II

Ambrose dismissed John, the man, and James, the boy, and told them he

would have no need of their services for some days.

"I am going away for a little holiday," he said. "The letters can await

my return. You may both go down to Brighton for a week, and I will pay

your expenses. It is right that you should have a little change of air

more than once a year, so away with you both, and don't let me hear of

you until Monday next."

James looked at John and John looked at James. Was their excellent

employer demented, then, or had they understood him incorrectly?

"Not," said John, when they were alone together, "that I particularly

wished to go to Brighton just now, but there you are. Half the pleasure

in life, my boy, is wanting to do things, and when you have to do them

without wanting it, even though they are pleasant things, somehow all

the savour has gone out of the salt, so to speak. But, of course, we

shall have to go, seeing that we couldn't tell Mr. Cleaver a lie."

James was a little astonished at that, for he had told thousands of

lies in his brief life, though now he really had no desire to tell one

at all.

"I shall be glad to get away from here for a few days, any'ow," he

said; "it's so 'ot and close, and when you go near the safe in the

other horfice it's just as though you stood by a roaring fire. Good

thing, Mr. John, that the thing is fire-proof, or we might have the

whole show burned down, as Mr. Ambrose hisself was saying. 'Very 'ot

for the time of year, James,' says he, and 'burnin, 'ot,' says I. We'll

find it cooler at Brighton, Mr. John, and perhaps we can go to the

pictures, though I'm fed up with all them rotten stories about crooks

and such like, and so are you, I'm sure."

Mr. John said that he was, though he was surprised at such an opinion

emanating from James. When they locked up the inner office--their

master being gone home--they discovered in the fire-grate the ashes of

what had been a formidable-looking document, and it really did seem as

though the concrete upon which the great safe stood had become quite

hot, but there was no visible sign of fire, and so they went off,

wondering and contented, but by no means in a mood of exhilaration, as

properly they should have been.

Ambrose had taken a cab at his own door, and his first visit was to the

Bond Street jeweller who had sold him the opals.

He was quite sure that he had shut up the devil in his office safe, and

as he drove it seemed to him that he became conscious of a new world

round about him, though just how it was new he could not have told you.

Everybody wore a look of great content--there was subdued laughter but

no real merriment--nor did any hasten as though he had real business to

do; while the very taxi-cabs drove with circumspection, and actually

waited for old ladies to cross the street before them. When his own cab

stopped he gave the man half a crown as usual; but the driver called

him back and pointed out his error.

"Excuse me, sir, eighteenpence is the fare with threepence for my

gratuity, that makes one and ninepence. So I have to give you ninepence

back, although I thank you all the same."

Ambrose pocketed the money, quite insensible of anything but the man's

civility, and entered immediately into the sanctum of the great

jeweller. He found that worthy a little distrait and far from any

desire to do big business. In fact, his first words told of his coming

retirement from an occupation which had enriched him during a good

forty years of profit and rarely of loss.

"The fact is, Mr. Cleaver, that I foresee the day coming when women

will wear no jewellery. Already the spirit of competition has passed,

and it is by competition and the pride of competition that this trade

has flourished. A woman buys a rope of pearls because another woman

wears one. Lady A cannot allow Lady B to have more valuable diamonds

than she possesses. Very few really admire the gems for their own sake,

and when you think of the crimes that have been committed because of

them, the envious passions they arouse, and the swindles to which they

give birth, then, indeed, we may wish that every precious stone lay

deep at the bottom of the sea."

"But, my dear sir, are you not thus banishing much beauty from the

world--did not the Almighty create precious stones for pretty women to

wear?"

The jeweller shrugged his shoulders, sweeping aside carelessly some

priceless pearls that lay on the table before him.

"The Almighty created them to lie securely in their shells, or deep in

the caverns of the earth; for the rivers to wash them with sweet waters

or the lurid fire to shape them in the bowls of the mountains. The

beauties given us to enjoy are those upon which our eyes may light in

the woodlands or from the heights--the glory of the sunset, the

stillness of the sea, the thousand hues of a garden of flowers, or the

cascade as it falls from the mountain top. These things are common to

all, but the precious stone is too often for the neck or the fingers of

the harlot and the adventuress. No, sir, I shall retire from this

business and seek out some quiet spot where I can await with composure

the solemn moment of dissolution we all must face."

Ambrose was almost too astonished to speak.

"I admire your philosophy," he said at length, "but the fact is, that I

want a diamond ring and a rope of pearls and if----"

"Ah," said the old man interrupting him, "it is odd that you should

speak of pearls, for I have just been telling my partner here that

whatever he may do in the future, he will find pearls of little profit

to him. What with imitations and the 'cultured' article, women are

coming already to despise them. But even if you take your _fiancée_ a

diamond ring, will she not merely say to herself: 'an excellent

beginning, now what is the next thing I can get out of him?' Be wise

and cultivate no such spirit of cupidity, foreign to a good woman's

nature but encouraged by the men, who, for vanity's sake, heap presents

upon her. Take rather this little cross, set with pure amethysts, the

emblem of faith and so discover, my dear sir, whether she loves the man

or the jewel, for indeed but few women love both, as all their story

teaches us."

Ambrose took the cross and thanked the old man for his words of wisdom.

Another cab carried him on his way to Upper Gloucester Place where

Kitty Palmer then lived with her saintly mother--and as he went, he

reflected upon the jeweller's words.

"I'll put her to the proof," he said to himself, "if she likes this

twopenny halfpenny cross, she is a miracle among women. But, of course,

she won't like it and there'll be another scene. What a devil of a

temper she was in this morning and how she made the fur fly! If she's

like that now, I shall just take her into my arms and kiss her until

she's done fighting. After all, I wouldn't give sixpence for a woman

who had no spirit. It's their moods that make them so fascinating

--little devils that they are at their best!"

The arrival at the house cut short his ruminations and he hastened into

the well-known drawing-room and there waited impatiently while the maid

summoned Kitty from her bedroom. She came down immediately to his great

surprise--for usually she kept him waiting at least half an hour--and

her mood was strangely changed, he thought. A pretty, flaxen-haired,

blue-eyed, cream and white English type she was, but her chin spoke

also of determination and the eyes which could "look love to eyes that

looked again," upon occasion could also speak of anger which resented

all control. This afternoon, however, Kitty was as meek as a lamb. She

had become so utterly changed in an hour that Ambrose hardly knew her.

"My dear girl," he began, "I am so sorry that I lost my temper this

morning----"

"Oh, no--not you, Ambrose dear. It was I--of course it was awfully

silly and we won't go to Deauville if you don't want to. Let it be

Fontainebleau by all means--though really, it does not seem important

whether we do get married or don't while you love me. Love after all is

what matters, isn't it, Ambrose dearest?"

He had to say that it was, though he did not like her argument. When,

with some hesitation and not a little fear he showed her the little

gold cross, she admitted to his astonishment that it was one of the

prettiest things she had ever seen.

"Somehow," she said, "I do not seem to care much for jewellery now. It

has become so vulgar--the commoner the people, the more diamonds they

wear. I shall treasure this, darling--I'll wear it now at lunch. Of

course you are going to take me to lunch, aren't you? Suppose we go to

the Ritz grill-room, the restaurants are so noisy, and I know that you

like grill-rooms, don't you, dear?"

Ambrose said "yes" and they started off. Somehow he felt rather

depressed and he had to confess that Kitty--usually so smart--looked

quite shabby. She wore one of her oldest dresses and obviously had

neither powder on her face nor the lightest touch of the rouge which

became her so well. Moreover, she was listless beyond experience, and

when he asked her if she would go to the Savoy and dance that night,

she answered that she thought she would give up dancing altogether. It

quite took his breath away.

"Give up dancing--but, Kitty, you're mad about it!"

"No, dear, I was mad to be mad about it: but what good does it do to

anybody, just going up and down and round and round with a man you may

never see again. Surely we were not sent into the world to do that! Ask

the vicar of the parish what he thinks, or Doctor Lanfry, who is doing

such splendid work at the hospitals. I think we have to make good in

life, and dancing, surely, will not help us. So I mean to give it up,

and smoking and all horrid things. I'm sure you'll like me better for

that, dear; you know how jealous my dancing used to make you, but now

you'll never have any cause to be jealous again."

Ambrose did not know what to say. This seemed to him quite the flattest

lunch he had ever sat out with her, while, as for the people round

about, he thought he had never seen a duller lot. Perhaps, after all,

he had been a little hasty in shutting up the devil so unceremoniously,

but it made him laugh to think that the fellow would get no lunch

anyway and that his stock of cigars would hardly last him through the

day. "And at any rate," he argued, "the rascal will do no mischief

to-day."

He drove Kitty to the King's New Hospital when the stupid meal was

over--she was visiting some old people there--and while he waited for

her, he met Dr. Lanfry himself and had a little chat with that

benevolent old gentleman. Naturally their talk concerned the hospital

and he was not a little surprised to find the worthy doctor altogether

in an optimistic mood.

"Yes," he said, "we shall have no need of these costly places. Disease

is disappearing rapidly from our midst. I see the day coming when men

and women will go untroubled by any ailment from the cradle to the

grave. In some ways, I confess the world will be poorer. Think of all

the human sympathy which human suffering awakens--the profound love of

the mother for the ailing child, the sacrifice of those who wait and

watch by the beds of the sick, the agony of parting leading to the

eternal hope in the justice of God. All these things, the world will

miss when we conquer disease, and the spirit will be the poorer for

them. Indeed, I foresee the day when men will forget the existence of

God just because they have no need to pray for those who suffer; the

devil will have no work to do in that day; but, who knows, humanity may

be worse and not better because of his idleness."

Ambrose agreed with him, though he would never have expressed such

sentiments to Kitty. He found her a little sad when she came out of the

ward, and it seemed that all the patients were so very much better that

they cared but little for her kindly attentions, and when she tried to

read to them, most of them fell asleep. So she went back to Ambrose and

asked him to drive to the vicarage where she hoped to see Canon Kenny,

her good pastor, and find out if he could tell her of some work of

mercy to be done.

"I feel," she said, "that I must find out the sorrow in the world, I

must help it."

"But suppose, my dear, that there isn't any sorrow----"

"Oh, then the world would not be worth living in, I should go out to

the islands of the Pacific and become a missionary. Do you know,

Ambrose dear, I've often thought of putting on boys' clothes and going

to live in the wilderness. A boy seems so much more active than a girl,

and what does it matter since sex no longer counts?"

He looked at her aghast.

"Sex no longer counts!"

"No," she said in the simplest way, "people will become too spiritual

for that. You will have to love me as though I were your sister,

Ambrose----"

Ambrose gulped down a "d----n" and was quite relieved to find himself

presently in the study of the venerable canon, who was just leaving

England for a Continental holiday. He said that he was not tired, but

really there was very little work to do--and he added, with a laugh:

"It would almost appear, my children, as though some one had locked up

the devil and there was no more work left for us parsons."

"But that surely would be a great, good thing," exclaimed Ambrose,

astonished.

"In a way, yes," the canon rejoined, "but consider, all life depends

upon that impulse which comes of strife--strife of the body, strife of

the soul. I worship God believing He has called upon me to take my

share in fighting the evil which is in the world. Remove that evil, and

what is my inspiration? Beyond the grave, yes, there may be that sphere

of holiness to which the human condition contributes nothing--a sphere

in which all happiness, all goodness centres about the presence of the

Eternal--but here we know that man must strive or perish, must fight or

be conquered--must school his immortal soul in the fire of temptation

and of suffering. So, I say, it may even be a bad day for the world

could the devil be chained in bonds which even he could not burst. It

might even be the loss of the knowledge of the God by whom evil is

permitted to live that good may come."

This and much more he said, always in the tone of one who bared his

head to destiny and had a faith unconquerable. When they left him,

Kitty appeared to have made up her mind, and she spoke so earnestly

that even her lover could not argue with her.

"Ambrose, dear," she said, "I must see you no more, I shall devote my

life to good works. To-night I shall enter the Convent of the Little

Sisters at Kensington. It is a long, long good-bye, my dearest."

He did not answer her, but calling a taxi, he ordered the man to drive

to Throgmorton Street like the deuce.