PART II.--FURTHER OFF FROM HEAVEN

Forty years passed, and but two of the people of this story were left

alive--Rose Heritage and Netta. Rose Heritage had become Lady Mallard,

lived in a big house in the country, and had a grown-up family. Netta

lived alone in a small house in West Kensington. The two never

corresponded, and heard nothing of each other now. The friendship had

never been violently broken off. It had perished from time and

separation, as friendships will.

Of the others, Cecilia was the first to die. As a child her nurses had

said that she was too good to live. As a girl of eighteen she seemed too

beautiful to live. It was a beauty so spiritual, so unearthly, that to

see it was to feel that it was claimed elsewhere. Netta's father had

died with the complaint on his lips that physical pain had so far

destroyed his sense of humour that he got no more pleasure out of

leading articles. Jimmy had gone into the army, spent his own share of

his father's property and most of Netta's, and finally redeemed by a

gallant death a life that had been remarkably extravagant and bad.

Netta's hair was grey; her face was worn and ascetic. But one would have

said rightly that she must have been a handsome woman in her time. She

had never married. At seventeen she had been in love with a man whom

she could not marry, a hopeless affair, and horrible enough for her

while it lasted. It lasted three years. It was all forgotten now, or

only the vague memory of a bad dream. Jimmy had been a care to her, too;

she never knew while he lived what might not be the next news that she

would hear of him. She had become a learned, lonely woman now, had taken

the degree of doctor of medicine, practised a little, and wrote very

often. She wrote mostly on her own special subject, but occasionally for

less technical and more widely-read journals.

She had been writing for one of them, this afternoon, in her

poorly-furnished study upstairs. It was growing dark, and her

reading-lamp by her side was lit; but she had not yet had the curtains

drawn, and through the windows she could see the white snow falling

slowly into the dirty street. She had stopped writing in the middle of a

sentence:

"And, whether the sentimentalist--"

She had flung down her pen impatiently. She had been teased all day by

an effort to remember something--to explain what was after all a

perfectly trivial thing. In turning over a cupboardful of papers, which

had belonged to her father and been left practically untouched ever

since they had been sent to her house, she had come across three old

curtain rings carefully tied together. A label was attached to them, and

on it was written--the ink was faded and yellow--"Netta, the

Make-Believer." Underneath were a few words of Greek. She remembered

vaguely that when she was a child there was something about

curtain-rings--she had played with them, possibly. But if that was all,

why had her father thought it worth while to keep them? What was it

exactly that she used to do with those rings?

These silly questions would keep coming into her head and distracting

her attention from her work. She shivered a little--the room was

chilly--and took up her pen again. She wrote:

"And, whether the sentimentalist believes it or whether he does not,

this religious passion which he admires so vastly in his nuns and

martyrs is but a perversion of an instinct which--"

Once more she paused. The room was really too cold. Looking round, she

saw that the fire was almost out. She was accustomed to do things for

herself, and she set to work to revive it at once. She opened the

cupboard where she generally kept a few sticks for the purpose, but this

afternoon there was none there. The curtain-rings lay on her

writing-table, still tied together. Why, of course, they would do as

well.

In a few minutes the fire was blazing brightly She warmed her hands at

it, gazing abstractedly into the red embers. Then she went back to her

work and wrote rapidly until the article was finished.

THE UNSEEN POWER

Winter walked restlessly about the room as he told his story. He was a

slender young man, with very smooth hair worn rather too long, a

gold-mounted pince-nez, and an expression which showed that vanity was

not wholly absent from his composition. It was the story of a haunted

house. The man who owned it, and was now unable to let it, had asked

Winter to investigate.

"And the whole point of it is that you've got to come along and help

me," he concluded.

"Thank you," said Mr Arden, "but I will not go."

Arden was a man of fifty, white-haired, thin, heavily lined.

"Well, why not?" said Winter, peevishly. "I want to know why not. It

seems to me it would be rather interesting. You can choose any night you

like, and--"

Arden waved the subject away with one hand. "It's useless to talk about

it," he said, "I'm not going."

"But what do you mean?" said Winter. "You are not going to tell me that

you're superstitious or afraid?"

"I should say," said Arden, "that I am what you would call

superstitious. You, I presume, are not."

"Emphatically not," said Winter.

"Nor afraid?"

"Nor afraid," Winter echoed.

"Then why don't you go alone?" said Arden.

Winter murmured of sociability; it was no great fun to sit up all night

by one's self. Besides, in the detection of a practical joke, which was

probably all that it was, two would be better than one. Arden must see

for himself that--

Arden broke in impetuously. "Look here," he said. "Stop wandering about

the room and sit down. I'll tell you why I won't come. Did you ever hear

of Minnerton Priory?"

"Of course I've heard about it. I don't know the whole story, and I

don't suppose anybody does. A man lost his life over it, didn't he?"

"Two men lost their lives. I was the third man. Now, you know why I

won't play with these things any more."

"Tell me about it," said Winter. "I've only heard scraps here and there,

and reports are always inaccurate. So you were actually one of them. I

should never have guessed it."

"I will tell you the story if you wish. Will you have it now, or will

you wait till you have finished your investigation of the house at

Falmouth?"

"I will hear it now," said Winter.

This is the story that Arden told.

* * * * *

"In 1871 my aunt, Lady Wytham, bought Minnerton Priory. The place had

been uninhabited for the best part of half a century, and was in very

bad repair. It was cheap and it was picturesque, and both cheapness and

picturesqueness appealed to Lady Wytham. Of the original Priory there

was very little left standing. Frequent additions had been made to it at

different periods, and the general effect of the place when I first saw

it was rather grim and queer. Lady Wytham was very energetic, had the

place surveyed, and in a few months had got her workmen down there. In

one wing of the house a secret chamber had been found. It was on the

ground floor, and it was a small room of perhaps twelve feet square.

There was one window to it, placed very high up, and this window had

been built up on the outside. Opposite to the window was a small

fireplace, and the only entrance to the room was from the big

dining-hall. The hall was panelled, and one of the panels formed the

door into the secret chamber. I believe this kind of thing is fairly

common in old houses dating back to the times of religious and political

trouble, when hiding-places were constantly wanted.

"The builders had not been at work many months at the Priory before

there was trouble. I cannot say exactly what it was. It began with the

unbricking of the little window in the secret chamber. I know that the

men refused point-blank to do any work whatever in the great

dining-hall. Many were dismissed and new hands were taken on, but the

trouble still persisted, till finally Lady Wytham herself went down to

interview the clerk of works and a foreman or two. On the following day

she wrote to me. She said that an idiotic story was being told with

reference to the newly-discovered chamber of Minnerton Priory, and she

was anxious to have it satisfactorily knocked on the head. Would I, and

any friends that I might care to bring down, spend a few nights in the

secret chamber? It would probably be very uncomfortable, but she would

send over furniture and a servant to wait on us. The postscript

explained that the servant would not sleep in the house.

"The idea rather appealed to me, but being, unlike yourself, a little

nervous over the business, I determined to take a couple of men down

with me. One of them was an intimate friend of mine, Charles Stavold, a

good-natured giant, but a useful man in a row. He and I talked it over

together, and finally selected as the third man a young doctor, Bernard

Ash. Ash was a remarkably brilliant young man, and we looked to him to

supply the brains of the trio. If any practical joke were attempted he

would be quite certain to find it out, and both Stavold and myself were

quite sure that some practical joke would be attempted. Minnerton Priory

lies in a very conservative county. The rustics of the village were

quite capable of resenting Lady Wytham's intrusion into the Priory. It

had always been uninhabited in their father's time, and that would be

quite reason enough to determine them that it should not be inhabited

now. There were some objections to our choice. Ash led an extremely

dissipated life, and Stavold and myself were a little inclined to doubt

his nerves. This doubt, by the way, was not justified by results.

"We reached Minnerton in the afternoon. A large staff of men was busy at

work at the place, but the only person in or anywhere near the great

dining-hall was Lady Wytham's servant, Rudd. She could not have sent us

a better man. He could turn his hand to anything. He had already

unpacked the beds and other furniture that had been sent and put them in

place, and was at present engaged on getting dinner for us. We went

through the dining-hall and into the secret chamber.

"'This won't do,' said Ash at once.

"'What don't do?' asked Stavold.

"'Why, there's no furniture in here of any kind. One can't sleep on

these stone flags.'

"'Are we going to sleep in here?' I asked.

"'One of us is,' he said.

"I called up Rudd and gave my directions. He brought mattresses and made

up a bed on the floor. Then we went round and examined the walls

carefully, for, as Ash observed, where there is one trick panel there

may be another. But we could find nothing that seemed in any way

suspicious.

"We came back into the great hall, and sat down there and talked the

thing over. It was now growing dusk. Already the tapping and hammering

of the workmen had ceased, and we had heard them laughing as they passed

the window on their way home. Right away at the other end of the hall

came the chink of plates and the hiss of a frying-pan where Rudd was

busy with his preparations. He had brought four big lamps with him, and

these he now lit, but there seemed to be something impenetrable about

the darkness of this vast room. The light was still dim, with masses of

dark shadow waving in the far corners and in the vaulted roof above us.

"'Who's going to sleep in the haunted chamber?' Stavold asked.

"'I am,' said Ash.

"We squabbled about it, and finally decided to toss for it. Ash had his

own way. He was to sleep there that night, Stavold was to sleep there

the second night, and I myself was left the third night. By this time

we had little doubt that we should be at the bottom of the mystery.

"Rudd gave us an excellent dinner, and had shown wisdom in his choice of

the wine which he had brought with him. The wine made glad the heart of

man, and before dinner was over we were treating the whole thing more as

an amusing kind of spree than as a serious investigation. At ten o'clock

Rudd inquired at what hour we should like breakfast in the morning, and

asked if there was anything further he could do for us that night.

"'Aren't you going to stop and see the ghost, Rudd?' I asked.

"'I think not, sir,' he said quietly. 'Her ladyship had arranged, sir,

that I should sleep at the inn.'

"So we let him go, and I had a curious feeling that with him went the

most competent man of the four. Perhaps the same idea had occurred to

Ash.

"'He's a perfect wonder,' said Ash. 'Fancy being able to turn out a

dinner like that here, with no proper appliances of any kind. I don't

call it cooking; I call it conjuring tricks.'

"'Perhaps you'll see some more conjuring tricks a little later,' said

Stavold, grimly.

"After dinner we played poker for an hour or so and then turned in. One

of the lamps was left burning in the big hall, and Ash took a candle

with him into the secret chamber. But he did not propose to leave it

lighted. It wouldn't be playing the game, he said.

"Some time after I had got into bed I could hear Ash tapping on the

panels and trying them again, and I could see the light under the door.

Stavold was already heavily sleeping. I knew nothing more till I was

awakened by him early on the following morning. Rudd had already

returned, and was preparing breakfast. Naturally our first move was to

the secret chamber. We opened the panel door and went in. Ash's clothes

were lying on the only chair in the room. The bed had been slept in, but

there was no one there now. I noticed that the two candlesticks had also

vanished. For a moment or two neither of us spoke, and then I asked my

companion what he made of it.

"'That's all right,' he said, 'Ash woke early, and has slipped down to

the river in his pyjamas to get a swim. It's ten to one we find him

there.'

"It was not impossible, but I was surprised that he had not awakened

either of us in passing through the hall. We picked up our towels and

went down to the river. We called and got no answer, but we had not at

this time begun to be anxious. Possibly after his bath he had gone off

for a stroll through the plantations. We took a long swim, lit our

pipes, and walked up to the house. The workmen were busy now on the new

part far away from the big hall. In the hall itself we found breakfast

laid for three.

"'Dr Ash has come back then?' I said to Rudd.

"Rudd looked puzzled. 'I have not seen him this morning, sir.'

"'Drowned himself?' I suggested to Stavold.

"'Not a bit of it. Why should he? This is a little practical joke of

Ash's. We'll see if he doesn't get tired of it before we do. Hunger will

bring him back at lunch-time.'

"Late in the afternoon he had not returned, and we sent word up to the

police-station. The police-station sent us the usual idiot, who made his

notes and did his best to look as if he knew what to do. We spent the

rest of the day in searching for Ash with no success. At ten o'clock we

gave it up, and Rudd went back to the inn. We did very little talking,

and I had some curious and inexplicable feelings as I sat there in the

silence. My tobacco pouch lay on the table at arm's length, and I found

myself thinking that I might have an impulse to take it up in my hand

but that as I did not want the pouch at the moment I should resist the

impulse. Then my hand shot right out to the pouch, gripped it, and shook

it.

"'What the devil are you doing?' said Stavold.

"I flung the pouch down and got up from my chair. 'Dropping off to

sleep, I fancy,' I said.

"'You didn't look it.'

"'Well, I ought to know, oughtn't I? Help me to drag another bed into

that chamber there. We'll see it through together to-night.'

"'Oh, no, we won't,' said my companion. 'If we did that we should leave

this hall here for the use of the practical jokers, if there are any.

You will sleep here to-night. I shall take my turn in the secret

chamber; only, if I can help it, I shan't sleep.'

"'I wonder where on earth Ash is,' I said.

"'We don't know and it won't improve our nerves to imagine. Yours seem a

bit jumpy anyhow. We've done all we can to find him. Leave it at that.'

"I did not expect to sleep that night, yet sleep came to me in fits. I

had wakened many times, and at last I determined that I might as well

get up. In half an hour the grey dawn would be beginning. I remembered

that Stavold had told me that he did not mean to go to sleep. I whistled

softly as I slipped on my clothes, so that he might hear that I was

moving about and join me. As he did not come I listened at the door of

the chamber and heard no sound. In a moment I was standing inside it

with the lamp shaking in my hand. The room was exactly as we had found

it the morning before. There was nobody there. The bed had been slept

in, and was now empty. The clothes lay on the chair. The candlestick

had gone. I was horribly frightened.

"I did not wait for Rudd to come back. I went on to the village

police-station at once and told my story. There was no doubt that this

was a serious matter, and before breakfast-time an inspector had arrived

from Saltham. Accompanied by a serjeant and myself he came over to the

Priory and into the dining-hall.

"'I think I'll take a look round by myself first,' he said. 'You can

wait here.' He went into the chamber, and I could hear his heavy boots

on the flags and the useless tapping on the walls. I was confident that

nothing could be found there. There were a few minutes of silence, and

he opened the door and said, 'Will you come in here, Mr Arden?'

"I went in and saw that the bed had been pulled out from its usual place

in the corner. He pointed to a large flagstone which the bed had

covered.

"'I should like to show you, sir, a curious optical effect there is in

this room. Would you mind standing on that flagstone there?'

"I came round the bed to it, and my foot had just touched it when I was

jerked backwards and fell to the floor.

"'Beg your pardon, sir,' said the inspector behind me. 'I had to

satisfy myself that you didn't know of the trap. See here.'

"He knelt down beside the big flagstone and touched it lightly with his

fingers. It was exactly balanced by a big iron pin through the centre,

and it now swung open, showing a dark shaft going far down into the

earth.

"'You mean that they are down there?' I said.

"'Not a doubt. Each of them, as is only natural, tried the floor as well

as the walls, and moved the bed for the purpose. That finished them.

It's the merest chance that I didn't go down the shaft myself.'

"'Well,' I said, 'the sooner we go down there the better. Where can we

get a rope?'

"The inspector picked up a small tin match-box and emptied out the

matches into the palm of his hand. 'Listen,' he said. He flung the box

down the shaft. We listened, and listened, but heard no sound. 'See?' he

said. 'That's deep. No use to get a rope there. Anyone who fell down

there is dead. That's been a well, I should say.'

"I was angry with the man's cock-surety, and said that I was going down

in any case. A rope was brought and attached to a lighted lantern. The

lantern was lowered, and in a few yards went out. The experiment was

tried again and again, and each time the lantern was extinguished by the

foul air. It was hopeless. No human being could have lived for five

minutes down there.

"I rose from the floor, put on my coat, and turned to the inspector.

'This explains nothing,' I said. 'On the morning that Dr Ash was missed

I went in here with Mr Stavold, and we found the bed placed as it had

been the night before, immediately over this trap. If Dr Ash fell down

it how did he put the bed back after him? The same thing applies to Mr

Stavold; again the bed was left over the trap.'

"'They did not move the bed back again, but somebody else did.'

"'Who?'

"'That is what I hope to find out to-night? Are you yourself willing to

sleep to-night in the big hall alone?'

"'Certainly. I don't exactly see what the idea is.'

"'Never mind about that. It may come to nothing. One can but try. You

say that Rudd locked the door to this hall when he went out at night?'

"'Yes. A modern lock had been fitted, and the door locked itself as soon

as it was shut. It could only be opened from the outside with a

latch-key.'

"'And no one but yourself, that you know of, had a key?'

"'No one that I know of.'

"'Very well. I have a few things to see after. I must speak to this man

Rudd. I shall see you again before nightfall.'

"I spent a horribly long day. I had to telegraph to the relatives of my

two friends. I sent Rudd for books, and tried in vain to read. Rudd was

aware that the police had a suspicious eye upon him and was in a state

of suppressed fury. While Rudd was away I again examined the inner

chamber. The window was too high up to be reached by anyone within the

room, and too closely barred to admit of anyone passing through it. The

chimney was equally impassable. No vestige of hope was left to me. At

ten o'clock the inspector came in and told me that he had given up for

the night. He looked thoughtfully towards the whisky decanter. I gave

him a drink and mixed one for myself. Then he said good-night and went

off.

"I had not expected to sleep, but an insurmountable drowsiness came over

me. I flung myself down on the bed as I was, without undressing, hoping

that in this way I should wake again in an hour or so.

"When I woke the room was brightly lighted. The inspector, two of his

men, and Rudd himself were all there. I was startled.

"'What's the matter? What's up?' I said.

"'Nothing much,' said the inspector, 'but I know who put the bed back in

its place.'

"'Who was it?'

"'It was yourself, sir. You did it in your sleep. It had occurred to me

that this was just possible, and I had a man watching through the window

of the room.'

"'It is impossible,' I said. 'I should know something of it. I am sure I

have been here ever since you left me. Your man must have made a

mistake.'

"'My man made no mistake,' said the inspector, drily, 'for my man

happened to be myself. You came in, set the lamp down, pushed the bed

over to one corner, and then went to the chair, where you seemed to be

folding up imaginary clothes.'

"The bodies were recovered two days later, and the whole story of course

got into the papers. I was away from England for some years after that.

It was one of the things that one wishes to forget. You ask me to take

part in another of these investigations. In all probability there is

nothing to investigate but a practical joke, or a chance noise, or

something equally explicable, but you will understand that I will not

take the risk that there may be something else."

* * * * *

"But, my dear Arden," said Winter, balancing the pince-nez in his hand,

"there is nothing whatever in the story that you have told me. What

could be more natural than that your two friends should examine the

floor, should do so with too little care, and should reap the

consequences? The repeated dream is itself quite natural; I should

imagine there are few people who have not had it. At the most it is a

coincidence that the dream, accompanied by somnambulism, should have

come three nights in succession, but there is nothing supernatural

there."

"Never mind that word supernatural. Do you think there is anything

inexplicable? You are forgetting that the bed in that chamber had been

slept in both nights. The sleeper had been awakened by some sound. What

was it? What drew him to the trap-door? What was it that took possession

of my will and my body so that my own personality was as blotted out as

if I had been dead? But," he added, impatiently, "I do not want to

convince you. When you are brought in touch, as I have been, with the

unseen power you will be convinced. As your friend, I hope you never

will be."

A BRISK ENGAGEMENT

He stepped out of the fashionable bazaar into the crowded street, where

the July sun flashed on the ugly and beautiful and on the grey

background. He was a young man with the face of a dreamer, but his hair

was properly cut and he was as well and cleanly turned out as if he had

been a soldier. He wore in his buttonhole a red rose; it was not his

habit to decorate himself florally, but these things happen at bazaars;

some pretty fool-girl had sold it to him. And Lady Mabel Silverton, who

is not pretty but a dear sweet creature, had sold him iced coffee and

drunk it for him--she would do anything for a charity--and bothered him

to come and sing one Saturday night to her darling factory-girls, who

would be so very, very grateful. The hum of many nicely-toned voices and

the passionate waltz of the Mauve Hungarians still blended and swam in

his ears. He still seemed to smell the scent of the smouldering incense

sticks on the stall where Mrs Bunningham Smythe, clad in an Oriental

robe of thoroughly Western impropriety, sold penny "Turkish Amulets" at

ten shillings apiece to those young men who were sufficiently fond of

her for the purpose. He was stupid with it all. He left it, and the long

string of carriages at the doors, and wandered out into the Park. And he

chose the more deserted part of the Park.

Yes, it was no worse than anything else, as his cousin had said when she

had bothered him into going. But the young man was mildly, temporarily,

and uncomplainingly bored with most things. There was too much sugar in

the cup; he found the taste sickly. This London world in which he lived

was too luxurious, too idle, and worked too hard at being too idle. He

was weary of the mechanical metallic frivolity of smart people,

frivolity without one touch of sincerity and earnestness to give it

contrast and effect. It was the end of the season, and he would soon be

away in the country--only to find London in the country. There would be

the same people with the same bad habits, merely transplanted to a scene

which did not suit them.

He stood still and looked around him. There was a man with a crowd

before him in the distance by the Marble Arch; he waved his arms and

lectured violently. Children chased one another across the grass. Down

the path towards him came a girl who held herself well. A tramp under

the trees roused himself from slumber, and began slowly and painfully to

put on his boots. And the young man thought it would make the very

pleasantest holiday if he could change with somebody--even with the

tramp under the trees for a few hours and get rid of himself. He chanced

to remember that rose in his coat, and did not like it. He raised his

hand to take it out. And the girl whose graceful carriage he had noticed

stepped shyly up to him.

"It is you then? It must be," she said, in rather a frightened voice.

In a flash he saw that the girl mistook him for somebody else,

and--since chance willed it--decided to be for a while that somebody.

"Certainly, it is," he said. "I do hope I have not kept you waiting."

This was more interesting than private theatricals. But even as he spoke

it struck him that it would be easier if he knew who he was supposed to

be.

She was charming, he thought, and not foolish; the face was full of life

and expression. He noted that she looked at him and away from him in

quick flashes, as if trying to hide a surprised curiosity.

"No," she said, "I have only just come. I think we are both a few

minutes before the time."

"You did not seem quite--well, quite sure of it when you recognised me."

She laughed, showing her pretty teeth. "You did not seem to be looking

out for me."

"I was--but in the wrong direction."

"Yes, of course you didn't know which way I should come. And then I

thought you looked rather too splendid for a solicitor's clerk. You

don't mind my saying that?" she added rapidly.

(So he was a solicitor's clerk in his new impersonation; this was useful

information.) "Not in the least. We put on our nicest clothes for these

occasions. My firm expects me to keep one good suit--to wear when I have

to go and see wealthy and important clients--to--er--take their

instructions." (He felt that this was a happy touch; he was falling

quite easily into his part). "And, if I may say so, that must be quite

your prettiest dress."

She glanced downward at it. She raised her eyebrows, and there was a

quaint prettiness in the wilful twist of her lips. She seemed perplexed.

"I don't think so," she said.

"And what made you decide that it was really I?"

"You were standing there just at the spot we arranged, and just at the

time we arranged. You were wearing the red rose, and you raised your

hand as if to call my attention to it. It was beyond mistake. But why

did you say in your letter that you were of medium height? You are

tall."

"Slightly over medium height, perhaps. I should hardly say tall."

"In many ways you are not what I expected. These preconceived ideas of

people are always wrong. But indeed you don't look the part at all."

"Really?"

"No," she said. "I should have taken you for a man of

leisure--wealthy--rather bored with life--clever perhaps--certainly

selfish." And she would have taken him for very much what he was.

"I will plead guilty to the last item. And now, what shall we do?"

"Do? Just as we arranged of course. We can stroll through the Park for

half an hour--talk--make each other's acquaintance. And then I shall see

if in any way I can help you in your work and make your life happier."

"Suppose," said the young man, "we change the programme a little. Let me

take you down to Bond Street and give you some tea there."

The look of surprise became almost suspicion. She hesitated for a

moment. "Very well," she said. "That will be charming."

They had reached the Park gate. The young man stopped a hansom and they

got in.

"You are extravagant," she said. "We might have taken a 'bus or the

Tube. We might even have walked."

The young man reminded himself that he was now a solicitor's clerk.

"True," he said. "But it is only a shilling fare. And Saturday

afternoon is our holiday, you know."

"I shall insist on paying half the cab and half everything."

"That must be just as you wish. But if you do it will be a

disappointment for me. And it is really not a very serious matter, even

for me."

She seemed to think this over. Lady Mabel met them in her victoria, and

the young man saluted her.

"Very well," said the girl, suddenly. "I won't pay for anything at all."

"Thanks so much," said the young man.

"But all of this," said the girl, much as if she had been speaking to

herself, "is not in the least like what I had expected."

At the shop in Bond Street he took her upstairs to a table in a secluded

corner.

"You seem to know your way about this place," she said, as she

unbuttoned her gloves.

"I was here once on business. And I never forget places."

"Five times since we left the Park we have met people that you knew."

"Yes. Queer coincidence, isn't it?"

"And they were all wealthy-looking people."

"Clients," he said dreamily. "All clients." Then, with an awakening

interest, "Will you have tea or coffee?"

"Tea, please. And they all smiled and bowed to you just as if they had

been your personal friends."

"Well, you know, it's like this. I've had to deal with them in some very

important family matters--dark secrets. They possibly have the feeling

that it is better to be on good terms with me--that I shall be more

careful not to talk about their secrets, you know."

Even as the young man said it he was aware of the remarkable feebleness

of it. So apparently was the girl.

"But I thought solicitors never talked about their clients' business,"

she said.

"They don't. Of course. Certainly not. But then I'm not a solicitor; I'm

only a clerk. Still, it's a mistaken feeling; I've often wondered how it

gets to be so common."

The young man felt that the game, though interesting, was becoming

difficult. He reflected that at any minute people who knew him might

come in and insist on talking to him. And then--the girl would discover

everything and never forgive him. And the more he saw of her the more he

wanted to be forgiven when the game came to its end.

He was unable to place her exactly. She was not a typist. She seemed too

educated to be a governess. It was even more certain that she was not a

fashionable London woman. She might possibly be a student of one of the

arts. She was a little imperious in her way, yet she had the kindest and

friendliest eyes. She was transparently good, and he guessed that

unconventionality was unusual with her. She had not spoiled its effect

for herself by making it commonplace. And who on earth was this

solicitor's clerk whom this charming person had meant to meet, and why

had she been going to meet him? It occurred to the young man that he

would like to wring the neck of that clerk (whom he was at present

fraudulently under-studying) for his infernal impertinence.

"Now," said the girl, "I want you to tell me why you wrote in the first

instance?"

This was a facer. He chanced it. "But I think you know," he said; and it

turned out very well.

"Yes, I do, more or less. I know you read my verses, and that you then

wrote to me at the office of the paper and said the kindest things."

The young man shook his head. "They were less than the truth," he said.

"But, after all, the idea in the verses--the kindred souls that Fate

keeps strangers to each other--that's not a new idea. You must have seen

something of the kind scores of times before."

"If I had seen it before I did not remember it. I certainly had not seen

it treated in that way. Your poem seemed to come to me like a message."

This for a young man who had not read one word of the poem was

distinctly good--or, if you prefer it, distinctly bad.

"Well, when you wrote the first letter had you any idea of writing the

second, the one in which you asked me to meet you?"

"I had to see how you would take it. I know it was great presumption on

my part to hope for anything of the kind; it was most good of you to

come."

"I wondered how long it would be before you thanked me."

"A thousand pardons. I see little society, of course. I am shy and

awkward. I never say the right thing."

"But you are not shy and awkward. You are not at all what I expected. I

have your second letter here. Listen. I leave out the part where you

speak of your loneliness."

"There are few lives," said the young man, sorrowfully, "more solitary

than that of a solicitor's clerk. You don't know." Nor, for that matter,

did he.

"Then the letter goes on: 'If you could make it convenient to spare me a

few moments of your valuable time--'"

"Did I really say that?"

"Of course you did. Here it is."

"These business forms ring in one's head. They get into one's blood.

One uses them unconsciously and inelegantly."

"I will read on: 'If you could make it convenient to spare me a few

moments of your valuable time I should like to have a go at telling you

my story. Sympathy in my case has generally been conspicuous by its

absence, but I think I could depend on the author of "The Strangers." I

am rather a doleful sort, I am afraid, but I daresay you don't care for

larking about any more than I do.'"

He had to hear that letter through to the end, and there was a good deal

more of it. He had made himself responsible for the personality of a man

who described himself as rather a doleful sort, said that he did not

care for larking about, and spoke of a thing being conspicuous by its

absence. And there was not even the possibility of protest. He had to

accept it. He could not even groan out loud. The punishment for yielding

to sudden impulses was heavy indeed.

"Now," she went on, "you see what I mean when I say that you do not at

all match with the Samuel Pepper who wrote that letter."

His name was Samuel Pepper then! It was almost too much. This, he felt,

would be a lifelong lesson to him. He had to say something. "But," he

pleaded, "few people write and speak in just the same way."

"That is not my point. You write to me as a humble pleader for a

favour."

"Naturally."

"When you meet me, you take something very much like the air of an

amused social superior."

"I hope not!" exclaimed the young man with real sincerity. He struggled

mentally after a correct Samuel Pepper attitude. "It was quite

unintentional, and no disrespect meant. I suppose on a Saturday out,

when I come up West, I get a bit above myself and my station. But I

never meant to presume." He felt that this had the right Pepperian touch

of humble commonness. "In the office or at home--"

"You mean in the Guildford Street boarding-house?"

"Quite so. It's the only London home I've got. In the office or at home

I'm quite a different person."

"Oh, please! I don't mention the difference in manner because I care

twopence about it, but to point out an inconsistency which puzzles

me--perhaps I should say which did puzzle me at first. And why have you

not told me that story that you wished me to hear. Why is it that you

have not even referred to it?"

"Ah," said the young man, "how often one gets to the verge of a

confession and then shirks it! Believe me, it is not an easy story for

me to tell. Perhaps even it would be better for me to bear my burden

alone."

"Very well. And those poems that you have written--you wished to show

them to me, to get my opinion and see if I could help you towards

publication."

"My fatal shyness! You, a writer yourself, must know what that is!" He

felt that he was quite lost, and that the girl was getting angry, and he

wished he could think of some way out of it.

"So I am not to have your verses or your story. But I think I will

trouble you to hear a little of my story. You are not Samuel Pepper.

With my experience of story-writing I ought to have seen that that was a

make-up name, to suit the part of a solicitor's clerk. There is no

Samuel Pepper. Your letters then were not genuine. They were very well

done; as an artist I congratulate you. The thing that puzzles me is that

you could not keep it up better when you had trapped me into meeting

you. You cannot act a bit. You have not even dressed the part. You have

not even taken the trouble to put a few verses in manuscript in your

pocket. I will tell you why you succeeded in deceiving me in your

letters. I live with my family, and I write stories and verses. I know

they are not very good, but the money that I get for them is a

consideration, and I hope with practice to do better. You touched my

vanity, it is not often that anybody takes any notice of my work. And

you appealed to my compassion. That part of your letter where you spoke

of your loneliness among the people at the boarding-house seemed to me

to be quite simple and unaffected. It made some impression on me. I was

interested in what you said about your writing, and I remembered what a

struggle I had at first myself; I thought I could help you. I felt safe

because I trusted to your timidity and your sense of the difference

between us, so cleverly conveyed in your letters. That was why you were

able to trap me; and it will teach me in future not to be vain or

kind-hearted. I don't know why you wanted to do it. You have had your

joke, perhaps, or you have won your bet. You won't make the mistake of

supposing that you have made my acquaintance, or of writing to me again.

Now, I am going."

So that was it; she had taken a firm feminine intelligent grasp of the

wrong end of the stick. She had also caught up her gloves. Her eyes were

filled with tears of rage, and he felt very bad indeed. If he had asked

her to stop she would have hurried away all the quicker; he could see

that.

"Our meeting was a chance one," he said. "I know nothing of Pepper or

his letters except what you have told me. You mistook me for the man

you were going to meet. I am sorry I did not correct your mistake since

it has pained you. Otherwise I should have been very glad of it."

She sat down again, bewildered. "Chance?" she said.

"Pure chance. I shouldn't like to say much for my taste this afternoon,

but really I don't make bets or jokes of that kind. I was at a silly

bazaar in Hill Street this afternoon for a few minutes, and some idiot

sold me this rose. I don't wear flowers, and I was on the point of

taking it out of my coat when you spoke to me. The other man probably

arrived after we had gone; you remember you said that we were a few

minutes before the time."

The girl leaned her elbow on the table and her head on her hand and

looked at him intently. "It is too amazing," she said. "I think you are

telling me the truth now. But how am I to know? You have not behaved

well. You have deceived me." There were perplexed pauses between her

sentences.

"I tried to deceive you, with the intention of undeceiving you in the

end. You must own that I failed and that the humiliation is mine. But it

is true that I have behaved badly; and it is true that I am sorry for

it."

"Why did you do it? I can't think why."

"Do you remember your first impression of me?"

"Perfectly."

"I am not clever, but in other respects you were about right. I was

tired of everything and particularly tired of myself. It was a sudden

whim. I began it in order to get away from myself."

"But why did you go on with it?"

"I went on with it to be with you."

She looked away from him, and there was a quick flush of colour in her

cheeks. "Anyhow," she said, "the mistake is at an end now. I must be

going." But she did not speak very resolutely.

"Will you forgive me before you go?"

"Why should I forgive you?"

"Because," said the young man, with some audacity, "I have done you a

very great service."

Her eyebrows were interrogative.

"Yes, I have stopped you from meeting this Pepper person. I know your

motives. I don't believe in the vanity at all. It is natural to be

pleased when one's work is praised; I'm always pleased if anybody likes

my music. I do believe that you were actuated solely by your kindness of

heart and nothing else. But you were doing an indiscreet thing, and I

feel sure from his letters that this man would have misunderstood it.

Even if he had not shown presumption in his manner to you, I am sure he

would have talked you over afterwards at his disgusting boarding-house

and with his fellow-clerks. Why did he propose a meeting at all? Why

could he not have submitted his doggerel to you by post, if you were

kind enough to look at it for him? Why did he suggest this red rose

nonsense if he had not got some romantic ideas in his stupid head? The

man's impertinence simply staggers me."

She smiled a little. "You are right perhaps. It was indiscreet. But you

are too hard on him."

"I don't think so. I want you to promise me you will not meet him. You

can write and say that you have changed your mind; he can post his

verses to you, if you want to let him down easily."

"Very well. I think that would be best, though I don't know why I should

promise you. Good-bye."

"Already?"

"I live away at Surbiton. I have a train to catch."

"Am I forgiven?"

"Yes; quite."

"Then let me at least take you as far as Waterloo."

She said nothing. But they went to Waterloo together, and in the cab

they explained quite a number of things about themselves to each other.

He also got into the train with her, and they had the carriage to

themselves. And there he told her that he loved her and wished to marry

her, and he did it far more beautifully than a bare record of the facts

can suggest.

She tried to speak three times and failed. So he understood her

perfectly.

And some few minuter after they had exchanged their hearts' love, they

also exchanged their names and addresses.

* * * * *

Lady Mabel Silverton says that it is a perfectly ideal marriage. The

world thinks that he might have done much better for himself. He is

inclined to agree with Lady Mabel. His wife would say that she agreed

with the world; but I should doubt her sincerity.

HASHEESH

I

The season was nearly at its end. On the terrace of Shepherd's were many

groups, German, American and English, stopping for a few days in Cairo

on their way home. In the street in front of the terrace the hawkers

displayed their wares--panpipes, fly-whisks, images of the Sphinx,

picture post-cards, matches. One offered for sale an inlaid table that

he carried on his head. Another handed up an old flint-lock pistol,

heavily mounted in silver, for the inspection of a pretty girl from

Cincinnati. Every now and then a carriage drove up, and a party of

tourists passed up the steps, followed by a dragoman laden with kodaks,

and dust cloaks, and bazaar purchases. The bright sunlight flooded a

scene of brilliant colours.

At one of the tables--next to that where the pretty girl from Cincinnati

was sipping her tea--sat three men of different ages. Mr Nathaniel

Brookes, a man of some sixty years and rather distinguished appearance,

was discussing total prohibitions with Dr Henson-Blake. The doctor was

a man of wiry build, with the face of a hawk, and that indescribable

look which comes only of strength and experience. The third man listened

and fidgeted. From babyhood he had been precocious and preferred to

associate with those who were older than he was. In consequence he

sometimes had to sit, as now, rather on the outside of the association.

He smoked endless cigarettes and drank something which was cold and not

good for him out of a long glass in which the ice tinkled pleasantly. He

was a fair-haired young man whom the sun had merely freckled. He wore a

single eye-glass, but did not always dare to use it. When you had got to

the bottom of his failings you found fundamentally by no means a bad

sort of man, by name Percival Lake. This was his first year in Egypt.

Both Brookes and the doctor had known Egypt for many years.

It was Brookes who was speaking. "The Fellaheen should be allowed to

dig," he said, "and it should be made well worth their while to dig."

"But they do," said the doctor. "They all of them do it in the summer,

and they always have done."

"Yes," said Brookes. "Prohibitions which are too strict are always

evaded. It's the same thing with hasheesh. But what I mean is that if we

succeed in stopping the Fellaheen from digging, the working European

Egyptologist will find very little. The native will take care of that,

and this is a case where the native has knowledge that the European can

get only from him."

"That's possible," the doctor agreed.

"What's that about hasheesh?" the young man asked. "I thought it was the

kind of drug that one came across frequently in stories, and rarely in

chemist's shops, and nowhere else."

"Nominally," said Brookes, "there is no hasheesh in Egypt. It is not

allowed. It is contraband. I forget how many tons of it were seized last

year, and I should be sorry to say how much managed to get through."

"Then the natives really use it?"

"Of course they do. There is a common type in all races which requires a

nerve alterative and will have it. If religion or sentiment or custom

shuts out alcohol, then it will be opium or hasheesh. Egypt goes for

hasheesh."

"And the prohibition is of no use?" asked Lake.

"I wouldn't say that," Brookes replied grimly. "If a native has a

quarrel with his neighbour, he can--and sometimes does--sow cannabis

Indica on his neighbour's land and then report him for growing illegal

stuff as soon as the crop comes up. That is useful. Speaking seriously,

the prohibition may lessen the amount of hasheesh consumed, and

undoubtedly has raised its price considerably--vices are the monopoly

of the rich. All the same, I had a boy working on my dahabeeah last year

who was an excellent fellow. This year he was impossible, and I had to

sack him. That was hasheesh."

"And what is the effect of it?"

"Ask the doctor."

"If you take enough and take it long enough," said Dr Henson-Blake, "the

effect is insanity. The given percentage in the asylums is fairly high,

and should perhaps be higher. They don't admit that they smoke hasheesh

or have ever smoked it if they can help it, and it cannot always be

spotted."

"But what is the immediate effect?"

"A sense of _bien etre_, of the absence of all worry. Sometimes there

are delusions. The typical smoker generally gets an excessive

vanity--swelled head--and becomes very quarrelsome. That is why Brookes

had to sack that boy of his."

"All the same," said Lake, "I should very much like to try it."

"If I thought you meant that--" the doctor began, with the suspicion of

a sneer.

Lake was rather angry. "I can assure you I am not talking for effect.

There are some people who don't, you know."

"All right," said the doctor, unperturbed. "Keep your hair on. I've got

some tobacco prepared with hasheesh upstairs. It is some that I had to

confiscate. I'll give you a pipeful and you can try it after dinner.

Smoke it in your own room, though--not downstairs."

"Leave it alone," growled Brookes.

"Thanks very much," said Lake to the doctor. "I'll come up with you now

and get it."

The three men rose. As they did so the pretty girl from Cincinnati

stepped up to the doctor.

"Say, doctor--listen to me. Am I to give that man five dollars and a

half for this?"

The doctor took the scarab in his hand and examined it.

"No, Miss Jocelyn," he said.

"Why not? I call that a dandy scarab. White amethyst. Genuine antique."

"It is not white amethyst and I know the man who made it--the day before

yesterday. If you want it for a toy, ten piastres is an outside price.

The man will take that."

"My!" exclaimed Miss Jocelyn. "Thank you vurry much," and she returned

to her negotiations.

The three men passed through into the hall.

II

After dinner, Brookes and Dr Henson-Blake went off to see a friend at

the Savoy. They left with grim half-chaffing injunctions to young Lake

to take care of himself. Lake, a little sulky, settled himself in one

corner of the hall to smoke a cigarette before his experiment.

And suddenly Miss Jocelyn, whom he did not know, came up to him.

She was a dark girl, pale-skinned and red-lipped. She had a little of

that jaunty, almost slangy American air of being able to take care of

herself. But she also carried the impression that this air was

superficial, and underneath it there might be poetry of a rather

volcanic order. She sat down quietly on the other side of the table, and

said:

"Do you not know me, Mr Lake?"

Lake said that at any rate he was charmed to have the privilege of

making her acquaintance.

"But," she went on, "I want you to behave just as if you had known me

for some time. My Aunt Esmeralda is watching us from away back, and

she's pretty 'cute. Don't smile too much. Offer me a cigarette or order

some coffee for me, as if it were an ordinary thing that you had often

done before for me. Don't look at me all the time--look away now and

then. I'll tell you why I'm doing this directly."

Lake did his best to act the part, and to take things more simply. He

was consumed with curiosity, and for that reason he said, as he lighted

her cigarette, "It is so nice of you to do this--to take pity on my

loneliness--that I feel the reason why does not matter at all. I am

unquestioningly contented with things as they are."

"I just want to tell you. I know Dr Henson-Blake--we were on the tourist

boat together. He's playing it low down on you. That tobacco he gave you

is ordinary tobacco. He wants to make you say afterwards that you got a

lot of funny sensations out of it, and then he'll say there was no

hasheesh in it at all, and just laugh at you. You needn't ask me how I

know, but it's the truth."

"I believe you. The possibility of it had occurred to me. Well, I have

only to tell him that I got no sensations at all, and that's all over

with this little joke."

"Yes," said Miss Jocelyn, "but you can get back on him. That's better."

"How?"

"Spin him a long story. Tell him you smoked it and it gave you visions.

Then when he's finished with his laugh, give him his tobacco back again

to prove that you knew his game all the time."

"Excellent." He took from his pocket a little box in which the tobacco

was placed, put it in one of the hotel envelopes and sealed it and dated

it. "But the triumph must be yours," he said.

She leaned forward seriously. "Listen to me. You don't want to mention

my name--you don't even know it, but I'm Irene Jocelyn. I've put

confidence in you. See, he's not got to know that I've had anything to

do with it. You promise me that?"

"Certainly. But I'm puzzled. Why do you come along to save me from

making myself ridiculous? It's very kind of you. I'm very glad you've

done it. But why?"

She hesitated and blushed slightly. "For myself, perhaps."

It seemed promising; he was emboldened. "What a pity I have wasted my

time by not meeting you before? Have you been long in Cairo?"

"A few days," she said absent-mindedly. "My!" she exclaimed. "If I don't

go back to my Aunt Esmeralda right now, there's going to be a deal of

trouble. I'll say good-night to you, Mr Lake."

He was rather staggered. "Good-night," he said. "But I hope this is not

the last time--"

"It depends. Mind that when he's about you don't know me."

He watched her as she went up the hall. Her bright smile came off very

easily. She looked a little tired and hunted.

That night he could come to no satisfactory explanation. He could only

decide to do exactly as he had been told, and await events. In the

meantime the girl's face haunted him, and always as it had been when

she did not know that he could see her--always with that tired and

hunted look. What had been her story? What was inside her heart and

mind? What cards was she playing? Why had she spoken to him? The

questions were endless. His interest in her, strangely powerful, kept

him for long awake.

III

The little farce was played out with great success next morning. Lake

told a beautiful story, and did it the better because Irene Jocelyn,

breakfasting alone at the next table, was listening intently. After

smoking the hasheesh he had heard the Sphinx talking. Then a black and

limitless ocean had broken over it, and out of the ocean a strange white

woman had crept and cut herself with a gold-handled knife.

"Good," said the doctor, with dry triumph. "And the more interesting

because you have never had any hasheesh at all."

"No?" asked Lake. "I thought that would be it." He tossed the envelope

across to the doctor. "You'll find your tobacco inside--how do you give

it that green colour? I think the score is with me."

The doctor was angry, the more so because Brookes was undisguisedly

amused at the failure. But he made one shrewd guess. "If I had mentioned

the thing to a solitary soul I should have been certain that it had

been given away to you. As it is, I can't see how you came to think of

it for yourself. It's quite unlike you."

IV

For the next two days Irene Jocelyn successfully avoided young Lake, and

thereby drove him to the verge of madness. It even occurred to him to

play a bold stroke and ask the doctor to introduce him. But he had the

reasonable conviction that that introduction would do him more harm than

good with this strange girl. He grew to hate Henson-Blake; it was

evident that while he was there Irene would not speak. He invented

excuses to get him out of the way.

On the third day she came up to him in the hall with hand outstretched.

"I just want to say good-bye to you, Mr Lake," she said. "We leave this

afternoon."

"Won't you tell me anything before you go? I can find no reason why you

should have interested yourself in my defence. Still less can I find any

reason why you should have avoided me ever since?"

"But I wasn't interested in you. You're not--what do you say?--not on in

this act. Didn't I tell you that I was doing it for myself?"

"Yes. You are clever--you found out the doctor's trick."

"I know him. I told you that I met him on the tourist boat. I knew what

he would do."

"I am stupid--for I also knew him, and did not find out. I'm not vain

enough, believe me, to suppose that you did this for love of me."

She laughed and snapped her fingers.

"I wish to God you had!" he added, and the tone and simplicity of the

words carried conviction. She changed her manner. She became serious.

"What was done, not for love of you, was done for hate of somebody else!

Can't you imagine a woman wanting to hit back, and too proud to let it

be known that she wants to hit at all? Can't you imagine her hungering

and thirsting to see a certain man fail, if only in some little thing,

just for once? Can't you--Oh, you don't want the whole humiliating

story, do you?"

"No, no. I'm sorry. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

"Only you know--that is not for hate of a man. If you hated, there might

be a chance for those who loved."

She shook her head and turned away. A minute later he heard her

laughing, and talking her best American to a group of hotel

acquaintances.

And this is perhaps the primary reason why Percival Lake did ultimately

take to hasheesh in sober earnest. His friends have ceased to speak of

him. Dr Henson-Blake is interested in the case.

THE GARDENER

Seven years to-day have I been in this place, and I am beginning to ask

myself whether it is not time that I made a move. When I come to think

of it, in my last place I had ten under me, and here it's but three men

and a boy, and I always have said and always shall say that a boy is

worse than nothing. In some ways I might be sorry to leave. There is

work which I have begun here, and which I should be sorry to see pass

into other hands to be made a muddle of. Still, as my father used to

say, if you don't respect yourself, nobody is going to respect you, and

I'm in two minds whether I ought to put up with such language as I had

to-day.

"It's all damned carelessness," he said. "You know how particular I am

about those Blenheims, and I'd sooner have lost anything in the garden.

It isn't because you can't do it. I've always been proud of my melons

before. It's just because you've got careless and don't care a curse how

much you neglect your work. Most men would have given you the sack at

once, and you shall have it from me if ever I find anything of this kind

again."

That's what he said. And in one way it's all true enough. That lot of

melons should have been shut up at the right time, and I've lost 'em in

consequence. But it's the first time I've lost anything like that all

the years I've been here, and I don't know that I feel inclined to put

up with it. Here am I, a single man of good character. There may be some

as can teach me a little about my business, and I'm always willing to

learn; but I've never found 'em yet. I can show as good testimonials as

anybody, and I'm not likely to be long out of a berth. Even if I was, it

wouldn't much matter; for, not being a fool, like Townes, I haven't got

a wife and six children to keep, and I've been able to put by money.

One of those Townes children walked back with me as I came from my work

to-day. It was the one they call Hilda. She's a pretty enough child, but

nothing like what Townes thinks. The way that man talks about them, as

if they were a set of angels, makes me laugh. Thank God, I've none of my

own to make a fool of myself about. It's lucky for Townes, too, that I'm

not a married man, for otherwise I should have had the lodge and he

wouldn't, and the lodge is a lot better than anything he could afford

out of his wages.

* * * * *

About half-past eight to-night Townes came round to the cottage to see

me, and pulled out a rabbit from under his coat.

"I don't know whether you'd care about anything in this way, Mr Adam,"

he said. "It's a nice fat young rabbit."

"Where did you get that, Townes?" I said.

He gave a sheepish kind of grin. "Well," he said, "there's plenty of

them about, aren't there? I count they're more a pest than anything

else. Anyway, one rabbit more or less won't matter to 'em up at the

House. It's not as if rabbits were game."

"I don't know nothing about that, Townes, and I don't care nothing,

either. I won't have it. As you've got it, you'd better take it back to

your wife; and if I find you getting any more, you'll get the sack as

sure as my name's Stephen Adam."

"All right, Mr Adam," he said. "That shall be as you say, of course. I

thought perhaps, rabbits not coming into your province, you wouldn't

mind. Then I wanted to call round too, to say how much obliged I am to

you."

"What for?" I said.

"About those melons. There was a holy row about it, wasn't there? I

don't deny it. You told me yourself to shut those lights, and I said I

would. How I came to miss it I can't think. Something or other must have

got into my head."

"It's a pity, Townes, that a bit of sense don't get into your head

sometimes."

"Well, there it was, anyhow. We heard the governor laying into you about

it, and not a word did you say about it's being anybody's fault but your

own. Of course the governor thinks a lot of you, and he'd put up with a

thing in you which he'd give me the sack for right off. Still, I do take

it as being very kind--"

"You can hold your tongue, Townes. I've got no kindness for such as

you--wasting hours of skilled work by your damned wool-gathering

forgetfulness."

"The fact of the case is that I'd got that child Hilda a bit on my mind

at the time. The missus thought she was sickening for the measles."

"Well, she wasn't. What would it have mattered if she had been? All

children have the measles, don't they? Do you think yours have got to be

so blessed superior? That's no excuse at all. As for the kindness, it

was simply justice. If I choose to give an order to an idiot, then it's

only fair that I should suffer for it."

"I don't know that I've forgotten much before, Mr Adam."

"No, my boy, you haven't. And you'd better not forget much again if you

want to keep your place. Just you let it be a lesson to you. And if you

must be the father of six squalling brats, keep 'em out of your mind

during work-hours. The truth is, Townes, that you think too much of

those children of yours. I'm sure I don't know what they'll come to.

You'll spoil 'em. Your own wife told me only the other day that you

spoilt 'em."

Townes gave that stupid grin of his again. "Anyhow," he said, "I don't

go buying chocolates for 'em in the village."

"Well," I said, "you can get about your business. I want to read my

paper, and I'm not one of those that sit up half the night."

I wonder if Hilda told him about those sweets, or if he found her eating

them and then guessed. It was a fool of a thing for me to do, and I

shan't do it again. That's the way you lose your authority over the men

under you, by being a bit too familiar, and then of course they shirk

their work and you get blamed for it.

The governor was pretty civil to-day, and after all, I don't know as I

want to change at my time of life. There's a lot of half-finished work

about the place still and some of it'll take a long time to get exactly

to my liking.

* * * * *

I can't make things out. We did a lot better than we expected at the

Horticultural, and the governor behaved handsomely by me, as he always

does. But he's not as cheerful as usual. I see him wandering about the

garden by himself, just as if he'd got something on his mind. He's sold

his hunters, and I want to know what for. It's given out that he finds

he's getting too old for it. Looks to me more like something in the

cutting-down way. I had a word with the cook up at the House, and she's

of the same way of thinking. It's not only the hunters. She says there's

less ordered and less entertaining done, and one of the maids has been

turned off. If he's lost money, I wonder how he's lost it. It's not

betting or gambling, for he was never that sort. I should say it was

some investment gone wrong. I'm glad I took my father's advice there and

put my savings into Consols. It may not bring in much, but the money is

always there. The fact of the case is that these gentlefolk never ought

to touch business at all. There are plenty of solicitors and such to

look after it for them. A gentleman isn't meant to do anything except

amuse himself, and when he interferes with other things he is going out

of his station in life and acting foolishly. This is particularly the

case when a gentleman tries to talk as if he knew anything about

gardening. I was looking round the place to-day, and I should be sorry

to leave it--in fact, I doubt if I should be able to make myself

comfortable anywhere else. Three weeks ago, when there was that row

about the melons, I did think of going. But that was a fit of temper,

and with me a fit of temper's soon over. I believe I'd sooner work for

half the wages than go. And if the governor says anything to me about

cutting down, I don't know as I shan't hint at something of the kind.

He's cut down in the stable and in the house, and it won't surprise me

if the garden has the next turn. I may be wrong. He's always very keen

about his garden, and I fancy he'd as soon spend money on that as

anything.

Had to give that fool Townes a bit of the rough side of my tongue. I

found one of his children, the one they call Hilda, up on Sunley Hill,

and they've got measles in those cottages there, as he well knows. Of

course he had to make his excuse. He couldn't always be looking after

them, and there were such a lot of them, and he knew his missus was hard

at it all day. That last part's true. I had to promise that child Hilda

something if she wouldn't go Sunley Hill way any more, but it's all

against my better judgment. What I ought to have done was to have given

her a good dressing-down and frightened her a bit. Seems a queer thing

that a man who knows how to handle men and keep them in their place

shouldn't know how to treat a child. All I can say is that it's the last

time I shall make that mistake. Otherwise I don't know that I can say

much against Townes. He's at his work smart and early every morning,

which is what I like; and he doesn't loiter about. I hate a man who

stands like a statue, with one foot on his spade, when he thinks nobody

is looking at him. What's more, he takes a real interest in his work.

He's not an educated man, as I am, and he's never had my advantages, but

I will say for him that he's as willing to learn as anybody can want. In

fact, I sometimes wonder if I'm not spoiling my own game by teaching him

a bit too much. I must be on the lookout about that.

* * * * *

It's just exactly what I thought. One of Townes' kids has got the

measles. It's the one they call Hilda; and that's a very stupid name, to

my mind, to give to the daughter of a working gardener. Of course Townes

is about half off his head, and that's a bad thing, for he never had too

much sense at any time. I told him yesterday, as I've told him before,

that all children have measles, and the sooner they have 'em the sooner

it's over, and the better it is every way. Then he says the child's rare

bad, and the doctor wouldn't come twice a day if he didn't think so. As

I told him, the doctor comes twice a day to make his bill a bit bigger.

I suppose doctors are on the make, same as gardeners and everybody else.

Why wasn't Townes in any club? He says he shall be now. He's always

shutting the stable door after he's lost the horse. That's the way

things happen. I've been in a club for years, and never had any occasion

for a doctor at all. I looked in at the lodge yesterday to give Hilda

what I had promised, having first of all found out that she had kept

her word and had not been up to Sunley Hill again. Otherwise I shouldn't

have gone in. As it was, it was of no use, as she was too bad to eat

what I'd brought, and was a bit light-headed. She didn't seem to

recognise me; and, queerly enough, that was almost a kind of

disappointment. I felt quite angry with the child. As she couldn't take

what I'd promised, and I found there were one or two other little things

that were wanted, I got them instead. I believe in acting fairly by

everybody, even if it's only one of Townes' brats. I went in again

to-day, and this time she knew me. That speaks for itself, and shows

that she must be getting better. I've had the measles myself or I

wouldn't have taken the risk.

Had to complain to Townes to-day about his half starving himself. He

said that he'd had a good deal of expense lately, and money was a bit

short, and he had to save where he could. I told him, as I've told him

twenty times, not to act like a fool. If a man doesn't eat, he can't

work. If a man is paid to work, and doesn't work, he's swindling his

boss. As I'm here to see, amongst other things, that Townes doesn't

swindle the governor, I had to make some sort of an arrangement with

him. I've told him we'll settle about the interest later. Strictly

speaking, I ought to make it pretty stiff, for Townes isn't Consols by a

long way. Now I'll go off for a stroll and my evening pipe. Possibly I

may look in at the lodge. In that case I think I'll leave the pipe till

afterwards, as the child may not like it.

* * * * *

That brat of Townes' is better--ever so much better. In another week

she'll be about, all over the place, and worrying the life out of me,

same as usual. I did get a little peace and quietness when she was ill.

Townes, of course, is as pleased as Punch, but I very soon knocked that

out of him. I asked him how he thought he was going to support his

children when they were a bit bigger on the wages that he got. I told

him he was fit to be a head-gardener now, and asked him if he was

content to be second all his life. He said, as things were at present,

he didn't like to chuck a sure thing for what was only a chance. He's

got no more enterprise than a dead dog. That's the curse of children.

They hang round you like a dead weight, and you never get on at all.

Thank Heaven, I've none of my own.

* * * * *

I will say this for myself, that I can generally foresee what's going to

happen. I'm not one of those that has to look at a newspaper to know

what the weather's going to be. It was the stables first, and then it

was the house, and I said at the time it would be the garden next. The

governor came along to me this morning with a sort of melancholy smile

on his face, and talked to me just as openly and frankly as if I'd been

a gentleman like himself.

"Adam," he said, "I've lost a lot of money lately. Been swindled out of

it. I daresay you heard?"

"I'd heard nothing definite, sir. I'm sure I'm very sorry to hear it

now."

"Well," he said, "what I came to tell you is that you'll have to get

along with one man less in the garden. I think Green will be the one to

go."

"Well, sir," I said, "I don't know if I might venture on a suggestion."

"What is it?"

"I was going to say that Green's wages don't amount to very much in the

year, not as compared with mine. If I might suggest, I think you might

do a lot worse than to let me go and make Townes the head man here,

with, say, a small rise. That'd save a lot of money, and I know you'd

find Townes satisfactory."

"Does he know enough about it?"

"To speak plainly, by this time he knows as much about it as I do. He's

one of the cleverest and smartest men I ever had under me, and he's a

beggar to work as well. He's never done one single thing wrong since

he's been here."

"What about yourself, Adam? I thought you were attached to the place. I

didn't think you'd ever want to leave my service."

"No, sir, I've been very well suited here. But then, you see, it all

fits in. I could take a rather bigger place. Before I came here I'd ten

men under me. And I should feel quite comfortable if Townes was taking

on the work, for he knows how things ought to be done."

So it's all settled. Townes has got a grin on him that would reach from

here to London, and would keep on thanking me all day if I didn't tell

him to shut his head and get on with his work. I may be leaving, but so

long as I am here I'll see proper order kept.

That kid of his, the one they call Hilda, isn't pleased at all. She says

that if I go she'll come with me.

I wish to God she would.

THE SCENT

There was no one but myself in the smaller of the two smoking-rooms when

he entered. I had picked up an evening paper, and was boring myself with

it for a few minutes in front of the fire, before going on to bore

myself somewhere else. He walked rapidly to the fireplace and rang the

bell, and then turned abruptly to me.

"Hullo! How are you! Didn't know you were here." Then he caught sight of

the evening paper in my hands and asked me for God's sake to put that

thing down. I put it down and asked him what was the matter. He was very

pale and had just the appearance of a man whose nerves were suffering

from over-strain.

"I must tell you," he said abruptly. "I'm glad I found you. It's the

most perfectly--"

He stopped there because the waiter who answered the bell had just

entered. He ordered some brandy and resumed again.

"You will laugh your head off by the time I have finished my story,

ghastly though it is. You won't believe a word of it. See here."

He picked up the paper which I had thrown down, opened it rapidly, and

handed it to me with his finger on one particular paragraph. The

paragraph referred to an inquest on a somewhat commonplace suicide in

Soho. The suicide, an Italian judging by his name, had flung himself

from a window on the first floor, and had broken his neck on the

pavement. Evidence was given by those who knew him that he had been very

queer in his manners of late, and the usual verdict had been returned.

"Well?" I said.

"It's God's mercy that I wasn't a witness at that inquest."

"What does it matter?" I replied. "I suppose you saw the accident. You

are required to go and say that; it doesn't hurt you. Nobody thinks any

the worse of you. It may be a little tiresome, but there is nothing to

bring you to this condition, even if you had really given evidence,

which it seems you haven't."

The waiter brought the brandy. He drank it, ordered another, and

continued more quietly.

"I am afraid I have let the thing prey on my mind a little. I confess

that I have had a shock. The story is not at all what you imagine. I did

not witness the accident; it was only within the last two hours that I

heard of it, but I know how it was that it happened."

He paused. I selected another cigar, lit it, and said nothing. He

continued:

"You know me well enough to know my interest in anything which is a

little out of the way. I will even run some slight risk to meet and talk

with a man who is not as other men are, or, better still, a woman who is

not as other women are. I have a fancy for human curiosities; I should

like to take a museum and collect them."

"Yes," I said, "I know that. You will get yourself into trouble one of

these days."

He went on speaking.

"About a week ago I went down Wardour Street and saw an Italian looking

in at a shop window. I did not know that he was an Italian at the time.

The national characteristics were not very strongly marked in him. He

was quite well dressed, rather like a well-to-do young City man. His

head was abnormal. The breadth from the end of the eyebrow to the ear

was enormous. His eyes were not of the same colour; his skin was like

parchment; he continually moved the tip of his nose. His nostrils opened

and shut. He looked to me to be a very queer beast indeed, and I meant

to talk to him.

"After a while he went into a restaurant. I waited ten minutes and then

went in after him. I sat down at the same table, and, by way of opening

a conversation, knocked over his glass of claret, breaking the glass.

Then, of course, I apologised and ordered a waiter to replace it. He at

once countermanded the order, and turned to me, saying in excellent

English, 'Pray do not trouble. I had quite finished with it.'

"'But,' I said, 'you must let me. Your glass was untouched.'

"'Yes,' he said, 'but I never drink it.'

"I looked amazed. 'I could explain,' he added, 'but it is a little

difficult to understand, and it would bore you.'

"'The only things that I care about,' I replied, 'are the things which

are not ordinary, and are a little difficult to understand. Unless you

are a dipsomaniac, triumphing over temptation, I fail to see why you

should order wine which you have no intention of drinking.'

"'Your explanation is wrong,' he replied. 'I ordered the claret because

I wanted to smell it.'

"As he seemed to find that conclusive, I observed that even that did not

clear the thing up.

"'You must know,' he said a little impatiently, 'that with some people

the scents of different objects have curious results. The possibilities

implied in the sense of smell are enormous. In most people they are

undeveloped; in very few are they at all understood. The connection

between a scent and a memory has been noticed. I have seen a woman who

smelt wallflowers for the first time for ten years burst into tears.

The scent of eau de Cologne is supposed to be refreshing, and that of

ammonia to be vivifying, and that of ether sickening. No scent possesses

the very curious attraction for a human being that valerian does for the

lower animals.'

"'The whole art of obtaining a new sensation by the use of scents is

absolutely unknown to most people. Most women divide scents vaguely into

opaque and transparent; most virtuous women prefer the transparent. But

that is really as far as they have gone. As for the effect of those

scents which are not pleasant to anybody, and therefore are generally

called by an unpleasant name, there seems to be no knowledge at all.'

"'I knew a case,' I said, 'of a gardener who had to work in a hothouse

filled with lilies-of-the-valley. He fainted away.'

"My Italian friend took up the story.

"'And when he recovered consciousness he was angry and entreated to be

put back again?'

"'Yes,' I said, 'but how did you know it?'

"'Because I know the effect of different scents.'

"I was more fascinated than ever, and made him talk for a long time.

Several times he seemed to be hesitating whether or not to tell me

something, and I urged him on. It came at last. He had got a secret. He

had invented a scent and was assured of the marvellous power of it, but

not of the whole of its effects, afterwards or immediate. These he was

investigating. 'And,' he added impressively, 'it gives one an entirely

new way of living.'

"'I wish,' I said, 'that you were a poor man wanting money with which to

carry on your experiments. If I offered to finance you perhaps you would

let me witness some of them. I love nothing better than to see something

new.'

"'I do not want any money,' he answered laughing. 'My workshop is near

here, and I will show it to you if you care to take the risk of coming.'

"'I will come,' I replied, 'with pleasure.'

"And we both walked out together. He took me up a side-street, and then

up a precipitous staircase to the first floor of a dingy-looking house.

He had three large rooms there, opening into one another. He made me

wait in the first, which was somewhat poorly furnished as a library, and

he went through into the others. After about ten minutes he came back

and fetched me through the second room, where a lot of things were

cooking over tiny little spirit lamps, and into the third. The third was

furnished as the first, but it was much more luxurious. He opened a

corner cupboard and took down an ordinary glass stopper bottle,

unlabelled and containing a colourless liquid.

"'That is it,' he said smiling; 'that is what makes all things new.'

"Of course by this time I knew he was cracked, but I asked him how.

"'After frequent inhalations of this scent,' he said, 'one loses all

sense of limitations or conditions. One believes that one can walk

straight through a brick wall, or fly in the air, or live in the year

one, or in the year two million, or in any intervening year. One is sure

that he can do anything which it occurs to him that he would like to do.

One has a feeling of complete omnipotence, and that means a feeling of

complete happiness. No one conscious of a limitation can be completely

happy. At present the effects are very transient, but I may be able to

improve upon that.'

"'One moment,' I said. 'This scent does not really remove limitations

and conditions.'

"'Subjectively, yes, objectively, no; but that matters little. Nothing

can be unreal to us at the time that we fully believe it to be real. It

is because the effects are illusive that I now refrain from

experimenting with myself unless there is someone in the room with me.

It is a hard struggle to keep off it. Frankly, I was very glad when you

suggested that you should come here. Now, watch me.'

"He removed the stopper, and for perhaps two minutes continued to inhale

the perfume. Then he put the stopper back again in the bottle and set it

down on the table by his side. He did not change in appearance in the

least. Half-jokingly I asked him if he could now write stories like Mr

Rudyard Kipling.

"'Better,' he said, 'infinitely better. They are nothing. I will show

you one very short thing.'

"He took paper, pen and ink, and covered one sheet with feverish haste.

Then he handed it to me with an air of triumph. It was absolute nonsense

from beginning to end, and absolutely incoherent. There were phrases in

it which we had used in our conversation, phrases which he might have

seen in advertisements on hoardings, two or three lines of a song which

is very popular just now, the whole strung together anyhow. I looked

over it.

"'Capital,' I said; 'and can you fly?'

"'Of course.' He got up and opened the window. I let him climb up on the

ledge, where a nervous man would certainly have fallen. I saved him only

just in time, and he was angry with me. As I told him unfortunately I

was not able to fly and wished for his company, he sat down and talked

rubbish about the things which he said he could do for about five

minutes. Then he stretched himself and yawned.

"'It has passed off now,' he said. I had a long argument with him, but

it was of no use. He would not give up the bottle and he would not

promise to leave it alone in the future, and he would not tell me what

he called it. To irritate him I said that the whole thing was a fraud

from beginning to end; the bottle contained water, and nothing else. I

picked it up, took a long sniff at it, and went out.

"In the street a moment later I called a cabman and told him to drive to

Downing Street. I wanted to show Lord Salisbury the means of destroying

any nation. I had the power of destroying any nation, and I wished to

use it for the benefit of England. Long before the cab reached Downing

Street I also stretched my arms and yawned, and knew that the effect had

gone off. I drove back to my chambers.

"To-day I read of the suicide. He had tried to fly and he did it because

I suggested it to him when he was in that state the other day. It was my

fault, really."

* * * * *

He picked up his second glass of brandy and began sipping it. He talked

it over for a long time, but he would not contradict himself or be

shaken in any way.

It is at any rate perfectly true that at the sale of the suicide's

property he made some large purchases. I found that out afterwards from

the auctioneer.

He is living abroad now.

A SELECTION OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY METHUEN AND COMPANY LIMITED

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CONTENTS

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Methuen's Sixpenny Books 29

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=Addleshaw (Percy).=

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. Illustrated. _Second Edition. Demy 8vo.

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See Bennett (W.H.).