The soldier and his girl rose, passing in front of him down the Row. He

watched their scarlet and blue figures, moving slowly towards the sun,

and another couple close to the rails, crossing those receding forms.

Very straight and tall, there was something exhilarating in the way this

new couple swung along, holding their heads up, turning towards each

other, to exchange words or smiles. Even at that distance they could be

seen to be of high fashion; in their gait was the almost insolent poise

of those who are above doubts and cares, certain of the world and of

themselves. The girl's dress was tawny brown, her hair and hat too of

the same hue, and the pursuing sunlight endowed her with a hazy

splendour. Then, Courtier saw who they were--that couple!

Except for an unconscious grinding of his teeth, he made no sound or

movement, so that they went by without seeing him. Her voice, though not

the words, came to him distinctly. He saw her hand slip up under

Harbinger's arm and swiftly down again. A smile, of whose existence he

was unaware, settled on his lips. He got up, shook himself, as a dog

shakes off a beating, and walked away, with his mouth set very firm.

CHAPTER XXIV

Left alone among the little mahogany tables of Gustard's, where the scent

of cake and of orange-flower water made happy all the air, Barbara had

sat for some minutes, her eyes cast down--as a child from whom a toy has

been taken contemplates the ground, not knowing precisely what she is

feeling. Then, paying one of the middle-aged females, she went out into

the Square. There a German band was playing Delibes' Coppelia; and the

murdered tune came haunting her, a very ghost of incongruity.

She went straight back to Valleys House. In the room where three hours

ago she had been left alone after lunch with Harbinger, her sister was

seated in the window, looking decidedly upset. In fact, Agatha had just

spent an awkward hour. Chancing, with little Ann, into that

confectioner's where she could best obtain a particularly gummy sweet

which she believed wholesome for her children, she had been engaged in

purchasing a pound, when looking down, she perceived Ann standing

stock-still, with her sudden little nose pointed down the shop, and her

mouth opening; glancing in the direction of those frank, enquiring eyes,

Agatha saw to her amazement her sister, and a man whom she recognized as

Courtier. With a readiness which did her complete credit, she placed a

sweet in Ann's mouth, and saying to the middle-aged female: "Then you'll

send those, please. Come, Ann!" went out. Shocks never coming singly,

she had no sooner reached home, than from her father she learned of the

development of Miltoun's love affair. When Barbara returned, she was

sitting, unfeignedly disturbed and grieved; unable to decide whether or

no she ought to divulge what she herself had seen, but withal buoyed-up

by that peculiar indignation of the essentially domestic woman, whose

ideals have been outraged.

Judging at once from the expression of her face that she must have heard

the news of Miltoun, Barbara said:

"Well, my dear Angel, any lecture for me?"

Agatha answered coldly:

"I think you were quite mad to take Mrs. Noel to him."

"The whole duty of woman," murmured Barbara, "includes a little madness."

Agatha looked at her in silence.

"I can't make you out," she said at last; "you're not a fool!"

"Only a knave."

"You may think it right to joke over the ruin of Miltoun's life,"

murmured Agatha; "I don't."

Barbara's eyes grew bright; and in a hard voice she answered:

"The world is not your nursery, Angel!"

Agatha closed her lips very tightly, as who should imply: "Then it ought

to be!" But she only answered:

"I don't think you know that I saw you just now in Gustard's."

Barbara eyed her for a moment in amazement, and began to laugh.

"I see," she said; "monstrous depravity--poor old Gustard's!" And still

laughing that dangerous laugh, she turned on her heel and went out.

At dinner and afterwards that evening she was very silent, having on her

face the same look that she wore out hunting, especially when in

difficulties of any kind, or if advised to 'take a pull.' When she got

away to her own room she had a longing to relieve herself by some kind of

action that would hurt someone, if only herself. To go to bed and toss

about in a fever--for she knew herself in these thwarted moods--was of no

use! For a moment she thought of going out. That would be fun, and hurt

them, too; but it was difficult. She did not want to be seen, and have

the humiliation of an open row. Then there came into her head the memory

of the roof of the tower, where she had once been as a little girl. She

would be in the air there, she would be able to breathe, to get rid of

this feverishness. With the unhappy pleasure of a spoiled child taking

its revenge, she took care to leave her bedroom door open, so that her

maid would wonder where she was, and perhaps be anxious, and make them

anxious. Slipping through the moonlit picture gallery on to the landing,

outside her father's sanctum, whence rose the stone staircase leading to

the roof, she began to mount. She was breathless when, after that

unending flight of stairs she emerged on to the roof at the extreme

northern end of the big house, where, below her, was a sheer drop of a

hundred feet. At first she stood, a little giddy, grasping the rail that

ran round that garden of lead, still absorbed in her brooding, rebellious

thoughts. Gradually she lost consciousness of everything save the scene

before her. High above all neighbouring houses, she was almost appalled

by the majesty of what she saw. This night-clothed city, so remote and

dark, so white-gleaming and alive, on whose purple hills and valleys grew

such myriad golden flowers of light, from whose heart came this deep

incessant murmur--could it possibly be the same city through which she

had been walking that very day! From its sleeping body the supreme

wistful spirit had emerged in dark loveliness, and was low-flying down

there, tempting her. Barbara turned round, to take in all that amazing

prospect, from the black glades of Hyde Park, in front, to the powdery

white ghost of a church tower, away to the East. How marvellous was this

city of night! And as, in presence of that wide darkness of the sea

before dawn, her spirit had felt little and timid within her--so it felt

now, in face of this great, brooding, beautiful creature, whom man had

made. She singled out the shapes of the Piccadilly hotels, and beyond

them the palaces and towers of Westminster and Whitehall; and everywhere

the inextricable loveliness of dim blue forms and sinuous pallid lines of

light, under an indigo-dark sky. Near at hand, she could see plainly the

still-lighted windows, the motorcars gliding by far down, even the tiny

shapes of people walking; and the thought that each of them meant someone

like herself, seemed strange.

Drinking of this wonder-cup, she began to experience a queer

intoxication, and lost the sense of being little; rather she had the

feeling of power, as in her dream at Monkland. She too, as well as this

great thing below her, seemed to have shed her body, to be emancipated

from every barrier-floating deliciously identified with air. She seemed

to be one with the enfranchised spirit of the city, drowned in perception

of its beauty. Then all that feeling went, and left her frowning,

shivering, though the wind from the West was warm. Her whole adventure of

coming up here seemed bizarre, ridiculous. Very stealthily she crept

down, and had reached once more the door into 'the picture gallery, when

she heard her mother's voice say in amazement: "That you, Babs?" And

turning, saw her coming from the doorway of the sanctum.

Of a sudden very cool, with all her faculties about her, Barbara smiled,

and stood looking at Lady Valleys, who said with hesitation:

"Come in here, dear, a minute, will you?"

In that room resorted to for comfort, Lord Valleys was standing with his

back to the hearth, and an expression on his face that wavered between

vexation and decision. The doubt in Agatha's mind whether she should

tell or no, had been terribly resolved by little Ann, who in a pause of

conversation had announced: "We saw Auntie Babs and Mr. Courtier in

Gustard's, but we didn't speak to them."

Upset by the events of the afternoon, Lady Valleys had not shown her

usual 'savoir faire'. She had told her husband. A meeting of this sort

in a shop celebrated for little save its wedding cakes was in a sense of

no importance; but, being disturbed already by the news of Miltoun, it

seemed to them both nothing less than sinister, as though the heavens

were in league for the demolition of their house. To Lord Valleys it was

peculiarly mortifying, because of his real admiration for his daughter,

and because he had paid so little attention to his wife's warning of some

weeks back. In consultation, however, they had only succeeded in

deciding that Lady Valleys should talk with her. Though without much

spiritual insight, they had, each of them, a certain cool judgment; and

were fully alive to the danger of thwarting Barbara. This had not

prevented Lord Valleys from expressing himself strongly on the

'confounded unscrupulousness of that fellow,' and secretly forming his

own plan for dealing with this matter. Lady Valleys, more deeply

conversant with her daughter's nature, and by reason of femininity more

lenient towards the other sex, had not tried to excuse Courtier, but had

thought privately: 'Babs is rather a flirt.' For she could not

altogether help remembering herself at the same age.

Summoned thus unexpectedly, Barbara, her lips very firmly pressed

together, took her stand, coolly enough, by her father's writing-table.

Seeing her suddenly appear, Lord Valleys instinctively relaxed his frown;

his experience of men and things, his thousands of diplomatic hours,

served to give him an air of coolness and detachment which he was very

far from feeling. In truth he would rather have faced a hostile mob than

his favourite daughter in such circumstances. His tanned face with its

crisp grey moustache, his whole head indeed, took on, unconsciously, a

more than ordinarily soldier-like appearance. His eyelids drooped a

little, his brows rose slightly.

She was wearing a blue wrap over her evening frock, and he seized

instinctively on that indifferent trifle to begin this talk.

"Ah! Babs, have you been out?"

Alive to her very finger-nails, with every nerve tingling, but showing no

sign, Barbara answered:

"No; on the roof of the tower."

It gave her a real malicious pleasure to feel the perplexity beneath her

father's dignified exterior. And detecting that covert mockery, Lord

Valleys said dryly:

"Star-gazing?"

Then, with that sudden resolution peculiar to him, as though he were

bored with having to delay and temporize, he added:

"Do you know, I doubt whether it's wise to make appointments in

confectioner's shops when Ann is in London."

The dangerous little gleam in Barbara's eyes escaped his vision but not

that of Lady Valleys, who said at once:

"No doubt you had the best of reasons, my dear."

Barbara curled her lip. Had it not been for the scene they had been

through that day with Miltoun, and for their very real anxiety, both

would have seen, then, that while their daughter was in this mood, least

said was soonest mended. But their nerves were not quite within control;

and with more than a touch of impatience Lord Valleys ejaculated:

"It doesn't appear to you, I suppose, to require any explanation?"

Barbara answered:

"No."

"Ah!" said Lord Valleys: "I see. An explanation can be had no doubt from

the gentleman whose sense of proportion was such as to cause him to

suggest such a thing."

"He did not suggest it. I did."

Lord Valleys' eyebrows rose still higher.

"Indeed!" he said.

"Geoffrey!" murmured Lady Valleys, "I thought I was to talk to Babs."

"It would no doubt be wiser."

In Barbara, thus for the first time in her life seriously reprimanded,

there was at work the most peculiar sensation she had ever felt, as if

something were scraping her very skin--a sick, and at the same time

devilish, feeling. At that moment she could have struck her father dead.

But she showed nothing, having lowered the lids of her eyes.

"Anything else?" she said.

Lord Valleys' jaw had become suddenly more prominent.

"As a sequel to your share in Miltoun's business, it is peculiarly

entrancing."

"My dear," broke in Lady Valleys very suddenly, "Babs will tell me. It's

nothing, of course."

Barbara's calm voice said again:

"Anything else?"

The repetition of this phrase in that maddening, cool voice almost broke

down her father's sorely tried control.

"Nothing from you," he said with deadly coldness. "I shall have the

honour of telling this gentleman what I think of him."

At those words Barbara drew herself together, and turned her eyes from

one face to the other.

Under that gaze, which for all its cool hardness, was so furiously alive,

neither Lord nor Lady Valleys could keep quite still. It was as if she

had stripped from them the well-bred mask of those whose spirits, by long

unquestioning acceptance of themselves, have become inelastic,

inexpansive, commoner than they knew. In fact a rather awful moment!

Then Barbara said:

"If there's nothing else, I'm going to bed. Goodnight!"

And as calmly as she had come in, she went out.

When she had regained her room, she locked the door, threw off her cloak,

and looked at herself in the glass. With pleasure she saw how firmly her

teeth were clenched, how her breast was heaving, and how her eyes seemed

to be stabbing herself. And all the time she thought:

"Very well! My dears! Very well!"

CHAPTER XXV

In that mood of rebellious mortification she fell asleep. And, curiously

enough, dreamed not of him whom she had in mind been so furiously

defending, but of Harbinger. She fancied herself in prison, lying in a

cell fashioned like the drawing-room at Sea house; and in the next cell,

into which she could somehow look, Harbinger was digging at the wall with

his nails. She could distinctly see the hair on the back of his hands,

and hear him breathing. The hole he was making grew larger and larger.

Her heart began to beat furiously; she awoke.

She rose with a new and malicious resolution to show no sign of

rebellion, to go through the day as if nothing had happened, to deceive

them all, and then--! Exactly what 'and then' meant, she did not explain

even to herself.

In accordance with this plan of action she presented an untroubled front

at breakfast, went out riding with little Ann, and shopping with her

mother afterwards. Owing to this news of Miltoun the journey to Scotland

had been postponed. She parried with cool ingenuity each attempt made by

Lady Valleys to draw her into conversation on the subject of that meeting

at Gustard's, nor would she talk of her brother; in every other way she

was her usual self. In the afternoon she even volunteered to accompany

her mother to old Lady Harbinger's in the neighbourhood of Prince's Gate.

She knew that Harbinger would be there, and with the thought of meeting

that other at 'five o'clock,' had a cynical pleasure in thus encountering

him. It was so complete a blind to them all! Then, feeling that she was

accomplishing a masterstroke; she even told him, in her mother's hearing,

that she would walk home, and he might come if he cared. He did care.

But when once she had begun to swing along in the mellow afternoon, under

the mellow trees, where the air was sweetened by the South-West wind, all

that mutinous, reckless mood of hers vanished, she felt suddenly happy

and kind, glad to be walking with him. To-day too he was cheerful, as if

determined not to spoil her gaiety; and she was grateful for this. Once

or twice she even put her hand up and touched his sleeve, calling his

attention to birds or trees, friendly, and glad, after all those hours of

bitter feelings, to be giving happiness. When they parted at the door of

Valleys House, she looked back at him with a queer, half-rueful smile.

For, now the hour had come!

In a little unfrequented ante-room, all white panels and polish, she sat

down to wait. The entrance drive was visible from here; and she meant to

encounter Courtier casually in the hall. She was excited, and a little

scornful of her own excitement. She had expected him to be punctual, but

it was already past five; and soon she began to feel uneasy, almost

ridiculous, sitting in this room where no one ever came. Going to the

window, she looked out.

A sudden voice behind her, said:

"Auntie Babs!".

Turning, she saw little Ann regarding her with those wide, frank, hazel

eyes. A shiver of nerves passed through Barbara.

"Is this your room? It's a nice room, isn't it?"

She answered:

"Quite a nice room, Ann."

"Yes. I've never been in here before. There's somebody just come, so I

must go now."

Barbara involuntarily put her hands up to her cheeks, and quickly passed

with her niece into the hall. At the very door the footman William

handed her a note. She looked at the superscription. It was from

Courtier. She went back into the room. Through its half-closed door the

figure of little Ann could be seen, with her legs rather wide apart, and

her hands clasped on her low-down belt, pointing up at William her sudden

little nose. Barbara shut the door abruptly, broke the seal, and read:

"DEAR LADY BARBARA,

"I am sorry to say my interview with your brother was fruitless.

"I happened to be sitting in the Park just now, and I want to wish

you every happiness before I go. It has been the greatest pleasure

to know you. I shall never have a thought of you that will not be my

pride; nor a memory that will not help me to believe that life is

good. If I am tempted to feel that things are dark, I shall remember

that you are breathing this same mortal air. And to beauty and joy'

I shall take off my hat with the greater reverence, that once I was

permitted to walk and talk, with you. And so, good-bye, and God

bless you.

"Your faithful servant,

"CHARLES COURTIER."

Her cheeks burned, quick sighs escaped her lips; she read the letter

again, but before getting to the end could not see the words for mist.

If in that letter there had been a word of complaint or even of regret!

She could not let him go like this, without good-bye, without any

explanation at all. He should not think of her as a cold, stony flirt,

who had been merely stealing a few weeks' amusement out of him. She

would explain to him at all events that it had not been that. She would

make him understand that it was not what he thought--that something in

her wanted--wanted----! Her mind was all confused. "What was it?" she

thought: "What did I do?" And sore with anger at herself, she screwed the

letter up in her glove, and ran out. She walked swiftly down to

Piccadilly, and crossed into the Green Park. There she passed Lord

Malvezin and a friend strolling up towards Hyde Park Corner, and gave

them a very faint bow. The composure of those two precise and

well-groomed figures sickened her just then. She wanted to run, to fly

to this meeting that should remove from him the odious feelings he must

have, that she, Barbara Caradoc, was a vulgar enchantress, a common

traitress and coquette! And his letter--without a syllable of reproach!

Her cheeks burned so, that she could not help trying to hide them from

people who passed.

As she drew nearer to his rooms she walked slower, forcing herself to

think what she should do, what she should let him do! But she continued

resolutely forward. She would not shrink now--whatever came of it! Her

heart fluttered, seemed to stop beating, fluttered again. She set her

teeth; a sort of desperate hilarity rose in her. It was an adventure!

Then she was gripped by the feeling that had come to her on the roof.

The whole thing was bizarre, ridiculous! She stopped, and drew the letter

from her glove. It might be ridiculous, but it was due from her; and

closing her lips very tight, she walked on. In thought she was already

standing close to him, her eyes shut, waiting, with her heart beating

wildly, to know what she would feel when his lips had spoken, perhaps

touched her face or hand. And she had a sort of mirage vision of

herself, with eyelashes resting on her cheeks, lips a little parted, arms

helpless at her sides. Yet, incomprehensibly, his figure was invisible.

She discovered then that she was standing before his door.

She rang the bell calmly, but instead of dropping her hand, pressed the

little bare patch of palm left open by the glove to her face, to see

whether it was indeed her own cheek flaming so.

The door had been opened by some unseen agency, disclosing a passage and

flight of stairs covered by a red carpet, at the foot of which lay an

old, tangled, brown-white dog full of fleas and sorrow. Unreasoning

terror seized on Barbara; her body remained rigid, but her spirit began

flying back across the Green Park, to the very hall of Valleys House.

Then she saw coming towards her a youngish woman in a blue apron, with

mild, reddened eyes.

"Is this where Mr. Courtier lives?"

"Yes, miss." The teeth of the young woman were few in number and rather

black; and Barbara could only stand there saying nothing, as if her body

had been deserted between the sunlight and this dim red passage, which

led to-what?

The woman spoke again:

"I'm sorry if you was wanting him, miss, he's just gone away."

Barbara felt a movement in her heart, like the twang and quiver of an

elastic band, suddenly relaxed. She bent to stroke the head of the old

dog, who was smelling her shoes. The woman said:

"And, of course, I can't give you his address, because he's gone to

foreign parts."

With a murmur, of whose sense she knew nothing, Barbara hurried out into

the sunshine. Was she glad? Was she sorry? At the corner of the street

she turned and looked back; the two heads, of the woman and the dog, were

there still, poked out through the doorway.

A horrible inclination to laugh seized her, followed by as horrible a

desire to cry.

CHAPTER XXVI

By the river the West wind, whose murmuring had visited Courtier and

Miltoun the night before, was bringing up the first sky of autumn.

Slow-creeping and fleecy grey, the clouds seemed trying to overpower a

sun that shone but fitfully even thus early in the day. While Audrey

Noel was dressing sunbeams danced desperately on the white wall, like

little lost souls with no to-morrow, or gnats that wheel and wheel in

brief joy, leaving no footmarks on the air. Through the chinks of a side

window covered by a dark blind some smoky filaments of light were

tethered to the back of her mirror. Compounded of trembling grey

spirals, so thick to the eye that her hand felt astonishment when it

failed to grasp them, and so jealous as ghosts of the space they

occupied, they brought a moment's distraction to a heart not happy. For

how could she be happy, her lover away from her now thirty hours, without

having overcome with his last kisses the feeling of disaster which had

settled on her when he told her of his resolve. Her eyes had seen deeper

than his; her instinct had received a message from Fate.

To be the dragger-down, the destroyer of his usefulness; to be not the

helpmate, but the clog; not the inspiring sky, but the cloud! And because

of a scruple which she could not understand! She had no anger with that

unintelligible scruple; but her fatalism, and her sympathy had followed

it out into his future. Things being so, it could not be long before he

felt that her love was maiming him; even if he went on desiring her, it

would be only with his body. And if, for this scruple, he were capable

of giving up his public life, he would be capable of living on with her

after his love was dead! This thought she could not bear. It stung to

the very marrow of her nerves. And yet surely Life could not be so cruel

as to have given her such happiness meaning to take it from her! Surely

her love was not to be only one summer's day; his love but an embrace,

and then--for ever nothing!

This morning, fortified by despair, she admitted her own beauty. He

would, he must want her more than that other life, at the very thought of

which her face darkened. That other life so hard, and far from her! So

loveless, formal, and yet--to him so real, so desperately, accursedly

real! If he must indeed give up his career, then surely the life they

could live together would make up to him--a life among simple and sweet

things, all over the world, with music and pictures, and the flowers and

all Nature, and friends who sought them for themselves, and in being kind

to everyone, and helping the poor and the unfortunate, and loving each

other! But he did not want that sort of life! What was the good of

pretending that he did? It was right and natural he should want, to use

his powers! To lead and serve! She would not have him otherwise: With

these thoughts hovering and darting within her, she went on twisting and

coiling her dark hair, and burying her heart beneath its lace defences.

She noted too, with her usual care, two fading blossoms in the bowl of

flowers on her dressing-table, and, removing their, emptied out the water

and refilled the bowl.

Before she left her bedroom the sunbeams had already ceased to dance, the

grey filaments of light were gone. Autumn sky had come into its own.

Passing the mirror in the hall which was always rough with her, she had

not courage to glance at it. Then suddenly a woman's belief in the power

of her charm came to her aid; she felt almost happy--surely he must love

her better than his conscience! But that confidence was very tremulous,

ready to yield to the first rebuff. Even the friendly fresh--cheeked maid

seemed that morning to be regarding her with compassion; and all the

innate sense, not of 'good form,' but of form, which made her shrink from

anything that should disturb or hurt another, or make anyone think she

was to be pitied, rose up at once within her; she became more than ever

careful to show nothing even to herself. So she passed the morning,

mechanically doing the little usual things. An overpowering longing was

with her all the time, to get him away with her from England, and see

whether the thousand beauties she could show him would not fire him with

love of the things she loved. As a girl she had spent nearly three years

abroad. And Eustace had never been to Italy, nor to her beloved mountain

valleys! Then, the remembrance of his rooms at the Temple broke in on

that vision, and shattered it. No Titian's feast of gentian, tawny

brown, and alpen-rose could intoxicate the lover of those books, those

papers, that great map. And the scent of leather came to her now as

poignantly as if she were once more flitting about noiselessly on her

business of nursing. Then there rushed through her again the warm

wonderful sense that had been with her all those precious days--of love

that knew secretly of its approaching triumph and fulfilment; the

delicious sense of giving every minute of her time, every thought, and

movement; and all the sweet unconscious waiting for the divine,

irrevocable moment when at last she would give herself and be his. The

remembrance too of how tired, how sacredly tired she had been, and of how

she had smiled all the time with her inner joy of being tired for him.

The sound of the bell startled her. His telegram had said, the

afternoon! She determined to show nothing of the trouble darkening the

whole world for her, and drew a deep breath, waiting for his kiss.

It was not Miltoun, but Lady Casterley.

The shock sent the blood buzzing into her temples. Then she noticed that

the little figure before her was also trembling; drawing up a chair, she

said: "Won't you sit down?"

The tone of that old voice, thanking her, brought back sharply the memory

of her garden, at Monkland, bathed in the sweetness and shimmer of

summer, and of Barbara standing at her gate towering above this little

figure, which now sat there so silent, with very white face. Those

carved features, those keen, yet veiled eyes, had too often haunted her

thoughts; they were like a bad dream come true.

"My grandson is not here, is he?"

Audrey shook her head.

"We have heard of his decision. I will not beat about the bush with you.

It is a disaster for me a calamity. I have known and loved him since he

was born, and I have been foolish enough to dream, dreams about him. I

wondered perhaps whether you knew how much we counted on him. You must

forgive an old woman's coming here like this. At my age there are few

things that matter, but they matter very much."

And Audrey thought: "And at my age there is but one thing that matters,

and that matters worse than death." But she did not speak. To whom, to

what should she speak? To this hard old woman, who personified the

world? Of what use, words?

"I can say to you," went on the voice of the little figure, that seemed

so to fill the room with its grey presence, "what I could not bring

myself to say to others; for you are not hard-hearted."

A quiver passed up from the heart so praised to the still lips. No, she

was not hard-hearted! She could even feel for this old woman from whose

voice anxiety had stolen its despotism.

"Eustace cannot live without his career. His career is himself, he must

be doing, and leading, and spending his powers. What he has given you is

not his true self. I don't want to hurt you, but the truth is the truth,

and we must all bow before it. I may be hard, but I can respect sorrow."

To respect sorrow! Yes, this grey visitor could do that, as the wind

passing over the sea respects its surface, as the air respects the

surface of a rose, but to penetrate to the heart, to understand her

sorrow, that old age could not do for youth! As well try to track out

the secret of the twistings in the flight of those swallows out there

above the river, or to follow to its source the faint scent of the lilies

in that bowl! How should she know what was passing in here--this little

old woman whose blood was cold? And Audrey had the sensation of watching

someone pelt her with the rind and husks of what her own spirit had long

devoured. She had a longing to get up, and take the hand, the chill,

spidery hand of age, and thrust it into her breast, and say: "Feel that,

and cease!"

But, withal, she never lost her queer dull compassion for the owner of

that white carved face. It was not her visitor's fault that she had

come! Again Lady Casterley was speaking.

"It is early days. If you do not end it now, at once, it will only come

harder on you presently. You know how determined he is. He will not

change his mind. If you cut him off from his work in life, it will but

recoil on you. I can only expect your hatred, for talking like this, but

believe me, it's for your good, as well as his, in the long run."

A tumultuous heart-beating of ironical rage seized on the listener to

that speech. Her good! The good of a corse that the breath is just

abandoning; the good of a flower beneath a heel; the good of an old dog

whose master leaves it for the last time! Slowly a weight like lead

stopped all that fluttering of her heart. If she did not end it at once!

The words had now been spoken that for so many hours, she knew, had lain

unspoken within her own breast. Yes, if she did not, she could never

know a moment's peace, feeling that she was forcing him to a death in

life, desecrating her own love and pride! And the spur had been given by

another! The thought that someone--this hard old woman of the hard

world--should have shaped in words the hauntings of her love and pride

through all those ages since Miltoun spoke to her of his resolve; that

someone else should have had to tell her what her heart had so long known

it must do--this stabbed her like a knife! This, at all events, she

could not bear!

She stood up, and said:

"Please leave me now! I have a great many things to do, before I go."

With a sort of pleasure she saw a look of bewilderment cover that old

face; with a sort of pleasure she marked the trembling of the hands

raising their owner from the chair; and heard the stammering in the

voice: "You are going? Before-before he comes? You-you won't be seeing

him again?" With a sort of pleasure she marked the hesitation, which did

not know whether to thank, or bless, or just say nothing and creep away.

With a sort of pleasure she watched the flush mount in the faded cheeks,

the faded lips pressed together. Then, at the scarcely whispered words:

"Thank you, my dear!" she turned, unable to bear further sight or sound.

She went to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass, trying

to think of nothing. She heard the sound of wheels-Lady Casterley had

gone. And then, of all the awful feelings man or woman can know, she

experienced the worst: She could not cry!

At this most bitter and deserted moment of her life, she felt strangely

calm, foreseeing clearly, exactly; what she must do, and where go.

Quickly it must be done, or it would never be done! Quickly! And without

fuss! She put some things together, sent the maid out for a cab, and sat

down to write.

She must do and say nothing that could excite him, and bring back his

illness. Let it all be sober, reasonable! It would be easy to let him

know where she was going, to write a letter that would bring him flying

after her. But to write the calm, reasonable words that would keep him

waiting and thinking, till he never again came to her, broke her heart.

When she had finished and sealed the letter, she sat motionless with a

numb feeling in hands and brain, trying to realize what she had next to

do. To go, and that was all!

Her trunks had been taken down already. She chose the little hat that he

liked her best in, and over it fastened her thickest veil. Then, putting

on her travelling coat and gloves, she looked in the long mirror, and

seeing that there was nothing more to keep her, lifted her dressing bag,

and went down.

Over on the embankment a child was crying; and the passionate screaming

sound, broken by the gulping of tears, made her cover her lips, as though

she had heard her own escaped soul wailing out there.

She leaned out of the cab to say to the maid:

"Go and comfort that crying, Ella."

Only when she was alone in the train, secure from all eyes, did she give

way to desperate weeping. The white smoke rolling past the windows was

not more evanescent than her joy had been. For she had no illusions--it

was over! From first to last--not quite a year! But even at this moment,

not for all the world would she have been without her love, gone to its

grave, like a dead child that evermore would be touching her breast with

its wistful fingers.

CHAPTER XXVII

Barbara returning from her visit to Courtier's deserted rooms, was met at

Valleys House with the message: Would she please go at once to Lady

Casterley?

When, in obedience, she reached Ravensham, she found her grandmother and

Lord-Dennis in the white room. They were standing by one of the tall

windows, apparently contemplating the view. They turned indeed at sound

of Barbara's approach, but neither of them spoke or nodded. Not having

seen her grandfather since before Miltoun's illness, Barbara found it

strange to be so treated; she too took her stand silently before the

window. A very large wasp was crawling up the pane, then slipping down

with a faint buzz.

Suddenly Lady Casterley spoke.

"Kill that thing!"

Lord Dennis drew forth his handkerchief.

"Not with that, Dennis. It will make a mess. Take a paper knife."

"I was going to put it out," murmured Lord Dennis.

"Let Barbara with her gloves."

Barbara moved towards the pane.

"It's a hornet, I think," she said.

"So he is!" said Lord Dennis, dreamily:

"Nonsense," murmured Lady Casterley, "it's a common wasp."

"I know it's a hornet, Granny. The rings are darker."

Lady Casterley bent down; when she raised herself she had a slipper in

her hand.

"Don't irritate him!" cried Barbara, catching her wrist. But Lady

Casterley freed her hand.

"I will," she said, and brought the sole of the slipper down on the

insect, so that it dropped on the floor, dead. "He has no business in

here."

And, as if that little incident had happened to three other people, they

again stood silently looking through the window.

Then Lady Casterley turned to Barbara.

"Well, have you realized the mischief that you've done?"

"Ann!" murmured Lord Dennis.

"Yes, yes; she is your favourite, but that won't save her. This

woman--to her great credit--I say to her great credit--has gone away, so

as to put herself out of Eustace's reach, until he has recovered his

senses."

With a sharp-drawn breath Barbara said:

"Oh! poor thing!"

But on Lady Casterley's face had come an almost cruel look.

"Ah!" she said: "Exactly. But, curiously enough, I am thinking of

Eustace." Her little figure was quivering from head to foot: "This will

be a lesson to you not to play with fire!"

"Ann!" murmured Lord Dennis again, slipping his arm through Barbara's.

"The world," went on Lady Casterley, "is a place of facts, not of

romantic fancies. You have done more harm than can possibly be repaired.

I went to her myself. I was very much moved.' If it hadn't been for your

foolish conduct----"

"Ann!" said Lord Dennis once more.

Lady Casterley paused, tapping the floor with her little foot. Barbara's

eyes were gleaming.

"Is there anything else you would like to squash, dear?"

"Babs!" murmured Lord Dennis; but, unconsciously pressing his hand

against her heart, the girl went on.

"You are lucky to be abusing me to-day--if it had been yesterday----"

At these dark words Lady Casterley turned away, her shoes leaving little

dull stains on the polished floor.

Barbara raised to her cheek the fingers which she had been so

convulsively embracing. "Don't let her go on, uncle," she whispered,

"not just now!"

"No, no, my dear," Lord Dennis murmured, "certainly not--it is enough."

"It has been your sentimental folly," came Lady Casterley's voice from a

far corner, "which has brought this on the boy."

Responding to the pressure of the hand, back now at her waist, Barbara

did not answer; and the sound of the little feet retracing their steps

rose in the stillness. Neither of those two at the window turned their

heads; once more the feet receded, and again began coming back.

Suddenly Barbara, pointing to the floor, cried:

"Oh! Granny, for Heaven's sake, stand still; haven't you squashed the

hornet enough, even if he did come in where he hadn't any business?"

Lady Casterley looked down at the debris of the insect.

"Disgusting!" she said; but when she next spoke it was in a less hard,

more querulous voice.

"That man--what was his name--have you got rid of him?"

Barbara went crimson.

"Abuse my friends, and I will go straight home and never speak to you

again."

For a moment Lady Casterley looked almost as if she might strike her

granddaughter; then a little sardonic smile broke out on her face.

"A creditable sentiment!" she said.

Letting fall her uncle's hand, Barbara cried:

"In any case, I'd better go. I don't know why you sent for me."

Lady Casterley answered coldly:

"To let you and your mother know of this woman's most unselfish

behaviour; to put you on the 'qui vive' for what Eustace may do now; to

give you a chance to make up for your folly. Moreover to warn you

against----" she paused.

"Yes?"

"Let me----" interrupted Lord Dennis.

"No, Uncle Dennis, let Granny take her shoe!"

She had withdrawn against the wall, tall, and as it were, formidable,

with her head up. Lady Casterley remained silent.

"Have you got it ready?" cried Barbara: "Unfortunately he's flown!"

A voice said:

"Lord Miltoun."

He had come in quietly and quickly, preceding the announcement, and stood

almost touching that little group at the window before they caught sight

of him. His face had the rather ghastly look of sunburnt faces from

which emotion has driven the blood; and his eyes, always so much the most

living part of him, were full of such stabbing anger, that involuntarily

they all looked down.

"I want to speak to you alone," he said to Lady Casterley.

Visibly, for perhaps the first time in her life, that indomitable little

figure flinched. Lord Dennis drew Barbara away, but at the door he

whispered:

"Stay here quietly, Babs; I don't like the look of this."

Unnoticed, Barbara remained hovering.

The two voices, low, and so far off in the long white room, were

uncannily distinct, emotion charging each word with preternatural power

of penetration; and every movement of the speakers had to the girl's

excited eyes a weird precision, as of little figures she had once seen at

a Paris puppet show. She could hear Miltoun reproaching his grandmother

in words terribly dry and bitter. She edged nearer and nearer, till,

seeing that they paid no more heed to her than if she were an attendant

statue, she had regained her position by the window.

Lady Casterley was speaking.

"I was not going to see you ruined before my eyes, Eustace. I did what I

did at very great cost. I did my best for you."

Barbara saw Miltoun's face transfigured by a dreadful smile--the smile of

one defying his torturer with hate. Lady Casterley went on:

"Yes, you stand there looking like a devil. Hate me if you like--but

don't betray us, moaning and moping because you can't have the moon. Put

on your armour, and go down into the battle. Don't play the coward,

boy!"

Miltoun's answer cut like the lash of a whip.

"By God! Be silent!"

And weirdly, there was silence. It was not the brutality of the words,

but the sight of force suddenly naked of all disguise--like a fierce dog

let for a moment off its chain--which made Barbara utter a little

dismayed sound. Lady Casterley had dropped into a chair, trembling. And

without a look Miltoun passed her. If their grandmother had fallen dead,

Barbara knew he would not have stopped to see. She ran forward, but the

old woman waved her away.

"Go after him," she said, "don't let him go alone."

And infected by the fear in that wizened voice, Barbara flew.

She caught her brother as he was entering the taxi-cab in which he had

come, and without a word slipped in beside him. The driver's face

appeared at the window, but Miltoun only motioned with his head, as if to

say: Anywhere, away from here!

The thought flashed through Barbara: "If only I can keep him in here with

me!"

She leaned out, and said quietly:

"To Nettlefold, in Sussex--never mind your petrol--get more on the road.

You can have what fare you like. Quick!"

The man hesitated, looked in her face, and said:

"Very well; miss. By Dorking, ain't it?"

Barbara nodded.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The clock over the stables was chiming seven when Miltoun and Barbara

passed out of the tall iron gates, in their swift-moving small world,

that smelled faintly of petrol. Though the cab was closed, light spurts

of rain drifted in through the open windows, refreshing the girl's hot

face, relieving a little her dread of this drive. For, now that Fate had

been really cruel, now that it no longer lay in Miltoun's hands to save

himself from suffering, her heart bled for him; and she remembered to

forget herself. The immobility with which he had received her intrusion,

was ominous. And though silent in her corner, she was desperately

working all her woman's wits to discover a way of breaking into the house

of his secret mood. He appeared not even to have noticed that they had

turned their backs on London, and passed into Richmond Park.

Here the trees, made dark by rain, seemed to watch gloomily the progress

of this whirring-wheeled red box, unreconciled even yet to such harsh

intruders on their wind-scented tranquillity. And the deer, pursuing

happiness on the sweet grasses, raised disquieted noses, as who should

say: Poisoners of the fern, defilers of the trails of air!

Barbara vaguely felt the serenity out there in the clouds, and the trees,

and wind. If it would but creep into this dim, travelling prison, and

help her; if it would but come, like sleep, and steal away dark sorrow,

and in one moment make grief-joy. But it stayed outside on its wistful

wings; and that grand chasm which yawns between soul and soul remained

unbridged. For what could she say? How make him speak of what he was

going to do? What alternatives indeed were now before him? Would he

sullenly resign his seat, and wait till he could find Audrey Noel again?

But even if he did find her, they would only be where they were. She had

gone, in order not to be a drag on him--it would only be the same thing

all over again! Would he then, as Granny had urged him, put on his

armour, and go down into the fight? But that indeed would mean the end,

for if she had had the strength to go away now, she would surely never

come back and break in on his life a second time. And a grim thought

swooped down on Barbara. What if he resigned everything! Went out into

the dark! Men did sometimes--she knew--caught like this in the full

flush of passion. But surely not Miltoun, with his faith! 'If the

lark's song means nothing--if that sky is a morass of our invention--if

we are pettily creeping on, furthering nothing--persuade me of it, Babs,

and I'll bless you.' But had he still that anchorage, to prevent him

slipping out to sea? This sudden thought of death to one for whom life

was joy, who had never even seen the Great Stillness, was very

terrifying. She fixed her eyes on the back of the chauffeur, in his drab

coat with the red collar, finding some comfort in its solidity. They

were in a taxi-cab, in Richmond Park! Death--incongruous, incredible

death! It was stupid to be frightened! She forced herself to look at

Miltoun. He seemed to be asleep; his eyes were closed, his arms

folded--only a quivering of his eyelids betrayed him. Impossible to tell

what was going on in that grim waking sleep, which made her feel that she

was not there at all, so utterly did he seem withdrawn into himself!

He opened his eyes, and said suddenly:

"So you think I'm going to lay hands on myself, Babs?"

Horribly startled by this reading of her thoughts, Barbara could only

edge away and stammer:

"No; oh, no!"

"Where are we going in this thing?"

"Nettlefold. Would you like him stopped?"

"It will do as well as anywhere."

Terrified lest he should relapse into that grim silence, she timidly

possessed herself of his hand.

It was fast growing dark; the cab, having left the villas of Surbiton

behind, was flying along at great speed among pine-trees and stretches of

heather gloomy with faded daylight.

Miltoun said presently, in a queer, slow voice "If I want, I have only to

open that door and jump. You who believe that 'to-morrow we die'--give

me the faith to feel that I can free myself by that jump, and out I go!"

Then, seeming to pity her terrified squeeze of his hand, he added: "It's

all right, Babs; we, shall sleep comfortably enough in our beds tonight."

But, so desolate to the girl was his voice, that she hoped now for

silence.

"Let us be skinned quietly," muttered Miltoun, "if nothing else. Sorry to

have disturbed you."

Pressing close up to him, Barbara murmured:

"If only----Talk to me!".

But Miltoun, though he stroked her hand, was silent.

The cab, moving at unaccustomed speed along these deserted roads, moaned

dismally; and Barbara was possessed now by a desire which she dared not

put in practice, to pull his head down, and rock it against her. Her

heart felt empty, and timid; to have something warm resting on it would

have made all the difference. Everything real, substantial, comforting,

seemed to have slipped away. Among these flying dark ghosts of

pine-trees--as it were the unfrequented borderland between two

worlds--the feeling of a cheek against her breast alone could help muffle

the deep disquiet in her, lost like a child in a wood.

The cab slackened speed, the driver was lighting his lamps; and his red

face appeared at the window.

"We'll 'ave to stop here, miss; I'm out of petrol. Will you get some

dinner, or go through?"

"Through," answered Barbara:

While they were passing the little their, buying then petrol, asking the

way, she felt less miserable, and even looked about her with a sort of

eagerness. Then when they had started again, she thought: If I could get

him to sleep--the sea will comfort him! But his eyes were staring,

wide-open. She feigned sleep herself; letting her head slip a little to

one side, causing small sounds of breathing to escape. The whirring of

the wheels, the moaning of the cab joints, the dark trees slipping by,

the scent of the wet fern drifting in, all these must surely help! And

presently she felt that he was indeed slipping into darkness--and

then-she felt nothing.

When she awoke from the sleep into which she had seen Miltoun fall, the

cab was slowly mounting a steep hill, above which the moon had risen.

The air smelled strong and sweet, as though it had passed over leagues of

grass.

"The Downs!" she thought; "I must have been asleep!"

In sudden terror, she looked round for Miltoun. But he was still there,

exactly as before, leaning back rigid in his corner of the cab, with

staring eyes, and no other signs of life. And still only half awake,

like a great warm sleepy child startled out of too deep slumber, she

clutched, and clung to him. The thought that he had been sitting like

that, with his spirit far away, all the time that she had been betraying

her watch in sleep, was dreadful. But to her embrace there was no

response, and awake indeed now, ashamed, sore, Barbara released him, and

turned her face to the air.

Out there, two thin, dense-black, long clouds, shaped like the wings of a

hawk, had joined themselves together, so that nothing of the moon showed

but a living brightness imprisoned, like the eyes and life of a bird,

between those swift sweeps of darkness. This great uncanny spirit,

brooding malevolent over the high leagues of moon-wan grass, seemed

waiting to swoop, and pluck up in its talons, and devour, all that

intruded on the wild loneness of these far-up plains of freedom. Barbara

almost expected to hear coming from it the lost whistle of the buzzard

hawks. And her dream came back to her. Where were her wings-the wings

that in sleep had borne her to the stars; the wings that would never lift

her--waking--from the ground? Where too were Miltoun's wings? She

crouched back into her corner; a tear stole up and trickled out between

her closed lids-another and another followed. Faster and faster they

came. Then she felt Miltoun's arm round her, and heard him say: "Don't

cry, Babs!" Instinct telling her what to do, she laid her head against

his chest, and sobbed bitterly. Struggling with those sobs, she grew

less and less unhappy--knowing that he could never again feel quite so

desolate, as before he tried to give her comfort. It was all a bad

dream, and they would soon wake from it! And they would be happy; as

happy as they had been before--before these last months! And she

whispered:

"Only a little while, Eusty!"

CHAPTER XXIX

Old Lady Harbinger dying in the early February of the following year, the

marriage of Barbara with her son was postponed till June.

Much of the wild sweetness of Spring still clung to the high moor borders

of Monkland on the early morning of the wedding day.

Barbara was already up and dressed for riding when her maid came to call

her; and noting Stacey's astonished eyes fix themselves on her boots, she

said:

"Well, Stacey?"

"It'll tire you."

"Nonsense; I'm not going to be hung."

Refusing the company of a groom, she made her way towards the stretch of

high moor where she had ridden with Courtier a year ago. Here over the

short, as yet unflowering, heather, there was a mile or more of level

galloping ground. She mounted steadily, and her spirit rode, as it were,

before her, longing to get up there among the peewits and curlew, to feel

the crisp, peaty earth slip away under her, and the wind drive in her

face, under that deep blue sky. Carried by this warm-blooded sweetheart

of hers, ready to jump out of his smooth hide with pleasure, snuffling

and sneezing in sheer joy, whose eye she could see straying round to

catch a glimpse of her intentions, from whose lips she could hear issuing

the sweet bitt-music, whose vagaries even seemed designed to startle from

her a closer embracing--she was filled with a sort of delicious

impatience with everything that was not this perfect communing with

vigour.

Reaching the top, she put him into a gallop. With the wind furiously

assailing her face and throat, every muscle crisped; and all her blood

tingling--this was a very ecstasy of motion!

She reined in at the cairn whence she and Courtier had looked down at the

herds of ponies. It was the merest memory now, vague and a little sweet,

like the remembrance of some exceptional Spring day, when trees seem to

flower before your eyes, and in sheer wantonness exhale a scent of

lemons. The ponies were there still, and in distance the shining sea.

She sat thinking of nothing, but how good it was to be alive. The

fullness and sweetness of it all, the freedom and strength! Away to the

West over a lonely farm she could see two buzzard hawks hunting in wide

circles. She did not envy them--so happy was she, as happy as the

morning. And there came to her suddenly the true, the overmastering

longing of mountain tops.

"I must," she thought; "I simply must!"

Slipping off her horse she lay down on her back, and at once everything

was lost except the sky. Over her body, supported above solid earth by

the warm, soft heather, the wind skimmed without sound or touch. Her

spirit became one with that calm unimaginable freedom. Transported beyond

her own contentment, she no longer even knew whether she was joyful.

The horse Hal, attempting to eat her sleeve, aroused her. She mounted

him, and rode down. Near home she took a short cut across a meadow,

through which flowed two thin bright streams, forming a delta full of

lingering 'milkmaids,' mauve marsh orchis, and yellow flags. From end to

end of this long meadow, so varied, so pied with trees and stones, and

flowers, and water, the last of the Spring was passing.

Some ponies, shyly curious of Barbara and her horse, stole up, and stood

at a safe distance, with their noses dubiously stretched out, swishing

their lean tails. And suddenly, far up, following their own music, two

cuckoos flew across, seeking the thorn-trees out on the moor. While she

was watching the arrowy birds, she caught sight of someone coming towards

her from a clump of beech-trees, and suddenly saw that it was Mrs. Noel!

She rode forward, flushing. What dared she say? Could she speak of her

wedding, and betray Miltoun's presence? Could she open her mouth at all

without rousing painful feeling of some sort? Then, impatient of

indecision, she began:

"I'm so glad to see you again. I didn't know you were still down here."

"I only came back to England yesterday, and I'm just here to see to the

packing of my things."

"Oh!" murmured Barbara. "You know what's happening to me, I suppose?"

Mrs. Noel smiled, looked up, and said: "I heard last night. All joy to

you!"

A lump rose in Barbara's throat.

"I'm so glad to have seen you," she murmured once more; "I expect I ought

to be getting on," and with the word "Good-bye," gently echoed, she rode

away.

But her mood of delight was gone; even the horse Hal seemed to tread

unevenly, for all that he was going back to that stable which ever

appeared to him desirable ten minutes after he had left it.

Except that her eyes seemed darker, Mrs. Noel had not changed. If she

had shown the faintest sign of self-pity, the girl would never have felt,

as she did now, so sorry and upset.

Leaving the stables, she saw that the wind was driving up a huge, white,

shining cloud. "Isn't it going to be fine after all!" she thought.

Re-entering the house by an old and so-called secret stairway that led

straight to the library, she had to traverse that great dark room.

There, buried in an armchair in front of the hearth she saw Miltoun with

a book on his knee, not reading, but looking up at the picture of the old

Cardinal. She hurried on, tiptoeing over the soft carpet, holding her

breath, fearful of disturbing the queer interview, feeling guilty, too,

of her new knowledge, which she did not mean to impart. She had burnt

her fingers once at the flame between them; she would not do so a second

time!

Through the window at the far end she saw that the cloud had burst; it

was raining furiously. She regained her bedroom unseen. In spite of her

joy out there on the moor, this last adventure of her girlhood had not

been all success; she had again the old sensations, the old doubts, the

dissatisfaction which she had thought dead. Those two! To shut one's

eyes, and be happy--was it possible! A great rainbow, the nearest she

had ever seen, had sprung up in the park, and was come to earth again in

some fields close by. The sun was shining out already through the

wind-driven bright rain. Jewels of blue had begun to star the black and

white and golden clouds. A strange white light-ghost of Spring passing

in this last violent outburst-painted the leaves of every tree; and a

hundred savage hues had come down like a motley of bright birds on moor

and fields.

The moment of desperate beauty caught Barbara by the throat. Its spirit

of galloping wildness flew straight into her heart. She clasped her

hands across her breast to try and keep that moment. Far out, a cuckoo

hooted-and the immortal call passed on the wind. In that call all the

beauty, and colour, and rapture of life seemed to be flying by. If she

could only seize and evermore have it in her heart, as the buttercups out

there imprisoned the sun, or the fallen raindrops on the sweetbriars

round the windows enclosed all changing light! If only there were no

chains, no walls, and finality were dead!

Her clock struck ten. At this time to-morrow! Her cheeks turned hot; in

a mirror she could see them burning, her lips scornfully curved, her eyes

strange. Standing there, she looked long at herself, till, little by

little, her face lost every vestige of that disturbance, became solid and

resolute again. She ceased to have the galloping wild feeling in her

heart, and instead felt cold. Detached from herself she watched, with

contentment, her own calm and radiant beauty resume the armour it had for

that moment put off.

After dinner that night, when the men left the dining-hall, Miltoun

slipped away to his den. Of all those present in the little church he

had seemed most unemotional, and had been most moved. Though it had been

so quiet and private a wedding, he had resented all cheap festivity

accompanying the passing of his young sister. He would have had that

ceremony in the little dark disused chapel at the Court; those two, and

the priest alone. Here, in this half-pagan little country church

smothered hastily in flowers, with the raw singing of the half-pagan

choir, and all the village curiosity and homage-everything had jarred,

and the stale aftermath sickened him. Changing his swallow-tail to an old

smoking jacket, he went out on to the lawn. In the wide darkness he

could rid himself of his exasperation.

Since the day of his election he had not once been at Monkland; since

Mrs. Noel's flight he had never left London. In London and work he had

buried himself; by London and work he had saved himself! He had gone

down into the battle.

Dew had not yet fallen, and he took the path across the fields. There was

no moon, no stars, no wind; the cattle were noiseless under the trees;

there were no owls calling, no night-jars churring, the fly-by-night

chafers were not abroad. The stream alone was alive in the quiet

darkness. And as Miltoun followed the wispy line of grey path cleaving

the dim glamour of daisies and buttercups, there came to him the feeling

that he was in the presence, not of sleep, but of eternal waiting. The

sound of his footfalls seemed desecration. So devotional was that hush,

burning the spicy incense of millions of leaves and blades of grass.

Crossing the last stile he came out, close to her deserted cottage, under

her lime-tree, which on the night of Courtier's adventure had hung

blue-black round the moon. On that side, only a rail, and a few shrubs

confined her garden.

The house was all dark, but the many tall white flowers, like a bright

vapour rising from earth, clung to the air above the beds. Leaning

against the tree Miltoun gave himself to memory.

From the silent boughs which drooped round his dark figure, a little

sleepy bird uttered a faint cheep; a hedgehog, or some small beast of

night, rustled away in the grass close by; a moth flew past, seeking its

candle flame. And something in Miltoun's heart took wings after it,

searching for the warmth and light of his blown candle of love. Then, in

the hush he heard a sound as of a branch ceaselessly trailed through long

grass, fainter and fainter, more and more distinct; again fainter; but

nothing could he see that should make that homeless sound. And the sense

of some near but unseen presence crept on him, till the hair moved on his

scalp. If God would light the moon or stars, and let him see! If God

would end the expectation of this night, let one wan glimmer down into

her garden, and one wan glimmer into his breast! But it stayed dark, and

the homeless noise never ceased. The weird thought came to Miltoun that

it was made by his own heart, wandering out there, trying to feel warm

again. He closed his eyes and at once knew that it was not his heart,

but indeed some external presence, unconsoled. And stretching his hands

out he moved forward to arrest that sound. As he reached the railing, it

ceased. And he saw a flame leap up, a pale broad pathway of light

blanching the grass.

And, realizing that she was there, within, he gasped. His fingernails

bent and broke against the iron railing without his knowing. It was not

as on that night when the red flowers on her windowsill had wafted their

scent to him; it was no sheer overpowering rush of passion. Profounder,

more terrible, was this rising up within him of yearning for love--as if,

now defeated, it would nevermore stir, but lie dead on that dark grass

beneath those dark boughs. And if victorious--what then? He stole back

under the tree.

He could see little white moths travelling down that path of lamplight;

he could see the white flowers quite plainly now, a pale watch of

blossoms guarding the dark sleepy ones; and he stood, not reasoning,

hardly any longer feeling; stunned, battered by struggle. His face and

hands were sticky with the honey-dew, slowly, invisibly distilling from

the lime-tree. He bent down and felt the grass. And suddenly there came

over him the certainty of her presence. Yes, she was there--out on the

verandah! He could see her white figure from head to foot; and, not

realizing that she could not see him, he expected her to utter some cry.

But no sound came from her, no gesture; she turned back into the house.

Miltoun ran forward to the railing. But there, once more, he

stopped--unable to think, unable to feel; as it were abandoned by

himself. And he suddenly found his hand up at his mouth, as though there

were blood there to be staunched that had escaped from his heart.

Still holding that hand before his mouth, and smothering the sound of his

feet in the long grass, he crept away.

CHAPTER XXX

In the great glass house at Ravensham, Lady Casterley stood close to some

Japanese lilies, with a letter in her hand. Her face was very white, for

it was the first day she had been allowed down after an attack of

influenza; nor had the hand in which she held the letter its usual

steadiness. She read:

"MONKLAND COURT.

"Just a line, dear, before the post goes, to tell you that Babs has gone

off happily. The child looked beautiful. She sent you her love, and

some absurd message--that you would be glad to hear, she was perfectly

safe, with both feet firmly on the ground."

A grim little smile played on Lady Casterley's pale lips:--Yes, indeed,

and time too! The child had been very near the edge of the cliffs! Very

near committing a piece of romantic folly! That was well over! And

raising the letter again, she read on:

"We were all down for it, of course, and come back tomorrow. Geoffrey is

quite cut up. Things can't be what they were without our Babs. I've

watched Eustace very carefully, and I really believe he's safely over

that affair at last. He is doing extraordinarily well in the House just

now. Geoffrey says his speech on the Poor Law was head and shoulders the

best made."

Lady Casterley let fall the hand which held the letter. Safe? Yes, he

was safe! He had done the right--the natural thing! And in time he

would be happy! He would rise now to that pinnacle of desired authority

which she had dreamed of for him, ever since he was a tiny thing, ever

since his little thin brown hand had clasped hers in their wanderings

amongst the flowers, and the furniture of tall rooms. But, as she

stood--crumpling the letter, grey-white as some small resolute ghost,

among her tall lilies that filled with their scent the great glass

house-shadows flitted across her face. Was it the fugitive noon

sunshine? Or was it some glimmering perception of the old Greek

saying--'Character is Fate;' some sudden sense of the universal truth

that all are in bond to their own natures, and what a man has most

desired shall in the end enslave him?

THE END.

THE BURNING SPEAR

by John Galsworthy

Being the Experiences of Mr. John Lavender in the Time of War

Recorded by: A. R. P--M [John Galsworthy]

[NOTE: John Galsworthy said of this work: "'The Burning Spear' was

revenge of the nerves. It was bad enough to have to bear the dreads and

strains and griefs of war." Several years after its first publication he

admitted authorship and it was included in the collected edition of his

works. D.W.]

"With a heart of furious fancies,

Whereof I am commander,

With a burning spear and a horse of air

In the wilderness I wander;

With a night of ghosts and shadows

I summoned am to tourney

Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end

For me it is no journey."

TOM O'BEDLAM

THE BURNING SPEAR

I

THE HERO

In the year ---- there dwelt on Hampstead Heath a small thin gentleman of

fifty-eight, gentle disposition, and independent means, whose wits had

become somewhat addled from reading the writings and speeches of public

men. The castle which, like every Englishman, he inhabited was embedded

in lilac bushes and laburnums, and was attached to another castle,

embedded, in deference to our national dislike of uniformity, in acacias

and laurustinus. Our gentleman, whose name was John Lavender, had until

the days of the Great War passed one of those curious existences are

sometimes to be met with, in doing harm to nobody. He had been brought

up to the Bar, but like most barristers had never practised, and had

spent his time among animals and the wisdom of the past. At the period

in which this record opens he owned a young female sheep-dog called

Blink, with beautiful eyes obscured by hair; and was attended to by a

thin and energetic housekeeper, in his estimation above all weakness,

whose name was Marian Petty, and by her husband, his chauffeur, whose

name was Joe.

It was the ambition of our hero to be, like all public men, without fear

and without reproach. He drank not, abstained from fleshly intercourse,

and habitually spoke the truth. His face was thin, high cheek-boned, and

not unpleasing, with one loose eyebrow over which he had no control; his

eyes, bright and of hazel hue, looked his fellows in the face without

seeing what was in it. Though his moustache was still dark, his thick

waving hair was permanently white, for his study was lined from floor to

ceiling with books, pamphlets, journals, and the recorded utterances of

great mouths. He was of a frugal habit, ate what was put before him

without question, and if asked what he would have, invariably answered:

"What is there?" without listening to the reply. For at mealtimes it was

his custom to read the writings of great men.

"Joe," he would say to his chauffeur, who had a slight limp, a green

wandering eye, and a red face, with a rather curved and rather redder

nose, "You must read this."

And Joe would answer:

"Which one is that, sir?"

"Hummingtop; a great man, I think, Joe."

"A brainy chap, right enough, sir."

"He has done wonders for the country. Listen to this." And Mr.

Lavender would read as follows: "If I had fifty sons I would give them

all. If I had forty daughters they should nurse and scrub and weed and

fill shells; if I had thirty country-houses they should all be hospitals;

if I had twenty pens I would use them all day long; if had ten voices

they should never cease to inspire and aid my country."

"If 'e had nine lives," interrupted Joe, with a certain suddenness, "'e'd

save the lot."

Mr. Lavender lowered the paper.

"I cannot bear cynicism, Joe; there is no quality so unbecoming to a

gentleman."

"Me and 'im don't put in for that, sir."

"Joe, Mr. Lavender would say you are, incorrigible...."

Our gentleman, in common with all worthy of the name, had a bank-book,

which, in hopes that it would disclose an unsuspected balance, he would

have "made up" every time he read an utterance exhorting people to invest

and save their country.

One morning at the end of May, finding there was none, he called in his

housekeeper and said:

"Mrs. Petty, we are spending too much; we have again been exhorted to

save. Listen! 'Every penny diverted from prosecution of the war is one

more spent in the interests of the enemies of mankind. No patriotic

person, I am confident; will spend upon him or herself a stiver which

could be devoted to the noble ends so near to all our hearts. Let us

make every spare copper into bullets to strengthen the sinews of war!'

A great speech. What can we do without?"

"The newspapers, sir."

"Don't be foolish, Mrs. Petty. From what else could we draw our

inspiration and comfort in these terrible days?"

Mrs. Petty sniffed. "Well, you can't eat less than you do," she said;

"but you might stop feedin' Blink out of your rations--that I do think."

"I have not found that forbidden as yet in any public utterance,"

returned Mr. Lavender; "but when the Earl of Betternot tells us to stop,

I shall follow his example, you may depend on that. The country comes

before everything." Mrs. Petty tossed her head and murmured darkly--

"Do you suppose he's got an example, Sir?"

"Mrs. Petty," replied Mr. Lavender, "that is quite unworthy of you. But,

tell me, what can we do without?"

"I could do without Joe," responded Mrs. Petty, "now that you're not

using him as chauffeur."

"Please be serious. Joe is an institution; besides, I am thinking of

offering myself to the Government as a speaker now that we may use gas."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Petty.

"I am going down about it to-morrow."

"Indeed, sir!"

"I feel my energies are not fully employed."

"No, sir?"

"By the way, there was a wonderful leader on potatoes yesterday. We must

dig up the garden. Do you know what the subsoil is?"

"Brickbats and dead cats, I expect, sir."

"Ah! We shall soon improve that. Every inch of land reclaimed is a nail

in the coffin of our common enemies."

And going over to a bookcase, Mr. Lavender took out the third from the

top of a pile of newspapers. "Listen!" he said. "'The problem before us

is the extraction of every potential ounce of food. No half measures

must content us. Potatoes! Potatoes! No matter how, where, when the

prime national necessity is now the growth of potatoes. All Britons

should join in raising a plant which may be our very salvation.

"Fudge!" murmured Mrs. Petty.

Mr. Lavender read on, and his eyes glowed.

"Ah!" he thought, "I, too, can do my bit to save England.... It needs but

the spark to burn away the dross of this terrible horse-sense which keeps

the country back.

"Mrs. Petty!" But Mrs. Petty was already not.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The grass never grew under the feet of Mr. Lavender, No sooner had he

formed his sudden resolve than he wrote to what he conceived to be the

proper quarter, and receiving no reply, went down to the centre of the

official world. It was at time of change and no small national

excitement; brooms were sweeping clean, and new offices had arisen

everywhere. Mr. Lavender passed bewildered among large stone buildings

and small wooden buildings, not knowing where to go. He had bought no

clothes since the beginning of the war, except the various Volunteer

uniforms which the exigencies of a shifting situation had forced the

authorities to withdraw from time to time; and his, small shrunken figure

struck somewhat vividly on the eye, with elbows and knees shining in the

summer sunlight. Stopping at last before the only object which seemed

unchanged, he said:

"Can you tell me where the Ministry is?"

The officer looked down at him.

"What for?"

"For speaking about the country."

"Ministry of Propagation? First on the right, second door on the left."

"Thank you. The Police are wonderful."

"None of that," said the officer coldly.

"I only said you were wonderful."

"I 'eard you."

"But you are. I don't know what the country would do without you. Your

solid qualities, your imperturbable bonhomie, your truly British

tenderness towards----"

"Pass away!" said the officer.

"I am only repeating what we all say of you," rejoined Mr. Lavender

reproachfully.

"Did you 'ear me say 'Move on,'" said the officer; "or must I make you an

example?"

"YOU are the example," said Mr. Lavender warmly.

"Any more names," returned the officer, "and I take you to the station."

And he moved out into the traffic. Puzzled by his unfriendliness Mr.

Lavender resumed his search, and, arriving at the door indicated, went

in. A dark, dusty, deserted corridor led him nowhere, till he came on a

little girl in a brown frock, with her hair down her back.

"Can you tell me, little one----" he said, laying his hand on her head.

"Chuck it!" said the little girl.

"No, no!" responded Mr. Lavender, deeply hurt. "Can you tell me where I

can find the Minister?"

"'Ave you an appointment?

"No; but I wrote to him. He should expect me."

"Wot nyme?"

"John Lavender. Here is my card."

"I'll tyke it in. Wyte 'ere!"

"Wonderful!" mused Mr. Lavender; "the patriotic impulse already stirring

in these little hearts! What was the stanza of that patriotic poet?

"'Lives not a babe who shall not feel the pulse

Of Britain's need beat wild in Britain's wrist.

And, sacrificial, in the world's convulse

Put up its lips to be by Britain kissed.'

"So young to bring their lives to the service of the country!"

"Come on," said the little girl, reappearing suddenly; "e'll see you."

Mr. Lavender entered a room which had a considerable resemblance to the

office of a lawyer save for the absence of tomes. It seemed furnished

almost exclusively by the Minister, who sat with knees crossed, in a pair

of large round tortoiseshell spectacles, which did not, however, veil the

keenness of his eyes. He was a man with close cropped grey hair, a

broad, yellow, clean-shaven face, and thrusting grey eyes.

"Mr. Lavender," he said, in a raw, forcible voice; "sit down, will you?"

"I wrote to you," began our hero, "expressing the wish to offer myself as

a speaker."

"Ah!" said the Minister. "Let's see--Lavender, Lavender. Here's your

letter." And extracting a letter from a file he read it, avoiding with

difficulty his tortoise-shell spectacles. "You want to stump the

country? M.A., Barrister, and Fellow of the Zoological. Are you a good

speaker?"

"If zeal---" began Mr. Lavender.

"That's it; spark! We're out to win this war, sir."

"Quite so," began Mr. Lavender. "If devotion----"

"You'll have to use gas," said the Minister; and we don't pay."

"Pay!" cried Mr. Lavender with horror; "no, indeed!"

The Minister bent on him a shrewd glance.

"What's your line? Anything particular, or just general patriotism? I

recommend that; but you'll have to put some punch into it, you know."

"I have studied all the great orators of the war, sir," said Mr.

Lavender, "and am familiar with all the great writers on, it. I should

form myself on them; and if enthusiasm----"

"Quite!" said the Minister. "If you want any atrocities we can give you

them. No facts and no figures; just general pat."

"I shall endeavour----" began Mr. Lavender.

"Well, good-bye," said the Minister, rising. "When do you start?"

Mr. Lavender rose too. "To-morrow," he said, "if I can get inflated."

The Minister rang a bell.

"You're on your own, mind," he said. "No facts; what they want is

ginger. Yes, Mr. Japes?"

And seeing that the Minister was looking over his tortoiseshell.

spectacles at somebody behind him, Mr. Lavender turned and went out. In

the corridor he thought, "What terseness! How different from the days

when Dickens wrote his 'Circumlocution Office'! Punch!" And opening the

wrong door, he found himself in the presence of six little girls in brown

frocks, sitting against the walls with their thumbs in their mouths.

"Oh!" he said, "I'm afraid I've lost my way."

The eldest of the little girls withdrew a thumb.

"What d'yer want?"

"The door," said Mr. Lavender.

"Second on the right."

"Goodbye," said Mr. Lavender.

The little girls did not answer. And he went out thinking, "These

children are really wonderful! What devotion one sees! And yet the

country is not yet fully roused!"

II

THE VALET

Joe Petty stood contemplating the car which, purchased some fifteen years

before had not been used since the war began. Birds had nested in its

hair. It smelled of mould inside; it creaked from rust. "The Guv'nor

must be cracked," he thought, "to think we can get anywhere in this old

geyser. Well, well, it's summer; if we break down it won't break my

'eart. Government job--better than diggin' or drillin'. Good old Guv!"

So musing, he lit his pipe and examined the recesses beneath the driver's

seat. "A bottle or three," he thought, "in case our patriotism should

get us stuck a bit off the beaten; a loaf or two, some 'oney in a pot,

and a good old 'am.

"A life on the rollin' road----' 'Ow they can give 'im the job I can't

think!" His soliloquy was here interrupted by the approach of his wife,

bearing a valise.

"Don't you wish you was comin', old girl?" he remarked to her lightly.

"I do not; I'm glad to be shut of you. Keep his feet dry. What have you

got under there?"

Joe Petty winked.

"What a lumbering great thing it looks!" said Mrs. Petty, gazing upwards.

"Ah!" returned her husband thoughtfully, we'll 'ave the population round

us without advertisement. And taking the heads of two small boys who had

come up, he knocked them together in an absent-minded fashion.

"Well," said Mrs. Petty, "I can't waste time. Here's his extra set of

teeth. Don't lose them. Have you got your own toothbrush? Use it, and

behave yourself. Let me have a line. And don't let him get excited."

She tapped her forehead.

"Go away, you boys; shoo!"

The boys, now six in number, raised a slight cheer; for at that moment

Mr. Lavender, in a broad-brimmed grey felt hat and a holland dust-coat,

came out through his garden-gate carrying a pile of newspapers and

pamphlets so large that his feet, legs, and hat alone were visible.

"Open the door, Joe!" he said, and stumbled into the body of the vehicle.

A shrill cheer rose from the eight boys, who could see him through the

further window. Taking this for an augury Of success, Mr. Lavender

removed his hat, and putting his head through the window, thus addressed

the ten boys:

"I thank you. The occasion is one which I shall ever remember. The

Government has charged me with the great task of rousing our country in

days which demand of each of us the utmost exertions. I am proud to feel

that I have here, on the very threshold of my task, an audience of bright

young spirits, each one of whom in this democratic country has in him

perhaps the makings of a General or even of a Prime Minister. Let it be

your earnest endeavour, boys----"

At this moment a piece of indiarubber rebounded from Mr. Lavender's

forehead, and he recoiled into the body of the car.

"Are you right, sir?" said Joe, looking in; and without waiting for reply

he started the engine. The car moved out amid a volley of stones, balls,

cheers, and other missiles from the fifteen boys who pursued it with

frenzy. Swaying slightly from side to side, with billowing bag, it

gathered speed, and, turning a corner, took road for the country. Mr.

Lavender, somewhat dazed, for the indiarubber had been hard, sat gazing

through the little back window at the great city he was leaving. His

lips moved, expressing unconsciously the sentiments of innumerable Lord

Mayors: "Greatest City in the world, Queen of Commerce, whose full heart

I can still hear beating behind me, in mingled pride and regret I leave

you. With the most sacred gratitude I lay down my office. I go to other

work, whose----Joe!"

"Sir?"

"Do you see that?"

"I see your 'ead, that's all, sir."

"We seem to be followed by a little column of dust, which keeps ever at

the same distance in the middle of the road. Do you think it can be an

augury."

"No; I should think it's a dog."

"In that case, hold hard!" said Mr. Lavender, who had a weakness for

dog's. Joe slackened the car's pace, and leaned his head round the

corner. The column of dust approached rapidly.

"It is a dog," said Mr. Lavender, "it's Blink."

The female sheep-dog, almost flat with the ground from speed, emerged

from the dust, wild with hair and anxiety, white on the cheeks and chest

and top of the head, and grey in the body and the very little tail, and

passed them like a streak of lightning.

"Get on!" cried Mr. Lavender, excited; "follow her she's trying to catch

us up!"

Joe urged on the car, which responded gallantly, swaying from side to

side, while the gas-bag bellied and shook; but the faster it went the

faster the sheep-dog flew in front of it.

"This is dreadful!" said Mr. Lavender in anguish, leaning far out.

"Blink! Blink!"

His cries were drowned in the roar of the car.

"Damn the brute!" muttered Joe at this rate she'll be over the edge in

'alf a mo'. Wherever does she think we are?"

"Blink! Blink!" wailed Mr. Lavender. "Get on, Joe, get on! She's

gaining on us!"

"Well I never see anything like this," said Joe, "chasin' wot's chasing

you! Hi! Hi!"

Urged on by their shouts and the noise of the pursuing car, the poor dog

redoubled her efforts to rejoin her master, and Mr. Lavender, Joe, and

the car, which had begun to emit the most lamentable creaks and odours,

redoubled theirs.

"I shall bust her up," said Joe.

"I care not!" cried Mr. Lavender. "I must recover the dog."

They flashed through the outskirts of the Garden City. "Stop her, stop

her!" called Mr. Lavender to such of the astonished inhabitants as they

had already left behind. "This is a nightmare, Joe!"

"'It's a blinkin' day-dream," returned Joe, forcing the car to an

expiring spurt.

"If she gets to that 'ill before we ketch 'er, we're done; the old geyser

can't 'alf crawl up 'ills."

"We're gaining," shrieked Mr. Lavender; "I can see her tongue."

As though it heard his voice, the car leaped forward and stopped with a

sudden and most formidable jerk; the door burst open, and Mr. Lavender

fell out upon his sheep-dog.

Fortunately they were in the only bed of nettles in that part of the

world, and its softness and that of Blink assuaged the severity of his

fall, yet it was some minutes before he regained the full measure of his

faculties. He came to himself sitting on a milestone, with his dog on

her hind legs between his knees, licking his face clean, and panting down

his throat.

"Joe," he said; "where are you"?

The voice of Joe replied from underneath the car: "Here sir. She's

popped."

"Do you mean that our journey is arrested?"

"Ah! We're in irons. You may as well walk 'ome, sir. It ain't two

miles.

"No! no!" said Mr. Lavender. "We passed the Garden City a little way

back; I could go and hold a meeting. How long will you be?"

"A day or two," said Joe.

Mr. Lavender sighed, and at this manifestation of his grief his sheep-dog

redoubled her efforts to comfort him. "Nothing becomes one more than the

practice of philosophy," he thought. "I always admired those great

public men who in moments of national peril can still dine with a good

appetite. We will sit in the car a little, for I have rather a pain, and

think over a speech." So musing he mounted the car, followed by his dog,

and sat down in considerable discomfort.

"What subject can I choose for a Garden City?" he thought, and

remembering that he had with him the speech of a bishop on the subject of

babies, he dived into his bundle of literature, and extracting a pamphlet

began to con its periods. A sharp blow from a hammer on the bottom of

the car just below where Blink was sitting caused him to pause and the

dog to rise and examine her tiny tail.

"Curious," thought Mr. Lavender dreamily, "how Joe always does the right

thing in the wrong place. He is very English." The hammering continued,

and the dog, who traced it to the omnipotence of her master, got up on

the seat where she could lick his face. Mr. Lavender was compelled to

stop.

"Joe," he said, leaning out and down; "must you?"

The face of Joe, very red, leaned out and up. "What's the matter now,

sir?"

"I am preparing a speech; must you hammer?"

"No," returned Joe, "I needn't."

"I don't wish you to waste your time," said Mr Lavender.

"Don't worry about that, sir," replied Joe; "there's plenty to do."

"In that case I shall be glad to finish my speech."

Mr. Lavender resumed his seat and Blink her position on the floor, with

her head on his feet. The sound of his voice soon rose again in the car

like the buzzing of large flies. "'If we are to win this war we must

have an ever-increasing population. In town and countryside, in the

palace and the slum, above all in the Garden City, we must have babies.'"

Here Blink, who had been regarding him with lustrous eyes, leaped on to

his knees and licked his mouth. Again Mr. Lavender was compelled to

stop.

"Down, Blink, down! I am not speaking to you. 'The future of our

country depends on the little citizens born now. I especially appeal to

women. It is to them we must look----'"

"Will you 'ave a glass, sir?"

Mr. Lavender saw before him a tumbler containing a yellow fluid.

"Joe," he said sadly, "you know my rule----"

"'Ere's the exception, sir."

Mr. Lavender sighed. "No, no; I must practise what I preach. I shall

soon be rousing the people on the liquor question, too."

"Well, 'ere's luck," said Joe, draining the glass. "Will you 'ave a

slice of 'am?"

"That would not be amiss," said Mr. Lavender, taking Joe's knife with the

slice of ham upon its point. "'It is to them that we must look,'" he

resumed, "'to rejuvenate the Empire and make good the losses in the

firing-line.'" And he raised the knife to his mouth. No result

followed, while Blink wriggled on her base and licked her lips.

"Blink!" said Mr. Lavender reproachfully. "Joe!"

"Sir!"

"When you've finished your lunch and repaired the car you will find me in

the Town Hall or market-place. Take care of Blink. I'll tie her up.

Have you some string?"

Having secured his dog to the handle of the door and disregarded the

intensity of her gaze, Mr. Lavender walked back towards the Garden City

with a pamphlet in one hand and a crutch-handled stick in the other.

Restoring the ham to its nest behind his feet, Joe finished the bottle of

Bass. "This is a bit of all right!" he thought dreamily. "Lie down, you

bitch! Quiet! How can I get my nap while you make that row? Lie down!

That's better."

Blink was silent, gnawing at her string. The smile deepened on Joe's

face, his head fell a little one side his mouth fell open a fly flew into

it.

"Ah!" he thought, spitting it out; "dog's quiet now." He slept.

III

MR. LAVENDER ADDRESSES A CROWD OF HUNS

"'Give them ginger!'" thought Mr. Lavender, approaching the first houses.

"My first task, however, will be to collect them."

"Can you tell me," he said to a dustman, "where the market-place is?"

"Ain't none."

"The Town Hall, then?"

"Likewise."

"What place is there, then," said Mr. Lavender, "where people

congregate?"

"They don't."

"Do they never hold public meetings here?"

"Ah!" said the dustman mysteriously.

"I wish to address them on the subject of babies."

"Bill! Gent abaht babies. Where'd he better go?"

The man addressed, however, who carried a bag of tools, did not stop.

"You,'ear?" said the dustman, and urging his horse, passed on.

"How rude!" thought Mr. Lavender. Something cold and wet was pressed

against his hand, he felt a turmoil, and saw Blink moving round and round

him, curved like a horseshoe, with a bit of string dangling from her

white neck. At that moment of discouragement the sight of one who

believed in him gave Mr. Lavender nothing but pleasure. "How wonderful

dogs are!" he murmured. The sheep-dog responded by bounds and

ear-splitting barks, so that two boys and a little girl wheeling a

perambulator stopped to look and listen.

"She is like Mercury," thought Mr. Lavender; and taking advantage of her

interest in his hat, which she had knocked off in her effusions, he

placed his hand on her head and crumpled her ear. The dog passed into an

hypnotic trance, broken by soft grumblings of pleasure. "The most

beautiful eyes in the world!" thought Mr. Lavender, replacing his hat;

"the innocence and goodness of her face are entrancing."

In his long holland coat, with his wide-brimmed felt hat all dusty, and

the crutch-handled stick in his hand, he had already arrested the

attention of five boys, the little girl with the perambulator, a postman,

a maid-servant, and three old ladies.

"What a beautiful dog yours is!" said one of the old ladies; "dear

creature! Are you a shepherd?"

Mr. Lavender removed his hat.

"No, madam," he said; "a public speaker."

"How foolish of me!" replied the old lady.

"Not at all, madam; the folly is mine." And Mr. Lavender bowed. "I have

come here to give an address on babies."

The old lady looked at him shrewdly, and, saying something in a low voice

to her companions, passed on, to halt again a little way off.

In the meantime the rumour that there was a horse down in the Clemenceau

Road had spread rapidly, and more boys, several little girls, and three

soldiers in blue, with red ties, had joined the group round Mr. Lavender,

to whom there seemed something more than providential in this rapid

assemblage. Looking round him for a platform from which to address them,

he saw nothing but the low wall of the little villa garden outside which

he was standing. Mounting on this, therefore, and firmly grasping the

branch of a young acacia tree to steady himself, he stood upright, while

Blink, on her hind legs, scratched at the wall, whining and sniffing his

feet.

Encouraged by the low murmur of astonishment, which swelled idly into a

shrill cheer, Mr. Lavender removed his hat, and spoke as follows:

"Fellow Britons, at this crisis in the history of our country I make no

apology for addressing myself to the gathering I see around me. Here, in

the cradle of patriotism and the very heart of Movements, I may safely

assume that you are aware of the importance of Man-power. At a moment

when every man of a certain age and over is wanted at the front, and

every woman of marrigeable years is needed in hospitals, in factories, on

the land, or where not, we see as never before the paramount necessity of

mobilizing the forces racial progress and increasing the numbers of our

population. Not a man, not a woman can be spared from the great task in

which they are now engaged, of defeating the common enemy. Side by side

with our American cousins, with la belle France, and the Queen of the

Adriatic, we are fighting to avert the greatest menace which ever

threatened civilization. Our cruel enemies are strong and ruthless.

While I have any say in this matter, no man or woman shall be withdrawn

from the sacred cause of victory; better they should die to the last unit

than that we should take our hands from the plough. But, ladies and

gentlemen, we must never forget that in the place of every one who dies

we must put two. Do not be content with ordinary measures; these are no

piping times of peace. Never was there in the history of this country

such a crying need for--for twins, if I may put it picturesquely. In

each family, in each home where there are no families, let there be two

babies where there was one, for thus only can we triumph over the

devastation of this war." At this moment the now considerable audience,

which had hitherto been silent, broke into a shrill "'Ear, 'ear!" and Mr.

Lavender, taking his hand from the acacia branch to silence them, fell

off the wall into the garden. Seeing her master thus vanish, Blink, who

had never ceased to whine and sniff his toes, leaped over and landed on

his chest. Rising with difficulty, Mr. Lavender found himself in front

of an elderly man with a commercial cast of countenance, who said:

"You're trespassing!"

"I am aware of it," returned Mr. Lavender and I beg your pardon. It was

quite inadvertent, however.

"Rubbish!" said the man.

"I fell off the wall."

"Whose wall do you think it is?" said the man.

"How should I know?" said Mr. Lavender; "I am a stranger."

"Out you go," said the man, applying his boot to Blink.

Mr. Lavender's eyes blazed. "You may insult me," he said, "but you must

not kick my dog, or I shall do you an injury."

"Try!" said the man.

"I will," responded Mr. Lavender, taking off his holland coat.

To what extremities he would have proceeded cannot be told, for at this

moment the old lady who had taken him for a shepherd appeared on the

path, tapping her forehead with finger.

"All right!" said the owner of the garden, "take him away."

The old lady laced her hand within Mr. Lavender's arm. "Come with me,

sir," she said, "and your nice doggie."

Mr. Lavender, whose politeness to ladies was invariable, bowed, and

resuming his coat accompanied her through the 'garden gate. "He kicked

my dog," he said; "no action could be more despicable."

"Yes, yes," said the old lady soothingly. "Poor doggie!"

The crowd, who had hoped for better things, here gave vent to a prolonged

jeer.

"Stop!" said Mr. Lavender; "I am going to take a collection.

"There, there!" said the old lady. "Poor man!"

"I don't know what you mean by that, madam," said Mr. Lavender, whose

spirit was roused; "I shall certainly take a collection, in the interests

of our population." So saying he removed his hat, and disengaging his

arm from the old lady's hand, moved out into the throng, extending the

hat. A boy took it from him at once, and placing it on his head, ran

off, pursued by Blink, who, by barking and jumping up increased the boy's

speed to one of which he could never have thought himself capable. Mr.

Lavender followed, calling out "Blink!" at the top of his voice. The

crowd followed Mr. Lavender, and the old lady followed crowd. Thus they

proceeded until the boy, arriving at a small piece of communal water,

flung the hat into the middle of it, and, scaling the wall, made a

strategic detour and became a disinterested spectator among the crowd.

The hat, after skimming the surface of the pond, settled like a

water-lily, crown downwards, while Blink, perceiving in all this the hand

of her master, stood barking at it wildly. Mr. Lavender arrived at the

edge of the pond slightly in advance of the crowd.

"Good Blink!" he said. "Fetch it! Good Blink!"

Blink looked up into his face, and, with the acumen for which her breed

is noted, perceiving he desired her to enter the water backed away from

it.

"She is not a water dog," explained Mr. Lavender to the three soldiers in

blue clothes.

"Good dog; fetch it!" Blink backed into the soldiers, who, bending down,

took her by head tail, threw her into the pond, and encouraged her on

with small stones pitched at the hat. Having taken the plunge, the

intelligent animal waded boldly to the hat, and endeavoured by barking

and making little rushes at it with her nose, to induce it to return to

shore.

"She thinks it's a sheep," said Mr. Lavender; "a striking instance of

hereditary instinct."

Blink, unable to persuade the hat, mounted it with her fore-paws and trod

it under.

"Ooray!" shouted the crowd.

"Give us a shilling, guv'nor, an' I'll get it for yer?"

"Thank you, my boy," said Mr. Lavender, producing a shilling.

The boy--the same boy who had thrown it in--stepped into the water and

waded towards the hat. But as he approached, Blink interposed between

him and the hat, growling and showing her teeth.

"Does she bite?" yelled the boy.

"Only strangers," cried Mr. Lavender.

Excited by her master's appeal, Blink seized the jacket of the boy, who

made for the shore, while the hat rested in the centre of the pond, the

cynosure of the stones with which the soldiers were endeavouring to drive

it towards the bank. By this, time the old lady had rejoined Mr.

Lavender.

"Your nice hat she murmured.

"I thank you for your sympathy, madam," Lavender, running his hand

through his hair; "in moments like these one realizes the deep humanity

of the British people. I really believe that in no other race could you

find such universal interest and anxiety to recover a hat. Say what you

will, we are a great nation, who only, need rousing to show our best

qualities. Do you remember the words of the editor: 'In the spavined and

spatch-cocked ruin to which our inhuman enemies have reduced

civilization, we of the island shine with undimmed effulgence in all

those qualities which mark man out from the ravening beast'?"

"But how are you going to get your hat?" asked the old lady.

"I know not," returned Mr. Lavender, still under the influence of the

sentiment he had quoted; "but if I had fifteen hats I would take them all

off to the virtues which have been ascribed to the British people by all

those great men who have written and spoken since the war began."

"Yes," said the old lady soothingly. "But, I think you had better come

under my sunshade. The sun is very strong."

"Madam," said Mr. Lavender, "you are very good, but your sunshade is too

small. To deprive you of even an inch of its shade would be unworthy of

anyone in public life." So saying, he recoiled from the proffered

sunshade into the pond, which he had forgotten was behind him.

"Oh, dear!" said the old lady; "now you've got your feet wet!"

"It is nothing," responded Mr. Lavender gallantly. And seeing that he

was already wet, he rolled up his trousers, and holding up the tails of

his holland coat, turned round and proceeded towards his hat, to the

frantic delight of the crowd.

"The war is a lesson to us to make little of little things," he thought,

securing the hat and wringing it out. "My feet are wet, but--how much

wetter they would be in the trenches, if feet can be wetter than wet

through," he mused with some exactitude. "Down, Blink, down!" For Blink

was plastering him with the water-marks of joy and anxiety. "Nothing is

quite so beautiful as the devotion of one's own dog," thought Mr.

Lavender, resuming the hat, and returning towards the shore. The

by-now-considerable throng were watching him with every mark of acute

enjoyment; and the moment appeared to Mr. Lavender auspicious for

addressing them. Without, therefore, emerging from the pond, which he

took for his, platform, he spoke as follows:

"Circumstances over which I have no control have given me the advantage

of your presence in numbers which do credit to the heart of the nation to

which we all belong. In the midst of the greatest war which ever

threatened the principle of Liberty, I rejoice to see so many people able

to follow the free and spontaneous impulses of their inmost beings. For,

while we must remember that our every hour is at the disposal of our

country, we must not forget the maxim of our fathers: 'Britons never will

be slaves.' Only by preserving the freedom of individual conscience, and

at the same time surrendering it whole-heartedly to every which the State

makes on us, can we hope defeat the machinations of the arch enemies of

mankind."

At this moment a little stone hit him sharply on the hand.

"Who threw that stone?" said Mr. Lavender. "Let him stand out."

The culprit, no other indeed than he who had thrown the hat in, and not

fetched it out for a shilling, thus menaced with discovery made use of a

masterly device, and called out loudly:

"Pro-German!"

Such was the instinctive patriotism of the crowd that the cry was taken

up in several quarters; and for the moment Mr. Lavender remained

speechless from astonishment. The cries of "Pro-German!" increased in

volume, and a stone hitting her on the nose caused Blink to utter a yelp;

Mr. Lavender's eyes blazed.

"Huns!" he cried; "Huns! I am coming out."

With this prodigious threat he emerged from the pond at the very moment

that a car scattered the throng, and a well-known voice said:

"Well, sir, you 'ave been goin' it!"

"Joe," said Mr. Lavender, "don't speak to me!"

"Get in."

"Never!"

"Pro-Germans!" yelled the crowd.

"Get in!" repeated Joe.

And seizing Mr. Lavender as if collaring him at football, he knocked off

his hat, propelled him into the car, banged the door, mounted, and

started at full speed, with Blink leaping and barking in front of them.

Debouching from Piave Parade into Bottomley Lane he drove up it till the

crowd was but a memory before he stopped to examine the condition his

master. Mr. Lavender was hanging out of window, looking back, and

shivering violently.

"Well, sir," said Joe. "I don't think!"

"Joe," said Mr. Lavender that crowd ought not to be at large. They were

manifestly Huns.

"The speakin's been a bit too much for you, sir," said Joe. "But you've

got it off your chest, anyway."

Mr. Lavender regarded him for a moment in silence; then putting his hand

to his throat, said hoarsely:

"No, on my chest, I think, Joe. All public speakers do. It is

inseparable from that great calling."

"'Alf a mo'!" grunted Joe, diving into the recesses beneath the

driving-seat. "'Ere, swig that off, sir."

Mr. Lavender raised the tumbler of fluid to his mouth, and drank it off;

only from the dregs left on his moustache did he perceive that it smelled

of rum and honey.

"Joe," he said reproachfully, "you have made me break my pledge."

Joe smiled. "Well, what are they for, sir? You'll sleep at 'ome

to-night."

"Never," said Mr. Lavender. "I shall sleep at High Barnet; I must

address them there tomorrow on abstinence during the war."

"As you please, sir. But try and 'ave a nap while we go along." And

lifting Blink into the car, where she lay drenched and exhausted by

excitement, with the petal of a purple flower clinging to her black nose,

he mounted to his seat and drove off. Mr. Lavender, for years

unaccustomed to spirituous liquor, of which he had swallowed nearly half

a pint neat, passed rapidly into a state of coma. Nor did he fully

regain consciousness till he awoke in bed the next morning.

IV

INTO THE DANGERS OF A PUBLIC LIFE

"At what time is my meeting?" thought Mr. Lavender vaguely, gazing at the

light filtering through the Venetian blind. "Blink!"

His dog, who was lying beside his bed gnawing a bone which with some

presence of mind she had brought in, raised herself and regarded him with

the innocence of her species. "She has an air of divine madness,"

thought Mr. Lavender, "which is very pleasing to me. I have a terrible

headache." And seeing a bellrope near his hand he pulled it.

A voice said: "Yes, sir."

"I wish to see my, servant, Joe Petty," said Lavender. "I shall not

require any breakfast thank you. What is the population of High Barnet?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, sir," answered the

voice, which seemed to be that of his housekeeper; "but you can't see

Joe; he's gone out with a flea in his ear. The idea of his letting you

get your feet wet like that!

"How is this?" said Mr. Lavender. "I thought you were the chambermaid of

the inn at High Barnet?"

"No, indeed," said Mrs. Petty soothingly, placing a thermometer in his

mouth. "Smoke that a minute, sir. Oh! look at what this dog's brought

in! Fie!" And taking the bone between thumb and finger she cast it out

of the window; while Blink, aware that she was considered in the wrong,

and convinced that she was in the right, spread out her left paw, laid

her head on her right paw, and pressed her chin hard against it. Mrs.

Petty, returning from the window, stood above her master, who lay gazing

up with the thermometer jutting out through the middle of his moustache.

"I thought so!" she said, removing it; "a hundred and one. No getting up

for you, sir! That Joe!"

"Mrs. Petty," said Mr. Lavender rather feebly, for his head pained him

excessively, "bring me the morning papers."

"No, sir. The thermometer bursts at an an' ten. I'll bring you the

doctor."

Mr. Lavender was about to utter a protest when he reflected that all

public men had doctors.

"About the bulletin?" he said faintly.

"What?" ejaculated Mrs. Petty, whose face seemed to Mr. Lavender to have

become all cheekbones, eyes, and shadows. Joe never said a about a

bullet. Where? and however did you get it in?

"I did not say 'bullet in'," murmured Mr. Lavender closing his eyes! "I

said bulletin. They have it."

At this mysterious sentence Mrs. Petty lifted her hands, and muttering

the word "Ravin'!" hastened from the room. No sooner had she gone,

however, than Blink, whose memory was perfect, rose, and going to the

window placed her forepaws on the sill. Seeing her bone shining on the

lawn below, with that disregard of worldly consequence which she shared

with all fine characters, she leaped through. The rattle of the Venetian

blind disturbed Mr. Lavender from the lethargy to which he had reverted.

"Mr. John Lavender passed a good night," he thought, "but his condition

is still critical." And in his disordered imagination he seemed to see

people outside Tube stations, standing stock-still in the middle of the

traffic, reading that bulletin in the evening papers. "Let me see," he

mused, "how will they run?" To-morrow I shall be better, but not yet

able to leave my bed; the day after to-morrow I shall have a slight

relapse, and my condition will still give cause for anxiety; on the day

following--What is that noise. For a sound like the whiffling of a wind

through dry sticks combined with the creaking of a saw had, impinged on

his senses. It was succeeded by scratching. "Blink!" said Mr. Lavender.

A heartrending whine came from outside the door. Mr. Lavender rose and

opened it. His dog came in carrying her bone, and putting it down by the

bed divided her attention between it and her master's legs, revealed by

the nightshirt which, in deference to the great Disraeli, he had never

abandoned in favour of pyjamas. Having achieved so erect a posture Mr.

Lavender, whose heated imagination had now carried him to the

convalescent stage of his indisposition, felt that a change of air would

do him good, and going to the window, leaned out above a lilac-tree.

"Mr. John Lavender," he murmured, "has gone to his seat to recuperate

before resuming his public duties."

While he stood there his attention was distracted by a tall young lady of

fine build and joyous colour, who was watering some sweet-peas in the

garden of the adjoining castle: Naturally delicate, Mr. Lavender at once

sought a jacket, and, having put it on, resumed his position at the

window. He had not watched her more than two minutes before he saw that

she was cultivating soil, and, filled with admiration, he leaned still

further out, and said:

"My dear young madam, you are doing a great work."

Thus addressed, the young lady, who had those roving grey eyes which see

everything and betoken a large nature not devoid of merry genius, looked

up and smiled.

"Believe me," continued Mr. Lavender, "no task in these days is so

important as the cultivation of the soil; now that we are fighting to the

last man and the last dollar every woman and child in the islands should

put their hands to the plough. And at that word his vision became

feverishly enlarged, so that he seemed to see not merely the young lady,

but quantities of young ladies, filling the whole garden.

"This," he went on, raising his voice, "is the psychological moment, the

turning-point in the history of these islands. The defeat of our common

enemies imposes on us the sacred duty of feeding ourselves once more.

'There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on

to----Oh!" For in his desire to stir his audience, Mr. Lavender had

reached out too far, and losing foothold on his polished bedroom floor,

was slipping down into the lilac-bush. He was arrested by a jerk from

behind; where Blink, moved by this sudden elopement of her master, had

seized him by the nightshirt tails, and was staying his descent.

"Is anything up?" said the young lady.

"I have lost my balance," thickly answered Mr. Lavender, whose blood was

running to his head, which was now lower than his feet. "Fortunately, my

dog seems to be holding me from behind. But if someone could assist her

it would be an advantage, for I fear that I am slipping."

"Hold on!" cried the young lady. And breaking through the low privet

hedge which separated the domains, she vanished beneath him with a low

gurgling sound.

Mr. Lavender, who dared not speak again for fear that Blink, hearing his

voice, might let go to answer, remained suspended, torn with anxiety

about his costume. "If she comes in," he thought, "I shall die from

shame. And if she doesn't, I shall die from a broken neck. What a

dreadful alternative!" And he firmly grasped the most substantial

lilac-boughs within, his reach, listening with the ears of a hare for any

sound within the room, in which he no longer was to any appreciable

extent. Then the thought of what a public man should feel in his position

came to his rescue. "We die but once," he mused; "rather than shock that

charming lady let me seek oblivion." And the words of his obituary

notice at once began to dance before his eyes. "This great public

servant honoured his country no less in his death than in his life."

Then striking out vigorously with his feet he launched his body forward.

The words "My goodness!" resounded above him, as all restraining

influence was suddenly relaxed; Mr. Lavender slid into the lilac-bush,

turned heels over head, and fell bump on the ground. He lay there at

full, length, conscious of everything, and especially of the faces of

Blink and the young lady looking down on him from the window.

"Are you hurt?" she called.

"No," said Mr. Lavender, "that is--er--yes," he added, ever scrupulously

exact.

"I'm coming down," said the young lady.

"Don't move!"

With a great effort Mr. Lavender arranged his costume, and closed his

eyes. "How many lie like this, staring at the blue heavens!" he thought.

"Where has it got you?" said a voice; and he saw the young lady bending

over him.

"'In the dorsal region, I think," said Mr. Lavender. "But I suffer more

from the thought that I--that you--"

"That's all right," said the young lady; "I'm a V.A.D. It WAS a bump!

Let's see if you can----" and taking his hands she raised him to a

sitting posture. "Does it work?"

"Yes," said Mr. Lavender rather faintly.

"Try and stand," said the young lady, pulling.

Mr. Lavender tried, and stood; but no, sooner was he on his feet than

she turned her face away. Great tears rolled down her cheeks; and she

writhed and shook all over.

"Don't!" cried Mr. Lavender, much concerned. "I beg you not to cry. It's

nothing, I assure you--nothing!" The young lady with an effort

controlled her emotion, and turned her large grey eyes on him.

"The angelic devotion of nurses!" murmured Mr. Lavender, leaning against

the wall of the house with his hand to his back. "Nothing like it has

been seen since the world began."

"I shall never forget the sight!" said the young lady, choking.

Mr. Lavender, who took the noises she made for sobbing, was unutterably

disturbed.

"I can't bear to see you distressed on my account," he said. "I am quite

well, I assure you; look--I can walk!" And he started forth up the

garden in his nightshirt and Norfolk jacket. When he turned round she

was no longer there, sounds of uncontrollable emotion were audible from

the adjoining garden. Going to the privet hedge, he looked aver. She

was lying gracefully on the grass, with her face smothered in her hands,

and her whole body shaking. "Poor thing!" thought Mr. Lavender. "No

doubt she is one of those whose nerves have been destroyed by the

terrible sights she has seen!" But at that moment the young lady rose

and ran as if demented into her castle. Mr. Lavender stayed transfixed.

"Who would not be ill for the pleasure of drinking from a cup held by her

hand?" he thought. "I am fortunate to have received injuries in trying

to save her from confusion. Down, Blink, down!"

For his dog, who had once more leaped from the window, was frantically

endeavouring to lick his face. Soothing her, and feeling his anatomy,

Mr. Lavender became conscious that he was not alone. An old lady was

standing on the gardenpath which led to the front gate, holding in her

hand a hat. Mr. Lavender sat down at once, and gathering his nightshirt

under him, spoke as follows:

"There are circumstances, madam, which even the greatest public servants

cannot foresee, and I, who am the humblest of them, ask you to forgive me

for receiving you in this costume."

"I have brought your hat back," said the old lady with a kindling eye;

"they told me you lived here and I was anxious to know that you and your

dear dog were none the worse."

"Madam," replied Mr. Lavender, "I am infinitely obliged to you. Would

you very kindly hang my, hat up on the--er--weeping willow tree?"

At this moment a little white dog, who accompanied the old lady, began

sniffing round Mr. Lavender, and Blink, wounded in her proprietary

instincts, placed her paws at once on her master's shoulders, so that he

fell prone. When he recovered a sitting posture neither the old lady nor

the little dog were in sight, but his hat was hanging on a laurel bush.

"There seems to be something fateful about this morning," he mused; "I

had better go in before the rest of the female population----" and

recovering his feet with difficulty, he took his hat, and was about to

enter the house when he saw the young lady watching him from an upper

window of the adjoining castle. Thinking to relieve her anxiety, he said

at once:

"My dear young lady, I earnestly beg you to believe that such a thing

never happens to me, as a rule."

Her face was instantly withdrawn, and, sighing deeply, Mr. Lavender

entered the house and made his way upstairs. "Ah!" he thought, painfully

recumbent in his bed once more, "though my bones ache and my head burns I

have performed an action not unworthy of the traditions of public life.

There is nothing more uplifting than to serve Youth and Beauty at the

peril of one's existence. Humanity and Chivalry have ever been the

leading characteristics of the British race;" and, really half-delirious

now, he cried aloud: "This incident will for ever inspire those who have

any sense of beauty to the fulfilment of our common task. Believe me, we

shall never sheathe the sword until the cause of humanity and chivalry is

safe once more."

Blink, ever uneasy about sounds which seemed to her to have no meaning,

stood up on her hind legs and endeavoured to stay them by licking his

face; and Mr. Lavender, who had become so stiff that he could not stir

without great pain, had to content himself by moving his head feebly from

side to side until his dog, having taken her fill, resumed the

examination of her bone. Perceiving presently that whenever he began

to-talk she began to lick his face, he remained silent, with his mouth

open and his eyes shut, in an almost unconscious condition, from which he

was roused by a voice saying:

"He is suffering from alcoholic poisoning."

The monstrous injustice of these words restored his faculties, and seeing

before him what he took to be a large concourse of people--composed in

reality of Joe Petty, Mrs. Petty, and the doctor--he thus addressed them

in a faint, feverish voice:

"The pressure of these times, ladies and gentlemen, brings to the fore

the most pushing and obstreperous blackguards. We have amongst us

persons who, under the thin disguise of patriotism, do not scruple to

bring hideous charges against public men. Such but serve the

blood-stained cause of our common enemies. Conscious of the purity of

our private lives, we do not care what is said of us so long as we can

fulfil our duty to our country. Abstinence from every form of spirituous

liquor has been the watchword of all public men since this land was first

threatened by the most stupendous cataclysm which ever hung over the

heads of a great democracy. We have never ceased to preach the need for

it, and those who say the contrary are largely Germans or persons lost to

a sense of decency." So saying, he threw off all the bedclothes, and

fell back with a groan.

"Easy, easy, my dear sir!" said the voice.

"Have you a pain in your back?"

"I shall not submit," returned our hero, "to the ministrations of a Hun;

sooner will I breathe my last."

"Turn him over," said the voice. And Mr. Lavender found himself on his

face.

"Do you feel that?" said the voice.

Mr. Lavender answered faintly into his pillow:

"It is useless for you to torture me. No German hand shall wring from me

a groan."

"Is there mania in his family?" asked the voice. At this cruel insult

Mr. Lavender, who was nearly smothered, made a great effort, and clearing

his mouth of the pillow, said:

"Since we have no God nowadays, I call the God of my fathers to witness

that there is no saner public man than I."

It was, however, his last effort, for the wriggle he had given to his

spine brought on a kind of vertigo, and he relapsed into unconsciousness.

V

IS CONVICTED OF A NEW DISEASE

Those who were assembled round the bed of Mr. Lavender remained for a

moment staring at him with their mouths open, while Blink growled faintly

from underneath.

"Put your hand here," said the doctor at last.

"There is a considerable swelling, an appearance of inflammation, and the

legs are a curious colour. You gave him three-quarters of a tumbler of

rum--how much honey?"

Thus addressed, Joe Petty, leaning his head a little to one side,

answered:

"Not 'alf a pot, sir."

"Um! There are all the signs here of something quite new. He's not had

a fall, has he?"

"Has he?" said Mrs. Petty severely to her husband.

"No," replied Joe.

"Singular!" said the doctor. Turn him back again; I want to feel his

head. Swollen; it may account for his curious way of talking. Well,

shove in quinine, and keep him quiet, with hot bottles to his feet. I

think we have come on a new war disease. I'll send you the quinine. Good

morning.

"Wot oh!" said Joe to his wife, when they were left alone with the

unconscious body of their master. "Poor old Guv! Watch and pray!"

"However could you have given him such a thing?"

"Wet outside, wet your inside," muttered Joe sulkily, "'as always been my

motto. Sorry I give 'im the honey. Who'd ha' thought the product of an

'armless insect could 'a done 'im in like this?"

Fiddle said Mrs. Petty. "In my belief it's come on through reading those

newspapers. If I had my way I'd bum the lot. Can I trust you to watch

him while I go and get the bottles filled?"

Joe drooped his lids over his greenish eyes, and, with a whisk of her

head, his wife left the room.

"Gawd 'elp us!" thought Joe, gazing at his unconscious master, and

fingering his pipe; "'ow funny women are! If I was to smoke in 'ere

she'd have a fit. I'll just 'ave a whiff in the window, though!" And,

leaning out, he drew the curtains to behind him and lighted his pipe.

The sound of Blink gnawing her bone beneath the bed alone broke the

silence.

"I could do with a pint o' bitter," thought Joe; and, noticing the form

of the weekly gardener down below, he said softly:

"'Ello, Bob!"

"'Ello?" replied the gardener. "'Ow's yours?"

"Nicely."

"Goin' to 'ave some rain?"

"Ah!"

"What's the, matter with that?"

"Good for the crops."

"Missis well?"

"So, so."

"Wish mine was."

"Wot's the matter with her?"

"Busy!" replied Joe, sinking his voice. Never 'ave a woman permanent;

that's my experience.

The gardener did not reply, but stood staring at the lilac-bush below Joe

Petty's face. He was a thin man, rather like an old horse.

"Do you think we can win this war?" resumed Joe.

"Dunno," replied the gardener apathetically.

"We seem to be goin' back nicely all the time."

Joe wagged his head. "You've 'it it," he said. And, jerking his head

back towards the room behind him, "Guv'nor's got it now."

"What?"

"The new disease."

"What new disease?"

"Wy, the Run-abaht-an-tell-'em-'ow-to-do-it."

"Ah!"

"'E's copped it fair. In bed."

"You don't say!"

"Not 'alf!" Joe sank his voice still lower. "Wot'll you bet me I don't

ketch it soon?"

The gardener uttered a low gurgle.

"The cats 'ave been in that laylock," he replied, twisting off a broken

branch. "I'll knock off now for a bit o' lunch."

But at that moment the sound of a voice speaking as it might be from a

cavern, caused him and Joe Petty to stare at each other as if petrified.

"Wot is it?" whispered Joe at last.

The gardener jerked his head towards a window on the ground floor.

"Someone in pain," he said.

"Sounds like the Guv'nor's voice."

"Ah!" said the gardener.

"Alf a mo'!" And, drawing in his head, Joe peered through the curtains.

The bed was empty and the door open.

"Watch it! 'E's loose!" he called to the gardener, and descended the

stairs at a run.

In fact, Mr. Lavender had come out of his coma at the words, "D'you think

we can win this war?" And, at once conscious that he had not read the

morning papers, had got out of bed. Sallying forth just as he was he had

made his way downstairs, followed by Blink. Seeing the journals lying on

the chest in the hall, he took all five to where he usually went at this

time of the morning, and sat down to read. Once there, the pain he was

in, added to the disorder occasioned in his brain by the five leaders,

caused him to give forth a summary of their contents, while Blink pressed

his knees with her chin whenever the rising of his voice betokened too

great absorption, as was her wont when she wanted him to feed her. Joe

Petty joined the gardener in considerable embarrassment.

"Shan't I not 'alf cop it from the Missis?" he murmured. "The door's

locked."

The voice of Mr. Lavender maintained its steady flow, rising and falling

with the tides of his pain and his feelings. "What, then, is our duty?

Is it not plain and simple? We require every man in the Army, for that

is the 'sine qua non' of victory. We must greatly reinforce the ranks of

labour in our shipyards--ships, ships, ships, always more ships; for

without them we shall infallibly be defeated. We cannot too often repeat

that we must see the great drama that is being played before our eyes

steadily, and we must see it whole.... Not a man must be taken from the

cultivation of our soil, for on that depends our very existence as a

nation. Without abundant labour of the right sort on the land we cannot

hope to cope with the menace of the pirate submarine. We must have the

long vision, and not be scuppered by the fears of those who would deplete

our most vital industry . . . . In munition works," wailed Mr.

Lavender's voice, as he reached the fourth leader, "we still require the

maximum of effort, and a considerable reinforcement of manpower will in

that direction be necessary to enable us to establish the overwhelming

superiority in the air and in guns which alone can ensure the defeat of

our enemies".... He reached the fifth in what was almost a scream.

"Every man up to sixty must be mobilized but here we would utter the most

emphatic caveat. In the end this war will be won by the country whose

financial position stands the strain best. The last copper bullet will

be the deciding factor. Our economic strength must on no account be

diminished. We cannot at this time of day afford to deplete the ranks of

trade and let out the very life-blood in our veins." "We must see,"

groaned Mr. Lavender, "the problem steadily, and see it whole."

"Poor old geyser!" said the gardener; "'e do seem bad."

"Old me!" said Joe.

"I'll get on the sill and see what I can do through the top o' the

window."

He got up, and, held by the gardener, put his arm through. There was the

sound of considerable disturbance, and through the barking of Blink, Mr.

Lavender's voice was heard again: "Stanch in the middle of the cataclysm,

unruffled by the waters of heaven and hell, let us be captains of our

souls. Down, Blink, down!"

"He's out!" said Joe, rejoining the gardener. "Now for it, before my

missis comes!" and he ran into the house.

Mr. Lavender was walking dazedly in the hall with the journals held out

before him.

"Joe," he said, catching sight of his servant, "get the car ready. I must

be in five places at once, for only thus can we defeat the greatest

danger which ever threatened the future of civilization."

"Right-o, sir," replied Joe; and, waiting till his master turned round,

he seized him round the legs, and lifting that thin little body ascended

the stairs, while Mr. Lavender, with the journals waving fanlike in his

hands, his white hair on end, and his legs kicking, endeavoured to turn

his head to see what agency was moving him.

At the top of the stairs they came on Mrs. Petty, who, having Scotch

blood in her veins, stood against the wall to let them pass, with a hot

bottle in either hand. Having placed Mr. Lavender in his bed and drawn

the clothes up to his eyes, Joe Petty passed the back of his hand across

his brow, and wrung it out.

"Phew!" he gasped; "he's artful!"

His wife, who had followed them in, was already fastening her eyes on the

carpet.

"What's that?" she said, sniffing.

"That?" repeated Joe, picking up his pipe; "why, I had to run to ketch

'im, and it fell out o' me pocket."

"And lighted itself," said Mrs. Petty, darting, at the floor and taking

up a glowing quid which had burned a little round hole in the carpet.

"You're a pretty one!"

"You can't foresee those sort o' things," said Joe.

"You can't foresee anything," replied his wife; "you might be a

Government. Here! hold the clothes while I get the bottles to his feet.

Well I never! If he hasn't got----" And from various parts of Mr.

Lavender's body she recovered the five journals. "For putting things in

the wrong place, Joe Petty, I've never seen your like!"

"They'll keep 'im warm," said Joe.

Mr. Lavender who, on finding himself in bed, had once more fallen into a

comatose condition, stirred, and some words fell from his lips. "Five in

one, and one in five."

"What does he say?" said Mrs. Petty, tucking him up.

"It's the odds against Candelabra for the Derby."

"Only faith," cried Mr. Lavender, "can multiply exceedingly."

"Here, take them away!" muttered Mrs. Petty, and dealing the journals a

smart slap, she handed them to Joe.

"Faith!" repeated Mr. Lavender, and fell into a doze.

"About this new disease," said Joe. "D'you think it's ketchin'? I feel

rather funny meself."

"Stuff!" returned his wife. "Clear away those papers and that bone, and

go and take Blink out, and sit on a seat; it's all you're fit for. Of

all the happy-go-luckys you're the worst."

"Well, I never could worry," said Joe from the doorway; "'tisn't in me.

So long!"

And, dragging Blink by the collar, he withdrew.

Alone with her patient, Mrs. Petty, an enthusiast for cleanliness and

fresh air, went on her knees, and, having plucked out the charred ring of

the little hole in the carpet, opened the window wider to rid the room of

the smell of burning. "If it wasn't for me," she thought, leaning out

into the air, "I don't know what'd become of them."

A voice from a few feet away said:

"I hope he's none the worse. What does the doctor say?"

Looking round in astonishment, Mrs. Petty saw a young lady leaning out of

a window on her right.

"We can't tell at present," she said, with a certain reserve he is going

on satisfactory.

"It's not hydrophobia, is it?" asked the young lady. "You know he fell

out of the window?

"What!" ejaculated Mrs. Petty.

"Where the lilac's broken. If I can give you a hand I shall be very

glad. I'm a V.A.D."

"Thank you, I'm sure," said Mrs. Petty stiffly, for the passion of

jealousy, to which she was somewhat prone, was rising in her, "there is

no call." And she thought, "V.A. indeed! I know them."

Poor dear said the young lady. "He did come a bump. It was awfully

funny! Is he--er----?" And she touched her forehead, where tendrils of

fair hair were blowing in the breeze.

Inexpressibly outraged by such a question concerning one for whom she had

a proprietary reverence, Mrs. Petty answered acidly:

"Oh dear no! He is much wiser than some people!"

"It was only that he mentioned the last man and the last dollar, you

know," said the young lady, as if to herself, "but, of course, that's no

real sign." And she uttered a sudden silvery laugh.

Mrs. Petty became aware of something tickling her left ear, and turning

round, found her master leaning out beside her, in his dressing-gown.

"Leave me, Mrs. Petty," he said with such dignity that she instinctively

recoiled. "It may seem to you," continued Mr. Lavender, addressing the

young lady, "indelicate on my part to resume my justification, but as a

public man, I suffer, knowing that I have committed a breach of decorum."

"Don't you think you ought to keep quiet in bed?" Mrs. Petty heard the

young lady ask.

"My dear young lady," Mr. Lavender replied, "the thought of bed is

abhorrent to me at a time like this. What more ignoble fate than to die

in, one's bed?"

"I'm only asking you to live in it," said the young lady, while Mrs.

Petty grasped her master by the skirts of his gown.

"Down, Blink, down!" said Mr. Lavender, leaning still further out.

"For pity's sake," wailed the young lady, "don't fall out again, or I

shall burst."

"Ah, believe me," said Mr. Lavender in a receding voice, "I would not

pain you further for the world----"

Mrs. Petty, exerting all her strength, had hauled him in.

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, sir," she said severely, "talking to a

young lady like that in your dressing-gown?

"Mrs. Petty," said Mr Lavender mysteriously, "it might have been

worse.... I should like some tea with a little lemon in it."

Taking this for a sign of returning reason Mrs. Petty drew him gently

towards the bed, and, having seen him get in, tucked him up and said:

"Now, sir, you never break your word, do you?"

"No public man----" began Mr. Lavender.

"Oh, bother! Now, promise me to stay quiet in bed while I get you that

tea."

"I certainly shall," replied our hero, "for I feel rather faint."

"That's right," said Mrs. Petty. "I trust you." And, bolting the

window, she whisked out of the room and locked the door behind her.

Mr. Lavender lay with his eyes fixed on the, ceiling, clucking his

parched tongue. "God," he thought, "for one must use that word when the

country is in danger--God be thanked for Beauty! But I must not allow it

to unsteel my soul. Only when the cause of humanity has triumphed, and

with the avenging sword and shell we have exterminated that criminal

nation, only then shall I be entitled to let its gentle influence creep

about my being." And drinking off the tumbler of tea which Mrs. Petty

was holding to his lips, he sank almost immediately into a deep slumber.

VI

MAKES A MISTAKE, AND MEETS A MOON-CAT

The old lady, whose name was Sinkin, and whose interest in Mr. Lavender

had become so deep, lived in a castle in Frognal; and with her lived her

young nephew, a boy of forty-five, indissolubly connected with the Board

of Guardians. It was entirely due to her representations that he

presented himself at Mr. Lavender's on the following day, and, sending in

his card, was admitted to our hero's presence.

Mr. Lavender, pale and stiff, was sitting in his study, with Blink on his

feet, reading a speech.

"Excuse my getting up, sir," he said; "and pray be seated."

The nephew, who had a sleepy, hairless face and little Chinese eyes,

bowed, and sitting down, stared at Mr. Lavender with a certain

embarrassment.

"I have come," he said at last, "to ask you a few questions on behalf

of--"

"By all means," said Mr. Lavender, perceiving at once that he was being

interviewed. "I shall be most happy to give you my views. Please take a

cigarette, for I believe that is usual. I myself do not smoke. If it is

the human touch you want, you may like to know that I gave it up when

that appeal in your contemporary flooded the trenches with cigarettes and

undermined the nerves of our heroes. By setting an example of

abstinence, and at the same time releasing more tobacco for our men, I

felt that I was but doing my duty. Please don't mention that, though.

And while we are on the personal note, which I sincerely deprecate, you

might like to stroll round the room and look at the portrait of my

father, behind the door, and of my mother, over the fireplace. Forgive

my not accompanying you. The fact is--this is an interesting touch--I

have always been rather subject to lumbago." And seeing the nephew

Sinkin, who had risen to his suggestion, standing somewhat irresolutely

in front of him, he added: "Perhaps you would like to look a little more

closely at my eyes. Every now and then they flash with an almost uncanny

insight." For by now he had quite forgotten his modesty in the

identification he felt with the journal which was interviewing him. "I am

fifty-eight," he added quickly; "but I do not look my years, though my

hair, still thick and full of vigour, is prematurely white--so often the

case with men whose brains are continually on the stretch. The little

home, far from grandiose, which forms the background to this most

interesting personality is embowered in trees. Cats have made their mark

on its lawns, and its owner's love of animals was sharply illustrated by

the sheep-dog which lay on his feet clad in Turkish slippers. Get up,

Blink!"

Blink, disturbed by the motion of her master's feet, rose and gazed long

into his face.

"Look!" said Mr. Lavender, "she has the most beautiful eyes in the

world."

At this remark, which appeared to him no saner than the others he had

heard--so utterly did he misjudge Mr. Lavender's character--the nephew

put down the notebook he had taken out of his pocket, and said:

"Has there ever been anything--er--remarkable about your family?"

"Indeed, yes," said Mr. Lavender. Born of poor but lofty parentage in

the city of Rochester, my father made his living as a publisher; my

mother was a true daughter of the bards, the scion of a stock tracing its

decent from the Druids; her name was originally Jones."

"Ah!" said the nephew Sinkin, writing.

"She has often told me at her knee," continued Mr. Lavender, "that there

was a strong vein of patriotism in her family."

"She did not die--in--in----"

"No, indeed," interrupted Mr. Lavender; she is still living there."

"Ah!" said the nephew. "And your brothers and sisters?"

"One of my brothers," replied Mr. Lavender, with pardonable pride, "is

the editor of Cud Bits. The other is a clergyman."

"Eccentric," murmured the nephew absently. "Tell me, Mr. Lavender, do

you find your work a great strain? Does it----" and he touched the top

of his head, covered with moist black hair.

Mr. Lavender sighed. "At a time like this," he said, "we must all be

prepared to sacrifice our health. No public man, as you know, can call

his head his own for a moment. I should count myself singularly lacking

if I stopped to consider--er--such a consideration."

"Consider--er--such a consideration," repeated the nephew, jotting it

down.

"He carries on," murmured Mr. Lavender, once more identifying himself

with the journal, "grappling with the intricacies of this enormous

problem; happy in the thought that nothing--not even reason itself--is

too precious to sacrifice on the altar of his duty to his country. The

public may rest confident in the knowledge that he will so carry on till

they carry him out on his shield." And aware subconsciously that the

interview could go no further than that phrase, Mr. Lavender was silent,

gazing up with rather startled eyes.

"I see," said the nephew; "I am very much obliged to you. Is your dog

safe?" For Blink had begun to growl in a low and uneasy manner.

"The gentlest creature in the world," replied Lavender, "and the most

sociable. I sometimes think," he went on in a changed voice, "that we

have all gone mad, and that animals alone retain the sweet reasonableness

which used to be esteemed a virtue in human society. Don't take that

down," he added quickly, "we are all subject to moments of weakness. It

was just an 'obiter dictum'."

"Make your mind easy," said the nephew, rising, "it does not serve my

purpose. Just one thing, Mr. Lavender."

At this moment Blink, whose instinct had long been aware of some sinister

purpose in this tall and heavy man, whose trousers did not smell of dogs,

seeing him approach too near, bit him gently in the calf.

The nephew started back. "She's bitten me!" he said, in a hushed voice.

"My God!" ejaculated Mr. Lavender and falling back again, so stiff was

he. "Is it possible? There must be some good reason. Blink!"

Blink wagged her little tail, thrust her nose into his hand, removed it,

and growled again.

"She is quite well, I assure you," Mr. Lavender added hastily, "her nose

is icy."

"She's bitten me," repeated the nephew, pulling up his trouser leg.

"There's no mark, but she distinctly bit me."

"Treasure!" said Mr. Lavender, endeavouring to interest him in the dog.

"Do you notice how dark the rims of her eyes are, and how clear the

whites? Extraordinarily well bred. Blink!"

Aware that she was being talked of Blink continued to be torn between the

desire to wag her tail and to growl. Unable to make up her mind, she

sighed heavily and fell on her side against her side against her master's

legs.

"Wonderful with sheep, too," said Mr. Lavender; "at least, she would be

if they would let her.... You should see her with them on the Heath.

They simply can't bear her."

"You will hear from me again," said the nephew sourly.

"Thank you," said Mr. Lavender. "I shall be glad of a proof; it is

always safer, I believe."

"Good morning," said the nephew.

Blink, who alone perceived the dark meaning in these words, seeing him

move towards the door began to bark and run from side to side behind him,

for all the world as if he had been a flock of sheep.

"Keep her off!" said the nephew anxiously. "Keep her off. I refuse to

be bitten again."

"Blink!" called Mr. Lavender in some agony. Blink, whose obedience was

excessive, came back to him at once, and stood growling from under her

master's hand, laid on the white hair which flowed back from her collar,

till the nephew's footsteps had died away. "I cannot imagine," thought

Mr. Lavender, "why she should have taken exception to that excellent

journalist. Perhaps he did not smell quite right? One never knows."

And with her moustachioed muzzle pressed to his chin Mr. Lavender sought

for explanation in the innocent and living darkness of his dog's eyes....

On leaving Mr. Lavender's the nephew forthwith returned to the castle in

Frognal, and sought his aunt.

"Mad as a March hare, Aunt Rosie; and his dog bit me."

"That dear doggie?"

"They're dangerous."

"You were always funny about dogs, dear," said his aunt soothingly. "Why,

even Sealey doesn't really like you." And calling to the little low

white dog she quite failed to attract his attention. "Did you notice his

dress. The first time I took him for a shepherd, and the second time---!

What do you think ought to be done?"

"He'll have to be watched," said the nephew. "We can't have lunatics at

large in Hampstead."

"But, Wilfred," said the old lady, "will our man-power stand it? Couldn't

they watch each other? Or, if it would be any help, I could watch him

myself. I took such a fancy to his dear dog."

"I shall take steps," said the nephew.

"No, don't do that. I'll go and call on the people, next door. Their

name is Scarlet. They'll know about him, no doubt. We mustn't do

anything inconsiderate."