CHAPTER XXXI

THE OFFER DECLINED

Estelle talked to Raymond and endeavoured to interest him in Sabina's

child.

"Everybody who understands babies says that he's a lovely and perfect

one," declared Estelle. "I hope you're going to look at him before you

go away, because he's yours. And I believe he will be like you, some

day. Do the colours of babies' eyes change, like kittens' eyes, Ray?"

"Haven't the slightest idea," he answered. "You may be quite sure I

shall take care of it, Estelle, and see that it has everything it

wants."

"Somehow they're not pleased with you all the same," she answered. "I

don't understand about it, but they evidently feel that you ought to

have married Sabina. I suppose you're not properly his father if you

don't marry her?"

"That's nonsense, Estelle. I'm quite properly his father, and I'm going

to be a jolly good father too. But I don't want to be married. I don't

believe in it."

"If Sabina knew you were going to love him and be good to him, she would

be happier, I hope."

"I'm going to see her presently," he said.

"And see the baby?"

"Plenty of time for that."

"There's time, of course, Ray. But he's changing. He's five weeks old

to-morrow, and I can see great changes. He can just begin to laugh now.

Things amuse him we don't know. I expect babies are like dogs and can

see what we can't."

"I'll look at him if Sabina likes."

"Of course she'll like. It's rather horrid of you, in a way, being able

to go on with your work for so many weeks without looking at him. It's

really rather a slight on Sabina, Ray. If I'd had a baby, and his father

wouldn't look at him for week after week, I should be vexed. And so is

Sabina."

"Next time you see her, ask her to name a day and I'll go whenever she

likes."

Estelle was delighted.

"That's lovely of you and it will cheer her up very much, for certain,"

she answered. Then she ran away, for to arrange such a meeting seemed

the most desirable thing in the world to her at that moment. To Sabina

she went as fast as her legs could take her, and appreciating that he

had sent this guileless messenger to ensure a meeting without

preliminaries and without prejudice, Sabina hid her feelings and

specified a time on the following day.

"If he'll come to see me to-morrow in the dinner-hour, that will be

best. I'll be alone after twelve o'clock."

"You'll show him the baby, won't you, Sabina?"

"He won't want to see it."

"Why not?"

"Does he want to?"

"Honestly he doesn't seem to understand how wonderful the baby is,"

explained the child. "Ray's going to be a splendid father to him,

Sabina. He's quite interested; only men are different from us. Perhaps

they never feel much interest till babies can talk to them. My father

says he wasn't much interested in me till I could talk, so it may be a

general thing. But when Ray sees him, he'll be tremendously proud of

him."

Sabina said no more, and when Raymond arrived to see her at the time she

appointed, he found her waiting near the entrance of 'The Magnolias.'

She wore a black dress and was looking very well and very handsome. But

the expression in her eyes had changed. He put out his hand, but she did

not take it.

"Mister Churchouse has kindly said we can talk in the study, Mister

Ironsyde."

He followed her, and when they had come to the room, hoped that she was

quite well again. Then he sat in a chair by the table and she took a

seat opposite him. She did not reply to his wish for her good health,

but waited for him to speak. She was not sulky, but apparently

indifferent. Her fret and fume were smothered of late. Now that the

supreme injury was inflicted and she had borne a child out of wedlock,

Sabina's frenzies were over. The battle was lost. Life held no further

promises, and the denial of the great promise that it had offered and

taken back again, numbed her. She was weary of the subject of herself

and the child. She could even ask Mr. Churchouse for books to occupy her

mind during convalescence. Yet the slumbering storm in her soul awoke in

full fury before the man had spoken a dozen words.

She looked at Raymond with tired eyes, and he felt that, like himself,

she was older, wiser, different. He measured the extent of her

experiences and felt sorry for her.

"Sabina," he said. "I must apologise for one mistake. When I asked you

to come back to me and live with me, I did a caddish thing. It wasn't

worthy of me, or you. I'm awfully sorry. I forgot myself there."

She flushed.

"Can that worry you?" she asked. "I should have thought, after what

you'd already done, such an added trifle wouldn't have made you think

twice. To ruin a woman body and soul--to lie to her and steal all she's

got to give under pretence of marriage--that wasn't caddish, I

suppose--that wasn't anything to make you less pleased with yourself.

That was what we may expect from men of honour and right bringing up?"

"Don't take this line, or we shan't get on. If, after certain things

happened, I had still felt we--"

"Stop," she said, "and hear me. You're making my blood burn and my

fingers itch to do something. My hands are strong and quick--they're

trained to be quick. I thought I could come to this meeting calm and

patient enough. I didn't know I'd got any hate left in me--for you, or

the world. But I have--you've mighty soon woke it again; and I'm not

going to hear you maul the past into your pattern and explain everything

away and tell me how you came gradually to see we shouldn't be happy

together and all the usual dirty, little lies. Tell yourself falsehoods

if you like--you needn't waste time telling them to me. I'll tell you

the truth; and that is that you're a low, mean coward and bully--a

creature to sicken the air for any honest man or woman. And you know it

behind your big talk. What did you do? You seduced me under promise of

marriage, and when your brother heard what you'd done and flung you out

of the Mill, you ran to your aunt. And she said, 'Choose between ruin

and no money, and Sabina and money from me.' And so you agreed to marry

me--to keep yourself in cash. And then, when all was changed and you

found yourself a rich man, you lied again and deserted me, and wronged

your child--ruined us both. That's what you did, and what you are."

"If you really believe that's the one and only version, I'm afraid we

shan't come to an understanding," he said quietly. "You mustn't think so

badly of me as that, Sabina."

"Your aunt does. That's how she sees it, being an honest woman."

"I must try to show you you're wrong--in time. For the moment I'm only

concerned to do everything in my power to make your future secure and

calm your mind."

"Are you? Then marry me. That's the only way you can make my future

secure, and you well know it."

"I can't marry you. I shall never marry. I am very firmly convinced

that to marry a woman is to do her a great injury nine times out of

ten."

"Worse than seducing her and leaving her alone in the world with a

bastard child, I suppose?"

"You're not alone in the world, and your child is my child, and I

recognise the fullest obligations to you both."

"Liar! If you'd recognised your obligations, you wouldn't have let it

come into the world nameless and fatherless."

She rose.

"You want everything your own way, and you think you can bend everything

to your own way. But you'll not bend me no more. You've broke me, and

you've broke your child. We're rubbish--rubbish on the world's rubbish

heap--flung there by you. I, that was so proud of myself! We'll go to

the grave shamed and outcast--failures for people to laugh at or preach

over. Your child's doomed now. The State and the Church both turn their

backs on such as him. You can't make him your lawful son now."

"I can do for him all any father can do for a son."

"You shall do nought for him! He's part of me--not you. If you hold back

from me, you hold back from him. God's my judge he shan't receive a

crust from your hands. You've given him enough. He's got you to thank

for a ruined life. He shan't have anything more from you while I can

stand between. Don't you trouble for him. You go on from strength to

strength and the people will praise your hard work and your goodness to

the workers--such a pattern master as you'll be."

"May time make you feel differently, Sabina," he answered. "I've

deserved this--all of it. I'm quite ready to grant I've done wrong. But

I'm not going to do more if I can help it. I want to be your friend in

the highest and worthiest sense possible. I want to atone to you for the

past, and I want to stand up for your child through thick and thin, and

bear the reproach that he must be to me as long as I live. I've weighed

all that. But power can challenge the indifference of the State and the

cowardice of the Church. The dirty laws will be blotted out by public

opinion some day. The child can grow up to be my son and heir, as he

will be my first care and thought. Everything that is mine can be his

and yours--"

"That's all one now," she said. "He touches nothing of yours while I

touch nothing of yours. There's only one way to bring me and the child

into your life, Raymond Ironsyde, and that's by marrying me. Without

that we'll not acknowledge you. I'd rather go on the streets than do it.

I'd rather tie a brick round your child's neck and drown him like an

unwanted dog than let him have comfort from you. And God judge me if

I'll depart from that if I live to be a hundred."

"You're being badly advised, Sabina. I never thought to hear you talk

like this. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm here myself annoys you. Will

you let my lawyer see you?"

"Marry me--marry me--you that loved me. All less than that is insult."

"We must leave it, then. Would you like me to see my child?"

"See him! Why? You'll never see him if I can help it. You'd blast his

little, trusting eyes. But I won't drown him--you needn't fear that.

I'll fight for him, and find friends for him. There's a few clean people

left who won't make him suffer for your sins. He'll live to spit on your

grave yet."

Then she left the room, and he got up and went from the house.

BOOK II

ESTELLE

CHAPTER I

THE FLYING YEARS

But little can even the most complete biography furnish of a man's days.

It is argued that essentials are all that matter, and that since one

year is often like another, and life merely a matter of occasional

mountain peaks in flat country, the outstanding events alone need be

chronicled with any excuse. But who knows the essential, since

biographists must perforce omit the spade work of life on character, the

gradual attrition or upbuilding of principles under experience, and the

strain and stress, that, sooner or later, bear fruit in action? Even

autobiography, as all other history, needs must be incomplete, since no

man himself exactly appreciated the vital experiences that made him what

he is, or turns him from what he was; while even if the secret belongs

to the protagonist, and intellect and understanding have enabled him to

grasp the reality of his progress, or retrogression, he will be jealous

to guard such truths and, for pride, or modesty, conceal the real

fountains of inspiration that were responsible for progress, or the

temptations to error that found his weakest spots, blocked his advance,

and rendered futile his highest hopes. The man who knows his inner

defeats will not declare them honestly, even if egotism induces an

autobiography; while the biographist, being ignorant of his hero's real,

psychological existence, secret life, and those thousand hidden

influences that have touched him and caused him to react, cannot, with

all the will in the world to be true, relate more than superficial

truths concerning him.

Ten years may only be recorded as lengthening the lives of Raymond

Ironsyde, Sabina Dinnett and their son, together with those interested

in them. Time, the supreme solvent, flows over existence, submerging

here, lifting there, altering the relative attitudes of husband and

wife, parent and child, friend and enemy. For no human relation is

static. The ebb and flow forget not the closest or remotest connection

between members of the human family; not a friendship or interest stands

still, and not a love or a hate. Time operates upon every human emotion

as it operates upon physical life; and ten years left no single

situation at Bridetown or Bridport unchallenged. Death cut few knots;

since accident willed that one alone fell among those with whom we are

concerned. For the rest, years brought their palliatives and corrosives,

soothed here, fretted there; here buried old griefs and healed old

sores; here calloused troubles, so that they only throbbed

intermittently; here built up new enthusiasms, awakened new loves,

barbed new enmities.

Things that looked impossible on the day that Ironsyde heard Sabina

scorn him, happened. Threats evaporated, danger signals disappeared;

but, in other cases, while the jagged edges and peaks of bitterness and

contempt were worn away by a decade of years, the solid rocks from which

they sprang persisted and the massive reasons for emotion were not

moved, albeit their sharpest expressions vanished. Some loves faded into

likings, and their raptures to a placid contentment, built as much on

the convenience of habit as the memories of a passionate past; other

affections, less fortunate, perished and left nothing but remains

unlovely. Hates also, with their sharpest bristles rubbed down, were

modified to bluntness, and left a mere lumpish aversion of mind. Some

dislikes altogether perished and gave place to indifference; some

persisted as the shadow of their former selves; some were kept alive by

absurd pride in those who pretended, for their credit's sake, a

steadfastness they were not really built to feel.

Sabina, for example, was constitutionally unequal to any supreme and

all-controlling passion unless it had been love; yet still she preserved

that inimical attitude to Raymond Ironsyde she had promised to

entertain; though in reality the fire was gone and the ashes cold. She

knew it, but was willing to rekindle the flame if material offered, as

now it threatened to do.

Ernest Churchouse had published his book upon 'The Bells of Dorset' and,

feeling that it represented his life work, declared himself content. He

had grown still less active, but found abundant interests in literature

and friendship. He undertook the instruction of Sabina's son and, from

time to time, reported upon the child. His first friend was now Estelle

Waldron, who, at this stage of her development, found the old and

childlike man chime with her hopes and aspirations.

Estelle was passing through the phase not uncommon to one of her nature.

For a time her early womanhood found food in poetry, and her mind,

apparently fashioned to advance the world's welfare and add to human

happiness, reposed as it seemed on an interlude of reading and the

pursuit of beauty. She developed fast to a point--the point whereat she

had established a library and common room for the Mill hands; the point

at which the girls called her 'Our Lady,' and very honestly loved her

for herself as well as for the good she brought them. Now, however, her

activities were turned inward and she sought to atone for an education

incomplete. She had never gone to school, and her governesses, while

able and sufficient, could not do for her what only school life can do.

This experience, though held needless and doubtful in many opinions,

Estelle felt to miss and her conscience prompted her to go to London and

mix with other people, while her inclination tempted her to stop with

her father. She went to London for two years and worked upon a woman's

newspaper. Then she fell ill and came home and spent her time with

Arthur Waldron, with Raymond Ironsyde, and with Ernest Churchouse. A

girl friend or two from London also came to visit her.

She recovered perfect health, and having contracted a great new worship

for poetry in her convalescence, retained it afterwards. Ernest was her

ally, for he loved poetry--an understanding denied to her other friends.

So Estelle passed through a period of dreaming, while her intellect grew

larger and her human sympathy no less. She had developed into a handsome

woman with regular features, a large and almost stately presence and a

direct, undraped manner not shadowed as yet by any ray of sex instinct.

Nature, with her many endowments, chose to withhold the feminine

challenge. She was as stark and pure as the moon. Young men, drawn by

her smile, fled from her self. Her father's friends regarded her much as

he did: with a sort of uneasy admiration. The people were fond of her,

and older women declared that she would never marry.

Of such was Miss Jenny Ironsyde. "Estelle's children will be good

works," she told Raymond. For she and her nephew were friends again. The

steady tides of time had washed away her prophecy of eternal enmity, and

increasing infirmity made her seek companionship where she could find

it. Moreover, she remembered a word that she had spoken to Raymond in

the past, when she told him how a grudge entertained by one human being

against another poisons character and ruins the steadfast outlook upon

life. She escaped that danger.

It is a quality of small minds rather than of great to remain unchanged.

They fossilise more quickly, are more concentrated, have a power to

freeze into a mould and preserve it against the teeth of time, or the

wit and wisdom of the world. The result is ugly or beautiful, according

to the emotion thus for ever embalmed. The loves of such people are

intuitive--shared with instinct and above, or below, reason; their hate

is similarly impenetrable--preserved in a vacuum. For only a vacuum can

hold the sweet for ever untainted, or the bitter for ever unalloyed.

Mary Dinnett belonged to this order. She was now dead, and concerning

the legacy of her unchanging attitude more will presently appear.

As for Nelly Northover, she had long been the wife of Mr. Job Legg. That

pertinacious man achieved his end at last, and what his few enemies

declared was guile, and his many friends held to be tact, won Nelly to

him a year after her adventure with Mr. Gurd. None congratulated them

more heartily than the master of 'The Tiger.' Indeed, when 'The Seven

Stars' blazed out anew on an azure firmament--the least of many changes

that refreshed and invigorated that famous house--'The Tiger' also shone

forth in savage splendour and his black and orange stripes blazed again

from a mass of tropical vegetation.

And beneath the inn signs prosperity continued to obtain. Mr. Gurd grew

less energetic than of yore, while Mrs. Legg put on much flesh and daily

perceived her wisdom in linking Job for ever to the enterprise for which

she lived. He became thinner, if anything, and Time toiled after him in

vain. Immense success rewarded his innovations, and the tea-gardens of

'The Seven Stars' had long become a feature of Bridport's social life.

People hinted that Mr. Legg was not the meek and mild spirit of ancient

opinion and that Nelly knew it; but this suggestion may be held no more

than the penalty of fame--an activity of the baser sort, who ever drop

vinegar of detraction into the oil of content.

John Best still reigned at the Mill, though he had himself already

chosen the young man destined to wear his mantle in process of time. To

leave the works meant to leave his garden; and that he was unprepared to

do until failing energies made it necessary. A decade saw changes among

the workers, but not many. Sally Groves had retired to braid for the

firm at home, and old Mrs. Chick was also gone; but the other hands

remained and the staff had slightly increased. Nancy Buckler was chief

spinner now; Sarah Roberts still minded the spreader, and Nicholas

continued at the lathes. Benny Cogle had a new Otto gas engine to look

after, and Mercy Gale, now married to him, still worked in the warping

chamber. Levi Baggs would not retire, and since he hackled with his old

master, the untameable man, now more than sixty years old, still kept

his place, still flouted the accepted order, still read sinister motives

into every human activity. New machinery had increased the prosperity of

the enterprise, but to no considerable extent. Competition continued

keen as ever, and each year saw the workers winning slightly increased

power through the advance of labour interests.

Raymond Ironsyde was satisfied and remained largely unchanged. He had

hardened in opinion and increased in knowledge. He lacked imagination

and, as of old, trusted to the machine; but he was rational and proved a

capable, second class man of sound judgment and trustworthy in all his

undertakings. Sport continued to be a living interest of his life, and

since he had no ties that involved an establishment, he gladly accepted

Arthur Waldron's offer of a permanent home.

It came to him after he had travelled largely and been for three years

master of the works. Arthur was delighted when Raymond accepted his

suggestion and made his abode at North Hill. They hunted and shot

together; and Waldron, who now judged that the time for golf had come in

his case, devoted the moiety of his life to that pastime.

Ironsyde worked hard and was held in respect. The circumstance of his

child had long been accepted and understood. He exhausted his energy and

patience in endeavours to maintain and advance the boy; and those

justified in so doing lost no opportunity to urge on Sabina Dinnett the

justice of his demand; but here nothing could change her. She refused to

recognise Raymond, or receive from him any assistance in the education

and nurture of his son. She had called him Abel, and as Abel Dinnett

the lad was known. He resembled her in that he was dark and of an

excitable and uneven temperament. He might be easily elated and as

easily cast down. Raymond, who kept a secret eye upon the child, trusted

that in a few years his turn would come, though at present denied. At

first he resented the resolution that shut him out of his son's life;

but the matter had long since sunk to unimportance and he believed that

when Abel came to years of understanding, he would recognise his own

interests and blame those responsible for ignoring them in his

childhood. Upon this opinion hinged the future of not a few persons. It

developed into a conviction permanently established at the back of his

mind; but since Sabina and others came between, he was content to let

them do so and relied upon his son's intelligence in time to come. For

years he did not again seek the child's acquaintance after a rebuff, and

made no attempt to interfere with the operations of Abel's grandmother

and mother--to keep them wholly apart. Thus, after all, the

gratification of their purpose was devoid of savour and Ironsyde's

indifferent acquiescence robbed their will of its triumph. He had told

Mary Dinnett, through Ernest Churchouse, that she and her daughter must

proceed as they thought fit and that, in any case, the last word would

be with him. Here, however, he misvalued the strength of the forces

arrayed against him, and only the future proved whether the seed sowed

in Abel Dinnett's youthful heart was fertile or barren--whether, by the

blood in his own veins, he would offer soil of character to develop

enmity to the man who got him, or reveal a nature slow to anger and

impatient of wrath.

For Ernest Churchouse these problems offered occupation and he stood as

an intermediary between the interests that clashed in the child. He made

himself responsible for a measure of the boy's education and, sometimes,

reported to Estelle such development of character as he perceived. In

secret, inspired by the rival claims of heredity and environment, Ernest

strove to cast a scientific horoscope of little Abel's probable future.

But to-day contradicted yesterday, and to-morrow proved both

untrustworthy. The child was always changing, developing new ideas,

indicating new possibilities. It appeared too soon yet to say what he

would be, or predict his character and force of purpose.

Thus he grew, and when he was eight years old, his first friend and

ally--his grandmother--died. Mr. Churchouse, who had long deplored her

influence for Abel's sake, was hopeful that this departure might prove a

blessing.

Now Sabina had taken her mother's place and she looked after Ernest well

enough. He always hoped that she would marry, and she had been asked to

do so more than once, but felt tempted to no such step.

Thus, then, things stood, and any change of focus and altered outlook in

these people, that may serve to suggest discontinuity with their past,

must be explained by the passage of ten years. Such a period had renewed

all physically--a fact full of subtle connotations. It had sharpened the

youthful and matured the adult mind; it had dimmed the senses sinking

upon nature's night time and strengthened the dawning will and opening

intellect. For as a ship furls her spread of sail on entering harbour,

so age reduces the scope of the mind and its energies to catch every

fresh ripple of the breeze that blows out of progress and change. The

centre of the stage, too, gradually reveals new performers; the gaze of

manhood is turned on new figures; the limelight of human interest throws

up the coming forces of activity and intellect; while those who

yesterday shone supreme, slowly pass into the penumbra that heralds

eclipse. And who bulk big enough to arrest the eternal march, delay

their own progress from light to darkness, or stay the eager young feet

tramping outward of the dayspring to take their places in the day? Life

moves so fast that many a man lives to see the dust thick on his own

name in the scroll of merit and taste a regret that only reason can

allay.

Fate had denied Sabina Dinnett her brief apotheosis. From dark to dark

she had gone; yet time had purged her mind of any large bitterness. She

looked on and watched Raymond's sojourn in the light from a standpoint

negative and indifferent. The future for her held interest, for she

could not cease to be interested in him, though she knew that he had

long since ceased to be interested in her. From the cool cloisters of

her obscurity she watched and was only strong in opinion at one point.

She dreamed of her son making his way and succeeding in the world; she

welcomed Mr. Churchouse's assurance as to the lad's mental progress and

promise; but she was determined as ever that not, if she could help it,

should Abel enter terms of friendship with his father.

Thus the relations subsisted, while, strange to record, in practice they

had long been accepted as part of the order of things at Bridetown. They

ceased even to form matter for gossip. For Raymond Ironsyde was greater

here than the lord of the manor, or any other force. The Mill continued

to be the heart of the village. Through the Mill the lifeblood

circulated; by the Mill the prosperity of the people was regulated; and

since the master saw that on his own prosperity reposed the prosperity

of those whom he employed, there was none to decry him, or echo a

disordered past in the ear of the well-ordered present.

CHAPTER II

THE SEA GARDEN

Bride river still flowed her old way to her work and came, by goldilocks

and grasses, by reedmace and angelica, to the mill-race and water-wheel.

But now, where the old wheel thundered, there yawned a gap, for the

river's power was about to be conserved to better purpose than of old,

and as the new machines now demanded greater forces to drive them, so

human skill found a way to increase the applied strength of a streamlet.

Against the outer wall of the Mill now hung a turbine and Raymond,

Estelle and others had assembled to see it in operation for the first

time. Bride was bottled here, and instead of flashing and foaming over

the water wheel as of yore, now vanished into the turbine and presently

appeared again below it.

Raymond explained the machine with gusto, and Estelle mourned the wheel,

yet as one who knew its departure was inevitable.

It was summer time, and after John Best had displayed the significance

of the turbine and the increased powers generated thereby, Raymond

strolled down the valley beside the river at Estelle's invitation.

She had something to show him at the mouth of the stream--a sea garden,

now in all its beauty and precious to her. For though her mind had

winged far beyond the joys of childhood and was occupied with greater

matters than field botany, still she loved the wild flowers and welcomed

them again in their seasons.

Their speech drifted to the people, and he told how some welcomed the

new appliance and some doubted. Then Raymond spoke of Sabina Dinnett in

sympathetic ears.

For now Estelle understood the past; but she had never wavered in her

friendship with Sabina, any more than had diminished her sister-like

attachment to Raymond. Now, as often, he regretted the attitude his

child preserved towards him and expressed sorrow that he could not break

down Abel's distrust.

"More than distrust, in fact, for the kid dislikes me," he said. "You

know he does, Chicky. But I never can understand why, because he's

always with his mother and Uncle Ernest, and Sabina doesn't bear me any

malice now, to my knowledge. Surely the child must come round sooner or

later?"

"When he's old enough to understand, I expect he will," she said. "But

you'll have to be patient, Ray."

"Oh, yes--that's my strong suit nowadays."

"He's a clever little chap, so Sabina says; but he's difficult and

wayward. He won't be friends with me."

Raymond changed the subject and praised the valley as it opened to the

sea.

"What a jolly place! I believe there are scores of delightful spots at

Bridetown within a walk, and I'm always too busy to see them."

"That's certain. I could show you scores."

"I ought to know the place I live in, better. I don't even know the soil

I walk on--awful ignorance."

"The soil is oolite and clay, and the subsoil, which you see in the

cliffs, is yellow sandstone--the loveliest, goldenest soil in the

world," declared Estelle.

"The colour of a bath sponge," he said, and she pretended despair.

"Oh dear! And I really thought I had seen the dawning of poetry in you,

Ray."

"Merely reflected from yourself, Chicky. Still I'm improving. The

turbine has a poetic side, don't you think?"

"I suppose it has. Science is poetic--at any rate, the history of

science is full of poetry--if you know what poetry means."

"I wish I had more time for such things," he said. "Perhaps I shall

have some day. To be in trade is rather deadening though. There seems so

little to show for all my activities--only hundreds of thousands of

miles of string. In weak moments I sometimes ask myself if, after all,

it is good enough."

"They must be very weak moments, indeed," said Estelle. "Perhaps you'll

tell me how the world could get on without string?"

"I don't know. But you, with all your love of beautiful things, ought to

understand me instead of jumping on me. What is beauty? No two people

feel the same about it, surely? You'd say a poem was beautiful; I'd say

a square cut for four, just out of reach of cover point, was beautiful.

Your father would say, a book on shooting high pheasants was beautiful,

if he agreed with it; John Best would say a good sample of shop twine

was beautiful."

"We should all be right, beauty is in all those things. I can see that.

I can even see that shooting birds with great skill, as father does, is

beautiful--not the slaughter of the bird, which can't be beautiful, but

the way it's done. But those are small things. With the workers you want

to begin at the beginning and show them--what Mister Best knows--that

the beauty of the thing they make depends on it being well and truly

made."

"They're restless."

"Yes; they're reaching out for more happiness, like everybody else."

"I wouldn't back the next generation of capitalists to hold the fort

against labour."

"Perhaps the next generation won't want to," she said. "Perhaps by that

time we shall be educated up to the idea that rich people are quite as

anti-social as poor people. Then we shall do away with both poverty and

riches. To us, educated on the old values, it would come as a shock, but

the generation that is born into such a world would accept it as a

matter of course and not grumble."

He laughed.

"Don't believe it, Chicky. Every generation has its own hawks and eagles

as well as its sheep. The strong will always want the fulness of the

earth and always try to inspire the weak to help them get it. With great

leadership you must have equivalent rewards."

"Why? Cannot you imagine men big enough to work for humanity without

reward? Have there not been plenty of such men--before Christ, as well

as since?"

"Power is reward," he answered. "No man is so great that he is

indifferent to power, for his greatness depends upon it; and if power

was dissipated to-morrow and diluted until none could call himself a

leader, we should have a reaction at once and the sheep would grow

frightened and bleat for a shepherd. And the shepherd would very soon

appear."

They stood where the cliffs broke and Bride ended her journey at the

sea. She came gently without any splendid nuptials to the lover of

rivers. Her brief course run, her last silver loop wound through the

meadows, she ended in a placid pool amid the sand ridges above

high-water mark. The yellow cliffs climbed up again on either side, and

near the chalice in the grey beach whence, invisible, the river sank

away to win the sea by stealth, spread Estelle's sea garden--an expanse

of stone and sand enriched by many flowers that seemed to crown the

river pool with a garland, or weave a wreath for Bride's grave in the

sand. Here were pale gold of poppies, red gold of lotus and rich lichens

that made the sea-worn pebbles shine. Sea thistle spread glaucous

foliage and lifted its blue blossoms; stone-crops and thrifts, tiny

trefoils and couch grasses were woven into the sand, and pink

storks-bill and silvery convolvulus brought cool colour to this harmony

spread beside the purple sea. The day was one of shadow and sunshine

mingled, and from time to time, through passages of grey that lowered

the glory of Estelle's sea garden, a sunburst came to set all

glittering once more, to flash upon the river, lighten the masses of

distant elm, and throw up the red roofs and grey church tower of

Bridetown and her encircling hills.

"What a jolly place it is," he said taking out his cigar case.

Then they sat in the shadow of a fishing boat, drawn up here, and

Raymond lamented the unlovely end of the river.

While he did so, the girl regarded him with affection and a secret

interest and entertainment. For it amused her often to hear him echo

thoughts that had come to her in the past. In a lesser degree her father

did the like; but he belonged to a still older generation, and it was

with Raymond that she found herself chiefly concerned, when he

announced, as original, ideas and discoveries that reflected her own

dreams in the past. Sometimes she thought he was catching up; sometimes,

again, she distanced him and felt herself grown up and Raymond still a

boy. Then, sometimes, he would flush a covey of ideas outside her

reflections, and so remind her of the things that interested men, in

which, as yet, women took no interest. When he spoke of such things, she

strove to learn all that he could teach concerning them. But soon she

found that was not much. He did not think deeply and she quickly caught

him up, if she desired to do so.

Now he uttered just the same, trivial lament that she had uttered when

she was a child. She was pleased, for she rather loved to feel herself

older in mind than Raymond. It added a lustre to friendship and made her

happy--why, she knew not.

"What a wretched end--to be choked up in the shingle like that," he

said, "instead of dashing out gloriously and losing yourself in the

sea!"

She smiled gently to herself.

"I thought that once, then I was ever so sorry for poor little Bride."

"A bride without a wedding," he said.

"No. She steals to him; she wins his salt kisses and finds them sweet

enough. They mate down deep out of sight of all eyes. So you needn't be

sorry for her really."

"It's like watching people try ever so hard to do something and never

bring it off."

"Yes--even more like than you think, Ray; because we feel sad at such

apparent failures, and yet what we are looking at may be a victory

really, only our dull eyes miss it."

"I daresay many people are succeeding who don't appear to be," he

admitted.

"Goodness can't be wasted. It may be poured into the sand all unseen and

unsung; but it conquers somehow and does something worth doing, even

though no eye can see what. Plenty of good things happen in the

world--good and helpful things--that are never recorded, or even

recognised."

"Like a stonewaller in a cricket match. The people cuss him, but he may

determine who is going to win."

She laughed at the simile.

They went homeward presently, Estelle quietly content to have shown

Raymond the flower-sprinkled strand, and he well pleased to have

pleasured her.

CHAPTER III

A TWIST FRAME

Raymond Ironsyde grumbled sometimes at the Factory Act and protested

against grandmotherly legislation. Yet in some directions he anticipated

it. He went, for example, beyond the Flax Mill Ventilation Regulations.

He loved fresh air himself, and took vast pains to make his works sweet

and wholesome for those who breathed therein. Even Levi Baggs could not

grumble, for the exhaust draught in his hackling shop was stronger than

the law demanded, and the new cyclone separators in the main buildings

served to keep the air far purer than of old.

Ironsyde had established also the Kestner System of atomising water, to

regulate temperature and counteract the electrical effects of east wind,

or frost, on the light slivers. He was always on the lookout for new

automatic means to regulate the drags on the bobbins. He had installed

an automatic doffing apparatus, and made a departure from the usual dry

spinning in a demi-sec, or half-dry, spinning frame, which was new at

that time, and had offered excellent results and spun a beautifully

smooth yarn.

These things all served to assist and relieve the workers in varying

degree, but, as Raymond often pointed out, they were taken for granted

and, sometimes, in his gloomier moments, he accused his people of

lacking gratitude. They, for their part, were being gradually caught up

in the growing movements of labour. The unintelligent forgot to credit

the master with his consideration; while those who could think, were

often soured by suspicion. These ignorant spirits doubted not that he

was seeking to win their friendship against the rainy days in store for

capital.

Ironsyde came to the works one morning to watch a new Twist Frame and a

new operator. The single strand yarn for material from the spinners was

coming to the Twist Frame to be turned into twines and fishing lines.

Four full bobbins from the spinning machine went to each spindle of the

Twist Frame, and from it emerged a strong 'four-ply.' It was a machine

more complicated than the spinner; and, as only a good billiard player

can appreciate the cleverness of a great player, so only a spinner might

have admired the rare technical skill of the woman who controlled the

Twist Frame.

The soul of the works persisted, though the people and the machines were

changed. The old photographs and old verses had gone, but new pictures

and poems took their places in the workers' corners; and new

fashion-plates hung where the old ones used to hang. The drawers, and

the rovers, the spreaders and the spinners still, like bower-birds,

adorned the scenes of their toil. A valentine or two and the portrait of

a gamekeeper and his dog hung beside the carding machine; for Sally

Groves had retired and a younger woman was in her place. She, too, fed

the Card by hand, but not so perfectly as Sally was wont to do.

Estelle had come to see the Twist Frame. She cared much for the Mill

women and spent a good portion of her hours with them. A very genuine

friendship, little tainted with time-serving, or self-interest, obtained

for her in the works. On her side, she valued the goodwill of the

workers as her best possession, and found among them a field for study

in human nature and, in their work, matter for poetry and art. For were

not all three Fates to be seen at their eternal business here? Clotho

attended the Spread Board; the can-minders coiling away the sliver,

stood for Lachesis; while in the spinners, who cut the thread when the

bobbin was full, Estelle found Atropos, the goddess of the shears.

Mr. Best, grown grizzled, but active still and with no immediate

thoughts of retirement, observed the operations of the new spinner at

the Twist Frame. She was a woman from Bridport, lured to Bridetown by

increase of wages.

John, who was a man of enthusiasms, turned to Estelle.

"The best spinner that ever came to Bridetown," he whispered.

"Better than Sabina Dinnett?" she asked; and Best declared that she was.

So passage of time soon deadens the outline of all achievement, and

living events that happen under our eyes, offer a statement of the quick

and real with which beautiful dead things, embalmed in the amber of

memory, cannot cope.

"Sabina, at her best, never touched her, Miss Waldron."

"Sabina braids still in her spare time. Nobody makes better nets."

"This is a cousin of Sarah Roberts," explained the foreman. "Spinning

runs in the Northover family, and though Sarah is a spreader and never

will be anything else, there have been wondrous good spinners in the

clan. This girl is called Milly Morton, and her mother and grandmother

spun before her. Her father was Jack Morton, one of the last of the old

hand spinners. To see him walking backwards from his wheel, and paying

out fibre from his waist with one hand and holding up the yarn with the

other, was a very good sight. He'd spin very nearly a hundred pounds of

hemp in a ten hours' day, and turn out seven or eight miles of yarn, and

walk every yard of it, of course. The rope makers swore by him."

"I'm sure spinning runs in the blood!" agreed Estelle. "Both Sarah's

little girls are longing for the time when they can come into the Mill

and mind cans; and, of course, the boy wants to do his father's work and

be a lathe hand."

Best nodded.

"You've hit it," he declared. "It runs in the blood in a very strange

fashion. Take Sabina's child. By all accounts, his old grandmother did

everything in her power to poison his mind against the Mill as well as

the master. She was a lot bitterer than Sabina herself, as the years

went on; and if you could look back and uncover the past, you'd find it

was her secret work to make that child what he is. But the Mill draws

him like cheese draws a mouse. I'll find him here a dozen times in a

month--just popping in when my back's turned. Why he comes I couldn't

say; but I think it is because his mother was a spinner and the feeling

for the craft is in him."

"His father is a spinner, too, for that matter," suggested Estelle.

"In the larger sense of ownership, yes; but it isn't that that draws

him. His father's got no great part in him by all accounts. It's the

mother in him that brings him here. Not that she knows he comes so

often, and I dare say she'd be a good deal put about if she did."

"Why shouldn't he come, John?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I see no reason against. One gets so used to the situation that its

strangeness passes off, but it's very awkward, so to say, that nothing

can be done for Abel by his father. Sabina's wrong to hold out there,

and so I've told her."

"She doesn't influence Abel one way or the other. The child seems to

hate Mister Ironsyde."

"Well, he loves the Mill, though you'd think he might hate that for his

father's sake."

"He's hard for a little creature of ten years old," said Estelle. "He

won't make friends with me, but holds off and regards me--just as

rabbits and things regard one, before they finally run away. I pretend I

don't notice it. He'll listen and even talk if I meet him with his

mother; but if I meet him alone, he flies. He generally bolts through a

hole in the hedge, or somewhere."

"He links you up with Mister Raymond," explained Mr. Best. "He knows you

live at North Hill House, and so he's suspicious. You can disarm him,

however, for he's got reasoning parts quite up to the average if not

above. He's the sort of boy that if you don't want him to steal your

apples, you've only got to give him a few now and then; and then he

rises to the situation and feels in honour bound to be straight, because

you've lifted him to be your equal."

"I call that a very good character."

"It might be a lot worse, no doubt."

"I wanted him to come to our outing, but he won't do that, though his

mother asked him to go."

The outing, an annual whole holiday, was won for the Mill by Estelle,

and for the past four years she had taken all who cared to come for a

long day by the sea. They always went to Weymouth, where amusement

offered to suit every taste.

"More than ever are coming this year," John told her. "In fact, I

believe pretty well everybody's going but Levi Baggs."

"I'm glad. We'll have the two wagonettes from 'The Seven Stars' as

usual. If you are going into Bridport you might tell Missis Legg."

"The two big ones we shall want, and they must be here sharp at six

o'clock," declared Mr. Best. "There's nothing like getting off early.

I'll speak to Job Legg about it and tell him to start 'em off earlier.

You can trust it to Job as to the wagonettes being opened or covered.

He's a very weather-wise person and always smells rain twelve hours in

advance."

CHAPTER IV

THE RED HAND

The Mill had a fascination for all Bridetown children and they would

trespass boldly and brave all perils to get a glimpse of the machinery.

The thunder of the engines drew them, and there were all manner of

interesting fragments to be picked up round and about. That they were

not permitted within the radius of the works was also a sound reason for

being there, and many boys could tell of great adventures and

hairbreadth escapes from Mr. Best, Mr. Benny Cogle and, above all, Mr.

Baggs. For Mr. Baggs, to the mind of youth, exhibited ogre-like

qualities. They knew him as a deadly enemy, for which reason there was

no part of the works that possessed a greater or more horrid fascination

than the hackling shop. To have entered the den of Mr. Baggs marked a

Bridetown lad as worthy of highest respect in his circle. But proofs

were always demanded of such a high achievement. When Levi caught the

adventurer, as sometimes happened, proofs were invariably apparent and a

posterior evidence never lacked of a reverse for the offensive; but

youth will be served, even though age sometimes serves it rather

harshly, and the boys were untiring. Unless Levi locked the shop, when

he went home at noon to dinner, there was always the chance of a raid

with a strick or two possibly missing as proof of success.

Sabina had told Abel that he must keep away from the works, but he

ignored her direction and often revolved about them at moments of

liberty. He was a past master in the art of scouting and evading danger,

yet loved danger, and the Mill offered him daily possibilities of both

courting and escaping peril. Together with other little boys nourished

on a penny journal, Abel had joined the 'Band of the Red Hand.' They did

no harm, but hoped some day, when they grew older, to make a more'

painful impression on Bridetown. At present their modest ambition was to

leave the mark of their secret society in every unexpected spot

possible. On private walls, in church and chapel, or the house-places of

the farms, it was their joy to write with chalk, 'The Red Hand has been

here.' Then followed a circle and a cross--the dark symbol of the

brotherhood. Once a former chief of the gang had left his mark in the

hackling shop and more than one member had similarly adorned the

interior of the Mill; but the old chief had gone to sea at the age of

thirteen, and, though younger than some of the present members, Abel was

now appointed leader and always felt the demand to attempt things that

should be worthy of so high a state.

They were not the everyday boys who thus combined, but a sort of child

less common, yet not uncommon. Such lads scent one another out by parity

of taste and care less for gregarious games than isolated or lonely

adventures. They would rather go trespassing than play cricket; they

would organise a secret raid before a public pastime. Intuitively they

desire romance, and feeling that law and order is opposed to romance,

find the need to flout law and order in measure of their strength, and,

of course, applaud the successful companion who does so with most

complete results.

Now 'the old Adam'--a comprehensive term for independence of view and

unpreparedness to accept the tried values of pastors and masters--was

strong in Abel Dinnett. He loved life, but hated discipline, and for him

the Mill possessed far more significance than it could offer to any

lesser member of the band, since his father owned it. For that much Abel

apprehended, though the meaning of paternity was as yet hidden from him.

That Raymond Ironsyde was his father he understood, and that he must

hate him heartily he also understood: his dead grandmother had poured

this precept into his young mind at its most receptive period. For the

present he was still too youthful to rise beyond this general principle,

and he was far too busy with his own adventures to find leisure to hate

any one more than fitfully. He told the Red Handers that some day he

designed a terrific attack on Raymond Ironsyde; and they promised to

assist and support him; but they all recognised their greater

manifestations must be left until they attained more weight in the

cosmic and social schemes, and, for the moment, their endeavour rose

little higher than to set their fatal sign where least it might be

expected.

To this end came dark-eyed Abel to the Mill at an hour when he should

have been at his dinner. Ere long his activities might be curtailed, for

he was threatened with a preparatory school in the autumn; but before

that happened, the Red Hand must be set in certain high places, and the

hackling shop of Levi Baggs was first among them.

Abel wore knickerbockers and his feet and legs were bare, for he had

just waded across the river beyond the Mill, and meant to retreat by the

same road. He had hidden in a may bush till the people were all gone to

their meal, and then crossed the stream into the works. That the door of

the hackler's would be open he did not expect, for Levi locked it when

he went home; but there was a little window, and Abel, who had a theory

that where his head could go, his body could follow, believed that by

the window it would be possible to make his entrance. The contrary of

what he expected happened, however, for the window was shut and the door

on the latch. Fate willed that on the very day of Abel's attack, Mr.

Baggs should be spending the dinner-hour in his shop. His sister, who

looked after him, was from home until the evening, and Levi had brought

his dinner to the works. He was eating it when the boy very cautiously

opened the door, and since Mr. Baggs sat exactly behind the door, this

action served to conceal him. The intruder therefore thought the place

empty, and proceeded with his operations while Levi made no sound, but

watched him.

Taking a piece of chalk from his pocket Abel wrote the words of terror,

'The Red Hand has been here,' and set down the circle and cross. Then he

picked up one of the bright stricks, that lay beside the hackling board,

and was just about to depart in triumph, when Mr. Baggs banged the door

and revealed himself.

Thus discomfited, Abel grew pale and then flushed. Mr. Baggs was a very

big and strong man and the culprit knew that he must now prepare for the

pangs that attended failure. But he bore pain well. He had been operated

upon for faulty tendons when he was five and proved a Spartan patient.

He stood now waiting for Mr. Baggs. Other victims had reported that it

was Levi's custom to use a strap from his own waist when he beat a boy,

and Abel, even at this tense moment, wondered whether he would now do

so.

"It's you, is it?" said Mr. Baggs. "And the Red Hand has been here, has

it? And perhaps the red something else will go away from here. You're a

darned young thief--that's what you are."

"I ain't yet," argued Abel. His voice fluttered, for his heart was

beating very fast.

"You're as good, however, for you was going to take my strick. The will

was there, though I prevented the deed."

"I had to show the Band as I'd been here."

"Why did you come? What sense is there to it?"

Abel regarded Mr. Baggs doubtfully and did not reply.

"Just to show you're a bit out of the common, perhaps?"

Abel clutched at the suggestion. His eyes looked sideways slyly at Mr.

Baggs. The ogre seemed inclined to talk, and through speech might come

salvation, for he had acted rather than talked on previous occasions.

"We want to be different from common boys," said the marauder.

"Well, you are, for one, and there's no need to trouble in your case.

You was born different, and different you've got to be. I suppose you've

been told often enough who your father is?"

"Yes, I have."

"Small wonder then that you've got your knife into the world at large, I

reckon. What thinking man, or boy, has not for that matter? So you're up

against the laws and out for the liberties? Well, I don't quarrel with

that. Only you're too young yet to understand what a lot you've got to

grumble at. Some day you will."

Abel said nothing. He hardly listened, and thought far less of what Mr.

Baggs was saying than of what he himself would say to his companions

after this great adventure. To make friends with the ogre was no mean

feat, even for a member of the Red Hand.

What motiveless malignity actuated Levi Baggs meanwhile, who can say? He

was now a man in sight of seventy, yet his crabbed soul would exude gall

under pressure as of yore. None was ever cheered or heartened by

anything he might say; but to cast a neighbour down, or make a confident

and contented man doubtful and discontented, affected Mr. Baggs

favourably and rendered him as cheerful as his chronic pessimism ever

permitted him to be.

He bade the child sit and gave him his portion of currant dumpling.

"Put that down your neck," he said, "and don't you think so bad of me in

future. I treat other people same as they treat me, and that's a rule

that works out pretty fair in practice, if you've got the power to

follow it. But some folks are too weak to treat other people as they are

treated--you, for example. You're one of the unlucky ones, you are, Abel

Dinnett."

Abel enjoyed the pudding; and still his mind dwelt more on future

narration of this great incident than on the incident itself. With

unconscious art, he felt that the moment when this tale was told, would

be far greater for him than the moment when it happened.

"I ain't unlucky, Mister Baggs. I would have been unlucky if you'd beat

me; but you've give me your pudding, and I'm on your side till death

now."

"Well, that's something. I ain't got many my side, I believe. The

fearless thinker never has. You can come and see me when you mind to,

because I'm sorry for you, owing to your bad fortune. You've been

handicapped out of winning the race, Abel. You know what a handicap is

in a race? Well, you won't have no chance of winning now, because your

father won't own you."

"I won't own him," said the boy. "Granny always told me he was my

bitterest enemy, and she knew, and I won't trust him--never."

"I should think not--nor any other wise chap wouldn't trust him. He's a

bad lot. He only believes in machines, not humans."

The boy began to be receptive.

"He wants to be friends, but I won't be his friend, because I hate him.

Only I don't tell mother, because she don't hate him so much as me."

"More fool her, then. She ought to hate him. She's got first cause. Do

you know who ought to own these works when your father dies?"

"No, Mister Baggs."

"You. Yes, they did ought to belong to you in justice, because you are

his eldest son. Everything ought to be yours, if the world were run by

right and fairness and honour. But it's all took from you and you can't

lift a finger to better yourself, because you're only his natural son,

and Nature may go to hell every time for all the Law and the Church

care. Church and Law both hate Nature. So that's why I say you're an

unlucky boy; and that's why I say that, despite your father's money and

fame and being popular and well thought on and all that, he's a cruel

rogue."

Abel was puzzled but interested.

"If I'm his boy, why ain't my mother his wife, like all the other chaps'

fathers have got wives?"

"Why ain't your mother his wife? Yes, why? After ten years he'll find

that question as hard to answer as it was before you were born, I

reckon. And the answer to the question is the same as the answer to many

questions about Raymond Ironsyde. And that is, that he is a crooked man

who pretends to be a straight one; in a word, a hypocrite. And you'll

grow up to understand these things and see what should be yours taken

from you and given to other people."

"When I grow up, I'll have it out with him," said Abel.

"No, you won't. Because he's strong and you're weak. You're weak and

poor and nobody, with no father to fight for you and give you a show in

the world. And you'll always be the same, so you'll never stand any

chance against him."

The boy flushed and showed anger.

"I won't be weak and poor always."

"Against him you will. Suppose you went so far as to let him befriend

you, could he ever make up for not marrying your mother? Can he ever

make you anything but a bastard and an outcast? No, he can't; and he

only wants to educate you and give you a bit of money and decent clothes

for the sake of his own conscience. He'll come to you hat in hand some

day--not because he cares a damn for you, but that he may stand well in

the eyes of the world."

Abel now panted with anger, and Mr. Baggs was mildly amused to see how

easily the child could be played upon.

"I'll grow up and then--"

"Don't you worry. You must take life as you find it, and as you haven't

found it a very kind thing, you must put up with it. Most people draw

blanks, and that's why it's better to stop out of the world than in it.

And if we could see into the bottom of every heart, we should very

likely find that all draw blanks, and even what looks like prizes are

not."

Levi laughed after this sweeping announcement. It appeared to put him in

a good temper. He even relaxed in the gravity of his prophecies.

"However, life is on the side of youth," he said, "and you may come to

the front some day, if you've got enough brains. Brains is the only

thing that'll save you. Your mother's clever and your father's crafty,

so perhaps you'll go one better than either. Perhaps, some day, if you

wait long enough, you'll get back on your father, after all."

"I will wait long enough," declared Abel. "I don't care how long I

wait, but I'll best him, Mister Baggs."

"You keep in that righteous spirit and you'll breed a bit of trouble for

him some day, I daresay. And now be off, and if you want to come and see

me at work and learn about hackling and the business that ought to be

yours but won't be, then you can drop in again when you mind to."

"Thank you, sir," said Abel. "I will come, and if I say you let me,

nobody can stop me."

"That's right. I like brave boys that ain't frightened of their

betters--so called."

Then Abel went off, crossed Bride among the sedges and put on his shoes

and stockings again. He had a great deal to think about, and this brief

conversation played its part in his growing brain to alter old opinions

and waken new ideas. That he had successfully stormed the hackling shop

and found the ogre friendly was, of course, good; but already, and long

before he could retail the incident, it began to lose its rare savour.

He perceived this himself dimly, and it made him uncomfortable and

troubled. Something had happened to him; he knew not what, but it

dwarfed the operations of the Red Hand, and it even made his personal

triumph look smaller than it appeared a little while before.

Abel stared at the Mill while he pulled on his stockings and listened to

the bell calling the people back to work.

By right, then, all these wonders should be his some day; but his father

would never give them to him now. He vaguely remembered that his

grandmother had said something like this; but it remained for Mr. Baggs

to rekindle the impression until Abel became oppressed with its

greatness.

He considered the problem gloomily for a long time and decided to talk

to his mother about it. But he did not. It was characteristic of him

that he seldom went to Sabina for any light on his difficulties. Indeed

he attached more importance to Mr. Churchouse's opinions than his

mother's. He determined to see Levi Baggs again and, meantime, he let a

sense of wrong sink into him. Here the Band of the Red Hand offered

comfort. It seemed proper to his dawning intelligence that one who had

been so badly treated as he, should become the head of the Red Hand.

Yet, as the possible development of the movement occurred to Abel, the

child began to share the uneasiness of all conspiracy and feel a

weakness inherent in the Band. Seen from that modest standard of

evil-doing which belonged to Tommy and Billy Keep, Amos Whittle and

Jacky Gale, the Red Handers appeared a futile organisation even in

Abel's eyes. He felt, as greater than he have felt, that an ideal

society should embrace one member only: himself. There were far too many

brothers of the Red Hand, and before he reached home he even

contemplated resignation. He liked better the thought of playing his own

hand, and keeping both its colour and its purpose secret from everybody

else in the world. His head was, for the moment, full of unsocial

thoughts; but whether the impressions created by Mr. Baggs were likely

to persist in a mind so young, looked doubtful.

He told his mother nothing, as usual. Indeed, had she guessed half that

went on in Abel's brains, she might have sooner undertaken what

presently was indicated, and removed herself and her son to a district

far beyond their native village.

But the necessity did not exist in her thoughts, and when she recognised

it, since the inspiration came from without, she was moved to resent

rather than accept it.

CHAPTER V

AN ACCIDENT

There was a cricket luncheon at 'The Tiger' when Bridport played its

last match for the season against Axminster. The western township had

won the first encounter, and Bridport much desired to cry quits over the

second.

Raymond played on this occasion, and though he failed, the credit of

Bridetown was worthily upheld by Nicholas Roberts, the lathe-worker. He

did not bowl as fast as of yore, but he bowled better, and since

Axminster was out for one hundred and thirty in their first innings,

while Bridport had made seventy for two wickets before luncheon, the

issue promised well.

Job Legg still helped Richard Gurd at great moments as he was wont to

do, for prosperity had not modified Job's activity, or diminished his

native goodwill. Gurd carved, while Job looked after the bottles. Arthur

Waldron, who umpired for Bridport, sat beside Raymond at lunch and

condoled with him, because the younger, who had gone in second wicket

down, had played himself in very carefully before the interval.

"Now you'll have to begin all over again," said Waldron. "I always say

luncheon may be worth anything to the bowlers. It rests them, but it

puts the batsman's eye out."

"Seeing how short of practice you are this year, you were jolly steady,

Ray," declared Neddy Motyer, who sat on the other side of Ironsyde. "You

stopped some very hot ones."

Neddy preserved his old interest in sport, but was now a responsible

member of society. He had married and joined his father, a

harness-maker, in a prosperous business.

"I can't time 'em, like I could. That fast chap will get me, I expect."

And Raymond proved a true prophet. Indeed far worse happened than he

anticipated.

Estelle came to watch the cricket after luncheon. She had driven into

Bridport with her father and Raymond in the morning and gone on to Jenny

Ironsyde for the midday meal. Now she arrived in time to witness a

catastrophe. A very fast bowler went on immediately after lunch. He was

a tall and powerful youth with a sinister reputation for bowling at the

man rather than the wicket. At any rate he pitched them short and with

his lofty delivery bumped them very steeply on a lively pitch. Now, in

his second over, he sent down a short one at tremendous speed, and the

batsman, failing to get out of the way, was hit on the point of the jaw.

He fell as though shot and proved to be quite unconscious when picked

up.

They carried him to the pavilion, and it was not until twenty minutes

had passed that Raymond came round and the game went on. But Ironsyde

could take no further part. There was concussion of doubtful severity

and he found himself half blind and suffering great pain in the neck and

head.

Estelle came to him and advised that he should go to his aunt's house,

which was close at hand. He could not speak, but signified agreement,

and they took him there in an ambulance, while the girl ran on to advise

his aunt of the accident.

A doctor came with him and helped to get him to bed. His mind seemed

affected and he wandered in his speech. But he recognised Estelle and

begged her not to leave him. She sat near him, therefore, in a darkened

room and Miss Ironsyde also came.

Waldron dropped in before dusk with the news that Bridport had won, by a

smaller margin than promised, on the first innings. But he found

Raymond sleeping and did not waken him. Estelle believed the injured man

would want her when he woke again. The doctor could say nothing till

some hours had passed, so she went home, but returned a few hours later

to stop the night and help, if need be, to nurse the patient. A

professional nurse shared the vigil; but their duties amounted to

nothing, for Raymond slept through the greater part of the night and

declared himself better in the morning.

He had to stop with his aunt, however, for two or three days, and while

Estelle, her ministration ended, was going away after the doctor

pronounced Raymond on the road to recovery, the patient begged her to

remain. He appeared in a sentimental vein, and the experience of being

nursed was so novel that Ironsyde endured it without a murmur. To

Estelle, who did not guess he was rather enjoying it, the spectacle of

his patience under pain awoke admiration. Indeed, she thought him most

heroic and he made no effort to undeceive her.

Incidentally, during his brief convalescence the man saw more of his

aunt than he had seen for many days. She also must needs nurse him and

exhaust her ingenuity to pass the time. The room was kept dark for

eight-and-forty hours, so her method of entertaining her nephew

consisted chiefly in conversation.

Of late years Raymond seldom let a week elapse without seeing Miss

Ironsyde if only for half an hour. Her waning health occupied him on

these occasions and, at his suggestion, she had gone to Bath to fight

the arthritis that slowly gained upon her. But during his present

sojourn at Bridport as her guest, Raymond let her lead their talk as she

would, indeed, he himself sometimes led it into channels of the past,

where she would not have ventured to go.

Life had made an immense difference to the man and he was old for his

age now, even as until his brother's death he had been young for his

age. She could not fail to note the steadfastness of his mind, despite

its limitations. As Estelle had often done, she perceived how he set

his faith on material things--the steel and steam--to bring about a new

order and advance the happiness of mankind; but he was interested in

social questions far more than of old time, and she felt no little

surprise to hear him talk about the future.

"The air is full of change," she said, on one occasion.

"It always is," he answered. "There is always movement, although the

breath of advance and progress seems to sink to nothing, sometimes. Now

it's blowing a stiff breeze and may rise to a hurricane in a few years."

"It is for the stable, solid backbone of the nation--we of the

middle-class--to withstand such storms," she declared, and he agreed.

"If you've got a stake in the world, you must certainly see its

foundations are driven deep and look to the stake itself, that it's not

rotting. Some stakes are certainly not made of stuff stout enough to

stand against the storms ahead. Education is the great, vital thing. I

often feel mad to think how I wasted my own time at school, and came to

man's work a raw, ignorant fool. We talk of the education of the masses

and what I see is this: they will soon be better educated than we

ourselves; for we bring any amount of sense and modern ideas to work on

their teaching, while our own prehistorical methods are left severely

alone. I believe the boys who come to working age now are better taught

than I was at my grammar school. I wish I knew more."

"Yet we see education may run us into great dangers," said Jenny

Ironsyde. "It can be pushed to a perilous point. One even hears a murmur

against the Bible in the schools. It makes my blood run cold. And we

need not look farther than dear Estelle to see the peril."

"What do you think of Estelle?" he asked. "I almost welcome this stupid

collapse, nuisance though it is, because it's made a sort of

resting-place and brought me nearer to you and Estelle. You've both been

so kind. A man such as I am, is so busy and absorbed that he forgets

all about women; then suddenly lying on his back--done for and

useless--he finds they don't forget all about him."

"You ask what I think about Estelle?" she said. "I never think about

Estelle--no more than I do about the sunshine, or my comfortable bed, or

my tea. She's just one of the precious things I take for granted. I love

her. She is a great deal to me, and the hours she spends with a rather

old-fashioned and cross-grained woman are the happiest hours I know."

"I'm like her father," he said. "I give Estelle best. Nothing can spoil

her, because she's so utterly uninterested in herself. Another thing:

she's so fair--almost morbidly fair. The only thing that makes her

savage is injustice. If she sees an injustice, she won't leave it alone

if it's in her power to alter it. That's her father in her. What he

calls 'sporting,' she calls 'justice.' And, of course, the essence of

sport is justice, if you think it out."

"I don't know anything about sport, but I suppose I have to thank

cricket for your company at present. As for Estelle. I think she has a

great idea of your judgment and opinion."

He laughed.

"If she does, it's probably because I generally agree with her.

Besides--"

He broke off and lighted a cigarette.

"'Besides' what?" asked the lady.

"Well--oh I hardly know. I'm tremendously fond of her. Perhaps I've

taken her too much as you say we take the sun and our meat and drink--as

a matter of course. Yes, like the sun, and as unapproachable."

Miss Ironsyde considered.

"I suppose you're right. I can well imagine that to the average man a

'Una,' such as Estelle, may seem rather unapproachable."

"We're very good friends, though how good I never quite guessed till

this catastrophe. She seemed to come and help look after me as a matter

of course. Didn't think it a bit strange."

"She's simple, but in a very noble way. I've only one quarrel with

her--the faith of her fathers--"

"Leave it. You'll only put your foot into it, Aunt Jenny."

"Never," she said. "I shall never put my foot into it where right and

wrong are concerned--with Estelle or you, or anybody else. I'm nearly

seventy, remember, Raymond, and one knows what is imperishable and to be

trusted at that age."

Thus she negatived Mr. Churchouse's dictum--that mere age demanded no

particular reverence, since many years are as liable to error as few.

Her nephew was doubtful.

"Right and wrong are a never-ending puzzle," he said. "They vary so from

the point of view. And if you once grant there are more view points than

one, where are you?"

"Right and wrong are not doubtful," she assured him, "and all the

science in the world can't turn one into the other--any more than light

can turn into darkness."

"Light can turn into darkness easily enough. I've learned that during

the last three days," he answered. "If you fill this room with light, I

can't see. If you keep it dark, I can."

Estelle came to tea and read some notes that Mr. Best had prepared for

Raymond. They satisfied him, and the meal was merry, for he found

himself free of pain and in the best spirits. Estelle, too, had some

gossip that amused him. Her father was already practising at clay

pigeons to get his eye in for the first of September; and he wished to

inform Raymond that he was shooting well and hoped for a better season

than the last. He had also seen a vixen and three cubs on North Hill at

five o'clock in the morning of the preceding day.

"In fact, it's the best of all possible worlds so far as father is

concerned," said Estelle, "and now he hears you're coming home early

next week, he will go to church on Sunday with a thankful heart. He said

yesterday that Raymond's accident had a bright side. D'you know what it

is? Ray meant to give up cricket altogether after this year; but father

points out that he cannot do so now. Because it is morally impossible

for Ray to stop playing until he stands up again to that bowler who hurt

him so badly. 'Morally impossible,' is what father said."

"He's quite right too," declared the patient. "Till I've knocked that

beggar out of his own ground for six, I certainly shan't chuck cricket.

We must meet again next season, if we're both alive. Everybody can see

that."

CHAPTER VI

THE GATHERING PROBLEM

Sabina Dinnett found that her mind was not so indifferent to her

fortunes as she supposed. Upon examining it, with respect to the problem

of leaving Bridetown for Abel's sake, which Ernest had now raised, she

discovered a very keen disinclination to depart. Here was the only home

that she, or her child, had ever known, and though that mattered

nothing, she shrank from beginning a new life away from 'The Magnolias'

under the increased responsibility of sole control where Abel was

concerned. Moreover, Mr. Churchouse had more power with Abel than

anybody. The boy liked him and must surely win sense and knowledge from

him, as Sabina herself had won them in the past. She knew that these

considerations were superficial and the vital point in reason was to

separate the son from the father; so that Abel's existing animus might

perish. Both Estelle and Ernest Churchouse had impressed the view upon

her; but here crept in the personal factor, and Sabina found that she

had no real desire to mend the relationship. Considerations of her

child's future pointed to more self-denial, but only that Abel might in

time come to be reconciled to Raymond and accept good at his hands. And

when Sabina thought upon this, she soon saw that her own indifference,

where Ironsyde was concerned, did not extend to the future of the boy.

She could still feel, and still suffer, and still resent certain

possibilities. She trusted that in time to come, when Mr. Churchouse and

Miss Ironsyde were gone, the measure of her son's welfare would be hers.

She was content to see herself depending upon him; but not if his own

prosperity came from his father. She preferred to picture Abel as

making his way without obligations to that source. She might have

married and made her own home, but that alternative never tempted her,

since it would have thrust her off the pedestal which she occupied, as

one faithful to the faithless, one bitterly wronged, a reproach to the

good name--perhaps, even a threat to the sustained prosperity of Raymond

Ironsyde. She could feel all this at some moments.

She determined now to let the matter rest, and when Ernest Churchouse

ventured to remind her of the subject and to repeat the opinion that it

might be wise for Sabina to take the boy away from Bridetown, she

postponed decision.

"I've thought upon it," she said, "and I feel it can very well be left

to the spring, if you see nothing against. I've promised to do some

braiding in my spare time this winter for a firm at Bridport that wants

netting in large quantities. They are giving it out to those who can do

it; and as for Abel, he'll go to his day-school through the winter. And

it means a great deal to me, Mister Churchouse, that you are as good and

helpful to him as you were to me when I was young. I don't want to lose

that."

"I wish I'd been more helpful, my dear."

"You taught me a great many things valuable to know. I should have been

in my grave years ago, but for you, I reckon. And the child's only a

child still. If you work upon him, you'll make him meek and mild in

time."

"He'll never be meek and mild, Sabina--any more than you were. He has

plenty of character; he's good material--excellent stuff to be moulded

into a fine pattern, I hope. But a little leaven leavens the whole lump

of a child, and what I can do is not enough to outweigh other

influences."

"I don't fear for him. He's got to face facts, and as he grows he must

use his own wits and get his own living."

"The fear is that he may be spoiled and come to settled, rooted

prejudices, too hard to break down afterwards. He is a very interesting

boy, just as you were a very interesting girl, Sabina. He often reminds

me of you. There are the possibilities of beauty in his character. He is

sentimental about some things and strangely indifferent about others. He

is a mixture of exaggerated kindness in some directions and utter

callousness in others. Sentimental people often are. He will pick a

caterpillar out of the road to save it from death, and he will stone a

dog if he has a grudge against it. His attitude to Peter Grim is one of

devotion. He actually told me that it was very sad that Peter had now

grown too old to catch mice. Again, he always brings me the first

primrose and spares no pains to find it. Such little acts argue a kindly

nature. But against them, you have to set his unreasoning dislike of

human beings and a certain--shall I say buccaneering spirit."

"He feels, and so he'll suffer--as I did. The more you feel, the more

you suffer."

"And it is therefore our duty to prevent him from feeling mistakenly and

wanting to make others suffer. He may sometimes catch allusions in his

quick ears that cause him doubt and even pain. And it is certain that

the sight of his father does wake wrong thoughts. Removed from here, the

best part of him would develop, and when the larger questions of his

future begin to be considered in a few years time, he might then

approach them with an open mind."

"There can be no harm in leaving it till the spring. He'd hate going

away from here."

"I don't think so. The young welcome a change of environment. There is

nothing more healthy for their minds as a rule than to travel about.

However, we will get him used to the idea of going and think about it

again in the spring."

So the subject was left, and when the suggestion of departing from

Bridetown came to Abel, he belied the prophecy of Mr. Churchouse and

declared a strong objection to the thought of going. His mother

influenced him in this.

During the autumn he had a misfortune, for, with two other members of

the 'Red Hand,' he was caught stealing apples at the time of

cider-making. Three strokes of a birch rod fell on each revolutionary,

and not Ernest Churchouse nor his mother could console Abel for this

reverse. He gleaned his sole comfort at a dangerous source, and while

the kindly ignored the event and the unkindly dwelt upon it, only Levi

Baggs applauded Abel and preached privi-conspiracy and rebellion.

Raymond Ironsyde was much perturbed at the adventure, but his friend

Waldron held the event desirable. As a Justice of the Peace, it was

Arthur who prescribed the punishment and trusted in it.

Thus he, too, incurred Abel's enmity. The company of the 'Red Hand' was

disbanded to meet no more, and if his fellow sufferers gained by their

chastisement, it was certain that Sabina's son did not. Insensate law

fits the punishment to the crime rather than to the criminal, as though

a doctor should only treat disease, without thought of the patient

enduring it.

Neither did Abel's mother take the reverse with philosophy. She resented

it as cruel cowardice; but it reminded her of the advantages to be

gained by leaving her old home.

Then fell an unexpected disaster and Mr. Churchouse was called to suffer

a dangerous attack of bronchitis.

The illness seemed to banish all other considerations from Sabina's mind

and, while the issue remained in doubt, she planned various courses of

action. Incidentally, she saw more of Estelle and Miss Ironsyde than of

late, for Mr. Churchouse, whose first pleasure on earth was now Estelle,

craved her presence during convalescence, as Raymond in like case had

done; and Miss Ironsyde also drove to see him on several occasions. The

event filled all with concern, for Ernest had a trick to make friends

and, what is more rare, an art to keep them. Many beyond his own circle

were relieved and thankful when he weathered danger and began to build

up again with the lengthening days of the new year.

Abel had been very solicitous on his behalf, and he praised the child to

Jenny and Estelle, when they came to drink tea with him on a day in

early spring.

"I believe there are great possibilities in him and, when I am stronger,

I shall resume my attack on Sabina to go away," he said. "The boy's mind

is being poisoned and we might prevent it."

"It's a most unfortunate state of affairs," declared Miss Ironsyde. "Yet

it was bound to happen in a little place like this. Raymond is not

sensitive, or he would feel it far more than he does."

"He can't do more and he does feel it a great deal," declared Estelle.

"I think Sabina sees it clearly enough, but it's very hard on her too,

to have to go from Mister Churchouse and her home."

"Nothing is more mysterious than the sowing and germination of spiritual

seed," said the old man. "The enemy sowed tares by night, and what can

be more devilish than sowing the tares of evil on virgin soil? It was

done long ago. One hesitates to censure the dead, though I daresay, if

we could hear them talking in another world, we should find they didn't

feel nearly so nice about us and speak their minds quite plainly. We

know plenty of people who must be criticising. But truth will out, and

the truth is that Mary Dinnett planted evil thoughts and prejudices in

Abel. He was not too young, unfortunately, to give them room. A very

curious woman--obstinate and almost malignant if vexed and quite

incapable of keeping silence even when it was most demanded. If you are

going to give people confidences, you must have a good memory. Mary

would confide all sorts of secrets to me and then, perhaps six months

afterwards, be quite furious to find I knew them! She came to me for

advice on one occasion and I reminded her of certain circumstances she

had confided to me in the past, and she lost her temper entirely. Yet a

woman of most excellent qualities and most charitable in other people's

affairs."

"The question is Abel, and I have told Sabina she must decide about

him," said Jenny. "We are all of one mind, and Raymond himself thinks it

would be most desirable. As soon as you are well again, Sabina must go."

"I shall miss her very much. To find anybody who will fall into my ways

may be difficult. When I was younger, I used to like training a

domestic. I found it was better to rule by love than fear. You may lose

here and there, but you gain more than you lose. Human character is

really not so profoundly difficult, if you resolutely try to see life

from the other person's standpoint. That done, you can help them--and

yourself through them."

"People who show you their edges, instead of their rounds, are not at

all agreeable," said Miss Ironsyde. "To conquer the salients of

character is often a very formidable task."

"It is," he admitted, "yet I have found the comfortable, convex and

concave characters often really more difficult in the long run. You must

have some hard and durable rock on which to found understanding and

security. The soft, crumbling people may be lovable; but they are

useless as sand at a crisis. They are always slipping away and

threatening to smother their best friends with the debris."

He chattered on until a fit of coughing stopped him.

"You mustn't talk so much," warned Estelle. "It's lovely to hear you

talking again; but it isn't good for you, yet."

Then she turned to Miss Ironsyde.

"The first time I came in and found him reading a book catalogue, I knew

he was going to be all right."

"By the same token another gift has reached me," he answered; "a book on

the bells of Devon, which I have long wanted to possess."

"I'm sure it is not such a perfect book as yours."

"Indeed it is--very excellently done. The bell mottoes in Devonshire

are worthy of all admiration. But a great many of the bells in ancient

bell-chambers are crazed--a grave number. People don't think as much of

a ring of bells in a parish as they used to do."

Miss Ironsyde brought the conversation back to Abel; but Ernest was

tired of this. He viewed Sabina's departure with great personal regret.

"Things will be as they will, my dears," he told them, "and I have such

respect for Sabina's good sense that I shall be quite content to leave

decision with her. It would not become me to dictate or command in such

a delicate matter. To return to the bells, I have received a rather

encouraging statement from the publishers. Four copies of my book have

been sold during the last six months."

CHAPTER VII

THE WALK HOME

Upon a Bank Holiday Sabina took Abel to West Haven for a long day on the

beach and pier. He enjoyed himself very thoroughly, ate, drank and

played to his heart's content. But his amusements brought more pleasure

to the child than his mother, for he found the wonderful old stores and

discovered therein far more entertaining occupation than either sea or

shore could offer.

The place was deserted to-day, and while Sabina sat outside in a corner

of the courtyard and occupied herself with the future, Abel explored the

mysteries of the ancient building and found all manner of strange nooks

and mysterious passages. He wove dreams and magnified the least incident

into an adventure. He inhabited the dark corners and sombre,

subterranean places with enemies that wanted to catch him; he most

potently believed that hidden treasures awaited him under the

hollow-echoing floors. Once he had a rare fright, for a bat hanging

asleep in its folded wings, was wakened by him and suddenly flew into

his face. He climbed and crawled and crept about, stole a lump of putty

and rejoiced at the discovery of some paint pots and a brush. The 'Red

Hand' no longer existed; but the opportunity once more to set up its

sinister symbol was too good to resist. He painted it on the walls in

several places and then called his mother to look at the achievement.

She climbed up a long flight of stone steps that led to the lofts, and

suffered a strange experience presently, for the child was playing in

the chamber sacred to her surrender. She stood where twelve years before

she had come with Raymond Ironsyde after their day at Golden Cap.

Light fell through a window let into the roof. It was broken and

fringed with cobwebs. The pile of fishermen's nets had vanished and a

carpenter's bench had taken its place. On the walls and timbers were

scrawled names and initials of holiday folk, who had explored the old

stores through many years.

Sabina, perceiving where she stood, closed her eyes and took an

involuntary step backward. Abel called attention to his sign upon the

walls.

"The carpenter will shiver when he sees that," he said.

Then he rambled off, whistling, and she sat down and stared round her.

She told herself that deep thoughts must surely wake under this sudden

experience and the fountains of long sealed emotion bubble upwards, to

drown her before them. Instead she merely found herself incapable of

thinking. A dull, stale, almost stagnant mood crept over her. Her mind

could neither walk nor fly. After the first thrill of recognition, the

light went out and she found herself absolutely indifferent. Not anger

touched her, nor pain. That the child of that perished passion should

play here, and laugh and be merry was poignant, but it did not move her

and she felt a sort of surprise that it should not. There was a time

when such an experience must have shaken her to the depths, plunged her

into some deep pang of soul and left indelible wounds; now, no such

thing happened.

She gazed mildly about her and almost smiled. Then she rose from her

seat on the carpenter's bench, went out and descended the staircase

again.

When she called him to a promised tea at an inn, Abel came at once. He

was weary and well content.

"I shall often come here," he said. "It's the best place I know--better

than the old kiln on North Hill. I could hide there and nobody find me,

and you could bring me food at night."

"What do you want to hide for, pretty?" she asked.

"I might," he answered and looked at her cautiously For a moment he

seemed inclined to say more, but did not.

After tea they set out for home, and the fate, which, through the

incident of the old store, had subtly prepared and paved a way to

something of greater import, sent Raymond Ironsyde. They had passed the

point at which the road from West Haven converges into that from

Bridport, and a man on horseback overtook them. They were all going in

the same direction and Abel, as soon as he saw who approached, left his

mother, went over a convenient gate upon their right and hastened up a

hedge. Thus he always avoided his father, and when blamed for so doing,

would silently endure the blame without explanation or any offer of

excuse. Raymond had seen him thus escape on more than one occasion, and

the incident, clashing at this moment upon his own thoughts, prompted

him to a definite and unusual thing. The opportunity was good; Sabina

walked alone, and if she rebuffed him, he could endure the rebuff.

He determined to speak to her and break a silence of many years. The

result he could not guess, but since he was actuated by friendly motives

alone, he hoped the sudden inspiration might prove fertile of good. At

worse she could only decline his advance and refuse to speak with him.

Their thoughts that day, unknown to each, had been upon the other and

there was some emotion in the man's voice when he spoke, though none in

hers when she answered. For to him that chance meeting came as a

surprise and prompted him to a sudden approach he might not have

ventured on maturer consideration; to her it seemed to carry on the

experience of the day and, unguessed by Raymond, brought less amazement

than he imagined. She was a fatalist--perhaps, had always been so, as

her mother before her; yet she knew it not. They had passed and repassed

many times during the vanished years; but since the moment that she had

dismissed him with scorn and hoped her child would live to insult his

grave, they had never spoken.

He inquired now if he might address her.

"May I say a few words to you?" he asked.

Not knowing what was in her mind, he felt surprised at her conventional

reply.

"I suppose so, if you wish to do so."

Her voice seemed to roll back time. Yet he guessed her to be less

indifferent than her words implied.

He dismounted and walked beside her.

"I dare say you can understand a little what I feel, when I see that

child run away whenever he sets eyes on me," he began; but she did not

help him. His voice to her ear was changed. It had grown deeper and

hardened. It was more monotonous and did not rise and fall as swiftly as

of old.

"I don't know at all what you feel about him. I didn't know that you

felt anything about him."

This was a false note and he felt pained.

"Indeed, Sabina, you know very well I want his friendship--I need it

even. Before anything I wish to befriend him."

"You can't help him. He's a very affectionate child and loves me dearly.

You wouldn't understand him. He's all heart."

He marked now the great change in Sabina. Her voice was cold and

indifferent. But a cynic fate willed this mood. Had she not spent the

day at West Haven and stood in the old store, it is possible she might

have listened to him in another spirit.

"I know he's a clever boy, with plenty of charm about him. And I do

think, whatever you may feel, Sabina, it is doubtfully wise of you to

stand between him and me."

"If you fancy that, it is a good thing you spoke," she answered.

"Because nothing further from the truth could be. I don't stand between

him and you. I've never influenced him against you. He's heard nothing

but the fact that you're his father from me. I've been careful to leave

it at that, and I've never answered more than the truth to his many

questions."

"It is a very great sorrow to me, and it will largely ruin my life if I

cannot win his friendship and plan his future."

"A child's friendship is easily won. If he denies it, you may be sure it

is for a natural instinct."

"Such an instinct is most unnatural. He has had nothing but friendly

words and friendly challenges from me."

She felt herself growing impatient. It was clear that he had spoken out

of interest for the child alone, and any shadowy suspicion that he

designed to declare interest in herself departed from Sabina's mind.

"Well, what's that to me? I can't alter him. I can't make him regard you

as a hero and a father to be proud of. He's not hard-hearted or anything

of that. He's pretty much like other boys of his age--more sensitive,

that's all. He can suffer very sharply and bitterly and he did when that

cruel, blundering fool at North Hill House had him whipped. He gets the

cursed power to suffer from his mother. And, such is his position in the

world, that his power to suffer no doubt will be proved to the utmost."

"I don't want him to suffer. At least it is in my reach to save him a

great deal of needless suffering."

"That's just what it isn't--not with his nature. He'd rather suffer than

be beholden to you for anything. Young as he is, he's told me so in so

many words. He knows he's different from other boys--already he knows

it--and that breeds bitterness. He's like a dog that's been ill-treated

and finds it hard to trust anybody in consequence. Unfortunately for

you, he's got brains enough to judge; and the older he grows, the harder

he'll judge."

"That's what I want to break down, Sabina. It's awfully sad to feel,

that for a prejudice against things that can't be altered, he should

stand in his own light and be a needless martyr and make me a greater

villain than I am."

"Are you a villain? If you are, it isn't my child that made you one--nor

me, either. No doubt it's awkward to see him running about and breathing

the same air with you."

He felt an impulse of anger, but easily checked it.

"You're rather hard on me, I think. It's a great deal more than awkward

to have my child take this line. It's desperately sad. And you must

know--thinking purely and only of him--that nothing can be gained and

much lost by it. You say he'll hate me more as he grows older. But isn't

that a thing to avoid? What good comes into the world with hate? Can't

you see that it's your place, Sabina, to use your influence on my side?"

"My God!" she said, "was there ever such a selfish man as you! Out of

your own mouth you condemn yourself, for it's your inconvenience and

discomfort that's troubling you--not his fate. He's a living witness

against you--a running sore in your side--and that's why you want his

friendship, to ease yourself and heal your conscience. Anybody could see

that."

He did not answer; but this indictment astonished him. Could she still

be so stern after the years that had swept over their quarrel?

"You wrong me there, Sabina. Indeed, it's not for my own comfort only,

but much more largely for his that I am so much concerned. Surely we can

meet on the common ground of his welfare and leave the rest?"

"What common ground is there? Why must I think your friendship and your

money are the best possible things for him? Why should I advise him to

take what I refused for myself twelve years and more ago? You offered me

your friendship and your money--as a substitute for being your wife. You

were so stark ignorant of the girl you'd promised to marry, that you

offered her cash and the privilege of your company after your child was

born. And now you offer your child cash and the privilege of your

company--that's all. You deny him your name, as you denied his mother

your name; and why should he pick up the crumbs from your table that his

mother would have starved rather than eaten? I've never spoken against

you to him and never shall, but I'm not a fool now--whatever I was--and

I'm not going to urge my son to seek you and put his little heart into

your keeping; because well I know what you do with hearts. I'm outside

your life and so is he; and if he likes to come into your life, I shan't

prevent it. I couldn't prevent it. He'll do about it as he chooses, when

he's old enough to measure it up. But I'm not for you, or against you.

I'm only the suffering sort, not the fighting sort. You know whether you

deserve the love and worship of that little, nameless boy."

He was struck into silence, not at her bitter words, but at his own

thoughts. For he had often speculated on future speech with her and

wondered when it would happen and what it would concern. He had hoped

that she would let the past go and be his friend again on another plane.

He had pictured some sort of amity based on the old romance. He had

desired nothing so much in life as a friendly understanding and the

permission to contribute to the ease and comfort of Sabina and the

prosperity of his son. He hoped that in course of time and faced with

the rights of the child, she would come round. He had pictured her

coming round. But now it seemed that he was not to plan their future on

his own terms. What he offered had not grown sweeter to her senses. No

gifts that he could devise would be anything but poor in the light of

the unkind past. And that light burned steadfastly still. She was not

changed. As he listened to her, it seemed that she was merely picking up

the threads where they were dropped. He feared that if he stopped much

longer beside her, she would come back to the old anger and wake into

the old wrath.

"I'd dearly hoped that you didn't feel like that, any more. You've got

right on your side up to a point, though human differences are so

involved that it very seldom happens you can get a clean cut between

right and wrong. However, the time is past for arguing about that,

Sabina. Granted you are right in your personal attitude, don't carry it

on into the next generation and assume I cannot even yet, after all

these years, be trusted to befriend my own child."

"He's only your child in nature. He's only your child because your

blood's in his veins. He's my child, not yours."

"But if I want to make him mine? If I want to lift him up and assure his

future? If I want to assume paternity--claim it, adopt him as my son--to

succeed me some day?"

"He must decide for himself whether that's the high-water mark for his

future life--to be your adopted son. We can't have it all our own way in

this world--not even you, I suppose. A child has to have a mother as

well as a father, and a mother's got her rights in her child. Even the

law allows that."

"Who'd deny them, Sabina? You're possessed, as you always were, with the

significance of legal marriage. You don't know that marriage is merely a

human contrivance and, nine times out of ten, an infernally clumsy

makeshift and a long-drawn pretence. Like every other human shift, it is

a thing that gets out-grown by the advance of humanity towards higher

ideals and cleaner liberties. We are approaching a time when the edifice

will be shaken to its mouldering foundations, and presently, while the

Church and the State are wrangling and quibbling, as they soon must be,

over the loathsome divorce laws, these mandarins will wake up to find

the marriage laws themselves are being threatened by a new generation

sick of the archaic tomfoolery that controls them. If you could only

take a larger view and not let yourself be bound down by your own

experience--"

"You'd better go," she said. "If you'd spoken, so twelve years ago on

Golden Cap, and not hid your heart and lied to me and promised what you

never meant to perform, I'd not be walking the world a lonely, despised

woman to-day. And law, or no law, the law of the natural child is the

law of the land--cruel and vile though it may be."

"I'll go, Sabina; but I must say what I want to say, first. I must stand

up for Abel--even against you. Childish impressions and dislikes can be

rooted out if taken in time; if left to grow, they get beyond reach. So

I ask you to think of him. And don't pretend to yourself that my

friendship is dangerous, or can do him anything but good. I'm very

different from what I was. Life hasn't gone over me for nothing. I know

what's right well enough, and I know what I owe your son and my son, and

I want to make up to him and more than make up to him for his

disadvantages. Don't prevent me from doing that. Give me a chance,

Sabina. Give me a chance to be a good father to him. Your word is law

with him, and if you left Bridetown and took him away from all the

rumours and unkind things he may hear here, it would let his mind grow

empty of me for a few years; and then, when he's older and more

sensible, I think I could win him."

"You want us away from this place."

"I do. I never should have spoken to you until I knew you wished it, but

for this complication; but since the boy is growing up prejudiced

against me, I do feel that some strong effort should be taken to nip his

young hatred in the bud--for his sake, Sabina."

"Are you sure it's all for his sake? Because I'm not. They say you think

of nothing on God's earth but machinery nowadays, and look to machines

to do the work of hands, and speak of 'hands' when you ought to speak of

'souls.' They say if you could, you'd turn out all the people and let

everything be done by steam and steel. There's not much humanity in you,

I reckon. And why should you care for one little, unwanted boy?

Perhaps, if you looked deeper into yourself, you'd find it was your own

peace, rather than his, that's making you wish us away from Bridetown.

At any rate, that's how one or two have seen and said it, when they

heard how everybody was at me to go. I've had to live down the past for

long, slow, heart-breaking years and seen the fingers pointed at me; and

now, with the child growing up, it's your turn I daresay, and you--so

strong and masterful--have had enough of pointing fingers and mean to

pack us out of our home--for your comfort."

He stared at her in the gathering dusk and stood and uttered a great

sigh from deep in his lungs.

"I'm sorry for you, Sabina--sorrier than I am for myself. This is cruel.

I didn't know, or dream, that time had stood still for you like this."

"Time ended for me--then."

"For me it had to go on. I must think about this. I didn't guess it was

like this with you. Don't think I want you away; don't think you're the

only thorn in my pillow and that I'm not used to pain and anxiety, or

impatient of all the implicit meaning of your lonely life. Stop, if you

want to stop. I'll see you again, Sabina, please. Now I'll be gone."

When he had mounted his horse and ridden away without more words from

her, Abel, who had been lurking along on the other side of the hedge,

crept through it and rejoined his mother.

They walked on in silence for some time. Then the child spoke.

"Fancy your talking to Mister Ironsyde, mother!"

"He talked to me."

"I lay you dressed him down then?"

"I told him the truth, Abel. He wants everything for nothing, Mister

Ironsyde does. He wants you--for nothing."

"He's a beast, and I hate him, and he'll know I hate him some day."

"Don't hate him. He's not worth hating."

"I will hate him, I tell you. But for him I'd be the great man in

Bridetown when he dies. Mister Baggs told me that."

"You mustn't give heed to what people say. You've got mother to look

after you."

The boy was tired and spoke no more. He padded silently along beside her

and presently she heard him laugh to himself. His thoughts had wandered

back to the joy of the old store.

And she was thinking of what had happened. She, too, even as Raymond,

had imagined what speech would fall out between them after the long

years and wondered concerning the form it would take. She had imagined

no such conversation as this. Half of her regretted it; but the other

half was glad. He had gone on, but it was well that he should know she

had stood still. Could there be any more terrible news for him than to

hear that she had stood still--to feel that he had turned a living woman

into a pillar of stone?

CHAPTER VIII

EPITAPH

It cannot be determined by what train of reasoning Abel proceeded from

one unfortunate experience to create another, or why the grief

incidental on a loss should now have nerved him to an evil project long

hidden in his thoughts. But so it was; he suffered a sorrow and, under

the influence of it, found himself strong enough to attempt a crime.

There was no sort of connection between the two, for nothing could bear

less upon his evil project than the death of Mr. Churchouse's old cat;

yet thus it fell out and the spirit of Abel reacted to his own tears.

He came home one day from school to learn how the sick cat prospered and

was told to go into the study. His mother knew the child to be much

wrapped up in Peter Grim, and dreading to break the news, begged Mr.

Churchouse to do so.

"Your old playfellow has left us, daddy," said Ernest. "I am glad to say

he died peacefully while you were at school. I think he only had a very

little bit of his ninth and last life left, for he was fifteen years old

and had suffered some harsh shocks."

"Dead?" asked Abel with a quivering mouth.

"And I think that we ought to give him a nice grave and put up a little

stone to his memory."

Thus he tried to distract the boy from his loss.

"We will go at once," he said, "and choose a beautiful spot in the

garden for his grave. You can take one of those pears and eat it while

we search."

But Abel shook his head.

"Couldn't eat and him lying dead," he answered. He was crying.

They went through the French window from the study.

"Do you know any particular place that he liked?"

Slowly the child's sorrow lessened in the passing interest of finding

the grave.

"You must dig it, please, when you come back from afternoon school."

Abel suggested spots not practical in the other's opinion.

"A more secluded site would be better," he declared. "He was very fond

of shade. In fact, rather a shady customer himself in his young days.

But not a word against the dead. His old age was dignified and

blameless. You don't remember the time when he used to steal chickens,

do you?"

"He never did anything wrong that I know of," said Abel. "And he always

came and padded on my bed of a morning, like as if he was riding a

bicycle--and--and--"

He wept again.

"If I thought anybody had poisoned him, I'd poison them," he said.

"Think no such thing. He simply died because he couldn't go on living.

You shall have another cat, and it shall be your own."

"I don't want another cat. I hate all other cats but him."

They found a spot in a side walk, where lily of the valley grew, and

later in the day Abel dug a grave.

Estelle happened to visit Mr. Churchouse and he explained the tragedy.

"If you attend the funeral, the boy might tolerate you," he said. "Once

break down his suspicion and get to his wayward heart, good would come

of it He is feeling this very much and in a melting mood."

"I'll stop, if he won't be vexed."

Mr. Churchouse went into the garden and praised Abel's energies.

"A beautiful grave; and it is right and proper that Peter Grim should

lie here, because he often hunted here."

"He caught the mice that live in holes at the bottom of the wall," said

Abel.

"If you are ready, we will now bury him. Mother must come to the

funeral, and Estelle must come, because she was very, very fond of poor

Peter and she would think it most unkind of us if we buried him while

she was not there. She will bring some flowers for the grave, and you

must get some flowers, too, Abel. We must, in fact, each put a flower on

him."

The boy frowned at mention of Estelle, but forgot her in considering the

further problem.

"He liked the mint bed. I'll put mint on him," he said.

"An excellent thought. And I shall pluck one of the big magnolias

myself."

Returning, Ernest informed Estelle that she must be at the funeral and

she went home for a bunch of blossoms to grace the tomb. She picked

hot-house flowers, hoping to propitiate Abel. There woke a great hope in

her to win him. But she failed.

He glowered at her when she appeared walking beside his mother, while

before them marched Mr. Churchouse carrying the departed. When the

funeral was ended and Abel left alone, he sat down by the grave, cried,

worked himself into a very mournful mood and finally exhibited anger.

Why he was angry he did not know, or against whom his temper grew; but

his great loss woke resentment. When he felt miserable, somebody was

always blamed by him for making him feel so. No immediate cause for

quarrel with anything smaller than fate challenged his unsettled mind;

then his eyes fixed upon Estelle's flowers, and since Estelle was always

linked in his thoughts with his father, and his father represented an

enemy, he began to hate the flowers and wish them away. He heard his

mother calling him, but hid from her and when she was silent, came back

to the grave again.

Meantime Estelle and Ernest drank tea and spoke of Abel.

"When grief has relaxed the emotions, we may often get in a kindly word

and give an enemy something to think about afterwards," he said. "But

the boy was obdurate. He is the victim of confused thinking--precocious

to a degree in some directions, but very childish in others. At times he

alarms me. Poor boy. You must try again to win him. The general

sentiment is that the young should be patient with the old; but for my

part I think it is quite as difficult sometimes for the old to be

patient with the young."

He turned to his desk.

"When I found my dear cat was not, I composed an epitaph for him,

Estelle. I design to have it scratched on a stone and set above his

sleeping place."

"Do let me hear it," she said, and Ernest, fired with the joy of

composition, read his memorial verse.

"Criticise freely," he said. "I value your criticism and you understand

poetry. Not that this is a poem--merely an epitaph; but it may easily be

improved, I doubt not."

He put on his glasses and read:

"'Ended his mingled joy and strife,

Here lies the dust of Peter Grim.

Though life was very kind to him,

He proved not very kind to life.'"

Estelle applauded.

"Perfect," she said. "You must have it carved on his tombstone."

"I think it meets the case. I may have been prejudiced in my affection

for him, owing to his affection for me. He came to me at the age of five

weeks, and his attitude to me from the first was devoted."

"Cats have such cajoling ways."

"He was not himself honest, yet, I think, saw the value of honesty in

others. Plain dealers are a temptation to rogues and none, as a rule, is

a better judge of an honest man than a dishonest cat."

"He wasn't quite a rogue, was he?"

"He knew that I am respected, and he traded on my reputation. His life

has been spared on more than one occasion for my sake."

"On the whole he was not a very model cat, I'm afraid," said Estelle.

"Yes, that is just what he was: a model--cat."

They went out to look at the grave again, and something hurried away

through the bushes as they did so.

"Friends, or possibly enemies," suggested Mr. Churchouse, but Estelle,

sharper-eyed, saw Abel disappear. She also noted that her bouquet of

flowers had gone from Peter's mound.

"Oh dear, he's taken away my offering," she said.

"What a hard-hearted boy! Are there no means of winning him?"

They spoke of Abel and his mother.

"We all regretted her decision to stop. It would have been better if she

had gone away."

"Raymond saw her some time ago."

"So she told me; and so did he. Misfortune seems to dog the situation,

for I believe Sabina was half in a mind to take our advice until that

meeting. Then she changed. Apparently she misunderstood him."

"Ray was very troubled. Somehow he made Sabina angry--the last thing he

meant to do. He's sorry now that he spoke. She thought he was

considering himself, and he really was thinking for Abel."

"We must go on being patient. Next year I shall urge her to let Abel be

sent to a boarding-school. That will be a great advantage every way."