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DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 ETC. 
 
WALTER BESANT'S NOVELS, &c. 
 
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 ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN. With Illustrations by 
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 THE CAPTAINS' ROOM, &c. With a Frontispiece by E. J. Wheeler. 
 ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. With 6 Illustrations by Harry Furniss. 
 DOROTHY FORSTER. With a Frontispiece by Charles Green. 
 UNCLE JACK, and other Stories. 
 CHILDREN OF GIBEON. 
 
 THE WORLD WENT VERY WELL THEN. With 12 Illustrations 
 
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 HERR PAULUS : His Rise, his Greatness, and his Fall. 
 FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. With Illustrations by A. Forestier 
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 TO CALL HER MINE, &c. With 9 Illustrations by A. ForestIER. 
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 THE MONKS OF THELEMA. 
 BY CELIA'S ARBOUR. 
 
 THE CHAPLAIN OF THE 
 
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 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 THE CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT, 
 
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 'TWAS IN TRAFALGAR'S BAY, 
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 THE TEN YEARS' TENANT, 
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IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 ETC. 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER BESANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' ALL SORTS AND C0Nl3lTI0NS OF MEN ETC. 
 
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W3 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 1 
 
 ^1 It may be necessary — it is at least advisable — in 
 . order to avert the possibility of misunderstanding, to 
 p' state that the disease of * Eeligiosity ' which is treated 
 ^ in the first of the stories included in this volume 
 ^ must not be confounded with the profession, posses- 
 > sioU; gift of, or desire for, religious faith. Everyone 
 has observed with what singular ease certain natures 
 assume the external signs and gestures which simulate 
 the phases of the religious life. To attend services 
 with pleasure ; to sing hymns with unction ; to hear 
 exhortations with joy ; to make exhortations with 
 earnestness ; — may become as much a habit, may 
 mean as little, as the taking of a cup of tea. Every- 
 one knows cases in which the outward forms of the 
 religious life have been carried on with zeal and 
 fidelity, while the inner life — the conduct of life— the 
 daily conversation — seems wholly untouched. The 
 world holds up accusing hands and cries out 
 * Hypocrite ! ' The world is not always right. The 
 man, not a conscious hypocrite, may find a certain 
 happiness in his emotions ; he may not connect them 
 i^i the least with things practical ; he may, in fact, be 
 suffering from Eeligiosity. 
 
 Paul Leighan, in the story which follows, is a 
 victim to Eeligiosity. He explains himself in his 
 history ; with a real love for things ecclesiastical, he 
 
VI 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 has no religion at all, no principles, no morals, no 
 honour. But he has Keligiosity. 
 
 It has been my lot to know several victims of this 
 strange disease. One such — who is now dead — in the 
 intervals of the Church services, which he ardently 
 loved, found time to bring a fraudulent action against 
 a company for damages on account of an alleged 
 accident. He swore in open court that he was con- 
 fined to his bed for a certain number of months, or 
 weeks, in consequence of this accident. He won his 
 case, with substantial damages. Another man, who 
 knew that he was only in the most trifling manner 
 injured by the accident, that his evidence was perjury, 
 and that his claim was iniquity, refused afterwards to 
 speak to him. The good man — the perjured person 
 — was deeply pained, and remembered this harshness 
 in his prayers — quite earnestly. Another I knew to 
 whom a certain amount of Keligiosity was periodically 
 necessary. He obtained his emotions by wearing a 
 cassock down to his heels and by carrying a banner 
 at a Eitualist church. For the rest of the week he 
 was an Atheist — advanced and aggressive. ' But,' he 
 said, ' I must have my Fetish.' 
 
 * In Deacon's Orders ' has appeared in the papers 
 which support Tillotson's Syndicate. The other 
 stories in this volume have appeared in ' The Pall Mall 
 Magazine,' ' Black and White,' ' The Strand,' * The 
 Illustrated London News,' * The Humanitarian,' and 
 ' The Idler.' 
 
 W. B. 
 
 United University Club. 
 Dec. 1894. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 In Deacon's Orders ....... 1 
 
 Peer and Heiress 89 
 
 The Equal Woman .114 
 
 The Shrinking Shoe 140 
 
 Quarantine Island • .163 
 
 In Three Weeks 184 
 
 One and Two • .204 
 
 A Night with Tantalus 230 
 
 The Solid Gold Reef Company Limited . . . 238 
 To THE Third and Fourth Generation , . . . 246 
 King David's Friend 277 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 CHAPTEE I 
 
 IMPEDIMENT OR NOTABLE CRIME 
 
 There is always a considerable congregation in the 
 old Cathedral on the day appointed for the ordering 
 of priests. Of course the church is not nearly full ; 
 it is impossible to fill it ; even if the whole town were 
 to assist at the function the enormous nave would 
 not be half filled. As it is, the chancel on such 
 occasions is always full, and a good part of the space 
 under the central tower is occupied with people, 
 nearly all of them ladies. The ordering of priests, 
 which thus attracts so large a congregation, is, it 
 must be acknowledged, a very impressive and solemn 
 ceremony. The powers conferred by the Bishop upon 
 the young men then ordered are by some enthusiasts 
 interpreted literally to be really as tremendous as the 
 words of the Kubric literally mean. It is, again, inte- 
 resting, and even pathetic, to see a body of young men 
 — for the most part not five-and-twenty — solemnly and 
 in the face of the world entering upon vows by virtue 
 of which they are pledged henceforth to give up the 
 whole of their lives, with all their time, all their in- 
 tellect, all their soul, and all their strength, to the 
 
2 
 
 IN DEACON'S OEDEKS 
 
 work of the Church, and to make of themselves 
 'wholesome examples and patterns to the flock of 
 Christ.' Wherefore, says the Bishop, 'consider with 
 yourselves the end of your ministry ... see that you 
 never cease your labour, your care and diligence, until 
 you have done all that lieth in you, according to your 
 bounden duty . . . that there be no place left among 
 you, either for error in rehgion or for viciousness in 
 life.' It is the renunciation of the world ; it is a taking 
 of the veil ; these young men are henceforth set apart ; 
 their companions, their conversation, their studies, 
 their recreations can never again be as they were ; 
 even if they should become bankrupts in faith— a most 
 terrible disaster for one who has thus been ordered — 
 and were to ' take the benefit of the Act ' and put off 
 the style and title, the dress and profession of cleric, 
 they would remain still separate and apart from 
 other men ; they can never again be the same ; the 
 ecclesiastic never becomes really a layman ; he falls 
 into extravagancies when he makes the attempt ; for 
 the rest of his life he is haunted with the memory of 
 his former profession. The white collar binds his 
 neck, the cassock binds his limbs ; surplice, hood, 
 cassock, collar and hat— he can never shake them 
 off ; they remain upon him though the world sees 
 them not. He is haunted, he is plagued, he is 
 followed by the words of his vows, by the ordering of 
 the Bishop ; by his separation and solemn dedication. 
 Act of Parhament or not, this ordering, once accepted, 
 is a life- sentence, like a peerage. 
 
 This was an ordination in spring. Outside, in 
 the quiet, beautiful close, with its great trees and level 
 sward and low old houses surrounded by flower gar- 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 3 
 
 dens and covered with creepers, the returning 
 swallows darted about, the laburnums and the lilacs 
 were in blossom, the wisteria was beginning; the 
 primrose and the first spring flowers were in blossom 
 after a long winter ; light clouds flew across the sky 
 with a north-west breeze making fitful shade and 
 chasing sunshine on the turf; in the Cathedral the 
 sun lit up the woodwork and illuminated the rose of 
 the south transept and showed the splendour of the 
 carved marbles and covered the heads of the candi- 
 dates with glory or with a halo of promise. 
 
 The chancel, I say, was quite full ; the venerable 
 Bishop sat in the chair within the altar rails on the 
 north side — unless it was the south perhaps, or the 
 west or the east ; the venerable Dean was in his place, 
 the left hand stall as you go in, under a miraculous 
 canopy carved when there were giants in the world ; 
 the venerable Archdeacon sat in his place ready to 
 get up and advance to the Bishop ; the venerable 
 canons and the venerable honorary canons sat in 
 their stalls ; the minor canons, tolerably venerable, in 
 theirs ; the vergers, in long black gowns, stood outside 
 the chancel : they also were venerable, because nobody 
 at this Cathedral is permitted to hold any office under 
 the age of eighty except the minor canons aforesaid 
 and the choir boys. The church is very old— most of 
 it is Norman work, twelfth century; the trees, the 
 garden, the houses of the close are old ; the tombs of the 
 church are old; the clergy are old : it is a Temple of Old 
 Age ; the people belonging to it are all so old that it is 
 impossible for them to get any older. Why should they ? 
 Sometimes they forget to wake in the morning, or 
 they fall asleep in the daytime ; so changes occur 
 
 B 2 
 
^ IN DEACOK'S ORDERS 
 
 from time to time, but they never get any older to 
 look at. 
 
 The candidates, of whom there were some twenty, 
 sat in their places below the stalls. They were, for 
 the most part, quite young men— not more than five- 
 and-twenty as an average— of the usual honest Eng- 
 Ush stamp, that is to say, large of hmb, square of 
 shoulder, deep of chest, their faces greatly awed by 
 the solemnity of the occasion and the gravity of the 
 vows they were about to malce, when the Bishop, 
 sitting in his chair, should put certain momentous 
 questions to them and they should reply in certaui 
 momentous words, pledging themselves to thmgs very 
 
 serious indeed. 
 
 Among the candidates was one whose face and 
 bearing attracted the attention of everyone present. 
 He was a tall young man with rather narrow shoulders ; 
 his hair, so dark as to be nearly black, was parted at 
 the side which is much more effective than the usual 
 down-th'e-middle style. During the Morning Prayer, 
 which precedes the ordering, he showed, apparently 
 without the least knowledge that anyone was observing 
 him (although one or two afterwards said that he 
 had been all the time acting), a fervour of devotion 
 amounting almost to rapture. He seemed, especially 
 to the girls who watched him from their places, almost 
 carried out of himself. In the Psalms he sang, but 
 with notes subdued, a fine tenor ; during^ the prayers 
 the sun through the painted windows tell upon his 
 unturned face so that it glowed with a light unearthly. 
 And such a face ! It was pale, the features were 
 straight and regular, the forehead was high and 
 narrow the eyes were large, limpid, and dark, the hp 
 
IN UEAdON'S OtlDERS 
 
 S 
 
 and chin were smooth, but the cheek was hghtly 
 touched with the down of boyhood ignorant as yet of 
 razor. It was the face of a poet, of one who beUeves 
 without doubt or question ; of an orator who persuades 
 not by fire but by the intensity of his own behef ; of 
 an ideal priest. It was a face never to be forgotten. 
 
 When Morning Prayer was ended a sermon was 
 preached by a certain learned divine. He did some- 
 what magnify the greatness of ordering, and did 
 somewhat unduly dwell upon the powers and the 
 privileges of those ordered. But then ^ the Kubric 
 enjoins such a charge on this occasion. Since he also 
 dwelt upon corresponding responsibilities and duties, 
 and since he drew a most horrific picture of the wicked 
 priest, he may be forgiven— and, indeed, we are not 
 called upon in this place to hear that sermon. It was 
 remarked by many, especially of the other sex, that 
 the young man of the ethereal beauty and spiritual 
 look sat throughout the sermon in a kind of ecstasy, 
 his lovelv face always bathed with that soft painted 
 sunshine and his eyes uplifted with the far-off gaze 
 of heavenly rapture. 
 
 When the sermon was finished, the venerable 
 Archdeacon arose in his place ; the candidates all rose 
 in theirs, and without any professional order, yet 
 without confusion, the latter arranged themselves, 
 being all ' decently habited,' obediently to the Kubric, 
 in surplice and hood, before the altar rails. Then the 
 Archdeacon addressed the Bishop. 
 
 *Keverend Father in God, I present unto you 
 these persons present to be admitted to the Order of 
 Priesthood.' 
 
 And the Bishop made reply, saying, ' Take heed 
 
6 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 that the persons whom ye present unto me be apt and 
 meet, for their learning and godly conversation, to 
 exercise their ministry duly, to the honour of God 
 and the edifying of the Church.' 
 
 ' I have inquired of them,' said the Archdeacon, 
 cautiously, ' and also examined them, and I think 
 them so to be.' 
 
 Then the Bishop turned unto the people and 
 addressed them. 
 
 ' Good people, these are they whom we purpose, 
 God willing, to receive this day into the holy office of 
 Priesthood. For after due examination we find not 
 to the contrary, but that they be lawfully called t 
 these Function and Ministry, and that they be persons 
 meet for the same. But yet if there be any of you 
 who knoweth any impediment, or notable crime, in any 
 of them, for the which he ought not to be received 
 into this Holy Ministry, let him come forth in the 
 name of God and show what the crime or impedi- 
 ment is.' 
 
 After this formal invitation the service as a rule 
 proceeds without waiting. 
 
 On this occasion a very remarkable thing happened 
 — a thing that had never occurred in the memory of 
 the oldest person present — a thing almost unknown 
 in the annals of the Church. It may have happened : 
 everything possible has happened : but no one re- 
 members such a thing. For a woman, dressed in 
 black, closely veiled, who had been sitting quietly 
 under the central tower, rose and walked rapidly up 
 the church, the venerable vergers trotting after her 
 in vain, through the astonished lines of canons, priests, 
 minor canons, honorary canons, singers, boys and 
 
IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 7 
 
 ladies, straight to the Archdeacon. To him she 
 delivered a folded paper. 
 
 This done, she turned and walked back again. 
 But not to her seat under the tower; she walked 
 straight down the nave and out of the church. 
 
 The priest who was about to begin the Litany 
 paused, seeing this marvel. The Archdeacon opened 
 and read the paper. Then he stepped to the altar 
 rails, where the Bishop met him and also read the 
 paper. They conferred together for a few moments. 
 Then the Archdeacon, with grave and troubled face, 
 while all the people looked on with bated breath, 
 turned round and looked at the row of candidates. 
 A profane person who was present afterwards declared 
 that every man of them turned first red and then 
 pale, and that one expression app eared simultaneously 
 upon every face, and that it cried aloud, * Good Lord ! 
 What has come out now ? ' But this report was 
 invented afterwards. It grew up in the telling of the 
 story. 
 
 The Archdeacon stepped to the young man whose 
 beauty and fervour had awakened so much admiration, 
 and showed him the paper, whispering. 
 
 Heavens ! This candidate read it ; he betrayed 
 no emotion ; he did not change colour ; he read the 
 paper calmly and he returned it to the Archdeacon. 
 The Archdeacon whispered with him for a few 
 moments. Then, with pale face and drooping eyes, 
 this young man turned, and leaving the candidates 
 he walked down the chancel, every eye upon him, 
 every face asking silently, ' Young man, what is thy 
 crime? Of what nature is this impediment?' 
 Heard one ever the like ? For, without a doubt, this 
 
8 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 woman must have disclosed some impediment or 
 notable crime. When he passed through the screen 
 he walked slowly down the steps, stopped at the 
 bottom, threw off surplice and hood, folded them, laid 
 them solemnly on the stones, and then, kneeling, 
 threw himself forward with his arms out, in an 
 attitude of abject self-abasement and prayer. In a 
 few moments he arose, and with hanging head walked 
 down the long nave, the people turning, craning their 
 necks to see him, and so out of the western gate. He 
 came to the Cathedral rapt in an ecstasy of faith ; 
 he left it clothed in visible shame and unconcealed 
 abasement. Both, to some who scoffed, seemed 
 theatrical. 
 
 When he had gone, the people with one consent 
 sighed heavily ; and some of the girls, especially in 
 the chancel, where he had shown to such great 
 advantage, began softly and secretly to shed tears. 
 What had this lovely young man done that, on the 
 very threshold of the Holy of Holies, he should be 
 turned back and cast upon the world ? 
 
 The local weekly, which appeared next day, 
 described the incident briefly. It was a thing beyond 
 the powers of the local reporter ; he neither saw the 
 wonder nor the tragedy of it. To him it was only a 
 thing unusual. He had not even been able to learn 
 the circumstances of the case. No one knew the 
 nature of the impediment or notable crime charged 
 upon the candidate by the veiled woman. The Arch- 
 deacon preserved sitence upon these points. So did 
 the Bishop. Nevertheless, partly because the young 
 man was not a stranger to all the other candidates, it 
 presently became known and was published in all the 
 
IN DEACON'S 0UJ3EUS 
 
 9 
 
 papers in the islands of Great Britain and Ireland 
 hat his name was Philip Cannington Leighan, 
 Bachelor of Arts, formerly of a certain college at 
 Oxford, and lately deacon and curate of a church in a 
 certain great town. It was ascertained by a reporter 
 who interviewed the pew-opener that he was a good 
 preacher — fluent, eloquent, and a compeller of tears ; 
 it was also ascertained that he was a poet, and had won 
 the Newdigate, but was in no other way distinguished 
 during his University career. Whispers there were 
 — but there are whispers about all good and promising 
 young men. The pew-opener was of opinion that 
 people were jealous, and jealous people, we know, will 
 say anything. Meantime, nobody had ever seen a 
 more lovely young deacon or a more ideal young 
 priest, and, as was said above, sad were the hearts of 
 those pious virgins who were in the church and saw 
 this Christian Apollo thus brought to a signal and an 
 open shame. What had he done ? What was that 
 impediment ? 
 
lO 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 CHAPTEE II 
 
 AT THE CLUB 
 
 Two men sat in a smoking-room of the Craftsman 
 Club. Their names matter little, but they were called 
 Homerton Smith and Euston Jones. It was in the 
 evening and at a time — between nine and ten — when 
 the room is not generally crowded. It is the largest 
 and by far the pleasantest room in the whole house, 
 formerly the drawing-room when old Lady Lockworthy 
 lived here and gave her parties. There were only two 
 or three groups of men in the room. The two with 
 whom we are concerned were both young — not more 
 than five or six and twenty — they had been dining 
 together ; they had been talking on all possible topics 
 for two hours and were now sitting in silence — a thing 
 which proved old friendship. Men who are merely 
 acquaintance force the talk ; men who are strangers 
 chatter continually ; old friends sit sometimes — more 
 often than not — in silence. In this way they lean 
 upon each other, take counsel together, and lay their 
 burdens upon each other. No need to talk when we 
 know already. No need to ask when we know before- 
 hand what will be the reply. 
 
 One of them — it was Homerton Smith — took up an 
 evening paper and carelessly turned over the pages. 
 
IN DEACON'S OKDEKS 
 
 II 
 
 Suddenly he cried out, * Good heavens ! Euston, you 
 remember the man Leighan, of your year— the year 
 above me— interesting man— poet— dreamer— musical 
 man ? ' 
 
 * To be sure I remember the man, Paul Leighan,' 
 replied his friend Euston Jones coldly— he was a 
 man with whom nature had dealt rather hardly, 
 giving him a short and squat figure, a snub nose, and 
 an insignificant appearance. I would explain insignifi- 
 cance if I could, but it is beyond me ; size has little 
 or nothing to do with it ; the most insignificant- 
 looking person I ever saw was a giant ; this man was 
 short and yet he was insignificant of aspect. 'I re- 
 member the man Leighan very well indeed,' he replied. 
 * I have reason to remember the man Leighan all the 
 days of my Hfe. If you come to that, I have no 
 objection to say daily and to pray nightly, if it would 
 do any good — damn the man Leighan ! ' 
 
 ' Well, I don't know why you bear such a grudge 
 against the man Leighan— as you call him ; but, in 
 fact, your prayer seems to have been already answered.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' — the man removed the pipe from his lips and 
 inhaled a deep breath of satisfaction. ' You mean 
 that he is actually sus-per-coll ? That is, to be sure, 
 only what might have been expected. But I hardly 
 expected the event to happen quite so soon.' 
 
 ' He is not hanged yet ; though I shouldn't wonder 
 if it would be better for him had the thing led to hang- 
 ing. Listen, old man.' He proceeded to read the 
 paragraph from the evening paper narrating the 
 extraordinary incident at Avonminster Cathedral. 
 
 ' Fine situation,' said the other ; he was a journahst 
 just beginning, with dreams of the drama— highest 
 
12 IN MACON'S ORDERS 
 
 and noblest kind of play — and of fiction, epic fiction, 
 grand fiction, elemental fiction, truly human fiction ; 
 and of poetry, grand poetry, epoch-making. 'Very 
 fine situation indeed. Our friend, the man called 
 Leighan, would no doubt enjoy it. Other men would 
 find it shameful.' 
 
 ' The paper says that he took off his surplice and 
 hurled himself face downwards on the steps in an 
 agony of self-abasement.' 
 
 ' Something of the same sort in Hi/jMiia, isn't 
 there ? I have already seen the man called Leighan 
 in an agony of self-abasement. He enjoyed it pro- 
 digiously ; he rolled and revelled in the emotion of 
 self-abasement and self-reproach. I wonder who the 
 woman was — chercliez lafemme especially with Phoebus 
 Apollo Leighan ; I wonder what he has done. If he 
 were here he would tell us frankly with another most 
 enjoyable agony of self-abasement.' 
 
 Said the other man, ' What do you mean by re- 
 peating about Leighan and self-abasement ? Because 
 I myself — but come, tell me your story and I will tell 
 you mine.' 
 
 ' I look such a beastly fool in my story that I am 
 ashamed ' 
 
 ' So do T. Fool isn't the word for my folly.' 
 
 ' In that case, and since there is nobody here to 
 listen, — mind, you must never, never, never communi- 
 cate the story to anyone, not even if we quarrel. Very 
 well. Now you shall hear a story of a monstrous ass. 
 First of all, Leighan used to tell us, as you remember, 
 that he was an orphan, son of a Ceylon planter, and 
 that he had neither cousins nor friends. A most inte- 
 resting story he made up how he was left the only child 
 
IN DEACON'S OHDERS 
 
 13 
 
 of his parents, alone among strangers ; how he was 
 brought up by strangers, and sent over here to school ; 
 how his guardians wasted his substance ; how he was 
 left with no more than enough to carry him through 
 to the time of ordination ; how he was resolved from 
 childhood to devote himself to the Church — aspirations, 
 poetry, music, aesthetics, all the rest of it, you know.' 
 
 i Yes — I remember. Used to account for his dark 
 hair and pale face by his birth in the tropics.' 
 
 'Well. His name is not Paul Cannington 
 Leighan at all ; not even Paul : it is Samuel Canning — 
 Sam, or Sammy, he answered to either name — Sam 
 Canning, the only child of his mother, and she was a 
 widow. The father died when he was an infant, and 
 the widow kept on the business still — bookseller and 
 stationer in Eastchester. The boy had a lovely face 
 and a lovely voice ; they took him into the choir, and 
 he used to sing solos with so much fervour— such 
 spiritual rapture — in his angelic countenance, that all 
 the ladies fell in love with him. He was educated at 
 the Grammar School. The masters, however, were 
 not so fond of him as the ladies who attended the 
 Cathedral service ; and that was not remarkable : 
 because, you see, Sammy had his little w^eaknesses. 
 He was not clever, and he cribbed his exercises ; he 
 was not brave, and he told lies with the greatest 
 readiness ; he had no sense of honour, and used to 
 sneak wherever he could. The boys, like the masters, 
 hated him ; he was too dainty for the playing field ; 
 he made up little malignant fictions about the fellows 
 and spread them abroad. He stayed at the school, 
 however, till he was eighteen ; then something hap- 
 pened — all this I heard from a man who is now a 
 
14 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 master there. I do not know what the something was, 
 but it was something unpleasant, for the Head sent for 
 him one morning, and in five minutes he was fired out 
 of the front door. The Head still says about him that 
 for the first and only time in his life he came across a 
 human creature apparently without a soul — without a 
 soul he said— queer thing to say about a boy — eh ? ' 
 ' Very queer.' 
 
 ' Then Master Sammy disappeared. Two or three 
 years later news came to his native town that he had 
 changed his name and was at Oxford. It isn't often 
 that an Eastchester boy goes to Oxford ; they all go 
 to Cambridge. I suppose Sammy thought no one 
 would find him out. But his face is far too lovely and 
 his piety is far too ostentatious. Other men kneel in 
 church : he flops and flings and sprawls. Other men 
 bow their heads in obscurity, he turns up his face 
 under the strongest light in the place. There was, 
 however, one Eastchester man at Oxford, and of 
 course he spotted Sam. He seems to have reported 
 the matter at home and to have said nothing at 
 Oxford. Perhaps Sammy entreated him with tears 
 to observe silence. However that may be, the man 
 shortly afterwards went down, and Sam with his 
 romantic story remained unchallenged.' 
 
 ' He must have presented a false baptism certificate, 
 however.' 
 
 ' He was equal to so simple a thing. I have 
 myself seen the college register— though at the time 
 I did not know it was false. He is entered as born in 
 the Island of Ceylon— Jilius Edivardi Cannington 
 Leighan generosi et armigeri, son of a gentleman, a 
 coffee planter— I forget for the moment the Latin for 
 
IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 coffee planter, and the Island of Ceylon— Trapobane, 
 is it ? So that he must, as you say, have brought 
 with him a false baptism certificate, or he must have 
 told that He and got it accepted without proof.' 
 
 * Go on. Your story, please.' 
 
 ' His mother, I suppose, found money for him. He 
 always seemed to have plenty. She died two or three 
 years ago, and I know not what idea she had of her son's 
 real character. So much for prelude. Now for my story. 
 You know— or you don't know — that I have always, ever 
 since I could write, been trying my hand at verses ' 
 
 * Your recent productions enable me to understand 
 so much, though I must say ' 
 
 ' Just so. Four years ago I wrote a poem for the 
 Newdigate — you know there is a rule that no poem 
 will be received if it is in the candidate's writing. So 
 when it was finished I took it to Leighan— I was very 
 chummy with him at the time ; we used to read 
 Shelley together, and Byron— he was very fond of 
 certain bits in Don Juan in spite of his spirituality — 
 so I took the thing, I say, to Leighan, and asked him 
 to copy it for me.' 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! ' The other man started in his 
 chair. 'You don't positively mean— Why— he won 
 the Newdigate ! ' 
 
 ' You shall hear. He undertook to copy it out for 
 me ; he made a beautiful copy ; he can write as beau- 
 tifully as he can sing ; we agreed upon a motto, and 
 he undertook to send it in.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' the other man gasped. ' It cannot be. Why, 
 he brought me his poem clearly written out and begged 
 me to copy it for him under distinct promise of secrecy 
 —and I did it, and it won the prize.' 
 
i6 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 ' It won the prize. That is true. He was the first 
 man who brought me the news. And it was with my 
 poem — my poem — mine— mine — damn him!' The 
 poet warmed with the recital of his wrongs. 
 
 ' With your poem ? Wonderful ! And you sat 
 down in patience and endured it.' 
 
 ' He came to me overwhelmed with shame ; he- 
 threw himself at my feet ; he knelt, he prayed ; he 
 wrung his hands ; he said this and he said that ; he 
 declared that he was ruined for life unless I would 
 forgive him and keep silence. He said that he was 
 poor and friendless ; that his only chance was to dis- 
 tinguish himself; thafc the prize would be of the greatest 
 possible use to him ; that if I exposed him he would 
 be expelled ; his whole career would be blasted.' 
 
 * Yes — so it would, doubtless.' 
 
 ' And then he pointed out that if I charged him 
 with the fact he should be obliged to defend himself 
 tooth and nail. No one, he said, would beheve that I 
 was a poet ; whereas everybody knew that he professed 
 to be a lover of verse, at least. And now he had in 
 his desk the scraps and bits of the poem in his own 
 handwriting while I had nothing. I had not, in fact — 
 I suppose he had stolen them aU from my desk — I had 
 not a scrap of evidence — nothing but my bare word 
 
 well, you know the rest. I gave in, and he recited 
 
 splendidly what was called a noble poem, in a most 
 musical voice, and with a most eloquent delivery, before 
 the Princess of Wales herself. Oh ! it was magnifi- 
 cent. I stood in the gallery and enjoyed it. He 
 looked every inch a poet. Everybody said so. Do I 
 look like a poet ? ' 
 
 ' That is even a finer story than mine,' said the 
 
IN BEACON'S OIIBEUS 
 
 I? 
 
 other man. ' I will tell it, however, under the same 
 seal of secrecy. I had almost forgotten the thing ; in 
 fact, I had almost forgotten the man. As for his 
 gtory — the romance of Ceylon— I knew nothing— or 
 little— about it. Well, this is what happened. You 
 remember, perhaps, that there was a good deal of un- 
 pleasantness one term about things disappearing in 
 the college— clocks, watches, rings, money, all kinds 
 of things. Yes . . . and nothing ever found out, was 
 there ? Well, one day I came up from the river and 
 found that my watch and chain, my purse, which had 
 in it a five-pound note and some gold, two or three 
 rings, and other odds and ends, were gone. I said 
 nothing at all, because talking about the loss would 
 probably do more harm than good ; but I cast about 
 quietly, and I had down a detective and we talked over 
 the matter. The watch was found to have been pawned 
 by one person, the rings by another, and the note had 
 been presented by Leighan himself, whose acquaint- 
 ance with those other two persons was clearly proved.' 
 
 ' Then you should have gone straight to the tutor.' 
 
 ' So should you, old man. But you didn't— and I 
 didn't. Why ? I weakly went to the man's rooms 
 accompanied by the detective, and I told him what 
 had been discovered. Just as in your case, he gave way 
 at once, he confessed the whole thing ; only he swore 
 that he had had nothing -nothing whatever -to do 
 with other robberies ; this was the first— the only tim.e 
 he had been tempted ; he had fallen. Oh ! he told 
 me the most terrible tale of grinding poverty and of — 
 of everything. If I did not forgive him he should be 
 ruined ; his life would be blasted ; he would be a cast- 
 away. He wept, he knelt, he threw himself on the 
 
jg IN DEACON'S ORDEES 
 
 floor I wept, too : I was greatly distressed ; I swore 
 that nothing should be said ; the whole busniess should 
 be buried and forgotten. I dismissed the detective, 
 who sniffed and grinned and used contemptuous lan- 
 guage about tears and repentance ; and then, m order 
 to prevent him from falling into temptation agam for 
 a time I gave him a check for thirty pounds-I had 
 plenty'of money, you know. He had a way with him 
 — ^yhat was it ? a clever, engaging ^Yay-he did what 
 he liked with everybody.' 
 
 ' I really should not like to say which was the 
 weaker of the two— you or I.' 
 
 'It was just before he fell ill. Tney said it was 
 too rigid fasting in Lent. I, with my knowledge of 
 that gnawing worm, his conscience, thought his illness 
 as caused by excessive self-reproach.' 
 ' Devil a gnaw in that worm, if you please. Yet it 
 IS a worm of a conscience— a wriggling, boneless, 
 nerveless worm. Well, that is our saintly Paul, other- 
 wise Sammy. So he took his degree when the rest of 
 us did, and he went down. Last year I heard that he 
 was a curate in some church or other ; that he was 
 working himself to death, and preaching with ex ra- 
 ordinary eloquence. I went to hear him By this 
 time I had ceased to believe in his penitence over 
 the Newdigate job, because, you see I had heard 
 something about his early history. The man who 
 could make up such a yarn about his ear y history 
 was quite capable of that Newdigate trick. How- 
 ever I went to the church. I found the make-up 
 admirable; the pale cheeks perhaps a httle touched, 
 as actors understand, in order to bring out their 
 pallor • the eyes large and bright, perhaps artificially. 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 19 
 
 to make them bigger and more luminous; white 
 hands, figure tall, voice musical and full, though of 
 high pitch. He preached a discourse that did not 
 move me a bit. But it seemed to fetch the women. 
 And that is all that I know about him.' 
 * I wonder what he has done now ? ' 
 'I wonder. Something very disgraceful indeed, 
 no doubt. Well, if he were here he woUld tell us 
 himself, as I said before, in a most enjoyable agony 
 of self-abasement.' 
 
 Just then the waiter brought up a card. 
 ' Here's a wonderful coincidence ! ' cried the man 
 to whom it was brought. 'Here is the very man 
 himself ! Actually arrived at this very moment ! 
 Let's have him up — now we shall see.' 
 
 The Kev. Paul Cannington Leighan entered the 
 room. He came in with lofty brow, calm, self-pos- 
 sessed. The two men rose with a little hesitation, 
 then accepted his hand with a forced smile, and 
 glanced guiltily at each other. 
 
 'You are suspicious,' said the young clergyman, 
 smiling sweetly if sadly. * Your looks are cold— you 
 hesitate to take my hand. Well, I must not complain ; 
 and, indeed, I am not surprised after the paragraph 
 which has gone the round of all the papers.' 
 
 ' Quite so ' — Mr. Euston Smith turned a hard 
 face upon the deacon ; ' there is every reason for 
 coldness or suspicion, or anything you please. In 
 fact we were talking about it when your card was sent 
 up.' 
 
 ' I daresay. Well, you don't want a long explana- 
 tion. The person who placed the paper in the Arch- 
 deacon's hands did it, I hope and believe, for the best. 
 
 c 2 
 
20 IN DEACON^S OKDEKS 
 
 She knew that a certam charge ^Yas going to be pre^ 
 ferred against me that very day.' 
 
 ' A certain charge— of what character ? ' 
 ' A certain charge. Never mind of what character* 
 If it concerned myself I would tell you at once the 
 nature of that charge. But the wretched thing no 
 longer concerns me. It concerns others now— not 
 myself. I have shaken it off with the greatest ease ; 
 still, I confess that had I known that the charge was 
 impending I should certainly not have presented my- 
 self. As it was, the warning proved fortunate, because 
 it has given me time to clear myself absolutely. Here 
 is a letter from the Bishop's chaplain, which, you see, 
 completely clears away the charge.' He took out a 
 pocket-book and produced a note from the Palace 
 signed by the chaplain, to the effect that the Bishop 
 was perfectly satisfied by the confession, duly signed 
 and witnessed, of the criminal sent to him by the 
 vicar of his parish ; that he himself, the Eev. Paul 
 Leighan, was clearly innocent in the matter ; and that 
 he, the Bishop, was ready to ordain him, the Eev. 
 Paul Leighan, priest, at a special service. The chap- 
 lain added a few words from the Archdeacon, and a 
 line or two of regret from himself, that this untoward 
 event had happened to the temporary annoyance — 
 and worse tban annoyance— of an innocent man. 
 ' The trouble was chiefly,' Mr. Leighan continued, 
 ' that I had to go home at once in order to see my own 
 vicar, and to set at rest his mind and the minds of 
 certain good people who beHeve in my . . . endeav- 
 ours . . . after the Christian life . . . and were hor- 
 ribly scandahsed at what had happened. There will 
 be a satisfactory paragraph in to-morrow's paper. 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDEU.S 
 
 21 
 
 The matter has caused me a great deal of distress, I 
 must confess — unmerited suffering, one would say; 
 but with the memory of sins— of early sins — ' ho 
 looked from one to the other as if meekly reminding 
 one of the poem and the other of the purse—' early 
 sins— still bleeding— freshly bleeding— in the heart- 
 no suffering,' he concluded, ' is too great— no retribu- 
 tion too heavy for these early sins— none— none ! ' He 
 dropped his head for a moment. 
 
 The man who had not won the Newdigate sniffed, 
 but not with emotion. Then he got up and went 
 away with the coldest salutation possible. 
 
 When the two men were left together, Leighan 
 recovered his spirits ; he even laughed and joked ; he 
 was persuaded to take a cigarette and a drink ; the 
 old charm returned to him; the gentle, feminine, 
 winning manner ; the sympathetic voice ; the little 
 innocent insinuations ; touches of the pristine fer- 
 vour. The other man quite forgot the episode of 
 the watch and the purse ; he abandoned himself to 
 the magic and mesmerism of his former friend ; and 
 when Leighan departed at twelve o'clock it was with 
 a cheque for 501. in his pocket. 
 
 But there was no explanatory paragraph in next 
 day's paper. On the contrary, there was a statement 
 that the Kev. Paul Leighan's curacy was vacant. 
 No one, however, knew what was the crime or what 
 was the impediment ; nor did any one know who was 
 the mysterious lady of the black veil and the folded 
 paper. 
 
 A fortnight later the two club men met again. 
 ' I say,' said the baffled poet, ' about our friend 
 Sammy, you know— Sammy Canning, alias Paul the 
 
22 
 
 IN DEACON'S OPvDEES 
 
 Deacon. The chaplain's letter was a forgery. I 
 found a man who knows the Bishop's chaplain. He 
 never wrote any letter at all. There has heen no 
 confession sent up by the Yicar. It was a deliberate 
 lie and forgery to get— what ?— money, perhaps, out 
 of you. Did he get money ? I thought so. Well, it's 
 all up with him. The man's character is ruined. I 
 am told that the story is not going to be a case for 
 the courts, but it's a case quite good enough to finish 
 him. He's done for. I thought so when he made 
 those pious remarks about unmerited suffering and 
 early sins. Oh ! Paul Phoebus Apollo Samuel Can- 
 nington Canning Laighan— Paul the Poet— Paul the 
 Deo^Gon—ii-hat a humbug you are ! ' 
 
IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 23 
 
 CHAPTEK III 
 
 BROKEN TO PIECES 
 
 A GIRL stood before the fire in the httle drawing-room 
 of a Httle London flat. It was afternoon — an after- 
 noon in May, but there was as yet no warmth of 
 spring in the London air, and the fire was burning as 
 merrily as in January. The room was prettily and 
 artistically furnished; it was bright with hangings, 
 pictures, and flowers ; a side-table was covered with 
 books ; there was a revolving bookcase ; through the 
 open door was caught a glimpse of another room, 
 where were shelves laden with books. This was the 
 dining-room. Margaret Cholmeley was a girl with a 
 ' certain amount ' of money. Everybody knows the 
 girl with a ' certain amount ' of money who is not 
 in a hurry to be married and follows her own life in 
 her own way. She was a girl without parents ; her 
 brothers were married ; she was emancipated enough 
 to desire personal freedom ; she had it, with a latch- 
 key, and an old servant to look after a young servant 
 in this flat of six or seven rooms. It is an ideal life 
 for those who like perfect freedom and do not mind 
 occasional loneliness, and have friends, occupations, 
 and plenty to think about. Margaret had all these 
 requisites for life in chambers. Above all, she had 
 plenty to think about. 
 
24 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 She was a serious girl ; the lines of her face were 
 set for serious purpose ; she looked also a resolute 
 girl, and she appeared to be a clear-headed girl. The 
 regular, clear-cut features and the steady grey eyes 
 showed so much. A girl whom some men would call 
 beautiful and most men would call cold ; a girl whom 
 women would call not pretty—* certainly not pretty'— 
 but good-looking; not what is called a man's woman, 
 engaging, winning, and eager to please ; nor, on the 
 other hand, quite a woman's woman. This afternoon 
 she was in great trouble. She gazed into the red 
 coals and found in them no solace or suggestion of 
 consolation ; she twisted a piece of notepaper in her 
 fingers in uncertainty. The note contained only the 
 simple words : ' I will call to-morrow. Paul.' 
 
 The note was from the man who had ruined and 
 wrecked her hfe, though nobody knew it except 
 herself; the man whom she loved; the man of whom 
 she thought continually; the man whose character 
 she had learned at last by the terrible process of seeing 
 stripped off, one by one, every single attribute which 
 had once made him, in her eyes, heroic, saintly, and 
 nigh unto the gates of heaven. 
 
 ' And she was the lady in the black veil with the 
 folded paper. Yes, she had done that. She had 
 brought him to an open shame. 
 
 ' I will not see him,' she murmured. ' It is an 
 outrage that he should even attempt to see me. He 
 is publicly, openly disgraced— and by me. He can 
 never again lift up his head— and I have done it— I 
 who was going to be his guardian angel ! He will 
 think, I suppose, that the act was one of feminine 
 jealousy and spite. As if I was not above that ! 
 
IN DKACON'S ORDERS 25 
 
 But to call upon me-to come here-here-after what 
 he has done! Oh! it is incredible! Oh! what a 
 miserable woman I am that I should ever have loved 
 such a man! I will tell Esther-he shall not be 
 admitted-he shall never come to the place again— 
 
 never -never-nev ' As she lifted her hand to 
 
 ring the bell there was a loud and cheerful knockmg 
 
 at the door. ,11 1 
 
 She dropped her hand ; she turned pale ; she sank 
 into a chair. She heard her servant Esther's feet 
 along the narrow hall ; she heard the openmg of the 
 door and the entrance of a manly step. It is the 
 last time,' she said. ' It is the very last time that I 
 will see him,' and so yielded and gave way. 
 
 Her caller-the young gentleman named Paul 
 Leighan— stood in the doorway for a moment hesita- 
 ting He was beautifully dressed in clericals, and 
 looked almost as holy as he had been two days before 
 at the Cathedral. Then he stepped in, shut the door 
 gently, and sank into a chair by the fire, where he 
 ' lay back, his elbows on the arms, his fingers touchmg, 
 with a smile-not the sweet sad smile of a penitent, 
 but a cheerful smile. Not a touch of shame, or re- 
 pentance, or sorrow-a cheerful, happy smile. _ _ 
 ' How can you come here ? ' she asked, springing 
 - +,0 her feet and tapping the floor with her foot. ' How 
 dare you oome here ? How dare you?' _ 
 
 'You have said something like that several times 
 before, Maggie, remember. Yet you have forgiven 
 
 ^'^ 'Oh' he has done— done this— and that— and 
 everything ! ' She clasped her hands, swinging herself 
 to and fro, ' Oh ! be is covered with shame ; his dis- 
 
26 
 
 IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 graceful name is in all the papers; his career is 
 ruined ; he can never recover ; and he dares to come 
 here as if nothing serious had happened ! ' 
 
 ' Calm yourself, Maggie. Kemember that I have 
 got into troublesome scrapes more than once before 
 and have come out of them Avithout much difficulty. 
 This time things do look a little foggy. Patience, 
 however. The clouds will roll by — the mist will hft. 
 Still, I did think, Maggie— oh ! I am not going to 
 reproach you— but I did think when I saw you 
 marching up to the Archdeacon with your bit of 
 paper in your hand, that Nemesis might have come 
 in another shape. It did look like an ill-timed visit 
 to the interesting Cathedral — that is all. Otherwise, 
 you did, no doubt, the right thing in stopping the 
 ordination — a dramatic thing too.' 
 
 * Ill-chosen time ? ' she repeated. ' In another 
 five minutes you would have been an ordained 
 priest of the Church and with that behind you.' 
 
 * My dear Maggie, it doesn't matter the least in 
 the world what is behind a man. There would have 
 been a good deal more than that, as you call it. 
 There would have been those ' — he folded his hands and 
 laughed pleasantly. ' Those, Maggie. Some of them 
 you know. Some of them you don't know. Now 
 tell me, Maggie, my friend Maggie '—she began to feel 
 the old magic of his voice : she was afraid to look at 
 him on account of the magic of his eyes—' how you 
 came— you— you— my guardian angel, my better 
 half, my Beatrice— you— to be the messenger of 
 evil ? ' 
 
 ' Had it not been for me you would have been 
 arrested on coming out of the Cathedral, a newly made 
 
IN DEACON'S OIlDEPtS 27 
 
 priest, and taken before a magistrate on the charge 
 of forgery, with another charge— not criminal, yet 
 it should be— as the motive. I brought one kmd 
 of disgrace upon you in order to save you— 
 and the Church— from another and a worse kmd 
 of scandal.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Eeally ! Now this was vindictive. Only 
 a little twenty-pound thing, too. Was it really so 
 
 arranged ? ' ,-11^ 
 'Yes. I was only able to stop it at the last 
 moment by promising to declare an impediment in 
 the open Cathedral. Better that than a prison. 
 Kemember, Paul, if you are capable of feeling any 
 shame at all, that you were as near a prison as any 
 man ever was— and as near a just sentence of penal 
 servitude.' 
 
 * It is like an escape on a glacier, isn't it ? (jives 
 one a thrill just to remember it. On the edge of a 
 precipice. Might have gone over it. It is a thing to 
 reflect upon with a pleasurable sensation. All emo- 
 tions are pleasurable if they are received in the proper 
 spirit. So the Vicar took the money and gave up his 
 revenge, did he ? ' 
 
 ' Here is the dreadful thing. You had better de- 
 stroy it at once.' She threw him a paper which fell 
 fluttering at his feet. It looked like a cheque. 
 
 'Not at once. I like to be reminded of things 
 sometimes— perils and dangers of the deep.' He 
 looked at the paper with interest and even admira- 
 tion : then he pulled out his pocket-book and placed 
 it carefully in the pocket. ' The Vicar was very 
 vindictive to exact that condition— very vindictive. 
 You said something, Maggie, about— about another 
 
2 8 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 charge.' He turned his face and looked into the 
 fire. ' What has become of — of the other charge ? ' 
 
 'The other "charge" — as you call her — has 
 run away from home. Perhaps in order to he with 
 you.' 
 
 ' With me ? Oh ! dear me — I assure you not. 
 You may rest quite assured, Maggie, that she is not 
 with me. I don't want her. I don't want to know 
 what becomes of her. She had better — ah ! — repent 
 and go home again. The incident is closed — I wish 
 it closed — and forgotten. My address for the 
 moment will be best kept a secret. I think, however, 
 that it was extremely sensible— thoughtful even, and 
 considerate beyond what is generally found in such 
 cases — for that person to go clear out of the way. I 
 trust that person will keep out of the way altogether. 
 It smooths so many difficulties, you see, when one of 
 two parties keeps out of the way. I am very glad, 
 Maggie, that you did not interfere with that other 
 party. It might have pained and distressed you. I am 
 glad that you have been spared. Some of our too tender 
 and sensitive sisters allow themselves to be excessively 
 pained — needlessly pained — by assuming that other 
 persons share their own ideas.' 
 
 * Paul, is it impossible— quite impossible — to 
 awaken anything like conscience in you ? ' 
 
 ' I like to be quite open with you, my dear Maggie, 
 because you are certainly the best friend — ^just for 
 the moment even the only friend — that I have. And 
 therefore I venture to reply that I do not think any- 
 thing would give me what you call a conscience. What 
 is your conscience ? Something that objects to your 
 having what you want, and doing what you would 
 
lx\ DEACON'S ()JIJ)EI{S 
 
 29 
 
 like to do. It is inconvenient. Look at me, for 
 instance. I wanted money a week or two ago. I very 
 often want money. Another man had got, I found out, 
 money in the bank. So I borrowed some of it. He 
 would not have lent me the money for the asking, so 
 I put his name on a bit of paper and got what I 
 needed out of the bank. Most foolishly I went 
 openly and in person to cash that cheque, and I was 
 known to the pay clerk, who sings in our choir, so 
 that it would have been useless to deny possession of 
 the cheque, and I know of no one whom I could charge 
 with giving me the cheque. It w^as a foolish, hasty, 
 bungling job, I admit. Then you appeal to my con- 
 science. You ask me why I am not pricked by con- 
 science. You say there is a commandment, and that 
 it is broken, and I suppose it is : but somehow I am 
 not very sorry about it. Yet I am sorry that you 
 should have had so much trouble about it, Maggie. 
 Believe me, I am very sorry to cause you — you — 
 any distress.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' She shook her shoulders with impatience. 
 
 ' When one is young — I am still young — life is 
 full of the most lovely things. I want them all — I 
 have a right to them all, if I can get them. They are 
 all for the young men, and I am always most un- 
 feignedly sorry to find myself in want of things that 
 can only be got by these little breaches of law. Old 
 men ought not to have anything at all. Girls don't 
 want these things ; women don't want them : they 
 are young men's things. I long for them — I can't tell 
 you how much I long for them all. I want love, 
 feasting, wine, singing, music, art, dancing, beautiful 
 girls, fine rooms, and rich raiment — everything that 
 
30 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 the wit of man creates and the brain of man desires. 
 And, oh, how Httle I get — how moderate I am ! ' He was 
 sitting up and leaning forward, looking up at her face, 
 but she still turned away and would not meet his 
 eyes. * I have always,' he went on, ' been hungry for 
 those things. If I can get them in any way — in any 
 way, mind — I will. What ? These are the things for 
 which we were born. Let each generation drink its 
 full measure, running over, of those joys, before it 
 goes away and is no more seen. You blame a man for 
 wanting them ? Why, we are like the wild creatures : 
 we hunger and fight for these good things. They are 
 the necessary food of youth. Your conscience, that 
 you talk about so much, would not suffer me to fight 
 for what I want, and so I should have to go hungry 
 and empty. Don't worry me about a conscience.' 
 
 * And you are a clergyman ! ' 
 
 ' I was. Whether I shall be again is doubtful. 
 You have made it, perhaps, impossible.' 
 
 ' You are a Christian at least. You go to church ? ' 
 
 'I go to church. I have always been to church. 
 Nobody has ever been to church more than I have. 
 I am very fond of the church. Its chants, its anthems, 
 and its hymns I love. When I took orders it was in 
 order to go on going to church. My greatest happi- 
 ness has always been in church. As a boy I used to 
 turn up my fine eyes and put a fine spiritual rapture 
 into my face, which made the women sigh and cry. 
 The sight of that face, the sweetness of those eyes, 
 they said, was alone sufficient to uplift their hearts and 
 to fill them with faith.' 
 
 ' It was a fatal gift.' 
 
 ' They used to load me with presents. They used 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 to get mc to their houses and make me sing. They 
 gave me kisses and money and books, and all kinds 
 of jolly things. And I liked their kisses best. Then 
 they had my photograph taken, and it was sold in the 
 shops — even in London they sold it — the boy in the 
 surplice with his mouth open and his eyes gazing 
 upwards, filled with a light not of this world.' 
 
 'How could they? How could your mother let 
 them do it ? ' 
 
 * She was proud of it. Sometimes she thought it 
 well to put in a word about having one's head turned, 
 but it was in a faint-hearted way. On the whole she 
 was proud of all the flattery. She used to come to 
 the Cathedral herself and sit opposite. She used to 
 tattle to her customers in the shop about her saintly 
 boy. She had many of his sayings to relate. She 
 really believed that her son was a saint. I believed 
 it too. She used to expect an audible call like that 
 of Samuel. She would not have been in the least 
 surprised at the appearance of miracles. Indeed, I 
 did think of trying one or two. Unfortunately I had 
 not then so much courage as I have acquired since. 
 Otherwise I might have risen to fame very early.' 
 
 ' Again — a fatal gift,' said the girl. 
 
 * Why, Maggie, you would not like the man you 
 love to be a sandy-haired, pimply little wretch, with 
 boiled fish eyes and snub nose and five-foot-nothing 
 high, would you ? ' 
 
 * Go on — go on. Let us finish.' 
 
 ' Here is my ajyologia, Maggie. I don't think you 
 quite understand the kind of early life I had. Well, 
 you see, it was all very well at home and in the Cathe- 
 dral, but at school it was different. The boys — they 
 
32 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 were a rough, coarse set, who had no samtliness of 
 soul and were capable of no senthnent— wouldn't have 
 my gifts and graces at any price. They gave me 
 nick-names. I was Soapy Sam. You know that my 
 first name was actually Samuel — Samuel — till I 
 changed it. I was Saint Snivel — I was Holy Joe — 
 I was the Pious Warbler — all kinds of names. I was 
 not happy at school. Then I couldn't fight, and they 
 wouldn't let me cry. Even the headmaster wouldn't 
 have it when I began to put on anything like the real 
 spiritual gaze of the photograph. Called me a miser- 
 able little hypocrite once when I was saying a collect, 
 and began to put a little ex]3ression into my eyes. 
 Shied the book at me— the Book of Common Prayer. 
 And he a clergyman ! No, I was not happy at school,' 
 he added thoughtfully. ' It was there that the first 
 row happened.' 
 
 ' What was that ? ' Despite her wrath she could 
 not choose hii'^: listen ; besides, he had never before 
 this revealed himself so completely. 
 
 ' Something about money,' he replied with a weary 
 sigh. 'It is always about money. We can't get 
 along without money, yet they make so much fuss 
 about helping yourself. This fuss was only about 
 three or four pounds ; I found them on the mantel- 
 shelf in one of the masters' rooms ; of course I didn't 
 ask if it belonged to anybody. You pick a blackberry 
 on the hedge and you don't ask whose blackberry it 
 is. There was a maidservant who saw me. Of 
 course, in self-defence, I said that I saw her take the 
 money. They searched me and they found the coins 
 in my pocket. So I was expelled, and all the boys 
 came out to cheer when Holy Joe left the doors. Of 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 33 
 
 course, at home I stuck to the ^atory about the house- 
 maid. And the ladies all believed it.' 
 
 * Oh ! what a story it is ! ' 
 
 * So I left home and went to London. My voice 
 was coming back now in the shape of a tenor. And 
 1 began to sing about, under another name — and 
 made your acquaintance, Maggie.' He tried to take 
 her hand, but she drew it away. 
 
 ' Made your acquaintance, Maggie,' he repeated. 
 ' It was the happiest day in my life. You fell in love 
 with me and I with you on the first day.' 
 
 ' You with me — you in love with anybody ? ' 
 
 * I with you. When I am in trouble, where do I 
 turn ? Here. To whom do I make confession ? To 
 you. Do I ever hide anything from you ? Never, 
 Maggie — my soul is laid bare to you — a pure and 
 candid soul.' 
 
 ' Pure ? Candid ? You lay bare to me a pool, a 
 sink, an ocean of corruption, and you call it a pure 
 and candid soul ! ' 
 
 * Not corruption. Anything but that, Maggie. 
 You mistake. A healthy, natural soul, free from 
 common prejudice, free from a meddlesome con- 
 science ' 
 
 ' Oh ! He has been brought up in the very bosom 
 of the Church and he talks about prejudice ! ' 
 
 ' Perhaps had I not been brought up quite so much 
 in that bosom I should have been different. It was 
 in consequence of that bosom that I became what I 
 did become. When words are repeated by a boy 
 every day, and thousands of times, they may become 
 to that boy nothing but words. They haven't dis- 
 covered that yet. When you simulate or stimulate 
 
 D 
 
^4 IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 emotion you think of nothing but the emotion ; the 
 reason or foundation of it ceases to exist. Maggie, if 
 I had been brought up Hke any other boy I should 
 now be like any other man. You lament over me 
 because I do things which seem to you dreadful. 
 Nothing is dreadful to me in that way. Want alone 
 is dreadful to me ; desire is necessity— desire is my 
 only law. Make me, if you can, obey some other law. 
 Every man is a solitary unit ; he lives for himself, he 
 has to get what he can for himself. Oh ! I could tell 
 
 you things — if you care to hear them ' 
 
 ' Go on,' she replied. ' Show me all.' 
 ' No, no.' He had suddenly become earnest and 
 real. He went back to his old mocking tone. 'I 
 have told you enough. The wicked man is interesting 
 because he may turn away from his wickedness. You 
 might yourself be the instrument of his repentance. 
 But the actual separate acts of the wicked man are 
 not attractive to you and such as you. Curious ! ^ It 
 is only the masculine mind which dehghts in reading 
 about wicked men. I am, vaguely speaking, and 
 without further details, the wicked man.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately, I know so many of the details.' 
 ' Yes ; but I am interesting still. Look at me, 
 Maggie.' He stood up and again tried to take her 
 hand, but she turned away. ' You are afraid. You 
 know that I am interesting still,' he laughed, musically. 
 ' You dare not meet my eyes. Well, Maggie, what- 
 ever I am accused of doing you know that my heart 
 is here. Nobody knows the true man— the real man 
 — except yourself.' 
 
 ' Nobody could guess that such a man exists.' 
 * I remember, Maggie '—he seated himself at the 
 
IN BEACON'S ORDERS 35 
 
 piano, and running his fingers lightly over the keys as 
 an accompaniment to his words, suggesting now a 
 bit of Schubert and now a bit of Mendelssohn— ' I 
 remember very well the day and place where I first 
 spoke to you about myself.' 
 
 'It was the first day we met.' 
 
 ' Was it so soon ? Very likely. I always begin 
 with girls by talking about myself. They like it.' 
 
 His fingers rambled about the keys. 
 
 As the girl leaned her head sadly on her hand and 
 gazed into the fire, while the music fell upon her ears, 
 she saw a vision— it took only a minute or two, but 
 it covered five years. She saw this man, young and 
 beautiful as a dream, more ethereal than any marvel 
 or miracle in Art ; whose eyes were like shaded 
 fountains in whose waters lay hfe for the soul ; whose 
 voice was soft with the music of heavenly harmonies ; 
 whose heart was filled with faith ; who prayed for 
 nothing but to be in the Church, always in the Church 
 — always in the service of the Church — to consecrate 
 himself— all his precious gifts— his life, his all, to the 
 service of the Church. And he was poor— and she 
 was rich. Then in her vision she saw how she went 
 to her guardian and implored him to give the young 
 man enough for his purpose — out of her money— she 
 could well spare it. The young man found out who 
 gave the money ; he came to thank her ; he was 
 moved to tears ; he could never thank her enough ; 
 he could find no words. And after that she seemed 
 to belong to him. At first she was fiUed with 
 happiness ; no girl ever had a lover so divine ; he was 
 her idol. 
 
 Little by little— in her vision — she saw how the 
 
 D 2 
 
36 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDEHS 
 
 idol was gradually broken to pieces. First, there 
 were the httle rifts in the perfect armour of righteous- 
 ness—the discrepancy between words and deeds— the 
 undisguised pursuit of the world, and her two famous 
 companions, side by side with quite contrary pro- 
 fessions and aspirations; the troubles, discoveries, 
 and confessions — until the saint was all gone and 
 there was left, instead, a creature, to whom sin and 
 crime and shame were words and nothing but words, 
 just as righteousness and faith were also words and 
 nothing but words. 
 
 She saw him in the vision, a satyr, a Caliban, a 
 mocking spirit ; a spirit not incredulous, but absolutely 
 incapable of belief in higher things. Yet she saw 
 herself following him, tied to him, constrained to be 
 with him ; always trying to awaken his conscience, 
 always baffled, always beaten back. 
 
 ' You cannot say, Maggie,' the man went on, still 
 at the piano, ' that I told you anything but the truth. 
 It is always a comfort to me to think that I have 
 someone who will bear the truth from me.' 
 
 'You told me you were unhappy because your 
 heart— your whole heart— was in the Church, and you 
 were kept out of it. You said that if you could not 
 be in the Church as a priest, you would be in it as a 
 tenor in the choir— and if that was impossible as a 
 verger.' 
 
 ' Yes. I told you all that. It was, and it is, quite 
 true. I am never truly happy, I believe, except at 
 the Church services. They are a part of me.' He 
 touched the keys again to something suggestive of 
 part of a service. ' I wish I had been a Koman 
 Catholic. The beautiful long service with all its 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 37 
 
 singing, would have pleased me even more than our own. 
 Yes, I ought to have been a Koman Cathohc priest. 
 I was born to be a Eoman Catholic priest. I told you 
 the truth, Maggie. For me to be singing at concerts 
 —to be wasting a noble voice in sentimental songs 
 when I might be singing an anthem in a cathedral— 
 I was thrown away, Maggie.' 
 ' You told me so certainly.' 
 
 ' Then you gave me money for Oxford. That led 
 me back to the Church. I found all the old emotions 
 returning to me just as easily and pleasantly as 
 before. At the University there is fine scope for a 
 man like me, and I made many friends.' 
 
 ' "Who threw you over when they found you out.' 
 ' My friends leave me from time to time,' he 
 replied hghtly ; ' but others come.' 
 
 ' And now you have turned yourself out of the 
 Church by your own act and deed.' 
 
 ' I am not so sure. I have never been in quite 
 such a scrape before, it is true. Still, man is full of 
 resource, particularly a man who is not troubled with 
 laws forbidding this and that. We shall see, Maggie.' 
 
 He played on, without speaking, for about ten 
 minutes. Then he closed the piano and got up. 
 
 I suppose I must leave you,' he said. ' You will 
 give me one kind word before I go. You will wish 
 me good luck. I shall need all the good luck I 
 can get if I am to get back into the Church.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Paul, I cannot. You break my heart. I 
 must abandon you. This last business is too dreadful. 
 You must never come here any more. Go — go and 
 visit— that other person.' 
 
 ' I wrote a letter to the Vicar/ he said. * I told 
 
38 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 him that scandals are always caused by the second 
 party, yon know — the other person ; not by the man 
 who did the thing. About his own little grievance — 
 that little twenty-pound job — I told him I was ready 
 to send him the money ; I got it, in fact, from an old 
 friend — one of the friends who threw me over, you 
 know. I said I was very sorry it had happened, but 
 I wanted the money ; and that being so, why, I wrote 
 this, not knowing that you had settled the business. 
 So I suppose that is done with. As for the other 
 matter ' 
 
 * Yes ' — her cheek flamed—' the other matter ? ' 
 He only laughed. 
 
 ' It will settle itself,' he said. * When I was a boy 
 they ran after me and kissed me. Maggie, they have 
 done it ever since. They have been after me just as 
 much. They work slippers and braces for me ; they 
 give me books ; oh ! there won't be any more scandal. 
 It is only a thousand pities that the thing came out 
 just when it did. However, I don't despair. Eepen- 
 tance — open repentance — always wins the day. You 
 heard, perhaps, of the way in which I left the 
 Cathedral ? Perhaps you saw it ; I read it in the 
 papers — that it was really fine, and touched all 
 hearts.' 
 
 * Oh ! If you had a heart to be touched ! ' 
 
 * I once had a heart, but it is now yours, Maggie. 
 You have had it for five years — ever since you were a 
 sweet, blushing, innocent, open-eyed darling of seven- 
 teen.' 
 
 She kept her face averted, but she blushed and 
 she dropped her head. The soft music of his voice 
 touched her still, and as nauch as ever. 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 39 
 
 ' Stand up — stand up I say,' he spoke in a voice 
 of command. She obeyed and stood beside him. 
 ' Give me your hand.' Again she obeyed. * Look in 
 my face.' She raised her eyes. She was conquered. 
 He stooped and kissed her Hps. His eyes were full 
 of love — was it real or was it simulated ? Then he 
 laughed — the laugh of one who wins. *What do I 
 care,' he said, * whether they turn me out or not, 
 provided I have my Maggie ? My dear ' — there was 
 a mirror in the overmantel — ' we shall make a lovely 
 pair when we are married.' 
 
 She tore herself away from him. ' Married ? No 
 — not that, Paul. Never — never — not that ! Oh ! I 
 am degraded by suffering you to remain in my 
 presence. I am more degraded still by letting you 
 speak to me of love — you — a man such as once I 
 thought impossible— oh ! what words can I find ? 
 What can I say ? ' 
 
 ' Why, Maggie, you can say the truth. You can 
 say that you love me.' 
 
 ' Yes, I love you, as you should be — as God meant 
 you to be. Not what you are. Go ! Don't speak to 
 me of love again till the words, the sacred words 
 with which you have sported, mean things — the 
 meaningless, idle words, the pretences and the shams, 
 become real and living things — till you find your 
 soul and your Judge, and, perhaps, your Eedeemer. 
 Go, I say ! ' 
 
 He laughed — caught her hand — kissed it. 
 
 * Farewell, my Maggie,' he said lightly, and left 
 the room. 
 
40 
 
 IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 CHAPTEE IV 
 
 THE DOWNWARD WAY 
 
 When Paul found himself in the street, he walked 
 away with a self-satisfied look on his face and a smile 
 on his lips. There had been moments since that time 
 in the Cathedral when he felt some anxiety about his 
 relations with the girl who reproached him continually, 
 yet never quite threw him over. It was all right ; she 
 loved him. It is always satisfactory for a penniless 
 adventurer to feel that he is actually loved by a girl of 
 independent fortune ; and this without respect to his 
 morals or his principles or his practice. As for 
 marrying her, he had no desire at all to marry her. 
 Marriage with such a girl would be like always being 
 in school, but he could still, he thought, borrow money 
 from her. The present condition of things was far 
 more satisfactory. These reflections, coupled with a 
 natural buoyancy of disposition, enabled Paul to keep 
 up his courage, even at this dark moment, when the 
 evening papers had the little incident in their bills, 
 and all the world was talking about it and many ready 
 writers were inventing stories concerning the cause of 
 that incident. He went home to his lodgings — he had 
 taken two rooms in a first floor near Eussell Square. 
 First, he took off his clerical garb ; coat and waistcoat 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 41 
 
 and collar lie laid aside with something like a groan. 
 ' When,' he asked, ' shall I wear these things again ? ' 
 He thought of the saintly figure clad in white and the 
 ' upturned eyes and the hands folded in prayer or ex- 
 tended in exhortation, and he sighed a deep and 
 heartfelt sigh. ' The vindictiveness of that vicar ! ' 
 he said. ' Where is charity ? Where forgiveness ? ' 
 
 He put on a short black jacket and a black tie, so 
 that he now looked like only half a cleric, because no 
 disguise could possibly take from his face the look which 
 belonged to none other than one of the cloth. Every 
 profession has its typical face : you may, for instance, 
 construct the typical barrister by photographing one 
 upon the other all the faces m all the wigs in all the 
 courts, but it is seldom that you find any one man 
 possessed of the typical face. So with the young 
 clergyman : it is seldom, indeed, that you find in one 
 man the typical clerical face. But Paul had it. 
 
 This change effected, he spread out blotting-pad 
 and paper. 
 
 *Kepentance,' said Paul the Deacon, 'opens all 
 doors.' I shall make haste to repent.' 
 
 He sat down, therefore, and wrote two letters. 
 One of them he addressed to his late vicar. It was 
 the second letter — you have heard of the first. He 
 deplored deeply any errors — he candidly called them 
 errors — which he might have committed : he hinted 
 that as regards money he could not understand that 
 any harm had been done. ' I merely borrowed of you 
 as from our common chest, certain moneys wanted 
 for parish purposes. I forgot to tell you of it. What 
 crime have I committed ? As regards the other inci- 
 dent, youth might be pleaded an excuse. But I plead 
 
42 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 none — I am deeply penitent. I can say no more. 
 Meantime, I have been disgraced by being turned 
 away from the Bishop at the last moment, in the face 
 of the whole congregation. Is not that enough ? I 
 now ask you, first, to write to the Bishop withdrawing 
 the charge of fraud and softening as much as you can, 
 if not withdrawing altogether— which would be the 
 more charitable line — the other business. This done, 
 he will doubtless receive me at his next ordination. 
 Secondly, I wish to return — my character unstained — 
 to my post among our beloved flock. Any little cold- 
 ness or suspicion will soon pass away. As I said to 
 yon the other day, it takes two to make a scandal. I 
 shall not be one. May I venture to implore you not 
 to be the other ? Writing, as I do, in an empty garret 
 the room was an admirably furnished first floor front — 
 * bare and desolate and lonely ' — he was sitting on a 
 most comfortable chair and there was a bottle of quite 
 delicate sherry, dry and fragrant, within reach of his 
 hand — ' friendless and joyless ' — a French novel of the 
 lighter kind lay on the sofa — ' what more can I say ? 
 I am young, and this disgrace will never be forgotten. 
 I have to live it down. Help me ! Help me in the 
 name of the holy services we have held together ; for 
 the sake of the happy, trusted past, and for my tears 
 of penitence, which are tears of life blood and drops of 
 fire. I write with a broken heart — I can only say 
 that I shall live it down. But I want the trust and 
 confidence of those who have known and loved me.' 
 
 I don't think this was a very convincing letter. 
 But Paul's weak point was perhaps that he convinced 
 himself so much more readily than other people. On 
 vT-be present occasion, as he read this letter after finish- 
 
IN DEACON'S OrtDEES 
 
 43 
 
 ing it, the tears welled up into his eyes and ran down 
 his cheeks ; he wept freely and without restraint ; he 
 wept and sobbed. He was truly penitent ; they were 
 tears of blood ; his heart was torn ; and to comfort 
 that rent organ he drank two glasses of the dry sherry 
 before he folded the letter and put it in the envelope. 
 It did not escape his observation that two of the 
 largest tears had dropped upon the letter and that 
 some of the letters were thus blurred and rendered 
 misty. It would show the Vicar how real and un- 
 affected was his penitence. 
 
 This letter despatched, he rested awhile with a 
 turn at the French novel and another glass of sherry. 
 Having quite recovered from the penitential emotion, 
 which was pleasing, but could not be continued because 
 it might spoil business, he addressed himself to the 
 Bishop. He had to write a very difficult letter. For 
 the little forgery could not be denied and the other 
 matter had better be confessed. He said that after 
 what had passed he had been unwilling to address his 
 lordship until the first humihation was over. That 
 after three days he felt himself partly recovered and 
 able to offer some explanation. 'As regards the 
 charge of forgery, there is, my lord, this to be said. 
 First of all the money was wanted urgently for parish 
 purposes. I found the Yicar's cheque book on the 
 table ; without thinking it was wrong I filled up ^ a 
 cheque, signed it with his name, took it myself, quite 
 openly, to the bank, cashed it and appHed the money 
 to the parish purposes and, most unfortunately, forgot 
 to tell the Vicar about it. I have been brought up in 
 complete ignorance of the ways of the world as regards 
 money ; I have never had any money ; I thought no 
 
44 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 harm of drawing this money ; none of it was spent 
 upon myself. When I heard that the Yicar took a 
 harsh view of the matter I employed a friend to pay 
 back the money. Well — it was spent on the poor of 
 the parish ; but I would rather lose it all myself than 
 incur the charge of taking it for myself.' 
 
 ' Good gracious ! ' said the Bishop at this point. 
 ' Here is a tangle ! ' 
 
 ' The man spent the money in paying certain debts 
 of his own,' said the chaplain. ' He is a consummate 
 liar.' 
 
 The Bishop went on. ' There is, next, a charge 
 which I will only meet by assuring your lordship that 
 the lady will be my wife to-morrow — or as soon as 
 possible. I desire to prove my penitence — surely my 
 sin has found me out — by taking the hardest work — 
 in the poorest parish — among the worst of sinners — 
 surely there must, somewhere, bo sinners worse than 
 I myself. In the deepest remorse I pen these lines. 
 I accept poverty as my punishment, hard work as 
 my consolation. Help me, my lord. I do not ask 
 for the priesthood yet. Let me show my sorrow 
 first and prove my powers among the fallen and the 
 degraded.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the Bishop laying down the letter with 
 a brow of corrugated iron. 
 
 ' This letter reveals a very unusual mind,' he said 
 to his chaplain. ' One might wish to have the writer 
 here as in a hospital — we want a hospital for crooked 
 and crippled minds — and to watch the development of 
 him. Who was it said that the study of mankind is 
 a mathematical problem, and that every man is an 
 enigma ? Here is a creature who commits a clumsy 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 45 
 
 and common forgery ; there is not tlie least reason 
 for believing that he feels the smallest shame or re- 
 pentance for it ; he shows that he has no such feeling. 
 He steals, and is detected. He doesn't feel any shame, 
 he thinks the matter will be just passed over. Nay, 
 he now pretends that the money was wanted for parish 
 purposes. He is a most accomplished liar -a brazen 
 liar. . . . I wonder what his previous history has been. 
 It is indeed an impudent letter. As for the second part 
 of it, the alleged penitence is the most palpable sham. 
 There is no true ring about it. Write to him in reply. 
 Tell him that he must continue to repent in order to 
 save his soul alive— and not in order to get priest's 
 orders. Tell him also that under no circumstances 
 will I allow him to officiate again in my diocese as a 
 deacon, nor will I bestow upon him the order of the 
 priesthood.' 
 
 This instruction the chaplain faithfully, even 
 zealously, carried out, so that the young man was for 
 a short time heavy in spirit, because he knew not how, 
 outside the Church, he was to Hve. 
 
 As for the Yicar, when he got his epistle he read it 
 aloud disdainfully ; he scoffed as he read ; he tossed it 
 to his wife. ' An impudent hypocrite ! ' he said. ' I 
 shall write and tell him so. He penitent ! Not a 
 bit of it. Spent the money on the parish, did he ? 
 Liar ! I shall write and teU him so.' And he did. 
 
 When Paul had finished these letters it was close 
 upon seven o'clock. At this time the mind of man 
 naturally turns in the direction of dinner. This led 
 him to think of his resources, because dinner cannot 
 be obtained without money. He spread out his money 
 
46 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 on the table and counted it. There were ten five- 
 pound notes, which he had borrowed of his friend at 
 the club, and there was the sum of 3/. 14s. 6d. in gold 
 and silver— total, fifty-three pounds, fourteen shillings, 
 and sixpence. The money constituted his whole 
 possessions. There was a small sum due to him from 
 his late Vicar, but then he owed more than that at 
 his former lodgings. Well, fifty-three pounds— there 
 seemed a good deal of spending in fifty-three pounds ; 
 four months' spending perhaps. He would have a 
 little hohday. He dined comfortably, if not luxuri- 
 ously, at a West End restaurant, with a pint of Sauterne 
 —he was at that time no drinker, but he liked, in 
 small quantities, dainty wines, such as Hock, Still 
 Moselle, Yin de Grave, Sauterne or Bucellas. After 
 dinner he remembered a place which he had not seen 
 since he first assumed the responsibilities of a deacon. 
 It was a palace in a certain square, where they have 
 a wonderful ballet every evening. A most admirably 
 conducted palace, yet not quite the place for the 
 spiritually minded. Thither he fared and gazed at 
 the stage and at the company, which in its turn gazed 
 upon him in wonder and in joy, because he was really 
 and unmistakably a parson, and so few parsons were 
 ever seen in that palace. When the performance was 
 over he went out into the square ; he did not want to 
 go home, his lodgings would be too dull after the blaze 
 of light, the blare of the music, and the troops of 
 dancing girls. Then he remembered another place 
 to which he had been once taken : a place not far 
 from the Haymarket. Could he find it again ? 
 
 The establishment called itself a club— doubtless, 
 therefore, it was a club. At the entrance stood a 
 
lx\ DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 47 
 
 functionary with a gold stripe down his legs and a 
 gold band round his cap who invited ' members ' to 
 sign their names in a book. Paul signed the name 
 of his late vicar, with the address quite clearly 
 written, and mounted the red-carpeted stairs. 
 
 A club, indeed, it was — a most beautiful club. 
 There was a band playing in one room, a small band 
 playing softly, a band discoursing a wonderful waltz ; 
 there were dancers in that room. The young man 
 looked on and his brain reeled. Music, and feasting, 
 and wine, and maidens fair — everything was here. 
 There was another room where supper tables were 
 laid out ; here was a bar and a young lady dispensing 
 drinks and a waiter opening champagne, and parties 
 of two or of four or of six taking supper with laughter 
 and merriment. And in another room was a pair of 
 tables where they were having a little quiet baccarat ; 
 and another room where they were enjoying, rather 
 noisily, a little nap ; and another room where there 
 prevailed a deadly quiet while a few gentlemen in 
 pairs played ecarte. 
 
 A beautiful little club : so gentlemanly — the 
 manager himself, who was there every night and 
 knew the place, made this remark — so completely a 
 little heaven below. 
 
 Paul stayed there all night, he made friends 
 readily, he danced a little, he took some supper, he 
 talked and laughed, and he enjoyed the evening so 
 much that he entirely forgot the trouble with the 
 Bishop and the Vicar. He went to the club the next 
 night, and the night after. 
 
 A week later Paul looked ruefully at his purse. 
 Out of the fifty-three pounds there were left only 
 
48 IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 eight. His holiday, he reflected, had lasted much 
 less time than he expected. 
 
 Money must be made somehow. In two or three 
 weeks he would be stranded. There was always 
 Maggie — yet he shrank from begging of her so soon ; 
 he did not want, just then, too much talk of conscience 
 — he must make money. The Church, at least for a 
 time, must be considered as out of the question. 
 
 Now, in these days, how does a young man hard 
 np — or a young woman — always try to make money ? 
 He writes a story— he always begins by writing a 
 story. The young woman who is hard up does 
 exactly the same thing. Then he sends it to an 
 editor and expects to have an immense cheque 
 returned immediately. Sometimes he improves his 
 chances by telling the editor that he has * just dashed 
 it off.' Paul the Deacon did not do this. He knew a 
 little about things ; he knew, for instance, that a 
 storyteller very, very seldom springs into existence at 
 a leap, but that he grows. He also knew at the out- 
 set that he had no power whatever of creating the 
 smallest work of imagination. This knowledge, 
 which he had acquired by painful efforts two or three 
 years before, saved him iDresent disappointment. He 
 therefore invented a new and an ingenious plan. 
 That is to say, his method was not absolutely new, 
 because the thing has been worked before, but it had 
 hitherto been worked in a more rudimentary manner. 
 His method, in fact, was this. He went to the 
 British Museum ; he hunted up old magazines, es- 
 pecially American magazines of thirty years ago, a 
 period when an American magazine hardly ever came 
 into this country. He found stories there which, 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 49 
 
 with a very little alteration, answered his purpose 
 perfectly. He copied them out, changing names, 
 places, and dates, and sometimes altering the dialogue. 
 When the first one was quite ready, he sent it to the 
 editor of a certain monthly magazine with a letter. 
 He said in this letter, boldly and impudently, know- 
 ing that boldness and. impudence challenge attention, 
 ' I send you what I am certain is a really good story. 
 I have no name in literature, or I should make a bar- 
 gain with you. As it is, I will let you have it at your 
 ordinary price. You will do well to read it. I do 
 not enclose stamps for its return, because you will 
 not return it, except in proof.' He signed himself 
 Paul Iliffe. 
 
 A very good letter to send with a good story ; not 
 a good letter to send with rubbish. The thing did 
 come back, in proof, and it was an excellent story, 
 and he got a moderate cheque, no doubt as much as 
 the magazine could afford. And the editor asked for 
 another — and another — and another. Meantime he 
 had tried two other editors, also with success. The 
 name of Paul lliffe began to get known. People 
 looked for his stories, and the cheques came in ; not, 
 of course, enormous cheques, but modest cheques, as 
 big as could be expected. He went but seldom to the 
 all-night club, and he lived in cheap lodgings. He 
 had foind an excellent way of making money, and 
 being, as before stated, young and buoyant, he did 
 not aiik himself how long the game would last. 
 
 Ij actually lasted for eight months : it was not 
 . fou'-id out during all that time. Yet he had planted 
 as many as twelve stories ; and he had three or four 
 niore nearly ready. They were all taken from the 
 
 E 
 
\ 
 
 I 
 
 50 IN DEAC0i^"^'S ORDERS 
 
 same American magazine.', Perhaps the source of 
 his information was observed at the Museum ; per- 
 haps accident revealed the triith ; perhaps somebody 
 else was planning a similar method. Anyhow, the 
 crash came. 
 
 It came in the form of a letter to the ' Athenaeum,' 
 in which the writer pointed out that three stories, all 
 bearing the signature of Paul Iliffe, were all three 
 purloined — he said purloined — from the pages of an 
 old American magazine called ' The Knickerbocker.' 
 This abominable letter also quoted passages which 
 showed that the things could not be considered as 
 imitations, but were actual copies, word for word, 
 line for line, with only the names changed.' 
 
 Paul saw a reference to the letter in the bill of a 
 morning paper. When he had got fhe * Athenaeum ' 
 and read the letter, he hastened to change at once his 
 lodgings and his name. As none of his editors had 
 ever seen him, he was comparatively safe. The 
 unfinished stories in his hands he would send, he 
 thought, under another name, to other magazines. He 
 was not greatly concerned about the incident. A little 
 paragraph, which followed a few days later, concerned 
 him less because he did not see it. In that paragraph 
 it was stated that the ' Paul Iliffe ' who had just been 
 convicted of copying old stories and selling ttem for 
 new was the Eev. Paul Leighan, who, it wculd be 
 remembered, had been turned out of the Cathedral at 
 the very moment of obtaining priest's orders. 
 
 ' An impudent scoundrel ! ' said his old vicar. ' I 
 said so before. An impudent scoundrel ! ' 
 
 'Behold the penitent soul, my lord,' said tae 
 bishop's chaplain. 
 
 \ 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 5i 
 
 Maggie read the paragraph. And this was the 
 man she loved ! 
 
 Paul tried another editor, writing under another 
 name. This suspicious person wrote that the story 
 was very good, but there had been certain frauds 
 recently practised upon editors, and he must ask, 
 first of all, who his contributor was ; a reference to 
 respectability would satisfy him, but it was necessary 
 to guard against imposture. He tried again, and got 
 much the same reply. That game was ended. 
 
 In former days, when a man became bankrupt in 
 reputation as well as in purse, there was but one 
 resource left open to him. You remember the brilliant, 
 ambitious, unscrupulous adventurer in Lytton's novel, 
 who comes to signal and hopeless grief ; he ends his 
 days as a miserable usher in a private school. That 
 was the only resource. The ushers were men who 
 had either gone down, or men who had no hope of 
 getting up. Now they are young gentlemen fresh 
 from the University, athletes, learned in winners, great 
 in records, and full o confidence in themselves and of 
 pride in their work. Not a single broken-down, dis- 
 credited, once ambitious, bad man is now to be found 
 in any private school. There are, in fact, many open- 
 ings for such a man : there is literature, there is 
 journalism, there is the stage, there is finance in its 
 lower branches, there is betting in all its branches, 
 and there are many fancy professions in which a man 
 may do pretty well although he has lost his character 
 and his position. You have seen how the Deacon 
 began with literature, artfully stealing his ware3 ; you 
 shall see how he went on. To begin with, if he did not 
 mind pubHcity— and the story of the crime and 
 
 E 2 
 
 1-S8RARY 
 
52 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 impediment were now pretty well forgotten— he could 
 smg. He had a fine tenor— not a great voice, but a fine 
 silvery, musical tenor. Paul found that he could turn 
 this talent to account. He therefore became the lead- 
 ing tenor in a wandering company of nigger minstrels, 
 and used to sing, with great feeling and with upturned 
 eyes, songs of the domestic affections. The troupe 
 was only moderately successful, and the ghost some- 
 times refused to walk. It was probably during the 
 tour, and perhaps in consequence of meagre diet, that 
 he began to take irregular nips and drinks. Such a 
 man as Paul does not become a vulgar drunkard ; he 
 sips while the drunkard laps ; but the effect is much 
 the same in loss of will and nerve, and in moral de- 
 terioration. Perhaps there was little further deteriora- 
 tion possible. But there was possible recovery, and 
 this possibility began to suffer loss. 
 
 The nigger troupe came to a calamitous end. The 
 manager bolted, and the company dispersed and had 
 to get back to town, and other engagements, as best 
 they could. 
 
 Such an accident is not uncommon; it is even 
 expected ; there are these ups and downs for the wan- 
 dering minstrel. 
 
 Paul returned to London. By this time he had 
 made some acquaintances among the strollers and 
 wanderers. One of the nigger troupe gave him elemen- 
 tary lessons m the art of acting ; why should he not -o 
 on the stage ? For the same reason that he could 
 not write, because he had no imagination outside him- 
 self and his own emotions, and no creative faculty 
 whatever. However, he was still young; he was still 
 as handsome as Apollo ; his voice was still rich and 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 53 
 
 musical, in spite of the nips and casual drinks ; his 
 eyes were still lovely and expressive, especially to 
 young ladies of a certain type. He did go on the 
 stage. On account of these gifts and graces he obtained 
 a place with a salary — a small salary— and he was 
 presented with a part. Here fortune favoured him, 
 almost for the last time. The part was that of a comic 
 curate ; all Paul had to do was to play it as he him- 
 self would have acted it off the stage. He did this ; he 
 played the part so well that everybody declared it to 
 be perfectly natural and a most promising perform- 
 ance. A young man who made so much of a part so 
 small was certain to succeed as soon as he had got 
 over certain blemishes caused by inexperience; for 
 instance, a very young actor finds difficulty in carry- 
 ing any part of himself, hands, legs, head, shoulders, 
 so that the house will not think him awkward. They 
 spoke confidently of the London stage for him. With 
 this view, they took pains to teach him these and 
 other things pertaining to his new profession. He was 
 slow to learn, having acquired a certain set of posi- 
 tions and postures which he could neither shake off 
 nor forget. Then they changed the piece and gave 
 him a more important part and a different part. 
 Alas ! the dream of the London stage was rudely 
 dispelled. For Paul proved a stick; the piece was 
 ruined by his great stickiness, and he got the sack. 
 
 During all this time he paid no visit at all to 
 Margaret. She remained in her fiat, expecting him 
 to come or to write for money. She heard nothing 
 about him, and waited, not hoping for any good thing. 
 She knew him too well to hope. That he did not 
 call upon her proved that he was lower down the hill. 
 
54 
 
 IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 Men like Paul, if they get shabby, cease to present 
 themselves in person. If they make any sign at all, 
 it is by a begging letter. Put Paul made no ap- 
 plication for money. 
 
 Margaret went abroad. She travelled with friends, 
 and tried to forget this man. She could not ; his image, 
 the contrast of what he was and what he ought to 
 have been, was always with her. Men wanted to 
 make love to her ; she kept them at arm's length. 
 When she returned to her flat after more than a 
 year's absence, she found no letter from Paul and no 
 sign of his existence. Of the nigger troupe episode 
 she heard nothing, nor of the stage business, both of 
 which had been carried on under different names. 
 She had read the ' Paul Iliffe ' incident. Since then 
 there was silence. 3ut she knew that he would come 
 back some day^ some time, and she waited. She had 
 been in love with a ghost, with the original ideal 
 after whom Paul made up, with the soul expelled 
 to make room for a devil. She waited, praying that the 
 soul would some day return to the poor demoniac body. 
 
 His next step was a return to the stage of the 
 music hall as a Lion Tenor. In this capacity he 
 returned to the sentimental ditties of the nigger 
 company, and when he was encored sang * 'Twas in 
 Trafalgar's Bay,' and ' My Pretty Jane ' and 'Good- 
 bye Sweetheart.' And here he continued for a space 
 of twelve months. For salary he did pretty well; 
 sometimes making five-and-twenty pounds a week, and 
 sometimes less. He possessed so much dignity that 
 he did not become a Lion Comique, nor did he put 
 on fancy costumes, nor did he sing ' Ei-tiddy-iddy- 
 iddy-ri-ti-ti.' The domestic affections, ^ Grand- 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDEnS 
 
 55 
 
 mother's Chair/ ' Grandfather's Clock,' ' The Chord 
 that Cracked,' and such themes, pleased his audience. 
 His handsome face and his sentimental eyes— which 
 now suggested the raptures of lawful and connubial 
 love— pleased the people, who always like songs of 
 the domestic affections better than anything else you 
 can give them. 
 
 As for his private life during this period, it 
 was that of the prodigal son, his money, which 
 he got so easily, was spent in riotous living, his 
 friends, like those of the fast young man, stuck by 
 him so long as he had money. Who would not stick 
 by a man who is always going to draw fi.ve-and- 
 twenty pounds next Saturday? There is a good 
 deal of spending, mind you, in five-and-twenty 
 pounds. It does not go far among a large company 
 in champagne, but in soda and whiskey and cogent 
 drinks it goes a very long way. Therefore Paul 
 was popular among a certain set of music-hall 
 artistes and music-hah loungers. 
 
 While he was singing an encore one night he 
 became aware that there was a man in the hall who 
 knew him. In fact, it was his old friend Homerton 
 Smith who was in the front and who had found him. 
 This man sent round his card and followed it. 
 
 ' So, Paul,' he said, ' this is what you are doing, 
 is it ? ' 
 
 'This is what I am doing. As you see,' Paul 
 replied, shortly. 
 
 'Yes, you've got a very fine voice. Don't you 
 think you might make a— a more profitable use of it ? ' 
 
 • Perhaps you have something more profitable to 
 suggest.' 
 
5^ IN BEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 * Well— perhaps. Will you come to my chambers 
 and talk ? It is a long time since we met last.' 
 
 Paul hesitated. There might be questions- 
 reference to conscience, honour, and other deficien- 
 cies. His friend looked serious. There was that 
 last cheque ; would he ask for explanations ? Hardly. 
 Besides it is quite easy to express regret and to 
 promise payment as soon as . . . enfin, he nodded 
 his head and they drove away together. 
 
 ' You will take a soda and whiskey, of course ' 
 said his friend, ' and a cigar ? Here you are, and 
 now, ^ he threw himself into a chair and plunged at 
 once into things disagreeable. 
 
 _*Your life, I take it, is rough, Paul, isn't it? 
 Quite so. Rather. Your companions now are of the 
 lower land, presumably; not quite so cultivated as 
 your old friends of the Cathedral and the Church, 
 perhaps. There is too much drink among them I 
 should think. Their views of life are rather lower 
 than you used to maintain. Your face, Paul, shows 
 the tact. It is coarsening and worsening. You are 
 still a handsome man, but something has been lost— 
 a good deal has been lost. You are nothing like so 
 good-looking as you were.' 
 
 ' One cannot always be young.-' 
 ^ Quite true. The last time we met was at the 
 club. You called there and found me with Euston 
 Jones, who is a journahst. It was the day after the 
 rumpus at the Cathedral. You showed us, if you 
 remember, a letter from the Bishop's chaplain, saying 
 that the Bishop was satisfied of your innocence. That 
 letter was not written by the Bishop's chaplain.' 
 
 ^No, I wrote it myself, with my own hand. I 
 
IN DEACON'S OllDEllS 57 
 
 forcred that letter. Damn it all, Homerton Smith, 
 when a man is cornered he will fight with any 
 weapon-he must.' In the old days Paul would not 
 have used so warm and vulgar an expletive. 
 
 ' You had to go out of the civilised world, and you 
 went out of it with a bounce, just as an actor leaves 
 the stage with a shake of the fist at the gallery and a 
 sham slam of the sham exit. You dropped out, and 
 we went on without you. It was a pity, Paul. You 
 are one of those men to whom much is allowed and 
 -almost everything forgiven. I myself— but let that 
 pass. You might have lived it down, because no one 
 would have spoken of the scandals ; and indeed there 
 would have been no scandals. A lady, it seems, 
 interfered, and not only repaid the money to the 
 Yicar, but took care of the other person concerned m 
 the business, of which, I believe, nobody knows any- 
 thing. So that affair blew over. You might— I don t 
 know— perhaps you might have gone back to the 
 Bishop. Perhaps not, however. It really was a 
 tough job to get over. Well, but then came the Paul 
 Iliffe episode. After that it certainly became difficult 
 to return.' 
 
 ' It was a false charge,' Paul cried eagerly ; ' I did 
 what other writers always do. I found my plots and 
 I used them. Shakspere did it. Everybody does it.' 
 
 <Yery good, we won't dispute that point. Un- 
 fortunately, the world took another view. However, 
 the main point just now is that you are now on the 
 high road to destruction. Say, old man,'— he sat up 
 and spoke earnestly—' why don't you go up in the 
 world instead of down ? I think it must be quite 
 as easy.' 
 
58 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 Then began, with the help of this Samaritan, a 
 new experience for Paul the Deacon. He got a 
 variety entertainment with songs and sketches, some- 
 thing after the style of Mr. Corney Grain. He was 
 not a very versatile actor, because his strength lay 
 almost wholly in the sentimental line, but he could 
 play well and his voice was still very good. The life 
 of the variety entertainer is chequered with light and 
 shade ; it is hilly, all up and down, with no high 
 levels, and sometimes there are broad bottoms in the 
 valleys. The entertainment lasted, with the help of 
 friend Homerton Smith, the whole winter. Then Mr. 
 Homerton Smith being called abroad, the entertainer 
 lost his popularity, or was robbed, or something, and 
 was fain to go bankrupt. He went through the Court, 
 and had to confess, before he got his discharge, that 
 he was none other than the deacon who was refused 
 priest's orders under such startling circumstances, 
 and who was afterwards charged with palming off 
 old stories as new, and who, after that, became 
 a nigger minstrel. This story both amused and 
 astonished the world. 
 
 One would willingly pass over the next passage, 
 but the story must be followed out to the end. 
 
 When he left the Court of Bankruptcy he had, for 
 all possessions, the clothes he stood in and a few 
 pounds in his pockets. He might have gone back to 
 the music hall, but he was afraid. Everybody now 
 knew from the papers that he was in orders — in 
 deacon's orders only, it is true, but the people do not 
 observe nice distinctions. He might have had him- 
 self advertised as the 'Eev. Paul Leighan, B.A., Lion 
 Tenor,' and gone on to meet the applause of the 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDEHS 
 
 59 
 
 multitude. That method occurred to him, and it was 
 the boldest and most likely method. After all, people 
 like a man who is game. But Paul was afraid. Or 
 he might go on without taking any notice of the 
 exposure, and be ' guyed ' by the gallery. Not even 
 the most brazen of music-hall singers likes being 
 guyed by the gallery, if only because the proprietor 
 considers the fact in the next adjustment of salaries. 
 Paul was still extremely sensitive to the opinion of the 
 house. He did not therefore return to the music hall, 
 nor did he face the gallery. He became, or tried to 
 become, a journaHst. There are journaHsts and 
 journalists. There are members of a very important 
 and honourable profession ; and there are hangers-on, 
 pickers-up of odds and ends. Paul could not write 
 leading articles ; he had neither the knowledge nor 
 the power. He could not write descriptive papers ; he 
 had not the necessary imagination. He could not 
 report anything, because he did not know shorthand. 
 He was not offered reviewing work, because to be a 
 reviewer one must at least look respectable, and Paul 
 was shabby. Therefore Paul had to become a picker- 
 up of odds and ends. He ran about at night collect- 
 ing things ; he hovered on the outskirts of crowds ; he 
 stood about in tavern bars. It was a miserable 
 experience ; he could not make a good penny-a-liner. 
 He did not know what was wanted or where to look 
 for it. The true purveyor of flimsy must have some 
 knowledge of humanity, together with some sympathy. 
 Paul had never studied any specimen of humanity 
 except himself— nor had he in the whole world a 
 single friend who would help him. Nor, again, had 
 he that kind of mind which grows sharper in adversity 
 
6o 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 and is most surely developed by necessity. Great 
 Gaster, first Master of Arts, taught nothing to the 
 unlucky Paul — not ingenuity, not resource. He taught 
 only the first law of human nature — that one must 
 feed. How ? Just in the old, old way, the sweet pre- 
 historic way, when man arose from his couch in the 
 morning and went forth to slay, to rob, to hunt. 
 
 The law always goes one way with the most resist- 
 less determination. If you go the other way, there is 
 bound to arrive a collision in which the law is bound 
 to get the best of it. Paul went the other way. 
 Indeed, he knew not how else to live ; he found him- 
 self compelled to go the other way. When you get to 
 the end of all things, what are you to do ? 
 
 This is a terrible question. There is a stage on 
 the downward path where the wretch pauses — or 
 seems to pause. He has still the appearance and the 
 habiliments of a gentleman, using the word almost in 
 its widest sense ; his boots may be down at heel, but 
 his hat is fairly respectable ; he no longer has a watch 
 and chain ; his linen is not of the brightest — yet there 
 is still hope for him. Just as he stands, he might sit 
 down at a desk and begin to clerk it. If no one gives 
 
 him that desk ? This was Paul's case ; no one gave 
 
 him anything. Then there is only one thing to do ; 
 he must put off the outward appearance and show of 
 a gentleman ; he must sell, or pawn, or exchange his 
 broadcloth for corduroy ; he must become a man with 
 a pair of ready hands and a pair of willing feet. He 
 must sell papers, matches, or the newest marvel for a 
 penny. If he will not do this, if he still clings to his 
 gentility, it means going over the line. Paul had 
 already crossed that line. He crossed it again. 
 
IN DFACON'S OTIDERS 
 
 6i 
 
 They called it obtaining money under false 
 pretences. They said that you must not sell to a 
 tradesman— he was a confiding German who had 
 opened in Soho a ' Delikatessen Handlung -the 
 support obtained by personal influence and close 
 friendship with the proprietors, even if you are lucky 
 enough to be the private friend of the editors, of the 
 * Times,' the 'Daily News,' the ' Standard,' the ' Daily 
 Telegraph,' the 'Morning Post' and the 'Daily 
 Chronicle.' The court laughed at the case ; it was 
 certainly comic— the prisoner's impudence in pretend- 
 ing to possess this influence was as comic as the 
 German's blind confidence. Besides, in the course of 
 the case, there came out the former history of the pri-- 
 soner, the Kev. Paul Cannington Leighan, B.A., who 
 had been balked of his priest's orders at the very last 
 moment ; who, under the name of Paul Iliffe, had sent 
 old stories to magazines as new, and was acquiring 
 some name as a storyteUer when he was found out ; 
 who had been a nigger minstrel, an actor, a music-hall 
 singer, a ' variety' entertainer, a bankrupt, and many 
 other things. The papers had playfully spoken of him 
 as the Frisky Deacon. When the case had been 
 thoroughly enjoyed by all parties concerned except 
 one, the Court enjoined that one person to stay at 
 home for six months and to occupy himself during 
 that time with light work, such as can be done by 
 inexperienced fingers. 
 
 One of the papers called attention to this singular 
 and chequered career. Half the ingenuity, the writer 
 pointed out, expended on all these rogueries might 
 have given this man an honoured place in the Church 
 of England. Quite wrong. There was never any 
 
62 
 
 IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 ingenuity at all. The man's tricks were elementary 
 and clumsy. He wanted to get some money and he 
 took the easiest way. Such a man always takes the 
 easiest way. It is the greatest mistake to suppose 
 that the common rogue is an ingenious person. He 
 takes the easiest way. If he does not, he is either 
 an honest man or an uncommon rogue. Something 
 successful in the sporting line is what the uncommon 
 rogue desires; therefore some combination hitherto 
 untried. The uncommon rogue soars high above 
 suspicion of roguery ; he becomes an object of admira- 
 tion ; his ingenuity makes him rich. The unfortunate 
 Paul lacked that keen wit that makes the uncommon 
 rogue ; he took the easy way. 
 
 Margaret, in her flat, read the paper. Paul had 
 not seen her since that day when he came straight 
 from the Cathedral. She had read of him from time 
 to time — read of his disgraces and his shames. The 
 man was hopelessly disgraced, degraded, and ruined. 
 Nothing could now restore him to his former place. 
 No repentance could bring him back to the world of 
 honour. Yet he had still before him all his life— he 
 was as yet well on the sunny side of thirty. There is 
 always hope for the young— at least it is, happily, so 
 thought and taught. For my part, seeing the in- 
 tensity of the temptation for the young, I doubt 
 whether their case is more hopeful than that of the 
 old, who may be vicious but are no longer deluded by 
 imagination. 
 
 * He will come back to me,' she said. ' I suffered 
 him to kiss me, to speak of love, in the midst of his 
 disgrace. I have made him part and parcel of my- 
 self. When he comes back to me I will ' What 
 
 could she do ? 
 
IN DEACON'S OEDEllS 
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTEE V 
 
 THE SEAT OF THE SINNER 
 
 Six months — six hundred years in reaHty, but they 
 called it six months — after the painful business of the 
 criminal court, the prisoner was allowed to put on his 
 own garments. They were now so desperately shabby 
 that he would have preferred the prison uniform, but 
 for the prejudice which attaches to it. His hair had 
 been for a week or two allowed to grow ; he received 
 the last visit from the chaplain, who afterwards quoted 
 him as a terrible example how a mere profession of 
 religion may harden the heart and make it dead and 
 insensible to spiritual influences ; and at last — at last 
 — the prison doors were thrown open, and he stepped 
 outside, a free man. He gasped and threw out his 
 arms ; he staggered like a drunken man; he was free. 
 
 Meditation in his cell had shown him certain 
 living realities. He now clearly understood that the 
 game was finished. Nothing that he had formerly 
 done could be done again. He must find out a new 
 way of living. He was still only eight-and-twenty ; 
 he had, perhaps, forty years of life left. At the 
 ridiculously low estimate of half-a-crown a day for 
 bare necessities, he must make that half-a-crown by 
 his wits, with the burden of his past history upon his 
 
64 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 back — a load which the world will never allow a man 
 to lay down ; he must bear it till he dies. A man 
 who has a trade may, perhaps, get employment if he is 
 lucky, whatever his character. A man who has a 
 profession— especially if that be the sacred profession 
 — if he loses his character can never find work. No 
 name was more blown upon than his own. The story 
 caught the popular imagination. There was some- 
 thing ludicrous in the life of the Eev. Paul Leighan, 
 B.A., Deacon in Holy Orders. The comic and frivo- 
 lous papers not only called him the Frisky Deacon, 
 they called him also the Irrepressible Deacon ; they 
 caUed him Jack in the Box ; they drew pictures of him 
 at various stages of his career. They made a personage 
 of him. He became as popular as Ally Sloper. He 
 could not, either, disguise himself under another name ; 
 thanks to the music halls and the variety entertain- 
 ments and his handsome, unmistakable face, there was 
 hardly anyone better known than himself. He had done 
 his best by riotous living to spoil his face, but it was as . 
 yet unspoiled ; the fine lines and delicate curves were 
 there still, with those lovely eyes which had won so 
 many women's hearts. 
 
 The six months of seclusion had been a beastly 
 time, a time wholly without comfort. At first he tried 
 to become penitent ; he remembered former occasions 
 on which real tears of penitence flowed freely ; he sat 
 in his cell and waited for the familiar emotion. 
 Strangely, it failed to appear ; nor did he, during his 
 whole residence in that place, once feel — though he 
 looked for it and waited for it — the overwhelming 
 faintness which accompanies the true emotion of re- 
 pentance. They gave him the Bible to read ; he 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 65 
 
 turned over the pages with lack-lustre eye ; the words, 
 which he knew by heart, had no meaning to him — 
 none whatever. Even the services of the chapel failed 
 to awaken any of the old emotions. You cannot really 
 feel religious while you are sitting in a pew all by 
 yourself, dressed in prison garb. It is absurd. He 
 sang the hymns because it was a relief to use his 
 voice. To sing in a church without having anybody 
 to mark the rapture of his eyes was a miserable, lonely, 
 unsatisfying exercise. He essayed words of religion 
 with the chaplain, who snubbed him ; told him that he 
 was a most disgraceful and infamous person ; ordered 
 him not to dare the use of those words until he had 
 learned the infamy of his present position and the 
 horrible wickedness of his past ; said he was the worst 
 man in the whole prison because he had sinned 
 against the Light. Then Paul sulked, and refused to 
 talk with the chaplain at all. Such a chaplain was a 
 disgrace to any civilised prison. 
 
 He thought at one time that he should hke a 
 change from the cell, which was certainly dull, to the 
 infirmary. He therefore shammed, but the doctor . . . 
 Why go on ? The doctor was no more sympathetic 
 than the chaplain. However, it was all over: he 
 was out — what next ? 
 
 He stood outside the prison gates irresolute, de- 
 spairing. He perfectly understood his own position : 
 he had no friends at all. By this time he had given 
 up thinking of the girl who had once loved him; 
 how could he think of her out of the depths ? Besides, 
 his companions of the music hall and the tavern bars 
 made it impossible for him to think of her. How, he 
 asked himself, was he going to earn his daily bread ? 
 
66 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 A man in rags and tatters, leading a child in each 
 hand, passed along the road bawling ' Sweet By and 
 Bye.' A maidservant ran up the area steps and 
 tossed him a penny and vanished. ' That way ? ' 
 asked Paul with a sinking heart. 
 
 A string of men crossed the road lower down. 
 They were sandwich men ; each walked between two 
 boards, his face sticking out above— every man's face 
 gloomy and black. ' Or that way ? ' he asked. 
 
 A gang of men were working on the road. They 
 had brooms and spades, and were raking the mud 
 into heaps for the carts to collect. They were broken- 
 down wretches, once prosperous, or expecting to be 
 prosperous. They drew two shillings a day from the 
 parish ; they wore boots in several stages of ruin, but 
 all letting in the mud and slush, and the day was 
 cold. ' Or that way ? ' Paul asked. He was so 
 miserable that he thought it the best way, because 
 such a morning's work in the half-frozen mud would 
 probably kill a man off at once— and so an end. 
 
 Then there came stepping along the street a 
 young girl dressed in a familiar uniform. She had a 
 sweet face, not pretty, but pleasing, with bright and 
 kindly eyes. She saw him standing there alone and 
 doubtful; she recognised the prison bird; she ran 
 across. 
 
 'Just out?' she asked. He nodded. * Waiting 
 for friends ? ' 
 
 ' I have no friends— not one friend in the whole 
 world — so help me God.' 
 
 ' Don't take in vain the name of the God you 
 have offended,' she repHed severely. ' What was the 
 trouble ? Don't tell me if you don't like. Some say 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 67 
 
 they were innocent, but it is a pity to tell lies — you 
 were not innocent — your face shows it. I once saw 
 an innocent man come out of prison and I know the 
 difference. That man came out in a rage and we 
 couldn't convert him. His heart was turned to stone.' 
 
 ' They called it obtaining money under false pre- 
 tences. What matters ? ' 
 
 ' I thought it looked like money. Sometimes I 
 pray the Lord to take all the money out of the world. 
 Money it is that mostly fills the pit. Never mind 
 now. Come with me to barracks and rest a bit while 
 you look about you. Barracks is the place for you. 
 There you can sit down and talk things over. We're 
 all friends together at barracks, you know — some of 
 us brother soldiers, but all of us friends.' 
 
 She took his hand and held it with a warm and 
 sisterly grasp, and led him, now as unresisting as a 
 lamb, along with her. * Oh ! ' she murmured softly, 
 as if he was not listening—but that was her craftiness 
 and subtlety. ^ Oh ! good Lord, here is a gentleman 
 — look at his face — a gentleman and a scholar, I 
 should say. Look into his thoughts. I think they 
 are hard and wicked. He hasn't turned from his 
 wickedness yet. They haven't converted him with 
 their prison chapel — oh, no ! — that is left for us. He 
 has never worked with his hands. Lord, break up his 
 stubborn heart for him. Break him up. Break him 
 up. He knows his Eedeemer by hearsay ; we shall 
 not have to teach him anything ; we only have to 
 give him food and love, and presently — grant it, Lord 
 — he will give way altogether, and be broken up.' 
 Now, even as she spoke, there stole into his heart a 
 faint image of the old emotion which formerly he had 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 loved to awaken in himself and others. But this 
 time it stayed there and grew there. He made no 
 reply to her while she continued her conversation on 
 his case with the Lord. But he felt softened. The 
 chaplain with his reproaches had only hardened him. 
 The gentle touch of this girl's fingers softened him— 
 it was so long since anybody had taken any interest 
 at all in him. He knew who she was— a Salvation 
 Army girl— and he knew what she wanted, and why 
 she was so loving ; but he was weak from his solitary 
 confinement and the prison diet. Tears filled his eyes 
 —real tears— not simulated. They were tears of 
 sorrow and of helplessness over himself and his 
 sufferings ; they were by no means tears of repentance. 
 The girl saw them and went on murmuring soft and 
 kindly prayers. So he walked beside her with droop- 
 ing head and quivering lips, quite ready to be broken 
 up whenever the moment should arrive. 
 
 He was taken to a place where they gave him a 
 hot breakfast, and everybody in the place came and 
 shook hands with him as if they were really glad to 
 see him. When he said he was that morning out of 
 prison they murmured gently, as if it was his mis- 
 fortune, and as if it might happen to anybody, and as 
 if it was not his fault at all. They said that many 
 great sinners came to them from prison, and that 
 many other great sinners who also came to them 
 had never been sent to prison at all. They gave 
 him books to read, and they told him that he might 
 stay there while he looked about for work. They all 
 seemed to be very busy, but they found time to look 
 in now and then where he was sitting with some other 
 men and to say a friendly word. The girl who had 
 
IN DEACON'S OIIDEJIS 
 
 69 
 
 captured him came half-a-dozen times in the course 
 of the day to ask him what she could do for him. 
 She sat beside him and cooed and crooned over him, 
 and told him what a curious chance it was that she 
 had met him ; nay, call it not a chance but a special 
 ordering, so that she could not choose but cross the 
 road to speak to him. 
 
 And would he tell her who he was and all about 
 it, and what friends he had, and would he let her 
 be his friend and help him ? Oh ! there was room 
 in the barracks for everybody— all the sinners. The 
 Lord would send the General money enough; and 
 who could tell ? Perhaps he, too, when the Lord had 
 broken him up, might enhst in the Army and do 
 great work as a valiant soldier. No one could tell 
 to what heights he might not rise when once he had 
 found conviction. 
 
 Who could resist the blandishments of such a 
 Siren ? Not Paul, certainly, to whom every pretty 
 girl was a Siren, a Circe, a Delilah. He hearkened ; 
 his heart was moved ; the girl was soft, kind, persua- 
 sive ; it was long since anyone had pretended to 
 take interest in him. Therefore at length he opened 
 his mouth ; he spoke, ' My name,' he said, ' is Paul 
 Leighan. I was in prison for alleged fraud — for 
 obtaining money under ' 
 
 ' What ? ' she cried. ' You are the Eev. Paul 
 Leighan, ' the Frisky Deacon. You are the man 
 
 ^yho Oh ! it is wonderful ! Oh ! that we should 
 
 get you ! Oh ! an awfully wicked man ! ' 
 
 She ran and told the others, and they all came to 
 gaze upon him — the captains and the lieutenants and 
 the rank and file ; they shook hands with him again ; 
 
7° IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 they congratulated him; they congratulated each 
 other ; they foresaw another triumph for the Army 
 fTl .1 ^^"8'ied, but checked themselves.' 
 
 Wait, they said, 'till the evening. Then you shall 
 
 Presently they gave him dinner-a much better 
 dinner than the prison afforded; in fulness of time 
 they gave him tea. He wanted to go out, feeling a 
 kind of yearning after strong drink; but the girl 
 who had captured him made him sit down again No 
 he must not go out ; he should not go out ; he should 
 have no drmk ; more tea if he hked, but no drink • 
 he must stay where he was, with his new friends • he 
 must wait at least until the evening. It was of no 
 use-his will was broken by confinement, low food 
 and discipline-to contend against the strong and 
 healthy will of the girl. Paul obeyed. 
 
 In the evening there was the customary service 
 with addresses, hymns and prayers, at the barracks. 
 Bat perhaps the presence of this most interestin-. 
 subject-this curiously wicked subject-caused some 
 increase m the fervour of the speakers. 
 
 Paul, for his part, sat on a bench and listened. 
 He was m a highly emotional, hysterical condition to 
 begm with. As the speakers became more fiery he 
 ost all control of will and reason. Presently, when 
 the smging-good singing as he knew-hot, fiery 
 singmg, full of the rapture which he remembered- 
 began, his head went round and round, he sprang 
 to his feet shrieking, he threw up his arms, he fell 
 headlong on the floor, crying, laughing, and saying 
 he knew not what. Miracle! Miracle! One more 
 prison bird struck with conviction ! 
 
IN DEA.CON'S ORDERS 
 
 71 
 
 When the strength of the hysterical fit was partly 
 spent Paul was placed on the stool of Inquirers— or 
 was it that of Eepentance ? A stalwart captain laid 
 a hand upon his shoulder, and exhorted him where 
 to look and what to say and what to expect. The 
 girl who had brought him to the place held both hia 
 hands in hers, and kneeled beside him and prayed 
 aloud, tears of praise and thankfulness falling down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 ' Oh, Glory ! ' she cried— she had such a voice as he 
 loyed— a low contralto— and she spoke as if she were 
 singing. Her voice seemed to penetrate his dazed dark 
 brain like a ray of sunshine. * Oh, Glory ! — one more 
 precious soul ! Oh, he is saved !— he is saved ! ' 
 In this way Paul was saved. 
 On the following Sunday evening, between the 
 exercises of praise and prayer, in the largest hall of 
 the Army, a recruit stood up— a handsome young 
 man, pale, tall, big-eyed— and began to speak. For 
 a whole hour he spake as never man among 
 them yet had spoken. He held them enthralled. 
 He told them a most terrible story of wickedness— 
 his own— beginning from his school-days ; he spared 
 no detail; he gave them a thrilling insight into 
 the All Night Club, with a full account of the wicked- 
 ness that went on there. ' Spare them nothing ! 
 Tell everything ! ' said the girl who had converted 
 him. He did not shrink from revealing the less 
 pleasing features of the music hall— and in fact he 
 went into much greater details than I have been able 
 to give ; he narrated with copious additions the story 
 which you have read. He concluded by singing to 
 them one of their own hymns, into which he poured 
 
72 
 
 IN DEACON'S OEDEES 
 
 SO much pity, so much repentance, so much fervour 
 of faith, that the congregation — an emotional com- 
 pany, it is true — wept and shed tears without 
 restraint or control. And when he finished, sinking 
 on his knees before them all, they sprang to their 
 feet and sang a hymn of triumph. 
 
 The Lion of Judali shall break every chain, 
 And give to the people the Victory again ; 
 
 Again — again ; 
 Shall give to the people the Victory again. 
 
 Once more, and again once more : 
 
 The Lion of Judah shall break every chain, 
 And give to the people the Victory again ; 
 
 Again — again ; 
 Shall give to the people the Victory again. 
 
 And there were such bursts of the silver cornet, such 
 beating of the drums, such banging of tambourines, 
 such shouts of glorified, triumphant, and forgiven 
 sinners — because the greater the sin the louder is the 
 triumph — that the noise of their meeting resounded 
 in all the streets around, insomuch that sinners 
 longed to aggravate and increase and multiply their 
 sins so as to obtain such a triumph when their hour 
 of repentance should arrive. 
 
 Paul was a recruit. He had returned to his old 
 emotions ; he was once more for the time happy ; no 
 one threw the past in his teeth ; the more enthusiastic 
 of the Army even envied him those depths of vice 
 with which their own poor little commonplace sins — 
 which could not be made picturesque — were not for 
 a moment comparable. And a repentant clergyman of 
 the Establishment ! And once more the Eev. Paul 
 Leighan, B.A., the irrepressible Deacon, the nigger 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 73 
 
 minstrel, the convict, the Frisky Deacon, the Jack-in- 
 the Box, figured in the papers this time as an interesting 
 penitent — one of the most interesting penitents ever 
 captured — better than the man who had been forty 
 years drunk — better than the converted prize-fighter 
 — better than the repentant clown — better than the 
 reclaimed pickpocket. Multitudes there were who went 
 to hear him preach and sing. 
 
74 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 CHAPTEE VI 
 
 THE LAST CHANCE 
 
 ' A PERSON, miss, wants to see you.' 
 'Who is it, Esther ?' 
 
 ' A Salvation Army person, miss. He won't give 
 his name or his business.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't suppose he wants to kill me. Let 
 him come in.' 
 
 It was three years and more since Margaret had 
 seen her lover. You have heard what happened to 
 him during those years. She had read in the papers 
 some of those things. Nothing had happened to her. 
 She still lived in her flat, and she was still single. 
 
 She looked up when her visitor entered, and started, 
 but quickly controlled herself and spoke with outward 
 calm. ' You, Paul ? I expected you before this. I 
 saw by the papers that you had joined the Salvation 
 Army. I thought you would come to tell me some- 
 thing about yourself as soon as you had anything to 
 tell that was not disgraceful.' 
 
 Paul stood humbly, perhaps too humbly, hanging 
 his head, perhaps too low. 
 
 ' I come to tell you, Margaret,' he said, almost in 
 a whisper, ' that I have at last found and proved the 
 reality of words.' 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 75 
 
 ' If that is true, it is the happiest thing that was 
 ever granted to you.' 
 
 ' I know now what is meant by the words which I 
 formerly used without meaning. I do not excuse my- 
 self, Margaret ; but remember that I used those words 
 as a boy, e /en, twice a day for years and years, and 
 that they became like my surplice, something that 
 could be taken off or put on at pleasure— part of a 
 ceremony. They lost their meaning to me, Margaret. 
 I have waited till I could come and tell you this truth- 
 fully. I remember certain words you used when I 
 was here last— the day after that unlucky Cathedral 
 business.' 
 
 Margaret was sitting at her writing-table. Paul 
 stood at the door. She walked to the other side of 
 the table and took her seat there, so that the table 
 stood between them. Thus fortified she made answer : 
 
 ' What I said three years ago was said to a young 
 man who had committed great sins, but was not past 
 hope. That man has changed for the worse and for 
 the worst. Your record was bad even then ■. it is now 
 unspeakable. You now tell me, however, that you 
 have repented— that you have found the meaning of 
 certain words. So far it is good. What made you 
 come here ? ' 
 
 ' I thought you would have welcomed a repentant 
 sinner.' 
 
 ^No. I do not welcome you. I had no desire 
 ever to see you again. But I knew that you would 
 come. You have caused me the greatest misery and 
 self-reproach. Still, I should be, I think— nay, I am 
 sure that I should be glad to think that you are, as 
 you say, a penitent. But the time has long since 
 
76 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 passed when I could welcome you. On the contrary, I 
 look upon you, I think of you, with shame, only to 
 think that I could at any time love such a man. I 
 made an idol, a creature of fancy that had no existence, 
 and I clothed it with your form, I gave it your eyes, I 
 loved that idol, not you. Oh ! I never loved you ! It 
 was another creature who was expelled the Cathedral 
 —not my idol. It was my idol who kissed me— not you. 
 No— never you. I now understand what you were 
 always— a man without heart, without morals, without 
 truth, without honour— in a word, without a soul. 
 You have ruined my life. If an honourable man were 
 to love me, I could not give him the lips that have 
 been kissed— by such as you. I could not give him the 
 hand that was promised — to such a man as you.' 
 
 a am sorry, Margaret,' he said. '1 did not ex- 
 pect to find love left, but I hoped to find some interest 
 — at least some little kindness.' 
 
 * I have told you how I now regard you. Have 
 you anything more to say ? ' 
 
 ^ * If I may be allowed to stay long enough to say 
 
 ' Say it, then.' 
 
 * You speak of my past history. Well, it is, I ac- 
 knowledge, a most unhappy history ' 
 
 * Call it most disgraceful.' 
 
 * but I have been so unlucky. Nothing but 
 
 bad luck has pursued me all my hfe.' 
 
 * You stole money at school ' 
 
 ' What are a schoolboy's faults ? Are they to be 
 remembered ? ' 
 
 ' You stole money at Oxford ' 
 
 * No— no ' 
 
IN DEACON'S OrJ)ERS 77 
 
 'You stole the Newdigate Prize — Mr. Homerton 
 Smith told me the whole story — he who afterwards 
 befriended you. Do not try to deceive yourself. 
 Your own conduct has been the Fate that has pursued 
 you with scourges. Your only misfortune is that you 
 learned so early to mistake emotions called up at will 
 for the reality of the spiritual life.' 
 
 * Nothing can be said that is too bad for the past,' 
 he owned, without effort or shame. ' Nothing, Mar- 
 garet. But it is past and gone. It is quite gone.' He 
 threw open his arms to show that the past was really 
 gone into the eioigkeit. * I have no past— I have now 
 only a present and a future.' 
 
 ' Alas ! the world will soon show you that your 
 past exists as much as your present, Paul ; a man can 
 no more rid himself of his past life than he can rid 
 himself of his shadow. It is always with him.' 
 
 ' Not with me. I have done with my past. I 
 have the present, which is not — well— one is not 
 proud of this dress '—he looked at his red shirt and 
 his cap—' and one is only a dissenter — yet it is not, I 
 suppose, actually disgraceful — and the future, which, 
 Margaret, with your help, shall be honourable.' 
 ' With my help ? ' 
 
 ' If you will Hsten for a moment, Margaret. I 
 have recovered my old powers and more— ten times 
 more. I can make them cry— I am ten times more 
 eloquent than ever I was before.' 
 
 She looked at him sharply. She recognised the 
 voice of the old Adam. 
 
 ' But I have to wear this uniform, as you see— a 
 hideous thing. And my companions are common, 
 horribly common and uncultivated. And the con- 
 
78 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDEES 
 
 gregations — they are of the lowest kind. And there 
 have been aheady rows and misunderstandings. 
 They talk of reducing me to the ranks if there are 
 any more — any more misunderstandings. I yearn to 
 join my own class again. I want to use my own 
 liturgy, and to preach in a church again.' 
 ' Will any bishop allow you to do so ? ' 
 
 * Not in England. I have thought that perhaps 
 in America ' 
 
 * "Will any bishop give you — what is it called ? — a 
 letter or testimonial of good conduct ? ' 
 
 * I think I can do without such a testimonial. I 
 would go over to America and get known to some of 
 the Episcopal clergy there. I should, of course, tell 
 such parts of my life as should be known ' 
 
 * In other words, Paul, you would begin your new 
 career with a chain of lies.' 
 
 ' No — no ; do not misrepresent me — pray do not ; 
 I would confess the sinful life, I would only suppress 
 one or two of the details.' 
 
 * You would suppress, for instance, the prison ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps ; I would rather do so, in fact, if my — my 
 conscience approved.' He lifted his head quite proudly, 
 just to emphasise the fact that he possessed at least a 
 conscience. 
 
 ' And the business of the Cathedral ? You would 
 conceal that too.' 
 
 ' Of course. That would be indispensable.' 
 
 Margaret laughed scornfully. ' You are, indeed, 
 a penitent. But, of course, you would be found 
 out.' 
 
 ' I thought it would be better to change my name. 
 I would take my old name. I would return perhaps 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 79 
 
 to plain Samuel Canning— or, I thought, Cyril Can- 
 ning—the name of Cyril has in itself a reUgious flavour. 
 And when I had been long enough to show my devo- 
 tion to good works and my faith— words being now 
 
 real to me, Margaret ' 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, doubtfully. 
 
 ' ThenI would ask, and receive once more, deacon's 
 orders— to be followed in the usual way by Mar- 
 garet, I am at last in earnest— I see before me a noble 
 career. I see an eloquent priest leading thousands 
 upwards ; he becomes a bishop— an archbishop ; he 
 lives a saintly hfe, he dies a saint confessed.' 
 
 ' You would enter upon that life with deception. 
 You would conceal your deacon's orders and take 
 them anew. This seems to me a most awful wicked- 
 ness. Oh, Paul ! can a saintly life rest on such a 
 basis ? Believe me, the only saintly hfe for you is 
 one of obscurity. If you are real in repentance seek 
 out some post where you may do humble and useful 
 work, and accept it as your punishment and your re- 
 paration. You are thinking, not of the saintly life, but 
 of the glory of the saintly Hfe. While you would lead 
 your thousands upwards you would be gazing in the 
 glass all the time and thinking what a lovely saint you 
 looked.' 
 
 ' Is that all you believe of me ? ' 
 
 ' That is, indeed, all I can believe of you. Why, 
 every word you say shows that you have not the first 
 element of penitence. You have no shame ; while 
 you boast that you are a changed man, you are con- 
 triving new deceptions. Go ! And never come to see 
 me again.' 
 
 ' Margaret, help me to escape.' His face changed ; 
 
8o 
 
 IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 he became a real suppliant instead of a sham penitent. 
 ' Help me, I say. I hate my life ; these people fill me 
 with loathing ; they are horribly vulgar ; the living is 
 rough ; there is even privation ; there are no luxuries, 
 not even the commonest. And there are already — I 
 told you — accusations. I can't stand it. There will 
 be another scandal — who knows what may happen ? 
 Help me to get away. In a new country I can find 
 work of some kind or other. Here, everything is closed 
 to me except ' — he shuddered. ' Oh ! Margaret, think 
 of it! — except the barracks of the Salvation Army. 
 Help me, Margaret, for the sake — of that shattered 
 idol. You were always a thousand times too good for 
 me. I confess that I was afraid of marrying you. I 
 knew you would find me out. But help me, just be- 
 cause you did once believe me. Give me help, for the 
 sake of that time, to escape from this den of despair 
 and hypocrisy. Give me money so that I may go 
 away — to America, or to Australia, or somewhere. Give 
 me enough for a start. I want clothes, I w^ant passage 
 money, I want money to live upon while I am looking 
 about me. I will mock you with no promises ; I may 
 go to the Devil or I may go up hill instead of down — 
 I don't know. Everything is uncertain except that I 
 must go away from here lest a worse thing happens to 
 me.' 
 
 He spoke for once with the earnestness of reality. 
 What had he done in the Salvation Army ? "What new 
 scandals — what rows — w^ere those of which he spoke ? 
 Margaret was a woman. She gave way. She opened 
 her desk ; she shaded her face to hide the tears in her 
 eyes ; she drew out her cheque book and she wrote 
 him a cheque for a hundred pounds — to the order of 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 8l 
 
 Samuel Canning. She held it out without raising her 
 head. 
 
 He took it — he gasped — he opened his mouth to 
 speak — he spoke one or two broken words. She mo- 
 tioned, still not looking up, to the door. He turned 
 and walked away* 
 
 When he was gone and the door was shut behind 
 him and his footstep was no longer heard upon the 
 stairs, Margaret sat down — to think about him. At 
 any time, when anything, however little or unimportant, 
 reminded her of Paul, she sat down to think about 
 him. She had always in her mind what she called 
 the real Paul — the man as he might have been, the 
 man as he was intended to be ; his emotional nature 
 disciplined, filling his words with the fire of sincerity ; 
 his love of music making splendid the service of the 
 Church ; the man mounting upwards from the love of 
 all to the veneration of all — what in the whole world 
 surpasses the veneration of grovelling men and creep- 
 ing women for the saintly life ? This was the man 
 she loved. As for the other man, he was so like the 
 man she loved in many little things that she was in- 
 terested in him. Interested in him — that way she put 
 it. "Who could love such a creature — so callous — of 
 such colossal insensibility to shame ; a man who at the 
 very moment when he was professing the most bitter 
 remorse was planning new deceptions ; a man who was 
 all religiosity without the least tincture of rehgion? 
 Not that man — no — she loved the other man. Many 
 women, in very sooth, do always love the other man. 
 
 She took pen and paper and wrote a kind of con- 
 fession, which still lies in her desk, for no one in the 
 world, except Paul and herself, knew of this strange 
 
82 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 and even unnatural affection, which nothing — not even 
 infamy and open disgrace — could destroy. 
 
 ' My life is ruined — by Paul,' she wrote. ' He lies 
 always on my heart — the ideal of my early dreams. 
 No woman ever had such a lover as the Paul of my 
 imagination. I have prayed for him, that he might 
 rise continually to higher and higher levels ; I have 
 thanked God for him ; I have humbly prayed for 
 more light that I might be worthy of him if I could 
 not be equal to him. And — now ? What good have 
 my prayers brought to me ; what answer have they 
 received ; what faith can remain in me ? I am 
 mocked ; the words of my prayers echo ba^-k to my 
 own ears. I hear them again and again ; in the night 
 they come back to me. But others before me have 
 prayed, and their prayers have remained unanswered. 
 All over the world mothers are praying for their sons, 
 who are reeling swiftly to death and destruction ; and 
 men are praying for what they want and can never 
 obtain. Who am I that I should expect a miracle — 
 the conversion of this impenitent and hardened 
 wretch ? Let me accept my lot ; let me suffer for 
 loving a soul which does not exist in a form which 
 seemed made to illustrate and adorn it. 
 
 ^ But he has left a trail like the crawling of a worm. 
 If I go to Church, the first chorister who hfts his 
 head reminds me of the boy who posed and raised his 
 eyes to heaven in order to make the ladies wonder at 
 his holiness. The first preacher who grows eloquent 
 in the pulpit reminds me of the man whose pleading 
 was play-acting ; nay, the very tears of penitence be- 
 come an emotion called up at will — an emotion plea- 
 surable and becoming. Nothing is real : everything is 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 83 
 
 acted ; faith, penitence, hope, resignation— what are 
 they all but words to which becoming gestures are 
 fitted by the actors ? 
 
 ' I do not think I shall ever see him again. Such 
 a man cannot be allowed to live long. He will die — 
 I am sure that he will die — and then ? 
 
 'He has been w^ith me— within my heart— my 
 hero— my saint— for eight long years. The soul of 
 my saint has never been in that body which is seized 
 and held by a devil. When that body is laid at rest, 
 and this devil has gone to his own place, what about 
 myself ? I have had a vision of the saintly life, more 
 noble than is possible for mere man. So far my 
 prayers have been heard. Let, Oh Lord, the vision 
 remain with me, without the mocking form of the 
 devil-seized man. Destroy the memory of the man, 
 and make my saint the Christ indeed ! ' 
 
 So far she wrote ; then she laid down her pen, folded 
 the paper and laid it in her desk. She took out a 
 little packet ; it contained photographs — a sweet -faced 
 chorister in a surplice, his lovely face lifted, his eyes 
 filled with such a Hght as shone in the eyes of the 
 Child Prophet caUed by the Lord ; you could almost 
 hear the pure high notes of the solo flying up to the 
 rafters of the roof, rolling along the arches of the 
 nave. Another photograph showed the young clergy- 
 man ; he stood absorbed in thought— in holy medi- 
 tation ; his cassock, the lie of his hair, his pose, his 
 soft and serious eyes, in which dwelt every kind of 
 human sympathy and heavenly trust, all belonged to 
 meditation. Another showed him in the pulpit, in a 
 white surpHce — his arms outspread, his eyes upturned. 
 Margaret looked at them wdth a smile and a tear. 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 IN DEACON'S OEDERS 
 
 'He is an actor,' she said, * and he enjoys his part. 
 He plays— himself.' She threw the photographs into 
 the fire. 
 
 She took out next a packet of letters, and turned 
 them over. ' They are tear-stained,' she murmured. 
 ' He enjoyed his sorrows ; he carefully dropped his 
 tears on the paper. I think he enjoyed penitence 
 even more than the sins which brought trouble upon 
 him.' She tore the letters up into a hundred pieces, 
 and threw them into the fire. ^Let me forget the 
 sham repentance,' she murmured, *just as I would 
 forget, if I could, the sham religion. Oh, Vision of 
 the Earthly Saint, cease— cease, at last, I pray thee, 
 to present thyself in the form of Samuel Canning ! ' 
 
 Three years passed by. Nothing had come from 
 America concerning Paul, Margaret remained single, 
 and she kept in her flat, though she had become really 
 rich, and might have taken larger and better rooms. 
 People who expect visits stay in the same place. Per- 
 haps Margaret expected a visitor. 
 
 Her expected visitor did not come. And now he 
 never will come. After three years she received a 
 letter from him. He wrote from a town in one of the 
 Central States. ' Perhaps '—the letter was written in 
 the third person—^ Miss Cholmley may remember one 
 whom she formerly knew as Paul Leighan. Perhaps 
 she has quite forgotten him. If the former, she may 
 still be interested to learn that he is flourishing as 
 much as he had a wish to expect and more— much, very 
 much more. He left his native country with the 
 fixed intention of forgetting the past. He was resolved 
 to consider the past as closed. He landed in New 
 York with no past— only a future. 
 
IN JJl'^ACON'S 01iJ)ERS 
 
 85 
 
 ' He went inland, to one of those settled States 
 which few Englishmen ever visit. He wished to be 
 free from the chance of recognition. He chose a city 
 in which there are few or none of Enghsh extraction. 
 He grew a beard to cover and conceal his face ; he 
 wore spectacles to conceal his eyes ; and he brushed 
 his hair differently. This done, it would take a very 
 sharp detective to recognise him. He arrived at this 
 city, and sat down. He made the acquaintance of an 
 Episcopal clergyman; He was able to state a plain 
 unvarnished tale of his own record. He became an 
 ardent member of the congregation, and a teacher at 
 the Sunday- school. In twelve months he was ordained 
 a deacon— for the second time, it is true— but his 
 past was buried and gone. A year after he secured 
 priest's orders. He has now a church and a full 
 congregation, the service is admirable, the preacher 
 is eloquent. My dear Margaret—' the letter broke 
 abruptly into the first person, and an appeal to herself. 
 ' What more could you wish ? What is better for me ? 
 I have risen. In the depths I did not feel my deep- 
 ness ; it wanted the sunshine of prosperity to show 
 the full degradation of that forgotten past. Now I 
 truly know the meanings of words. I am happy. I 
 am leading souls upwards. I am going to marry the 
 daughter of the richest man in my church— a mil- 
 lionaire. Fortunately she does not pursue pleasure, 
 but loves the saintly life. When I take her to Europe 
 I shall bring her to see you if you will let me. You 
 shall be my cousin. It will help me greatly to be 
 connected with so good a family as yours. I have, of 
 course, suppressed much of my record. Since I long 
 since resolved to bury the past, this matters nothing. 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 It is gone I am free to imagine a better, a holier, 
 pas . And for the good of the Church and the spiritual 
 welfare o my flock I am prepared to suppress every- 
 thing. The motive, dear Margaret, the end in view 
 excuses and allows this otherwise reprehensible decep- 
 tion. Your faithful friend (I have again changed my 
 name ( ). ° 
 
 ' You know the meaning of words ? ' asked Mar 
 garet, bitterly. 'Never. Shame cannot touch vou ■ 
 exposure cannot change you; love cannot attract 
 you ; wickedness cannot deter you ; nothing can move 
 you-nothmg-nothing-except-will it happen 9-a 
 miracle. I wait.' She laid down the letter with a 
 sigh. ' I wait for that miracle.' 
 
 It was the last letter but one received from Paul 
 Leighan. 
 
 About a year afterwards another letter came to 
 her from_ the United States. It was addressed in a 
 handwriting which she did not recognise. She opened 
 It. Two enclosures fell out. One was from Paul It 
 was written from a State Prison. 
 
 'You are the only person whom I dare address ' 
 It began ' You see where I am-in what a shameful 
 place. You ask me how I got here. I have had 
 misfortunes : I lost my money. I lost my church 
 I lost my rich bride. They said things. I lost mv 
 character. I had to fly. I could get no work : I was 
 persuaded to join-yes, I confess it— a gang of 
 swmdlers ; we were detected and tried, and I am here 
 for some years. I should not write to you but that I 
 must tell you, friend of my happier days, that I now 
 see and clearly understand the realities of things I 
 have learned at last the meanings of words which 
 
IN DEACON'S ORDEllS 
 
 87 
 
 formerly wore always on my tongne without any 
 meaning. I have remembered what you told me, that 
 obscurity must henceforth be my Hfe. I accept the 
 lot. Let me, however, still hope to lead the saintly 
 life. I see myself toiling amongst the roughest and 
 rudest; they shall learn to love, to pity, and to 
 revere me. As soon as I am released I mean to get 
 back home— to England ; this is a cold and cruel 
 country. In England you will enable me to carry 
 out the dream of my life. Temptation will no longer 
 assail me. I am strengthened by affliction. I shall 
 become a prophet among the humblest and lowliest ; 
 I shall never let them know my story of disgrace ; I 
 shah lead them upwards— an obscure saint of the 
 
 people— among the people ' 
 
 Here the letter stopped. It was accompanied by 
 another. 
 
 ' Madam,'— this letter was also written from the 
 State Prison, and was signed by the governor—' I en- 
 close a letter which was begun by a prisoner here, but 
 remains unfinished. He died this morning, in our 
 hospital, of pneumonia. He expressed great penitence 
 at the end, and I hope his penitence was sincere. His 
 short career in this country was marked by unusual 
 audacity in crime. He was an Episcopal clergyman 
 of great eloquence and apparently of true rehgion ; his 
 spiritual appearance and conversation created for him 
 great popularity. Then he was detected in some 
 scandal and had to fly his town. He became a mem- 
 ber of a company of swindlers, now broken up, who 
 worked together and organised robbery on a large 
 scale ; he was betrayed by the jealousy of a woman in 
 the gang. She gave evidence against him, and on his 
 
88 
 
 IN DEACON'S ORDERS 
 
 conviction killed herself. Some of these facts are, I 
 dare say, known to you. Perhaps you will communi- 
 cate the news of his death to any others interested in 
 him. I have only to add that the clergyman of the 
 Episcopal Church, who attended him unto the end, 
 was deeply moved with the fervour of his prayers, 
 with the true penitence which he displayed, with the 
 humility which he showed at the last consolations of 
 the Church, and with the rapture with which he 
 turned his dying eyes to heaven. I report his very 
 words, as they may be some consolation to his former 
 friends-' 
 
 Margaret laid down the letters. 
 ' So,' she said, ' he died as he had lived, with his 
 eyes turned up to heaven. I loved him — I loved him ! ' 
 The tears rolled down her cheek. ' Oh, Heaven ! ' she 
 murmured, ' I can never forget him — never ! After all 
 that he has done, I cannot forget him. I love him 
 still. Since my Earthly Saint must needs wear the 
 earthly form of Paul, grant that I may forget the 
 mocking double, the man possessed with the devil, 
 who took his place.' 
 
89 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 I 
 
 In the month of June there are not many travellers 
 in Lakeland. The trippers have not yet begun to 
 trip ; the trampers have not yet begun to tramp ; the 
 coaches have not yet begun to upset ; the excursion 
 trains have not begun to collide; the rare and 
 casual traveller will find at this sweet season, when 
 the spring is at its best, only a stray wanderer ; here 
 and there a party of two or three young men ; here 
 and there an American family : all the year round, in 
 the most unlikely spots— on Helvellyn in December, 
 in Piccadilly in August— is to be found the American 
 family. The hotels and inns at this sweet season are 
 standing empty ; the welcome accorded to the single 
 arrival is heartfelt and real. Hospitality he receives, 
 not paid service ; the waiters— in June they are all 
 ^onien— smile upon him ; the table groans with good 
 things for him. At such a season, when, day after 
 day, one traveller meets another traveller, or one 
 party, day after day, comes upon another, halting at 
 the same place, it is only a question of time when 
 they begin to speak. First a smile of greeting- 
 wrung, forced, extorted, in spite of reserve and exclu- 
 siveness— by continual arrival at the same place; 
 
90 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 then a word or two of polite commonplace ; next, a 
 talk at the table cVhote ; then an acquaintance which 
 promises to be pleasant ; then the discovery of common 
 friends ; lastly, perhaps a Hfelong friendship. 
 
 The following is the story of two parties travelling 
 through Lakeland in the month of June, and how 
 they met at the same hotels and at the same sights 
 and places, and how they presently began to speak to 
 each other, with what happened afterwards. How 
 deeply the story-teller— if you come to think of it— is 
 beholden to what happened afterwards ! 
 
 The first party— I call them the first party because 
 they were first in the field— contained two young 
 men, named respectively Philip Ainshe and James— 
 or Jem— Sevenoke. They were great friends because 
 they were totally unlike each other in every respect. 
 Philip Ainslie was a man of much intehectual activity, 
 who had taken a very good degree, and was now a 
 fellow and lecturer of his college, and Jem Sevenoke 
 was a man who lay on his back and talked ; and as 
 for intellectual activity, he only read just enough to 
 get through. Ainslie was a tall and rather thin man, 
 with a quick, eager look, while his friend was sleek 
 and fat, and showed his laziness in every movement 
 and every limb, by the way in which he took root in 
 an easy chair, even by the droop of his eyes, which 
 were too lazy to open wide. Ainshe had ambitions— 
 as yet vague, but already glorious. Scholarship 
 claimed him. He was lecturer in his college ; he 
 might become Tutor and even Master; he might 
 become Professor in the University, or even Pubhc 
 Orator. The three are drawbacks to the University 
 life. Most men who have 'gone down' afterwards 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 91 
 
 rejoice that they did go down ; most men who stay up 
 regret in their decHning years that they did not make 
 up their minds to struggle in the arena and share the 
 common lot. One may now marry, but there is still 
 a flavour of the life monastic about the modern Oxford 
 and Cambridge. Moreover, there is the pressure of 
 the younger men who are pitiless towards an aged man 
 of thirty, and think that he of forty ought no longer 
 to cumber the earth. On the other hand, there are 
 greater and nobler prizes outside : a good many Uni- 
 versity men have found this out : there is the House 
 of Commons, where a scholar who can speak and who 
 knows things may speedily work his way. Such an 
 one may become Irish Secretary, or Home Secretary, 
 or anything you please. And a good many young 
 University men at this moment are considering whether 
 it were not better to surrender college posts and 
 wearisome lectures to undergraduates, and to make a 
 bid for these prizes. AinsHe was one of these young 
 men. His friend, who was rich, frankly owned that 
 there was nothing which the world could offer which 
 would tempt him to take off his coat, go down into 
 the arena, and fight with other men to get it. To 
 sum up his character, it is sufficient to say that his 
 friends all called him Jem. 
 
 These two young men had been at Ambleside a 
 week when they first struck the other party. The 
 meeting was in this wise. On the last morning but 
 one of their stay, while they waited breakfast in the 
 coffee-room, the door opened and two young ladies 
 entered. They were both young: they walked in 
 quietly, took chairs at the other end of the long table, 
 and began to talk. They were alone, but they ap- 
 
92 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 peared perfectly self-possessed. Perhaps they had a 
 mother, or an elderly companion of some kmd, up- 
 stairs. The two men, glancing furtively, observed 
 that they were not only young but pretty— really 
 pretty. One of them, indeed, was a most desirable 
 maiden, quite of the queenly kind; her features 
 regular, her shapely head classical, her abundant hair 
 a deep brown, her eyes a deep blue, her expression 
 full of reserve and dignity. Perhaps she was cold in 
 appearance — it is a fault always forgiven in a girl by 
 the man to whom she has ceased to show that coldness. 
 The other girl was of a more frivolous type, a smaller 
 girl— a mundane girl— a middle-class girl— a girl to 
 whom no one would attribute absolute perfection, not 
 even her lover : not a queen at all : a girl who laughed 
 and chattered and read out bits of the guide-book- 
 yet a girl of great quahties to those who love such 
 maidens. They talked quietly but gaily, and without 
 the least consciousness of the presence of strangers. 
 Indeed, they were as little conscious of strangers as 
 the Speaker of the House of Commons. 
 
 As soon as their breakfast was over, they rose and 
 left the room. 
 
 'Americans,' said Jem, when the door closed. 
 ' And as good'> as they make 'em, I think. I Hke them, 
 old man, fair t(^ outward hue as maidens all should be.' 
 
 ' Travelling\ alone, apparently,' AinsHe replied. 
 ' If they like it, Vhy not ? I suppose they know very 
 well how to take bare of themselves.' 
 
 As for the taller girl,' said Jem, * she is just lovely. 
 She ought to be kept here and made to marry some- 
 body—you, if you like. She can't marry me, because 
 I believe I am engaged.' He sighed. ' I suppose we 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 93 
 
 shall see no more of them. That's the worst of these 
 show places. You meet the most desirable girls in 
 the world ; you see them for a moment ; you wonder 
 where they come from ; then you go different ways. 
 We are like flies under the shade of a hedge. Come ! 
 let us go and have a pipe under Stock Gill Force.' 
 
 This waterfall, as everybody knows, is ten 
 minutes' walk or so from the hotel. There was only 
 one objection to their taking the morning tobacco in 
 that interesting spot. It was the presence of the 
 American girls, who were sketching there. So they 
 went up higher. 
 
 That was how it began. In the afternoon they 
 were walking home by way of Eydal Water, and they 
 passed the girls gazing upon the lake. At dinner 
 they sat at the same table with them, but again at 
 different ends; and though the men talked in 
 whispers, the girls chattered gaily as if no one was 
 present but themselves. Perhaps no one quite 
 approaches the American girl in subHme unconscious- 
 ness of the outer world. Next day the two men left 
 Ambleside and went over to Grasmere. At luncheon 
 they found the two girls also present. So they had 
 come to Grasmere as well. After luncheon the men 
 started for Easedale Tarn, which is a roughish climb. 
 From Easedale they went on to Stickle Tarn. On 
 their way back they found the girls at Easedale, sit- 
 ting beside the cottage where they keep the ginger- 
 beer in August. This time, as they passed, they 
 lifted their hats. That was the first step— the way 
 the acquaintance began. In the evening they sat at 
 dinner together, at the same end of the table —in fact, 
 the men stood in the windows tiU the girls were 
 
94 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 seated, and then taking their chairs opposite, asked 
 permission to sit there. This was obviously the 
 second step. They talked during dinner about the 
 lakes and the places yet to be seen and the places 
 already seen, and about Hartley Coleridge and 
 Wordsworth and Harriet Martineau, and the usual 
 things. And they learned that the name of one girl 
 —the regal or imperial girl— was Nell, or Nelhe, and 
 that the name of the other was Mamie. After dinner, 
 in the smoking-room, Jem rang the bell and called 
 for the visitors' book. It told them very httle. One 
 girl signed her name as Eleanor Ingress, Clifton, 
 Vermont, and the other as Mary A. Maldon, Boston, 
 Mass. 
 
 ' There is not much information in names and 
 addresses,' said Jem. 'I defy anybody to guess at 
 anything from this. A good substantial tombstone, 
 now, will tell an imaginative man enough for him to 
 make out a whole hfe.' 
 
 ' They are evidently travelling together ; they are, 
 I su]3pose, emancipated females ; our countrywomen 
 would use their freedom with more self-consciousness. 
 These girls are free, and yet are not ashamed.' 
 
 In the morning the girls were not at breakfast. 
 They had breakfasted early, and had gone out for the 
 day. The men, with a little disappointment, sat down 
 by themselves. After breakfast they started for the 
 daily walk. It led them to the broad summit of 
 Helvellyn. There, to their great surprise, they found 
 the girls resting after their long chmb. Then they 
 laughed : it was too absurd to be always meeting 
 wherever they went ; and then they all came down 
 the mountain together. That evening they sat in 
 
PEER AND niaui:ss 
 
 95 
 
 the coffee-room after dinner, and the men took a boat 
 and rowed the ghls upon the lake in the twihght ; 
 and when they came back they fell to talking about 
 poetry and poets. These girls knew and could quote 
 immense quantities of poetry ; they had catholic 
 tastes : they could not see why Longfellow was not 
 in the same line with Browning, and they talked 
 familiarly about American bards of whom the Greek 
 scholar had never heard. 
 
 ' Nell,' said the girl called Mamie, ' this is the first 
 evening I have really enjoyed since we landed. I was 
 wondering whether all Americans travel through the 
 old country as we have done, without speaking to a 
 single EngUshman. Lots do, I am sure, and then go 
 home and abuse England because they had no letters 
 of introduction.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied her companion, ' it has been a 
 pleasant' change for us. They seem well-informed 
 young men. I suppose they will be gone to-morrow. 
 It will be something to say that we have actually 
 talked with two English gentlemen for a whole 
 evening without any introduction.' 
 
 ' I've found out their names. The tall thin man, 
 who sits up straight and talks like a book, is named 
 Philip Ainslie, and he lives at some college in Cam- 
 bridge—not our Cambridge. He's a Professor, I 
 suppose. The other is named James Sevenoke, and 
 he lives at something or other Hall, Warwickshire.' 
 
 ' I thought that one of them— Mr, AinsHe, I sup- 
 pose, if that is his name— talked like a man of culture. 
 It is pleasant to think that we have been conversing 
 with a scholar.' 
 
 ' Yes, he is very superior indeed— insular, I sup- 
 
96 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 pose, like all the people here, about the literature of 
 his own country. I wonder if he ever read Howells 
 on that subject. That would make him consider his 
 ways a bit. However, he saw you colour up when 
 he said something about our hundred-and-twenty 
 Sapphos, and he stopped. These islanders are not 
 without some perception, my dear.' 
 
 ' Mamie, don't say " these islanders." Let us leave 
 our foohsh Eepublican superiority behind us. They 
 are gentlemen and scholars. Do we want more ? 
 Could we get more at home? Think, dear, can a 
 school-teacher like me always hope, in the country 
 town where she may have to work, for the society 
 of such gentlemen and scholars as these.' 
 
 ' They are also, my dear, young men with a well- 
 developed sense of feminine loveliness, especially — no, 
 I won't say it. Good night, Nell.' 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Jem, in the smoking-room, ' what 
 those girls are at home. They talk like young ladies. 
 They've got parlour manners, to quote an American 
 novelist ; they dress all right ; they behave all right ; 
 the tall one has got on an invisible cestus of long 
 sharp pins ; I kinder felt it — excuse my dropping 
 into Americanese ; tkey go about alone. What do 
 their brothers say ? What is the opinion of the old 
 man ? Perhaps they don't ask the old man's leave. 
 I suppose they are rolling in dollars.' 
 
 ' At all events, they are well-bred, well-read, and 
 cultured girls,' said Philip. ' I should like to spend 
 another evening with them : I am sure that there 
 must be things in that girl's head which one could 
 get at with a little more talk.' 
 
PEER ANT) HEIRESS 
 
 97 
 
 ' For my own part,' said Jem, ' I feel as if their 
 companionship would enliven the very emptiest hotel 
 in Lakeland. Ask them to stay on here a long while, 
 and we will stay too. I've got nothing in the world to 
 do. I will stay five hundred years if they will stay too.' 
 
 * Then you have decided on your plans ? ' 
 
 It was at breakfast next morning. 
 
 'We have not very much time left,' Eleanor 
 repUed. ' We have to catch the steamer of the 25th 
 from Liverpool. That leaves us only ten days. We 
 think of going on to Derwentwater to-day. Then we 
 shall go down Borrowdale to Eosthwaite Hotel, and ^ 
 over Sty Head Pass to Wastwater. After that we 
 shall get back somehow to Windermere, and so by 
 train to Liverpool.' 
 
 ' Curious,' Jem smiled plaintively, as becomes one 
 who vainly searches into the reasons of coincidence. 
 'Our own little tour was laid down on exactly the 
 same lines. We shall therefore hope to meet again 
 while you are in the Lakes.' 
 
 In fact, it was very remarkable that, exactly an 
 hour after the ladies had alighted at the door of the 
 Derwentwater Hotel, these two young men arrived at 
 
 the same place. 
 
 At dinner they met as old friends, and without the 
 least surprise. After dinner they took a boat as they 
 had done at Grasmere, and the men rowed gently 
 across the lake, which is narrow at this point, and so 
 in and out among the islands, and they all reminded 
 each other, from the guide-books, of the stories told 
 about these islands, and called upon each other to 
 admire the softness and the warmth of the scenery 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 the splendour of the setting sun, the hues of the west, 
 the colour of lake and sky and coppice and hill. 
 Finally, when the day was quite done and mists began 
 to rise and the girls began to shiver, they rowed home 
 again. 
 
 They met again at Eosthwaite, inBorrowdale ; they 
 walked together over Sty Head Pass, and had a little 
 picnic on the top ; they all stayed at Wastdale Inn. 
 A.nd by this time they were companions in travel — 
 comrades — talking freely on all kinds of subjects, yet 
 always with the knowledge that the thing was too 
 good to last. Presently they awoke to the knowledge 
 that out of the ten days six were gone. Only four 
 remained. On the fourth the girls would have to be 
 at Liverpool. Only four days ! 
 
 The young men, being gentlemen, were careful to 
 treat the girls so that there should be no suspicion of 
 anything but acquaintance, pleasant and entertaining ; 
 they kept up the appearance of distance. Yet the talk 
 grew by process of exhaustion more familiar and even 
 more personal, and they began naturally to separate 
 into pairs. 
 
 One evening — it was the sixth day, they were still 
 at Wastdale Inn — Philip Ainslie, with Eleanor, strolled 
 about the banks of the wild lake lying under the black 
 screes, while the other two sat in the hotel. They 
 talked in pairs. Something moved the young man, 
 who was usually reticent, to speak about himself. He 
 said that sometimes he desired no other life than that 
 of the scholar : he did not wish at those times to leave 
 the University ; the arena of the world had no attrac- 
 tions for him, nor did he wish for its honours ; but 
 that at other times he was urged to take up a political 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 99 
 
 career. And so on. Not to want position, power, a 
 name, is the talk of the young man before he feels his 
 strength; many clever young men feel it: some of 
 them go on under the influence of such feeling so long 
 that it becomes too late to change. Then they regard 
 other men, of their own time, climbing the ladder of 
 name and fame, and they sigh, looking round their 
 narrow college rooms. 
 
 What Eleanor said matters nothing. She was 
 interested : she was sympathetic. 
 
 In the little sitting-room of the inn were Jem 
 Sevenoke and Mamie ; he lay back in the softest chair 
 and listened while the girl talked. 
 
 * You know,' said the girl after one of the intervals 
 of silence, ' when we came over I thought we should 
 see at every railway station a haughty lord, with all 
 you people bowing and cringing before him. I pictured 
 myself walking past him with a freezing stare— so— 
 to show the superior American. Yet we haven't seen 
 a single lord or a single cringe.' 
 
 ' Lords are like rattlesnakes in your country. If 
 you want to see them, you have to go to the places 
 where they most congregate.' 
 
 ' I confess I should like to see a lord and to talk 
 with one, just for once, if only to see if lords arebetter 
 educated than other people.' 
 
 It was at this point that the Spirit of Mischief 
 entered Jem's head and whispered words : ' Go on — 
 make her believe— see what comes of it— startle her ! ' 
 
 He sat upright with a visible effort, because he was 
 so lazy. ' Well,' he said, ' if that is all you want, I 
 believe I can gratify you. Only it's rather mean— he 
 would not like it— I am afraid you would let him know 
 
 H 2 
 
lOO 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 — it was quite understood that no one was to know. 
 However, if you will promise not to let him know that 
 you know what I know ' 
 
 ' This is getting mixed,' said Mamie. 
 
 * It is because you are enticing me to do a wrong 
 thing. Well, then, the fact is that my friend, Philip 
 AinsHe — as he calls himself — is really a member of the 
 Upper House.' 
 
 ' A member of the Upper House ? Do you mean 
 that Mr. Ainslie is a lord ? ' 
 
 ' That is what I mean,' Jem nodded with decision. 
 ' Only, as he doesn't like the style and title and the 
 worry of it, he travels about in this way, incog.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Good gracious ! Now I am pleased ! I 
 really am ! What's his name— his real name ? ' 
 
 ' Philip, Viscount Maddingley.' Jem took the first 
 name that occurred to him. ' One of Edward the 
 Third's creations. Ancestors said to have been Saxon 
 gentlemen, like the man in " Ivanhoe." The title ' — 
 he went on, piling it up — ' survived the Wars of the 
 Koses, which were fatal to so many peerages. One of 
 his ancestors was beheaded by Henry VIH., another 
 fell at Naseby on the side of the King, another was 
 beheaded by Cromwell, another by Charles II. at the 
 Eestoration, one for the Eebellion of 1715, one for 
 that of 1745, and one — the last — for high treason at 
 the time of the French Ee volution.' 
 
 'If you come to ancestors,' said the girl, 'all the 
 real old English families are over in America.' 
 
 ' Just so. Only the younger sons are left here. 
 Titles, you see, always descend through the younger 
 sons in order to allow the elder sons to emigrate to 
 the States.' 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 lOI 
 
 ' Oh ! But this is lovely,' the girl clapped her 
 hands and laughed. ' And to look at and to talk to, 
 he is no better— not a bit better— than a Professor of 
 an American college.' 
 
 ' Don't you find him distinguished in appearance ? 
 Don't you find old nobility established in the curve of 
 the upper lip and the droop of the eyehd and the 
 point of the ear ? ' 
 
 'Well, if you press me for an answer, I don't. 
 There are plenty of young Americans who look far 
 more aristocratic than that. Not but that he's a 
 pleasant fellow, and well behaved, I suppose. But, 
 oh ! ' she wrung her hands with a kind of despair, 
 'ought we to go on talking to him? Has he got 
 any character ? Are not all the British aristocracy 
 profligates ? ' 
 
 * All but this one, I beHeve. You may safely trust 
 yourselves with Philip Ainslie— Viscount Maddingley.' 
 
 * Is he enormously rich ? ' 
 
 < j^ifty—twenty— years ago that question might 
 have been put. At present nobody is enormously rich 
 out of your flourishing country. It is only in North 
 America where all the people are milHonaires and all 
 the girls are heiresses.' 
 
 Then it was that the Spirit of Mischief passed over 
 from one head to the other. He got into Mamie's 
 head ; he made her laugh again ; he caused her eyes 
 to sparkle and her lips to tremble. He whispered to 
 her ; * Tell him ; see what will come of it. Startle 
 him ; see what the noble lord will do.' 
 
 *Well,' she said slowly, *we are not all million- 
 aires, at all events. I am not one; that is very 
 certain. But— well, it was not to be told to anybody ; 
 
I02 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 I am sure she would not like it to be known. It was 
 quite understood that nobody was to know. However, 
 if you will promise not to let her know that you know 
 
 what I know ' 
 
 * You are imitating me,' said Jem. * I was rather 
 mixed.' 
 
 ' Yes ; what was it you said ? It is because you 
 are enticing me to a wrong thing. Oh ! but there is 
 no great harm in it. Everybody at home knows it. 
 Nell is a millionaire, if you like. It was — it was bicar- 
 bonate of potash did it, I believe. Nobody— certainly 
 not Nell, because she never inquires — knows within a 
 few millions how rich she is. Fifty millions it is, if 
 it is a red cent, and the pile growing and growing and 
 growing— all the time.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' Jem sank back with a groan. ' What a 
 dreadful thing it must be to have so much and to be 
 able to spend so little ! ' 
 
 ' I told you this, Mr. Sevenoke,' Mamie added with 
 some dignity, ' because, although you and your friend 
 may wish to sail under false colours, and pretend to 
 be college Professors when you are only peers, you 
 shall not be able to say that we did so too,' 
 
 II 
 
 < Nell ' — this, again, was after retirement to the 
 upper chambers — ' I've made a most wonderful dis- 
 covery. It is about Mr. Ainslie, your friend.' 
 
 'Not my friend any more than yours, Mamie.' 
 But she blushed a rosy red and looked more beautiful 
 than ever. 
 
 Mamie tossed her head. ' My friend, then. Well, 
 
PEEE AND HEIRESS 103 
 
 my dear, and what do you think I have found out 
 about my friend ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know ; what is there to find out ? He is 
 a fellow and lecturer of his college, he has a little 
 money of his own, he has been asked to go into 
 Parliament ; but he cannot make up his mind to give 
 up scholarship.' 
 
 ' Oh ! a little money of his own ; I wonder what 
 he calls little. Go into Parliament! Why, Nell, he 
 is in Parliament if he likes. He has got a great 
 country house ; he is a peer— not a Professor at all— 
 a peer of the realm, baron, earl, viscount— I don't know 
 what.' 
 
 < Oh ! but he cannot be. He would have told me 
 if that were so.' 
 
 *Mr. Sevenoke told me. His name is Lord 
 Maddenford, or some such title. But he doesn't like 
 cringing, I suppose, and so he goes about under a 
 false name. He may be a college Professor, but he is 
 also a peer.' ^ 
 
 Nell sat down with heightened colour, ' Oh ! 
 she said. ' And after all he has told me ! He never 
 gave me the least suspicion. Not that he actually 
 said that he was not a lord— I never thought— 
 perhaps I supposed that lords go about with stars on 
 their coats ; yet he should have told me. Oh ! I am 
 so sorry ! I am so sorry ! Now I feel that everything 
 is spoiled. I shall be full of constraint.' 
 
 'Don't show it, Nell, that's all. What? Are 
 we not two citizens of the greatest country that the 
 world ever saw ? Shall we feel constraint because 
 we are talking to the. tenth transmitter of a fooHsh 
 face ? ' 
 
I04 
 
 PEER AND HEIEESS 
 
 'Mr. Ainslie's face is not foolish. I am sorry, 
 Mamie, because, somehow — don't you think ? — this 
 discovery will spoil the recollection of the journey we 
 had under the acquaintance of two young gentlemen 
 who behaved to us with as great courtesy as we could 
 get at home. And they have deceived us as to their 
 position. He talked so well and was so sympathetic 
 and so full of ideas. And he was only a lord all the 
 time ! Well ' — she turned her face, which was flushed, 
 and her eyes, which were hard, to her friend — 
 ' otherwise, it matters nothing ; what can it matter ? 
 Nothing at all — to us — what he is— — ' 
 
 'It matters nothing, Nell, as you say.' But her 
 face was troubled, and she looked curiously at her 
 companion. 
 
 Miss Eleanor Ingress stood up and went on with 
 her hair-brushing. 
 
 ' I do think,' she said, from the Eepublican point 
 of view, ' that it must be the most dreadful thing pos- 
 sible — the most soul-destroying thing — for a man to 
 be a lord. To be separated from other men — to be 
 treated as a person of consideration on account of a 
 title, though he may be quite young — too young to 
 have proved himself worthy of any consideration 
 whatever — and as a person worthy of respect, though 
 he may be a contemptible profligate.' 
 
 ' That part of it is all right,' said Mamie. ' Mr. 
 Sevenoke says that he is not a profligate — the only 
 peer, he says, who is not. How can a country con- 
 tinue to exist, Nell, when the whole of its Upper 
 Chamber is composed of open profligates ? ' 
 
 ' Bank ! ' meditated Eleanor. ' Why should people 
 respect rank ? A title makes no difference : it cannot 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 105 
 
 give brains or genius or strength or comeliness. How 
 ong before this great people rid themselves of 
 rank ? ' 
 
 a have discovered,' said Jem, in the smoking- 
 room, ' the reason why those two girls are so indepen- 
 dent. It is much the same reason that used to make 
 a prince become a law unto himself. The reason is 
 that one of them is horribly, incredibly, Americanly 
 rich. She is rich after the fashion of a country which 
 only knows extremes. Fifty millions is her figure— I 
 suppose it's dollars— ten millions sterhng. Five hun- 
 dred thousand pounds a year— what's that ? About 
 five shillings a minute. Yet she goes about in 
 common conveyances just like you and me.' 
 ' Which is the millionaire ? ' 
 ' The tall girl— the beautiful girl— the queenly girl 
 —the Eleanor Ingress girl.' 
 
 * Oh ! I am sorry.' Philip Ainshe changed colour. 
 ' I don't know why— of course it makes no difference. 
 We have only known her a few days. I thought her 
 interesting and clever. She did not talk as if she 
 was rich— rather the reverse, I thought. Well— it 
 doesn't matter, of course— it is only a chance acquaint- 
 ance.' 
 
 ' Only a chance acquaintance ? ' echoed Jem, look- 
 ing up curiously. 
 
 ' I do think,' Philip went on, ' that it must be the 
 most dreadful thing to be so horribly rich— to be 
 separated from the working world— to be treated with 
 consideration on account of your money, though you 
 are of no account at all. Money ! Why should people 
 respect money ? Wealth cannot give brains or genius 
 
I06 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 or anything. How long before the Americans give up 
 the odious worship of money ? ' 
 
 III 
 
 Next day the party was broken up. A telegram was 
 brought from the nearest station calling Jem home at 
 once. When the girls came down to breakfast he was 
 gone. 
 
 The departure of one member of a party of four 
 may sadden the rest, but it ought not to bring con- 
 straint upon them. A new and curious constraint 
 fell upon all three. The young man talked about the 
 scenery and Lakeland, as if he was only just beginning 
 conversation with strangers seated at the same table. 
 The girls played up to him. The talk languished ; 
 they became silent. Presently the girls got up and 
 left the room. AinsHe did not ask them what their 
 plans might be. When they were gone he seized his 
 hat and strode forth. 
 
 * This,' he said, ' has got to be ended. It shall not 
 be said that I married for money. She has deceived 
 me. She led me on to tell her about myself and my 
 little ambitions. She answered me as if she was per- 
 fectly poor ; she talked about the privilege of having 
 a journey through the whole country— the privilege ! 
 —and with all her millions ! Well, all. I've got to do 
 now is to get away as quickly as I can.' He swung 
 along the road repeating these words or their syno- 
 nyms to himself as he went. ' And this morning,' 
 he went on, * she came downstairs as cold and distant 
 as if she had never spoken to me at all. She means, 
 I suppose, to go home and tell her friends how an 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 107 
 
 Englishman tried to win her for her money, and how 
 she put him down.' 
 
 He walked all day long— angry and hurt, and 
 nursing his anger. He returned late— after the dinner 
 hour— tired and hungry, and still angry— if possible 
 more angry because he felt now how far he had gone 
 with the girl. The more he thought of her beauty and 
 her sweetness and her quick sympathy the more angry 
 he became. 
 
 The dinner was over: he took some food, not 
 caring what it was. The girls were out somewhere.^ 
 
 At nine o'clock the door opened and Mamie came in. 
 He was standing at the window gazing at nothing in 
 gloomy abstraction. 
 
 ' I hope you have had a pleasant day, Mr. Ainslie,' 
 she said, standing before him with her hands crossed. 
 He made no answer for a moment. ' Oh ! I will call 
 you anything else you like,' she added. 
 
 * I have— why should I not have a pleasant day ? ' 
 
 ' Since you have But, Mr. Ainslie, there have 
 
 been— things kept back— I will not say misrepresenta- 
 tions. We have had a very pleasant fortnight— we 
 are going on to Liverpool to-morrow— we shall never 
 meet again. I suppose— you, a great man, will not 
 think any more about two humble American girls— if 
 any American girls can be rightly called humble— 
 don't you think that, after such a pleasant fortnight, 
 it would be well if we could part friends ? I don't 
 mind about the— the misunderstanding— I am quite 
 willing that we should all take ea,ch other for what we 
 seem : you a plain English gentleman, and we plain 
 American girls. Let us part in kindness.' 
 ' In kindness ? Yes— why not ? ' 
 
io8 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 'Eleanor is walking outside. Go and speak to 
 her. If we have made your tour in this beautiful 
 country any happier, go and tell her so. She has 
 been your companion all along.' 
 
 She went out as she had come in. He looked 
 after her for a moment, then he obeyed and went out. 
 Eleanor was standing alone, looking up the valley 
 which stretched in splendour up into the hills under 
 the sky still full of sunset splendour. 
 
 'I hear,' said Philip, awkwardly, 'that you are 
 going to Liverpool to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Did Mamie tell you ? ' 
 
 'It is our last evening, then, Miss Ingress.' He 
 spoke with some return to the old frankness. ' Let 
 me thank you for your great, your very great kindness 
 in allowing two strangers to make your acquaint- 
 ance.' 
 
 'Nay, Mr. Ainslie '— she turned her frank eyes 
 and spoke with her sweet seriousness. ' The kindness 
 was yours— and your friend's— in helping us to see 
 and enjoy this place. We shall take home with us 
 the memory of these days.' 
 
 At this point Philip became incoherent. ' I begin 
 to think,' he said, ' that it is a mistake to hide things. 
 I mean that mere acquaintance cannot become — 
 friendship— if anything is hidden. When they are 
 found out coldness must follow, don't you think ? ' 
 
 ' Indeed, yes, Mr. Ainshe. Therefore, I shall try 
 to think that nothing ever was found out. The 
 college Professor will remain to me just what he 
 described himself.' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' He wondered afterwards what she 
 meant. ' And for me, the young lady who glorified 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 109 
 
 this time will remain for me-all my life long— the 
 girl I took her to be— the girl I shall always believe 
 her to he.' 
 
 He stooped, took her hand, kissed it, and left her. 
 And she wondered then and long afterwards what he 
 could have meant. Presently she went in, and sought 
 her own room. Here Mamie found her, and there 
 were traces of tears in her eyes. 
 
 'Nell, dear, did he say he was sorry? Did 
 he say he was horrid to make us believe— what he 
 did?' 
 
 'He talked— I don't know— as if we had been 
 hiding something— as if it was our fault. Good-night, 
 Mamie.' 
 
 Mamie went to her own room with a guilty heart. 
 ' He is proud,' she said. ' He thinks that she is so 
 rich that 'even his income is small beside it. Oh! 
 It's all my doing— all my doing. In the morning I 
 will set him right.' 
 
 But in the morning he was gone. 
 
 IV 
 
 Two years later, again in the leafy month of June, 
 when Piccadilly and Kegent Street are full of Ameri- 
 cans, Mr. Jem Sevenoke was strolling quietly along 
 with the throng when he saw, looking into a shop 
 window, a lady whose face he remembered. He stood 
 still, waiting for her to turn. She did this in a few 
 moments. 
 
 'Why, if it isn't Mr. Sevenoke ! ' she cried. 
 ' It is. Miss Mamie ! ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I am so glad. This is my husband. I am 
 
I lO 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 no longer Miss Mamie. John, this is Mr. Sevenoke, 
 who was with us in the Lakes two years ago. Well, 
 now, Mr. Sevenoke, this is a real pleasure. Come 
 home with me— we are in Half-Moon Street, close by 
 —and I will give you some tea, and we will talk. 
 John,' she addressed her husband, 'will you go and 
 walk about somewhere— and don't buy anything— 
 while I take Mr. Sevenoke home for a long talk, all 
 about that beautiful time in the Lakes ? You needn't 
 come back before dinner-time, you know.' 
 
 ' And so,' said Mamie, after half-an-hour's talk, 
 ' he wasn't a lord after all. Oh ! Mr. Sevenoke, how 
 could you ? ' 
 
 ' And so,' said Jem, ' she wasn't a millionaire at 
 all, but a school teacher. Oh! Miss Mamie, how 
 could you ? I ask you again— how could you ? ' 
 
 'And all this trouble because, mind, Nell was 
 taken with him from the beginning, and, if I ever read 
 any such signs in my life, he was more than taken 
 with Nell. Gracious goodness I Could a man who 
 wasn't a stock and a stone not be taken with 
 Nellie Ingress ? And it was all stopped and broken 
 short off just because of our mischief ! Mr. Sevenoke, 
 how could you ? ' 
 
 ' Well, if you come to that ' 
 
 * I wish to come to that. Where is the man ? ' 
 
 'At Cambridge, lecturing and examining and 
 writing. Where is the girl ? ' 
 
 ' Teaching school in Canada. Now I shall write to 
 him and confess all— everything. I won't put more 
 on your back than you deserve, but I must confess 
 everything. Why have you never told him ? ' 
 
 ' Well, you see, I never thought of it. No one 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 III 
 
 ever told me what had happened. He never said any- 
 thing ; I didn't expect these tragic consequences.' 
 
 * Idiot ! Stock and stone ! ' Mamie laughed. 
 ' You must have been a stock and a stone not to see 
 that they only wanted a word or an opportunity. 
 Now I think of it, you were a stock and a stone, 
 because you didn't even make love to me.' 
 
 V 
 
 In a little Canadian town within the sound of Niagara 
 Nellie Ingress taught school at a salary of six hundred 
 dollars. She had held the appointment for two years, 
 and, I believe, to the complete satisfaction of the boys 
 and girls whom she taught. In the town she was 
 greatly respected by reason of her knowledge, which 
 was believed to be profound and encyclopaedic know- 
 ledge. Many young men also respected her on ac- 
 count of her singular beauty. But she was cold- 
 she repelled their advances one by one. They retired, 
 and addressed themselves to lowlier maidens, with 
 whom they were one by one successful. Happy is the 
 man who finds his mate ! 
 
 It was a warm afternoon in September, about six 
 and near sunset. The cows were marching home in 
 silent procession, each stopping orderly and re- 
 sponsible before her own gate. The broad street, 
 with its planks for footway, was edged by small 
 wooden houses each in its garden, where the tomatoes 
 grew luxuriantly and the vines chmbed up the walls 
 and the apple-trees were laden with their golden 
 harvest. Children played and ran about the street. 
 One or two of the houses were general stores. There 
 
I 12 
 
 PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 was an hotel ; there was the church ; and there was 
 the school. In fact, it was just a quiet, secluded 
 town such as one may find by the hundred all over 
 America. 
 
 In the garden, before a white wooden house of two 
 storeys, sat Eleanor Ingress, school over for the day. 
 A book was in her lap, but she was not reading ; her 
 arms were thrown back to support her head, but her 
 thoughts were far away. She w^as in a boat upon a 
 silver lake, bordered with tall woods and reflecting 
 mighty hills. Above was the translucent sky of mid- 
 summer twilight ; before her sat a young man, eager, 
 bright of face — oh ! so far away — so long ago — so long 
 ago. Yet it lived — every hour of that time — in her 
 brain. There fell upon her ears the sound of wheels. 
 It brought her back to the little Canadian town. She 
 sat up and looked round. What was it that she saw 
 that turned her cheek first white and then red — that 
 made her spring to her feet — that held her motionless ? 
 
 The young man who jumped out of the carriage 
 had driven over from Cliftonville, which is Canadian 
 for Niagara. He told the man to wait, and looked up 
 and down the road. Then he caught sight of the girl 
 in the garden, and he ran to meet and greet her. 
 
 She recovered her self-command. She stepped to 
 the garden-gate and lifted the latch. ' Oh ! Mr. Ains- 
 lie,' she said, with the old sweet seriousness that he 
 remembered so well, ' you here ? That is — if I am 
 still to call you Mr. Ainslie.' 
 
 ' Why not ? I have no other name. There has 
 been a misunderstanding. Foolish things, I have 
 only just heard, were said in jest and taken in earnest.' 
 
 ' What things ? ' 
 
PEER AND HEIRESS 
 
 113 
 
 ' They told you that I was — oh ! the folly of it ! — 
 a peer— a lord — a viscount . I have hardly the patience 
 to tell you. Of course you believed— you could not 
 know— and they told me that you were a great mil- 
 lionaire—a rich heiress — which I believed, and — 
 and ' 
 
 ' I — a millionaire ? Did you not know that we 
 were two school-teachers, who had just enough money 
 to take us over to the old country and back ? Oh ! 
 but we should have told you ! ' 
 
 ' I have only just found out ' — he spoke in gasps ; 
 he was eager to tell all. [In this way fond lovers 
 hurry over the finest situations and spoil them. They 
 do not slur them ; such a situation cannot be slurred ; 
 but they spoil them.] 'Your friend— what is her 
 name ? — wrote me a letter about it and confessed her 
 part. Jem Sevenoke wrote too, and confessed his. 
 You are only rich in your loveliness and in your heart 
 and in your soul. I came away at once — as soon as 
 I heard — I came to see you — NelHe— I came to see 
 you. I am nothing but what I told you— a simple 
 college lecturer.' 
 
 He held her hand in his and said no more. Never 
 even told her that he loved her. Again, the rushing 
 of a fine situation. ' Oh ! ' she murmured, ' to me 
 you shall always be Earl and Baron and my noble 
 Lord!' 
 
 All this, you see, happened because two young 
 men met two young ladies at breakfast at the inn 
 called The Salutation, Ambleside. 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 I 
 
 * You were saying ? ' The long man in the low chair 
 stretched out his legs and threw his head back. 
 
 * When you ceased to listen,' replied the other 
 man coldly, 'we were speaking of the Decay of 
 Woman.' 
 
 ' Ah ! yes ; the Decay of Woman. Man, I believe, 
 is also in Decay.' 
 
 ' It is an Age of Decadence. Everything — every- 
 thing — is in Decay.' 
 
 The place was a club smoking-room ; the time, 
 evening. The man in the chair was the well-known 
 Archie Carew, one of those men who seem to know 
 everything, and to try everything, and who come 
 out of everything when they have found out the 
 trick of it. He is now reported to work miracles 
 by means of the Hypnotic Mystery, and is said by 
 some — but perhaps this is a false report — to be one 
 of the inner ring in Esoteric Buddhism. He lay 
 back in the chair contemplating his companion with 
 eyes of curiosity and amusement, perhaps contempt. 
 The man who talked was a little man, small of head 
 and of limb, with sloping shoulders and narrow 
 chest ; his features pinched, or, as he would have put it, 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 fine ; his face smooth ; his hair long and parted at 
 the side so as to take advantage of a premature thinning 
 which lent an apparent nobility to the brow ; he wore 
 a brown velvet coat and a crimson scarf. Of course 
 he had a pinee-nez. This was Mr. Kaymond Kidge — 
 he preferred the name without the prefix or title. 
 He had quite recently been presented to London by 
 one of the two Universities which every year send up 
 one or two young gentlemen who are going to set the 
 world right at last in matters of art and literature. 
 Formerly they were men of Geist, then of Light and 
 Leading, then of Culture. Now they are men of the 
 Higher Criticism. Whether they write or whether 
 they talk, it is always on the assumption of a quite 
 superior taste possessed by themselves, and unknown 
 to the popular practitioner. Theirs is the school, 
 theirs are the performances of the Future. Now and 
 then they are men of abiHty, who presently drop their 
 affectations and settle down with the rest to produce 
 work as good as in them lies. Sometimes they can 
 do nothing except write their Higher Criticism, until 
 that is snuffed out by somebody newer still. 
 
 Mr. Kaymond Eidge was in the first stage of 
 promise. He was understood, by those who beHeved 
 in him, to be going to produce something really 
 wonderful ; he was incubating a Marvel— it was not 
 known of what kind. Meantime he spoke much and 
 often of Decay ; he was oppressed by sadness in con- 
 templating the universal Decay. 
 
 * The Decay of Woman,' repeated Archie. 
 
 * It is part of the general Decay. Man is decay 
 ing. Art is decayed. Literature is dead. Poetr} 
 is dying. Woman decays.' He spoke in a high 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 and rasping voice, and with the appearance of 
 confidence. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' answered is friend. 
 
 ' Woman,' continued the Leader of the Future with 
 immense profundity, and speaking in capitals, 'is 
 the Partner of Man ; she is Content to be no Higher 
 than her Husband. Without Woman Man is incom- 
 plete. Love causes Life ' 
 
 ' I have heard something like that before.' 
 
 ' Pardon me. Let my Thought develop. With- 
 out Love there is no perfect Life. Love is the 
 Flower. Love beautifies, inspires, stimulates, sug- 
 gests. Love can only exist in equal natures ; in 
 Perception, equal ; in Elevation of Soul, equal ; in 
 Art and Esthetics, equal ; in Sympathies, equal. 
 Without Equality there can be no true Love ; without 
 the Equality of Perfection no Perfect Love. I say 
 this in order that you may understand that I am no 
 decrier of Woman. This is, in fact, my Creed. It 
 is, perhaps — who knows ? — my Message ! ' The voice 
 dropped. * My Message ! Man gropes blindly 
 in the dark to find his Message ! Few men 
 find it.' 
 
 * If that is your Message you might have found it 
 in the nearest phonograph.' 
 
 ' When I do find it ' — the Leader spoke as if he 
 had not heard those words — ' I shall deliver it to 
 the world in triumphant tones ' — his high voice 
 cracked. ' It may be, I say — it should be — the 
 Message of the Perfect Love. I dream,' he spread his 
 arms and tossed back his hair, ' I pant, I yearn — for 
 the Perfect Love.' 
 
 * I see* In order to realise this dream you natu* 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 117 
 
 rally want to find the Perfect Woman.' Archie's eyes 
 twinkled as he looked upon the little Prophet of the 
 Future. ' The Perfect Woman alone,' he went on 
 with grave voice, * can give you the Perfect Love.' 
 
 * Say rather,' the other corrected him, with be- 
 coming modesty, 'the Equal Woman— the Sister 
 Pulse and the Answering Soul— the Woman who will 
 give aspiration for aspiration, thought for thought. 
 Love will do the rest— Love will make her Perfect.' 
 
 ' I hope that she will become Perfect before she 
 loses her beauty. Women, poor things ! have so brief 
 a space. You are then in quest of this paragon ? ' 
 
 ' I am. The search saddens me as much as— say 
 a visit to the Eoyal Academy or the perusal of a new 
 novel.' 
 
 ' I infer that,, instead of finding a paragon, you 
 find illusions destroyed. But what is the matter with 
 the girl of the period ? For my own part, I am forty- 
 three years of age ; but for the last five and twenty 
 years I have been quite contented with the girl of the 
 period.' Everybody, in fact, knew so much of Archie. 
 ' To me she is always fresh, lovely, engaging, and 
 delightful. To your more critical and younger eyes 
 she is ' 
 
 ' She is soulless.' He continued to speak in 
 capitals. ' She loves the earthly, the commonplace, 
 the conventional. She is a Slave to Fashion— which 
 is the senseless repetition of old changes ; to Society 
 —which is the gathering of the soulless; even to 
 Feasting— fancy Beatrice feasting! She pretends 
 to understand Art; she crowds the Private View 
 and bleats ; she looks at a Leighton with greater 
 pleasure than a Burne Jones ; she prefers an air of 
 
ii8 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 Mendelssohn to all Wagner ; and in Literature — 
 you will hardly believe it — she admires — actually 
 admires — Eudyard Kipling I ' 
 
 ' Dear ! dear ! ' murmured the other man. * Sad, 
 most sad ! ' 
 
 * She echoes — she follows — she obeys. She has 
 ceased to lead.' 
 
 ' My friend, with these views of contemporary 
 womanhood you will scarcely find that paragon. Yet 
 there are men who find the modern girl charming. 
 They say that in physique she is immensely superior 
 to her predecessor.' 
 
 ' Does one want an athlete ? ' Certainly he hardly 
 looked the ideal husband for an athlete. 
 
 ' That she knows a great deal more ; that she is 
 certainly not silly; that she takes an intelligent 
 interest in everything that concerns the men of her 
 own set ; that in her accomplishments she is more 
 thorough ' 
 
 ' Spare me. These are the commonplaces of her 
 equals. You, and such as you, must not say such 
 things. Thus cry the Soulless to the Soulless. But 
 for us — for us, there is the craving for a higher 
 happiness. We have seen a Heaven beyond their 
 gaze. We would sit together, each with his Queen 
 and Mistress beside him, in that Heaven.' 
 
 ' Eidge ' — the use of the surname showed that the 
 two men were not intimate ; with his friends of the 
 Higher Criticism it was Eaymond — ' Eidge ' — he sat 
 up and laid his hand upon the other's shoulder — ' you 
 want a woman specially made for you ; that's what 
 you want. Now, this interests me. I should like to 
 help you.' 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 119 
 
 ' What can you do ? ' asked the Child of that 
 Higher Criticism mournfully. 
 
 ' I might do more than you think. Come now ; 
 let me try.' He rose slowly, and stood towermg over 
 the Uttle critic, a grand giant of a man. ' Let me see 
 now what manner of woman you desire. You shall 
 define her. First, a lovely soul demands a lovely 
 setting. She must be tall, of course ? ' 
 
 ' Of course.' Yet he had explained that he wanted 
 the Equal Woman. 
 
 ' And she must have a good figure. Not a bend- 
 ing, willowy reed of a girl, but the generous propor- 
 tions of Venus.' 
 
 * Say, of Aphrodite.' ^ 
 a beg your pardon. Certainly, of Aphrodite. 
 You would have a grand woman physically, endowed 
 with the charms of Helen of Troy. As for details, 
 her head should be large, her forehead low but broad, 
 her eyebrows straight rather than arched— do I follow 
 
 your thought ?— her large eyes of a deep blue ' 
 
 ' Almost purple.' 
 
 ' Almost purple, the colour in which seems to dwell 
 all wisdom and all love ; her cheek ample, her nose 
 straight and delicate ; her hair a dark, warm brown, 
 soft to the touch and abundant ; her hps not thm, 
 but full and sensitive; her chin round; her hands 
 and feet not too small, but in just proportion to her 
 stature. Her voice should be full and musical, not 
 too low, yet not reedy in (quality. Is that your 
 
 ideal?' 
 
 ' Externally.' 
 
 a thought so,' the speaker laughed. ^'We now 
 come to the accomplishments and the Arts.' 
 
I20 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 ' To the Culture, in fact. To the EeaKties.' 
 
 ' You would have her not only skilful on one or 
 more instruments of music ' 
 
 The Poet interrupted. ' The Inexpressible can 
 sometimes be reached by Tone.' 
 
 'But also she should sing well and be Mistress 
 of the Science of Music. Also you would have her 
 not only able to paint in oil or water, but educated 
 in the history of that Art— a critic who, before a 
 BotticelH ' 
 
 ' Should feel the rapture of the work.' 
 
 * She should be a poet.' 
 
 *At least one who can appreciate the Higher 
 Poetry.' 
 
 *She should be a good talker, one to lead, to 
 maintain, to stimulate the conversation ; witty with- 
 out spite ; humorous yet always delicate ; sympa- 
 thetic ; able to draw out the best in every one of her 
 guests.' 
 
 ' All these qualities — all,' said Eaymond the 
 Leader, * my Mistress must possess. Otherwise, how 
 could she be my mistress ? ' 
 
 * Lastly, in learning you would have her as well 
 taught as— as, in fact, yourself. She should know 
 Latin and Greek Literature, French, German, Italian. 
 And all this learning, all these accomplishments she 
 should carry gracefully. Of course she would dress 
 with taste beyond and above the fashion of the day. 
 Her temper, her disposition, should be as lovely as 
 her mind. She should be the leader of women 
 among women, and the queen of women among men. 
 Then she will be your mistress and— and ah !— your 
 equal.' 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 121 
 
 *You have exactly, perfectly, put my ideal into 
 words.' 
 
 *Very well, then, to business. First of all, as 
 there are a great many girls who answer to our 
 description of brown hair and deep blue eyes, and 
 as all descriptions are general, you shall choose for 
 yourself. See ! ' 
 
 He waved his arm. Suddenly there descended 
 upon a table at his elbow a little shower of photo- 
 graphs, cabinet size. 
 
 ' Good gracious ! ' cried Kaymond. * Where did 
 these come from ? ' 
 
 * I called them. Conjuring, that's all. Now look 
 through them and pick out the girl you want— if she 
 is among them.' 
 
 There were at least a hundred— a great gallery of 
 fair women. It was as if the hundred most beautiful 
 women in the world had been ordered to send in 
 their portraits. There they lay on the table, face 
 upward, one above the other. 
 
 Kaymond Eidge took them up and gazed upon 
 them. His pale cheeks put on a touch of colour; 
 his dull eyes glowed with a twilight glimmer ; his 
 lips parted. Love — the Love of the common herd — 
 was hovering about him, and had brushed his cheek 
 with one wing. 
 
 At last he threw down the rest and held out one. 
 ' Behold the girl of my dream ! ' he cried. ' Oh ! if 
 her mind were only equal to her form and face.' 
 ' You shall see.' 
 
 I have said that the place was a club smoking- 
 room ; the season was the month of June; the time 
 was evening, about ten, when the room is often 
 
122 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 empty ; nobody was there but themselves ; it was the 
 last place in the world where one would expect such 
 a thing. Yet Eaymond Eidge suddenly found him- 
 self standing upon the sea shore ; the club had disap- 
 peared ; he was not looking upon a picture or a 
 visionary thing of the imagination, or a scene at a 
 theatre ; he was actually standing on the shingle. On 
 his right the sea rolled up its waves and dragged the 
 unresisting shingle backwards and forwards ; on his 
 left there rose a high cliff, and in the cliff, a gap, or 
 gate, and beyond the gap, farm buildings. The moon 
 was full ; it was summer : the night was as clear and 
 as bright as the day. Then he saw slowly coming 
 through the gap, her hands thrown up behind her 
 head, dressed in a kind of russet, bareheaded, the 
 girl of the photograph, the girl described by Archie. 
 He marked in a moment the splendour of her mag- 
 nificent beauty : the splendour and pride of her 
 youth ; the splendour of the promise in her eyes, and 
 in her parted lips. She came down to the shore and 
 stood where the waves just touched her feet. Then 
 she lifted her voice — Oh ! ye Gods ! What a voice ! — 
 and sang. It was a German song, difficult except to 
 the finest ear and the highest training. Yet how she 
 sang it ! When she finished, he moved to speak to 
 her. But he found himself back in the club — Archie 
 Carew standing over him. 
 
 ' Oh ! What does this mean ? ' he cried, feeling 
 dizzy. 
 
 ' You look as if you had seen a vision, or had a 
 dream. What is it, man ? We were talking of the 
 Equal Woman — your own Equal. Such a woman as 
 you have pictured is rare indeed. To find her we 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN I 23 
 
 must not look among the families who have been rich 
 for generations. The culture of generations does not 
 end in such a woman as you want. To find her we 
 must go lower down— nearer the soil. I think I have 
 heard of a girl who belongs to the yeoman class— her 
 grandfathers have lived for ages on the same farm ; 
 her father, however, was a sailor who gallantly went 
 down with his ship after saving all his passengers. I 
 should like you to know that girl. She has been edu- 
 cated by a lady. At present she lives in the country ; 
 she sees no one ; she will, perhaps, marry a farmer— 
 at best the curate. Her gifts and graces will be lost 
 to the world. Yet I believe she has all the qualities 
 
 —all that you desire. She has no money ' 
 
 A painful change passed over his companion's 
 face. In the last century they expressed it conven- 
 tionally and prettily by saying that his jaw dropped. 
 
 * No money ? ' he repeated. 
 
 *Do you want money, then? Why, you said 
 nothing at all about money.' 
 
 t No— no — but — but— you see —one's own income 
 may be enough for the simple wants of a man of 
 taste : but— you understand— in fact, there must be 
 money, unless one's Hfe is to be sordid with petty cares.' 
 
 * The Perfect Love demands equality of income as 
 well as of temperament. Well, of course it can be 
 done, but there is this Httle difficulty. Consider. 
 There is only so much money in the whole world, and 
 whatever there is has its owners and its heirs. Even 
 if you dig up a pot of rose nobles it belongs to the 
 Lord of the Manor. Therefore, if this girl is to have 
 money it can only be by somebody giving a fortune to 
 her in place of his heirs. That might be an injustice.' 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 The Leader of the Future hesitated. 
 
 ' Why,' he said, changing colour, * since one has 
 nothing to do with it ? ' 
 
 ' You would not object, then, to the injustice. 
 How much have you of your own ? ' 
 
 The young man blushed a really rosy colour ; he 
 looked for the moment almost healthy. 
 
 'I — I — I think,' he said, 'that we need not go 
 into that question exactly. One would be content, 
 or otherwise it might seem like a low pecuniary trans- 
 action — let us have a round sum, without regard to 
 myself — say — say — fifty thousand.' 
 
 'It is a good deal. However ' The Conjurer 
 
 considered. A faint buzz of voices filled the room. 
 A word or two here and there could be caught. 
 ' Only ten thousand — will live for forty years. A 
 million — gone in the head — too late — property de- 
 preciated — farms unlet — eighty thousand — fifty-two 
 thousand— given over — never married — only cousins.' 
 
 Archie held up his hand. * There is,' he said, ' a 
 maiden lady, now stricken with a mortal disease. 
 She has a property in the Funds amounting to about 
 fifty-two thousand pounds. She will leave the 
 whole to this girl of whom we are speaking. She has 
 made up her mind ; she sends for a lawyer ; he has 
 arrived. (By this conjuring of mine I can annihilate 
 Time, lengthen it, or compress it as we please.) The 
 lawyer takes her instructions. Listen.' He held up 
 his hollowed hand to his companion's ear. 
 
 It was a woman's voice, sweet and low, that 
 spoke. 
 
 * I am ill, and I am not likely to recover,' she 
 said. ' I must make my will before I die. I have 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 125 
 
 neither brothers nor sisters ; my nearest relations are 
 second cousins for whom I care nothing. I have 
 resolved to leave the whole of my possessions to the 
 
 daughter of my old friend ' (the Hstener did not 
 
 catch the name). * 1 loved him once, and I thought 
 that he loved me. I know he did think of me ; but 
 he was ordered to sea and he forgot me. I have 
 educated his daughter, and I love her. For her 
 father's sake I leave her all I have.' 
 
 'What does this mean?' asked Eaymond, 
 amazed. 
 
 Archie was lying back in his chair again, and 
 made reply exactly as if nothing at all had hap- 
 pened. 
 
 ' My dear fellow, you have described the woman 
 whom you think your Equal— the only woman fit to 
 be your mate. It would be a terrible thing for you to 
 wander about for ever looking for her and not finding 
 her. There is a girl, as I told you, who seems to me 
 to have everything that you desire, including a large 
 fortune. I hope some time or other to make you 
 acquainted with her. Beautiful beyond your wildest 
 dream— your Equal— look in the glass ; accomplished 
 and clever— your Equal— think of all you know and 
 can do; the Equal Woman— your Equal, I repeat. 
 Never, surely, did any young man of the Higher Criti- 
 cism get such a chance. Go now. Quahfy. Think 
 of her gifts and graces, and of your own. If any- 
 thing falls short of equality— but I need not tell you 
 what to do. Qualify, young man. Qualify for the 
 post of lover to such a Paragon and Phoenix.' 
 
 He laid his hands on Eaymond's shoulders and 
 pushed him gently, but firmly out of the room. 
 
126 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 II 
 
 In the morning Mr. Eaymond Bidge awoke with a 
 head full of miscellaneous emotions ; he might have 
 been drinking too much, but that was not his weak- 
 ness. He sprang out of bed, remembering suddenly 
 the photograph, the vision, the voices, the fortune of 
 fifty thousand pounds. He seized his coat, and searched 
 in the pocket for the photograph. It was gone ! All 
 he remembered of the face was that it was most lovely. 
 The girl made for him — actually made for him — the 
 Equal Woman, equal to himself — his own, his own ; 
 and with a lovely fortune, fifty thousand ! — at only 
 3^ per cent., 1,750Z. a year — a modest household might 
 be kept up on 1,750?. a year. He sat down on the 
 edge of his bed and enjoyed a quarter of an hour of 
 most pleasing anticipation ; who would not pleasingly 
 anticipate a lovely wife with a really big fortune ? 
 
 ' Hang it ! ' he cried, feeling beneath him the leaf 
 of a crumpled rose. ' Why didn't I say a hundred 
 thousand while I was about it ? ' Thus good fortune 
 breeds greed, and greed begets discontent, and dis- 
 content is the mother of ingratitude. 
 
 Then he felt, not another crumpled rose, but a 
 thorn ; a dozen spiky thorns sticking into him in the 
 most cruel manner. For he remembered certain words. 
 He was to go away and qualify. Qualify! He of 
 the Higher Criticism ! And yet, what could he do ? 
 The man who had bestowed upon him this enormous 
 and wonderful gift had the right to say anything. 
 Quahfy ? What did the man mean ? 
 
 While he was dressing he saw a letter lying on the 
 table. It was in his sister's handwriting, and he let 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 127 
 
 it lie. He was in no hurry : his sister was a person 
 with whom his soul was not sympathetic ; besides, 
 she reminded him of the days of small things when 
 clubs and journals and the Higher Criticism were as 
 yet unsuspected and beyond his youthful ambitions. 
 He left the letter until he had taken the cup of tea 
 which was the only thing provided at his lodging — 
 and then he did not read it, but dropped it in his 
 pocket. He spent the day in his usual manner : he 
 wrote two or three paragraphs, full of cutting truths 
 concerning men who had made some success in the 
 world, and he finished an article on the Drama of the 
 Period — showing that there is none — which he hoped 
 to get into some magazine if he was lucky. In this he 
 very finely trounced the Public for daring to like 
 these favourites. Then he strolled in the Park, and 
 would have been quite happy thinking of a day's 
 work so satisfactory and so superior but for seeing 
 one of these very favourites riding along the Kow 
 upon an undeniable animal. When — when would the 
 affection of the Public enable him, too, to ride in the 
 Kow ? And all day long his mind kept returning to 
 the Yision of the maiden by the sea and the Promise 
 of that fifty thousand pounds. He went to his club — 
 Archie was there, but he wouldn't look up — and sat 
 down to read the evening paper. Then he remembered 
 the letter in his pocket. He drew it out and opened 
 it reluctantly — yet one has to read all the letters some 
 time or other. 
 
 * Dear Sam,' it began — he swore a swear. * She 
 will do it,' he murmured, ' though she knows I 
 hate it ' — ' I am very sorry to have bad news for 
 you. Our second cousin, Angelica Merrydew, is 
 
128 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 dead. She had been ill for some time but died 
 suddenly at the end. I always thought that 
 she would leave her money to us, as her nearest 
 relations. She ought to have done so. It is a 
 terrible thing to think of her soul going straight 
 away, unannealed and unhanselled '— his sister had 
 imperfect reminiscences of Scott — ' after such an act 
 of wickedness. She has left it all to a girl — no rela- 
 tion ' — Kaymond jumped — ' whom, it seems, she has 
 brought up. I always thought that she had an 
 annuity of 200^. a year or so at the most. It now 
 appears that she has been saving all her life and has 
 left a fortune, actually, of over fifty thousand pounds ! 
 I can never forgive myself for neglecting her. Oh ! 
 what it would have been to us ? And Susan's husband 
 says he can't go on much longer, and Ellen's boy 
 
 is ' Eaymond crumpled up the letter and read no 
 
 more. His own second cousin — he had never seen her 
 but she was sometimes mentioned in the family — ^just 
 dead, and left an unknown girl all her money, fifty 
 thousand pounds. Was it his girl ? Was it the Equal 
 Woman ? Was that dowry given to her in order that it 
 might come to him ? Why — it must be — it must be — 
 and if so — why — so much the better. Had it been left 
 to his own family to be divided among all he would have 
 had 2,000Z. at most for his own share, for there were 
 other cousins. Whereas now, by this arrangement, 
 he would have all — all — all — supposing this lucky 
 heiress was the girl, his girl, his mistress — the Equal 
 Woman. And she must be. He heaved a sigh. 
 ' Better so,' he murmured with pious resignation, 
 ' much better so.' 
 
 And then, oddly, he heard the voice of Archie, 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 129 
 
 though he was at the other end of the long room, 
 close to his ear whispering, ' Much better so, Sam, 
 isn't it ? ' 
 
 III 
 
 A TWELVEMONTH passsd. The position of the Higher 
 Critic was not materially improved. Two or three 
 other young gentlemen had embarked in the same 
 line, some prepared to go one higher still : now com^ 
 petition among Higher Critics is disgusting. Yet he 
 was sustained by the Vision and the promise. That, 
 namely, of the most beautiful damsel in the world, 
 with 52,000Z. Why, the dream of the superior young 
 man is to marry money ; always if he can he marries 
 money, and generally he marries a girl a little older 
 than himself. Then he can sit down, and give dinner- 
 parties, and become an accepted Critic — a Judicial 
 Critic ; he can pronounce judgments all his Kfe. The 
 superior young man who is poor may pronounce as 
 much as he pleases, but no one heeds him. Or, if 
 they do, it is only to ask him what he has done that 
 he should be acknowledged a Judge in Israel ? 
 
 Exactly a twelvemonth to the day after the Vision 
 of his Maiden and the moonlit beach he again met 
 Archie Carew at the club. He was lying back in the 
 same chair looking as if he had never moved from 
 the spot. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' he said, looking up lazily. * I came to 
 see you, Kidge. You remember that little talk we 
 had about the Equal Woman ? Of course you do, 
 ^^ell— there is a girl staying with us now that perhaps 
 you would like to meet— the girl I mentioned — 
 unless, that is, you have already ' 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 * No— no. I have not found her. I wait for her 
 coming.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she has come. We shall see. To my 
 mind she seems to possess all the qualities you wanted 
 for your equal. That is, she is young, beautiful, 
 accomplished, and possessed of a fairly good for- 
 tune.' 
 
 * Oh 1 I see. It may be my ideal.' This was 
 interesting. 'Have you told her anything about 
 me ?' 
 
 ' No. You will have to tell her yourself about 
 yourself. Perhaps she wants the Equal Man. Then 
 you will have to trot out the corresponding perfec- 
 tions. When she sees that you are really the Equal 
 Man Well, dine with us to-morrow.' 
 
 ' With pleasure.' But there was something in 
 Archie's eyes which troubled him — he knew not 
 why. 
 
 * At last,' said his friend, ' we shall see the union 
 of the Equal Man and the Equal Woman. There will 
 be a fine leaping of heart to heart ; a fine beating of 
 pulse responsive ; a lovely darting of flame answering 
 flame. By the way, you have taken steps to quahfy ? 
 To-morrow, then, at eight.' 
 
 A dinner party of eighteen or twenty. Eaymond 
 arrived late, purposely, in order to be remarked. He 
 stood in the door for a moment and swept his long 
 hair from his pale and noble brow. Then he 
 advanced. Yes, that tall and beautiful girl standing 
 by his hostess must be the girl of his vision. He 
 could not remember her face, but this must be the 
 girl. In the vision she had on a frock of brown 
 russet ; now she was clothed in white samite — mystic, 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 wonderful. She turned her face. Heavens ! the 
 queenly head, the noble brow, the ample cheek, 
 the dark blue — almost purple — eyes. She tuas the 
 girl! 
 
 He was introduced to her. He learned that her 
 name was Lilian Ahngton. He was directed to take 
 her down to dinner. He walked in procession with 
 her ; he sat beside her ; he felt bashful. For a time 
 he was quite silent. 
 
 ' This,' he began at last, ' is a day to which I have 
 long looked forward ' 
 
 ' Is it a day of importance ? ' 
 
 ' To me, of the greatest importance.' 
 
 ' Indeed ? ' she asked, with no show of interest. 
 
 ' I seem to have seen you once before at the sea- 
 side.' 
 
 ^ Possibly. I have lived by the sea.' 
 
 * And naturally ever since I have longed for this 
 opportunity. Miss Alington — may I ask ? — have you 
 been — ah ! — prepared at all for this meeting ? ' 
 
 She turned her head and looked down upon him., 
 coldly curious. 
 ' Prepared ! ' 
 
 * Has our host told you what it means — the infi- 
 nite possibilities of it ? ' 
 
 * Eeally, Mr. Eidge, I do not in the least under- 
 stand.' 
 
 * I will explain another time. I was in hopes — 
 but we can wait. Let us try, meantime, tentatively, 
 to reveal our souls to each other.' 
 
 Lilian began to think this young man must be 
 more than a little cracked. 
 
 * That terrible, awful Academy ! ' he always began 
 
132 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 with painting, and then went on to fiction and the 
 drama. ' Have you ventured yet within its walls ? 
 Have you tried to look at the blurred canvases that 
 they call pictures ? Yet they have— they really have 
 
 their uses. Whenever— which is seldom— I feel 
 
 any touch of hope or optimism, I hurry to the 
 Academy. That cures me.' 
 
 * I have been several times to the Eoyal Academy.' 
 The girl spoke clearly and decidedly. have not 
 yet seen half the pictures. There are many very fine 
 paintings there, many full of imagination ; many of 
 the finest drawing ; many rich in colours ; many with 
 the truest sense of nature. There has certainly never 
 been any time when Enghsh art stood on a higher 
 level than now.' 
 
 He was so astonished that he dropped his pince- 
 nez into the soup. He was quite silent for the space 
 of five minutes. 
 
 ' When you do me the honour of Hstening to me,' 
 he said, recovering a Uttle after he had wiped his 
 glasses, ' I shall be able to prove to you that the Art 
 of Painting exists no longer in this country.' 
 
 * Will you ? But I should refuse to hsten to any 
 one who proposed such an absurdity. No one who 
 understands the merest elements of the Art could 
 possibly think so. Can you paint, or draw ? Have 
 you attended any school of Art ? Do you know the 
 powers and limitations of colour ? ' 
 
 * It is not necessary for a critic of my school to be 
 also a painter.' 
 
 * On the contrary. Without a knowledge of the 
 technique, no one can possibly be a critic. We will 
 not speak any. more, if you please, about Art.' 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 Her colour had risen slightly. She spoke with 
 such firmness that the young man quailed. 
 
 He tried her again on the subject of the drama; 
 the absolutely contemptible condition of which is, with 
 his school, a mere axiom. 
 
 ' I cannot for a moment accept that assumption of 
 yours,' she said. * The drama of the day has some 
 very good points. People want to be amused, first of 
 all, and there are some very amusing pieces now on 
 the stage. They like a good story, and there are 
 some excellent stories for them to see and hear. 
 Have you ever written a play ? ' 
 
 < N no. Not yet. I may have ambitions.' 
 
 ' Then you must speak humbly. A young man 
 cannot be a critic of the drama at all unless he has 
 the practical knowledge gained by experience and 
 attempt. When you are older and have proved that 
 you possess something of the critical faculty — which 
 is rarer than the creative, I beUeve— you may perhaps 
 be allowed to speak. Meantime, you talk very confi- 
 dently of decay. Is there any modern French or 
 English play at all that you consider to be a good 
 play ? I think I have seen and read a good many 
 plays, and I daresay that I should know any that you 
 would like to discuss.' 
 
 He made no answer. But he now felt horribly un- 
 comfortable. Where was the deference he expected ? 
 Where the recognition of his genius ? 
 
 ' Is Fiction, too, in decay ? ' she asked. 
 * Fiction?' he almost screamed. 'No man— no 
 man who respects himself would read a modern 
 English novel.' 
 
 She laughed. *I thought there was only one 
 
134 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 standard of Art,' she said, ' but I now perceive there 
 may be more than one — that is, that some minds may 
 imagine another standard. I respect myself very 
 much, Mr. Kidge ; so do certain people, my friends ; 
 we think we are a cultivated folk ; and I assure you 
 that there are many living novelists, English and 
 American, whom we continue to read with the 
 greatest delight. Now, from the standard which I 
 have been taught, English fiction is in a very good 
 condition indeed.' 
 
 * Oh ! The three-volume love story ! ' 
 
 ' Love, Mr. Kidge,' said this maiden, without the 
 least blush, ' is the most important thing in the 
 whole life of man or woman. Love will always be the 
 main theme of poet, of novelist, and of dramatist. 
 But if you do not like to read about love there are 
 plenty of stories nowadays without any. Pray have 
 you ever written a novel ? ' 
 
 ' For my novel,' he replied grandly, * there would 
 be no Public' 
 
 'But really, if that is so, you can have none 
 of the qualities of a novelist. The Public taste is, I 
 am informed, very catholic ; it likes everything that 
 is good, though its opinion as to what makes good- 
 ness varies. Some part of the Public likes fried fish, 
 and another part this cotelette a la Souhise. But 
 you really must not speak of the decay of Fiction 
 until you have some knowledge, if not mastery, of 
 the Art.' 
 
 Again he fell back. For the moment he was 
 crushed. He said no more during the rest of the 
 dinner, and the girl turned her shoulder and talked 
 with the man on the other side — a big good-looking 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 Philistine beast, who laughed and told stories that 
 made the girl langh. Good heavens ! He knew the 
 man's face. He was actually that terrible person, a 
 popular novelist; young too, one of the wretched, 
 miserable, degraded crew who are now dragging the 
 noble art of Fiction in the mud. And she was talking 
 and laughing with him ! 
 
 In the evening he tried again. The girl sang a 
 song, a lovely song ; her splendid voice rang clear 
 and loud ; she sang it with so much feeling that when 
 she finished the people caught their breath. Then he 
 advanced boldly. ' Thank you,' he said, murmurous. 
 *That song appeals to the Inner Soul. It reveals 
 the Inexpressible. I was afraid you might be going 
 to sing Schubert.' 
 
 ' That is Schubert,' she replied coldly. 
 The popular novelist stood by and heard it with a 
 twinkling eye. 
 
 He retreated, feeling very weak. He got no more 
 chance that evening. The girl was surrounded ; she 
 sang again; he stayed in a corner; perhaps she 
 would miss him ; he should see her eyes wandering 
 about the room in search of him. In his blind 
 conceit he could not imagine it possible that he had 
 made no impression at all upon her. The boldness, 
 the singularity, the originality of his views must have 
 impressed her, even though, for the moment, she was 
 unable to rise quite to his level. He came away, 
 however, with a sense of disappointment, almost 
 of doubt. The first interview had not been suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 He called a day or two afterwards ; he talked his 
 best ; Lilian heard him politely ; then she bowled him 
 
136 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 over. She quoted sayings of great masters ; she con- 
 victed him of ignorance ; he retired with discomfi- 
 ture. What did it mean ? Was he premature ? 
 Should he give her more time ? 
 
 He had many opportunities. He met her in a 
 picture gallery alone ; in Kensington Gardens alone ; 
 he saw her several times alone ; he had every possible 
 chance. Yet always he retired with the feeling of 
 discomfiture. And the opportunity seemed never to 
 arrive w^hen he could tell her all, and claim her, 
 absolutely claim her, as his own. Once he met Archie 
 at the club. 
 
 ' Aha ! ' he cried, ' pulse answers pulse. The 
 Equal Man and the Equal Woman. Lucky dog ! ' 
 
 One night, however, he saw a thing that forced 
 upon him the necessity of immediate action. It was 
 at a dance. He went there in order to meet her. 
 For himself he could not dance. She could, however. 
 She danced without sitting down. Yes, once she sat 
 down, and Kaymond saw her, in a conservatory, with 
 a man — no other than the wretched impostor of a 
 l^opular novelist already mentioned. Love was in his 
 eyes and in his attitude as he bent over her and 
 whispered. A cold chill crept down Eaymond's back. 
 He was not prepared for the appearance of another 
 man. 
 
 Next day he called in the morning. He was pale 
 and solemn — the time was come — he was about to 
 claim his bride. 
 
 ' You wish to see me alone, Mr. Kidge ? ' asked 
 Lilian. She had a fine colour, and her eyes were 
 brighter than usual. She understood very well that 
 a decisive moment was coming. This little man, who 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 talked a jargon, and was always meeting her in 
 unexpected places, was going to speak. 
 
 ' I have come,' he said, ' to ask if I may venture 
 for an explanation. Have you treated me as I had a 
 right to expect ? ' 
 
 i You— had— a— right— a right to expect ? ' asked 
 Lilian. ' Pray, what is the meaning of this ? ' 
 
 ' I mean,' he replied coldly, yet with anxiety, 
 ' that when a girl has been made for a man, cut out 
 for him, provided with accomphshments for him, 
 enriched for him, made the Ideal woman— the Equal 
 Woman— for him, he has a right to expect con- 
 sideration. You have scoffed and mocked at me. 
 I have laid bare my soul for you, and you laugh at 
 
 ' Oh ! The man is mad ! Made for you ? What 
 do you mean ? I never heard of you till three or 
 four weeks ago. Is it my fault that you dangle about 
 talking nonsense inexpressible ? ' 
 
 ' You were made for me. You were— oh ! ' he 
 screamed— never was stranger wooing— 'you have 
 actually got my money— my money— my cousin's 
 money— that should have been mine. I claim you. 
 Your beauty, your genius, your voice, your fortune are 
 all—all— of my devising, and inventing and choosing. 
 You had nothing till I made it and gave it to you. I 
 claim it all. Give it back to me— or give me— your- 
 self.' For once he rose to the occasion. He spoke in 
 earnest ; he was real. 
 
 LiHan rang the bell violently, facing him as one 
 faces a madman. 
 
 * Archie ' — it was Archie himself who opened ihe 
 ^oor — ' here is a madman. He wants to claim me. 
 
138 
 
 THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 he says — to claim my voice — my everything. He 
 follows me about ; he meets mc everywhere. He says 
 I was made for him. Will you send him away ? ' 
 
 ' What is the meaning of this ? ' asked Archie 
 coldly, looking down upon the distracted critic. 
 
 M claim her,' cried Eaymond, maddened. 'I 
 claim her. Nobody knows better than you by what 
 right. She is mine. I invented her.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Lilian, looking down upon him with 
 pity, * he is quite mad. I thought all along that he 
 was mad, on account of his foohsh talk. Be gentle 
 with him, Archie. I do not think we need be afraid 
 of him.' 
 
 * You know — you — ' Eaymond cried again. ' You 
 gave her everything — for me — my own money — for 
 me.' He choked, he gasped, he beat the air with his 
 hands.' 
 
 * Calm yourself,' said Archie. * You are thinking, 
 I believe, of a certain conversation we had a year ago. 
 I then described a woman — a very grand and noble 
 woman — whom you had the audacity to call your 
 Equal : the Equal Woman, you said. I warned you 
 on the spot to qualify on the chance of meeting that 
 w^oman. You have been thinking about her until 
 your head has got a little turned. Well, that woman 
 I described — you have met her — she is here — but 
 you have not qualified. My friend, such a woman is 
 far, far, very far above you. She is absolutely unat- 
 tainable for you.' 
 
 Eaymond groaned, and wrung his hands. 
 Literally, he wrung his hands. One would have 
 thought the gesture gone out. But no ; in moments 
 of great emotion it lingers still. 
 
THE EQUAL WOMAN 
 
 * I will show you,' Archie went on, ' if you please, 
 the woman who is your Equal. She is not beautiful, 
 nor arp you ; she is not clever, nor are you ; she is 
 full of jargon ' 
 
 Eaymond shrieked and fled. 
 
 In the first week of August there was a wedding 
 which attracted many people. It was that of Mr. 
 Henry Fielding, novehst, young and popular, to Lilian, 
 daughter of the late Koger Alington, Captain of the 
 Orient ss. ' Dsedalus.' 
 
140 
 
 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 I 
 
 * Oh you poor dear ! ' said the two Elder Sisters in 
 duet, ' you've got to stay at home while we go to the 
 ball. Good night, then. We are so sorry for you ! 
 "We did hope that you were going too ! ' 
 
 ' Good night, Elder Sisters,' said the youngest, with 
 a tear just showing in either eye, but not rolling down 
 her cheek. * Go and be happy. If you should see 
 the Prince you may tell him that I am waiting for 
 the Fairy and the Pumpkin and the Mice.' 
 
 The Elder Sisters fastened the last button— the 
 sixth, was it? or the tenth perhaps— took one last 
 critical, and reassuring, look at the glass, and departed. 
 
 When thp door shut the Youngest Sister sat down 
 by the fire ; i and one, two, three tears rolled down 
 her cheeks. \ 
 
 Mind you, fehe had very good cause to cry. Many 
 girls cry for mi;ich less. She was seventeen : she had 
 understood that\ she would come out at this visit to 
 London. Coming out, to this country girl, meant 
 just this one dance and nothing more. But no — her 
 sisters were invited and she was not. She was left 
 alone in the house.. And she sat down by the fire 
 and allowed herself to be filled with gloom and sadness, 
 
 \ 
 \ 
 
THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 and with such thoughts as, in certain antiquated his- 
 tories, used to be called rebellious. In short, she was 
 in a very bad temper indeed. Never before had she 
 been in such a bad temper. As a general rule she 
 was sweet-tempered as the day is long. But— which 
 is a terrible thing to remember— there are always the 
 possibilities of bad temper in every one: even in 
 Katharine— Katie— Kitty, who generally looked as if 
 she could never, never, never show by any outward 
 sign that she was vexed, or cross, or put out, or rebel- 
 lious. And now, alas ! she was in a bad temper. No 
 hope, no sunshine, no future prospects ; her life was 
 blasted— her young spring life. Disaster irretrievable 
 had fallen upon her. She could not go to the ball. 
 What made things worse was, that the more angry 
 she grew the louder she heard the dance music, though 
 the band was distant more than a mile. Quite plainly 
 she heard the musicians. They were playing a valse 
 which she knew— a delicious, delirious, dreamy, swing- 
 ing valse. She saw her sisters among a crowd of the 
 most lovely girls in the world, whirling in the cadence 
 that she loved upon a floor as smooth as ice, with 
 cavaliers gallant and gay. The room was filled with 
 maidens beautifully dressed, like her sisters, and with 
 young men come to meet and greet them on their 
 way. Oh, happy young men! Oh, happy girls! 
 Katie had been brought up with such simplicity that 
 she envied no other girl, whether for her riches or for 
 her dresses ; and was always ready to acknowledge 
 the loveliness and the sweetness and the grace of any 
 number of girls— even of her own age. As regards 
 her own sex, indeed, this child of seventeen had but 
 one fault ; she considered twenty as already a serious 
 
142 
 
 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 age, and wondered how anybody could possibly laugh 
 after five-and-twenty. And, as many, or most, girls 
 believe, she thought that beauty was entirely a matter 
 of dress ; and that, except on state occasions, no one 
 should think of beauty — i.e., of fme dress. 
 
 She sat there for half an hour. She began to 
 think that it would be best to go to bed and sleep off 
 her chagrin, when a Kat-tat-tat at the door roused 
 her. Who was that? Could it — could it — could it 
 be the Fairy with the Pumpkin and the Mice? 
 
 ' My dear Katie ' — it was not the Fairy, but it 
 was the Godmother — ' how sorry I am ! Quick — lay 
 out the things, Ladbrooke.' Ladbrooke was a maid, 
 and she bore a parcel. ' It's not my fault. The 
 stupid people only brought the things just now. It 
 was my little surprise, dear. We will dress her here, 
 Ladbrooke. I was going to bring the things in good 
 time, to surprise you at the last moment. Never 
 mind : you will only be a little late. I hope and 
 trust the things will fit. I got one of your frocks, and 
 
 Ladbrooke here can, if necessary There, Katie ! 
 
 What do you think of that for your first ball dress ? ' 
 
 Katie was so astonished that she could say nothing, 
 not even to thank her godmother. Her heart beat 
 and her hands trembled ; the maid dressed her and 
 did her hair ; her godmother gave her a necklace of 
 pearls and a little bunch of flowers : she put on the 
 most charming pair of white satin shoes : she found 
 in the parcel a pair of white gloves with ever so many 
 buttons, and a white fan with painted flowers. When 
 she looked at the glass she could not understand it at 
 all ; for she was transformed. But never was any 
 girl dressed so quickly. 
 
THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she cried. * You are a Fairy. And you've 
 got a Pumpkin as well ? ' 
 
 * The Pumpkin is at the door with the Mice. 
 Come, dear. I shall be proud of my dehutanteJ 
 
 The odd thing was that all the time she was dress- 
 ing, and all the time she sat in the carriage, Katie 
 heard that valse tune ringing in her ears, and when 
 they entered the ball-room that very same identical 
 valse was being played, and the smooth floor was 
 covered with dancers, gallant young men and lovely 
 maidens— all as she had seen and heard in her vision. 
 Oh ! there is something in the world more than coin- 
 cidence. There must be ; else, why did Katie . . . 
 
 * Oh, my dear,' said the Elder Sisters, stopping in 
 their dance, * you have come at last ! We knew you 
 were coming, but we couldn't tell. Shall we tell the 
 Prince you are here ? ' 
 
 Then a young gentleman was presented to her. 
 But Katie was too nervous to look up when he bowed 
 and begged. After a little, Katie found that his step 
 went very well with hers. She was then able to 
 consider things a little. Her first partner in her first 
 ball was quite a young man — she had not caught his 
 name, Mr. Geoffrey something— a handsome young 
 man, she thought, but rather shy. He began to talk 
 about the usual things. 
 
 * I live in the country,' she said, to explain her 
 ignorance. ' And this is my first ball. So, you see, 
 I do not know any people or anything.' 
 
 He danced with her again : she was a wonderfully 
 light dancer ; she was strangely graceful ; he found 
 her, also, sweet to look at ; she had soft eyes and a 
 curiously soft voice, which was as if all the sympathy 
 
144 
 
 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 in all the world had been collected together and 
 deposited in that little brain. He had the good 
 fortune to take her in to supper ; and, being a young 
 man at that time singularly open to the charms of 
 maidens, he lavished upon her all the attentions 
 possible. Presently he was so far subdued by her 
 winning manner that he committed the fooHshness of 
 Samson with his charmer. He told his secret. Just 
 because she showed a Httle interest in him, and 
 regarded him with eyes of wonder, he told her the 
 great secret of his life— his ambition, the dream of his 
 youth, his purpose. Next morning he felt he had 
 been a fool. The girl would tell other girls, and they 
 would all laugh together. He felt hot and ashamed 
 for a moment. Then he thought of her eyes, and 
 how they lightened when he whispered ; and of her 
 voice, and how it sank when she murmured sympathy 
 and hope and faith. No— with such a girl his secret 
 was safe. 
 
 So it was. But for her, if you think of it, was 
 promotion indeed ! For a girl who a few days before 
 had been at school, under rules and laws, hardly 
 daring to speak— certainly not daring to have an 
 opinion of her own— now receiving deferential homage 
 from a young man at least four years her senior, 
 and actually being entrusted with his secret ambi- 
 tions ! More ; there were other young men waiting 
 about, asking for a dance ; all treating her as if— 
 well, modern manners do not treat young ladies with 
 the old reverential courtesy— as if she were a person 
 of considerable importance. But she liked the first 
 young man the best. He had such an honest face, 
 this young man. It was a charming supper, and, 
 
THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 with her charming companion, Katie talked quite 
 freely and at her ease. How nice to begin with a 
 partner with whom one could be quite at one's ease ! 
 But everything at this ball was delightful. 
 
 After the young man had told his secret, blushing 
 profoundly, Katie told hers — how she had as nearly as 
 possible missed her first ball ; and how her sisters had 
 gone without her and left her in the cinders, crying. 
 
 ' Fairy Godmother turned up at the last moment, 
 and when I was dressed and we went out,' she 
 laughed merrily, 'we found the Pumpkin and the 
 Mice turned into a lovely carriage and pair.' 
 
 ' It is a new version of the old story,' said the 
 young man. 
 
 * Yes,' she replied thoughtfully, ' and now all I 
 want is to find the Prince.' 
 
 The young man raised his eyes quickly. They 
 said, with great humility, ' If I could only be the 
 Prince ! ' She read those words, and she blushed 
 and became confused, and they talked no more that 
 night. 
 
 ' It was all lovely,' she said in the carriage going 
 home. 'All but one thing — one thing that I said — 
 oh, such a stupid thing ! ' 
 
 * What was it you said, Katie ? ' 
 
 ' No : I could never tell anybody. It was too 
 stupid. Oh ! To think of it makes me turn red. 
 It almost spoiled the evening. And he saw it too.' 
 
 ' What was it, Katie ? ' 
 
 But she would not tell the Elder Sisters. 
 
 ' Who was it,' asked one of them, ' that took Katfe 
 in to supper ? ' 
 
 * A young man named Armiger, I believe. Horace 
 
 L 
 
146 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 told me,' said the other Elder. Horace was a cousin. 
 ' Horace says he is a cousin of a Sir Eoland Armiger, 
 about whom I know nothing. Horace says he is a 
 good fellow— very young yet— an undergraduate 
 somewhere. He is a nice-looking boy.' 
 
 Then the Elder Sisters began to talk about 
 matters really serious— namely, themselves and their 
 own engagements — and Katie was forgotten. 
 
 Two days after the ball there arrived a parcel 
 addressed to the three sisters collectively— ' The 
 Misses De Lisle.' The three sisters opened it 
 together, with Evelike curiosity. 
 
 It contained a white satin shoe ; a silver buckle 
 set with pearls adorned it, and a row of pearls ran 
 round the open part. A most dainty shoe ; a most 
 attractive shoe ; a most bewildering shoe. 
 
 ' This,' said the Elder Sisters, solemnly, ' must be 
 tried on by all of us in succession.' 
 
 The Elder Sisters began: it was too small for 
 either, though they squeezed and made faces and an 
 effort and a fuss, and everything that could be made 
 except making the foot go into the shoe. Then Katie 
 tried it on. Wonderful to relate, the foot slipped in 
 quite easily. Yet they say that there is nothing but 
 coincidence in the world. 
 
 Katie blushed and laughed and blushed again. 
 Then she folded up the shoe in its silver paper and 
 carried it away ; and nobody ever heard her mention 
 that shoe again. But everybody knew that she kept 
 it, and the Elder Sisters marvelled because the young 
 iJrince did not come to see that shoe tried on. He 
 did not appear. Why not ? Well— because he was 
 too shy to call. 
 
THE SIIMNKING SHOE 
 
 There are six thousand five hundred and sixty- 
 three variants of this story, as has been discovered 
 through the invaluable researches of the Folk-Lore 
 Society, and it would be strange if they all ended in 
 the same way. 
 
 II 
 
 The young man told his secret ; he revealed what he 
 had never before whispered to any living person ; he 
 told his ambition — the most sacred thing that a young 
 man possesses or can reveal. 
 
 There are many kinds of ambition ; many of them 
 are laudable ; we are mostly ambitious of those things 
 which seem to the lowest imagination to be within our 
 reach — such, for instance, as the saving of money. 
 Those who aspire to things which seem out of reach 
 suffer the pain and the penalty of the common snub. 
 This young man aspired to things which seemed to 
 other people quite beyond his reach ; for he had no 
 money, and his otherwise highly respectable family 
 had no political influence, and such a thing had never 
 before been heard of among his people that one of 
 themselves should aspire to greater greatness than 
 the succession to the family title with the family 
 property. As a part of the new Ee volution, which 
 is already upon us, there will be few things indeed 
 which an ambitious young man will consider be- 
 yond his reach. At the present moment, if I were 
 to declare my ambition to become, w^hen I grow 
 up. Her Britannic Majesty's Ambassador at Paris, 
 • the thing would be actually received with derision. 
 My young life would be blasted with contempt. 
 Wait, how^ever, for fifty years : you shall then 
 
 L 2 
 
148 THE SHPvINKING SHOE 
 
 see to what heights I will reach out my climbing 
 hands. 
 
 Geoffrey Armiger would have soared. He saw 
 before him the cases of Canning, of Burke, of Disraeli, 
 of Eobert Lowe, and of many others who started with- 
 out any political influence and with no money, and 
 he said to himself, ' I, too, will become a States- 
 man.' 
 
 That was the secret which he confided into Katie's 
 car ; it was in answer to a question of hers, put quite 
 as he could have wished, as to his future career. ' I 
 have told no one,' he rephed in a low voice, and with 
 conscious flush. * I have never ventured to tell any 
 one, because my people would not understand ; they 
 are not easily moved out of the ordinary groove. 
 There is a family living, and I am to have it : that is 
 
 the fate to which I am condemned. But ' his lips 
 
 snapped ; resolution flamed in his eyes. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' cried Katie. * It is splendid ! You must 
 succeed. Oh ! To be a great Statesman. Oh ! There 
 is only one thing better— to be a great Poet. You 
 might be both.' 
 
 Geoffrey replied modestly that, although he had 
 written verse, he hardly expected to accomplish both 
 greatness in poetry and greatness as a legislator. 
 The latter, he declared, would be good enough for 
 him. 
 
 That was the secret which this young man con- 
 fided to the girl. You must own that, for such a 
 young man to reveal such a secret to this girl, on the 
 very first evening that he met her, argues for the 
 maiden the possession of sympathetic qualities quite 
 above the common. 
 
THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 149 
 
 III 
 
 Five years change a boy of twenty into a mature 
 man of twenty-five, and a debutante of seventeen into 
 an old woman of twenty-two. The acknowledgment 
 of such a fact may save the historian a vast quantity 
 of trouble. 
 
 It was five years after the great event of the ball. 
 The family cousin, Horace, of whom mention has been 
 already made, was sitting in his chambers at ten or 
 eleven in the evening. With him sat his friend Sir 
 Geoffrey Armiger, a young man whom you have 
 already met. The death of his cousin had transformed 
 him from a penniless youth into a baronet with a great 
 estate (which might have been in Spain or Ireland for 
 all the good it was), and with a great fortune in stocks. 
 There was now no occasion for him to take the family 
 living : that had gone to a deserving stranger ; a 
 clear field lay open for his wildest ambitions. This 
 bad fortune to the cousin, who was still quite young, 
 happened the year after the ball. Of course, there- 
 fore, the young man of vast ambition had already both 
 feet on the ladder ? You shall see. 
 
 * What are you going to do all the summer ? ' 
 asked the family cousin, Horace. 
 
 * 1 don't know,' Geoffrey replied languidly. * Take 
 the yacht somewhere, I suppose. Into the Baltic, 
 perhaps. Will you come too ? ' 
 
 ' Can't. I've got work to do. I shall run over to 
 Switzerland for three weeks perhaps. Better come 
 with me and do some climbing.' 
 
 Geoffrey shook his head. 
 
 * Man ! ' cried the other impatiently, * you want 
 
THE SIIRIXKIXG SHOE 
 
 something to do. Doesn't it bore you— just going on 
 day after day, day after day, with nothing to think of 
 but your own amusement ? ' 
 
 Geoffrey yawned. ' The Profession of Amuse- 
 ment,' he said, ' is, in fact, deadly dull.' 
 
 ' Then why follow it ? ' 
 
 * Because I am so rich. You fellows who've got 
 nothing must work. When a man is not obliged to 
 work, there are a thousand excuses. I don't believe 
 that I could work now if I wanted to. Yet I used to 
 have ambitions.' 
 
 You did. "When it was difficult to find a way to 
 ve while you worked, you had enormous ambitions. 
 If only I was not obhged to provide for the daily 
 bread ; " that was what you used to say. Well, now 
 the daily bread is provided, what excuse have you ? ' 
 
 ' I tell you a thousand excuses present themselves 
 the moment I think of doing any w^ork. Besides, the 
 ambitions are dead ! ' 
 
 ' Dead ! And at five-and-twenty ! They can't be 
 dead.' 
 
 'They are. Dead and buried. Killed by five 
 years' racket. Profession of Pleasure — Pleasure, I 
 believe they call it. No man can follow more than 
 one profession.' 
 
 * Well, old man, if the world's pleasures are already 
 rather dry in the mouth, what will they be when 
 you've been running after them for fifty years ? ' 
 
 ' There are cards, I believe. Cards are always left. 
 No,' — he got up and leaned over the mantelshelf, — 
 ' I can't say that the fortune has brought much hap- 
 piness with it. That's the worst of being rich. You 
 see very well that you are not half so happy as the 
 
THE SIIIIINKING SHOE 
 
 fellows who aro making their own way, and yc-fc you 
 can't give up your money and start fair with the rest. 
 I always tliink of that story of the young man who 
 was told to give up all ho had to the poor, lie 
 couldn't, you see. He saw very clearly that it would 
 he hest for him ; hut he couldn't. I am that young 
 man. If I was like you, with all the world to conquer, 
 I should he ten times as strong and a hundred times 
 as clever. I know it— yet I cannot give up the money.' 
 
 ' Nohody wants you to give it up. But surely you 
 could go on like other fellows— as if you hadn't got 
 it, I mean.' 
 
 ' No— you don't understand. It's like a millstone 
 tied round your neck. It drags you down and keeps 
 you down.' 
 
 ' Why don't you marry ? ' 
 
 <Why don't I? Well, when I meet the girl I 
 fancy I will marry if she will have me. I suppose 
 
 I'm constitutionally cold, because as yet Who is 
 
 this girl ? ' He took up a cabinet photograph which 
 stood on the mantelshelf. ' I seem to know the face. 
 It's a winning kind of face— what they call a beseech- 
 ing face. Where have I seen it ? ' 
 
 ' That ? It is the portrait of a cousin of mine. I 
 don't think you can have met her anywhere, because 
 she lives entirely in the country.' 
 
 ' I have certainly seen her somewhere. Perhaps 
 in a picture. Beatrice, perhaps. It is the face of an 
 angel. Faces sometimes deceive, though : I know^ a 
 girl in quite the smartest set who can assume the 
 most saintly face when she pleases. She puts it on 
 when she converses with the curate ; when she goes 
 to church she becomes simply angehc. At other 
 
152 
 
 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 times Your cousin does not, however, I should 
 
 say, follow the Profession of Amusement.' 
 
 * Not exactly. She lives in a quiet little seaside 
 place where they've got a convalescent home, and she 
 slaves for the patients.' 
 
 * It is a beautiful face,' Geoffrey repeated. *But 
 I seem to know it.' He looked at the back of the 
 photograph. ' What are these lines written at the 
 back ? ' 
 
 * They are some nonsense rhymes written by her- 
 self. There is a little family tradition that Katie is 
 waiting for her Prince — she says so herself — she has 
 refused a good many men. I think she will never 
 marry, because she certainly will not find the man 
 she dreams of.' 
 
 ' May I read the lines ? ' He read them aloud : — 
 
 ' Oh ! tell me, Willow-wren and White-throat, beating 
 
 The sluggish breeze with eager homeward wing, 
 Bear you no message for me — not a greeting 
 
 From him you left behind — my Prince and King ? 
 
 ' You come from far — from south and east and west ; 
 Somewhere you left him, daring some great thing, 
 I know not what, save that it is the best : 
 
 Somewhere you saw him — saw my Prince and King. 
 
 * You cannot choose but know him : by the crown 
 
 They place upon his head — the crown and ring ; 
 And by the loud and many-voiced renown 
 After the footsteps of my Prince and King. 
 
 • He speaks, and lo ! the listening world obeys ; 
 
 He leads, and all men follow ; arid they chng. 
 And hang around the words and works and ways, 
 As of a Prophet —of my Prince and King. 
 
 ' What matter if he comes not, though I wait ? 
 Bear you no greeting for me, birds of spring ? 
 Again— what matter, since his work is great, 
 
 And greater grows his name — my Prince and King.' 
 
THE SimiNKINO SIIOJ^] 
 
 ' You sec,' said the cousin, ' she has set up an ideal 
 man.' 
 
 * Yes. Why docs she call him her Prince ? ' 
 The cousin laughed. 'There is a story ahout a 
 ball— her first ball— her last too, poor child, because 
 — well, there were losses, you know. Like the land- 
 lady, Katie has known better days ; and friends died, 
 and so she lives by herself in this Httle village, and 
 looks after her patient convalescents.' 
 ' What about her first ball ? ' 
 ' W^ell, she nearly missed it, because her godmother, 
 who meant to give her a surprise, lost a train or got 
 late somehow. So her Elder Sisters went without her, 
 and she arrived late ; and they said that, to complete 
 the story, nothing was wanted but the Prince.' 
 Geoffrey started and changed colour. 
 ' That's all. She imagined a Prince, and goes on 
 with her dream. She enacts a novel which never 
 comes to an end, and has no situations, and has an 
 invisible hero.' 
 
 Geoffrey laid down the photograph. He now re- 
 membered everything, including the sending of the 
 slipper. But the cousin had quite forgotten his own 
 part in the story. 
 
 ' I must go,' he said. ' I think I shall take the 
 yacht somewhere round the coast. You say your 
 
 cousin lives at ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Yes, she lives at Shellacomb Bay, near 
 Torquay. Sit down again.' 
 
 ' No. Dull place, Shellacomb Bay : I've been 
 there, I think.' He was rather irresolute, but that 
 was his way. ' I must go. I rather think there are 
 some men coming into my place about this time. 
 
154 
 
 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 There will be nap. All professionals, you know — Pro- 
 fessors of Amusement. It's dull work. I say, if your 
 cousin found her Prince, what an awful, awful disap- 
 pointment it would be ! ' 
 
 IV 
 
 At five in the morning Geoffrey was left alone. The 
 night's play was over. He turned back the curtains 
 and opened the windows, letting in the fresh morning 
 air of April. He leaned out and took a deep breath. 
 Then he returned to the room. The table was littered 
 with packs of cards. There was a smell of a thousand 
 cigarettes. It is an acrid smell, not like the honest 
 downright smell of pipes and cigars ; the board was 
 covered with empty soda-water and champagne bottles. 
 
 * The Professional Pursuer of Pleasure,' he mur- 
 mured. ' It's a learned profession, I suppose. Quite 
 a close profession. Very costly to get into, and 
 beastly stupid and dull when you are in it. A learned 
 profession, certainly.' 
 
 He sat down, and his thoughts returned to the 
 girl who had made for herself a Prince. ' Her Prince ! ' 
 he said bitterly. And then the words came back to 
 him — 
 
 ' Daring some great thing, 
 I know not what, save that it is the best : 
 Somewhere you saw him— saw my Prince and King.' 
 
 ' For one short night I was her Prince and King,' 
 he murmured. 'And I sent her the slipper— was 
 stone-broke a whole term after through buying that 
 slipper. And after all I was afraid to call at the 
 house. Her Prince and King. I wonder ' He 
 
TlIK SHRINKING SlIOK I 55 
 
 looked about him again— looked at the empty bottles. 
 ' What a Prince and King ! ' he laughed bitterly. 
 
 Then he sprang to his feet ; he opened a drawer 
 and took from it a bundle of letters, photographs, 
 cards of invitation which were lying there piled up in 
 confusion. He threw these on the fire in a heap ; he 
 opened another drawer and pulled out another bundle 
 of notes and papers. These also he threw on the fire. 
 ' There ! ' he said resolutely. What he meant I know 
 not, for he did not wait to see them burned, but went 
 into his bedroom and so to bed. 
 
 V 
 
 Geoffrey spoke no more than the simple truth when 
 he said that Katie De Lisle had a saintly face— the 
 face of an angel. It was a lovely face when he first 
 saw it— the face of a girl passing into womanhood. 
 Five years of tranquil life, undisturbed by strong 
 emotions, devoted to unselfish labours and to medita- 
 tion, had now made that face saintly indeed. It was 
 true that she had created for herself a Prince, one who 
 was at once a Galahad of romance and a leader of the 
 present day, chivalrous knight and Paladin of Parlia- 
 ment. What she did with her Prince I do not know. 
 Whether she thought of him continually or only 
 seldom, whether she beheved in him or only hoped for 
 him, no one can tell. When a man proposed to her — 
 which happened whenever a man was presented to her 
 —she refused him graciously, and told her sisters, 
 who were now matrons, that another person had come 
 representing himself to be the Prince, but that she 
 had detected an impostor, for he was not the Prince. 
 
156 
 
 THE SHEINKING SHOE 
 
 And it really seemed as if she never would find this 
 impossible Prince, which was a great pity, if only be- 
 cause she had a very little income, and the Elder 
 Sisters, who lived in great houses, desired her also to 
 have a great house. Of course, every Prince who 
 regards his own dignity must have a big house of his 
 own. 
 
 Now, one afternoon in April, when the sun sets 
 about a quarter-past seven and it is light until eight, 
 Katie was sitting on one of the benches placed on the 
 shore for the convenience of the convalescents, two or 
 three of whom were strolling along the shore. The 
 sun was getting low ; a warmth and glow^ lay upon 
 the bay like an illuminated mist. Katie had a book 
 in her hand, but she let it drop into her lap, and sat 
 watching the beauty and the splendour and the colour 
 of the scene before her. Then there came, rounding 
 the southern headland, a steam yacht, which slowly 
 crept into the bay, and dropped anchor and let off 
 steam : a graceful little craft, with her slender spars 
 and her dainty curves. The girl watched with a little 
 interest. Not often did craft of any kind put into 
 that bay. There were bays to the east and bays to 
 the west, where ships, boats, fishing smacks, and all 
 kind of craft put in ; but not in that bay, where there 
 was no quay, or port, or anything but the convalescents, 
 and Katie the volunteer nurse. So she watched, sit- 
 ting on the bench, with the western sun falling upon 
 her face. 
 
 After a little a boat was lowered, and a man and 
 a boy got into it. The boy took the sculls and rowed 
 the man ashore. The man jumped out, stood irreso- 
 lutely looking about him, observed Katie on the bench, 
 
THE SimiNKING SHOE 
 
 157 
 
 looked at her rather riulcly it seemed, and walked 
 
 quickly towards her. What made her face turn pale ? 
 
 What made her cheek turn red and pale ? Nothing 
 
 less than the appearance of her Prince— her Prince. 
 
 She knew him at once. Her Prince ! It was her 
 
 Prince come to her at last. 
 
 But the Prince did not hold out hoth hands and 
 
 cry, 'I have come.' Not at all. He gravely and 
 
 politely took off his hat. ' Miss De Lisle,' he said. 
 
 ' I cannot hope that you rememher me. I only met 
 
 you once. But I— I heard that you were here, and I 
 
 remembered your face at once.' 
 
 ' I seldom forget people,' she replied, rising and 
 
 giving him her hand. ' You are Mr. Geoffrey Armiger. 
 
 We danced together one night. I remember it 
 
 especially, because it was my first ball.' 
 
 ' Which you nearly missed, and were left at home 
 
 like Cinderella, till the fairy godmother came. I— I 
 am cruising about here. I learned that you were 
 
 living here from your cousin in the Temple, and— and 
 I thought that, if we put in here, I might, perhaps, 
 venture to call.' 
 
 * Certainly. I shall be very glad to see you, Mr. 
 Armiger. It is seven o'clock now. Will you come to 
 tea to-morrow afternoon ? ' 
 
 ' With the greatest pleasure. May I walk with 
 you — in your direction ? ' 
 
 The situation was delicate. What Geoffrey wanted 
 to convey was this : ' You once received the confidences 
 of a young man who hoped to do great things in the 
 world. You have gone on believing that he would do 
 great things. You have built up an ideal man, before 
 whom all other men are small creatures. Well, that 
 
I5S 
 
 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 ideal must be totally disconnected with the young 
 fellow who started it, because he has gone to the bad. 
 He is only a Professor of Amusement, an idle killer 
 of time, a man who wastes all his gifts and powers.' 
 A difficult thing to say, because it involved charging 
 the girl with, or telling her he knew that she had been, 
 actually thinking of him for five years. 
 
 That evening he got very little way. He reminded 
 her again of the ball. He said that she had altered 
 very little, which was true ; for at twenty- two Katie 
 preserved much the same ethereal beauty that she 
 had at seventeen. That done, his jaws stuck, to use 
 a classical phrase. He could say no more. He left 
 her at the door of her cottage, — she lived in a cottage 
 in the midst of tree fuchsias and covered with roses, 
 — and went back to his yacht, where he had a solitary 
 dinner and passed a morose evening. 
 
 At five o'clock in the afternoon next day he called 
 again. Miss De Lisle was at the Home, but would 
 come back immediately. The books on the girl's 
 table betrayed the character of her mind. Katie's 
 books showed the level of her thoughts and the standard 
 of her ideals. They were the books of a girl who 
 meditates. There are such people, even in this busy 
 and noisy age. Geoffrey took them up with a sinking 
 heart. Professors of Amusement never read such 
 books. 
 
 Then she came in, quiet, serene ; and they sat 
 down, and the tea was brought in. 
 
 ' Now, tell me,' she said abruptly. ' I see by your 
 card that you have a title. What did you do to get 
 it?' 
 
 ' Nothing. I succeeded.' 
 
THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 * Oh ! ' Her face fell a little. ' When I saw you 
 —the only time that I saw you— I remember that you 
 had great ambitions. What have you done ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing. Nothing at all. I have wasted my 
 time. I have lived a life of what they call pleasure. 
 I don't know that I ought to have called upon you at 
 all.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? Oh ! Can it be possible ? Only 
 a life of pleasure ? And you— you with your noble 
 dreams ? Oh ! Is it possible ? ' 
 
 'It is possible. It is quite true. I am the 
 prodigal son, who has so much money that he cannot 
 get through it. But do you remember the silly 
 things I said ? Why, you see, what happened was, 
 that when the temptation came all the noble dream 
 vanished.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? ' she repeated. ' Oh ! I am so 
 very, very sorry ! ' — in fact, the tears came into her 
 eyes. *You have destroyed the one illusion that I 
 nourished.' Every one thinks that he has only one 
 illusion and a clear eye for everything else. That is 
 the Great, the Merciful, Illusion. 'I thought that 
 there was one true man at least in the world, fighting 
 for the right. I had been honoured as a girl with the 
 noble ambitions of that man when he was quite young. 
 I thought I should hear of him from time to time 
 winning recognition, power, and authority. It was a 
 beautiful dream. It made me feel almost as if I were 
 myself taking part in that great career, even from this 
 obscure corner in the country. No one knows the 
 pleasure that a woman has in watching the career 
 of a brave and wise man. And now it is gone. 
 I am sorry you called,'— her voice became stony 
 
i6o 
 
 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 and her eyes hard : even an angel or a saint has 
 moments of righteous indignation, — ' I am very sorry, 
 Sir Geoffrey Armiger, that you took the trouble to 
 call.' 
 
 Her visitor rose. ' I am also very sorry,' he said, 
 * that I have said or done anything to pain you. 
 Forgive me : I will go.' 
 
 But he lingered. He took up a paper-knife, and 
 considered it as if it were something rare and curious. 
 He laid it down. Then he laughed a little short 
 laugh, and turned to Katie with smiling lips and 
 solemn eyes. 
 
 ' Did that slipper fit ? ' he asked, abruptly. 
 
 She blushed. But she answered him. 
 
 ' It was too small for my Elder Sisters, but it fitted 
 me.' 
 
 ' Will you try it on again ? ' 
 
 She went out of the room and presently returned 
 with the pretty, jewelled, little slipper. She took off 
 her shoe, sat down, and tried it on. 
 
 * You see,' she said, ' it is now too small for my 
 foot. Oh ! my foot has not changed in the least. It 
 has grown too small.' 
 
 *Try again.' The Prince looked on anxiously. 
 ' Perhaps, with a little effort, a little goodwill ' 
 
 ' No ; it is quite hopeless. The slipper has shrunk ; 
 you can see for yourself, if you remember what it 
 was hke when you bought it. See, it is ever so much 
 smaller than it was, Sir Geoffrey.' She looked up, 
 gravely. ' See for yourself. And the silver buckle is 
 black, and even the pearls are tarnished. See ! ' 
 There was a world of meaning in her words. ' Think 
 what it was five years ago.' 
 
THE SimiNKING SHOE 
 
 i6i 
 
 He took it from her hand and turned it round and 
 round disconsolately. 
 
 * You remember it — five years ago — when it was 
 new ? ' the girl asked again. 
 
 *I remember. Oh! yes, I remember. A pretty 
 thing it was then, wasn't it ? A world of promise in 
 it, I remember. Hope, and courage, and — and all 
 kinds of possibilities. Pity — silver gone black, pearls 
 tarnished, colour faded, the thing itself shrunken. 
 Yes.' He gave it back to her. ' I'm glad you've 
 kept it.' 
 
 * Of course I kept it.' 
 
 * Yes, of course. Will you go on keeping it ? ' 
 
 'I think so. One likes to remember a time of 
 promise, and of hope, and courage, and, as you say, 
 all kinds of possibilities.' 
 
 He sighed. 
 
 * Slippers are so. There are untold sympathies in 
 slippers. I call this the Oracle of the slipper. Not 
 that I am in the least surprised. I came here, in fact, 
 on purpose to ascertain, if I could, the amount of 
 shrinkage. It would be interesting to return every 
 five years or so, just to see how much it shrinks every 
 year. Next time it would be a doll's shoe, for instance 
 Well, now ' — again he fell back upon the paper-knife — 
 * there was something else I had to say ; something 
 
 else ' He dropped his eyes and examined the 
 
 paper-knife closely. * The other day in your cousin's 
 rooms I saw your photograph ; and I remembered the 
 kind of young fellow I was when we talked about 
 ambitions and you sympathised with me. I think I 
 should like to take up those ambitions again, if it is 
 not too late. I am sick and weary of the Profession 
 
 M 
 
I62 
 
 THE SHRINKING SHOE 
 
 of Pleasure. I have wasted five good years, but 
 perhaps they can be retrieved. Let me, if possible, 
 burnish up that silver, expand the shrinking shoe, 
 renew those dreams.' 
 
 'Do you mean it? Are you strong enough? 
 Oh ! You have fallen so low. Are you strong enough 
 to rise ? ' 
 
 'I don't know. If the event should prove— if 
 that slipper should enlarge again — if it should once 
 more fit your foot ' 
 
 ' If ! Oh ! how can a man say if, when he ought 
 to say sliall ? ' 
 
 ' The slipper shall enlarge,' he said quietly, but 
 with as much determination as one can expect from 
 an Emeritus Professor of Pleasure. 
 
 ' When it does, then come again. Till then, do 
 not, if you please, seek me out in my obscurity. It 
 would only be the final destruction of a renewed hope. 
 Farewell, Sir Geoffrey.' 
 
 ' Au revoir. Not farewell.' 
 
 He stooped and kissed her hand and left her. 
 
i63 
 
 QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 I 
 
 * No,' he cried, passionately. ' You drew me on : you 
 led me to believe that you cared for me : you en- 
 couraged me. What ? Can a girl go on as you have 
 done without meaning anything ? Does a girl allow 
 a man to press her hand — to keep her hand — without 
 meaning anything? Unless these things mean no- 
 thing, you are the most heartless girl in the whole 
 world ; yes — I say the coldest, the most treacherous, 
 the most heartless ! ' It was evening, and moonlight ; 
 a soft and delicious night in September. The waves 
 lapped gently at their feet, the warm breeze played 
 upon their faces, the moon shone upon them — an even- 
 ing wholly unfit for such a royal rage as this young 
 gentleman — two-and -twenty is still young — exhibited. 
 He walked about on the parade, which was deserted, 
 except for this solitary pair, gesticulating, waving his 
 arms, mad with the madness of wounded love. 
 
 She sat on one of the seaside benches, her hands 
 clasped, her head bent, overwhelmed and frightened 
 and remorseful. He went on — he recalled the day 
 when first they met ; he reminded her of the many, 
 many ways in which she had led him on to believe 
 that she cared for him ; he accused her of making him 
 love her in order to laugh at him. When he could 
 
 M 2 
 
1 64 QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 find nothing more to say he flung himself upon the 
 bench, but on the other end of it, and crossed his arms, 
 and dropped his head upon them. So that there 
 were two on the bench : one at either end, and both 
 with their heads dropped— a pretty picture, m the 
 moonhght, of a lovers' quarrel. But this was worse 
 than a lovers' quarrel. It was the end of everythmg, 
 for the girl was engaged to another man. 
 
 She rose. If he had been looking up he would 
 have seen that there were tears in her eyes and on her 
 cheek. 
 
 ' Mr. Fernie,' she stammered, timidly, ' I suppose 
 there is nothing more to say. I am, no doubt, all 
 that you have called me. I am heartless. I have led 
 you on. Well— but I did not know— how could I tell 
 that you were taking things so seriously ? How can 
 you be so angry just because I can't marry you? 
 One girl is no better than another. There are plenty 
 of girls in the world. I thought you liked me, and, I 
 —but what is the use of talking? I am heartless 
 and cold. I am treacherous, and vain, and cruel, 
 and— and— won't you shake hands with me once more, 
 Claude, before we part ? ' 
 
 ' No ! I will never shake hands with you agam; 
 never— never ! By heavens ! nothing that could 
 happen now would ever make me shake hands with 
 you again. I hate you, I loathe you, I shudder at the 
 sight of you, I could not forgive you— never ! You 
 have ruined my life. Shake hands with you ! Who 
 but a heartless and worthless woman could propose 
 such a thing ? ' -, 
 
 She shivered and shook at his wild words, bne 
 could not, as she said, understand the vehemence of 
 
QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 165 
 
 the passion that held the man. He was more than 
 half mad, and she was only half sorry. Forgive the 
 girl. She was only seventeen, just fresh from her 
 governess. She was quite innocent and ignorant. 
 She knew nothing about the reality and the ve- 
 hemence of passion ; she thought that they had been 
 very happy together. Claude, to be sure, was ridicu- 
 lously fond of taking her hand ; once he kissed her 
 head to show the depth of his friendship ; he was such 
 a good companion ; they had had such a pleasant 
 time ; it was a dreadful pity that he should be so 
 angry. Besides, it was not as if she liked the other 
 man, who was old and horrid. 
 
 * Good-bye, then, Claude,' she said. * Perhaps, 
 when we meet again, you will be more ready to forgive 
 me. Oh ! ' she laughed, * it is so silly that a man like 
 you, a great, strong, clever, handsome man, should be 
 so foolish over a girl. Besides, you ought to know 
 that a girl can't have things her own way always. 
 Good-bye, Claude. Won't you shake hands ? ' She 
 laid her hand upon his shoulder ; just touched it ; 
 turned — and fled. 
 
 II 
 
 She had not far to go. The villa where she lived was 
 within live minutes' walk. She ran in and found her 
 mother alone in the drawing-room. 
 
 ' My dear,' the mother said irritably, * I wish to 
 goodness you wouldn't run out after dinner. Where 
 have you been ? ' 
 
 * Only into the garden, and to look at the sea.' 
 ' There's Sir William in the dining-room still.' 
 
 * Let him stay there, mother dear. He'll drink up 
 
1 66 QUAEANTINE ISLAND 
 
 all the wine and go to sleep, perhaps, and then we 
 shall be rid of him.' 
 
 ' Go in, Florence, and bring him out. It isn't good 
 for him, at his age, to drink so much.' 
 
 ' Let the servants go,' the girl replied, rebellious. 
 
 ' My dear — your own accepted lover. Have you 
 no right feeling ? Oh ! Florence, and when I am so 
 ill, and you know — I told you ' 
 
 * A woman should not marry her grandfather. 
 I've had more than enough of him to-day already. 
 You made me promise to marry him. Until I do 
 marry him he may amuse himself. As soon as we 
 are married, I shall fill up all the decanters, and keep 
 them full, and encourage him to drink as much as 
 ever he possibly can.' 
 
 * My dear, are you mad ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! no ; I beheve I have only just come to my 
 senses. Mad ? No. I have been mad. Now, when 
 it is too late, I am sane. When it is too late— when 
 I have just understood what I have done.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, child ! What do you mean by being 
 too late ? Besides, you are doing what every girl does. 
 You have accepted the hand of an old man who can 
 give you a fine position, and a great income, and 
 every kind of luxury. What more can a girl desire ? 
 When I die— you know already— there will be nothing 
 —nothing at all for you. Marriage is your only 
 chance.' 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Sir William 
 himself appeared. He was not, although a man so 
 rich and therefore so desirable, quite a nice old man 
 to look at ; not quite such an old man as a girl would 
 fall in love with at first sight ; but, perhaps, under the 
 
QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 167 
 
 surface there lay unsuspected virtues by the dozen. 
 He was short and fat ; his hair was white ; his face 
 was red ; he had great white eyebrows ; he had thick 
 lips ; his eyes rolled unsteadily, and his shoulders 
 lurched ; he had taken much more wine than is good 
 for a man of seventy. 
 
 He held out both hands and lurched forwards. 
 ' Florenshe,' he said, thickly, ' let's sit down together 
 somewhere. Letsh talk, my dear.' 
 
 The girl slipped from the proffered hands and fled 
 from the room. 
 
 ' Whatsh matter with the girl ? ' said Sir 
 William. 
 
 ni 
 
 Out at sea— all by itself — somewhere about thirty 
 miles from a certain good-sized island in a certain 
 ocean, there hes another little island— an eyot— about 
 a mile long and half a mile broad. It is a coral 
 islet. The coral reef stretches out all round it, except 
 in one or two places where the rock shelves suddenly, 
 making it possible for a ship to anchor there. The 
 islet is flat, but all round it runs a kind of natural 
 sea wall, about ten feet high and as many broad ; 
 behind it, on the side which the wall protects from 
 the prevailing wind, is a little grove of low, stunted 
 trees, the name and kind of which the successive 
 tenants of the island have never been curious to as- 
 certain, I am, therefore, unable to tell you what they 
 are. The area protected by the sea wall, as low as the 
 sea level, was covered all over with long, rank grass. 
 At the north end of the islet a curious round rock, 
 exactly like a martello tower, but rather higher, rose 
 
i68 
 
 QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 out of the water, separated from the sea wall by 
 twenty or thirty feet of deep water, dark blue, trans- 
 parent ; sometimes rolling and rushing and tearing 
 at the sides of the rock, sometimes gently lifting the 
 sea-weed that clung to the sides. Bound the top of 
 the rock flew, screaming all the year round, the sea 
 birds. Far away on the horizon, Hke a blue cloud, 
 one could see land ; it was the larger island to which 
 this place belonged. At the south end was a light- 
 house, built just like all hghthouses, with low, white 
 buildings at its foot, and a flagstaff, and an enclosure, 
 which was a feeble attempt at a flower garden. You 
 may see a hghthouse exactly like it at Broadstairs. 
 In fact it is a British Hghthouse. Half a mile from 
 the lighthouse, where the sea wall broadened into a 
 wide level space, there was a wooden house of four 
 rooms — dining-room, salon, and two bedrooms. It 
 was a low house, provided with a verandah on either 
 side. The windows had no glass in them, but there 
 were thick shutters in case of hurricanes. There 
 were doors to the rooms, but they were never shut. 
 Nothing was shut, or locked up, or protected. On the 
 inner, or land, side there was a garden in which roses 
 — a small red rose — grew in quantities, and a few 
 English flowers. The Elephant Creeper, with its 
 immense leaves, clambered up the verandah poles and 
 over the roof. There was a small plot of ground 
 planted with pine apples, and a solitary banana tree 
 stood under the protection of the house, its leaves 
 blown to shreds, its head bowed down. 
 
 Beyond the garden was a collection of three or 
 four huts, where lived the Indian servants and their 
 families. 
 
QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 The residents of this retreat— this secluded 
 earthly paradise— were these Indian servants with 
 their wives and children; the three lighthouse 
 men, who messed together ; and the captain, 
 governor, or commander-in-chief, who lived in the 
 house all by himself, because he had no wife or 
 
 family. •, . • i i • 
 
 Now, the remarkable thing about this island is 
 that, although it is so far from any other inhabited 
 place, and although it is so small, the human occu- 
 pants number many thousands. With the exception 
 of the people above-named, these thousands want 
 nothing : neither the Hght of the day nor the warmth 
 of the sun ; neither food nor drink. They lie side 
 by side under the rank grass, without headstones or 
 even graves to mark their place ; without a register or 
 record of their departure ; without even coffins ! 
 There they lie— sailors, soldiers, coolies, negroes- 
 forgotten and lost, as much as if they had never been 
 born. And if their work lives after them, nobody 
 knows what that work is. They belong to the vast 
 army of the Anonymous. Poor Anonymous ! They 
 do all the work. They grow our corn and breed our 
 sheep ; they make and mend for us. They build up 
 our lives for us. We never know them, nor thank 
 them, nor think of them. All over the world, they 
 work for their far-off brethren ; and when one dies, 
 we know not, because another takes his place. And 
 at the last a mound of green grass, or even nothing 
 but an undistinguished strip of ground ! 
 
 Here lay, side by side, the Anonymous— thousands 
 of them. Did I say they were forgotten ? Not quite ; 
 they are remembered by the two or three Indian 
 
QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 women, wives of the Indian servants, who live there. 
 At sunset they and their children retreat to their huts, 
 and stay in them till sunrise next morning. They 
 dare not so much as look outside the door, because 
 the place is crowded with white, shivering, sheeted 
 ghosts ! Speak to one of these women : she will 
 point out to you, trembling, one — two — half a dozen 
 ghosts. It is true that the dull eye of the English- 
 man can see nothing. She sees them — distinguishes 
 them one from the other. She can see them every 
 night ; yet she can never overcome her terror. 
 The governor, or captain, or commander-in-chief, 
 for his part sees nothing. He sleeps in his house 
 quite alone, with his cat and his dog, windows and 
 doors wide open, and has no fear of any ghosts. If 
 he felt any fear, of course, he would be surrounded 
 and pestered to death every night with multitudes of 
 ghosts. But he fears nothing. He is a doctor, 
 you see ; and no doctor ever yet was afraid of ghosts. 
 
 How did they come here — this huge regiment of 
 dead men ? In several ways. Cholera accounts for 
 most ; yellow fever for some ; other fevers for some ; 
 but for most cholera has been the destroyer. 
 Because, you see, this is Quarantine Island. If a 
 ship , has cholera or any other infectious disease on 
 board, it cannot touch at the island close by, which 
 is a great place for trade, and has every year a quan- 
 tity of ships calling ; the infected ship has to betake 
 herself to Quarantine Island, where her people are 
 landed, and where they stay until she has a clear bill ; 
 and that, sometimes, is not until the greater part of 
 her people have changed their berths on board for 
 permanent lodgings ashore. Now you understand. 
 
QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 171 
 
 The place is a great cemetery. It lies under the hot 
 sun of the tropics. The sky is always hlue ; the sun 
 is always hot. It is girdled by the sea. It is always 
 silent, for the Indian children do not laugh or shout, 
 and the Indian women are too much awed by the 
 presence of the dead to wrangle— always silent, save 
 for the crying of the sea-birds on the rock. There 
 are no letters, no newspapers, no friends, no duties— 
 none, save when a ship puts in, and then, for the 
 doctor, fareweU rest, farewell sleep, until the bill of 
 health is clean. Once a fortnight or so, if the weather 
 permits, and if the communications are open— that 
 is, if there is no ship there— a boat arrives from 
 the big island with rations, and letters, and 
 supplies. Sometimes a visitor comes, but not often, 
 because, should an infected ship put in, he would have 
 to stay as long as the ship. A quiet, peaceful, mono- 
 tonous life for one who is weary of the world, or for a 
 hermit ; and as good as the top of a pihar for silence 
 and for meditation. 
 
 lY 
 
 The islet lay all night long in much the same 
 silence which lapped and wrapped it all the day. 
 The water washed musically upon the shore : the 
 light in the hghthouse flashed at intervals— there 
 was no other sign of life. Towards six o'clock in the 
 morning the dark east grew grey ; thin, long, white 
 rays shot out across the sky, and then the light began 
 to spread. Before the grey turned to pink, or the 
 pink to crimson ; before there was any corresponding 
 glow in the western sky, the man who occupied the 
 bungalow turned out of bed, and came forth to the 
 
172 QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 verandah clad in the silk pyjamas and silk jacket, 
 which formed the evening, or dress suit, in which he 
 slept. The increasing light showed that he was a 
 young man still, perhaps about thirty— a young man 
 with a strong and resolute face, and a square forehead. 
 He stood under the verandah \Vatching, as he had done 
 every day for two years and more, the break of day 
 and the sunrise. He drank in the dehcious breeze, 
 cooled by a thousand miles and more of ocean. No 
 one knows the freshness and sweetness of the air 
 until he has so stood in the open and watched the 
 dawn of a day in the tropics. He went back to the 
 house and came out again clad in a rough suit of 
 tweeds and a helmet. His servant was waiting for 
 him with his morning tea. He drank it, and salhed 
 forth. By this time the shortlived splendour of the 
 East was fast broadening to right and left, until it 
 stretched from pole to pole. Suddenly the sun leaped 
 up, and the colours fled and the splendour vanished. 
 The sky became all over a deep, clear blue, and round 
 and about the sun was a brightness which no eye but 
 that of the sea bird can face and live. The man in 
 the helmet turned to the seashore, and walked briskly 
 along the natural mound, or sea wall. Now and then 
 he stepped down upon the white coral sand, picked up 
 a shell, looked at it, and threw it away. When he 
 came to the Sea Birds' Kock he sat down, and watched 
 it. In the deep water below sea snakes, red and purple 
 and green, were playing about ; the blue fish, who are 
 not in the least afraid of the snakes, rolled lazily round 
 and round the rock ; in the recesses lurked unseen the 
 great conger eel, which dreads nothing but the Thing 
 of long and horny tentacles, the ourite or squid ; round 
 
QUARANTINE ISIANl) 173 
 
 and round the rock darted the humorous tazar, which 
 bites the bathers in shallow waters all for fun and mis- 
 chief, and with no desire at all to eat their flesh ; and 
 besides these a thousand curious creatures, which this 
 man, who had trained his eyes by days and days of 
 watching, came here every day to look at. Whde he 
 stood there the sea birds took no manner of notice of him, 
 flying close about him, hghting on the shore close at his 
 feet. They were intelligent enough to know that he was 
 only dangerous with a gun in his hand. Presently he 
 got up and continued his walk. Ml round the sea wall 
 of the island measures about three miles. He took this 
 walk every morning and every evening in the early cool 
 and the late. The rest of the time he spent indoors. 
 
 When he got back it was nearly seven, and the day 
 was growing hot. He took his towels, went down to 
 the shore, to a place where the coral reef receded, 
 leaving achannel out to the open. Thechannel swarmed 
 with sharks, but he bathed there every mormng, keep- 
 ing in the shallow water while the creatures watched 
 him from the depths beyond with longmg eyes. He 
 wore a pair of shppers, on account of the laf, which is 
 a very pretty little fish indeed to look at, but he lurks 
 in dark places near the shore, and he is too lazy to 
 get out of the way, and if you put your foot near him, 
 hesticksouthis dorsalfin, which is prickly and poisoned, 
 and when a man gets that into the sole of his foot he 
 goes home and cuts his leg off, and has to pretend that 
 
 he lost it in action. , , i • 
 
 When he had bathed, the doctor went back to his 
 house, and performed some simple additions to his 
 toilette. That is to say, he washed the salt water out 
 of his hair and beard-not much else. As to collars 
 
174 
 
 QUAEANTINE ISLAND 
 
 neckties, braces, waistcoats, black coats, rings, or any 
 such gewgaws, they were not wanted on this island. 
 Nor are watches and clocks ; the residents go by the 
 sun. The doctor got up at daybreak, and took his 
 walk, as you have seen, and his bath. He was then 
 ready for his breakfast, and for a solid meal, in which 
 fresh fish, newly caught that morning, and curried 
 chicken, with claret and water, formed the prin- 
 cipal part. A cup of coffee came after, with a cigar 
 and a book on the verandah. By this time the sun 
 was high, and the glare of forenoon had succeeded the 
 coolness of the dawn. After the cigar the doctor went 
 indoors. The room was furnished with a few pictures, 
 a large bookcase full of books, chiefly medical, a table 
 covered with papers, and two or three chairs. No 
 curtains, carpets, or blinds ; the doors and windows 
 wide open to the verandah on both sides. 
 
 He sat down and began writing — perhaps he was 
 writing a novel. I think no one could think of a more 
 secluded place for writing a novel. Perhaps he was doing 
 something scientific. He continued writing till past 
 midday. When he felt hungry he went into the dining- 
 room, took a biscuit or two and a glass of vermouth. 
 Then, because it was now the hour for repose, and 
 because the air outside was hot, and the sea breeze had 
 dropped to a dead calm, and the sun was like a red^iot 
 glaring furnace over head, the doctor kicked off his boots, 
 threw off his coat, lay down on a grass mat under the 
 mosquito curtain, and instantly fell fast asleep. About 
 five o'clock he awoke and got up ; the heat of the day 
 was over ; he took a long draught of cold tea, which is 
 the most refreshing and the coolest drink in the world. 
 The sun was now getting low, and the air was growing 
 
QUARANTINE ISLAND 175 
 
 cool. He put on his helmet, and set off again to walk 
 round his domain. This done, he hathed again. Then 
 he went home as the sun sank, and night fell instantly 
 without the intervention of twilight. They served him 
 dinner, which was like his hreakfast, but for the addi- 
 tion of some cutlets. He took his coffee, he took a pipe 
 —two pipes, slowly, with a book — he took a whisky 
 and soda— and he went to bed. I have said that he had 
 no watch — it hung idly on a nail — therefore he knew 
 not the time, but it would very likely be about half-past 
 nine. However that might be, he was the last person 
 up in this ghostly Island of the Anonymous Dead. 
 
 This doctor, Captain-General and Commandant of 
 Quarantine Island, was none other than the young 
 man who began this history with a row royal and a 
 kingly rage. You think, perhaps, that he had turned 
 hermit in the bitterness of his wrath, and for the 
 faults of one simple girl had resolved on the life of a 
 solitary. Nothing of the kind. He was an army 
 doctor, and he left the service in order to take this 
 very eligible appointment, where one lived free, and 
 could spend nothing except a little for claret. He 
 proposed to stay there for a few years in order to make 
 a little money, by means of which he might become a 
 specialist. This was his ambition. As for that love 
 business, seven years past, he had clean forgotten it, 
 girl and all. Perhaps there had been other tender 
 passages. Shall a man, wasting in despair, die because 
 a girl throws him over ? Never ! Let him straightway 
 forget her. Let him tackle his work, let him put off 
 the business of love — which can always wait — until he 
 can approach it once more in the proper spirit of illu- 
 sion, and once more fall to worshipping an angel. 
 
176 
 
 QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 V 
 
 Neithee nature nor civilisation ever designed a man's 
 life to be spent in monotony. Most of us have to 
 work for our daily bread, whicb is always an episode, 
 and sometimes a pretty dismal episode, to break and 
 mark the day. One day there came such a break in 
 the monotonous round of the doctor's hfe. It came 
 in the shape of a ship. She was a large steamer, and 
 she steamed slowly. 
 
 It was early in the morning, before breakfast. 
 The doctor and one of the lighthouse men stood on 
 the landing-place watching her. 
 
 ' She's in quarantine, doctor, sure as sure,' said 
 the man. ' I wonder what's she's got. Fever, for 
 choice. Cholera, more likely. Well, we take our 
 chance.' 
 
 ' She's been in bad weather,' said the doctor, 
 looking at her through his glass. ' Look, she's lost 
 her mizzen, and her bows are stove in. I wonder 
 what's the meaning of it. She's a transport.' She 
 drew nearer. ' Troops ! Well, I'd rather have 
 soldiers than coolies.' 
 
 She was a transport. She was full of soldiers, 
 time-expired men and invalids going home. She was 
 bound from Calcutta to Portsmouth. She had met 
 with a cyclone ; driven out of her course and battered, 
 she was making for the nearest port when cholera 
 broke out on board. 
 
 Before nightfall the island was dotted with white 
 tents ; a hospital was rigged up with the help of the 
 ship's spars and canvas. The men were all ashore, 
 and the quarantine doctor, with the ship's doctor, was 
 
QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 '11 
 
 hard at work among the cases, and the men were 
 dropping in every direction. 
 
 Among the passengers were a dozen ladies and 
 some children. The doctor gave up his house to 
 them, and retired to a tent, or to the hghthouse, or 
 anywhere to sleep. Much sleep could not be expected 
 for some time to come. He saw the boat land with 
 the ladies on board ; he took off his hat as they 
 walked past. There were old ladies, middle-aged 
 ladies, young ladies. Well, there always is this 
 combination. Then he went on with his work. But 
 he had a curious sensation, as if something of the past 
 had been revived in his mind. It is, however, not an 
 uncommon feeling. And one of the ladies changed 
 colour when she saw him. 
 
 Then began the struggle for life. No more mono- 
 tony in Quarantine Island. Eight and left, all day 
 long, the men fell one after the other ; day after day 
 more men fell, more men died. The two doctors 
 quickly organised their staff. The ship's officers 
 became clinical clerks, some of the ladies became 
 nurses. And the men, the rough soldiers, sat about 
 in their tents with pale faces, expecting. Of those 
 ladies who worked there was one — who never seemed 
 weary, never wanted rest, never asked for relief. She 
 was at work all day and all night in the hospital ; if 
 she went out it was only to cheer up the men outside. 
 The doctor was but conscious of her work and of her 
 presence, he never spoke to her ; when he came to the 
 hospital another nurse received him ; if he passed her 
 she seemed always to turn away. At a less troubled 
 time he would have observed this. At times he felt 
 again that odd sensation of a recovered past, but he 
 
 N 
 
178 QUAEANTINE ISLAND 
 
 regarded it not— he had other things to consider. 
 There is no time more terrible for the courage of the 
 stoutest man than a time of cholera on board ship or 
 in a little place whence there is no escape ; no time 
 worse for a physician than one when his science is 
 mocked and his skill avails nothing. Day after day 
 the doctor fought from morning till night and far on 
 to the morning again ; day after day new graves were 
 dug ; day after day the chaplain read over the new- 
 made graves the service of the dead for the gallant 
 lads who thus died, inglorious, for their country. 
 
 There came a time, at last, when the conqueror 
 seemed tired of conquest. He ceased to strike. The 
 fury of the disease spent itself ; the cases happened 
 singly, one or two a day, instead of ten or twenty ; 
 the sick began to recover, they began to look about 
 them. The single cases ceased ; the pestilence was 
 stayed ; and they sat down to count the cost. There 
 had been on board the transport three hundred and 
 seventy-five m.en, thirty-two officers, half a dozen 
 ladies, a few children, and the ship's crew. Twelve 
 officers, two of the ladies, and a hundred men had 
 perished when the plague abated. 
 * One of your nurses is ill, doctor.' 
 ' Not cholera, I do hope.' 
 
 ' No, I believe a kind of collapse. She is at the 
 bungalow. I told them I would send you over.' 
 ' I will go at once.' 
 
 He left a few directions and walked over to the 
 house. It was, he found, the nurse who had been of 
 all the most useful and the most active. She was 
 now lying hot and feverish, her mind wandering, 
 inclined to ramble in her talk. He laid his hand 
 
QUARANTINE LSJ.ANI) 
 
 179 
 
 upon her temples ; he felt her pulse ; he looked upon 
 lier face ; the odd feeling of something famihar 
 struck him again. ' I don't think it is very much,' 
 he said. ' A little fever. She may have been in the 
 sun ; she has been working too hard ; her strength 
 has given way.' He still held her wrist. 
 
 * Claude,' murmured the sick girl, ' you are very 
 cruel. I didn't know — and a girl cannot always have 
 her own way.' 
 
 Then he recognised her. 
 
 * Good Heavens ! ' he cried, * it is Florence ! ' 
 
 * Not always have her own way,' she repeated. * If 
 I could have my own way, do you think Iwould ? ' 
 
 ' Florence,' he said again, ' and I did not even 
 recognise her. Strange ! ' 
 
 Another of the ladies, the colonel's wife, was 
 standing beside him. 
 
 * You know her, doctor ? ' 
 
 'I knew her a long time ago— some years ago — 
 before she married.' 
 
 ' Married ? Florence is not married. You must 
 be thinking of someone else.' 
 
 ' No. This is Florence Vernon, is it not ? Yes. 
 Then she was formerly engaged to marry a certain Sir 
 William Duport.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I believe there was some talk about an old 
 man who wanted to marry her. But she wouldn't 
 have him. It w^as just before her mother died. Did 
 you know her mother ? ' 
 
 ' I knew her mother a little when they were living 
 at Eastbourne. So she refused the old man, did 
 she ? and has remained unmarried. Curious ! I had 
 almost forgotten her. The sight of her brings back 
 
 N 2 
 
l8o QUAEANTINE ISLAND 
 
 the old days. Well, after she has pulled so gallantly 
 through the cholera, we cannot have her beaten by 
 a little fever. Eefused the old man, did she ? ' 
 
 In the dead of night he sat watching by the 
 bedside, the colonel's wife with him. 
 
 ' I had almost forgotten,' whispered the lady, ' that 
 story of the old baronet. She told me about it once. 
 Her mother was ill and anxious about her daughter, 
 because she had next to nothing, except an annuity. 
 The old man offered ; he was an unpleasant old man ; 
 but there was a fine house and everything ; it was 
 all arranged. The girl was quite a child, and under- 
 stood nothing. She was to be sold, in fact, to this old 
 person, who ought to have been thinking of his latter 
 end, instead of a pretty girl. Then the mother died 
 suddenly, and the girl broke it off. She was a clever 
 girl, and she has been teaching. For the last three 
 years she has been in India, now she is going home 
 under my charge. She is a brave girl, doctor, and 
 a good girl. She has received half a dozen offers, 
 but she has refused them all. So I think there must 
 be somebody at home.' 
 
 ' Claude,' murmured the girl, wandering, ' I never 
 thought you would care so much. If I had thought 
 so I would not have encouraged you. Indeed, 
 indeed, I would not. I thought we were only amus- 
 ing ourselves.' 
 
 ' Claude is a pretty name. What is your own 
 Christian name, doctor ? ' asked the colonel's wife, 
 curiously. 
 
 ' It is— in fact —it is— Claude,' he replied blushing ; 
 but there was not enough light to see his blushes. 
 ' Dear mo ! ' said the colonel's wife. 
 
QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 l8l 
 
 VI 
 
 A FEW days later the patient, able to sit for a while in 
 the shade of the verandah, was lying in a long cane 
 chair. Beside her sat the colonel's wife, who had 
 nursed her through the attack. She was reading 
 aloud to her. Suddenly she stopped. ' Here comes 
 the doctor,' she said, 'and, Florence, my dear, his 
 name, you know, is Claude. I think you have got 
 something to talk about with Claude besides the 
 symptoms.' "With these words she laughed, nodded 
 her head, and ran into the salon. 
 
 The verandah, with its green blinds of cane hang- 
 ing down, and its matting on the floor, and its easy- 
 chairs and tables, made a pretty room to look at. In 
 the twiHght the fragile figure, pale, thin, dressed in 
 white, would have lent interest even to a stranger. 
 To the doctor, I suppose, it was only a ' case.' He 
 pushed the blinds aside and stepped in, strong, big, 
 masterful. 'You are much better,' he said; 'you 
 will very soon be able to walk about. Only be careful 
 for a few days. It was lucky that the attack came 
 when it did, and not a little earlier, when we were in 
 the thick of the trouble. Well, you won't want me 
 much longer, I believe.' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' she murmured, without raising 
 her eyes. 
 
 'I have had no opportunity,' he said, standing 
 over her, ' of explaining that I really did not know 
 who you were. Miss Vernon. Somehow, I didn't see 
 your face, or I was thinking of other things ; I 
 suppose you had forgotten me ; anyhow, it was not 
 until the other day, when I was called in, that I 
 
l82 
 
 QUARANTINE ISLAND 
 
 remembered. But I daresay you have forgotten 
 me.' 
 
 ' No ; I have not forgotten.' 
 
 ' I thought that long ago you had become Lady 
 Duport.' 
 
 * No, that did not take place.' 
 
 ' I hear that you have been teaching since your 
 mother's death. Do you like it ? ' 
 ' Yes, I like it.' 
 
 * Do you remember the last time we met — on the 
 seashore— do you remember, Florence ? ' His voice 
 softened suddenly. 'We had a quarrel about that 
 old villain — do you remember ? ' 
 
 ' I thought you had forgotten such a little thing 
 as that long ago, and the girl you quarrelled with.' 
 
 'The point is rather whether you remember. 
 That is of much more importance.' 
 
 * I remember that you swore that you would never 
 forgive a worthless girl who had ruined your life. 
 Did I ruin your life, Doctor Fernie ? ' 
 
 He laughed. He could not honestly say that she 
 had. In fact, his Hfe, so far as concerned his work, 
 had gone on much about the same. But, then, such 
 a man does not allow love to interfere with his 
 career. 
 
 « And then you went and threw over the old man. 
 Florence, why didn't you tell me that you were going 
 to do that ? You might have told me.' 
 
 She shook her head. ' Until you fell into such a 
 rage, and called me such dreadful names, I did not 
 understand.' 
 
 ' Why didn't you tell me, Florence ? ' he 
 repeated. 
 
QUARANTINI^: ISLAND 
 
 183 
 
 She shook her head again. 
 
 ' You were only a httle innocent, ignorant child 
 then,' he said ; ' of course you could not understand. 
 I was an ass and a brute and a fool not to know.' 
 
 ' You said you would never forgive me.^ You said 
 you would never shake hands with me again.' 
 
 He held out his hand. * Since,' he said, ' you are 
 not going to marry the old man, and since you are 
 not engaged to anybody else, why— then— in that 
 case— the old state of things is still going on— and— 
 and— Florence— but if you give me your hand, I shall 
 keep it, mind.' 
 
 ' Dear me,' said the colonel's wife, standing m the 
 doorway. * Do quarantine doctors always kiss their 
 patients ? But you told me, doctor dear, that your 
 Christian name was Claude. Didn't you? That 
 explains everything.' 
 
 The ship, with those of her company whom the 
 plague had spared, presently steamed away, and, after 
 being repaired, made her way to Portsmouth Dock- 
 yard. But one of her company stayed behind, and 
 now is Queen or Empress of the island of which 
 her husband is King, Captain, Commandant, and 
 Governor - General, and also resident Quarantme 
 Doctor. 
 
1 84 
 
 IN THREE WEEKS 
 I 
 
 * That will do,' said the physician. ' Sit down.' 
 
 The patient obeyed in silence. The physician 
 turned to the table and replaced his instrument. 
 He was longer over this than seemed necessary. 
 
 * You think ? ' asked the patient, coldly. 
 
 * You are twenty-four.' The physician faced his 
 patient with cold eyes. ' You are made, you think, 
 for a long life. Your parents were killed in an acci- 
 dent ; otherwise they might have lived to an old age ; 
 your people for generations have all been long-lived. 
 Yes ; you seem framed for the attainment of old age. 
 Yet — there are chances — there are flaws — no one 
 must count upon the outward promise of longevity. 
 There is no certainty ; there are germs in the air — in 
 the water ' 
 
 ' You think — then ? ' the patient interrupted with- 
 out the least appearance of discomposure or anxiety. 
 
 * What I think, young gentleman, is this — you are 
 so strong that you are brave enough to face the truth.' 
 
 * I hope so.' 
 
 ' Then, sir, you ivill he dead in three iveeks.' 
 There was silence for a space. The patient re- 
 ceived this intelligence with steady look. He flinched 
 
IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 185 
 
 not : nor did his check turn pale. He got up slowly, 
 and began to walk about the room, looking at the 
 pictures, taking up trifles from the mantelshelf, as 
 one does when the mind is greatly preoccupied. Then 
 he turned suddenly to the doctor. 'You are quite 
 sure of what you say ? ' 
 ' I am quite sure.' 
 
 * You are an old man. You have seen thousands of 
 cases. With your experience a mistake is impossible.' 
 
 < It is— humanly speaking— impossible. For one 
 of my experience, such a mistake is— humanly speak- 
 ing — impossible.' 
 
 ' And there is no loophole— no chance— of escape ? ' 
 
 'While there is hfe there is always a chance. In 
 your case the locahty of the mischief cannot be 
 reached. You must die.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said the patient. ' It is rather a pity 
 that I did not know of this a week ago. You might 
 
 then have saved ' He stopped short, with a choke 
 
 in his voice. It was the only outward sign of emotion. 
 * Thank you,' he repeated, laying an envelope with a 
 cheque in it on the table. ' I will not take up more 
 of your time. And my own is too short to be wasted.' 
 
 The physician looked out of the window. The 
 young man walked across the street, and, with head 
 erect and springing gait, marched down the pavement. 
 
 ' One would say he had a hundred years before 
 him,' said the physician. ' And he is only twenty- 
 four. And wealthy, he told me. And ambitious, I 
 should think. And able, I am sure. All the world 
 before this unfortunate young man ; and he must die 
 at the very outset. And some poor weakling, whom 
 nobody wants, will be kept alive till seventy ! Humph ! 
 
i86 
 
 IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 There he goes, marching like a sergeant of the Guards. 
 Eound the corner now.' The physician returned to 
 his fire — it was a cold morning— he was an old man : 
 he sat down for a moment and warmed his hands. 
 ' Twenty-four,' he said, ' and I am seventy-four. The 
 world is very unequal. That's the chief charm about 
 it. Without uncertainty, life would be too monotonous. 
 The young man took it bravely.' He got up and pre- 
 pared for the reception of another patient. ' They are 
 braver than they were : they used to take it fainting ; 
 or they took it sighing, crying, sobbing, blubbering 
 or they prayed for life at any cost— at any suffering— 
 Ah ! I've witnessed curious cowardice in my time. 
 Now they can't bear pain, and they won't have it — 
 not the least bit of pain. But they don't mind dying. 
 Odd change ! Worse nerves and more courage.' 
 
 Wrong, most learned physician. They mind dying 
 very much, and at any age, but men are not so 
 horribly afraid of the silent and lonely journey as they 
 were. Perhaps the young mind dying less than the 
 old, because they are not so bound by the delights and 
 vanitiesofthis,on-the-whole-and-after-due-deductions- 
 made, happy life. But they don't really like dying, 
 and they never will, so long as the step is made 
 out of light and companionship and sunshine into 
 —whatever is to follow— by a dark and solitary 
 way. 
 
 The young man, then, walked away with a steady 
 carriage and an elastic step. These formed part of 
 himself ; he would have walked to the scaffold with 
 the same step— in fact, he was walking to the scaffold. 
 Yet he was as heavy of heart as a young man can well 
 be. Three weeks — three short weeks — and all would 
 
IN THREE WE]*n<S 
 
 187 
 
 be over ; the world— strange thing— never to be under- 
 stood, even by the most useless - would go on hence- 
 forth, that is, after three weeks— absolutely without 
 him— for ever, without thinking any more about him ! 
 Poor world ! Unfortanate world ! Daily robbed, thus 
 untimely, of its chief hope and promise ! Heavy of 
 heart or not, he walked to his club and took a light 
 lunch, and then went to his chambers, where he lit a 
 cigar and sat down to think. Only three weeks left ! 
 
 II 
 
 ' A LONG rope, my lord,' the condemned criminal used 
 to pray the judge. Three weeks was thought a 
 reasonably long rope. Whatever the length of the rope, 
 it was counted short towards the end, when only the last 
 hours of waiting seemed long. Gilbert— the Christian 
 name of this condamne was Gilbert— had a rope three 
 weeks long, and it seemed at first a reasonable time 
 within which to make the necessary dispositions. At 
 this, the very beginning of the hmited period, the young 
 man was surprised to find himself neither dismayed, 
 as many would be ; nor disgusted, as he had a right 
 to be ; nor terrified ; nor in a rage. He was as yet, 
 he said to himself, insensible to the greatness of the 
 disaster : that, he thought, would grow upon him day 
 by day— the doubtful step out of the Hght into the 
 dark, the terrors of the tomb, the lonely journey, the 
 sudden abandonment of all his hopes, the loss of love, 
 and the sorrow that would fall upon others. 
 
 He was a New Zealander by birth, and an only 
 son, and an orphan, and very comfortably endowed 
 with wealth. That is, he could live in clubland, or 
 
i88 
 
 IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 in Bayswaterland, or in West Kensingtonland, with- 
 out doing any work at all. And he had ambitions. 
 He had Enghsh relations, but they did not know how 
 rich he was, and thought that a poor colonial cousin 
 would probably be a nuisance in a respectable family. 
 Therefore they gave him the cousinly cold shoulder. 
 He had friends in plenty, such friends as a clever 
 young fellow readily makes at Cambridge : he believed 
 in them, and they beheved in him : he believed that 
 his friends were the coming men, and much finer 
 fellows than the existing lot : they believed the same 
 of him. They further beheved that to be thirty years 
 of age was to be advanced in life, and that to be still 
 working after fifty was a scandalous invasion of the 
 rights of the grave. You understand exactly, there- 
 fore, what manner of man he was. 
 
 Young, rich, strong, capable, ambitious, and he 
 had to leave the Banquet of Life at twenty- four ! 
 There wanted but one thing more— and that, too, was 
 granted ! He was to leave Love behind him ! 
 
 He was a happy lover : made happy exactly a week 
 before this dreadful thing fell upon him. The name 
 of the girl was Violet. I think, if his thoughts had 
 turned in the direction of Violet just when the 
 physician told him the truth about his case, he would 
 have taken it fainting. Fortunately, he only began 
 to think of her now, in his own rooms alone, when he 
 was beginning to understand a little. It takes time, 
 you see, for a man to discover the meaning of any 
 event. Most of us never do succeed in understanding 
 what any event means— birth, belongings, disease, 
 loss— so that all the consequences, which are abso- 
 lutely certain and unavoidable, fall upon us as so 
 
IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 many distinct and separate operations of fate and 
 indictivencss. 
 
 When he did think of his girl, and of the grief that 
 would fall upon her, he— well— forgive him. Love 
 makes a man weak as well as stvong—lacrymis se tra- 
 didit. It sounds more manly in Latin. Violet, he 
 said, was all affection, a creature of pure affection : 
 she was all constancy and truth : she was wholly his : 
 she had given her heart to him for life or death : she 
 would never— never— get over it. He saw in imagi- 
 nation her widowed form, graceful even in grief, kneel- 
 ing beside his tomb year after year. AgQ^in—lacrymis 
 se tradidit. Does it not look better in the dead lan- 
 guage ? 
 
 He was a man quick to resolve. He made up his 
 mind at once what was best to be done. Since they 
 must part, let them part at once : let there be no leave- 
 taking— horrible, acute, agonising: let the end be 
 made, and the knot cut, at once. 
 
 He dried his unmanly tears and sat down to write. 
 A hard thing to do : but he did it— and this is part of 
 his letter. It began with things sacred to Love— things 
 that should never be copied out and printed. 
 
 ' I shall take with me,' he said, after explanations, 
 * where I am going, the undying memory of this last 
 week of boundless happiness. Whenever I may be 
 ordered to go— I know not what my new country will 
 be like— there can be no joy comparable to the joy of 
 loving you. I shall take that memory away with me 
 at least. All the memories of my life my be forgotten, 
 but I shall keep this one. My dear, I am going on a 
 long journey : I must go very soon : I must go alone 
 —quite alone. I cannot even take you with me. I 
 
igo 
 
 IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 would not if I could. You must remain and forget 
 me, and rejoice in your youth, and in your beauty, 
 and in your goodness. My dear angel, you would 
 have made me, perhaps, in the long run, even like 
 yourself, because you could have made me what you 
 please, and nothing short of your own purity and 
 sweetness and goodness would have satisfied you. 
 My saint ! it may be that beyond the tomb I may yet 
 rise to your level, and stand beside you when you 
 follow me. Dearest Yiolet, this is the last letter you 
 will receive from me. In kindness to you it will be 
 best that I should not see you again before I go. 
 Another communication you will have respecting cer- 
 tain wishes of mine, but this is the last letter you will 
 have from me. Farewell, my love — farewell ! 
 
 'I repeat, I am doomed to die. There can be no 
 doubt. I have had symptoms — which should have dis- 
 quieted me — for some time past. I have now consulted 
 a physician, Sir Christopher Fairlight. He says that 
 I shall be dead in three weeks. I shall go away, 
 therefore, and take a lodging somewhere, and die 
 alone. Do not, my dear, try to see me. Do not 
 answer this letter. Say to yourself, "He is dead." 
 And, so saying, try to forget me, and be happy again. 
 Say He is dead," and be happy again. That is all. 
 .Farewell !— G.' 
 
 Ill 
 
 Violet received this letter at breakfast. She read it 
 with an expression of the greatest bewilderment, but 
 not the least grief, dismay, or affiiction. 'George,' 
 she said to her brother, tossing him the letter, ' read 
 that.' 
 
IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 George did read it. ' Well ? ' asked his sister, 
 ' what docs he mean ? He was here the day Ijefore 
 yesterday as weU as a man can be. And, as usual, 
 fall of his stupid ambitions. What does it mean ? ' 
 
 'It means,' George replied, 'either what it says — 
 in which case, Violet, I must see him at once, because, 
 you see, he ought to do something for you. It's very 
 sudden. Poor beggar ! I wonder if it is really— upon 
 my word it's a very sad letter — but you don't seem 
 to mind much. He's very fond of you — this letter 
 shows that he's a fool about you ' — Violet nodded — 
 * and — and — I think he ought to do something very 
 handsome indeed for you. Or, perhaps — but I can't 
 think — it means that he's going to bolt and break it 
 of!.' 
 
 * It doesn't mean that, George, unless he's found 
 out something — Bob, you know.' 
 
 ' Humph ! Perhaps — w^ll — I will take a cab to his 
 chambers and catch him at once.' 
 
 The maiden, all affection and constancy, took a 
 kidney and a piece of toast. ' I think it's a real letter, 
 and that he's got to sit down and die. It must be 
 horrid for him. Bat he will do what you like about 
 me, George — and — remember — don't be too bashful. 
 He's got piles of money. If you can't get a satisfactory 
 will out of him — why — I had better have stuck to my 
 dear old Bob. And mind, George, don't ask me to 
 pretend, because I won't. If you bring him to reason — 
 that way — I shall be glad of it. Glad, mind.' 
 
 But w^hen her brother called, the tenant of the 
 chambers was gone. Wliere ? His servants did not 
 know. There was no address for letters. Probably 
 the master would be back in a day or tw^o. 
 
192 
 
 IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 IV 
 
 ' Bob ! ' she cried, springing up and running to meet 
 him with every outward sign of joy, and with the 
 flushed excitement of one who has news— news sur- 
 prising and of great joy— to communicate, 'lam so glad 
 to see you. You got my telegram ? Of course. I was 
 afraid you wouldn't come. I thought you might be 
 cross— you know you were very cross a week ago. I 
 
 thought you would rather go out to ' she imitated 
 
 the dealing of cards. ' Eh ? ' 
 
 * No, Violet. I got your telegram, and I saw there 
 must be something up. What is it ? Are you tired 
 of your conquest yet ? What is it ? I am rather 
 surprised too. I thought that henceforth we were to 
 
 meet in the giddy crowd and the heartless throng, 
 
 you know— as strangers. Eh ? ' The speaker was a 
 young man, thin and spare, smooth-faced, clever- 
 looking, and, unless his whole appearance belied him, 
 one addicted to the gauds and pomps and hollow 
 deHghts of this unsatisfying world, also one who had 
 often trodden the flags of Piccadilly Pavement. ' You 
 look as if something had happened. By Jove, Violet, 
 you look your old self, as if you had had a pint of 
 champagne, and were ready to say something wicked. 
 When I saw you last it was the shrinking wood Violet. 
 Now it's the— the gaudy Gardenia ! But what is it ? ' 
 
 * Something has happened.- Oh ! You will never 
 guess— never— you couldn't guess.' 
 
 ' Something good, for once, to judge by your looks. 
 Well, I'm not in a hurry. Anything good is worth 
 waiting for.' He sat down, stretched out his legs, and 
 drove his hands into his pockets. 
 
IN TIIKMI<] WKFJvS 
 
 ' Bob,' ilie i;h-\ hiy^im, (liisliino; a rosy rod, ' I ncvor 
 pretended— io you — to care for Gilbert a Int, did 
 I?' 
 
 Bob sat up, and took his hands out of his pockets, 
 as it off then, Violet?' 
 
 * Wait -did I pretend?' 
 
 * To me ? No, you never did. You always told 
 me that I'd got your heart, which wasn't much good — 
 as wo agreed — if the rest of you was going to the 
 other fellow. To him, of course, you didn't quite say 
 that.' 
 
 ' Of course. I had to pretend. He asked me 
 every day if I loved him, and I stood so— your shrink- 
 ing wood Violet, you know.' She clasped her hands 
 and hung her pretty head and looked up with limpid 
 eyes full of modesty and sweet maidenly love. ' You're 
 a little devil,' said Bob. ' Like that,' continued the 
 girl. ' Then Gilbert used to heave a sigh, and began 
 to talk about his ambitions. Oh ! How truly awful 
 it would have been to be every day and all day long 
 with a man who could talk about nothing but his 
 ambitions. Said he wasn't good enough to talk to 
 nie— to me. Bob, after you'd been making love to me !— 
 about anything but the higher aspirations of the soul ! 
 How long, do you think, before he would have found 
 it out ? ' 
 
 ' Would have found it out ! ' repeated Bob. ' Then 
 it is off.' 
 
 < Yes — I got this letter yesterday morning. Bead 
 it. When I read it I said to my brother, George, 
 it's no use pretending, I'm glad of it." That is what 
 I said. George walked over to the Albany at once ; 
 but Gilbert was gone. George said that something 
 
 o 
 
THREE WEEKS 
 
 ought to be done for me : and— but read the letter 
 first.' 
 
 Bob read it. Once or twice he glanced at the girl 
 curiously. He was but a young fellow about town 
 who thought of nothing but what his like call pleasure, 
 but the letter touched him. He handed it back. ' I 
 understand now,' he said. ' You never did care a bit 
 for him. You hated him. Otherwise— well— it's a 
 straightforward letter, Yiolet. He's a good fellow, 
 and he has spared you a mighty lot of trouble in 
 refusing to see you. It's a most considerate letter. 
 Poor beggar ! He was fond of you, and you don't 
 deserve it— well, if it was I who was dying— I'd have 
 you by the bedside, holding my hand all the time 
 for fear you'd go off with somebody else before 
 I was dead— and— hang it, Yiolet ! I believe I should 
 have killed you, too, so that we might go off to- 
 gether.' 
 
 * That's the sort of love I like. Bob,' said the 
 maiden of all virtues. ' Good real love without 
 thinking that a girl is an angel. Do you really think 
 I could have married that thing of ambitions ? You 
 don't want an angel, do you. Bob ? ' 
 
 ' No, I don't. I'm a man of the world, and I want 
 a woman of the world, and we must both want all the 
 good things we can get. Well— but— is this all? 
 You said— first— I must read that letter. What next ? 
 You are free. But are we any nearer than before ? 
 I'm no richer— but poorer— and the debts are getting 
 more uncomfortable, and ' 
 
 ' You shall see, Bob. Bead this.' 
 
 It w^as a lawyer's letter, stiff and formal. Bob 
 read it slowly. Then he cried, ' Oh, Lord ! ' as one 
 
IN mum wj^.EKs 
 
 '95 
 
 in great astoniBhment. He finislKid it. IIo looked 
 up. Violet nodded, * That's all, Boh: 
 
 'Air? Isn't that enou^-h ? All? Good 
 Heavens ! ' 
 
 ' One of the partners called about eleven o'clock, 
 and placed this in my hands. I wish I'd known he 
 was coming ; I would have had the blinds down. As 
 it was I slipped on a black frock, and threw myself on 
 the sofa, and buried my face in my handkerchief. He 
 was much affected, poor man ! A good-looking fellow. 
 Bob.' 
 
 ' I daresay. Perhaps you'd like to be engaged to 
 him, too. It would be another change, wouldn't it ? 
 But on what conditions ? ' 
 
 * There are no conditions, except one, which, I'm 
 sure, I shall keep with the greatest joy — not to put on 
 mourning. That's all. No nasty ones about marrying. 
 Perfect confidence in me— perfect you see. That's the 
 real beauty of the thing, isn't it ? I've got to forget 
 him, and be happy. I suppose we shall see an 
 announcement in the Times, shan't we ? After that, 
 Bob, I don't see why ' 
 
 ' Violet ! Eighty thousand pounds ! ' He held 
 out his arms, and the Violet fell into them, and they 
 kissed and purred dehghtfully for five long minutes. 
 
 'You are a little devil,' said her old lover. It was 
 the greatest praise he had to give, and the greatest 
 she desired. ' Those angelic wood nymph's eyes have 
 done the trick. What a good fellow he is ! What a 
 pity he couldn't give you the money and go back to 
 his colony and live there ! And I say, Violet dear, 
 we'll have the most glorious time.' 
 
 ' We will, Bob. But remember, I'm not going to 
 
 o 2 
 
ig6 IN THREE ^>VEEKS 
 
 pay your gambling debts. Have your little flutters if 
 you like, but if you get into a hole my money won't 
 put you out ; and I'm going my way, and you can go 
 the same way or some other, what you please.' 
 
 ' All right, my dear. It's more than two thousand 
 a year. We can do pretty well on that, I daresay. 
 Let's have a look at your eyes again. I like 'em, 
 whatever they are, and— and— you're a little devil, 
 Yiolet, and I love you all the better because you are.' 
 
 Thus and thus was the news received. Thus did 
 the girl, who was all affection and all constancy, 
 mourn for the man she had loved so tenderly, who 
 was taken from her so cruelly. 
 
 In a little seaside place, quite deserted m the early 
 spring, the condemned man sat in the hotel, which 
 he had all to himself. Before him was a pile of Mbb. 
 on which he worked laboriously. He lived the most 
 simple life in order to make as much of his last three 
 weeks as possible. After breakfast, after lunch, before 
 dinner, he walked up and down the sea wall. Con- 
 trary to expectation, he was not greatly unhappy. 
 The past Hfe cut off: the disposition of his fortune 
 accomplished: his debts all paid: he found himself 
 looking forward with curiosity and even expectation. 
 Mere dying, he had learned, would be nothmg : prob- 
 ably not even a pang: he dreaded somewhat the 
 possible tortures of his complaint. But so far there 
 was no torture. Perhaps this was the worst symptom 
 nf all Often, when a disease has readied the point 
 where it kills, the pain of it dies away. This was no 
 
IN 'riiiiKK wmw^ 197 
 
 doubt his case. In a few days lie would begin to feel 
 languid : he would no longer be able to walk about : 
 then his intellect would be enfeebled. Lastly, he 
 would lie down and die. As yet he felt quite strong 
 — as strong as ever. Had it not been for the 
 physician's assurance he would have believed himself 
 quite well. Three weeks before him. We have said 
 that he was a young man of ambitions. They were 
 Hterary, social, and political. He wanted to be every- 
 thing, which is not uncommon with ambitious young 
 men. He also imagined that he was capable of 
 achieving everything, even the earl's coronet of 
 Benjamin DisraeH, who has so far beaten the record 
 — and this also is not uncommon. Now that he was 
 limited to three weeks of hfe, all these ambitions were 
 dwarfed down to what he could finish and leave 
 behind him, to be produced after his death. That is 
 why he sat before the pile of MSS. correcting, re- 
 writing, touching. 
 
 There were essays, stories, and verses. In reading 
 over these and working at them he forgot his im- 
 pending end : he even forgot the soft eyes of the girl 
 upon whom his untimely fate would bring a life-long 
 sorrow. At night he remembered them — so soft, so 
 full of light, of lofty thought, of maidenly affection— 
 an^_his head in his pillow, he— again to drop into 
 a dead language — lacrymis se tradidit. But all day 
 long the fervour of composition and the consideration 
 of his Opuscida, by which his memory would hve, 
 and the necessity for not wasting a moment, kept 
 him from dwelling upon the inevitable. 
 
 But the days passed on. Three weeks became a 
 fortnight. A fortnight became a week. Seven days 
 
198 IN THEEE WEEKS 
 
 became six — five — four — three — two — one. Then 
 came the last night— the twenty-first. Everything 
 was finished, so far as the work of a young man could 
 be finished : he had all his MSS. arranged, and tied 
 up ready for publication, with a preface ' written on 
 the last day of my life.' There were instructions to 
 his lawyers. Enough money had been kept over and 
 above that magnificent transfer to the maiden of all 
 constancy and truth to bring out these immortal 
 posthumities at the author's expense. There was 
 also money left for various purposes and bequests — 
 in fact, three or four thousand pounds were so dis- 
 posed of. The rest, as you have seen, had been 
 already given to the bereaved and inconsolable /a/zcee. 
 
 Midnight. In another twenty-four hours he would 
 be no more. Strange to say, the thought did not 
 disturb his sleep : he dropped off instantly : he slept 
 the whole night through : at eight he awoke. Suddenly 
 he remembered that the three weeks were over, and 
 that this must be the last day of his hfe : he sprang 
 out of bed : he stood upright : he looked for pains, 
 for languors, for faintings — not at all ; he felt perfectly 
 well and strong. But that was often the case — con- 
 sumptive people, he had heard, often feel very strong 
 on the very morning of their death : it Y>^ould be so 
 with him. 
 
 He dressed with a beating heart and shaky fingers. 
 He looked in the glass. Heavens ! Was that the 
 face of a dying man— that, with the ruddy hue of the 
 New Zealand rose upon it, with eyes clear and bright, 
 with cheek full— that ? But it must be : there was 
 no hope. 
 
 He sat down to breakfast. Nature, though mori- 
 
IN TITUKl*'. WEEKS 
 
 199 
 
 bund, felt supported, not oppressed, with a plate of 
 ham and eggs. He took a pipe. Nature, though 
 moribund, made no objection. And a walk. Again 
 Nature, though moribund, refused him not. And so 
 on through the day. Every hour he expected the 
 summons : every hour found him as strong and well, 
 to appearance, as ever. Finally, he went to bed 
 fully persuaded, if words said over and over again can 
 persuade one, that he must die in the night. 
 
 He lay awake, a light burning, and expected the 
 end. I do not know how long he expected it. In the 
 morning it was past seven when he awoke, feehng not 
 a bit nearer to the promised dissolution. 
 
 After breakfast he held a colloquy with himself. 
 ' I was assured,' he said, * that I had an incurable 
 disease, of which I must die in three weeks at latest. 
 I understood that I should get weaker and worse every 
 day. I am not dead. I am not weaker. I am not 
 worse. And I feel perfectly weU.' 
 
 He went to consult a practitioner of the town, 
 selecting him by chance. He lighted on a young man 
 of his own age, highly scientific, and, in his own 
 opinion, quite thrown away and wasted in a Httle 
 place like this. 
 
 The young medical man listened patiently. Then 
 he tapped, listened, hammered, squeezed, felt the 
 pulse, looked at the tongue, handled the temples, 
 looked in the eyes, asked a thousand questions. 
 Finally, he said : ' Sir Christopher Fairhght told you 
 so and so ? Said you were going to be a dead man in 
 three weeks ? Oh ! he did, did he ? ' 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' Well, sir, all I can say is— we all make mistakes— 
 
200 
 
 IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 to err is human — Sir Christopher, who has a fine 
 practice still, must be getting on for eighty— and you 
 are at this minute as sound as a bell, without, so far 
 as I can see, the least symptom of any kind or sort of 
 disease upon you, and that you are as likely as not to 
 
 reach a green old 
 
 ' Age,' he would have said, but when the doctor 
 arrived at these words his patient's cheeks became 
 suddenly white, and he fell headlong, fainting at his 
 feet. 
 
 * Humph ! ' said the medical man. ' Now I expect 
 he didn't faint when he was told that he must die. 
 I know this sort.' 
 
 With the artful aid of science, the man was pre- 
 sently persuaded to come out of his swoon, and after 
 a decent interval for the exhibition of more science, he 
 was allowed to walk away. Walk ! He danced away : 
 he ran away — he would have waltzed away but for 
 the look of the thing. And those soft eyes, aglow 
 with love and tenderness and constancy, which he had 
 tried to forget, came back to his mind. He saw them 
 heavy and red with weeping. He longed to dry those 
 tears, to see those eyes once more clear and limpid. 
 With all the speed he could, he bundled his MSS. into 
 his portmanteau and hurried back to London, there 
 to replace hopeless grief and hopeless loss by tender 
 love. 
 
 VI 
 
 Violet was alone. She was a maiden of a poetic 
 nature, which explains the rapture with which she 
 regarded the pile of new things with which she was 
 surrounded. No mourning ! It was nob:e of Gilbert 
 
IN WMI'^KS 
 
 20I 
 
 to givG licr all his money, and so nicely and quietly : 
 but to insist upon no mourning was most considerate. 
 She was beginning to think quite kindly of him— and 
 as the season of May and June was approaching, 
 Violet was carrying out her dead— or dying— lover's 
 wishes to the letter. She looked at the dehghtful pile 
 before her, and she felt benevolently disposed towards 
 him. What did he wish her to say ? ' He is dead.' 
 She said these words over and over again. Heliotrope, 
 silver grey, pink, brighter colours even— here they 
 ^ere— 'He is dead '—and dainty stuffs, soft stuffs, 
 pretty stuffs. ' He is dead.' Maidens, ye who read 
 these lines, think of the rapture of jumping from 
 nothing a year, with a brother neither too generous 
 nor too rich, into a fortune of 80,000?. ah your own. 
 It is, at three per cent, only, 2,400L a year. Of 
 course, the first thing must be the renewing of the 
 wardrobe. 
 
 Violet had the house to herself: she therefore 
 spread out the things on the dining-room table. And 
 she was standing over them, handling them, holding 
 them up to the light, playing with them, as a miser 
 plays with his gold or a collector with his collection. 
 She was perfectly, serenely, at peace with all the world. 
 Why not ? She had got rid of all she disliked— 
 poverty, dependence, and a lover who bored her to 
 death— and she had got in return the man she loved, 
 a man after her own heart, a man of the world and of 
 the town, with whom she would know all the smart 
 people : one on her own moral and intellectual level, 
 whom she understood— there can be no true love where 
 the woman is on one level and the man is on another. 
 Which makes one suspect the stories of the Lord of 
 
202 
 
 IN THREE WEEKS 
 
 Burleigh and the King Cophetua, and reminds one of 
 the story of Esmeralda the gipsy, who brooked not 
 the captivity of the house, but returned to the tents 
 of her own people, and made as if she had no hus- 
 band. 
 
 Violet, therefore, was perfectly happy. Since a 
 recent closing of the scissors by Atropos had resulted 
 in so much happiness to herself, why should she feel 
 regret or pretend to any grief ? Suppose, dear reader, 
 that by the death of a person whom you dislike very 
 much — a death that will bring little sorrow to the 
 world — you yourself would be placed in a position of 
 great comfort, be freed from anxiety, and be able to 
 have everything you want, would you lament over such 
 a demise ? 
 
 The question is too much for us. 
 
 Now, while she stood bathed in the afternoon sun- 
 shine, lovely to look upon, sweet in her youth and her 
 happiness, she heard a knock at the door — an impa- 
 tient loud knocking which somehow reminded her — of 
 what ? Then there was a step in the hall, and a voice 
 — a voice — at the sound of which she turned pale and 
 sick and faint. And then the door flew open, and 
 there rushed in eager, expectant, his face glowing, his 
 eyes aflame, his lips parted 
 
 ' Gilbert ! ' she cried, putting up her hands before 
 her. ' Gilbert ! You are dead ! ' 
 
 ' No — no — no — Yiolet — I am not dead ! Oh ! My 
 poor dear — my poor love — you have suffered so much. 
 I have thought of you all the time ' — but she kept her 
 arms out before her, and backed as be approached, 
 go that he should not touch her. 'Yiolet — am I a 
 ghost ? ' 
 
IN THREE \\T.EKS 
 
 203 
 
 ' You are dead, Gilbert— yon are dead ! ' she replied 
 with white lips. 
 
 ' No no— I tell you. It was a mistake. I am 
 
 alive and well, Violet, my dear, my child. I have 
 taken you too suddenly.' 
 
 ' Gilbert; she spoke with hard voice and hard eyes 
 —but she was a girl of great resource—' you are dead.' 
 
 He recoiled. ' Violet ! ' he cried again. He could 
 say nothing more. He knew the truth. 
 
 ' You are dead. You sent me word that you were 
 dead. You said I was to forget you and be happy. 
 You transferred all that money to me. You can't 
 take it back again. You are dead. Go, dead man ! ' 
 
 ' Violet ! ' 
 
 < I say '—she cleared her throat and spoke more 
 plainly—' you are dead. I have your money and I 
 mean to keep it.' She pointed to the door. ' Go 
 away, dead man.' 
 
 ' Violet ! ' It was all he could say. 
 
 « You think I loved you. Dead man, you were a 
 fool. I hated you. I was made to take you because 
 you were rich. I am glad now that I did take you, 
 'because you are dead and I have got your money. Go 
 away, dead man.' 
 
 ' Violet ! ' 
 
 ' Yes. And so that you may be quite sure about 
 it, I am engaged again to my old lover, the only man 
 I ever cared for. Don't be angry, dead man. Only 
 —Go ! ' 
 
 He turned and walked away without a w^ord. As 
 he opened the door the girl burst into a mocking laugh. 
 
204 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 I 
 
 * Nell,' cried the boy, jumping about, unable to stand 
 still for excitement. ' It is splendid ! He has told 
 me such things as I never dreamed. Oh ! splendid 
 things ! Wonderful things ! ' 
 ' Tell me, Will.' 
 
 * I am ashamed. Well, then, he says — he says ' 
 — the boy's face became crimson — ' he says that I can 
 become whatever I please, if I please. It is all in me — 
 all — all ! If I want to be a statesman — I may. If I 
 want to become a judge — I may. If I should like to 
 be a bishop — I may. If a great scholar — a great 
 writer — I may. All, he says, is possible for me, if I 
 choose to work — all — if I choose to work. Oh ! Nell 
 ■ — isn't it — isn't it wonderful ? ' He dropped his 
 voice, and his eyes glistened — his large dreamy eyes 
 — and his cheeks glowed. *If I choose to work. 
 As if I should not choose to work ! Only those 
 fellows who have got no such glorious prospects 
 are lazy. Work ? Why, I am mad to work. I 
 grudge every hour. Work ? You shall see how I will 
 work ! ' 
 
 He was a lad of seventeen, handsome, tall, and 
 straight ; his eyes were full and limpid ; his face was 
 
ONJ^: AND TWO 
 
 205 
 
 a long oval, his luouili dolicato and line, Imt pcrliaps 
 not quite so firm as niiglit havo been desired. At this 
 moment he had just held a conference with his private 
 tutor. It took the form of a remonstrance and an 
 explanation. The remonstrance pointed out that his 
 work was desultory and liable to be interrupted at any 
 moment, for any caprice ; that steady grind was in- 
 compatible with the giving away of whole mornings to 
 musical dreams at the piano, or to rambles in the 
 woods, a book of poetry in hand. The explanation 
 was to the effect that the great prizes of the world are 
 all within the reach of every clever lad who starts 
 with a sufficiency of means and is not afraid of work ; 
 and that he himself— none other— possessed abilities 
 which would justify him in aiming at the very highest. 
 But he must work : he must work : he had been to 
 no school and knew nothing of competitions with other 
 fellows: he must make up for that by hard grmd. 
 Think what it may mean to a young fellow of imagina- 
 tion and of dreams, this throwing open of the gates 
 of the Temple of Ambition— this invitation to mount the 
 steps and enter that great and glittering dome. The 
 temple, within, is all glorious with crowns of gold set 
 with precious stones and with crowns of bay and laurel. 
 Day and night ascends a hymn in praise of the living : 
 they themselves— the living who have succeeded— sit 
 on thrones of carved woodwork precious beyond price, 
 and hear and receive this homage all day long. This 
 lad, only by looking in at the open doors, gasped, and 
 blushed, and panted ; his colour came and went, his 
 heart beat ; he could not stand still. 
 
 His companion— they were in a country garden, 
 and it was the spring of the year— was a girl of fifteen, 
 
206 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 who hung upon his words and adored him. Some 
 women begin the voluntary servitude to the man they 
 love at a very early age indeed. NelJy at fifteen loved 
 this boy of seventeen as much as if they had both been 
 ten years older. 
 
 *Yes,' she said, timidly, and the manner of her 
 saying it betrayed certain things. ' And you will 
 work, Will, won't you ? ' 
 
 * Work ? Nell, since your father has spoken those 
 words of encouragement, I feel that there is nothing 
 but work left in me — regular work — methodical, sys- 
 tematic work, you know. Grind, grind, grind ! No 
 more music, no more singing, no more making rhymes 
 — grind, grind, grind ! I say, Nell, I've always 
 dreamed, you know ' 
 
 ^You have. Will.' 
 
 * And to find that things may actually come true 
 — actually — the finest things that ever I dared to 
 dream — oh ! ' 
 
 ' It is wonderful, Will ! ' Both of them began to 
 think that the finest things had already been achieved. 
 
 ' It is like having your fortune doubled — trebled — 
 multiplied by ten. Better. If my fortune were 
 multiplied by fifty I could spend no more, I could eat 
 no more, I believe I could do no more with it.' 
 
 * Genius,' said the girl, blushing, because it really 
 did seem an original thing to say, ' is better than 
 riches.' 
 
 ' It is, it is,' the possessor of genius replied, with 
 conviction. ' To have enough is to have all. I can, 
 if I please, become a bishop, a judge, a statesman — 
 anything, anything. Nell,' his voice dropped, ' the 
 thought makes me tremble. I feel as if I shall not be 
 
OiNE AND TWO 
 
 207 
 
 equal to the position. There is pcrsonLil dignity, you 
 know.' 
 
 The girl laughed. ' You not equal, Will ? Why, 
 you are strong enough for anything.' 
 
 ' I have made up my mind what to do iirsi of all. 
 When I go to Camhridge I shaU take up classics. Of 
 course I must take the highest classical honours. I 
 shall carry off aU the University scholarships, and 
 the medals, and the prizes. Oh ! and I must speak 
 at the Union. I must lead at the Union, and I must 
 be an athlete.' He was tall and thin, and he stretched 
 out his long arms. *I shall row in the boat, the 
 'Varsity boat of course. I shall play in the Eleven.' 
 
 ' Oh, Wih, you are too ambitious.' 
 
 ' No man,' he said, severely, ' can be too ambitious. 
 I would grasp all. I would sweep the board.' 
 
 ' And then ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! There, I have not yet decided. The Church, 
 to raise the world. The Law, to maintain the social 
 order. The House, to rule the nation. Literature, 
 Science, Art — which ? ' 
 
 * In Vv^hatever you do. Will, you are certain to rise 
 to the front rank.' 
 
 ' Certain. Your father says so. Oh ! I feel as if 
 I was already Leader of the House. It is a splendid 
 thing to rule the House. I feel as if I was Lord 
 Chancellor in my robes — on the woolsack. Nothing 
 so grand as to be Lord Chancellor. I feel as if I was 
 Archbishop of Canterbury. It is a most splendid 
 thing, mind you, to be Archbishop of Canterbury. 
 What could be more splendid ? He w^ears lawn 
 sleeves, and he sits in the House of Lords. But I 
 must work. The road to all these splendid things, as 
 
208 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 your father says, is through work. It wants an horn- 
 yet to dinner. I will give that hour to Euripides. No 
 more waste of time for me, Nell.' 
 
 He nodded his head and ran into the house, eager 
 not to lose a moment. 
 
 The girl looked after him admiringly and fondly, 
 * Oh ! ' she murmured ; ' what a splendid thing to he 
 a man and to hecome Archbishop, and Lord Chancel- 
 lor, and Leader of the House ! Oh ! how clever he 
 is, and how great he Vv^ill become ! ' 
 
 ' I've had a serious talk with Challice to-day,' said 
 the private tutor to his wife in the evening. 
 
 * Will is such a nice boy,' said the wife. ' What a 
 pity that he won't work ! ' 
 
 * He's got enough money to begin with, and he 
 has never been to a public school. I have been firing 
 his imagination, however, with the rich and varied 
 prospect before a boy who really will work and has 
 brains. He is a dreamer ; he has vague ambitions ; 
 perhaps I may have succeeded in fixing them. But 
 who knows ? He is a dreamer. He plays the piano 
 and listens to the music. Sometimes he makes 
 verses. Who knows what such a lad may do ? ' 
 
 II 
 
 Two years later the same pair stood in the same place 
 at the same season of the year. Term was over — the 
 third term of the first year at Cambridge. 
 
 * I haven't pleased your father,' said the young 
 man — he was slight and boyish-looking still, but on 
 his face there was^a new stamp — he had eaten of the 
 
ONE AND TWO 
 
 209 
 
 tree of knowledge. * I have won no scholarships and 
 taken no prizes. My grand ideas about University 
 laurels are changed. You sec, Nell, I have discovered 
 that unless one goes into the Church a good degree 
 helps nobody. And, of course, it ruins a man in 
 other ways to put in all the time working for a degree.' 
 
 ' You know,' said Nell, ' we don't think so here.' 
 
 ' I know. Then you see I had to make the 
 acquaintance of the men and to show them that I was 
 a person of — of some importance. A Man who can 
 play and sing is always useful. We are an extremely 
 social College, and the — the friction of mind with 
 mind, you know — it is the best education possible for 
 a man — I'm sure it is — much better than poring 
 over Plato. Then I found so many things in which I 
 was deficient. French fiction, for example ; and I 
 knew so very little about Art — oh ! I have passed a 
 most busy and useful time.' 
 
 He forgot to mention such little things as nap, 
 ecarte, loo, billiards, Paris, and London, as forming 
 part of his education. Yet everybody will own that 
 these are important elements in the forming of a man. 
 
 ' I see,' said Nell. 
 
 *But your dkher won't. He is all for the Senate 
 House. You do take a little interest in me still, Nell? 
 Just a little interest — in an old friend ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I do. Will.' She blushed and dropped 
 her eyes. Their fingers touched, but only for a 
 moment. The touching of fingers is very innocent. 
 Perhaps it was accidental. 
 
 * Nell,' said tL young man, with deep feeling and 
 earnestness, ' whatever I do — to whatever height I 
 rise, I shall always feel — ' here he stopped because he 
 
 p 
 
2IO 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 could hardly say that she had stimulated him or 
 inspired him — ' always feel, Nell, that it began here — 
 it began here.' He looked about the garden. * On 
 this spot I first resolved to become a great man. It 
 \Yas on the very day when your father told me that I 
 might be great if I chose ; of course, I knew so much 
 before, but it pleased me ; it stimulated me. I told 
 you here, on this spot, and you approved and cheered 
 me on. Weil, I don't, of course, tell any of the men 
 about my ambitions. Mostly, I suppose, they have 
 got their own. Some of them, I know, don't soar 
 above a country living — I laugh in my sleeve, Nell, 
 when I listen to their confessions — a country living — 
 a house and a garden and a church ; that is a noble 
 ambition, traly ! I laugh, Nell, when I think of what 
 I could tell them ; the rapid upward climb ; the dizzy 
 height, the grasp of power and of authority ! ' 
 
 He spoke very grandly, and w^aved his hand and 
 threw his head back and looked every inch a leader- 
 one round whom the soldiers of a holy cause wwld 
 rally. The girl's eyes brightened and her cheek 
 glowed, even though she remembered what at that 
 moment she would rather have forgotten : the words 
 of her father at breakfast. ' Challice has done 
 nothing,' he said, 'he has attempted nothing; now 
 he w^ill never do anything. It is just as I expected. 
 A dreamer ! A dreamer ! ' 
 
 ' It was here,' Will continued, ' that I resolved on 
 greatness. It was on this spot that I imparted my 
 ambition to you. Nell, on this spot I again impart to 
 you my choice. I will become a great statesman. I 
 have money to start me — most fellows have to spend 
 the best part of their hves in getting money enough 
 
ONK AND TWO 
 
 2 I I 
 
 to give them a start. I shall bo the Loader of the 
 House. Mmd, to anyone but you this ambition would 
 seem presumptuous. It is my secret which I trust 
 with you, Nell.' He caught her hands, drew her 
 gently, and kissed her on the forehead. * Dear Nell,' 
 he said, 'long before my ambition is realised, you 
 will be by my side, encouraging, and advising, and 
 consoling.' 
 
 He spoke as a young man should ; and tenderly, 
 as a lover should ; but there was something not right 
 — a secret thorn — something jarred. In the brave 
 words — in the tender tones — there was a touch, a 
 tone, a look, out of harmony. Will Challice could 
 not tell his mistress that all day long there was a 
 voice within him crying : ' Work, work ! Get up and 
 work ! All this is folly ! Work ! Nothing can be 
 done without work — work — work ! ' 
 
 III 
 
 It was about the beginning of the Michaelmas term 
 that the very remarkable occurrences, or series of 
 occurrences, began which are the cause and origin of 
 this history. Many men have failed and many have 
 succeeded. Will Challice is, perhaps, the only man 
 who has ever done both, and in the same line and at 
 the same time. The thing came upon him quite 
 suddenly and unexpectedly. It was at two in the 
 morning ; he had spent the evening quietly in the 
 society of three other men and two packs of cards. 
 His own rooms, he observed as he crossed the court, 
 were lit up— he wondered how his ' gyp ' could have 
 been so careless. He opened his door and entered 
 
 p 2 
 
212 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 his room. Heavens ! At the table, on which the 
 lamp was burning, sat before a pile of books — him- 
 self ! Challice rubbed his eyes ; he was not fright- 
 ened ; there is nothing to alarm a man in the sight 
 of himself, though sometimes a good deal to dis- 
 gust ; but if you saw, in a looking-glass, your own 
 face and figure doing something else, you would be 
 astonished: you might even be alarmed. Challice 
 had heard of men seeing rats, circles, triangles, even 
 — he thought of his misspent evenings which were by 
 no means innocent of whisky and potash : he con- 
 cluded that this must be an appearance, to be 
 referred, like the rats and circles, to strong drink. 
 He thought that it would vanish as he gazed. 
 
 It did not ; on the contrary, it became, if any- 
 thing, clearer. There was a reading lamp on the table 
 which threw a strong circle of hght upon the bent 
 head of the reader. Then Will Chalhce began to 
 tremble and his knees gave way. The clock ticked 
 on the mantelshelf : else there was no sound : the 
 College was wrapped and lapped in the silence of sleep. 
 
 He nerved himself : he stepped forwards. ' Speak ! ' 
 he cried, and the sound of his own voice terrified him. 
 Whoever heard of a man questioning himself in the 
 dead of night ? ' Speak ! — What does this mean ? ' 
 
 Then the reader lifted his head, placed a book- 
 mark to keep his place, and turned slowly in his 
 chair — one of those wooden chairs the seat of which 
 turns round. Yes — it was himself — his own face that 
 met the face of the returned reveller. But there was 
 no terror in that face — a serious resolve, rather — a 
 set purpose— grave eyes. He, the reader, leaned 
 back in his chair and crossed his legs. 
 
ONE AND TWO 
 
 213 
 
 *Yes,' be said, and the voice again startled the 
 other man. ' You have a right— a complete right- 
 to an explanation. I have felt for a long time that 
 something would have to be done ; I've been going 
 on in a most micomfortable manner. In spite of my 
 continual remonstrances, I could not persuade you to 
 work. You must have recognised that you contained 
 two men : the one indolent, dreamy, always carried 
 away by the pleasures or caprice of the moment — a 
 feather-brain. The other: ambitious, clearheaded, 
 and eager for work. Your part would give my part 
 no chance. Very well ; we are partly separated. 
 That is all. Partly separated.' 
 
 The dreamer sat down and stared. ' I don't 
 understand,' he said. 
 
 * No more time will be lost,' the worker went on. 
 * I have begun to work. For some time past I have 
 been working at night— I am not going to stand it 
 any longer.' 
 
 * That's what made me so heavy in the morning, 
 then ? ' 
 
 ' That was the cause. Now, however, I am going 
 to work in earnest, and all day long.' 
 
 ' I don't care if it's real ; but this is a dream. I 
 don't care so long as I needn't work with you. But, 
 I say, what will the men say ? I can't pretend to 
 have a twin, all of a sudden.' 
 
 < ]Sf — no. Besides, there are other difficulties. 
 We belong to each other, you see. We must share 
 these rooms. Listen, I have quite thought it out. 
 At night we shall be one ; at breakfast and in the 
 Hall we will be one ; you shall give me the entire use 
 of these rooms all day and all the evening for work. 
 
ONE AND TWO 
 
 In examinations of course you will remain here locked 
 in, while I go to the Senate House. You will go to 
 chapel for both.' 
 
 ' N — no. Chapel must belong to you.' 
 
 * I say you will go to chapel for both.' This with 
 resolution. 
 
 * Oh ! ' the other half gave way. ' But what am 
 I to do all day ? ' 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't know. Do what you like. If 
 you like to stay here you can. You may play or sing. 
 You may read your French novels ; you will not dis- 
 turb me. But if you bring any of your friends here 
 it will be awkward, because they will perceive that you 
 are double. Now we will go to bed. It is half-past two.' 
 
 IV 
 
 In the morning Will awoke with a strange sense of 
 something. This feeling of something is not un- 
 common with gentlemen who go to bed about three. 
 He got up and dressed. A cup of tea made him 
 remember but imperfectly what had happened. ' I 
 must have had too much whisky,' he murmured. 
 * I saw myself — actually myself — hard at work.' 
 Here his eyes fell upon the table. There were the 
 books — books on Political Economy — with a note-book 
 and every indication of work. More; he knew, he 
 remembered, the contents of these books. He sat down 
 bewildered. Then it seemed as if there was a struggle 
 within him as of two who strove for mastery. 
 ' Work ! ' cried one. * I won't,' said the other. ' You 
 shall.' ' I won't.' A most ignoble quarrel, yet it 
 pulled him this way and that towards the table or 
 
ONE AN]) TWO 
 
 back in the loii^^- easy chair. Finally the sirugolc 
 ended : ho fell back ; he clo.sed his eyes. When he 
 opened them again, the room was cleared of the 
 breakfast things, and he saw himself sitting at the 
 table hard at work. 
 
 * Good gracious ! ' he cried, springing to his feet. 
 ' Is what I remember of last night real ? Not a 
 dream ! ' 
 
 ' Not a dream at ah. I will no longer have my 
 career blasted at the outset by your confounded lazi- 
 ness. I think you understand me perfectly. I am 
 clear of you whenever I please. I join you when I 
 please.' 
 
 ' Oh ! And have I the same power ? ' 
 
 ' You ? Certainly not. You are only the Half 
 that won't work. You have got no power at ah.' 
 
 ' Oh ! WeU— I shall not stand that.' 
 
 'You can't help yourself. I am the Intellectual 
 Principle ; mine is the Will : mine is the clear head 
 and the authority.' 
 
 ' What am I then ? ' 
 
 ' You ? I don't know. You are me— yourself— 
 without the Intehectual Principle. That is what you 
 are. I must define you by negatives. You cannot 
 argue, or reason, or create, or invent : you remember 
 like an animal from assistance : you behave ^nicely 
 because you have been trained : you are— in short— 
 you are the Animal Part.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' He was angry : he did not know what to 
 reply : he was humiliated. 
 
 'Don't fan into a rage. Go away and amuse 
 yourself. You can do anything you please. Come 
 back, however, in time for Hall.' 
 
2l6 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 The Animal Part obeyed. He went out leaving 
 the other Part over his books. He spent the norning 
 with other men as industriously disposed as h.mself. 
 He found a strange lightness of spirits. Ther^ was 
 no remonstrating voice within him reproaching him 
 for his laziness, urging him to get up and go to 
 work. Not at all ; that voice was silent ; he was left 
 quite undisturbed. He talked with these men over 
 tobacco ; he played bilHards with them ; he lay ia a 
 chair and looked at a novel. He had luncheon and 
 beer, and more tobacco. He went down the ri^^er in 
 the College boat ; he had an hour or two of whist 
 before Hall. Then he returned to his room. 
 
 His other Half looked up, surprised. 
 
 'Already ? The day has flown.' 
 
 ' One moment,' said Will, < before we go in. 
 You're a serious sort, you know, and I'm one of the— 
 the lighter ornaments of the College, and I sit among 
 them. It would be awkward breaking off all at once. 
 Besides ' 
 
 'I understand. Continue to sit with them for 
 awhile, and talk as much idiotic stuff as you please. 
 Presently you will find that a change of companions 
 and of conversation has become necessary.' 
 
 Nobody noticed any change ; the two in one sat 
 at table and ate like one ; they talked like one ; they 
 talked frivolously, telhng stories like one. After Hail 
 they went back to their chambers. 
 
 'You can leave me,' said the student. 'I shall 
 rest for an hour or so. Then I shall go on again.' 
 
 This very remarkable arrangement went on un- 
 disturbed for some time. No one suspected it. No 
 one discovered it. It became quite natural for 
 
ONE AND TWO 
 
 217 
 
 ChallicG to go out of his room in the morning and to 
 leave himself at work ; it became natural to go down 
 to Hall at seven with a mingled recollection of work 
 and amusements. The reproaching voice was silent, 
 the Animal Tart was left at peace, and the Intellectual 
 Part went on reading at peace. 
 
 One evening, however, going across the court at 
 midnight, WiU met the tutor. 
 
 ' Challice,' he said, ' is it wise to burn the candle 
 at both ends? Come— you told me this mornmg 
 that you were working hard. What do you call this ? 
 You cannot serve two masters.' 
 
 ' * It is quite true,' said the Eeading Half on being 
 questioned. ' I have foreseen this difficulty for some 
 time. I called on the tutor this morning, and I told 
 him of my intention to work. He laughed aloud. I 
 insisted. Then he pointed out the absurdity of 
 pretending to work while one was idling about aU day. 
 This is awkward.' 
 
 ' What do you propose then ? ' 
 * I propose that you stay indoors all the morning 
 until two o'clock, locked in.' 
 
 ' What ? And look on while you are mugging ? ' 
 'Exactly. You may read French novels: you 
 may go to sleep. You must be quiet. Only, you 
 must be here— all the morning. In the afternoon 
 you may do what you please. I may quite trust you 
 to avoid any effort'of the brain. Oh ! And you will 
 avoid anything stronger than tea before Hall. No 
 more beer for lunch. It makes me heavy.' 
 
 * No more beer ? But this is tyranny.' 
 
 * No. It is ambition. In the evening you may go 
 out and play cards. I shall stay here.' 
 
2l8 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 They went to bed. It seemed to Will as if the 
 other Part of him — the Intellectual Part — ordered 
 him to go to sleep without further thought. 
 
 This curious life of separation and of partial 
 union continued, in fact, for the whole of the under- 
 graduate time. Gradually, however, a great change 
 came over the lazy Half-— the Animal Half. It 
 — he — perceived that the whole of his reasoning 
 powers had become absorbed by the Intellectual 
 Half. He became really incapable of reasoning. 
 He could not follow out a thought ; he had no 
 thoughts. This made him seem dull, because even 
 the most indolent person likes to think that he has 
 some powers of argument. This moiety of Challice 
 had none. He became quite dull ; his old wit deserted 
 him ; he was heavy ; he drifted gradually out of the 
 society which he had formerly frequented ; he per- 
 ceived that his old friends not only found him dull, 
 but regarded him as a traitor. He had become, they 
 believed, that contemptible person, the man who 
 reads. He was no longer a dweller in the Castle of 
 Indolence ; he had gone over to the other side. 
 
 Life became very dull indeed to this Half. He 
 got into the habit of lying on a sofa, watching the 
 other Half who sat at the table tearing the heart out 
 of books. He admired the energy of that Half ; for 
 himself, he could do nothing ; if he read at all it was 
 a novel of the lowest kind ; he even bought the penny 
 novelette and read that with interest ; if he came to 
 a passage which contained a thought or a reflection 
 he passed it over. He had ceased to think ; he no 
 longer even troubled himself about losing the power 
 of thought. 
 
ONE AND TWO 
 
 219 
 
 Another thing came upon hhn ; not Hudclonly, ])ut 
 gvaduahy, so tliat he was not alarmed at it. lie hcgan 
 to care no longer about the games of which he had 
 formerly been so fond. Billiards, racquets, cards, all 
 require, you sec, a certain amount of reasoning, of 
 quick intelligence and rapid action. This unfortunate 
 young man had no rapidity of intelligence left. He 
 was too stupid to play games. He became too stupid 
 even to row. 
 
 He ceased to be a dreamer ; all his dreams were 
 gone ; he ceased to make music at the piano ; he 
 ceased to sing ; he could neither play nor sing : these 
 things gave him no pleasure. He ceased, in short, to 
 take interest in anything, cared for nothing, and 
 hoped for nothing. 
 
 In Hall the two in one sat now with the readmg 
 set. Their talk was all of books and ' subjects,' and 
 so forth. The Intellectual Half held his own with the 
 rest: nay, he became a person to be considered. It 
 was remarked, however, that any who met Chalhce 
 out walking found him stupid and dull beyond relief. 
 This was put down to preoccupation. The man was 
 full of his work ; he was meditating, they said ; his 
 brain was working ah the while ; he was making up 
 for lost time. 
 
 In the evening the lazy Half sat in an easy 
 chair and took tobacco, while the other Half worked. 
 At eleven the Industrious Half disappeared. Then 
 the Whole went to bed. 
 
 They seldom spoke except when Industry had 
 some more orders to give. It was no longer advice, 
 or suggestion, or a wish, or a prayer: it was an 
 order. Indolence was a servant. 'You took more 
 
220 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 wine than is good for me at dinner to-day/ said 
 Industry. ' Kestrict yourself to a pint of claret, and 
 that of the lightest for the future.' Or, 'You are 
 not taking exercise enough. If you have no longer 
 brain power enough even for the sliding seat, walk 
 —walk fast— go out to the top of the Gogs and back 
 again. I want all my energies.' Once Indolence 
 caught a cold : it was a month before the May ex- 
 aminations. The wrath and reproaches of Industry, 
 compelled to give up a whole day to nursing that 
 cold, were very hard to bear. Yet Indolence could 
 not resist; he could not even remonstrate; he was 
 now a mere slave. 
 
 When the examinations came it was necessary to 
 observe precautions of a severer kind. To begin 
 with. Indolence had to get up at six and go for an 
 hour's run, for the better bracing of the nerves ; he 
 had to stay hidden indoors all day, while his am- 
 bitious twin sat in the Hall, flooring papers. He had 
 to give up tobacco in order to keep the other Half's 
 head clear. ' Courage,' said Intellect, 'a day or two 
 more and you shall plunge again into the sensuality 
 of your pipe and your beer. Heavens! When I 
 look at you, and think of what I was becoming ! ' 
 
 Industry got a scholarship ; Intellect got a Uni- 
 versity medal ; Ambition received the congratulations 
 of the tutor. 
 
 *How long,' asked the Animal, 'is this kind of 
 thing going to continue ? ' 
 
 'How long? Do you suppose,' replied the other 
 Half, ' that I have given up my ambition ? Ke- 
 member what you said two years ago. You were 
 younger then. You would sweep the board; you 
 
ONE AND TWO 
 
 221 
 
 would row in tlio University boat ; you would play 
 in the Eleven ; you would be a Leader— in all, all ! 
 You would then take up with something— you knew 
 not what— and you would step to the front. You 
 remember ? ' 
 
 ' A dream— a dream. I was younger then.' 
 
 *No longer a dream. It is a settled purpose. 
 Hear me. I am going to be a statesman. I shall 
 play the highest game of all. I shall go into the 
 House. 1 shall rise— slowly at first, but steadily.' 
 
 'And I?' 
 
 ' You are a log tied to my heel, but you shall be 
 an obedient log. If you were not ' 
 
 Indolence shivered and crouched. ' Am I then- 
 all my life— to be your servant ? ' 
 
 ' Your life ? No— my life.' The two glared at 
 each other. ' Silence ! Log. Let me work.' 
 
 ' I shall not be silent,' cried Indolence, roused to 
 momentary self-assertion. * I have no enjoyment left 
 in life. You have taken all — all ' 
 
 * You have left what you loved best of all— your 
 sloth. Lie down— and take your rest. Why, you do 
 nothing all day. A stalled ox is not more lazy. You 
 eat and drink and take exercise and sleep. What more, 
 for such as you, has life to give ? You are now an 
 animal. My half has absorbed all the intellectual 
 part of you. Lie down, I say— lie down, and let me 
 work.' 
 
 The Animal could not he down. He was restless. 
 He walked about the room. He was discontented. 
 He was jealous. The other Half, he saw plainly, was 
 getting the better share of things. That Half was 
 admired and envied. By accident, as he paced the 
 
222 
 
 OSB AND TWO 
 
 room, he looked in the glass ; and he started, for his 
 face had grown heavy : there was a hovine look about 
 the cheeks : the eyes v/ere dull : the mouth full. 
 Then the other Half rose and stood beside him. 
 Together they looked at their own faces. ' Ha ! ' 
 cried Ambition, well satisfied at the contrast. ' It 
 works already. Mine is the face intended for me : 
 yours is the face into which this degenerate mould 
 might sink. Mine contains the soul ; yours — the 
 animal. You have got what you wanted. Sloth. 
 Your dreams are gone from you. I have got them, 
 though, and I am turning them into action. As time 
 goes on, your face Avill become more bovine, your 
 eyes duller. What will be the end ? ' His brow 
 darkened. ' I don't know. We are like the Siamese 
 twins.' 
 
 ' One of them took to drink,' murmured the 
 inferior Half. 'What if I v/ere to fohow his ex- 
 ample ? ' 
 
 ' You will not. You do not dare ! ' But his 
 blanched face showed his terror at the very thought, 
 
 V 
 
 The first step w^as achieved. The first class was 
 gained. Challice of Pembroke was second classic ; 
 he might have been senior but for the unaccountable 
 laziness of his first year. He was University scholar, 
 medallist, prizeman ; he was one of the best speakers 
 at the Union. He was known to be ambitious. He 
 was not popular, however, because he was liable to 
 strange fits of dulness ; those wdio met him wander- 
 ing about the banks of the river found him apparently 
 
OXK AND TWO 
 
 223 
 
 unable to understand things ; at such timos lie looked 
 heavy and dull; it was supposed that ho was 
 abstracted; men respected his moods, but these 
 things do not increase friendships. Chalhce the 
 Animal and ChaUice the Intellect weiglicd each other 
 down. 
 
 They left Cambridge ; they went to London ; they 
 took lodgings. ' You are now so different from me in 
 appearance,' said the Intellect, ' that I think we may 
 leave off the usual precautions. Go about without 
 troubling what I am and what I am doing. Go about 
 and amuse yourself, but be careful.' 
 
 The victim of sloth obeyed ; he went about all day 
 long in heavy, meaningless fashion ; he looked at 
 things in shops ; he sat in museums and dropped off 
 to sleep. He strolled round squares. At luncheon 
 and dinner time he found out restaurants where he 
 could feed— in reality, the only pleasure left to him 
 was to eat, drink, and sleep. 
 
 One day he was in Kensington Gardens, sitting 
 half asleep in the sun. People walked up and down 
 the walk before him ; beautiful women gaily dressed ; 
 sprightly women gaily talking; the world of w^ealth, 
 fashion, extravagance, and youth. He was no more 
 than three-and-twenty himself. He ought to have 
 been fired by the sight of all this beauty, and all this 
 happiness. Nobody in the world can look half so 
 happy as a lovely girl finely dressed. But he sat 
 there like a clod, duU and insensate. 
 
 Presently, a voice w^hich he remembered : ' Papa, 
 it is Will Challice ! ' He looked up heavily. ' Why 
 •\Yin'_the girl stood before him— ' don't you know 
 me?' 
 
224 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 It was Nell, the daughter of his tutor, now a 
 comely maiden of one-and-twenty, who laughed and 
 held out her hand to him. He rose, but not with 
 alacrity. The shadow of a smile crossed his face. 
 He took her hand. 
 
 ' Challice ! ' his tutor clapped him on the shoulder. 
 *I haven't seen you since you took your degree. 
 Splendid, my boy ! But it might have been just one 
 place better. I hear you are reading Law — good. 
 With the House before you ? Good again ! Let me 
 look at you. Humph ! ' He grunted a little dis- 
 appointment. ' You don't look quite so — quite so — 
 what ? Do you take exercise enough ? ' 
 
 ^ Plenty of exercise — plenty,' replied the young 
 scholar, who looked so curiously dull and heavy. 
 
 ' Well, let us walk together. You are doing 
 nothing for the moment.' 
 
 They walked together ; Nelly between them. 
 
 * Father,' she said, when they arrived at their 
 lodgings in Albemarle Street, ' what has come over that 
 poor man ? He has gone stupid with his success. I 
 could not get a word out of him. He kept staring at 
 me without speaking.' 
 
 Was he a lumpish log, or was he a man all nerves 
 and electricity ? 
 
 In the morning Will Challice partly solved the 
 question, because he called and showed clearly that 
 he was an insensible log, and a lumpish log. He sat 
 for an hour gazing at the girl as if he would devour 
 her, but he said nothing. 
 
 In the evening Cousin Tom called, bringing Will 
 Challice again — but how changed ! Was such a 
 change really due to evening dress ? Keen of feature, 
 
ONI'] AND TWO 
 
 225 
 
 bright of eye, full of aniinaiion. ' AVliy, Will,' said 
 Nelly, 'what is the matter with you sometimes? 
 When you were here this morning, one could not get 
 a word out of you. Your very 'face looked heavy.' 
 
 He changed colour. ' I have times when I— I— 
 lose myself — thinking — thinking of things, you 
 know.' 
 
 They passed a dehghtful evening. But when Will 
 went away the girl became meditative. For, although 
 he had talked without stopping on every kind of 
 subject, there was no hungry look in his eye, such as 
 she had perceived with natural satisfaction in the morn- 
 ing. Every maiden likes that look of hunger, the 
 outward sign and indication of respect to her charms. 
 
 They were up in town for a month. Every 
 morning Will called and sat glum but hungry-eyed, 
 gazing on the girl and saying nothing. Every 
 evening he caUed again and talked scholarship and 
 politics with her father, his face changed, his whole 
 manner different, and without any look of hunger in 
 his eyes. 
 
 One day after a fortnight or so of this, Will the 
 Animal stood up after breakfast and spoke. 
 
 ' There has got to be a change.'* 
 
 'You are changing, in fact,' replied the other with 
 a sneer. 
 
 * I am in love. I am going to marry a girl. Now 
 hold your tongue,' for the Intellectual Half bounded 
 in his chair. * You have left me very little power of 
 speech. Let me try to explain what I— I want to say.' 
 He spoke painfully and slowly. 'Let me— try— I 
 have lost, bit by bit, almost everything. I don't want 
 to read— I can't play any more. I don't care about 
 
 . Q 
 
2 26 ONE AND TWO 
 
 anytliing much. But this girl I do care about. I 
 have always loved her, and you— you with your deuced 
 intellect— cannot kilUhat part of me. Be quiet— let 
 me try to think. She loves me, too. She loves me 
 for myself, and not on account of you and your success. 
 She is sorry for me. She has given me— I don't 
 know how— the power of thinking a little. When I ^ 
 am married to her, she will give me more. Let us 
 part absolutely. Take all my intellect and go. Nell 
 will marry a stupid man, but he will get somethmg 
 from her— something lam sure. I feel different 
 already ; I said something to-day which made her 
 laugh. What are you glaring at me for ? ' 
 
 I am not glaring. I am thinking. Go on.' 
 
 ' This has got to stop. Now find some way of 
 stopping it, or — or ' 
 
 ' What can you do ? ' 
 
 ' I can drink,' he said, with awful meaning. ' I 
 can ruin you. And I wiU, unless you agree to part.' 
 
 The Intellectual Half was looking at him with a 
 strangely softened face. There was neither scorn nor 
 hatred in that face. ' Dimidium Animas,' he said, 
 ' Half of my Soul, I have something to say as well. 
 Confess, however, first of ah, that I was right. Had 
 it not been for this step-the most severe measure 
 possible, I admit-nothing would have been achieved. 
 Eh?' 
 
 ' Perhap?. You would work, you see. 
 
 ' Yes Weh— I have made a discovery. It is that 
 I have been too thorough. I don't quite understand 
 how, logicahy and naturally, anythiug else was possible. 
 I wanted, Heaven knows, ah the intellect there was ; 
 you were, therefore, bound to become the Animal, pure 
 
0N1<] ANT) TWO 
 
 227 
 
 and simple. Well, you see, we are not really two, but 
 one. Can't wo hit upon an agreement ? ' 
 
 * What agreement ? ' 
 
 ' Some agreement — some modus vivendi. I shall 
 get, it is true, some of the Animal ; you will get some 
 of the Intellectual, but we shall be united again, and 
 
 after all ' He looked very kindly upon himself 
 
 and held out his hand. So they stood with clasped 
 hands looking at each other. 
 
 ' I found it out through Nell,' the Intellectual Half 
 went on. ' You went to see her every morning — I 
 went every evening. You were always brimful of love 
 for her ; I, who knew this, was not moved in the 
 slightest degree by her. Oh ! I know that she is the 
 best girl that the world, at this moment, has to show ; 
 I am fully persuaded of that : yet she has ceased to 
 move me. I think of her Intellect, which is certainly 
 much lower than my own, and I cannot even admire 
 her. In other words, I cannot be moved by any 
 woman. This terrifies me.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 * It threatens my future. Don't you see ? He 
 who cannot be moved by woman is no longer man. 
 But man can only be moved by brother man. If I 
 cannot move men my career is at an end. What they 
 call magnetism belongs to the animal within us. 
 When that is gone, I now perceive, when the animal 
 is killed, the rest of the man has no longer any charm, 
 any attraction, any persuasion, any power of leading, 
 teaching, compelling, or guiding. His success, whatever 
 he does, is all glitter — evanescent glitter. He may sit 
 down and hold his tongue, for he can do no more good.' 
 
 * I only half understand.' 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 
 
 ONE AND TWO 
 
 * Intellect, in sliort, my lower Half, is of no use 
 without human passion. That is what it means. 
 We have gone too far. Let us end it.' 
 
 * How ? You despise the man who is only animal.' 
 
 i j^o — no ! The animal is part of man. I under- 
 stand now. I have done wrong — brother Half — to 
 separate myself so much from you. Only, you carried 
 it too far. You 2vould not work : you would not give 
 me even a decent show. Suppose — I say suppose — 
 we were united once more. Could I count on being 
 allowed to work ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the Animal, ' I have had a lesson too. 
 You shall work,' he hesitated and shuddered, ' in 
 reason, of course— say all the morning, and, if you go 
 into the House, all the evening.' 
 
 ' I would not be hard upon you. I would let you 
 have a reasonable amount of indolence and rest. My 
 success will be less rapid, on your account, but it will 
 be more solid. Do you think that, if we were to be 
 lost again in each other, I should once more feel for 
 that girl as ' 
 
 'Why,' said the Animal, 'you would be— Me ; 
 and what I feel for her is, I assure you, overwhelm- 
 ing.' 
 
 That evening Will Chalhce sat at the open window 
 in the dark, Nellie's hand in his. ' My dear,' he mur-i 
 mured, 'tell me, do you love me more because/' 
 I have realised some of our old dreams ? ' j 
 
 ' Will ; how can I tell you ? I love you, not youij 
 success. If you had not done so well, it would have 
 made no difference. Your success is only an acciden-. 
 tal part of you.' Oh! the metaphysician ! ' You ard 
 not your success. Yet, of course, I don't love you forf 
 
ONE AND TWO 
 
 229 
 
 your fine degree, you conceited boy, and yet it is for 
 yourself.' 
 
 He kissed her forehead. * The old dream time 
 was pleasant, wasn't it ? when we chose to be Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury one day and Lord Chancellor 
 the next. To be Leader of the House of Commons is 
 the present ambition. It is a most splendid thing 
 the dreamer's eyes looked up into space with the old 
 light in them—' a most splendid thing— to lead the 
 House— to sway the House. But I don't know,' he 
 sighed, ' it wih take an awful lot of work. And the 
 Cambridge business did take it out of one most tre- 
 mendously. I didn't believe, Nell, that I had such an 
 amount of work in me.' 
 
 ' You have been so gloomy lately, Will. Was that 
 fatigue ? ' 
 
 * Ambition on the brain, Nell,' he replied, lightly- 
 as lightly as of old— success had not destroyed the old 
 gaiety of heart. ' I've consulted a learned physician, 
 Dr. Sydenham Celsus Galen, Wimpole Street. He 
 says that an engagement with the right girl— he is 
 extremely particular on that point, so that I do hope, 
 Nell, we have made no mistake— is a sovereign remedy 
 for all mopey, glum dumpsy, moody, broody, gloomy, 
 sulky, ill-conditioned vapours. It is, he confessed, the 
 only medicine in his pharmacopoeia. All his clients 
 have to follow that prescription. You wih very soon 
 find that those glum dumpsy moods have vanished 
 quite away. You will charm them away. Oh ! I live 
 again — I breathe— I think— I don't work so infernally 
 hard. I am once more human— because I love, and 
 
 because ' The girl's head rested upon his arm, 
 
 and he kissed her forehead. 
 
230 
 
 A NIGHT WITH TANTALUS \ 
 
 A COLONIAL REMINISCENCE 
 
 It was past ten o'clock when the ponies left the hard, 
 white road and turned into the dark avenue of palms 
 which formed the approach to the little country box 
 where the two men lived. The night was hot and 
 dry ; there was a gentle breeze, but it was the hot 
 wind which lifted the white dust and floated it — all 
 of it, as it seemed — exactly on the level of the riders' 
 breathing apparatus, so as to parch the tongue and 
 dry up the throat. 
 
 They were two railway engineers, and they were 
 getting home after a long and fatiguing journey. 
 They had been up and on the line before six in the 
 morning ; they had spent the great heat of the day 
 drawing plans in a stifling hot office ; they were afield 
 again when the sun got low ; they had taken a hasty 
 dinner with the chief, and they were now home again. 
 The monotony of the day, needless to explain, had been 
 varied by many draughts of mingled soda and whisky. 
 
 As they turned into the avenue, one broke the 
 silence, and said briefly, ' "Whisky and soda. Jack ? ' 
 
 The other replied, ' Two, my boy. It's a thirsty 
 country, but, thank Heaven ! there's lashin's to drink.' 
 
 The tumbledown shanty where they lived had been 
 put up for a hunting-box. It contained one room, 
 
A NIGHT WITH TANTALUS 
 
 rouglily furniHhod with a table, a couple of cliairH, a 
 coupler of Hinall iron bedsteads, a sid(--board, and a 
 safety bin. Tlu^ box was built of half a dozen uprights, 
 rudeiy hewn out of trees, and its walls were of thin 
 wood taken from packing-cases. It had a small lean- 
 to by way of verandah. Outside, there was a stable 
 for four horses, a servant's cottage, and a kitchcni. 
 Nothing more. Behind it lay a narrow valley running 
 up to the mountains, thick with forest; in front, 
 separated by the avenue of palms, was the long white 
 road ; there was no house within five miles. The two 
 
 men lived here because it was convenient to their 
 
 section of the line. 
 
 They threw themselves off their ponies. 
 
 ' Arakhan ! ' shouted one of them. 
 
 Now, Arakhan was their groom, cook, and general 
 
 servant. Nobody else would have Arakhan because 
 
 he was a convicted burglar, a suspected murderer, and 
 
 a terrible, black-avised rogue to look at. 
 
 ' Arakhan ! ' No reply. ' Arakhan, where the 
 
 devil are you ? ' No reply. 
 
 ' Gone a-burgling, I suppose. Got a crib to crack, 
 
 with a murder. Let's put the ponies in the stable. 
 
 Hang it ! I'm too thirsty to look after them. We'll 
 
 go and get a drink. Then we'll come back. They 
 
 won't hurt.' 
 
 They opened the stable door, led the ponies into 
 their boxes and went out, putting up the bar. 
 
 The house door was standing open— it always w^as 
 openday and night —but there was nothingfor anyoneto 
 steal except the bottles, and they were in the safety bin. 
 
 ' Phew ! ' They threw off their hats. ' What a 
 nic^ht it is ! Let's get some drink, for Heaven's sake ! ' 
 
232 A MGIIT ^YITH TANTALUS 
 
 The speaker drew out a silver box, and struck a 
 light. The match flared up for a moment, and then 
 went out. He struck another. This behaved in the 
 same disappointing manner. ' Nasty, cheap, weedy 
 things they are,' growled the engineer. He lit a third. 
 ' Now then,' he said, ' where's the lamp ? ' It ought 
 to have been on the table, but it wasn't. 
 
 * There it is, on the sideboard — quick ! ' 
 
 Too late. The third match went out while the 
 lamp was borne from the sideboard to the table. 
 
 ' Never mind. Here's another.' 
 
 He lit the fourth match. This burned well and 
 steadily. He lifted the glass of the lamp and ignited 
 the wick. ' There ! ' he said. * Now for the padlock. 
 Oh ! give me a soda, quick. I pant — I die.' 
 
 There stood by the sideboard, screwed into the up- 
 rights of the house, a small and very useful article of 
 furniture known as a safety bin. The beauty of this 
 kind of bin is that nobody can take anything out of it 
 unless he have the secret of the letter padlock which 
 guards the contents. You can see the bottles, but you 
 cannot get them out. 
 
 The other man was by this time on his knees be- 
 fore the safety bin. Not praying to the bottles, but 
 using the attitude most convenient to get at the pad- 
 lock, which was about two feet -from the ground, and 
 at his side. 
 
 'Hold th3 lamp. Jack,' he said, 'I can't see the 
 letters.' 
 
 Jack took up the lamp. Just then the wick sud- 
 denly flared up and went out, leaving a fragrance of 
 oil, but no hght. 
 
 * What's ths matter with the thing ? ' asked Jack. 
 
A NIGHT WITH TANTAl.US 
 
 ^33 
 
 ' No oil, 1 believe. The burglar has forgotten the 
 
 oil; 
 
 ' Well, wo must make a match do. Strike another. 
 I'm like a lime kiln.' 
 
 Jack struck another match. 
 ' Now, then, make haste.' 
 
 'All right. DUO P. That's the word. Here's the 
 D. Here's the K. Confound it ! ' For the match at 
 this point went out. 
 
 ' I've lost the letters again. Strike another, Jack. 
 Haven't we got a candle somewhere? Or a bit of 
 paper ? Now then ' 
 
 It was pitch dark, otherwise he might have seen 
 his friend turn pale and stagger. 
 
 ' Make haste, Jack.' 
 
 * I haven't got any more matches. Give me your 
 box. 
 
 The other man rose from his knees and began, 
 carelessly and confidently at first, to search his waist- 
 coat pockets. No matchbox there. He then felt in^ 
 his trousers pockets. None there. Then he became 
 a Httle alarmed, and, in some precipitation, began to 
 feel his coat pockets, of which there were many. No 
 matchbox anywhere. He then dragged everything 
 out. Keys, purse, pocket-book, handkerchief, knife, 
 pencil, foot-rule, pocket-tape, note-book, letters— 
 everything— throwing all on the floor. 
 
 ' Jack,' he said solemnly, after a long search, ' are 
 you quite— quite— sure that you've got no matches ? ' 
 
 * Quite.' 
 
 *No more have I. Let's call Arakhan. Perhaps 
 he has come back.' 
 
 They went out into the verandah and shouted for 
 
234 ^ NIGHT WITH TANTALUS 
 
 their retainer. There was no reply ; the stars winked 
 at them ; they heard their voices echoing from side to 
 side of the narrow valley, growing fainter and fainter. 
 
 'He must have another bm'glary on/ said Jack. 
 ' The beast is never content.' 
 
 They returned to the room. 
 
 ' Hang it,' said the other, ' there must be matches 
 somewhere. It's impossible that we should be left 
 without matches. Let's hunt about. You take the 
 table, I'll search the sideboard.' 
 
 Nothing at all was on the table, except the lamp, 
 which the searcher upset and smashed. The sideboard 
 was covered with a miscellaneous coUection of plates 
 and glasses. It was difficult to find anything in such 
 a collection. At the edge stood a large red earthen- 
 ware jug filled with water. He who looked for matches 
 found the jug, but, unfortunately, foundit on the wrong 
 side, so that he toppled it over, and it was broken. 
 
 ' Well ? ' 
 
 ' There are no matches. Try to find the letters by 
 feeling.' 
 
 ' I wish I hadn't broken the jug. Even a drink of 
 water would have been something.' 
 ' Well — let us try again.' 
 
 He found the padlock, and began to feel with his 
 fingers. 
 
 ' D is a good fat letter,' he said. ' D. Here's D, 
 I think. Unless it's B. K is— is— I think I've found 
 K. Yes. I'm sure this is E. And here's 0— round 
 fat 0. Where's P ? ' He continued to feel, murmur- 
 ing hopefully. Here's P, I believe. Here's P, I'm sure 
 —now then. Hang the thing ! The other letters have 
 slewed round.' 
 
A NIGHT WITH TANTALUS 
 
 Everybody knows that with a letter padlock it is 
 necessary to keep the letters in line. 
 
 'Try again,' said the other man, gasping. 
 
 He did try. lie tried for half an hour ; he tried 
 with patience and nearly succeeded ; then with impa- 
 tience and never came near success ; while he captured 
 one letter the others slipped round ; if he thought he 
 had all, there was one wrong. At last he stood up 
 and wiped his brow in despair. 
 
 ' Jack,' he said, 'I should like to curse the thing, 
 but it's no use.' 
 
 ' No use,' the other echoed ; ' I've been thinking 
 the same thing for the last half hour. For such an 
 occasion as this ' 
 
 * Look here, Jack. I believe there's a crowbar or 
 a pick in the stable. Let us find it, and prize the 
 thing open.' 
 
 They went out together, and opened the stable 
 door. The ponies occupied two of the boxes. They 
 searched them first. No crowbar there. They then 
 searched the other two, kicking about the litter, and 
 feeling the corners. But no crowbar. Meantime, the 
 ponies, finding the door open and no opposition to 
 their going out, did walk out together, and trotted off 
 down the avenue. 
 
 ' Jack ! The ponies are gone.' 
 
 They ran out together, calling to the sagacious 
 creatures, who only turned their trot into a run, and, 
 in half a minute, were out in the road and galloping 
 away in the darkness. 
 
 ' Good Lord ! The devil's abroad to-night, I 
 believe.' 
 
 ' They're gone,' said Jack. ' They'll go off into the 
 
236 A NIGHT AVITH TANTALUS 
 
 forest, and they'll be picked up by a maroon, and mine 
 was a new saddle. There goes fifty pounds, old man. 
 
 Because, as for our getting ponies or saddles again ' 
 
 ' I can't swear, I can't say anything. I am so 
 thirsty.' 
 
 They crept back to the house, hopeless and crushed. 
 The night was darker than ever : darker and closer, 
 and hotter and stiller. And not a drop of anything to 
 drink— not even cold water. They found themselves 
 once more side by side in front of the safety bin. 
 
 'I can feel a bottle,' said Jack, with a broken 
 voice. ' It's full of whisky, and the soda bottles are 
 under it.' 
 
 ' I've got a corkscrew in my pocket,' said the other. 
 
 ' Who would ever dream of having a corkscrew and 
 no bottle to put it in ? ' 
 
 ' The bottle is deliciously cool to touch,' said Jack. 
 ' It's the only thing that is cool. Can't we cut down 
 the infernal house in order to get it ? ' 
 
 ' Look here ; tie a handkerchief round your hand, 
 so as to get a good purchase. So. Now, then ! foot 
 to foot, hand by hand. Eeady ? Pull ! ' 
 
 They puUed. They had the strength of ten, 
 because they were so thirsty ; the iron bent, but it 
 did not give way, and the padlock held. ' Pull again 
 —now.' They pulled like Samson, and with much 
 the same result. Craunch! Craunch! Crush! Crush! 
 
 They were lying on the floor under a wreck. The 
 uprights of the house had given way with everything— 
 safety bin, sideboard, and the two thirsty men— and 
 all lay on the floor together in mingled wreck. 
 
 ' Jack ! I beheve my left thumb's cut off. Are 
 you dead ? ' 
 
A NIOUT WITH TANTvM.lIS 
 
 ' Very nearly,' Jack replied faiiiily. ' There was 
 oil in the broken lamp, and my head's in it.' 
 
 * Get up and look for the whisky and the soda. 
 They're somewhere about.' 
 
 They were. The liquid was on the floor. The 
 bottles were in fragments. It was all over. There 
 was nothing more to be hoped. The worst had 
 happened. Their hands were cut by the broken glass ; 
 the side of the house was pulled down; their table 
 and sideboard wrecked ; their lamp and their water 
 jug broken ; and their ponies gone. The job was 
 complete. They threw themselves upon their beds 
 and lay there in sleepless silence. 
 
 At live in the morning Arakhan appeared. It 
 was beginning to get light, and the wreck was visible. 
 He stood in the door and gazed. Everything broken, 
 and the side of the house gone, and his two masters 
 lying pale and livid on their beds, but not asleep. 
 
 ' Where the devil were you last night ? ' asked one 
 of the men, from his bed. 
 
 ' Sahib give leave. Go to port. Yesterday more 
 whisky come— plenty soda come.' 
 
 'What?' It was now rapidly getting lighter. 
 The thirsty man sprang to his feet. ' Where are 
 they ? ' Arakhan pointed to the corner of the room. 
 There was the case of whisky, open. Beside it were 
 soda water bottles— rows of soda water bottles— dozens 
 of soda water bottles. 
 
 ' And they were here all the time ! At our very 
 hands— within reach, and we didn't know it. Jack ! ' 
 
 Gurgle— gurgle— gurgle. It was the opening of 
 the soda. What other reply did he expect ? 
 
238 
 
 THE SOLID GOLD REEF 
 COMPANY LIMITED 
 
 ACT I 
 
 ' You dear old boy,' said the girl, ' I am sure I wish it 
 could be— with all my heart— if I have any heart.' 
 
 ' I don't beheve you have,' repUed the boy, 
 gloomily. 
 
 ^Well, but Eeg, consider ; you've got no money.' 
 
 'I've got five thousand pounds. If a man can't 
 make his way upon that, he must be a poor stick.' 
 
 'You would go abroad with it and dig, and take 
 your wife with you — to wash and cook.' 
 
 'We would do something with the money here. 
 You should stay in London, Eosie.' 
 
 'Yes. In a suburban villa, at Shepherd's Bush, 
 perhaps. No, Eeg, when I marry, if ever I do— I am 
 in no hurry— I will step out of this room into one 
 exactly like it.' The room was a splendid drawing- 
 room in Palace Gardens, splendidly furnished. ' I 
 shall have my footmen and my carriage, and I 
 shall ' 
 
 ' Eosie, give me the right to earn all these things 
 for you ! ' the young man cried impetuously. 
 
 ' You can only earn them for me by the time you 
 have one foot in the grave. Hadn't I better in the 
 
Tni<] SOLID riOI.I) IIEEF OOMrANY, lJ^nTKI) 239 
 
 meantime marry some old gentleman witli his one foot 
 in the grave, so as to ho ready for you against the 
 time when you come home ? In two or three years 
 the other foot I dare say would slide into tlie grave as 
 well.' 
 
 ' You laugh at my trouhle. You feel nothing,' 
 
 ' If the pater would part — hut he won't — he eays 
 he wants all his money for himself, and that I've got 
 to marry weU. Besides, Ecg ' — here her face clouded 
 and she lowered her voice — ' there are times when he 
 looks anxious. We didn't always live in Palace 
 Gardens. Suppose we should lose it all as quickly as 
 we got it. Oh ! ' she shivered and trembled. ' No, I 
 will never, never marry a poor man. Get rich, my 
 dear hoy, and you may aspire even to the valuable 
 possession of this heartless hand. ' 
 
 She held it out. He took it, pressed it, s Looped 
 and kissed her. Then he dropped her hand and walked 
 quickly out of the room. 
 
 ' Poor Keggie ! ' she murmured. ' I wish — I wish 
 • — but what is the use of wishing ? ' 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Two men — one young, the other about fifty — sat in 
 the verandah of a small bungalow. It w^as after 
 breakfast. They lay back in long bamboo chairs, each 
 with a cigar. It looked as if they were resting. In 
 reality they were talking business, and that very 
 ssriously 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said the elder man, with something of 
 an American accent, ' I have somehow taken a fancy 
 to this place. The situation is healthy.' 
 
240 THE SOLID GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED 
 
 ' Well, I don't know ; I've had more than one 
 touch of fever here.' 
 
 ' The climate is lovely ' 
 
 ' Except in the rains.' 
 ' The soil is fertile ' 
 
 'I've dropped five thousand in it, and they haven't 
 come up again yet.' 
 
 ' They will. I have been round the estate, and i see 
 money in it. Well, sir, here's my offer : five thousand 
 down, hard cash, as soon as the papers are signed.' 
 
 Ke^inald sat up. He was on the point of accept- 
 ing the proposal, when a pony rode up to the house, 
 and the rider, a native groom, jumped off, and gave 
 him a note. He opened it and read. It was from his 
 nearest neighbour, two or three miles away: 'Don't 
 sell that man your estate. Gold has been found. The 
 whole country is full of gold. Hold on. He's an 
 assayer. If he offers to buy, be quite sure that he 
 has found gold on your land.— F. G.' 
 
 He put the note into his pocket, gave a verbal 
 message to the boy, and turned to his guest, without 
 betraying the least astonishment or emotion. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. The note was from Bellamy, 
 my next neighbour. Weh ? You were saying— -' 
 
 ^ ' Only that I have taken a fancy— perhaps a foolish 
 fancy— to this place of yours, and I'll give you, if you 
 like, ah that you have spent upon it.' 
 
 ' Well,' he replied, reflectively, but with a httle 
 twinkle in his eye, ' that seems handsome. But the 
 place isn't really worth the half that I have spent upon 
 it Anybody would teU you that. Come, let us be 
 honest, whatever we are. I'll tell you a better way. 
 We win put the matter into the hands of Bellamy. 
 
THE SOLID (;oLi) rj:i<:F coMrANy, liimitJ']]) 241 
 
 He knows what a coffee plantation is worth. lie shall 
 name a price, and if we can agree upon that, we will 
 make a deal of it.' 
 
 The other man changed colour. He wanted to settle 
 the thing at once as between gentlemen. What need of 
 third parties ? ]3ut Eeginald stood firm, and he pre- 
 sently rode away, quite sure that in a day or two this 
 planter, too, would have heard the news. 
 
 A month later, the young coffee-planter stood on the 
 deck of a steamer homeward bound. In his pocket-book 
 was a plan of his auriferous estate ; in a bag hanging 
 round his neck was a small collection of yellow nuggets; 
 in his boxes was a chosen assortment of quartz. 
 
 ACT III 
 
 *Well, sir,' said the financier, 'you've brought this 
 thing to me. You want my advice. Well, my advice 
 is, don't fool away the only good thing that will ever 
 happen to you. Luck such as this doesn't come more 
 than once in a lifetime.' 
 
 ' I have been offered ten thousand pounds for my 
 estate.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Have you ! Ten thousand ? That was 
 very liberal— very hberal indeed. Ten thousand for 
 a gold reef ! ' 
 
 • But I thought as an old friend of my father you 
 would, perhaps ' 
 
 ' Young man, don't fool it away. He's waiting for 
 you, I suppose, round the corner, with a bottle of fizz 
 ready to close.' 
 
 *Heis.' 
 
 * Well, go and drink his champagne. Always get 
 
 R 
 
242 THE SOLID GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED 
 
 whatever you can. And then tell him that you'll see S 
 him ' 
 
 ' I certainly will, sir, if you advise it. And then ? ' , 
 
 * And then — leave it to me. And, young man, | 
 I think I heard, a year or two ago, something about 
 you and my girl Kosie.' i 
 
 ' There was something, sir. Not enough to trouble f 
 you about it.' ; 
 
 * She told me. Kosie tells me all her love affairs.' j 
 
 * Is she — is she unmarried ? ' J 
 
 * Oh yes, and for the moment I believe she is free, j 
 She has had one or two engagements, but, somehow, : ' 
 they have come to nothing. There was the French ^ 
 Count, but that was knocked cn the head very early ;) 
 in consequence of things discovered. And there was V 
 the Boom in Guano, but he fortunately smashed, much 
 to Eosie's joy, because she never liked him. The last 
 was Lord Evergreen. He was a nice old chap when j 
 you could understand what he said, and Eosie would 
 have liked the title very much, though his grand- 
 children opposed the thing. Well, sir, I suppose you 
 couldn't understand the trouble we took to keep that : 
 old man alive for his own wedding. Science did all; 
 
 it could, but 'twas of no use ' The financier',!; 
 
 sighed. * The ways of Providence are inscrutable ' 
 He died, sir, the day before.' / 
 
 ' That was very sad.' 
 
 ' A dashing of the cup from the lip, sir. My 
 daughter would have been a Countess. Well, young \ 
 gentleman, about this estate of yours. I think I see 
 a way — I think, I am not yet sure — that I do see a' 
 way. Go now. See this liberal gentleman, and drink' ^ 
 his champagne. And come here in a week. Then, i\\ 
 
THE SOLID GOLD REEF COMPANY, LIMITED 243 
 
 I still see my way, you shall understand what it means 
 to hold the position in the City which is mine.' 
 
 ' And — and — may I call upon Eosie ? ' 
 
 ' Not till this day week — not till I have made my 
 way plain.' 
 
 * And so it means this. Oh, Eosie, you look lovelier 
 than ever, and I'm as happy as a king. It means 
 this. Your father is the greatest genius in the world. 
 He buys my property for sixty thousand pounds- 
 sixty thousand. That's over two thousand a year for 
 me, and he makes a company out of it with a hundred 
 and fifty thousand capital. He says that, taking ten 
 thousand out of it for expenses, there will be a profit 
 of eighty thousand. And all that he gives to you — 
 eighty thousand, that's three thousand a jear for 
 you ; and sixty thousand, that's two more, my dearest 
 Eosie. You remember what you said, that when you 
 married you should step out of one room like this 
 into another just as good ? ' 
 
 * Oh, Eeggie ' — she sank upon his bosom — ' you 
 know I never could love anybody but you. It's true 
 I was engaged to old Lord Evergreen, but that was 
 only because he had one foot — you know— and w^hen 
 the other foot went in too, just a day too soon, I 
 actually laughed. So the pater is going to make a 
 company of it, is he ? Well, I hope he won't put any 
 of his own money into it, I'm sure, because of late 
 
 1 all the companies have turned out so badly.' 
 
 * But, my child, the place is full of gold.' 
 
 'J ' Then why did he turn it into a company, my 
 ' dear boy ? And why didn't he make you stick to it ? 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 R 2 
 
2 44 THE SOLID GOLD IlEEF COMPANY, LIMITED 
 
 But you know nothing of the City. Now, let us sit 
 down and talk about what we shall do— Don't, you 
 ridiculous boy ! ' 
 
 ACT Y 
 
 Another house just like the first. The bride stepped 
 out of one palace into another. With their five or 
 six thousand a year, the young couple could just 
 manage to make both ends meet. The husband was 
 devoted ; the wife had everything that she could wish. 
 Who could be happier than this pair in a nest so 
 luxurious, their hfe so padded, their days so full of 
 
 sunshine ? ; 
 
 It was a year after marriage. The wife, contrary ^ 
 to her usual custom, was the first at breakfast. A i 
 few letters were waiting for her-chiefly invitations, i 
 She opened and read them. Among them lay one 
 addressed to her husband. Not looking at the 
 address, she opened and read that as well : 
 
 * Dear Reginald,— I venture to address you as an 
 old friend of your own and school-fellow of your 
 mother's. I am a widow with four children. My 
 husband was the Yicar of your old parish-you 
 remember him and me. I was left with a little in- 
 come of about two hundred a year. Twelve months 
 aao I was persuaded in order to double my income 
 —a thing which seemed certain from the prospectus 
 —to invest everything in a new and rich gold mine. 
 Everything. And the mine has never paid anything. 
 The company-it is called the Solid Gold Eeef 
 Company— is in liquidation because, though there is 
 really the gold there, it costs too much to get it. I 
 have no relatives anywhere to help me. Unless I 
 
THE S0LIJ3 GOLD KKKF COINEPA^'Y, \AM\TK\) 245 
 
 can get assistance my cliiklren and I must go at once 
 — to-morrow— into the workhouse. Yes, we are 
 paupers. I am ruined by the cruel Hcs of that 
 prospectus, and the wickedness which deluded me, 
 and I know not liow many others, out of my money. 
 I have been foohsh, and am punished ; but those 
 people, who will punish them ? Help me, if you can, 
 my dear Eeginald. Oh! for GOD'S sake, help my 
 children and me. Help your mother's friend, your 
 own old friend.' 
 
 'This,' said Eosie, meditatively, 'is exactly the 
 kind of thing to make Eeggie uncomfortable. Why, 
 it might make him unhappy all day. Better burn 
 it.' She dropped the letter into the fire. ' He's an 
 impulsive, emotional nature, and he doesn't under- 
 stand the City. If people are so foolish. What a lot 
 of fibs the poor old pater does tell, to be sure ! He's 
 a regular novelist— Oh ! here you are, you lazy 
 boy ! ' 
 
 'Kiss me, Eosie.' He looked as handsome as 
 Apollo and as cheerful. ' I wish all the world were as 
 happy as you and me. Heigho ! Some poor devils, 
 I'm afraid ' 
 
 ' Tea or coffee, Eeg ? ' 
 
246 
 
 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH 
 GENERATION 
 
 I 
 
 He was an austere person : always serious of visage 
 and of speech : even as a young man he was a Knight 
 of the Eueful Countenance : in middle age he seldom 
 laughed : in old age he never even smiled. He was a 
 philanthropist, but of the severe kind : he gave freely, 
 but never with a cheerful face. Chiefly, he supported, 
 by generous gifts of money, by voice and by pen, the 
 various efforts made to reform prisoners of all kinds, 
 male and female, especially those which were concerned 
 with the interesting but difficult problem of Discharged 
 Prisoners. He held meetings in his library on behalf 
 of these unfortunates, whose real punishment, he 
 urged, only begins when they come out : he spoke for 
 them : he spoke with great earnestness and always 
 effectively, though he had but one speech. He always 
 ended his oration dramatically by throwing open his 
 coat, to the imagination of the audience exposing a 
 guilty bosom, and saying in hollow accents that if all 
 secrets were known not one of us but should be occu- 
 pying the cold and lonely cell of the convicted male- 
 factor. Not a cheerful subject, this, but he made it 
 the principal work of his Ufe. He wrote a book 
 
TO THE TITirJ) ANJ3 FOURTri OENEIIATTON 247 
 
 advocating the reception of the criminal, after his 
 punishment, back into the bosom of society, as having 
 expiated his sin by his captivity. In this book occurs 
 the famous and often-quoted passage— you all know 
 it— on the prisoner innocent and wrongly convicted. 
 Also in his speech— his one speech— he never failed, 
 before the peroration of the bared breast, to draw a 
 moving picture of this unfortunate person. And by 
 long practice he had become so eloquent that his 
 audience never failed to be thrihed, through and 
 through, though they had heard the speech a dozen 
 times'" before. When they recovered they reflected 
 that for so rich a man to be so austere was a com- 
 pensation to set off against their own poverty. This 
 reflection put an end to possible envy. To be so 
 austere must take the joy out of wealth. Cheerfulness 
 goes with a light purse. He who spends his hfe in 
 thinking that he should be in prison if he had his 
 deserts, ought to be— must be— rich. 
 
 He was now a man turned sixty, nearer seventy 
 than sixty, a widower, with an only child, his daughter, 
 the one survivor of six or seven children, a girl of 
 nineteen. It has been stated that he was always of 
 a grave disposition. But during the last four or five 
 years he had become more than grave— more than 
 austere. In private he was an ascetic. He lived on 
 the plainest food : he did not use his carriage : he 
 dressed as if he was a pauper : he walked with hang- 
 ing head : he sat silent and depressed : and whenever 
 he discharged his one speech he made the hollowness 
 of his tones, the severity of his eye, and the baring 
 of his breast assume a solemnity that was perfectly 
 terrifying. He gave larger sums of money than ever 
 
248 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 to his favourite sinners : he was the noblest patron 
 ever known to the Discharged Prisoners' Aid Society ; 
 but for all his charities he grew no more cheerful. 
 He was a just man in all his relations with servants 
 and dependents : but he was not loved ; plain, simple, 
 unadorned, perfect justice, is the one virtue which 
 commands no love. A little uncertainty, a little — say 
 ■ — tendency to backslide — a little coming down here 
 and there from the cold heights of perfection — is felt 
 to be the kind of justice most proper to fallen man. 
 When we have got up again after that fall, and 
 brushed the mud and dust off our white robes, we 
 shall perhaps begin to enjoy the cold perfection : but 
 not till then. 
 
 His daughter Isabel had no sympathy at all with 
 the Discharged Prisoner. She said that he ought not 
 to have done it. He shouldn't have been a sinner, 
 to begin with. Nor did she feel any pity for any 
 sinner, male or female. She said that the sinner 
 ought to be ashamed of himself or herself. Nor would 
 she help the helpless person : she said that he ought 
 to help himself : and if he could not, he had better go 
 to the retreats kindly provided for incapables. As for 
 the baring of the bosom she said it was rubbish, and 
 that no one she knew deserved to go to prison, and if i 
 any of her friends were so deserving, they would cease 
 to be her friends. And, so far from imitating the 
 austerity of her father, she was a cheerful young 
 woman, who laughed a great deal and went into 
 society as much as she could. 
 
 The meeting was over. The austere philanthropist 
 was left alone in the library — the great library filled 
 with books whose very names he knew not, for he 
 
TO THE TIlTfU) AND rOUUTIl GENEIIATION 249 
 
 read nothing. He walked up and down with bowed 
 figure and hanging liands. Had he lifted his head 
 you would have seen a face no longer austere, but 
 haggard, torn with pain. Do you know the face of 
 one who has endured mental or physical suffering for 
 years— how watchful, how full of anxiety it is ! Such 
 was the face of this man. He did not lift his head : it 
 was when the door was opened and his daughter looked 
 in. ' Is your meeting over ? Was it a good meeting ? 
 Good Heavens ! ' she cried, seeing his haggard face. 
 ' What is the matter ? ' 
 
 He sat down and made no reply for a few 
 moments. ' Child,' he said, ' it is that— that pain— 
 of which I have spoken. You can do nothing. Never 
 mind me, Isabel, I shall get better presently. Leave 
 me here. Do not expect me at dinner. I shall be 
 perfectly well in a little while— perfectly— perfectly 
 well — when I have had a little rest— a little rest.' 
 
 ' You look very ill,' she said anxiously, ' let me 
 bring you a glass of wine.' She took his hand, 
 laying her finger on his pulse. ' There is no fever. 
 Is it fatigue ? Is it over-excitement at the meet- 
 ing?' 
 
 ' Child,' he said solemnly, ' if we could lay bare 
 the secrets of the heart, most of us would be found 
 worse than the poor wretches whom we keep in 
 prison— worse — far worse. When the punishment 
 falls upon us — when we are stripped of all we love — 
 all we desire — when the scourge that will pursue us 
 to the third and fourth generation begins to fall ' 
 
 'Father, you are morbid. Your work for the 
 criminals has filled your brain with fancies. You 
 must go away — you must live better,' 
 
250 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 ' Yes, my dear, I will — I will live better —much 
 better — if I can — if I am permitted. But you — you 
 — oh ! Child ! to the third and fourth generation 
 shall the curse extend. My dear, leave me here. 
 Yes, I shall be better soon. I shall be well — perfectly 
 well — to-morrow.' 
 
 He rose, laid his hands upon his daughter's 
 shoulders, and gently pushed her from the room. 
 
 Isabel left him. Before going to bed in the 
 evening she looked into the library. Her father was 
 writing ; he nodded more cheerfully than he had 
 done for months. He told her that he was already 
 much better, and that she might go to bed without 
 any uneasiness. 
 
 At eight o'clock in the morning the maids opened 
 the library door. On the wooden chair at the table 
 sat a dead body. Life and soul had fled. A little - 
 bottle on the floor showed how they had been driven 
 out of the earthly home. The maids shrieked 
 and fled. Isabel, cahed up, hurried downstairs. 
 The dead head lay upon a bundle of papers tied up 
 and sealed. These were inscribed, ' For Isabel.' No- 
 body saw the packet except his daughter, who slipped 
 it into her pocket with a presentiment of something 
 even more dreadful than the suicide. 
 
 When it was noised abroad that this man had 
 committed suicide — this man of all men — this rich 
 man — this charitable man— this man of large heart — 
 there were many who remembered with what earnest- 
 ness he had been wont to declare that were each to 
 bare his guilty breast there would be revealed a 
 criminal as vile as any who lay in prison. And those 
 who thought of these hard, cold, and cruel words 
 
TO THE Tirmi) AND rOUUTII (JENKUATION 25 1 
 
 asked each otlier what this man, for liis part, could 
 have done. 
 
 The coroner's mquest returned a verdict of ' tem- 
 porary insanity.' With ah that money and no trouble 
 of any kind, what but temporary insanity could be 
 the cause of suicide ? 
 
 Isabel, in her own room, sat with the papers in 
 her hand. She was reading them for the tenth time. 
 
 * My dear Child,— 
 
 ' I am cahed upon to terminate ingloriously a life 
 which has been for the last fifty years one long tor- 
 ture, one long punishment : torture and punishment 
 deserved, yet not therefore the less terrible. It is 
 torture the more intolerable because it concerns you. 
 Yes, Isabel, I leave you a great fortune— which in the 
 eyes of the world should make you happy : you are 
 young and clever and, I believe, attractive. What 
 girl would ask for more ? Yet you have another in- 
 heritance which the world does not suspect : the in- 
 heritance of sin and sorrow which is to be yours and 
 your children's, if you have any, to the Third and 
 Fourth Generation. My daughter, it is I who have 
 brought these woes upon you. Forgive me if you 
 can. And resolve that they shall not be transmitted 
 to others. Kefuse to marry. At the last, then, what- 
 ever form your punishment— the punishment of the 
 innocent for the guilty— may assume it wih end with 
 your death. You will pray to die early, as for your 
 immortal soul the sins of the fathers cannot, I hope 
 and beheve, faU upon the Souls of the Children. 
 What have I done ? 
 
 ' It was nearly fifty years ago. I was then a lad 
 of eighteen just entered into my father's office. 
 
252 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 Presently I fell into difficulties. Such is my distress ■ 
 of mind that I am unable at this distance of time to !| 
 tell you how I fell into difficulties. I sometimes think 
 that in mercy, or as an additional punishment, a 
 curtain has fallen over this period of my life, because 
 I cannot remember how I fell into difficulties. I | 
 remember only driving into town from Clapham ' 
 Common with my father in the morning and driving j 
 home with him in the evening. And I remember | 
 working in the office aU day and reading or talking, \ 
 with family prayers, every evening. I can remember ^ 
 none of the extravagances and sins common (unhap- | 
 pily) to that time of life. Yet the fact remains— I ; 
 fell into difficulties. 
 
 ' Why I did not confess to my father, I know not : I 
 cannot remember. What I did, however, was this : I 
 drew a cheque for an amount large enough to cover 
 these difficulties, and I forged my father's name. I 
 cannot remember exactly what happened then — I j 
 niean— about the cheque— what I did with it or to ^ 
 whom I paid it. All I remember is that I forged my 
 father's name. 
 
 ' Suspicion fell upon a clerk who had been a 
 school-fellow. His name was Farrier. I think that 1 
 somehow purposely caused him to be suspected. He 
 was arrested : the evidence— of my contriving— was 
 strong against him. He was committed for trial : he 
 was found guilty and sentenced to seven years' penal 
 servitude. 
 
 ' I, the real criminal, stood by and said nothing. I 
 observed silence. 
 
 ' For many years, so hard was my heart, so 
 callous was my conscience, I lived in absolute care- 
 
TO THE TIIIUD AND K)UUTri CJENJ^UATION 253 
 
 lessness about my crime— I almost forgot it : there 
 wore times when I did forget it. I never made any 
 inquiry about the wretched victim of my wickedness. 
 As lie was never heard of, I suppose that he is either 
 dead or has long since dropped down into the depths 
 reserved for those unhappy men and women who have 
 been imprisoned. 
 
 ' When my attention was directed to the condition 
 of these persons, I began gradually, out of these 
 depths, to call up the face of Farrier. At first his 
 face was only full of wretchedness. Gradually it 
 became full of accusation, and I reahsed for the first 
 time what it was I had done. 
 
 ' Isabel, you know that I have pleaded the cause of 
 the Discharged Prisoner with as much eloquence as I 
 could command. I have written a book in which I 
 claimed for him that, his punishment over, he should 
 be reinstated in his work and received again into 
 society. I was pleading my own cause; I was 
 speaking for myself. 
 
 *0f late Farrier's face has changed to Farrier 
 himself. He is always with me, day and night. 
 
 Why am I wretched ? " he asks me, " Who has made 
 me what I am ? Suffer with me, you have made me 
 what I am." I have suffered with him, but what are 
 his sufferings compared with mine ? 
 
 ' To-night I end it— I shall appear before my Judge. 
 ' My dear daughter, I know not what form your 
 punishment will take : the loss of earthly love, per- 
 haps : the shame of having such a father, perhaps: 
 the loss of your fortune, it may be: ill-health— 
 I know not what. But it will be tempered for you 
 because of your innocence. 
 
2 54 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 ' Therefore, Isabel, it is my command that you 
 seek out the unhappy man Farrier or his children, 
 whose ruin I have wickedly compassed, and that you 
 make such atonement as is possible, even to the 
 uttermost farthing of your inheritance. This I 
 solemnly charge and enjoin upon you. Spend upon 
 him and his everything — all your money — all your 
 thoughts— all your life. Make atonement to him — 
 such atonement as you can — for the sake of your 
 unhappy father who was the cause of all their misery.' 
 
 This was the paper which Isabel read through for 
 the tenth time, while her father lay dead in a darkened 
 chamber. 
 
 II 
 
 ' This,' said the solicitor, laying down the papers which 
 Isabel showed him the day after the funeral, ' is the 
 most wonderful document that I have ever read.' 
 Before him sat the girl in deep mourning, watching 
 him with eager eyes. 
 
 ' Wonderful ? You only call it wonderful ? ' she 
 replied. ' I call it horrible— terrible— shameful ! ' 
 
 ' Wonderful, I call it. Because, my dear young 
 lady, there is not one single word of truth in this 
 self-accusation.' 
 
 ' Oh ! If I could think so ! But it is too — too 
 circumstantial, and it exj^lains everything — his aus- 
 terity — his depression — even his continual repetition 
 about the baring of the breast. Everything is ex- 
 plained. Oh! What am I to think? How can I 
 continue to honour my father ? What am I to 
 do?' 
 
TO THE THIRD AND FOUllTIl GENERATION 255 
 
 'You will honour liim with acknowledging with 
 me, that there is not a word of truth in it. But I 
 agree with you, the document explains his depression 
 oflate years— growing deeper every day as the illusion 
 grew stronger.' 
 
 Isabel shook her head. ' No,' she ^said, ' I cannot 
 think so. Would to Heaven I could ! ' 
 
 * I perfectly remember the case that he recalls,' 
 the solicitor continued. * We were all school-fellows 
 together, your father, the man— afterwards the criminal 
 Farrier— and myself. When we left school. Farrier, 
 who was a light-hearted, shallow lad, just the opposite 
 of your father, used often to visit at the house. He 
 contracted bad habits : he took to betting, gambling, 
 drinking, and other dangerous courses : it is a stale 
 old story : thousands of young fellows are going the 
 same way at this moment. Well, he fell into debt : 
 he got into difficulties : then he forged your grand- 
 father's name for a large sum : he was detected, tried, 
 and found guilty. The evidence, mind, was the 
 clearest possible : there was no defence whatever : 
 the whole case took little more than half an hour. 
 These facts should make the case quite clear to you. 
 First, he made the cheque payable to the order of one 
 of his associates whose name also he forged when he 
 presented the cheque ; next, that he presented the 
 cheque himself; thirdly, that the notes were all 
 traced to people in whose books he was m debt. 
 Why, there was no question about the thing. Every- 
 body in the office, I know, because I heard all that 
 went on from day to day, was immensely relieved to 
 find that the case was so simple that nobody else 
 could be suspected of having any hand in it. You 
 
256 TO THE THIRD AND FOUHTH GENERATION 
 
 know how horrible is the feehng of possible suspicion 
 that sometimes seems to attach to everybody in an 
 office where such a thing has happened. What , do 
 you think now ? ' 
 
 Isabel laid her hand upon the papers, ' This is my 
 father's confession,' she said. 
 
 ' Your father's illusion. Why, I remember how 
 very much cut up he was about it — his old school 
 fellow — his old friend. Naturally he was cut up. 
 Why, again, the fellow confessed the crime. Did 
 he write a letter ? Did the chaplain bring a message ? 
 I don't know — I'm sure he confessed.' 
 
 * Show me his confession,' said Isabel. * Meantime, 
 here is my father's.' 
 
 ' I remember, again, how he lived. My dear young 
 lady, your father never had any salad days ; he never 
 had any levities ; he was always a grave boy at 
 school, he was a grave young man ; his father was a 
 strong evangelical ; he was brought up most strictly ; 
 it was a grave and religious household ; he came to 
 the city in the morning with his father in his 
 carriage and pair and drove home with him in 
 the evening. I saw him constantly ; we went to 
 the same church — Clapham Parish Church ; mis- 
 sionaries were entertained at the house ; meetings 
 were held there ; your father sometimes spoke ; he 
 had his Sunday school ; he had societies for self- 
 improvement ; he was a most sober, quiet, God-fearing 
 young man.' 
 
 ' And here is his confession.' 
 
 ' No. Here is the pretty piece of hallucination 
 that you call his confession. Why, see how it breaks 
 
TO TlJK THIRD AND FOUKTII C;r:NEKATlON 257 
 
 down. He cannot remember the kind of dirficiiltics 
 into which he fell ; lie cannot remember the history 
 of the cliequc. It is all vague illusion that has grown 
 up in his mind.' 
 
 * It is a clear and lucid statement.' 
 
 * Grown up in his mind, I say, by much dwelling 
 upon the condition of discharged prisoners. It led 
 to his believing that every one who had his deserts 
 ought to be a discharged prisoner ; and next to a 
 revival of the old trouble about his former friend ; and 
 finally to a belief that he himself was the real forger 
 in that unhappy case.' 
 
 ' No,' said Isabel firmly. * Here is his confession. 
 Give me back the papers, Mr. Barry. I must keep 
 them myself. At least, the world shall not know. 
 What has become of that unhappy man ? ' 
 
 ' The forger ? I don't know. He has long since 
 gone under. Dead, most likely.' 
 
 'If he is Hving, I will find him. If he has 
 children, I will find them. I wih make such atone- 
 ment, even if it takes my last farthing, as I can. 
 Atonement ? Oh ! What — what atonement is pos- 
 sible for the ruin of a life ? Atonement ? Oh ! 
 What atonement can avert the curse that lies upon 
 me ? For the third and fourth generation ! Mr. 
 Barry, do you think — do you think — that such an 
 one as I — the child of such a — such as my poor 
 father — could marry and bring upon children — inno- 
 cent children — the curse that such a crime entails ? 
 Don't you see the doom that this revelation brings 
 upon me ? ' 
 
 Now there was a certain young man interested in 
 that girl w^Kom the solicitor knew, and he took a 
 
 s 
 
258 TO THE THIEB AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 paternal interest in that young man, and therefore he ! 
 hastened to expostulate. 
 
 « My dear young lady,' he urged solemnly, ' how 
 shall I persuade you ? What can I say ? The man 
 confessed. I remember now, he wrote to your grand- j 
 father from prison and confessed.' ^ '( 
 
 ' My father says that he committed the crime— \ 
 that he was the real criminal. My father says this. ( 
 Can I choose but beheve ? Would any man say a 
 thing so terrible as this if it were not true ? ' 
 
 < ggi^ys_oh ! says. Why, it is part of his madness 
 to believe it ! I assure you that the evidence was 
 overwhelming; the young man himself presented 
 the forged cheque at the bank; the cheque book 
 which he had stolen was in his possession; there 
 could not be a clearer case ? ' 
 
 'I cannot believe it. Nothing would make me 
 believe it— except the man's own assurance.' 
 
 ' Well, then, let us find the man if he stih exists, 
 and obtain his assurance. For my own part, I much 
 prefer the evidence before the Court, and the charge of 
 the judge and the verdict of the jury, to any assurance 
 made by such a scoundrel.' 
 
 The girl took up the papers again and read aloud 
 the Avords with which the confession ended: ' " There- 
 fore, Isabel, it is my command that you seek out this 
 man, or his children, whose ruin I have wickedly 
 compassed, and that you make such atonement as is 
 possible, even to the uttermost farthing of your 
 inheritance. This I solemnly charge and enjoin upon 
 you." But,' said Isabel, looking up, ' there shall be 
 no children to bear that curse. My poor father was 
 punished by the death of his wife and of all his 
 
TO THE TJllRl) AND FOUJ^JMI GENERATION 259 
 
 children except myself, and by a remorse which was 
 as a flame within liim.' Isabel uttered these terrible 
 words with a hard and resolute voice. It was the 
 lawyer who bent his head to hide the tears in his 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Poor man ! ' he said. ' What suffering ! And 
 all for a morbid brain ! ' 
 
 'No. The thing is true. My father could not 
 write these words if they were not true. And now it 
 only remains to find the man.' 
 
 Ill 
 
 For a year after this event there appeared once or 
 twice a week in all the London papers, and in many 
 of the provincial papers, not to mention those of 
 America, India, Australia, Africa, New Zealand, and 
 the Isles, an advertisement which ran as follows : — 
 
 ' One Hundred Pounds Eeward. — The above 
 reward will be paid to anyone who will furnish the 
 advertisers with the present place of residence of 
 Percival Henry Farrier, or with proof of his death and 
 the whereabouts of his children, if any. The said 
 Percival Henry Farrier, if living, is now about 68 
 years of age. He was last heard of thirty-seven years 
 ago. He was then a young man with light hair and 
 blue eyes, and beardless. Pie had a good voice, and 
 could play the piano and sing. He was of gentlemanly 
 address. If the said Percival Henry Farrier will in 
 person respond to this advertisement, he will hear of 
 something greatly to his advantage. 
 
 ' Barry, Pennefather, & Stallard, 
 
 ' Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, W.C 
 
2 60 TO THE THIRD ANi3 FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 ^No/ said Mr. Barry, 'we have had no serious 
 reply. 'People have come fishing for information; 
 dozens have written, saying that they know where the 
 man is, and if we wiU send a ten pomidnote they will 
 produce him. One woman cahed in deep mourning 
 and said that her father, Percival Farrier, was just 
 dead and buried. She was a past mistress of fiction. 
 WeU, how much longer are we to go on advertising ? ' 
 
 ' As long as I live, if necessary.' 
 
 ' I showed you what the police know about him. 
 Your poor innocent victim became billiard sharper, 
 welsher, confidence4rick man, card sharper, singer in 
 low music-halls, and all the time drunkard and out- 
 cast.' 
 
 ' He was naturally weak. We must forgive every- 
 thing on account of the deep Wrong which he endured.' 
 
 'Well! he has disappeared. He is dead, most 
 likely. Who cares when such a creature dies ? ^ He 
 is buried and is forgotten, as quickly as possible.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he has left children. We will go on 
 searching.' 
 
 IV 
 
 Isabel took to reading in a hospital. It was an 
 occupation for her ; it diverted her thoughts from the 
 oppression which now hung over her hke a cloud. She 
 sat at bedsides in a ward, and read to sick people. It 
 is a most charitable thing to do ; the more so because, 
 to most of us, it is so horribly tedious. She did it for 
 a year or more until an accident— say rather a provi- 
 dential arrangement— caused her to desist, at least for 
 a while. 
 
 It happened in this way : 
 
TO TIJI'^ THIRD AND J^'OIJ II/IM I ( ; IilN l';l^ATl( )N 2O1 
 
 Isal)ol walked 0110 afternoon tln'ough the ward on 
 lier way to tlie reading. On either side, in the white 
 heds, lay the patients. To the unprofessional eye 
 there was little outward show of suffering. The men 
 lay perfectly quiet; some were reading, some were 
 sleeping; most of them lay with their eyes open, not 
 caring for anything but rest and ease from pain. 
 She stopped casually before one of the beds. It con- 
 tained a new-comer, a man advanced in years ; he 
 was quite bald, and his face was beardless. The 
 reason why she stopped was that, of all the faces she 
 had ever seen, this was the most dreadful which 
 glared at her from the pillow. Its owner seemed 
 about seventy years of age, but he might have been 
 eighty or ninety. Wreck, decay, and degradation 
 were written plain and clear upon this face. Lost 
 soul here, said the face. Long years of the life which 
 knows neither honour, nor principle, nor self-govern- 
 ance, had stamped it with a seal as plain to read as 
 the seal of a limited Hability company. Even the 
 most innocent person— even the child of the self- 
 accused wicked man— could lead upon this evil 
 countenance bad drink, bad food, bad companions, 
 bad habits, bad thoughts, and bad words. The man's 
 face was red with spots and blotches, as if leprous ; 
 his nose was a red and shapeless lump ; his cheeks 
 and neck were puffed; his lips were swollen and 
 uncertain; his eyes were shifty and suspicious. 
 Every feature proclaimed, individually and separately, 
 the lawless life. He was the very type of the Prodigal 
 Son, grown old and unrepentant. 
 
 Isabel stood over the bed, and looked at this inte- 
 resting case. The nurse joined her. 
 
262 TO THE THIRD A^^D FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 ' Pneumonia,' she said. * You should have seen 
 him when he came in-— a mass of filth and rags. 
 In this place we have our experiences, but there ! ' 
 Her gesture showed that the case was unspeak- 
 able. . . L [ 
 
 The patient looked on, suspiciously listenmg, but ^ 
 
 said nothing. 
 
 * He came here from a wretched doss-house, the 
 nurse went on. ' They brought him here because they t 
 thought it would be better if he died here than there. ] 
 I think he is a regular old prison bird. However, 
 here he is. By his name,' she took up the card which 
 hung at the foot of the bed and gave it to Isabel, ' you | 
 see, he might have been a gentleman once. It isn't \ 
 
 exactly a ' 
 
 ' Good Heavens ! ' cried Isabel. ' It is the man we 
 have been looking for so long. Tell me '—she bent 
 over the patient—' are you, really and truly, Percival 
 Henry Farrier, the man who was convicted of forgery 
 and sentenced to seven years' imprisonment thirty- 
 seven years ago ? ' 
 
 The evil face grew more evil to look at ; the eyesi 
 more shifty and more suspicious. 'Who are you?'| 
 the man asked. ' I ain't done nothing to you that I 
 know of.' Gentleman or not, he had clearly forgotten] 
 the speech of civiUty. 
 
 'Heaven knows I do not wish to do you any^ 
 harm,' Isabel answered, earnestly. 'Are you thai 
 man ? ' 
 
 ^ I've had trouble,' he said doggedly. ' 1 ve re- 
 pented, lady,' he whined. 
 
 ' How have you lived since— you— you came out 
 
 of ' 
 
TO TUK TIIllM) AND KOUH/IMl l^Nl<:ilATJ()N 263 
 
 'Honest work, lady— only honest work.' But 
 his eyes did not corroborate these comfortable 
 words. 
 
 ' But yon have been in prison since— not once, but 
 
 many times.' 
 
 ' There's always trouble for some folks. I'm one 
 of the unlucky ones.' 
 
 ' When you recover— if you recover — and go out 
 again, what shall you do ? ' 
 
 ' Honest work,' he said, whining again. ' I shall 
 strive for honest work.' 
 
 'This unfortunate man,' Isabel turned to the 
 nurse, 'has led, I fear, a dreadful life. But he once 
 suffered a terrible Wrong, and allowances must be 
 made. His friends have been looking for him a long 
 time. Now that he is found, we shall not let him 
 go again. Make haste, my poor friend '—she laid her 
 hand on the red and flaming brow—' make haste to 
 recover. We shaU take care of you for the future. 
 Your troubles are over.' 
 
 The victim of his own— or other people's— wicked- 
 ness received this inteUigence with a look of profound 
 suspicion. The very last thing that he desired, you 
 see, was to be looked after; the one thing that 
 remained to him was his freedom to live after his 
 own heart, low down— wahowing among the swine. 
 Besides, he had already, very unwillingly, been 
 looked after a good deal. He had been looked 
 after quite paternally, kept from doing any harm, 
 and even from getting drunk, for long periods. 
 Therefore, this young lady's promise gave him no 
 joy at all, but, on the other hand, filled him with 
 a dreadful foreboding. Was he going to get well 
 
264 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTPI GENERATION 
 
 again only to be looked after ? Better, perhaps, the 
 doss-house with its freedom and the drink. 
 
 V 
 
 The next day this interesting patient had another 
 visitor— Mr. Barry, the lawyer, to whom Isabel had 
 communicated her discovery. He stood over the bed 
 and thoughtfully, chin in hand, contemplated the wreck.. 
 
 *You are changed, Mr. Percy Farrier,' he said 
 presently, * since I saw you last.' 
 
 ' I don't know you,' the sick man repKed, uneasy 
 under those searching eyes. 
 
 ' You have forgotten, I daresay, the days when you ' 
 were a gentleman. We were at school together, 
 Farrier Secundus. I was Barry. Do you remember 
 Barry ? ' The man shook his head impatiently. ' No ? 
 —You have forgotten those times, no doubt. Best 
 to forget them. It was long before you became 
 bilHard sharper, welsher, confidence-trick man, writer 
 of begging-letters, or any of your later professions. 
 It was before you committed your first great crime,! 
 You remember that first crime ? ' The man covered 
 his head with the sheet. Mr. Barry drew it back.V 
 ' Come,' he said, ' I am not going to worry you. In \ 
 fact, I have good news for you.' \ 
 
 The man shook his head. ' Good news ? There ^ 
 can be no good news for me. Go away— leave me.' 
 
 ' What did you do it for — I mean the first forgery ? ' 
 
 ' I was in a mess — I don't know what — and it 
 looked so safe. I thought it couldn't be found out.' 
 
 ' Just so. Well, I have good news for you. When 
 you get well, you will not be allowed to go back to the 
 
TO THE TIlllM) AND FOURTH (;1<:NI<:IIATI0N 265 
 
 old life at all. You will be taken into custody ; you 
 will be placed in comfortable quarters ; you will have 
 as much of everything as you can desire.' 
 ' I don't understand.' 
 
 ' You will understand by degrees. Meantime get 
 better — and if you think at all, it will be salutary 
 for you to think of the days when we played cricket 
 together on Clapham Common. Farrier Secundus— 
 . perhaps now Primus — you have got such a stroke of 
 luck as you do not deserve. You are — let me see — 
 about 68 or 69 years of age ; you are broken in health ; 
 you are a hardened old prison bird. There is not in 
 the whole country a more degraded wretch. Yet you 
 are to have one more chance of repentance. You 
 don't deserve it, but you are to have it. Make the 
 best of it.' 
 
 Mr. Barry turned and walked thoughtfully down 
 the ward. The man looked after him as he had looked 
 after Isabel, with troubled eyes. To be taken into 
 custody — to be placed in comfortable quarters — sug- 
 gested some kind of prison. But he was too weak to 
 think much. 
 
 ' Do what you please for him,' said Mr. Barry to 
 Isabel. ' He won't live long. But give him nothing 
 — or, better still — promise him nothing. When it 
 comes to the giving, I shall have something to say my- 
 self. Meantime, your father — remember — was under 
 the most miserable hallucination that ever fell upon 
 any man.' 
 
 YI 
 
 A MONTH later Isabel stood with her interesting re- 
 covery before a pretty little cottage a few miles out of 
 
2 66 TO THE THIRD AND FOUETH GENERATION 
 
 London. It was quite an ideal cottage, covered with 
 creeping and clinging things, roses, wisteria, passion 
 flower, clematis — porch and walls, and even the roof ; 
 standing in its own garden ; a low cottage of two 
 rooms below and three above. The patient, greatly 
 improved in appearance, was dressed like a gentle- 
 man ; his face, owing to the hospital treatment, had 
 lost its puffiness and its blotches ; his features were 
 no longer swollen ; they had become even refined by 
 the purgatory of pneumonia ; his thin nostril was 
 almost transparent ; he stooped and moved feebly, for 
 his illness had left weaknesses of various kinds, and he 
 looked very old. Nobody, however, could mistake him 
 for a venerable old man, or a good old man, on account 
 of those shifty eyes glancing with suspicion here and 
 there ; his hands hung dangling — you know the 
 dangling hand ? It betokens servitude, or, at least, 
 obedience and discipline. The soldier has it ; the 
 valet has it ; and the prison bird has it. You may 
 always know the prison bird by those hands that have 
 dangled so long and so often before the officials of the 
 prison. 
 
 Arrived at the porch, Isabel preached a short 
 sermon, to which the penitent listened with apparent 
 interest. 
 
 ' Mr. Farrier,' she said solemnly, ' this cottage is 
 only the beginning of what you will receive. But your 
 return to — your better self — must be, I am well aware, 
 gradual. You are repentant, I believe.' He groaned 
 in corroboration of that faith. ' Truly repentant. That 
 is something. Eemember that whatever you have 
 done, I do not blame you. Weakness followed on a 
 Great Wrong.' 
 
TO TTTF. TTiriM) AND IY)UI{Tir riKNFJlATION 267 
 
 ' A Groat Wrong,' ocliood the poiut(;nt. He didn't 
 know what it was, but ho saw that the words were 
 mighty in results. 
 
 ' You have never spoken to me of that Great Wrong, 
 but I know it, and for the sake of it you shall — well — 
 on that subject I cannot speak. Here I leave you. 
 The cottage is furnished for you; the rent will be 
 paid for you ; every Saturday you will receive the 
 sum of three pounds ; you will find a respectable 
 woman engaged as your servant. I think you will 
 find everything that you can possibly want. You are 
 safely removed from your old companions. And now 
 I leave you to the companionship of — your better 
 self. Be true to your promises and all will be well 
 with you.' She took his dangling hand and squeezed 
 it, just like the chaplain of the prison, who always 
 squeezed that flabby and dangling hand, which is the 
 reason why hand-shaking, to all prison birds, repre- 
 sents religion. 
 
 He fohowed her with troubled eyes as she walked 
 down the street. What did this mean ? Nothing at 
 all was said about w^ork, nothing about going to 
 church, yet she shook hands with him. And in 
 his pocket were three sovereigns. He went out into 
 the road and looked up and down the village street. 
 A little way off there hung a sign. He marched as 
 briskly as his feebleness allowed in the direction of 
 the public-house. 
 
 ' He is what his misfortunes have made him,' said 
 Isabel. ' We must have patience. Meantime, he 
 seems resolved, I hope for the best. He promises 
 faithfully to abstain from drink. He weeps as he 
 promises amendment. After all his misfortunes there 
 
268 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 remains an emotional nature, and he is so easily led 
 that one hopes the very best. I shall leave him quite 
 alone, to think and feel his way back to his better 
 self — for one month.' 
 
 VII 
 
 But it was less than a month after this that Isabel 
 had to visit her penitent. She acted like the police- 
 man, from information received. She stood in the 
 sitting room of the cottage. Alas ! The room was 
 bare ; there was nothing at all in it ; there was no 
 furniture of any kind ; it was horribly dirty ; she 
 stepped into the kitchen, that also was bare. She 
 climbed the stairs ; in one room there was a bed with 
 a blanket on it, and nothing else. She descended the 
 stairs and went out of the cottage into the porch with 
 a sinking heart. Presently there came along the road 
 slowly, for he was still feeble, the tenant of the 
 cottage. His clothes should have been respectable, 
 but were not, because he had no collar and no waist- 
 coat, and his flannel shirt was torn at the neck. Mr. 
 Percival Farrier, in this new guise, looked even more 
 disgraceful than when he lay in his hospital cot. His 
 face was swollen again, and was more dreadful than 
 ever ; his eyes, his nose, his mouth, had all relapsed 
 into their former condition before the time of hospital. 
 Where — oh ! where — were the outward signs of 
 penitence ? 
 
 ' What is the meaning of this, Mr. Farrier ? ' 
 Isabel asked. ' Where is the furniture ? ' 
 
 ' Sold,' he replied. ' Everything is sold ' — his voice 
 was a little thick. * All sold to assist a pore man, 
 
TO TIIK TIllIM) AND K)lJirni (IKNKRATION 269 
 
 another pore luiiii who has heen in trouble. There's 
 lots of us— lots of UB- ti-ouhle everywhei-e.' 
 
 * Where is your servant — the woman who was to 
 take care of you ? ' 
 
 * Gone. I sent her away. She drank. She filled 
 the house with her wicked companions.' 
 
 * You are lying,' said Isabel, sternly. * She is a 
 most respectable woman. I placed you in this cottage 
 where you could be safe from your former associates. 
 1 have heard from the vicar of your wickedness. You 
 bring your old companions here — to this peaceful 
 village; you seU the furniture, you turn out the 
 woman, you make the house a scandal with your 
 drunken orgies. This must stop. I shall have to find 
 you another kind of home. Oh ! I hoped— from what 
 you promised— I hoped so differently.' 
 
 The man began to whine. ' That Wrong,' he be- 
 gan. 'That what you told me about. That Great 
 Wrong ! ' 
 
 ' Promise him nothing,' said Mr. Barry, a second 
 time. 
 
 'He is what that Great Wrong has made him,' 
 said Isabel. ' We must have patience. I owe him so 
 jnuch— oh ! so much— even to the uttermost farthing. 
 I must give him everything— aU my youth and all my 
 life—and nothing will atone. But you are right. If 
 we give him money now, he would become a greater 
 wreck than ever. We must have patience.' 
 
 VIII 
 
 Isabel took him to her own house, debased and 
 drunken as he was. She got a strong woman whom 
 
2 70 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 she knew to watch over him all dsij. She made him 
 go decently clothed, and she kept him sober. Now 
 the man, with a docility which astonished her, because 
 she did not understand that it was the docility of the 
 prison, born of long obedience to rigid rules, obeyed 
 her in everything without a murmur. He accepted 
 whatever food was placed before him ; he even accepted 
 books, and made pretence to read them. But his eyes 
 were always watching — watching — either with a pur- 
 pose or a fear — following his nurse or his gaoler. 
 
 'I cannot make him talk,' Isabel told the lawyer- 
 ' His memory seems gone. He even bears no resent- 
 ment for the Wrong.' 
 
 ' I should like to catch him bearing any resent- 
 ment,' Mr. Barry interrupted. 
 
 ' This silence is a beautiful trait. He must know 
 who I am, and he will not shame me by speaking of — 
 the truth. Yet the memory of the Wrong must still 
 burn in his breast. His behaviour is beautiful. Some- 
 times he w^eeps. I think of him as of an innocent 
 man condemned — oh ! it is dreadful — to live among 
 the refuse and wreckage of the world till he has for- 
 gotten what he was. But always docile and child-like.' 
 
 When she went home she found the strong woman, 
 the custodian, in despair. Her charge had escaped. 
 He had just walked openly out of the front door. 
 
 Isabel reflected. Then, by inspiration, ' Let us,' 
 she said, ' search the public-houses round.' They 
 found him in one of them. He was drinking fast and 
 furious ; he was drinking with the thirst of one who 
 has been cut off for many days ; he was already too 
 drunk to stand — too drunk to speak. 
 
 Sadly they bore him home and laid him in his bed. 
 
TO TIIJ*] TlllJil) AND FOUKTIl ( M^MMIATIOX 27 1 
 
 In his pocket his nurse found {i pawn ticket and a 
 sovereign. And a clock was missing, which was dis- 
 covered to be represented by this pawn ticket. 
 
 Isabel spoke to him in the morning. He was 
 deeply penitent ; he groaned and wept. Isabel pointed 
 out that such an outbreak showed that his better self, 
 which it should be his sole object to regain, was as yet 
 a long way off. She assured him once more that she 
 had no reproaches to offer him — only patience and 
 pity. ' You are what you are,' she said, ' through the 
 weakness that followed your Great Wrong.' 
 
 Then the work of reformation began again. That 
 is to say, the man became once more, stealthily, 
 docile. A week later it was discovered that he had 
 again escaped. He had lowered himself out of his 
 bedroom, which was on the first floor. And where 
 had he gone ? The public-houses were searched, but 
 nothing was discovered. 
 
 Isabel went to her adviser. ' As for his retreat,' 
 he said, ' it will be easy to find him. He will go back 
 to his old friends and his old life. Let him go, 
 Isabel.' 
 
 ' No, I will never let him go. He is my charge. 
 I atone for my father's sin.' 
 
 They found him, in fact, that same day in the doss- 
 house which he had formerly frequented. He had 
 had time to get drunk, and half sober, and drunk 
 again ; had pawned all his clothes and was dressed 
 again in rags. They put him into a cab and carried 
 him back. In the morning he seemed to have forgotten 
 everything. Some kind of fever follow^ed, and he was 
 kept in bed for two or three days. When he got up 
 he was top weak to run away. Isabel tried persuasion 
 
272 TO THE THmD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 again. Her exhortation recalled fond memories of the 
 chaplain, and produced exactly the same effect. He 
 listened ; he wept ; he said dutifully what was expected 
 of him. Experience had taught him to speak of re- 
 pentance, amendment, and honesty. So he spoke of 
 them glibly, and with the starting tear. 
 
 One day there appeared a change in him— a very 
 odd change. He became talkative ; he answered 
 questions ; he showed interest. Isabel congratulated 
 herself* The corner was turned ; he was now passed 
 out of the crushed and passive stage ; he was ready to 
 resume his own responsibility. She asked him about 
 his old life. He was quite ready to tell everything. 
 He told her so much that she was fain to stop him. 
 For it was a revelation of things incredible and im- 
 possible. 
 
 Next day the same thing, and the day after. 
 Then a very sad discovery was made. For when they 
 awoke in the morning, behold, the patient was found 
 in the cellar, lying in the sawdust under the tap of a 
 beer barrel. Once more he was carried up and put 
 to bed. 
 
 Deprived of this resource, he relapsed into apathy. 
 
 'Let him go,' said Mr. Barry. 'Indeed, joii 
 have no right to keep him. He is not your 
 prisoner.' 
 
 ' He is my charge,' said Isabel. ' But I will give 
 him his liberty.' 
 
 She opened the doors for him. She gave him 
 money. 
 
 ' If you want to go away,' she said, ' do so. Go 
 back, if you can, to your old companions. Whatever 
 you do, I shall never reproach you. Eeturn when you 
 
TO THi'] 'riiii:i) AND roniiTJi (ji-iiNioiiATioN 273 
 
 please. This house is your own. Go away if you 
 please. Come back when you please.' 
 
 He shuffled away feebly, with his shifty eyes and 
 his dangling hands. 
 
 A week later he came back. Isabel was out. He 
 was allowed, by her order, to enter and to go about 
 unwatched. He stole some trifles from the drawing- 
 room, and disappeared with them. 
 
 During the whole of that summer he came at 
 intervals. He came in rags and dirt ; he knocked at 
 the door and was admitted without a word. If Isabel 
 was at home she came out and shook hands with him 
 politely, asking him if he were well, and ignoring the 
 appearance and the degradation of him. I know not 
 what he understood of the position, more than that 
 here was a Lady of Whims, who gave him money and 
 allowed him to take anything he pleased, and called 
 him Mr. Farrier, as if he w^ere still a gentleman. 
 
 One morning he came again after an absence of 
 three or four weeks, His limbs trembled and shook ; 
 his eyes were unnaturally bright ; his face was swollen ; 
 he was terrible to look upon. 
 
 'Mr. Farrier,' said Isabel, taking his hot hand. 
 ' You look ill. Will you sit down ? ' 
 
 The man looked round the room : he saw nothing 
 to take : his eyes fell upon Isabel's watch and chain.^ 
 
 ' You want my watch and chain ? Take it, Mr. 
 Farrier, take anything that I have. All is yours in 
 atonement for that Great Wrong.' 
 
 ' That Great Wrong,' the man repeated. 
 
 ' But you look ill, Mr. Farrier, and your hand is 
 hot. Will you stay here and rest a little ? ' 
 
 In answer the poor wretch clutched greedily at 
 
 T 
 
2 74 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 the watch which the ghl handed him. Then his 
 limbs bent under him, and he feU in a heap on the 
 floor. 
 
 IX 
 
 * He is dying,' said the doctor a day or two later. 
 'I wonder that he has lasted so long. He must 
 have had a wonderful constitution. He will become 
 comatose presently. And he will probably die un- 
 conscious.' 
 
 Isabel returned to his bedside. It was another 
 and a last attack of pneumonia which had laid him 
 low. 
 
 ' Mr. Farrier,' she said, ' I have done what I could 
 for you. Forgive me before you die. Forgive my 
 father. Do you understand me? Then say you 
 forgive us for the Great Wrong.' 
 
 He opened his eyes and looked suspicious. * Great 
 Wrong ? ' he repeated. ' Great Wrong ? What d'yer 
 mean— you and the Great Wrong. Always going 
 on about the Great Wrong. It's all wrong— seems 
 to me.' 
 
 'You remember, surely,' Isabel went on. 'The 
 wrongful charge— the cruel silence— the trial— the 
 sentence— you cannot forget that time.' 
 
 'What's the use of remembering?' asked the 
 dying man. ' I served my time— I done the thing and 
 I served the time for it, didn't I ? Well, then, what 
 d'yer mean ? When a man has done time the thing 
 ought to be finished.' 
 
 ' You did the thing ? You ? ' Isabel bent over 
 the bed eagerly. ' Do you mean this ? Is it true ? ' 
 
 ' I told the judge I done it. I told the chaplain I 
 
TO TITR TTinil) AND FOUTlTir n lONl^R ATION 275 
 
 done it — well, and I paid for it. I was a gentleman 
 once. I paid for it.' He bad : his face, his speech, 
 his eyes, proclaimed the price he had paid for it. 
 
 ' Stay, am I in my senses ? Man ! You are 
 dying, tell me — you are dying — in the name of the 
 Great Judge, before whom you will appear to-day — 
 to-morrow. In the name of GOD, who forged that 
 cheque ? ' 
 
 ' I forged it. Who else could ha' done it ? Done 
 it ? I done it — I done it,' he repeated with a last 
 spark of energy. ' And I done time for it.' 
 
 ' You ? You ? ' Isabel could say no more. The 
 man closed his eyes wearily and seemed to fall asleep. 
 Isabel sat by the bedside waiting for a return to 
 consciousness. But there was none : he breathed 
 heavily : the poor wreck, beaten and battered out of 
 all resemblance to that better self, would strike upon 
 no more rocks. 
 
 ' It was then, after all,' said Isabel, 'pure hallu- 
 cination.' 
 
 ' Pure hallucination,' repeated the solicitor. ' It 
 came of brooding too long upon one class of suffering 
 and punishment. Perhaps the original cause was 
 this very case, which your father took greatly to 
 heart, and never forgot. His own friend, his personal 
 friend, whom he loved. I have here — I meant to 
 show it to you in case you should do anything more 
 than — more than commonly extravagant — the man's 
 detailed account of the crime, and how he did it. He 
 dictated it when he was in the hospital.' 
 
 ' No, thank you. I do not wish to see it. I have 
 seen enough. Oh ! It was hallucination after all. 
 My poor father, how he must have suffered ! What 
 
 T 2 
 
276 TO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION 
 
 shame ! What self-reproach ! Oh ! And I am free. 
 I can look the world again in the face— free from that 
 awful sense of hereditary shame ! ' 
 
 * You are free, my dear young lady, as you have 
 always been ; but you had no more faith than Doubt- 
 ing Didymus. Well, as to what you were saying a 
 year ago '—the solicitor thought of that young man 
 already referred to—' about the Third and Fourth 
 Generation, you know. You will, I suppose, now feel 
 yourself able to— to change your views, and to— to 
 consult your own happiness.' 
 
 ' I shall consider,' said Isabel, blushing. 
 
277 
 
 KING DAVIDS FRIEND 
 I 
 
 * Have you got your letters by the mail, Longden ? 
 
 ^ No, I haven't, my son. I never do get any 
 letters by the mail. I have long since left off expect- 
 ing any letters by the mail.' 
 
 His chum, who was quite a new arrival, and did 
 not know anything at all, or he would not have asked, 
 looked surprised. 
 
 ' Why, man, I've been here fifteen years — fifteen 
 years ; think of that, fifteen years in this corner of 
 the world — this forgotten colony. If I had been a 
 coolie — a simple coolie when I came here — if I had 
 died a dozen years ago — if my grave were trodden 
 level with the ground, I couldn't be more forgotten 
 than I am.' 
 
 His words read more bitterly than they sounded, 
 because Old Longden — everybody in the office called 
 him Old Longden — was never bitter. He neither 
 grumbled nor railed at fate. 
 
 ' But — but you've got friends at home. You must 
 have people . . . ' 
 
 ' I have. Oh ! yes, I have people. There's my 
 elder brother, for instance— my brother the Prig ; I've 
 got him. I assure you there is nobody with a keener 
 
278 
 
 KING DAVID'S FEIEND 
 
 sense of duty than my brother the Prig. And there 
 are cousins by dozens, first and second, besides 
 cousins removed I don't know how many times. And 
 I had a father, but he is dead, poor old man ! 
 Friends ? Plenty of friends. Plenty of friends ; but 
 I've lived here fifteen years. As for friendships — well, 
 once I had a real, true, devoted, loyal friend. Never 
 was such a friend. We out- did David and Jonathan. 
 So far as I know, David never . . . but then Jonathan 
 died young, and perhaps there were passages . . . 
 However, ours was a divine, an ideal friendship : no 
 two friends were ever more so, because, you see, in our 
 friendship, which was on the highest possible planes 
 of friendship, what one gives the other has to accept.' 
 He talked rather incoherently, lying back in his 
 chair and gazing up at the rafters. ' The world 
 doesn't understand this ; for there is no friendship in 
 business, and we are mostly business men. There- 
 fore there are no friends left like us. One had to 
 accept what the other gave. Oh ! he had no choice 
 in the matter.' 
 
 * I don't understand.' 
 
 ' No more do I — now. It was magnificent, but it 
 wasn't business. . . . Well, as I said, I had a true friend 
 once, a more than pal, a closer than brother. Where 
 is that true friend now ? ' 
 
 * When you go home again ' 
 
 ' I never shall go home again, sonny. This is 
 my home. Yery thankful I ought to be to have such 
 a home : what more can a man desire ? A walk 
 under an umbrella and a helmet every day at half- 
 past nine. Other men, higher up, drive. I can't — but 
 then walking promotes a healthy action. From ten 
 
KINO DAVlirS I<MMKN1) 
 
 279 
 
 to four, the hcaltlifiil labour of the ofCico. Homo to 
 this most desh-able bungalow by live ; a cup of cold 
 tea ; a little tobacco ; a stroll on the shore till half- 
 past six or so. Dinner— the finest dinner in the 
 world, with the best claret in the world.' His com- 
 panion grinned. ' A pipe with whisky and water till 
 nine ; then bed tiU six. A lovely hfe, isn't it ? 
 Eich and fuH, self-contained ; no nasty distur- 
 bances of its satisfying monotony ; no change of 
 scene, no society : no sport, no amusements, no 
 literature, no pictures, no plays, no music to jar 
 upon the even flow. No promotion, even, to agitate 
 the soul.' 
 
 'You will get promotion some day. You must. 
 Oh! it is shameful. Everybody put up over your 
 head ! ' 
 
 'You win get promotion, you boy. As for me 
 
 ' he sighed, and then he laughed. ' What does it 
 
 matter ? I draw two hundred rupees a month. I 
 am a junior in the Audit Office. I live in this agree- 
 able bungalow of three rooms and a verandah. Its 
 walls are made of packing cases, and its roof is made 
 of the tin which formerly lined those cases : it is 
 surrounded by a lovely compound containing three 
 ragged bananas and a prickly pear : and it is furnished 
 sumptuously— Behold ! Style— Second Empire, for 
 the most part.' 
 
 The furniture, perhaps, did date back to that now 
 remote period. There was not much of it, however. 
 Two long chairs, without which life in that chmate 
 would be intolerable ; two smah chairs, a table and 
 an old sideboard completed the inventory. A cheap 
 lamp stood on the table, where there was a bottle, a 
 
28o 
 
 KING DAVID'S FEIEND 
 
 jug of water, two glasses, and a pile of moths who 
 had immolated themselves at the lamp. The walls 
 were covered with a cheap, gaudy paper. Two white 
 umbrellas stood in a corner. There was a shelf with 
 a dozen books on it. There was nothing else at all — 
 no pictures, no ornaments, no little trifles. On the 
 floor there were no mats. 
 
 ' Nothing is omitted in the luxury and refinement 
 of our surroundings. We are waited on by the most 
 faithful of Hindoos, at twenty rupees a month. This 
 it is to shake the pagoda tree for fifteen years.' 
 
 The speaker, a man with a countenance still 
 healthy and ruddy, spite of his tropical experience, 
 and wearing a big brown beard, a large-limbed man, 
 lay back in his chair and replaced his pipe between 
 his lips. He spoke, as is evident, bitterly, but his face 
 was not bitter and his eyes were as kindly as the 
 eyes of any Silver King, or Lord of a Nitrate boom, 
 could be. The other was a young man of one and 
 twenty, just beginning his career in the same splendid 
 service which had taken away the elder man's youth. 
 The united resources of this mess were slender ; and 
 when the rent of twenty rupees a month had been 
 paid and the wages of their one servant and the 
 dhobie and the claret (which was dear at fivepence 
 the bottle) and the whisky and the stringy beef, 
 which was stewed, and the skinny chicken, which was 
 curried, were all paid for, there really was very little 
 left for the minor luxuries. Yet, in lands where twice 
 a year there falls no shade on any side of rock or 
 house, the minor luxuries are to most men the 
 simplest necessities. On either side of the central 
 room, caUed the Salon, was a small bedroom, in each 
 
K1N(J DAVID'S FUIENJ) 
 
 281 
 
 fi bed, a mosquito curtain, an armoiro, a chair and a 
 washstand. The room in front opened upon a Hmall 
 verandah, hung with coarse canvas for shade. 
 
 'Well, my boy,' Longden went on, 'you shall 
 have better luck : you shall get promoted early ; you 
 shall leave me and mess with other promotions ; you 
 shall become chief clerk, presently, in your depart- 
 ment ; acting Head of a department; sent off to 
 some other colony as Head ; Colonial Secretary some- 
 where else; Lieutenant-Governor; C.M.G.; Governor; 
 K.C.M.G. Heart up, sonny ; the world is all before 
 you.' 
 
 He slowly rose and mixed a muckle tumbler of 
 whisky and water which he tossed off at a draught, 
 for it was the middle of the hot season, when one 
 may absorb the muckle tumbler at a single toss and 
 feel dry the moment after. It was so hot that even 
 the exertion of moving from chair to table brought 
 out beads upon the hands : there was no breath of 
 air ; outside it was quite dark ; and there were no 
 sounds except the shrill-voiced cigale too high and 
 piercing for some ears to hear it at all, and from an old 
 cemetery not far away, the whispering and the sigh- 
 ing of the filhao, a tree which, in the stillest night, 
 never ceases thus to murmur and to sob and to 
 mourn for the dead who lie below. It was a night 
 when one is fain to lie down for very weariness of 
 keeping head erect and arms ready for action, know- 
 ing full well that sleep will come slowly and only 
 when one is wearied out with turning in the bed and 
 gasping for breath. 
 
 The younger man was a little disconcerted at this 
 outburst ; when one is twenty it is hard to understand 
 
282 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 that a man of five and thirty, which seems an age so 
 advanced, and a man who has somehow ' stuck ' in 
 his upward flight, and one who is invariably cheerful 
 and apparently contented, should ever have had am- 
 bitions. To a young man it seems natural that the 
 unsuccessful should make the best of things. 
 
 To be sure, Longden's case was exceptional. There 
 are plenty of shady Englishmen who get taken on in 
 a colony, in obscure branches of the Government 
 services, with never a chance or a hope of promotion ; 
 but for a young man to be actually appointed and 
 sent out by the Colonial Office at the age of twenty, 
 to begin, as he should, with his foot on the lowest 
 rung of the ladder, and then to be left there, or very 
 near the lowest rung, is not common in any colony. 
 A. slow but steady rise awaits everybody. But Longden 
 got no rise. After fifteen years he still remained a 
 junior in his department ; he drew, it is true, two 
 hundred and forty pounds a year, or double his original 
 pay, but he had been passed by all his contemporaries 
 and now remained stuck fast, apparently forgotten. 
 Nor did any one of the successive Governors recom- 
 mend him for promotion. Yet he was a good civil 
 servant, as intelligent and laborious as could be 
 desired. Moreover, a gentleman — using the word in 
 its old and narrow meaning — an English gentleman ; 
 everybody could see that ; a man of easy, assured, 
 and pleasant manners ; a man whose origin and 
 belongings were well known ; a ' likely ' man, too, 
 who should have been useful in society, though he 
 never went anywhere, and nobody ever asked him 
 anywhere. Always apparently cheerful and con- 
 tented, going about his work with the same thorough- 
 
KINCI DAVlirS 1<IM10NI) 
 
 283 
 
 ness, and uuirdiing off lioiuo to liis liiilo l)uiigal()w in 
 the least desirable part of the town, by the sea shore, 
 where no other Englishman lived, with an air and 
 appearance of perfect content. 
 
 When people talked about Longden, which was 
 not often, they lowered voice and looked around and 
 whispered that there was some scandal about him 
 which stood in the way of his promotion — something 
 he had done at home, a long time ago — that it was 
 understood he was not to be promoted. The thing 
 that he had done remained a bogie, amorphous, its 
 actual shape and figure impossible to make out. 
 Here, however, w^as the fact : an English gentleman, 
 of good and old family, very well connected, very 
 well educated, of excellent manners, with no appear- 
 ance of having anything to hide, left in the lower 
 branches of the Colonial Service, five and thirty 
 years of age ; yet possessed of every quality that 
 should command success. What did it mean? 
 Meantime, he generally had living with him one or 
 two young fellows newly come out whom he kept for 
 a while under his wing, and saved at the outset from 
 drink, gambling, and the devil, which very powerfully 
 assail the newcomer in this dull colony. When they 
 could walk alone he let them leave him and find some 
 more cheerful, and more expensive ' bachelors' ' mess. 
 
 ' Hallo ! There's some news in the " Overland 
 Mail," ' said the young fellow, opening the paper. 
 'We've got a new Governor. He comes out next 
 mail. Here's the paper. Want to see who it is ? ' 
 
 ' Not that it matters to me,' said Longden. 
 * Governors come and Governors go. But, out of idle 
 curiosity, let me look,' 
 
284 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 His chum tossed over the paper. There was a 
 half column hastily printed with a summary of the 
 month. Longden glanced down the paragraphs. 
 Suddenly he started, sat up and dropped the paper. 
 ' Good Lord ! ' he cried. 
 
 * What is it ? ' asked his companion. 
 
 Longden sprang to his feet. Then he stepped 
 out upon the little verandah before the cottage and 
 began to walk up and down with an energy worthy of 
 his native land in an east wind. The young man, 
 astonished, read the half column of paragraphs again. 
 The usual crop of news, a big strike, a murder, 
 reports, rumours and whispers from Berlin and 
 Kussia ; the appointment of the new Governor for the 
 Colony ; what was it that had stung Longden into the 
 excitement ? Well, Longden would tell him if he 
 pleased ; if not — he yawned — it was past nine. He 
 went to bed. 
 
 Presently Longden came back and took up the 
 paper, and read slowly a second time the paragraph 
 that had startled him. ' Sir Henry Overston Dunkelrl, 
 K.C.B., is the newly appointed Governor. Sir Henry 
 Dunkeld, the eldest son of Major General Dunkeld, 
 E.A., was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, 
 where he obtained a first class and a fellowship in the 
 year 1875. He was called to the bar in 1878 ; he sat 
 in the House of Commons for the borough of Ilchester 
 on the Conservative side from 1879 to 1882. He was 
 then appointed Lieutenant-Governor of Penang ; in 
 1884 he was made Governor of the Leeward Islands. 
 Sir Henry is believed to have shown the highest 
 administrative abilities ; he is personally popular ; he 
 is said to possess a great charm of manner ; and his 
 
IvlNd DAVID'S IIMKND 
 
 sympathies with all reJigious and philanthropic move- 
 ments are well known.' 
 
 ' Good Lord ! ' said Longdcn once more. ' And I 
 am an assistant clerk in his Audit office ! Turn, For- 
 tune, turn thy wheel ! And yet — can she turn that 
 wheel ? Can I suffer any good thing at his hands— 
 any good thing at all ? For, in our friendship— when 
 we were friends — each had to accept what the other gave. 
 I gave. lie accepted. But he can never give, nor can 
 I accept. My friend ! My David ! Thou art King ! 
 Thou art King — and Lo ! I am assistant clerk in thy 
 Audit Office. 0 King, live for ever ! ' 
 
 II 
 
 He stood looking at the paper. The lamp, a cheap 
 and common thing, filled with cheap and common 
 petroleum, fluttered and expired. He stepped out 
 again upon the verandah. The sea breeze had sprung 
 up ; the air was refreshed ; he drew a long breath and 
 looked out into the darkness. His memory went back 
 some seventeen years. A certain morning returned 
 to him ; for that matter, he had never forgotten that 
 morning, nor any single thing that had been said or done 
 on that morning. But now, for the first time, he saw 
 what happened, not as he saw it then, an actor in the 
 scene, but from the outside, as the audience. The 
 actors were two spectres of the past, young men both ; 
 the face of one was radiant, his eyes and cheeks flushed, 
 his lip trembling. The other was also flushed, but his 
 eyes were dropped, his head hung, his voice faltered. 
 
 ' Harry,' cried one of them in agitation, * you 
 didn't do it ! You didn't really do it ! Say you didn't ! ' 
 
286 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 ' I can't say ifc, Jack.' The other young man 
 buried his head in an agony of shame. ' I can't say 
 it.' 
 
 ' Harry, what will she say ? ' 
 ' Good God ! I don't know. What will they all 
 say ? ' 
 
 ' What will she say ? ' Jack repeated. 
 
 * I don't know. I don't know. What will become 
 of me ? ' 
 
 * What will she say ? ' Jack repeated. ' Man ! is 
 there no way out of it ? ' 
 
 ' None. I had the money. I took the money — I 
 signed the thing.' 
 
 ' Isn't there any way at all out of it ? Would 
 your father ? ' 
 
 ' My father ? Why, Jack, the mere suspicion of 
 such a thing would kill him. I had to get the money, 
 Jack. I had to get the girl out of the place ' 
 
 * Oh ! ' Jack groaned, * what will she say ? And 
 
 everybody — I too— have thought you so Harry, 
 
 where was it done ? ' 
 
 ' In this house.' 
 
 ' In our house — here — Harry ? ' Jack leaned over 
 and whispered, * I was in the house, too.' 
 
 * You ? ' 
 
 ' I was in the house. Think ! The other party 
 has gone. She won't come back to trouble you any 
 longer. She's gone to America, you say.' 
 
 * She has sworn that she never will.' 
 
 ' Who is to find out, then ? Harry, we must save 
 her. She must never know. Everything must go on 
 as before except that . . . You see, there were two 
 young men in the place . . . Eh ? The thing was done 
 
KINO DAVID'S I'lMKND 
 
 287 
 
 by one of them ... Eh? Now do you sec? Two 
 young men — it was done by one of them.' 
 
 ' Jack, what do you mean ? ' 
 
 * It was done — by mc.' 
 
 Harry gazed at his friend. Then he shook his 
 head. 
 
 ' By mc, I say.' 
 
 ' No, Jack ; no, I can't.' 
 
 ' Damn it, man, you must ! It is for her sake. 
 Look here, okl man ; for your sake I would do a good 
 deal, but I couldn't do this. It's for her sake, and 
 because she loves you — that's the reason.' 
 
 ' And because you love her still. Oh, Jack, I can- 
 not ! ' 
 
 'You must, my boy— and you shall. All you've 
 got to do is to hold your tongue. Get back to Cam- 
 bridge. And hold your tongue.' 
 
 ' No, Jack,' he murmm^ed. ' I cannot let you do 
 it. No friend can expect such a thing of another. 
 Not even of you can I take such a service.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' said Jack— Longden's name, in fact, was 
 Jack, but it was fifteen years since he had been called 
 by his Christian name, and he had almost forgotten 
 it. * Why, man, what's the good of being friends if we 
 can't stand by each other ? Look here : it's a real 
 devil of a mess.' 
 
 'It is, indeed. To me it is ruin— everything — 
 everything is lost, including ' 
 
 ' It includes,' said Jack — ' it includes Eva. Good 
 God ! Who is to tell her ? How is it to be broken to 
 her ? Mind — at any cost she must be spared.' 
 
 ' Well, Harry, sooner than Eva should suffer — 
 sooner than you should suffer — I would suffer myself. 
 
KING DAVID'S FEIEND 
 
 Now, look here — I've done this thing — you know — not 
 you at all — not you at all.' He laid his hand upon 
 his friend's shoulder and repeated, ' I've done it— I'm 
 the fellow— not you at all.' 
 
 'No, no — I cannot. Think of the awful — the ter- 
 rible consequences.' 
 
 ' There will be a bit of a shindy. I daresay it will 
 blow over. My prig of an elder brother will groan and 
 say he always knew— but you will be happy, old man, 
 and— and so — what is the use of being friends, and 
 sworn friends, too, if we are not to bear the burdens 
 of each other ? I shall take this burden off your back, 
 old man — not for your sake only, but for the sake of 
 —of Eva.' 
 
 The other protested, but weakly and with tears 
 and self-accusations ; it was too great a sacrifice ; he 
 had been a fool and a wretch ; he must take the con- 
 sequences. Jack continued to remind him that there 
 was that other person to be seriously considered, 
 namely, the girl named Eva. She must never— never 
 know ; she must never — never — never suspect. Not 
 one word, or hint, must be dropped that would lead her 
 to suspect. Above all things, she was to be kept from 
 the unhappiness which would fall upon her if she knew. 
 
 Then the other man finally gave way. But he 
 made a condition of accepting ; one condition, and that 
 of an extremely important character. So much grace 
 was left to him. He sat down and he wrote at head- 
 long speed a certain little narrative. This he signed, 
 dated, read through, folded and gave to his friend. 
 
 ' Jack,' he said, ' I will accept your sacrifice on one 
 condition. Here is a complete confession of the whole 
 business. Take it. Do what you like with it. If yon 
 
KING DAVID'S FPJEND 
 
 289 
 
 suffer too much from the consequences of your — your — 
 self-sacrifice, reveal it — I am altogether in your hands. 
 If at any time in the future you wish to recover any 
 respect of which this business may have robbed you, do 
 so by means of that paper— use it. I place myself wholly 
 in your hands. I give you the right to use that paper 
 whenever you please. Good Heavens ! I to give you 
 anything ? I to make any conditions ? ' He choked. 
 
 * He certainly said that,' murmured the audience. 
 
 * He said it— and I have the paper still. And he is 
 Governor of this colony, and I am a Junior in his 
 Audit Office ! ' 
 
 Then he looked again— always across the blackness 
 of the night into the past — and he saw- a girl. She 
 turned her eyes from one to the other in astonishment. 
 A very beautiful girl she was. At the sight of her 
 the audience caught his breath. 
 
 * Why,' she said, 'what is the matter with you both ?' 
 ' Eva ! ' cried the man whose burden was to be 
 
 transferred, but said no more. 
 
 * Eva,' said Jack, * I am sorry you have come at 
 this moment. But you may as well hear the truth at 
 once.' 
 
 * Truth ? What truth ? ' She looked quickly, not 
 at Jack, but at the other. 
 
 * The truth is,' said Jack, ' that a very disgraceful 
 thing has been found out, and that one of us is going 
 to say good-bye — most likely for ever.' 
 
 ' What is it, Harry ? ' She caught him by the arm. 
 
 * Why do you look like this ? What is the meaning of 
 this, Jack ? ' 
 
 * He looks ashamed and downcast, because he is 
 my friend, Eva. I have shamed him. You see — don't 
 
 u 
 
2go 
 
 KING DAVID'S FKIEND 
 
 look too much astonished, Eva— I am trying to brazen 
 it out. I have done a thing which is very disgraceful. 
 I am not going to defend myself, or to explain, or to 
 excuse. I have done this thing and my friend is pained. 
 Now you had better go away, both of you, because I 
 don't want to witness your shame and pain. That 
 hurts, Eva, worse than— to— to have done it.' 
 
 c Yes— he said all that,' murmured the audience. 
 ' And then they went away —Eva was cry ing— she offered 
 the guilty man her hand, and he refused. And then 
 there was an end of everything.' 
 , Next he saw how the guilty man laughed without 
 the least mirth and folded the confession and placed 
 it in his pocket-book. ' Well,' he said, ' I would have 
 done more than that for Eva's sake, not to speak of 
 poor old Harry. I don't suppose she will ever know 
 that I took over his iniquities— or why I did it— and so 
 —but it's done. Now we must face the footlights.' 
 
 The scene disappeared and the black night returned. 
 Longden was on the verandah again looking out into 
 the darkness ; he heard the gentle lapping of the water 
 on the coral reef and the knell of the Bell Buoy tolling 
 out at sea beyond the harbour ; and the filhaos wept 
 louder and sighed more heavily in the fresh sea breeze. 
 
 'Yes,' said Longden. 'I was eighteen and I 
 believed in friendship. What did the other man be- 
 lieve in ? ' 
 
 And he remembered how the Thing which he had 
 so hastily assumed in order to save the girl he loved 
 —who loved the other man— was really a much more 
 serious thing than he had at first believed in fact ; it 
 was a thing which stains for life ; a thing which leaves 
 a mark visible and plain to be seen, and one which will 
 
KINCJ DAVID'S FIMEND 
 
 291 
 
 never — never — never wash off; a thing for which he 
 was immediately expelled his home by his father, who 
 refused to receive him, or to see him, or to forgive him ; 
 for which, in fact, he was presently, and after a year 
 or two of ignominious Coventry, bundled off to a small 
 clerkship in a distant colony, with no fareweUs except 
 from his elder brother — the Prig — who informed him 
 coldly that it was never too late, even for the worst of 
 malefactors, to build up a new character on the ruins 
 of one which had been destroyed. He also informed 
 him that it had been his duty to place on record, for the 
 information of the Colonial Office, the history of the 
 Thing which the new clerk had done. 
 
 ' When Jonathan died,' Longden murmured, ' David 
 wept and lamented. Suppose Jonathan had disappeared 
 only to be recovered in the position of an inferior clerk 
 to the Jerusalem Audit Office when David was King 
 over Israel.' 
 
 He went to his room and lay down in the dark. 
 But he slept little, and when he awoke in the morning 
 it was with an uneasy sense of having himself become 
 King David, and of having found his old friend Jona- 
 than, dressed as a scribe, adding up with zeal the ac- 
 counts in the chief steward's chamber, and of being 
 himself, king though he was, considerably embarrassed 
 by the discovery. 
 
 ni 
 
 The monotony of his life, which he had praised so 
 highly, was rudely broken by this strange event. 
 The colony was so limited as to size, the officials so 
 small in number, that the Governor would certainly 
 
 u 2 
 
292 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 know something about everyone in the service, even 
 a Junior in the Audit Office. He would have to 
 know all the civil servants by name and reputation at 
 least, and there was not the least doubt that King 
 David would discover his Jonathan. Sir Henry 
 Ovenston Dunkeld, king, would discover his old friend 
 John Lorimer Longden among the scribes of the 
 palace. What would the king say ? What would the 
 king do ? Would he call for a purple robe and wrap 
 it round that scribe, and send him forth upon a white 
 horse richly caparisoned, with a trumpeter proclaim- 
 ing the honours done by order of the king ? Or 
 should Jonathan begin it ? Should he bow himself 
 down upon the ground saying, ' 0 King, live for ever ! 
 I am Jonathan, friend of thy youth, and I am held 
 down in low estate by reason of a Thing ? ' How would 
 that do ? 
 
 Longden pondered the subject long and doubtfully. 
 What would happen ? As for the confession he had 
 it still. He had always kept it : the paper lay 
 among other papers in a desk. This desk contained 
 many cheerful reminders of that event. There was 
 the letter from his father casting him off ; there was 
 one from his elder brother preaching a powerful 
 sermon on the crime as to a condemned criminal ; 
 there was a portrait of a girl— the Eva for whose 
 sake his friend had consented ; there was another of 
 the friend himself, a gallant youth ; there were some 
 letters from that friend, written before the fatal 
 transfer— none after; and some verses written by 
 himself in praise of Eva dancing— they were in 
 imitation of Herrick. These treasures he guarded 
 safely in his old school desk, unopened for fifteen 
 
KING DAVID'S FUIENJ) 
 
 ^93 
 
 years, lying at the bottom of the armoire where ho 
 kept his clothes. * If at any time in the future you 
 can recover the respect of which this Imsiness has 
 robbed you by using the paper, use it.' The words 
 returned again and again. How should he use it ? 
 He might place the paper in the hands of the 
 Governor and leave the matter to him. He might 
 go to him and say, ' I am your old friend. We know 
 what we know, but we trust each other. What I have 
 done I have done.' So thinking, his heart grew soft 
 to that old friend ; he said to himself that he must 
 have suffered from thinking of what had been done — 
 but that for Eva's sake- doubtless now his wife— the 
 thing was well done. If it had to be done again, he 
 would do it again, whatever happened. 
 
 He thought about nothing else during the four 
 weeks of waiting for the next mail. His heart beat 
 and his cheek glowed when the signal was run up of 
 the mail's arrival. And with the rest of the world, 
 with the acting Governor, the Bishop, the Colonel 
 Commandant, the Legislative Council, and the Heads 
 of Departments, he went down to the quay— he did 
 not, of course, stand v/ith these illustrious persons — he 
 kept himself well behind them in the crowd, and 
 among the half-castes and the coolies — to receive the 
 new Governor. 
 
 His Excellency Sir Henry Dunkeld, K.C.M.G., came 
 ashore in the Harbour Master's launch with an awning 
 and a crew of six stout negroes. He was accom- 
 panied by his wife, his daughter, a child of twelve, 
 his daughter's governess, and his aide-de-camp. He 
 landed ; he shook hands with the Bishop, the Colonel 
 Commandant, and the Heads of Departments ; he 
 
294 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 presented them to Lady Dunkeld ; the band struck 
 up ; the people shouted and made a lane ; and, bowing . 
 right and left, the new Governor marched across the 
 Place to Government House. 
 
 Oh, yes ! Jack Longden knew him at once. He 
 was taller and stouter, a man of remarkable height 
 and great dignity of carriage : a handsome man, too : 
 dark of complexion and of regular features : with the 
 set smile of royalty which did not deceive anyone, 
 because behind it there plainly showed a masterful 
 man with whom there must be no trifling ; and 
 though he was well on the sunny side of forty, he 
 had the experienced air of fifty. Oh, yes ! — Jack 
 Longden knew him at once. And Lady Dunkeld, too 
 — Eva, of course. Then he had married Eva. Good ! 
 Just as it should have been — Eva ! There she was ; 
 and, after all these years, a lovely woman still. She 
 smiled and bowed, too, and her smile was not the set 
 smile of the Sovereign, but of a gracious lady ; of 
 course, he would have recognised her, too, at once. 
 His heart became very soft watching these old friends 
 of his youth. 
 
 He stood back among the crowd of half-castes, 
 negroes, coolies, Chinese, Malays, soldiers and sailors. 
 
 His Excellency drew near. Jack leaned forward a 
 little and lifted his hat, not with the idea of catching 
 his eye at all ; but the Governor saw him — he 
 stopped suddenly, turned white and reeled. 
 
 ' It is nothing,' he said, recovering quickly. * The 
 heart ; a sudden faintness. Let us go on.' 
 
 The procession went on. But the Governor looked 
 back once more into the crowd. For he had seen, 
 after all these years, standing among the common 
 
KINO J)AV1D'S FJUIONI) 
 
 295 
 
 people, the half-caHtes and the coohcs— himself evi- 
 dently of small consideration— the old friend of his 
 youth, hy whose act and deed and noble self-sacrifice 
 he himself was what he was and where he was. So 
 might King David have recognised in the crowd 
 Jonathan, his former friend, who had heaped kind- 
 nesses upon him whom he thought dead and gone 
 long since, but had only gone away and had returned. 
 Yes ; there stood Jonathan attired in a white jacket, 
 and a white helmet, bareheaded in the presence of the 
 king. 
 
 ' He recognised me,' said Jonathan, striding away. 
 *He caught my eye and he knew me. I saw him 
 change colour and stop. Strange meeting after so 
 many years ! He will send for me to-morrow and we 
 shall have a talk. Of course he will trust me still. 
 Should I send him or take him that paper ? I think 
 not.' 
 
 So, while the new Governor entertained the Legis- 
 lative Council at a banquet, his old friend sat at dinner 
 in his cottage and contentedly munched his curried 
 beef and drank his sour claret and water, and congratu- 
 lated himself on the beauty and the happiness of the 
 wife for whose sake he had taken this burden upon 
 himself. In the morning, when he recalled the landing 
 and the recognition, he understood that in the latter 
 there was surprise or dismay, terror— but not a single 
 sign of joy. And he ceased to feel quite so warmly 
 towards his old friend. 
 
296 
 
 KING DAVID'S FEIEND 
 
 IV 
 
 So he did nothing. He waited. The new Governor 
 settled down into his office, paid visits to various places 
 in his kingdom, and gained great popularity by his 
 affability, and by the many charms and graces of his 
 wife. But he made no sign at all to his old friend. 
 Yet the Thing was not one of those which can be 
 forgotten in a man's life. That was impossible ; and 
 he certainly had recognised the man who had done 
 that thing. 
 
 Time went on. Three months passed, and the 
 Governor had made no sign. And now, indeed, Longden 
 fully understood that no sign would be made. ' Good,' 
 he said. ' It is all part of the job. I shall keep silence.' 
 
 ' I say, Longden,' said his chum, one day, ' I heard 
 something this morning that I should like to tell you.' 
 
 ' Tell away, old man.' 
 
 ' It concerns yourself, and I want you not to get 
 angry about it. I think I ought to tell you.' 
 
 ' I won't get angry. Tell away.'j 
 
 ' I was in the Private Secretary's room, sitting at 
 a separate table, making a precis for him. Well, the 
 Governor passed through on his way to his own room. 
 He stopped at the Secretary's table and began to talk— 
 I suppose no one noticed me. He was talking about 
 officers and salaries. Presently, he pointed to a name 
 on the list, and looked at his secretary as much as to 
 say— Who is this ? ' 
 
 * "J. L. Longden," said the Secretary. ''In the 
 Audit Office. He is a very good clerk ; indeed, one of 
 the best men we have." 
 
 * He has been here a long time." 
 
KING DAVID'S FIUEND 
 
 297 
 
 * I think lie has no friends at home. There is 
 something against him. Not anything out here— at 
 home,^and a long while ago." Then he told a story 
 about you, Longden. It was something done when 
 you were a boy — or said to have been done. I wish I 
 had got up and declared that you couldn't have done 
 it.' 
 
 ' You needn't repeat the story,' said Longden. ' I 
 believe I have heard most of it before. My brother, 
 the Prig, thought it his duty to tell what he believed to 
 be the truth to somebody in authority at the Colonial 
 Office. So it was told to somebody else, who brought 
 it to the Colonial Secretary here. The story is the 
 property of the Office. They don't often teh it about, 
 because there is never any occasion to mention my 
 name, but when there is any question of promotion 
 they bring it out and look at it. Go on. By the way, 
 the story is only half true, and the half that is true 
 isn't exactly the half that they believe.' 
 
 ' Why don't you let them know, then ' 
 
 * Because, my sonny, there are other people to be 
 considered. Meantime, what said the king ? How 
 did David the King receive the anecdote ? ' 
 
 ' Why do you always call him David the King ? ' 
 
 ' He does look something like David, doesn't he ? 
 Same sort of face — born to command. Soul charged 
 with lofty thoughts, a man after the Lord's own heart — 
 after the Lord's own heart — no guile in him — nothing 
 small. That's why I call him David.' 
 
 ' He looks as if nobody could be quite so good. 
 Well, His Excellency heard the story and shook his 
 head. Then he said, slowly and sorrowfully, " There 
 are things which can never be forgotten. Forgiven," 
 
298 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 he added, " they may be, and are, by the persons in- 
 jured. But forgotten by the world — never. A man 
 who has such a story as this behind him is Hke a man 
 who is lamed for life. Such an action — such a fall — 
 can never be retrieved. Pity ! Pity ! " Then he went 
 into his private room and shut the door.' 
 
 The man with the shady record laughed. * Ah ! ' 
 he said, ' Virtue's only fault, her only weak point, is 
 her unforgivingness ; otherwise, she would draw the 
 whole world, like Beauty, with a single hair. King 
 David heard this story for the first time, and it — it 
 shocked his righteousness. Indeed, I do not wonder.' 
 
 V 
 
 A FEW days after this conversation the postman 
 delivered a letter to John Longden, Audit Office. 
 Now the local post is a very small affair indeed, and 
 to receive a letter between the mails is an event of the 
 greatest rarity. Therefore the other Juniors were 
 astonished, and questioned Longden about his cor- 
 respondent, and asked her name, and made many 
 facetious conjectures. But Longden dropped the 
 letter into his pocket and nodded cheerfully, and 
 went on with his auditing. When the clock struck 
 four the other clerks made haste to leave their work : 
 Longden lingered. When they were all gone, and 
 not till then, he drew out the letter and looked at it. 
 
 * I remember her writing,' he said. ' Of course I 
 remember it. What has she to say ? She can know 
 nothing.' He opened the letter. 
 
 ' Dear Jack,' it began, in the most friendly manner 
 possible. ' Dear Jack ' — and from Lady Dunkeld, the 
 
KING DAVID'S l^MKNJ) 
 
 299 
 
 Queen of the Colony, sole consort of King David— why 
 had she not written ' J^ear Jonathan"?—*! have 
 only just heard that you are in the Colony. I know, 
 and I appreciate the reason, why you have not come 
 to see me. Yet I must see you, if not in my own 
 drawing-room in the presence of the aide-de-camp, 
 then alone. I must see you. Come to the private 
 gardens of Government House on Sunday morning at 
 half-past eleven, when the Governor and everybody are 
 at Church. I will meet you beside the Basin. Come. 
 I command you to come in the name of our old 
 affection and for the sake of old times when we were 
 all—God help us 1— innocent and hopeful together. 
 Do not fail. 
 
 * Your old friend, E.' 
 
 *I wonder what she means.' Jack finished the 
 letter, which did not require a second reading, and re- 
 placed it in his pocket. What can she mean ? She 
 did not recognise me, though he did. People don't 
 talk about me at Government House. Who told her ? 
 If David the King told her, David the King must have 
 felt prickings and stickings of conscience. I will go.' 
 
 On Sunday morning the whole official world assists 
 at the Cathedral service. That is to say, the Heads 
 and Assistants of Departments assist. Clerks and 
 Juniors do not count, and nobody heeds whether 
 they attend Church Parade or whether they do 
 not. Therefore, since promotion is not assisted 
 by attending, and since it is cooler under a shady 
 verandah than in a rather crowded church, they 
 mostly stay at home. 
 
 Soon after eleven, wdien the Governor, his 
 
300 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 daughter, his daughter's governess, and his aide-de- 
 camp were in their long pew at the Cathedral, and 
 the Bishop was in his throne, and the Civil Chaplain 
 was reading the service. Jack Longden found himself 
 in the private grounds of Government House. They 
 are very beautiful gardens. The Palm House at Kew 
 is not half so beautiful. Palms of all kinds — the 
 cocoa palm, the sago palm, the raphia palm, the 
 screw palm — are there in rows and avenues ; there are 
 clusters of bamboos ; there are cinnamon trees, spice 
 trees of all kinds ; it is a botanical garden, and it 
 contains everything that the tropics produce for the 
 comfort and the joy of man ; tea, coffee, indigo, sugar- 
 cane, cloves, sago, pepper, nutmegs, cotton, vanilla, 
 letches, mango, bread-fruit, and papua. There are 
 flowers and shrubs and flowering trees, the flam- 
 boyant and the Bougainvilliers and the elephant 
 creeper ; there is a lake and there is a stream with 
 water plants of every kind. The garden is provided 
 with seats in all the shady places. It is the noblest 
 garden under the sun. Everything is fine about it 
 except the turf, which only distantly resembles an 
 English lawn. In one corner there is an English 
 garden where they plant only the flowers that will 
 stand the hot sun of the tropics : a weedy rose that 
 puts forth clusters of poor little flowers ; sweet peas, 
 mignonette, and some others. 
 
 This morning not a soul was in the garden, not 
 even an Indian gardener. To begin with, it was a very 
 hot morning, when every living creature, except the 
 lizards, sought shelter and shade ; even in the leafy 
 avenues and narrow shaded paths where 'the sun 
 could not penetrate, it was breathlessly hot ; the sun 
 
KIN(J DAVID'.S FlMENl) 
 
 was like the mouth of a fiery furnace ; the cloudless 
 sky seemed to reflect and beat down heat upon 
 the earth. In the midst of the garden the foun- 
 tain played and splashed and flashed, suggesting 
 coolness. 
 
 Longden found a bench in the shade, and sat 
 down. 
 
 He had not long to wait. He heard a footstep, 
 and rose to meet a lady who walked quickly along 
 one of the paths. She was alone. 
 
 ' Thank you, Jack,' she said, smiling gravely but 
 not giving him her hand. 
 
 The years had changed the girl into a matron, 
 but her old beauty remained with her, the winning 
 light in her eyes, the caressing tones of her voice, the 
 graciousness of her manner. Jack tried to be cool 
 and collected. 
 
 *I am here. Lady Dunkeld,' he began, but he 
 broke down. ' Eva ! ' he cried eagerly, * you have 
 not forgotten me, then — the man who disgraced 
 himself ! ' 
 
 ' No — no. You are here. I learned the fact only 
 the other day, and you are quite low down in the 
 service. He told me. It is horrible ! Oh ! it is 
 dreadful ! horrible ! shameful ! ' 
 
 ' Nay ; some must rise and some must fall. And 
 after that ugly business ' 
 
 < Jack, I know all.' She looked at him strangely, 
 curiously, inquisitively. ' I know all. I have known 
 the truth for some time.' 
 
 * What do you know ? There was an awful row 
 about it.' Jack wondered what she meant. He 
 went on talking fast in his nervousness. ' Of course 
 
302 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 you heard about it. My father wouldn't have me 
 in the house, and my brother — you remember my 
 brother — he was always an awful prig — he sur- 
 passed himself, and made reconciliation impossible, 
 and everything else ; so they found me a place out 
 here. My brother kindly told them my little history at 
 the Colonial Office — said he would not assist in hiding 
 a man's record — and so the story came out here, and 
 — that's all. Of course promotion is impossible for a 
 man with such a story as that behind him. Well, Eva 
 — Lady Dunkeld — that is all. What does it matter 
 now ? ' For his old friend continued to look at him 
 with such wonder and curiosity, and the tears stood 
 in her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she repeated, ' it is horrible ! It is 
 dreadful ! ' 
 
 < ]S[o — not so dreadful as you think. One has 
 enough to live upon — it is a quiet life — I want no 
 society — I have no friends — I can live, — what more 
 can a man desire — a man with such a story as that 
 behind him ? ' 
 
 She sat down on the bench beside him, and bowed 
 her head and wept aloud. 
 
 ' Nay,' he said. ' It is too much that I should 
 revive this old sorrow of so long ago. It is good of 
 you, Eva, to feel for one who really deserves all he 
 got.' 
 
 ' Jack ! ' She sprang to her feet again. ^ You tear 
 my very heart ! You tear me to pieces ! For I know 
 all— all— I tell you that I know all ! ' 
 
 ' You cannot know all. It is impossible.' 
 
 ' I have known it for ten years. God forgive us ! 
 For ten years. And we have not done justice to you ! 
 
KING DAVID'S FRIEND 303 
 
 Ho Ml ill and was on the point of death and confessed 
 it all to me. I promised, thinking he was on his 
 deathbed, to carry his message of remorse. He did 
 not die, but the message remains. Take it. His 
 message of remorse and self-upbraiding. His prayer 
 for forgiveness.' 
 
 c Yes— but he got better,' said Longden dryly. ' So 
 he told you, did he ? It was not well done. It w^as 
 a breach of confidence. Why, it was in the thought 
 that you would never know ' 
 
 * And I do know. Jack — nothing that he can do 
 or say could destroy the wrong of all these years.' 
 
 'Nothing. And yet, you see, I took the con- 
 sequences, whatever they might be. They did turn 
 out rather more unpleasant than I thought. But I 
 have not complained.' 
 
 'If you were to stand up to-morrow and read 
 aloud the confession which he gave you, that would 
 not give you back these lost and ruined years.' 
 
 ' No,' said Jack. ' It might astonish people more 
 than a bit. But it wouldn't help me.' 
 
 ' Have you ever thought that— about this subhme 
 self-sacrifice of your youth— that all of it would be 
 destroyed and rendered worse than useless were it to 
 become known ? ' 
 
 ' I quite understand. To be sure, I have always 
 looked forward to a time when, somehow or other, 
 without hurting you, my character should be set 
 right again— if only to disappoint my brother, who is 
 a prig.' 
 
 ' He, who was then a young man, like yourself, 
 with his future all before him, is now a man who has 
 succeeded ; he has won distinction and reputation ; 
 
304 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 he has a wife and children — children, Jack. If you 
 ruin him — as you may — as you can— you ruin the 
 children and you destroy the wife.' 
 
 *I see,' he replied. 'This is what you wanted 
 to say to me? To be sure, I hadn't considered 
 that.' 
 
 * When we landed he saw you on the port and re- 
 cognised you. He said nothing to me — at the time, 
 but I perceived that he w^as anxious and unhappy. 
 It is three months ago, and during the whole time 
 he has been in an agony of terror and remorse. A 
 few days ago he heard the old story told again — the 
 story that he thought forgotten was repeated to him, 
 attached to your name. It is common property — the 
 talk of his secretaries. He is well-nigh mad with the 
 recollection and the hideousness of it.' 
 
 * Confound the story ! That's my brother's 
 doing.' 
 
 ' I told him I should see you. He has gone to 
 Church this morning — to Church ! — knowing that I 
 am to meet you here. What am I to tell him ? ' 
 
 ' Why,' said Jack, ' considering that it is three 
 months since he came and that I have not made any 
 sign, he might take it for granted that I am not going 
 to move or to speak. I don't deny, Eva, that when I 
 heard he was coming I was a good bit shaken. It did 
 seem — but there : I had taken the consequences and 
 had no right to complain — not the least right ; and if 
 I had moved I should have been the — the skunk — 
 which the world believes me to have been — I beg your 
 pardon, Eva.' 
 
 ' No — no. My husband — in your presence I can 
 say so — was that creature. Go on. Jack.' 
 
KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 'I thought that I might send him a copy of tlio 
 confession ajid ask him wliat ho proposed doing. I 
 say that tliis temptation did assail me— I am 
 ashamed to own that it did ' 
 
 ' Jack ' — she interrupted him quickly — ' there is no 
 safety possible for us so long as that paper remains in 
 your hands. Consider. You may die : you may fall 
 ill : you may even — God forgive me for saying so — fall 
 away from your promise and betray us. The punish- 
 ment may prove too hard for you. The noblest 
 inheritance of my children is their father's honour. 
 It lies at the mercy of an accident. His honour ! 
 Think of what it is to him — to me — to all of us ! Do 
 not leave that to chance. There is but one person in 
 the world who can prove the truth — it is yourself* 
 There is in the world but one proof of the truth — it is 
 that paper. After you were gone there were some 
 who could not understand, and some who said openly 
 that they might have beheved it of him but never of 
 you. There was one man — the Doctor — who said he 
 could prove that you were elsewhere at the time when 
 the thing was done. But the time has long passed 
 by when inquiry might have revealed the truth. No 
 one can hurt him now except you ; and you only 
 through that paper.' 
 
 Pie made no reply. She went on again more 
 passionately : 
 
 ' Give me that paper, that there be no trace left 
 of the horrible business. Put it beyond the power of 
 chance to reveal the thing. Put it beyond your own 
 power, most loyal of men, to betray and to ruin us. 
 Leave to my children their father's honour : leave him 
 to follow out his career to the end. Wih you do this 
 
 X 
 
3o6 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 —for me— for my children— in memory of the 
 past ? ' 
 
 Then Jack spoke— slowly, because he was anxious 
 to speak for once and so to have done with it. 
 
 ' "When I read in the paper that he was coming I 
 heard his voice, plain and clear, saying, Take my 
 confession. Do what you like with it. If you suffer 
 from the consequences of your sacrifice, reveal it. If, 
 in the future you can regain the respect of the world 
 by means of this paper, use it. You have the right 
 to use it." Those were his words. No— let me finish 
 —I will not be long. When I saw him land, I say, his 
 words came back to me. He saw me. Then I 
 waited. For, you see, I could not use his confession. 
 How could I use it? Could I threaten with it- 
 demand promotion with it— extort money with it? 
 Then I learned, by accident, the other day how his 
 Private Secretary told him the story— my story— his 
 gtory— and how he set his face hard and said in his 
 grandly austere way, as if no temptation had ever 
 overcome him— as if there was no crime on his soul, 
 " that some things can never be forgotten, that they 
 chng to a man through life and hinder him." Now 
 I do think, making every allowance for official purity, 
 that he was carrying virtue at that moment to an 
 extreme. But it made me dehberate what to do next. 
 And I have found out the way. It is all clear to me 
 at last.' 
 
 ' What way ? In the name of Pity, what way ? ' 
 
 ' If I had been the Governor and he had been the 
 Junior clerk, I should have tried to make up to 
 him, quietly and without explanations, for all these 
 years, by such advancement as lay in my power. I 
 
KING DAVID'S KIITENI) 
 
 should have done this for him in ordor to lot him 
 know that the past was buried, but the sense of the 
 sacrifice was left.' 
 
 ' He has not done this, because he has ]jccn 
 afraid. He is afraid to meet you. He is afraid to 
 speak to you.' 
 
 ' Out of his fears lest the man who has done what 
 I have done— who has been silent all these years — who 
 has suffered as I have suffered— in silence— should at 
 last change his character and become a cad ! ' 
 
 ' Do not be too bitter, Jack.' 
 
 ' I say that he might have played the part of the 
 Providence which mitigates the cold blast of ill-luck. 
 He has preferred to play the part of the Judge who 
 did the thing, yet carries out the law with relentless 
 hand and heart unmoved upon the man found 
 guilty by the jury. Well, my way is plain. I have 
 brought the papers— here they are. I had some 
 kind of instinct that they might be wanted.' He 
 drew an envelope out of his pocket. ' I will give them 
 to you. Lady Dunkeld, on one condition.' 
 
 ' Any condition— all conditions.' 
 
 ' Nay — this is a very simple condition. It is that 
 during the whole of his official residence here your 
 husband will leave me absolutely and strictly alone. 
 Let him never interfere with me ; let him never have 
 speech with me ; let him never offer me any promotion. 
 He must not, on the other hand, cause that story to 
 be spread about more than it has been ; he must com- 
 pass neither good nor harm for me. Let him no 
 longer exist for me. You promise this, Eva — for your 
 husband ? ' 
 
 * Yes — yes ! I promise upon my— upon his — 
 
3o8 
 
 KING DAVID'S FEIEND 
 
 honour, which now — ' she snatched the paper from his 
 hands and caught her breath — nothing — nothing — 
 nothing can touch. Oh ! now I breathe again ! Con- 
 ditions ? Ask the whole of my fortune. Ask all we 
 have — you shall have it so long as I have this paper. 
 You are certain that there is no copy ? ' 
 
 ' There is no copy — you are quite safe. If I were 
 to proclaim the whole truth to-morrow on the Place 
 before Government House, no one would believe a 
 word of it, and ignominious dismissal would be my 
 reward.' 
 
 'We are safe ! ' She sat down and panted with 
 heaving breast. ' We are safe ! Oh ! Jack — my poor, 
 brave, long-suffering friend ! What can I say ? 
 That I can never thank you enough ? That is a poor 
 thing to say. Yet what else am I to say ? Why, I 
 can never tell anyone. My husband's honour is safe : 
 what else can I say ? You will not ask me what I — 
 I — think of this story, will you ? Oh ! you have 
 done a most noble thing, and I cannot even tell my 
 children. I can tell nobody. All your life long you 
 will suffer— and I can tell nobody. You are living in 
 contumely, and I cannot even offer to relieve you. 
 Nothing can relieve you. The consequences continue. 
 One man has sinned and another goes in obscurity all 
 his life for that sin. Go, Jack ! On our heads lies 
 the real shame, the bitterness and the remorse. That 
 is our punishment. I am not worthy to touch your 
 hand ; ' but she sank on her knees and kissed his 
 hand. Then she stood up with streaming eyes. ' Go, 
 Jack ! I will give him the paper. We will keep your 
 conditions.' 
 
 He lifted his hat and turned without another 
 word. So they parted, who will never meet again. 
 
KING DAVID'S FJaENI) 
 
 VI 
 
 The monotony of Longdcn's life, broken in this 
 manner, began again. There were no more distur- 
 bances ; he fell back upon the old routine, after this 
 little digression. The conditions were kept. The 
 Governor took no notice of him at all. The slow 
 time passed by. Sir Henry Dunkeld drew near to 
 the end of his time. Jack was now past forty — still an 
 assistant clerk — still sitting among the Juniors, yet 
 still cheerful of speech and aspect ; still, to outward 
 seeming, as contented as the most successful of men ; 
 still living in his packing-case shanty near the sea- 
 shore — sometimes alone, sometimes with some young 
 fellow as his messmate. Long since the youngster 
 who messed with him when Sir Henry Dunkeld 
 arrived had passed him on the ladder of promotion 
 and had joined a mess which belonged to society, and 
 where they gave dinners and had afternoons and 
 got up picnics and went to balls. 
 
 One day, a little while before this Governor left 
 the colony, Longden's chief sent for him. 
 
 ' I ought to tell you, Longden,' he said, ' that an 
 attempt has been made to get you promoted. You 
 have been most strongly recommended to His Excel- 
 lency for the vacant post — ' it was that of Assistant 
 Auditor-General. ' It was pointed out that there is 
 no one in the office who possesses anything like your 
 
 knowledge and experience ' Here the chief 
 
 paused. 
 
 ' Well ? ' Longden asked, carelessly. 
 
 * The attempt proved useless.' 
 
 * He will not give me any promotion ? ' 
 
KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 * That is so. I fear that your case is a very 
 hopeless one, Longden. You know that there is a 
 certain story — the Governor has been told — I need 
 not^ ' 
 
 *You need not/ said Longden. 'I understand 
 perfectly. I have always understood. I do not, I 
 assure you, expect any promotion. At the same time 
 I am much obliged to you for kindly making an effort 
 for me.' 
 
 * Perhaps — Sir Henry's time draws to a close — per- 
 haps the next Governor ' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Longden, and withdrew. 
 
 Presently that Governor went home, taking with 
 him his wife and daughter. And another Governor 
 came out. 
 
 And in the morning Jack Longden, in his white 
 jacket and pith helmet, trudged in the heat and the 
 dust to his office— all the other men being able to 
 (jriye—and in the evening he went back to his cottage 
 by the sea ; and at night in his loneliness he listened 
 to the plash of the water on the coral reef and the 
 moaning of the filhaos in the cemetery, and no pro- 
 motion came to him and no one took the least notice 
 of him. But he remained cheerful of aspect and of 
 talk, and as contented as the Colonial Secretary him- 
 self. 
 
 VII 
 
 The other day I met a man at the club, an old 
 acquaintance ; and we began to talk about other old 
 acquaintances, which is the only topic of conversation 
 open to those who are old acquaintances but not old 
 friends. 
 
KING DAVID'S FiMKXD 
 
 Said he, presently : ' Did you know Canon 
 Longden ? ' 
 
 ' No ; he was a good bit before my time, I 
 think.' 
 
 ' Not a bad sort, but too good, you know. Much 
 too good for the common lot of us. Carried his good- 
 ness to unforgivingness. A prig of virtue. That's 
 what I always thought of him. He irritated one, you 
 know, by his unreasonable hatred of the wicked world 
 — used really and truly to despise sinners. Now I 
 like a man who has some little feeling for the slips 
 and the stumbles— eh ? As if he might slip and 
 stumble himself. Most of us have, if the truth was 
 known. Well, as far as he's concerned, it doesn't 
 matter much — though I don't know. Canon Longden's 
 dead.' 
 
 * Is he ? ' I replied, not much interested. 
 
 * Yes. He owned quite a tidy little property near 
 us. Had no children, and was a widower, and was 
 not on speaking terms with his only brother. We 
 rather expected he would have left it for Objects, you 
 know — Objects — Eeligious Objects — converting nig- 
 gers or locking up sinners for ever without any let 
 up ; or building churches and such.' 
 
 ' Well, didn't he ? ' 
 
 ' Not a bit of it. He forgot to make a will at all, 
 and so the property goes, I hear, to this younger 
 brother who was packed off to some miserable colonial 
 appointment, years ago, after getting into a devil of a 
 mess. His father cut him out of his will — I don't 
 exactly know what he did — and his brother would 
 never speak to him or hear about him : and now he 
 is coming home to take all the family money. So the 
 
312 
 
 KING DAVID'S FRIEND 
 
 prig of virtue has ended in enriching the sinner. I 
 remember Jack Longden well — and a better youngster 
 never lived. How he came to do it, whatever it was 
 he did — the stories differ — how such a glorious boy as 
 he was, full of life and generosity and promise, came 
 to do it — but there ! ' 
 
 A man who had been sitting near us by the fire- 
 side rose and walked quickly down the room. 
 
 ' Know him ? That is Sir Henry Dunkeld, G.C.B. 
 and G.C.M.G. Been Governor of half Her Majesty's 
 Colonies, one after the other. No end of a swell, ho 
 is. Another prig of virtue too. Going to be made a 
 Peer, I believe. I say, when this colonial chap, this 
 Jack Longden, comes to live on his property, I sup- 
 pose the people won't be raking up past scandals, will 
 they ? It's wonderful, though, how things stick. I 
 shouldn't wonder if they refused to call upon him.' 
 
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