 013 593 672