"It won't do a little bit, Titmarsh," he was saying, "to allow the

politicians to meddle in this racket. We want men of genius, whose

imaginations carry them beyond the facts of the moment. This is too big

a thing for those blasted politicians. They haven't shown a sign so far

of paying attention to what I've been telling them all this time. We

must keep them out, Titmarsh. Machinery without mechanism, and a change

of heart in the world. It's very simple. A single man of genius from

each country, no pettifogging opposition, no petty prejudices."

The other gentleman, whom Mr. Lavender took for the Secretary, and who

was leaning his head rather wearily on his hand, interjected: "Quite so!

And whom would you choose besides yourself? In France, for instance?"

He who was walking stopped a moment, again looked at Mr. Lavender

intently, and again began to speak as if he were not there.

"France?" he said. "There isn't anybody--Anatole's too old--there isn't

anybody."

"America, then?" hazarded the Secretary.

"America!" replied the other; "they haven't got even half a man. There's

that fellow in Germany that I used to influence; but I don't know--no, I

don't think he'd be any good."

"D'Annunzio, surely----" began the Secretary.

"D'Annunzio? My God! D'Annunzio! No! There's nobody in Italy or

Holland--she's as bankrupt as Spain; and there's not a cat in Austria.

Russia might, perhaps, give us someone, but I can't at the moment think

of him. No, Titmarsh, it's difficult."

Mr. Lavender had been growing more and more excited at each word he

overheard, for a scheme of really stupendous proportions was shaping

itself within him. He suddenly rose, and said: "I have an idea."

The Secretary sat up as if he had received a Faradic shock, and he who

was walking up and down stood still. "The deuce you have, sir," he said.

"Yes," cried Mr. Lavender and in concentration and marvellous simplicity,

"it has, I am sure, never been surpassed. It is clear to me, sir, that

you, and you alone, must be this League of Nations. For if it is

entirely in your hands there will be no delay. The plan will spring full

fledged from the head of Jove, and this great and beneficial change in

the lot of mankind will at once become an accomplished fact. There will

be no need for keeping in touch with human nature, no call for patience

and all that laborious upbuilding stone by stone which is so apt to

discourage mankind and imperil the fruition of great reforms. No, sir;

you--you must be this League, and we will all work to the end that

tomorrow at latest there may be perfected this crowning achievement of

the human species."

The gentleman, who had commenced to walk again, looked furtively from Mr.

Lavender to the Secretary, and said:

"By Jingo! some idea!"

"Yes," cried Mr. Lavender, entranced that his grand notion should be at

once accepted; "for it is only men like you who can both soaringly

conceive and immediately concrete in action; and, what is more, there

will be no fear of your tiring of this job and taking up another, for you

will be IT; and one cannot change oneself."

The gentleman looked at Mr. Lavender very suddenly at the words "tiring

of this job," and transferred his gaze to the Secretary, who had bent his

face down to his papers, and was smothering a snigger with his hand.

"Who are you, sir?" he said sharply.

"Merely one," returned Mr. Lavender, "who wishes to do all in his power

to forward a project so fraught with beneficence to all mankind. I count

myself fortunate beyond measure to have come here this morning and found

the very Heart of the matter, the grain of mustard-seed."

The gentleman, who had begun to walk again, here muttered words which

would have sounded like "Damned impudence" if Mr. Lavender had not been

too utterly carried away by his idea to hear them.

"I shall go forth at once," he said, "and make known the good tidings

that the fields are sown, the League formed. Henceforth there are no

barriers between nations, and the reign of perpetual Peace is assured. It

is colossal."

The gentleman abruptly raised his boot, but, seeming to think better of

it, lowered it again, and turned away to the window.

Mr. Lavender, having bowed to his back, went out, and, urged on by his

enthusiasm, directed his steps at once towards Trafalgar Square.

Arriving at this hub of the universe he saw that Chance was on his side,

for a meeting was already in progress, and a crowd of some forty persons

assembled round one of the lions. Owing to his appearance Mr. Lavender

was able without opposition to climb up on the plinth and join the

speaker, a woman of uncertain years. He stood there awaiting his turn

and preparing his oration, while she continued her discourse, which

seemed to be a protest against any interference with British control of

the freedom of the seas. A Union Jack happened to be leaning against the

monument, and when she had at last finished, Mr. Lavender seized it and

came forward to the edge.

"Great tidings!" he said at once, waving the flag, and without more ado

plunged into an oration, which, so far as it went, must certainly be

ranked among his masterpieces. "Great tidings, Friends! I have planted

the grain of mustard seed or, in common parlance, have just come from the

meeting which has incepted the League of Nations; and it will be my task

this morning briefly to make known to you the principles which in future

must dominate the policy of the world. Since it is for the closer

brotherhood of man and the reign of perpetual peace that we are

struggling, we must first secure the annihilation of our common enemies.

Those members of the human race whose infamies have largely placed them

beyond the pale must be eliminated once for all."

Loud cheers greeted this utterance, and stimulated by the sound Mr.

Lavender proceeded: "What, however, must the civilized nations do when at

last they have clean sheets? In the first place, all petty prejudices

and provincial aspirations must be set aside; and though the world must

be firmly founded upon the principle of nationality it must also act as

one great people. This, my fellow-countrymen, is no mere contradiction

in terms, for though in their new solidarities each nation will be

prouder of itself, and more jealous of its good name and independence

than ever, that will not prevent its' sacrificing its inalienable rights

for the good of the whole human nation of which it is a member. Friends,

let me give you a simple illustration, which in a nutshell will make the

whole thing clear. We, here in Britain, are justly proud and tenacious

of our sea power--in the words of the poet, 'We hold all the gates of the

water.' Now it is abundantly and convincingly plain that this reinforced

principle of nationality bids us to retain and increase them, while

internationalism bids us give--them up."

His audience--which had hitherto listened with open mouths, here closed

them, and a strident voice exclaimed:

"Give it a name, gov'nor. D'you say we ought to give up Gib?"

This word pierced Mr. Lavender, standing where he was, to the very

marrow, and he fell into such confusion of spirit that his words became

inaudible.

"My God!" he thought, appalled; "is it possible that I have not got to

the bottom of this question?" And, turning his back on the audience, he

gazed in a sort of agony at the figure of Nelson towering into the sky

above him. He was about to cry out piteously: "Countrymen, I know not

what I think. Oh! I am unhappy!" when he inadvertently stepped back

over the edge of the plinth, and, still entangled in the flag, was picked

up by two policemen and placed in a dazed condition and a deserted spot

opposite the National Gallery.

It was while he was standing there, encircled by, pigeons and forgotten

by his fellow man, that there came to him a spiritual revelation.

"Strange!" he thought; "I notice a certain inconsistency in myself, and

even in my utterances. I am two men, one of whom is me and one not me;

and the one which is not me is the one which causes me to fall into the

arms of policemen and other troubles. The one which is me loves these

pigeons, and desires to live quietly with my dog, not considering public

affairs, which, indeed, seem to be suited to persons of another sort.

Whence, then, comes the one which is not me? Can it be that it is

derived from the sayings and writings of others, and is but a spurious

spirit only meet to be outcast? Do I, to speak in the vernacular, care

any buttons whether we stick to Gibraltar or not so long as men do but

live in kindness? And if that is so, have I the right to say I do? Ought

I not, rather, to be true to my private self and leave the course of

public affairs to those who have louder voices and no private selves?"

The thought was extremely painful, for it seemed to disclose to him grave

inconsistency in the recent management of his life. And, thoroughly

mortified, he turned round with a view of entering the National Gallery

and soothing his spirit with art, when he was arrested by the placard

which covered it announcing which town had taken which sum of bonds. This

lighted up such a new vista of public utility that his brain would

certainly have caught fire again if one of the policemen who had

conducted him across the Square had not touched him on the arm, and said:

"How are you now, sir?"

"I am pretty well, thank you, policeman," replied Mr. Lavender, "and

sorry that I occasioned so much disturbance."

"Don't mention it, sir," answered the policeman; "you came a nasty

crump."

"Tell me," said Mr. Lavender, suddenly looking up into his face, "do you

consider that a man is justified in living a private life? For, as

regards my future, it is largely on your opinion that I shall act."

The policeman, whose solid face showed traces of astonishment, answered

slowly: "As a general thing, a man's private life don't bear lookin'

into, as you know, sir."

"I have not lived one for some time," said Mr. Lavender.

"Well," remarked the policeman, "if you take my advice you won't try it

a-gain. I should say you 'adn't the constitution."

"I fear you do not catch my meaning," returned Mr. Lavender, whose whole

body was aching from his fall; "it is my public life which tries me."

"Well, then, I should chuck it," said the policeman.

"Really?" murmured Mr. Lavender eagerly, "would you?"

"Why not?" said the policeman.

So excited was Mr. Lavender by this independent confirmation of his

sudden longing that he took out half a crown.

"You will oblige me greatly," he said, "by accepting this as a token of

my gratitude."

"Well, sir, I'll humour you," answered the policeman; "though it was no

trouble, I'm sure; you're as light as a feather. Goin' anywhere in

particular?" he added.

"Yes," said Mr. Lavender, rather faintly, "the Tube Station."

"Come along with me, then."

Mr. Lavender went along, not sorry to have the protection of that

stalwart form, for his nerve was shaken, not so much by physical

suffering as by the revelation he had received.

"If you'll take my tip, sir," said the policeman, parting from him, "you

won't try no private life again; you don't look strong."

"Thank you, policeman," said Mr. Lavender musingly; "it is kind of you to

take an interest in me. Good-bye!"

Safely seated in the Tube for Hampstead he continued the painful struggle

of his meditations. "If, indeed," he thought, "as a public man I do more

harm than good, I am prepared to sacrifice all for my country's sake and

retire into private life. But the policeman said that would be dangerous

for me. What, then, is left? To live neither a public nor a private

life!"

This thought, at once painful and heroic, began to take such hold of him

that he arrived at his house in a high fever of the brain.

XXI

AND ASCENDS TO PARADISE

Now when Mr. Lavender once slept over an idea it became so strong that no

power on earth could prevent his putting it into execution, and all night

long he kept Blink awake by tramping up and down his bedroom and planning

the details of such a retirement as would meet his unfortunate case. For

at once he perceived that to retire from both his lives without making

the whole world know of it would be tantamount to not retiring. "Only by

a public act," he thought, "of so striking a character that nobody can

miss it can I bring the moral home to all public and private men." And a

hundred schemes swarmed like ants in his brain. Nor was it till the cock

crew that one adequate to this final occasion occurred to him.

"It will want very careful handling," he thought, "for otherwise I shall

be prevented, and perhaps even arrested in the middle, which will be both

painful and ridiculous. So sublime, however, was his idea that he shed

many tears over it, and often paused in his tramping to regard the

unconscious Blink with streaming eyes. All the next day he went about

the house and heath taking a last look at objects which had been dear,

and at mealtimes ate and drank even less than usual, absorbed by the

pathos of his coming renunciation. He determined to make his

preparations for the final act during the night, when Mrs. Petty would be

prevented by Joe's snoring from hearing the necessary sounds; and at

supper he undertook the delicate and harrowing task of saying good-bye

to, his devoted housekeeper without letting her know that he, was doing

it.

"Mrs--Petty," he said, trifling with a morsel of cheese, "it is useless

to disguise, from you that I may be going a journey, and I feel that I

shall not be able to part from all the care you have, bestowed on me

without recording in words my heartfelt appreciation of your devotion. I

shall miss it, I shall miss it terribly, if, that is, I am permitted to

miss anything."

Mrs. Petty, whose mind instantly ran to his bed socks, answered: "Don't

you worry, sir; I won't forget them. But wherever are you going now?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Lavender subtly, "it is all in the air at present; but now

that the lime-trees are beginning to smell a certain restlessness is upon

me, and you may see some change in my proceedings. Whatever happens to

me, however, I commit my dear Blink to your care; feed her as if she were

myself, and love her as if she were Joe, for it is largely on food and

affection that dogs depend for happiness.

"Why, good gracious, sir," said Mrs. Petty, "you talk as if you were

going for a month of Sundays. Are you thinking of Eastbourne?"

Mr. Lavender sighed deeply at that word, for the memory of a town where

he had spent many happy days added to the gentle melancholy of his

feelings on this last evening.

"As regards that I shall not inform you at present; for, indeed, I am by

no means certain what my destination will be. Largely speaking, no pub

--public man," he stammered, doubtful whether he was any longer that,

"knows where he will be going to-morrow. Sufficient unto the day are the

intentions in his head.

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Petty frankly, "you can't go anywhere without Joe

or me, that's flat."

Mr. Lavender smiled.

"Dear Mrs. Petty," he murmured, "there are sacrifices one cannot demand

even of the most faithful friends. But," he went on with calculated

playfulness, "we need not consider that point until the day after

to-morrow at least, for I have much to do in the meantime."

Reassured by those words and the knowledge that Mr. Lavender's plans

seldom remained the same for more than two days, Mrs. Petty tossed her

head slightly and went to the door. "Well, it is a mystery, I'm sure,"

she said.

"I should like to see Joe," said Mr. Lavender, with a lingering look at

his devoted housekeeper.

"The beauty!" muttered Mrs. Petty; "I'll send him," and withdrew.

Giving the morsel of cheese to Blink, who, indeed, had eaten practically

the whole of this last meal, Mr. Lavender took the moon-cat on his

shoulder, and abandoned himself for a moment to the caresses of his two

favourites.

"Blink," he said in a voice which trembled slightly, "be good to this

moon-cat while I am away; and if I am longer than you expect, darling, do

not be unhappy. Perhaps some day you will rejoin me; and even if we are

not destined to meet again, I would not, in the fashion of cruel men,

wish to hinder your second marriage, or to stand in the way of your happy

forgetfulness of me. Be as light-hearted as you can, my dear, and wear

no mourning for your master."

So saying, he flung his arms round her, and embraced her warmly, inhaling

with the most poignant emotion her sheep-like odour. He was still

engaged with her when the door was opened, and Joe came in.

"Joe," said Mr. Lavender resolutely, "sit down and light your pipe. You

will find a bottle of pre-war port in the sideboard. Open it, and, drink

my health; indeed, I myself will drink it too, for it may give me

courage. We have been good friends, Joe," he went on while Joe was

drawing the cork, "and have participated in pleasant and sharp

adventures. I have called you in at this moment, which may some day seem

to you rather solemn, partly to shake your hand and partly to resume the

discussion on public men which we held some days ago, if you remember."

"Ah!" said Joe, with his habitual insouciance, "when I told you that they

give me the 'ump."

"Yes, what abaht it, sir? 'Ave they been sayin' anything particular

vicious?" His face flying up just then with the cork which he was

extracting encountered the expression on Mr. Lavender's visage, and he

added: "Don't take wot I say to 'eart, sir; try as you like you'll never

be a public man."

Those words, which seemed to Mr. Lavender to seal his doom, caused a

faint pink flush to invade his cheeks.

"No," continued Joe, pouring out the wine; you 'aven't got the brass in

times like these. I dare say you've noticed, sir, that the times is

favourable for bringing out the spots on the body politic. 'Ere's

'ealth!"

"Joe," said Mr. Lavender, raising the glass to his lips with solemnity,

"I wish you a most happy and prosperous life. Let us drink to all those

qualities which make you par excellence one of that great race, the best

hearted in the world, which never thinks of to-morrow, never knows when

it is beaten, and seldom loses its sense of humour.

"Ah!" returned Joe enigmatically, half-closing one of his greenish eyes,

and laying the glass to one side of his reddish nose. Then, with a quick

movement, he swallowed its contents and refilled it before Mr. Lavender

had succeeded in absorbing more than a drop.

"I don't say," he continued, "but what there's a class o' public man

that's got its uses, like the little 'un that keeps us all alive, or the

perfect English gentleman what did his job, and told nobody nothin' abaht

it. You can 'ave confidence in a man like that----that's why 'e's gone

an' retired; 'e's civilized, you see, the finished article; but all this

raw material, this 'get-on' or 'get-out' lot, that's come from 'oo knows

where, well, I wish they'd stayed there with their tell-you-how-to-do-it

and their 'ymns of 'ate."

"Joe," said Mr. Lavender, "are you certain that therein does not speak

the snob inherent in the national bosom? Are you not unconsciously

paying deference to the word gentleman?"

"Why not, sir?" replied Joe, tossing off his second glass. "It'd be a

fine thing for the country if we was all gentlemen--straight, an' a

little bit stupid, and 'ad 'alf a thought for others." And he refilled

his master's glass. "I don't measure a gentleman by 'is money, or 'is

title, not even by 'is clothes--I measure 'im by whether he can stand

'avin' power in 'is 'ands without gettin' unscrupled or swollen 'eaded,

an' whether 'e can do what he thinks right without payin' attention, to

clamour. But, mind you, 'e's got to 'ave right thoughts too, and a

feelin' 'eart. 'Ere's luck, sir."

Mr. Lavender, who, absorbed in his chauffeur's sentiments, had now drunk

two glasses, rose from his, chair, and clutching his hair said: "I will

not conceal from you, Joe, that I have always assumed every public man

came up to that standard, at least."

"Crikey said Joe. 'Ave you really, sir? My Gawd! Got any use for the

rest of this bottle?"

"No, Joe, no. I shall never have use for a bottle again."

"In that case I might as well," said Joe, pouring what remained into a

tumbler and drinking it off. "Is there any other topic you'd like to

mention? If I can 'ave any influence on you, I shall be very glad."

"Thank you, Joe," returned Mr. Lavender, "what I have most need of at

this moment is solitude and your good wishes. And will you kindly take

Blink away, and when she has had her run, place her in my bedroom, with

the window closed. Good-night, Joe. Call me late tomorrow morning.

"Certainly, sir. Good-night, sir."

"Good-night, Joe. Shake hands."

When Joe was gone, accompanied by the unwilling Blink, turning her

beautiful dark eyes back to the last, Mr. Lavender sat down at his

bureau, and drawing a sheet of paper to him, wrote at the top of it.

"My last Will and Testament."

It was a long time before he got further, and then entirely omitted to

leave anything in it, completely preoccupied by the preamble, which

gradually ran as follows:

"I, John Lavender, make known to all men by these presents that the

act which I contemplate is symbolical, and must in no sense be taken

as implying either weariness of life or that surrender to misfortune

which is unbecoming to an English public gentleman." (Over this

description of himself Mr. Lavender was obliged to pause some time

hovering between the two designations, and finally combining them as

the only way out of his difficulty.) "Long and painful experience

has convinced me that only by retiring from the former can I retain

the latter character, and only by retiring from both can I point the

moral ever demanded by my countrymen. Conscious, indeed, that a

mere act of private resignation would have no significance to the

body politic, nor any deflecting influence on the national life, I

have chosen rather to disappear in blue flame, so that every

Englishman may take to heart my lesson, and learn from my strange

fate how to be himself uninfluenced by the verbiage of others. At

the same time, with the utmost generosity, I wish to acknowledge in

full my debt towards all those great writers and speakers on the war

who have exercised so intoxicating an influence on my mind." (Here

followed an alphabetical list of names beginning with B and ending

with S.)

"I wish to be dissociated firmly from the views of my chauffeur Joe

Petty, and to go to my last account with an emphatic assertion that

my failure to become a perfect public gentleman is due to private

idiosyncrasies rather than to any conviction that it is impossible,

or to anything but admiration of the great men I have mentioned. If

anybody should wish to paint me after I am dead, I desire that I may

be represented with my face turned towards the Dawn; for it is at

that moment so symptomatic of a deep adoration--which I would scorn

to make the common property of gossiping tongues--that I intend to

depart. If there should be anything left of me--which is less than

probable considering the inflammatory character of the material I

design for my pyre--I would be obliged if, without giving anybody

any trouble, it could be buried in my garden, with the usual

Hampstead tablet.

"'JOHN LAVENDER,

THE PUBLIC MAN, WHO DIED FOR HIS

COUNTRY'S GOOD, LIVED HERE.'

"In conclusion, I would say a word to that land I have loved and

served: 'Be not extreme! Distrust the words, of others. To

yourself be true! As you are strong be gentle, as you are brave be

modest! Beloved country, farewell!'"

Having written that final sentence he struggled long with himself before

he could lay down the pen. But by this time the port he had drunk had

begun to have its usual effect, and he fell into a doze, from which he

was awakened five hours later by the beams of a full moon striking in on

him.

"The hour has come," he thought, and, opening the French-window, he went

out on to the lawn, where the dew lay white. The freshness in the air,

the glamour of the moonlight, and the fumes of the port combined to make

him feel strangely rhumantic, and if he had possessed a musical

instrument he would very likely have begun to play on it. He spent some

moments tracking to and fro in the dew before he settled on the centre of

the lawn as the most suitable spot for the act which he contemplated, for

thence he would be able to turn his last looks towards Aurora's

bedroom-window without interference from foliage. Having drawn a

twelve-foot circle in the dew with his toe he proceeded in the bright

moonlight to the necessary accumulation of his funeral pile, conveying

from his study, book by book, journal by journal, pamphlet by pamphlet,

the hoarded treasures of the last four years; and as he carefully placed

each one, building up at once a firm and cunning structure, he gave a

little groan, thinking of the intoxications of the past, and all the

glorious thoughts embodied in that literature. Underneath, in the heart

of the pile, he reserved a space for the most inflammable material, which

he selected from a special file of a special journal, and round the

circumference of the lofty and tapering mound he carefully deposited the

two hundred and four war numbers of a certain weekly, so that a ring of

flame might lick well up the sides and permeate the more solid matter on

which he would be sitting. For two hours he worked in the waning

moonlight till he had completed this weird and heroic erection; and just

before the dawn, sat down by the light of the candle with which he meant

to apply the finishing touch, to compose that interview with himself

whereby he intended to convey to the world the message of his act.

"I found him," he began, in the words of the interviewer, "sitting upon a

journalistic pile of lovely leaves of thought, which in the dawning of a

new day glowed with a certain restrained flamboyance, as though the

passion stored within those exotic pages gave itself willingly to the

'eclaircissement' of the situation, and of his lineaments on which

suffering had already set their stamp.

"'I should like you,' I said, approaching as near as I could, for the

sparks, like little fireflies on a Riviera evening, were playing

profoundly round my trousers, 'I should like to hear from your own lips

the reasons which have caused you to resign.'

"'Certainly,' he replied, with the courtesy which I have always found

characteristic of him in moments which would try the suavity of more

ordinary men; and with the utmost calm and clarity he began to tell me

the inner workings of his mind, while the growing dawn-light irradiated

his wasted and expressive features, and the flames slowly roasted his

left boot.

"'Yes,' he said quietly, and his eyes turned inwards, 'I have at last

seen the problem clearly, and seen it whole. It is largely because of

this that I have elected to seek the seclusion of another world. What

that world contains for me I know not, though so many public men have

tried to tell me; but it has never been my way to recoil from the

Unknown, and I am ready for my journey beyond the wide world's end.'

"I was greatly struck by the large-hearted way in which he spoke those

words, and I interrupted him to ask whether he did not think that there

was something fundamental in the British character which would leap as

one man at such an act of daring sacrifice and great adventure.

"'As regards that,' he replied fearlessly, while in the light of the

ever-brightening dawn I could, see the suspender on his right leg

gradually charring, so that he must already have been in great pain, 'as

regards that, it is largely the proneness of the modern British to leap

to verbal extremity which is inducing me to afford them this

object-lesson in restraint and commonsense. Ouch!'

"This momentary ejaculation seemed to escape him in spite of all his iron

control; and the smell of burning flesh brought home to me as nothing

else, perhaps, could have done the tortures he must have been suffering.

"'I feel,' he went on very gravely, 'that extravagance of word and

conduct is fatal to my country, and having so profoundly experienced its

effects upon myself, I am now endeavouring by a shining example to supply

a remedy for a disease which is corroding the vitals and impairing the

sanity of my countrymen and making them a race of second-hand spiritual

drunkards. Ouch!'

"I confess that at this moment the tears started to my eyes, for a more

sublime show than the spectacle of this devoted man slowly roasting

himself to death before my eyes for the good of his country I had seldom

seen. It had a strange, an appalling interest, and for nothing on earth

could I have torn my gaze away. I now realized to the full for the first

time the will-power and heroism of the human species, and I rejoiced with

a glorious new feeling that I was of the same breed as this man, made of

such stern stuff that not even a tear rolled down his cheeks to quench

the flames that leaped around him ever higher and higher. And the dawn

came up in the eastern sky; and I knew that a great day was preparing for

mankind; and with my eyes fixed upon him as he turned blacker and blacker

I let my heart loose in a great thanksgiving that I had lived to see this

moment. It was then that he cried out in a loud voice:

"'I call Aurora to witness that I have died without a falter, grasping a

burning spear, to tilt at the malpractice which has sent me mad!' And I

saw that he held in his fast-consuming hand a long roll of journals

sharpened to a point of burning flame.

"'Aurora!' he cried again, and with that enigmatic word on his lips was

incinerated in the vast and towering belch of the devouring element.

"It was among the most inspiring sights I have ever witnessed."

When Mr. Lavender had completed that record, whose actuality and wealth

of moving detail had greatly affected him, and marked it "For the

Press-Immediate," he felt very cold. It was, in fact, that hour of dawn

when a shiver goes through the world; and, almost with pleasurable

anticipation he took up his lighted candle and stole shivering out to his

pile, rising ghostly to the height of some five feet in the middle of the

dim lawn whereon a faint green tinge was coming with the return of

daylight. Having reached it, he walked round it twice, and readjusted

four volumes of the history of the war as stepping-stones to the top;

then lowering the candle, whose flame burned steadily in the stillness,

he knelt down in the grey dew and set fire to an article in a Sunday

paper. Then, sighing deeply, he returned to his little ladder and, with

some difficulty preserving his balance, mounted to the top, and sat down

with his legs towards the house and his eyes fixed on Aurora's

bedroom-window. He had been there perhaps ten minutes before he realized

that nothing was happening below him, and, climbing down again, proceeded

to the aperture where he had inserted the burning print. There, by the

now considerable daylight, he saw that the flame had gone out at the

words "The Stage is now set for the last act of this colossal world

drama." And convinced that Providence had intended that heartening

sentence to revive his somewhat drooping courage, he thought, "I, too,

shall be making history this morning," and relighting the journal, went

on his hands and knees and began manfully to blow the flames. . . . . .

Now the young lady in the adjoining castle, who had got out of bed,

happened, as she sometimes did, to go to the window for a look at the sun

rising over Parliament Hill. Attracted by the smell of burning paper she

saw Mr. Lavender in this act of blowing up the flames.

"What on earth is the poor dear doing now?" she thought. "This is

really the limit!" And slipping on her slippers and blue dressing-gown

she ensconced herself behind the curtain to await developments.

Mr. Lavender had now backed away from the flames at which he had been

blowing, and remained on his hands and knees, apparently assuring himself

that they had really obtained hold. He then rose, and to her intense

surprise began climbing up on to the pile. She watched him at first with

an amused astonishment, so ludicrous was his light little figure, crowned

by stivered-up white hair, and the expression of eager melancholy on his

thin, high-cheekboned face upturned towards her window. Then, to her

dismay, she saw that the flame had really caught, and, suddenly persuaded

that he had some crazy intention of injuring himself with the view,

perhaps, of attracting her attention, she ran out of her room and down

the stairs, and emerging from the back door just as she was, circled her

garden, so that she might enter Mr. Lavender's garden from behind him,

ready for any eventuality. She arrived within arm's reach of him without

his having heard her, for Blink, whose anxious face as she watched her

master wasting, could be discerned at the bedroom-window, was whining,

and Mr. Lavender himself had now broken into a strange and lamentable

chantey, which, in combination with the creeping flutter of the flames in

the weekly journals encircling the base of the funeral pyre, well-nigh

made her blood curdle.

"Aurora," sang Mr. Lavender, in that most dolorous voice,

"Aurora, my heart I bring,

For I know well it will not burn,

Oh! when the leaves puff out in Spring

And when the leaves in Autumn turn

Think, think of me!

Aurora, I pass away!

Upon my horse of air I ride;

Here let my grizzled ashes stay,

But take, ah! take my heart inside!

Aurora! Aurora!"

At this moment, just as a fit of the most uncontrollable laughter was

about to seize her, she saw a flame which had just consumed the word

Horatio reach Mr. Lavender's right calf.

"Oh!" he cried out in desperate tones, stretching up his arms to the sky.

"Now is my hour come! Sweet-sky, open and let me see her face! Behold!

behold her with the eyes of faith. It is enough. Courage, brother; let

me now consume in silence!" So saying, he folded his arm tightly across

his breast and closed his lips. The flame rising to the bottom of the

weekly which had indeed been upside down, here nipped him vigorously, so

that with a wholly unconscious movement he threw up his little legs, and,

losing his balance, fell backwards into the arms of Aurora, watchfully

outstretched to receive him. Uplifted there, close to that soft blue

bosom away from the reek of the flame, he conceived that he was consumed

and had passed already from his night of ghosts and shadows into the arms

of the morning, and through his swooning lips came forth the words:

"I am in Paradise."

THE END.

FIVE TALES

by John Galsworthy

"Life calls the tune, we dance."

CONTENTS:

THE FIRST AND LAST THE FIRST AND LAST

A STOIC A STOIC

THE APPLE TREE THE APPLE TREE

THE JURYMAN THE JURYMAN

INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE [Also posted as Etext #2594]

[In this 1919 edition of "Five Tales" the fifth tale was "Indian

Summer of a Forsyte;" in later collections, "Indian Summer..." became

the first section of the second volume of The Forsyte Saga]

THE FIRST AND LAST

"So the last shall be first, and the first last."--HOLY WRIT.

It was a dark room at that hour of six in the evening, when just the

single oil reading-lamp under its green shade let fall a dapple of light

over the Turkey carpet; over the covers of books taken out of the

bookshelves, and the open pages of the one selected; over the deep blue

and gold of the coffee service on the little old stool with its Oriental

embroidery. Very dark in the winter, with drawn curtains, many rows of

leather-bound volumes, oak-panelled walls and ceiling. So large, too,

that the lighted spot before the fire where he sat was just an oasis.

But that was what Keith Darrant liked, after his day's work--the hard

early morning study of his "cases," the fret and strain of the day in

court; it was his rest, these two hours before dinner, with books,

coffee, a pipe, and sometimes a nap. In red Turkish slippers and his old

brown velvet coat, he was well suited to that framing of glow and

darkness. A painter would have seized avidly on his clear-cut, yellowish

face, with its black eyebrows twisting up over eyes--grey or brown, one

could hardly tell, and its dark grizzling hair still plentiful, in spite

of those daily hours of wig. He seldom thought of his work while he sat

there, throwing off with practised ease the strain of that long attention

to the multiple threads of argument and evidence to be disentangled--work

profoundly interesting, as a rule, to his clear intellect, trained to

almost instinctive rejection of all but the essential, to selection of

what was legally vital out of the mass of confused tactical and human

detail presented to his scrutiny; yet sometimes tedious and wearing. As

for instance to-day, when he had suspected his client of perjury, and was

almost convinced that he must throw up his brief. He had disliked the

weak-looking, white-faced fellow from the first, and his nervous, shifty

answers, his prominent startled eyes--a type too common in these days of

canting tolerations and weak humanitarianism; no good, no good!

Of the three books he had taken down, a Volume of Voltaire--curious

fascination that Frenchman had, for all his destructive irony!--a volume

of Burton's travels, and Stevenson's "New Arabian Nights," he had pitched

upon the last. He felt, that evening, the want of something sedative, a

desire to rest from thought of any kind. The court had been crowded,

stuffy; the air, as he walked home, soft, sou'-westerly, charged with

coming moisture, no quality of vigour in it; he felt relaxed, tired, even

nervy, and for once the loneliness of his house seemed strange and

comfortless.

Lowering the lamp, he turned his face towards the fire. Perhaps he would

get a sleep before that boring dinner at the Tellasson's. He wished it

were vacation, and Maisie back from school. A widower for many years, he

had lost the habit of a woman about him; yet to-night he had a positive

yearning for the society of his young daughter, with her quick ways, and

bright, dark eyes. Curious what perpetual need of a woman some men had!

His brother Laurence--wasted--all through women--atrophy of willpower! A

man on the edge of things; living from hand to mouth; his gifts all down

at heel! One would have thought the Scottish strain might have saved

him; and yet, when a Scotsman did begin to go downhill, who could go

faster? Curious that their mother's blood should have worked so

differently in her two sons. He himself had always felt he owed all his

success to it.

His thoughts went off at a tangent to a certain issue troubling his legal

conscience. He had not wavered in the usual assumption of omniscience,

but he was by no means sure that he had given right advice. Well!

Without that power to decide and hold to decision in spite of misgiving,

one would never have been fit for one's position at the Bar, never have

been fit for anything. The longer he lived, the more certain he became

of the prime necessity of virile and decisive action in all the affairs

of life. A word and a blow--and the blow first! Doubts, hesitations,

sentiment the muling and puking of this twilight age--! And there welled

up on his handsome face a smile that was almost devilish--the tricks of

firelight are so many! It faded again in sheer drowsiness; he slept....

He woke with a start, having a feeling of something out beyond the light,

and without turning his head said: "What's that?" There came a sound as

if somebody had caught his breath. He turned up the lamp.

"Who's there?"

A voice over by the door answered:

"Only I--Larry."

Something in the tone, or perhaps just being startled out of sleep like

this, made him shiver. He said:

"I was asleep. Come in!"

It was noticeable that he did not get up, or even turn his head, now that

he knew who it was, but waited, his half-closed eyes fixed on the fire,

for his brother to come forward. A visit from Laurence was not an

unmixed blessing. He could hear him breathing, and became conscious of a

scent of whisky. Why could not the fellow at least abstain when he was

coming here! It was so childish, so lacking in any sense of proportion

or of decency! And he said sharply:

"Well, Larry, what is it?"

It was always something. He often wondered at the strength of that sense

of trusteeship, which kept him still tolerant of the troubles, amenable

to the petitions of this brother of his; or was it just "blood" feeling,

a Highland sense of loyalty to kith and kin; an old-time quality which

judgment and half his instincts told him was weakness but which, in spite

of all, bound him to the distressful fellow? Was he drunk now, that he

kept lurking out there by the door? And he said less sharply:

"Why don't you come and sit down?"

He was coming now, avoiding the light, skirting along the walls just

beyond the radiance of the lamp, his feet and legs to the waist brightly

lighted, but his face disintegrated in shadow, like the face of a dark

ghost.

"Are you ill, man?"

Still no answer, save a shake of that head, and the passing up of a hand,

out of the light, to the ghostly forehead under the dishevelled hair.

The scent of whisky was stronger now; and Keith thought:

'He really is drunk. Nice thing for the new butler to see! If he can't

behave--'

The figure against the wall heaved a sigh--so truly from an overburdened

heart that Keith was conscious with a certain dismay of not having yet

fathomed the cause of this uncanny silence. He got up, and, back to the

fire, said with a brutality born of nerves rather than design:

"What is it, man? Have you committed a murder, that you stand there dumb

as a fish?"

For a second no answer at all, not even of breathing; then, just the

whisper:

"Yes."

The sense of unreality which so helps one at moments of disaster enabled

Keith to say vigorously:

"By Jove! You have been drinking!"

But it passed at once into deadly apprehension.

"What do you mean? Come here, where I can see you. What's the matter

with you, Larry?"

With a sudden lurch and dive, his brother left the shelter of the shadow,

and sank into a chair in the circle of light. And another long, broken

sigh escaped him.

"There's nothing the matter with me, Keith! It's true!"

Keith stepped quickly forward, and stared down into his brother's face;

and instantly he saw that it was true. No one could have simulated the

look in those eyes--of horrified wonder, as if they would never again get

on terms with the face to which they belonged. To see them squeezed the

heart-only real misery could look like that. Then that sudden pity became

angry bewilderment.

"What in God's name is this nonsense?"

But it was significant that he lowered his voice; went over to the door,

too, to see if it were shut. Laurence had drawn his chair forward,

huddling over the fire--a thin figure, a worn, high-cheekboned face with

deep-sunk blue eyes, and wavy hair all ruffled, a face that still had a

certain beauty. Putting a hand on that lean shoulder, Keith said:

"Come, Larry! Pull yourself together, and drop exaggeration."

"It's true; I tell you; I've killed a man."

The noisy violence of that outburst acted like a douche. What was the

fellow about--shouting out such words! But suddenly Laurence lifted his

hands and wrung them. The gesture was so utterly painful that it drew a

quiver from Keith's face.

"Why did you come here," he said, "and tell me this?"

Larry's face was really unearthly sometimes, such strange gleams passed

up on to it!

"Whom else should I tell? I came to know what I'm to do, Keith? Give

myself up, or what?"

At that sudden introduction of the practical Keith felt his heart twitch.

Was it then as real as all that? But he said, very quietly:

"Just tell me--How did it come about, this--affair?"

That question linked the dark, gruesome, fantastic nightmare on to

actuality.

"When did it happen?"

"Last night."

In Larry's face there was--there had always been--something childishly

truthful. He would never stand a chance in court! And Keith said:

"How? Where? You'd better tell me quietly from the beginning. Drink

this coffee; it'll clear your head."

Laurence took the little blue cup and drained it.

"Yes," he said. "It's like this, Keith. There's a girl I've known for

some months now--"

Women! And Keith said between his teeth: "Well?"

"Her father was a Pole who died over here when she was sixteen, and left

her all alone. A man called Walenn, a mongrel American, living in the

same house, married her, or pretended to--she's very pretty, Keith--he

left her with a baby six months old, and another coming. That one died,

and she did nearly. Then she starved till another fellow took her on.

She lived with him two years; then Walenn turned up again, and made her

go back to him. The brute used to beat her black and blue, all for

nothing. Then he left her again. When I met her she'd lost her elder

child, too, and was taking anybody who came along."

He suddenly looked up into Keith's face.

"But I've never met a sweeter woman, nor a truer, that I swear. Woman!

She's only twenty now! When I went to her last night, that brute--that

Walenn--had found her out again; and when he came for me, swaggering and

bullying--Look!"--he touched a dark mark on his forehead--"I took his

throat in my hands, and when I let go--"

"Yes?"

"Dead. I never knew till afterwards that she was hanging on to him

behind."

Again he made that gesture-wringing his hands.

In a hard voice Keith said:

"What did you do then?"

"We sat by it a long time. Then I carried it on my back down the street,

round a corner to an archway."

"How far?"

"About fifty yards."

"Was anyone--did anyone see?"

"No."

"What time?"

"Three."

"And then?"

"Went back to her."

"Why--in Heaven's name?"

"She was lonely and afraid; so was I, Keith."

"Where is this place?"

"Forty-two, Borrow Street, Soho."

"And the archway?"

"Corner of Glove Lane."

"Good God! Why--I saw it in the paper!"

And seizing the journal that lay on his bureau, Keith read again that

paragraph: "The body of a man was found this morning under an archway in

Glove Lane, Soho. From marks about the throat grave suspicions of foul

play are entertained. The body had apparently been robbed, and nothing

was discovered leading to identification."

It was real earnest, then. Murder! His own brother! He faced round and

said:

"You saw this in the paper, and dreamed it. Understand--you dreamed it!"

The wistful answer came:

"If only I had, Keith--if only I had!"

In his turn, Keith very nearly wrung his hands.

"Did you take anything from the--body?"

"This dropped while we were struggling.",

It was an empty envelope with a South American post-mark addressed:

"Patrick Walenn, Simon's Hotel, Farrier Street, London." Again with that

twitching in his heart, Keith said:

"Put it in the fire."

Then suddenly he stooped to pluck it out. By that command--he

had--identified himself with this--this--But he did not pluck it out. It

blackened, writhed, and vanished. And once more he said:

"What in God's name made you come here and tell me?"

"You know about these things. I didn't mean to kill him. I love the

girl. What shall I do, Keith?

"Simple! How simple! To ask what he was to do! It was like Larry! And

he said:

"You were not seen, you think?" "It's a dark street. There was no one

about."

"When did you leave this girl the second time?"

"About seven o'clock."

"Where did you go?"

"To my rooms."

"In Fitzroy Street?"

"Yes."

"Did anyone see you come in?"

"No."

"What have you done since?"

"Sat there."

"Not been out?"

"No."

"Not seen the girl?"

"No."

"You don't know, then, what she's done since?"

"No."

"Would she give you away?"

"Never."

"Would she give herself away--hysteria?"

"No."

"Who knows of your relations with her?"

"No one."

"No one?"

"I don't know who should, Keith."

"Did anyone see you going in last night, when you first went to her?"

"No. She lives on the ground floor. I've got keys."

"Give them to me. What else have you that connects you with her?"

"Nothing."

"In your rooms?"

"No."

"No photographs. No letters?"

"No."

"Be careful."

"Nothing."

"No one saw you going back to her the second time?"

"No."

"No one saw you leave her in the morning?"

"No."

"You were fortunate. Sit down again, man. I must think."

Think! Think out this accursed thing--so beyond all thought, and all

belief. But he could not think. Not a coherent thought would come. And

he began again:

"Was it his first reappearance with her?"

"Yes."

"She told you so?"

"Yes."

"How did he find out where she was?"

"I don't know."

"How drunk were you?"

"I was not drunk."

"How much had you drunk?"

"About two bottles of claret--nothing."

"You say you didn't mean to kill him?"

"No-God knows!"

"That's something."

What made you choose the arch?"

"It was the first dark place."

"Did his face look as if he had been strangled?"

"Don't!"

"Did it?"

"Yes."

"Very disfigured?"

"Yes."

"Did you look to see if his clothes were marked?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why not? My God! If you had done it!"

"You say he was disfigured. Would he be recognisable?"

"I don't know."

"When she lived with him last--where was that?"

"I don't know for certain. Pimlico, I think."

"Not Soho?"

"No."

"How long has she been at the Soho place?"

"Nearly a year."

"Always the same rooms?"

"Yes."

"Is there anyone living in that house or street who would be likely to

know her as his wife?"

"I don't think so."

"What was he?"

"I should think he was a professional 'bully.'"

"I see. Spending most of his time abroad, then?"

"Yes."

"Do you know if he was known to the police?"

"I haven't heard of it."

"Now, listen, Larry. When you leave here go straight home, and don't go

out till I come to you, to-morrow morning. Promise that!"

"I promise."

"I've got a dinner engagement. I'll think this out. Don't drink. Don't

talk! Pull yourself together."

"Don't keep me longer than you can help, Keith!"

That white face, those eyes, that shaking hand! With a twinge of pity in

the midst of all the turbulence of his revolt, and fear, and disgust

Keith put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and said:

"Courage!"

And suddenly he thought: 'My God! Courage! I shall want it all myself!'

II

Laurence Darrant, leaving his brother's house in the Adelphi, walked

northwards, rapidly, slowly, rapidly again. For, if there are men who by

force of will do one thing only at a time, there are men who from lack of

will do now one thing, now another; with equal intensity. To such

natures, to be gripped by the Nemesis which attends the lack of

self-control is no reason for being more self-controlled. Rather does it

foster their pet feeling: "What matter? To-morrow we die!" The effort of

will required to go to Keith had relieved, exhausted and exasperated him.

In accordance with those three feelings was the progress of his walk. He

started from the door with the fixed resolve to go home and stay there

quietly till Keith came. He was in Keith's hands, Keith would know what

was to be done. But he had not gone three hundred yards before he felt

so utterly weary, body and soul, that if he had but had a pistol in his

pocket he would have shot himself in the street. Not even the thought of

the girl--this young unfortunate with her strange devotion, who had kept

him straight these last five months, who had roused in him a depth of

feeling he had never known before--would have availed against that sudden

black defection. Why go on--a waif at the mercy of his own nature, a

straw blown here and there by every gust which rose in him? Why not have

done with it for ever, and take it out in sleep?

He was approaching the fatal street, where he and the girl, that early

morning, had spent the hours clutched together, trying in the refuge of

love to forget for a moment their horror and fear. Should he go in? He

had promised Keith not to. Why had he promised? He caught sight of

himself in a chemist's lighted window. Miserable, shadowy brute! And he

remembered suddenly a dog he had picked up once in the streets of Pera, a

black-and-white creature--different from the other dogs, not one of their

breed, a pariah of pariahs, who had strayed there somehow. He had taken

it home to the house where he was staying, contrary to all custom of the

country; had got fond of it; had shot it himself, sooner than leave it

behind again to the mercies of its own kind in the streets. Twelve years

ago! And those sleevelinks made of little Turkish coins he had brought

back for the girl at the hairdresser's in Chancery Lane where he used to

get shaved--pretty creature, like a wild rose. He had asked of her a

kiss for payment. What queer emotion when she put her face forward to

his lips--a sort of passionate tenderness and shame, at the softness and

warmth of that flushed cheek, at her beauty and trustful gratitude. She

would soon have given herself to him--that one! He had never gone there

again! And to this day he did not know why he had abstained; to this day

he did not know whether he were glad or sorry not to have plucked that

rose. He must surely have been very different then! Queer business,

life--queer, queer business!--to go through it never knowing what you

would do next. Ah! to be like Keith, steady, buttoned-up in success; a

brass pot, a pillar of society! Once, as a boy, he had been within an

ace of killing Keith, for sneering at him. Once in Southern Italy he had

been near killing a driver who was flogging his horse. And now, that

dark-faced, swinish bully who had ruined the girl he had grown to

love--he had done it! Killed him! Killed a man!

He who did not want to hurt a fly. The chemist's window comforted him

with the sudden thought that he had at home that which made him safe, in

case they should arrest him. He would never again go out without some of

those little white tablets sewn into the lining of his coat. Restful,

even exhilarating thought! They said a man should not take his own life.

Let them taste horror--those glib citizens! Let them live as that girl

had lived, as millions lived all the world over, under their canting

dogmas! A man might rather even take his life than watch their cursed

inhumanities.

He went into the chemist's for a bromide; and, while the man was mixing

it, stood resting one foot like a tired horse. The "life" he had

squeezed out of that fellow! After all, a billion living creatures gave

up life each day, had it squeezed out of them, mostly. And perhaps not

one a day deserved death so much as that loathly fellow. Life! a

breath--aflame! Nothing! Why, then, this icy clutching at his heart?

The chemist brought the draught.

"Not sleeping, sir?"

"No."

The man's eyes seemed to say: 'Yes! Burning the candle at both ends--I

know!' Odd life, a chemist's; pills and powders all day long, to hold the

machinery of men together! Devilish odd trade!

In going out he caught the reflection of his face in a mirror; it seemed

too good altogether for a man who had committed murder. There was a sort

of brightness underneath, an amiability lurking about its shadows;

how--how could it be the face of a man who had done what he had done?

His head felt lighter now, his feet lighter; he walked rapidly again.

Curious feeling of relief and oppression all at once! Frightful--to long

for company, for talk, for distraction; and--to be afraid of it! The

girl--the girl and Keith were now the only persons who would not give him

that feeling of dread. And, of those two--Keith was not...! Who could

consort with one who was never wrong, a successful, righteous fellow; a

chap built so that he knew nothing about himself, wanted to know nothing,

a chap all solid actions? To be a quicksand swallowing up one's own

resolutions was bad enough! But to be like Keith--all willpower,

marching along, treading down his own feelings and weaknesses! No! One

could not make a comrade of a man like Keith, even if he were one's

brother? The only creature in all the world was the girl. She alone

knew and felt what he was feeling; would put up with him and love him

whatever he did, or was done to him. He stopped and took shelter in a

doorway, to light a cigarette. He had suddenly a fearful wish to pass the

archway where he had placed the body; a fearful wish that had no sense,

no end in view, no anything; just an insensate craving to see the dark

place again. He crossed Borrow Street to the little lane. There was

only one person visible, a man on the far side with his shoulders hunched

against the wind; a short, dark figure which crossed and came towards him

in the flickering lamplight. What a face! Yellow, ravaged, clothed

almost to the eyes in a stubbly greyish growth of beard, with blackish

teeth, and haunting bloodshot eyes. And what a figure of rags--one

shoulder higher than the other, one leg a little lame, and thin! A surge

of feeling came up in Laurence for this creature, more unfortunate than

himself. There were lower depths than his!

"Well, brother," he said, "you don't look too prosperous!"

The smile which gleamed out on the man's face seemed as unlikely as a

smile on a scarecrow.

"Prosperity doesn't come my way," he said in a rusty voice. "I'm a

failure--always been a failure. And yet you wouldn't think it, would

you?--I was a minister of religion once."

Laurence held out a shilling. But the man shook his head.

"Keep your money," he said. "I've got more than you to-day, I daresay.

But thank you for taking a little interest. That's worth more than money

to a man that's down."

"You're right."

"Yes," the rusty voice went on; "I'd as soon die as go on living as I do.

And now I've lost my self-respect. Often wondered how long a starving

man could go without losing his self-respect. Not so very long. You

take my word for that." And without the slightest change in the monotony

of that creaking voice he added:

"Did you read of the murder? Just here. I've been looking at the

place."

The words: 'So have I!' leaped up to Laurence's lips; he choked them down

with a sort of terror.

"I wish you better luck," he said. "Goodnight!" and hurried away. A

sort of ghastly laughter was forcing its way up in his throat. Was

everyone talking of the murder he had committed? Even the very

scarecrows?

III

There are some natures so constituted that, due to be hung at ten

o'clock, they will play chess at eight. Such men invariably rise. They

make especially good bishops, editors, judges, impresarios, Prime

ministers, money-lenders, and generals; in fact, fill with exceptional

credit any position of power over their fellow-men. They have spiritual

cold storage, in which are preserved their nervous systems. In such men

there is little or none of that fluid sense and continuity of feeling

known under those vague terms, speculation, poetry, philosophy. Men of

facts and of decision switching imagination on and off at will,

subordinating sentiment to reason... one does not think of them when

watching wind ripple over cornfields, or swallows flying.

Keith Darrant had need for being of that breed during his dinner at the

Tellassons. It was just eleven when he issued from the big house in

Portland Place and refrained from taking a cab. He wanted to walk that

he might better think. What crude and wanton irony there was in his

situation! To have been made father-confessor to a murderer, he--well on

towards a judgeship! With his contempt for the kind of weakness which

landed men in such abysses, he felt it all so sordid, so "impossible,"

that he could hardly bring his mind to bear on it at all. And yet he

must, because of two powerful instincts--self-preservation and

blood-loyalty.

The wind had still the sapping softness of the afternoon, but rain had

held off so far. It was warm, and he unbuttoned his fur overcoat. The

nature of his thoughts deepened the dark austerity of his face, whose

thin, well-cut lips were always pressing together, as if, by meeting, to

dispose of each thought as it came up. He moved along the crowded

pavements glumly. That air of festive conspiracy which drops with the

darkness on to lighted streets, galled him. He turned off on a darker

route.

This ghastly business! Convinced of its reality, he yet could not see

it. The thing existed in his mind, not as a picture, but as a piece of

irrefutable evidence. Larry had not meant to do it, of course. But it

was murder, all the same. Men like Larry--weak, impulsive, sentimental,

introspective creatures--did they ever mean what they did? This man,

this Walenn, was, by all accounts, better dead than alive; no need to

waste a thought on him! But, crime--the ugliness--Justice unsatisfied!

Crime concealed--and his own share in the concealment! And yet--brother

to brother! Surely no one could demand action from him! It was only a

question of what he was going to advise Larry to do. To keep silent, and

disappear? Had that a chance of success? Perhaps if the answers to his

questions had been correct. But this girl! Suppose the dead man's

relationship to her were ferreted out, could she be relied on not to

endanger Larry? These women were all the same, unstable as water,

emotional, shiftless pests of society. Then, too, a crime untracked,

dogging all his brother's after life; a secret following him wherever he

might vanish to; hanging over him, watching for some drunken moment, to

slip out of his lips. It was bad to think of. A clean breast of it?

But his heart twitched within him. "Brother of Mr. Keith Darrant, the

well-known King's Counsel"--visiting a woman of the town, strangling with

his bare hands the woman's husband! No intention to murder, but--a dead

man! A dead man carried out of the house, laid under a dark archway!

Provocation! Recommended to mercy--penal servitude for life! Was that

the advice he was going to give Larry to-morrow morning?

And he had a sudden vision of shaven men with clay-coloured features,

run, as it were, to seed, as he had seen them once in Pentonville, when

he had gone there to visit a prisoner. Larry! Whom, as a baby creature,

he had watched straddling; whom, as a little fellow, he had fagged; whom

he had seen through scrapes at college; to whom he had lent money time

and again, and time and again admonished in his courses. Larry! Five

years younger than himself; and committed to his charge by their mother

when she died. To become for life one of those men with faces like

diseased plants; with no hair but a bushy stubble; with arrows marked on

their yellow clothes! Larry! One of those men herded like sheep; at the

beck and call of common men! A gentleman, his own brother, to live that

slave's life, to be ordered here and there, year after year, day in, day

out. Something snapped within him. He could not give that advice.

Impossible! But if not, he must make sure of his ground, must verify,

must know. This Glove Lane--this arch way? It would not be far from

where he was that very moment. He looked for someone of whom to make

enquiry. A policeman was standing at the corner, his stolid face

illumined by a lamp; capable and watchful--an excellent officer, no

doubt; but, turning his head away, Keith passed him without a word.

Strange to feel that cold, uneasy feeling in presence of the law! A grim

little driving home of what it all meant! Then, suddenly, he saw that

the turning to his left was Borrow Street itself. He walked up one side,

crossed over, and returned. He passed Number Forty-two, a small house

with business names printed on the lifeless windows of the first and

second floors; with dark curtained windows on the ground floor, or was

there just a slink of light in one corner? Which way had Larry turned?

Which way under that grisly burden? Fifty paces of this squalid

street-narrow, and dark, and empty, thank heaven! Glove Lane! Here it

was! A tiny runlet of a street. And here--! He had run right on to the

arch, a brick bridge connecting two portions of a warehouse, and dark

indeed.

"That's right, gov'nor! That's the place!" He needed all his

self-control to turn leisurely to the speaker. "'Ere's where they found

the body--very spot leanin' up 'ere. They ain't got 'im yet. Lytest--me

lord!"

It was a ragged boy holding out a tattered yellowish journal. His lynx

eyes peered up from under lanky wisps of hair, and his voice had the

proprietary note of one making "a corner" in his news. Keith took the

paper and gave him twopence. He even found a sort of comfort in the

young ghoul's hanging about there; it meant that others besides himself

had come morbidly to look. By the dim lamplight he read: "Glove Lane

garrotting mystery. Nothing has yet been discovered of the murdered

man's identity; from the cut of his clothes he is supposed to be a

foreigner." The boy had vanished, and Keith saw the figure of a

policeman coming slowly down this gutter of a street. A second's

hesitation, and he stood firm. Nothing obviously could have brought him

here save this "mystery," and he stayed quietly staring at the arch. The

policeman moved up abreast. Keith saw that he was the one whom he had

passed just now. He noted the cold offensive question die out of the

man's eyes when they caught the gleam of white shirt-front under the

opened fur collar. And holding up the paper, he said:

"Is this where the man was found?"

"Yes, sir."

"Still a mystery, I see?"

"Well, we can't always go by the papers. But I don't fancy they do know

much about it, yet."

"Dark spot. Do fellows sleep under here?"

The policeman nodded. "There's not an arch in London where we don't get

'em sometimes."

"Nothing found on him--I think I read?"

"Not a copper. Pockets inside out. There's some funny characters about

this quarter. Greeks, Hitalians--all sorts."

Queer sensation this, of being glad of a policeman's confidential tone!

"Well, good-night!"

"Good-night, sir. Good-night!"

He looked back from Borrow Street. The policeman was still standing

there holding up his lantern, so that its light fell into the archway, as

if trying to read its secret.

Now that he had seen this dark, deserted spot, the chances seemed to him

much better. "Pockets inside out!" Either Larry had had presence of

mind to do a very clever thing, or someone had been at the body before

the police found it. That was the more likely. A dead backwater of a

place. At three o'clock--loneliest of all hours--Larry's five minutes'

grim excursion to and fro might well have passed unseen! Now, it all

depended on the girl; on whether Laurence had been seen coming to her or

going away; on whether, if the man's relationship to her were discovered,

she could be relied on to say nothing. There was not a soul in Borrow

Street now; hardly even a lighted window; and he took one of those rather

desperate decisions only possible to men daily accustomed to the instant

taking of responsibility. He would go to her, and see for himself. He

came to the door of Forty-two, obviously one of those which are only shut

at night, and tried the larger key. It fitted, and he was in a

gas-lighted passage, with an oil-clothed floor, and a single door to his

left. He stood there undecided. She must be made to understand that he

knew everything. She must not be told more than that he was a friend of

Larry's. She must not be frightened, yet must be forced to give her very

soul away. A hostile witness--not to be treated as hostile--a matter for

delicate handling! But his knock was not answered.

Should he give up this nerve-racking, bizarre effort to come at a basis

of judgment; go away, and just tell Laurence that he could not advise

him? And then--what? Something must be done. He knocked again. Still

no answer. And with that impatience of being thwarted, natural to him,

and fostered to the full by the conditions of his life, he tried the

other key. It worked, and he opened the door. Inside all was dark, but a

voice from some way off, with a sort of breathless relief in its foreign

tones, said:

"Oh! then it's you, Larry! Why did you knock? I was so frightened. Turn

up the light, dear. Come in!"

Feeling by the door for a switch in the pitch blackness he was conscious

of arms round his neck, a warm thinly clad body pressed to his own; then

withdrawn as quickly, with a gasp, and the most awful terror-stricken

whisper:

"Oh! Who is it?"

With a glacial shiver down his own spine, Keith answered

"A friend of Laurence. Don't be frightened!"

There was such silence that he could hear a clock ticking, and the sound

of his own hand passing over the surface of the wall, trying to find the

switch. He found it, and in the light which leaped up he saw, stiffened

against a dark curtain evidently screening off a bedroom, a girl

standing, holding a long black coat together at her throat, so that her

face with its pale brown hair, short and square-cut and curling up

underneath, had an uncanny look of being detached from any body. Her

face was so alabaster pale that the staring, startled eyes, dark blue or

brown, and the faint rose of the parted lips, were like colour stainings

on a white mask; and it had a strange delicacy, truth, and pathos, such

as only suffering brings. Though not susceptible to aesthetic emotion,

Keith was curiously affected. He said gently:

"You needn't be afraid. I haven't come to do you harm--quite the

contrary. May I sit down and talk?" And, holding up the keys, he added:

"Laurence wouldn't have given me these, would he, if he hadn't trusted

me?"

Still she did not move, and he had the impression that he was looking at

a spirit--a spirit startled out of its flesh. Nor at the moment did it

seem in the least strange that he should conceive such an odd thought.

He stared round the room--clean and tawdry, with its tarnished gilt

mirror, marble-topped side-table, and plush-covered sofa. Twenty years

and more since he had been in such a place. And he said:

"Won't you sit down? I'm sorry to have startled you."

But still she did not move, whispering:

"Who are you, please?"

And, moved suddenly beyond the realm of caution by the terror in that

whisper, he answered:

"Larry's brother."

She uttered a little sigh of relief which went to Keith's heart, and,

still holding the dark coat together at her throat, came forward and sat

down on the sofa. He could see that her feet, thrust into slippers, were

bare; with her short hair, and those candid startled eyes, she looked

like a tall child. He drew up a chair and said:

"You must forgive me coming at such an hour; he's told me, you see." He

expected her to flinch and gasp; but she only clasped her hands together

on her knees, and said:

"Yes?"

Then horror and discomfort rose up in him, afresh.

"An awful business!"

Her whisper echoed him:

"Yes, oh! yes! Awful--it is awful!"

And suddenly realising that the man must have fallen dead just where he

was sitting, Keith became stock silent, staring at the floor.

"Yes," she whispered; "Just there. I see him now always falling!"

How she said that! With what a strange gentle despair! In this girl of

evil life, who had brought on them this tragedy, what was it which moved

him to a sort of unwilling compassion?

"You look very young," he said.

"I am twenty."

"And you are fond of--my brother?"

"I would die for him."

Impossible to mistake the tone of her voice, or the look in her eyes,

true deep Slav eyes; dark brown, not blue as he had thought at first. It

was a very pretty face--either her life had not eaten into it yet, or the

suffering of these last hours had purged away those marks; or perhaps

this devotion of hers to Larry. He felt strangely at sea, sitting there

with this child of twenty; he, over forty, a man of the world,

professionally used to every side of human nature. But he said,

stammering a little:

"I--I have come to see how far you can save him. Listen, and just answer

the questions I put to you."

She raised her hands, squeezed them together, and murmured:

"Oh! I will answer anything."

"This man, then--your--your husband--was he a bad man?"

"A dreadful man."

"Before he came here last night, how long since you saw him?"

"Eighteen months."

"Where did you live when you saw him last?"

"In Pimlico."

"Does anybody about here know you as Mrs. Walenn?"

"No. When I came here, after my little girl died, I came to live a bad

life. Nobody knows me at all. I am quite alone."

"If they discover who he was, they will look for his wife?"

"I do not know. He did not let people think I was married to him. I was

very young; he treated many, I think, like me."

"Do you think he was known to the police?"

She shook her head. "He was very clever."

"What is your name now?"

"Wanda Livinska."

"Were you known by that name before you were married?"

"Wanda is my Christian name. Livinska--I just call myself."

"I see; since you came here."

"Yes."

"Did my brother ever see this man before last night?"

"Never."

"You had told him about his treatment of you?"

"Yes. And that man first went for him."

"I saw the mark. Do you think anyone saw my brother come to you?"

"I do not know. He says not."

"Can you tell if anyone saw him carrying the--the thing away?"

"No one in this street--I was looking."

"Nor coming back?"

"No one."

"Nor going out in the morning?"

"I do not think it."

"Have you a servant?"

"Only a woman who comes at nine in the morning for an hour."

"Does she know Larry?"

"No."

"Friends, acquaintances?"

"No; I am very quiet. And since I knew your brother, I see no one.

Nobody comes here but him for a long time now."

"How long?"

"Five months."

"Have you been out to-day?"

"No."

"What have you been doing?"

"Crying."

It was said with a certain dreadful simplicity, and pressing her hands

together, she went on:

"He is in danger, because of me. I am so afraid for him." Holding up his

hand to check that emotion, he said:

"Look at me!"

She fixed those dark eyes on him, and in her bare throat, from which the

coat had fallen back, he could see her resolutely swallowing down her

agitation.

"If the worst comes to the worst, and this man is traced to you, can you

trust yourself not to give my brother away?"

Her eyes shone. She got up and went to the fireplace:

"Look! I have burned all the things he has given me--even his picture.

Now I have nothing from him."

Keith, too, got up.

"Good! One more question: Do the police know you, because--because of

your life?"

She shook her head, looking at him intently, with those mournfully true

eyes. And he felt a sort of shame.

"I was obliged to ask. Do you know where he lives?"

"Yes."

"You must not go there. And he must not come to you, here."

Her lips quivered; but she bowed her head. Suddenly he found her quite

close to him, speaking almost in a whisper:

"Please do not take him from me altogether. I will be so careful. I

will not do anything to hurt him; but if I cannot see him sometimes, I

shall die. Please do not take him from me." And catching his hand

between her own, she pressed it desperately. It was several seconds

before Keith said:

"Leave that to me. I will see him. I shall arrange. You must leave

that to me."

"But you will be kind?"

He felt her lips kissing his hand. And the soft moist touch sent a queer

feeling through him, protective, yet just a little brutal, having in it a

shiver of sensuality. He withdrew his hand. And as if warned that she

had been too pressing, she recoiled humbly. But suddenly she turned, and

stood absolutely rigid; then almost inaudibly whispered: "Listen!

Someone out--out there!" And darting past him she turned out the light.

Almost at once came a knock on the door. He could feel--actually feel

the terror of this girl beside him in the dark. And he, too, felt

terror. Who could it be? No one came but Larry, she had said. Who else

then could it be? Again came the knock, louder! He felt the breath of

her whisper on his cheek: "If it is Larry! I must open." He shrank back

against the wall; heard her open the door and say faintly: "Yes. Please!

Who?"

Light painted a thin moving line on the wall opposite, and a voice which

Keith recognised answered:

"All right, miss. Your outer door's open here. You ought to keep it

shut after dark."

God! That policeman! And it had been his own doing, not shutting the

outer door behind him when he came in. He heard her say timidly in her

foreign voice: "Thank you, sir!" the policeman's retreating steps, the

outer door being shut, and felt her close to him again. That something in

her youth and strange prettiness which had touched and kept him gentle,

no longer blunted the edge of his exasperation, now that he could not see

her. They were all the same, these women; could not speak the truth!

And he said brusquely:

"You told me they didn't know you!"

Her voice answered like a sigh:

"I did not think they did, sir. It is so long I was not out in the town,

not since I had Larry."

The repulsion which all the time seethed deep in Keith welled up at those

words. His brother--son of his mother, a gentleman--the property of this

girl, bound to her, body and soul, by this unspeakable event! But she

had turned up the light. Had she some intuition that darkness was

against her? Yes, she was pretty with that soft face, colourless save

for its lips and dark eyes, with that face somehow so touchingly, so

unaccountably good, and like a child's.

"I am going now," he said. "Remember! He mustn't come here; you mustn't

go to him. I shall see him to-morrow. If you are as fond of him as you

say--take care, take care!"

She sighed out, "Yes! oh, yes!" and Keith went to the door. She was

standing with her back to the wall, and to follow him she only moved her

head--that dove-like face with all its life in eyes which seemed saying:

'Look into us; nothing we hide; all--all is there!'

And he went out.

In the passage he paused before opening the outer door. He did not want

to meet that policeman again; the fellow's round should have taken him

well out of the street by now, and turning the handle cautiously, he

looked out. No one in sight. He stood a moment, wondering if he should

turn to right or left, then briskly crossed the street. A voice to his

right hand said:

"Good-night, sir."

There in the shadow of a doorway the policeman was standing. The fellow

must have seen him coming out! Utterly unable to restrain a start, and

muttering "Goodnight!" Keith walked on rapidly:

He went full quarter of a mile before he lost that startled and uneasy

feeling in sardonic exasperation that he, Keith Darrant, had been taken

for a frequenter of a lady of the town. The whole thing--the whole

thing!--a vile and disgusting business! His very mind felt dirty and

breathless; his spirit, drawn out of sheath, had slowly to slide back

before he could at all focus and readjust his reasoning faculty.

Certainly, he had got the knowledge he wanted. There was less danger

than he thought. That girl's eyes! No mistaking her devotion. She

would not give Larry away. Yes! Larry must clear out--South

America--the East--it did not matter. But he felt no relief. The cheap,

tawdry room had wrapped itself round his fancy with its atmosphere of

murky love, with the feeling it inspired, of emotion caged within those

yellowish walls and the red stuff of its furniture. That girl's face!

Devotion; truth, too, and beauty, rare and moving, in its setting of

darkness and horror, in that nest of vice and of disorder!... The dark

archway; the street arab, with his gleeful: "They 'ain't got 'im yet!";

the feel of those bare arms round his neck; that whisper of horror in the

darkness; above all, again, her child face looking into his, so truthful!

And suddenly he stood quite still in the street. What in God's name was

he about? What grotesque juggling amongst shadows, what strange and

ghastly eccentricity was all this? The forces of order and routine, all

the actualities of his daily life, marched on him at that moment, and

swept everything before them. It was a dream, a nightmare not real! It

was ridiculous! That he--he should thus be bound up with things so black

and bizarre!

He had come by now to the Strand, that street down which every day he

moved to the Law Courts, to his daily work; his work so dignified and

regular, so irreproachable, and solid. No! The thing was all a

monstrous nightmare! It would go, if he fixed his mind on the familiar

objects around, read the names on the shops, looked at the faces passing.

Far down the thoroughfare he caught the outline of the old church, and

beyond, the loom of the Law Courts themselves. The bell of a fire-engine

sounded, and the horses came galloping by, with the shining metal, rattle

of hoofs and hoarse shouting. Here was a sensation, real and harmless,

dignified and customary! A woman flaunting round the corner looked up at

him, and leered out: "Good-night!" Even that was customary, tolerable.

Two policemen passed, supporting between them a man the worse for liquor,

full of fight and expletives; the sight was soothing, an ordinary thing

which brought passing annoyance, interest, disgust. It had begun to

rain; he felt it on his face with pleasure--an actual thing, not

eccentric, a thing which happened every day!

He began to cross the street. Cabs were going at furious speed now that

the last omnibus had ceased to run; it distracted him to take this

actual, ordinary risk run so often every day. During that crossing of

the Strand, with the rain in his face and the cabs shooting past, he

regained for the first time his assurance, shook off this unreal sense of

being in the grip of something, and walked resolutely to the corner of

his home turning. But passing into that darker stretch, he again stood

still. A policeman had also turned into that street on the other side.

Not--surely not! Absurd! They were all alike to look at--those fellows!

Absurd! He walked on sharply, and let himself into his house. But on

his way upstairs he could not for the life of him help raising a corner

of a curtain and looking from the staircase window. The policeman was

marching solemnly, about twenty-five yards away, paying apparently no

attention to anything whatever.

IV

Keith woke at five o'clock, his usual hour, without remembrance. But the

grisly shadow started up when he entered his study, where the lamp

burned, and the fire shone, and the coffee was set ready, just as when

yesterday afternoon Larry had stood out there against the wall. For a

moment he fought against realisation; then, drinking off his coffee, sat

down sullenly at the bureau to his customary three hours' study of the

day's cases.

Not one word of his brief could he take in. It was all jumbled with

murky images and apprehensions, and for full half an hour he suffered

mental paralysis. Then the sheer necessity of knowing something of the

case which he had to open at half-past ten that morning forced him to a

concentration which never quite subdued the malaise at the bottom of his

heart. Nevertheless, when he rose at half-past eight and went into the

bathroom, he had earned his grim satisfaction in this victory of

will-power. By half-past nine he must be at Larry's. A boat left London

for the Argentine to-morrow. If Larry was to get away at once, money

must be arranged for. And then at breakfast he came on this paragraph in

the paper:

"SOHO MURDER.

"Enquiry late last night established the fact that the Police have

discovered the identity of the man found strangled yesterday morning

under an archway in Glove Lane. An arrest has been made."

By good fortune he had finished eating, for the words made him feel

physically sick. At this very minute Larry might be locked up, waiting

to be charged-might even have been arrested before his own visit to the

girl last night. If Larry were arrested, she must be implicated. What,

then, would be his own position? Idiot to go and look at that archway,

to go and see the girl! Had that policeman really followed him home?

Accessory after the fact! Keith Darrant, King's Counsel, man of mark!

He forced himself by an effort, which had something of the heroic, to

drop this panicky feeling. Panic never did good. He must face it, and

see. He refused even to hurry, calmly collected the papers wanted for

the day, and attended to a letter or two, before he set out in a taxi-cab

to Fitzroy Street.

Waiting outside there in the grey morning for his ring to be answered, he

looked the very picture of a man who knew his mind, a man of resolution.

But it needed all his will-power to ask without tremor: "Mr. Darrant in?"

to hear without sign of any kind the answer: "He's not up yet, sir."

"Never mind; I'll go in and see him. Mr. Keith Darrant."

On his way to Laurence's bedroom, in the midst of utter relief, he had

the self-possession to think: 'This arrest is the best thing that could

have happened. It'll keep their noses on a wrong scent till Larry's got

away. The girl must be sent off too, but not with him.' Panic had ended

in quite hardening his resolution. He entered the bedroom with a feeling

of disgust. The fellow was lying there, his bare arms crossed behind his

tousled head, staring at the ceiling, and smoking one of many cigarettes

whose ends littered a chair beside him, whose sickly reek tainted the

air. That pale face, with its jutting cheek-bones and chin, its hollow

cheeks and blue eyes far sunk back--what a wreck of goodness!

He looked up at Keith through the haze of smoke and said quietly: "Well,

brother, what's the sentence? 'Transportation for life, and then to be

fined forty pounds?'"

The flippancy revolted Keith. It was Larry all over! Last night

horrified and humble, this morning, "Don't care" and feather-headed. He

said sourly:

"Oh! You can joke about it now?"

Laurence turned his face to the wall.

"Must."

Fatalism! How detestable were natures like that!

"I've been to see her," he said.

"You?"

"Last night. She can be trusted."

Laurence laughed.

"That I told you."

"I had to see for myself. You must clear out at once, Larry. She can

come out to you by the next boat; but you can't go together. Have you any

money?"

"No."

"I can foot your expenses, and lend you a year's income in advance. But

it must be a clean cut; after you get out there your whereabouts must

only be known to me."

A long sigh answered him.

"You're very good to me, Keith; you've always been very good. I don't

know why."

Keith answered drily

"Nor I. There's a boat to the Argentine tomorrow. You're in luck;

they've made an arrest. It's in the paper."

"What?"

The cigarette end dropped, the thin pyjama'd figure writhed up and stood

clutching at the bedrail.

"What?"

The disturbing thought flitted through Keith's brain: 'I was a fool. He

takes it queerly; what now?'

Laurence passed his hand over his forehead, and sat down on the bed.

"I hadn't thought of that," he said; "It does me!"

Keith stared. In his relief that the arrested man was not Laurence, this

had not occurred to him. What folly!

"Why?" he said quickly; "an innocent man's in no danger. They always

get the wrong man first. It's a piece of luck, that's all. It gives us

time."

How often had he not seen that expression on Larry's face, wistful,

questioning, as if trying to see the thing with his--Keith's-eyes, trying

to submit to better judgment? And he said, almost gently--

"Now, look here, Larry; this is too serious to trifle with. Don't worry

about that. Leave it to me. Just get ready to be off'. I'll take your

berth and make arrangements. Here's some money for kit. I can come

round between five and six, and let you know. Pull yourself together,

man. As soon as the girl's joined you out there, you'd better get across

to Chile, the further the better. You must simply lose yourself: I must

go now, if I'm to get to the Bank before I go down to the courts." And

looking very steadily at his brother, he added:

"Come! You've got to think of me in this matter as well as of yourself.

No playing fast and loose with the arrangements. Understand?"

But still Larry gazed up at him with that wistful questioning, and not

till he had repeated, "Understand?" did he receive "Yes" for answer.

Driving away, he thought: 'Queer fellow! I don't know him, shall never

know him!' and at once began to concentrate on the practical

arrangements. At his bank he drew out L400; but waiting for the notes to

be counted he suffered qualms. A clumsy way of doing things! If there

had been more time! The thought: 'Accessory after the fact!' now

infected everything. Notes were traceable. No other way of getting him

away at once, though. One must take lesser risks to avoid greater. From

the bank he drove to the office of the steamship line. He had told Larry

he would book his passage. But that would not do! He must only ask

anonymously if there were accommodation. Having discovered that there

were vacant berths, he drove on to the Law Courts. If he could have

taken a morning off, he would have gone down to the police court and seen

them charge this man. But even that was not too safe, with a face so

well known as his. What would come of this arrest? Nothing, surely!

The police always took somebody up, to keep the public quiet. Then,

suddenly, he had again the feeling that it was all a nightmare; Larry had

never done it; the police had got the right man! But instantly the

memory of the girl's awe-stricken face, her figure huddling on the sofa,

her words "I see him always falling!" came back. God! What a business!

He felt he had never been more clear-headed and forcible than that

morning in court. When he came out for lunch he bought the most

sensational of the evening papers. But it was yet too early for news,

and he had to go back into court no whit wiser concerning the arrest.

When at last he threw off wig and gown, and had got through a conference

and other necessary work, he went out to Chancery Lane, buying a paper on

the way. Then he hailed a cab, and drove once more to Fitzroy Street.

V

Laurence had remained sitting on his bed for many minutes. An innocent

man in no danger! Keith had said it--the celebrated lawyer! Could he

rely on that? Go out 8,000 miles, he and the girl, and leave a

fellow-creature perhaps in mortal peril for an act committed by himself?

In the past night he had touched bottom, as he thought: become ready to

face anything. When Keith came in he would without murmur have accepted

the advice: "Give yourself up!" He was prepared to pitch away the end of

his life as he pitched from him the fag-ends of his cigarettes. And the

long sigh he had heaved, hearing of reprieve, had been only half relief.

Then, with incredible swiftness there had rushed through him a feeling of

unutterable joy and hope. Clean away--into a new country, a new life!

The girl and he! Out there he wouldn't care, would rejoice even to have

squashed the life out of such a noisome beetle of a man. Out there!

Under a new sun, where blood ran quicker than in this foggy land, and

people took justice into their own hands. For it had been justice on

that brute even though he had not meant to kill him. And then to hear of

this arrest! They would be charging the man to-day. He could go and see

the poor creature accused of the murder he himself had committed! And he

laughed. Go and see how likely it was that they might hang a fellow-man

in place of himself? He dressed, but too shaky to shave himself, went

out to a barber's shop. While there he read the news which Keith had

seen. In this paper the name of the arrested man was given: "John Evan,

no address." To be brought up on the charge at Bow Street. Yes! He

must go. Once, twice, three times he walked past the entrance of the

court before at last he entered and screwed himself away among the tag

and bobtail.

The court was crowded; and from the murmurs round he could tell that it

was his particular case which had brought so many there. In a dazed way

he watched charge after charge disposed of with lightning quickness. But

were they never going to reach his business? And then suddenly he saw

the little scarecrow man of last night advancing to the dock between two

policemen, more ragged and miserable than ever by light of day, like some

shaggy, wan, grey animal, surrounded by sleek hounds.

A sort of satisfied purr was rising all round; and with horror Laurence

perceived that this--this was the man accused of what he himself had

done--this queer, battered unfortunate to whom he had shown a passing

friendliness. Then all feeling merged in the appalling interest of

listening. The evidence was very short. Testimony of the hotel-keeper

where Walenn had been staying, the identification of his body, and of a

snake-shaped ring he had been wearing at dinner that evening. Testimony

of a pawnbroker, that this same ring was pawned with him the first thing

yesterday morning by the prisoner. Testimony of a policeman that he had

noticed the man Evan several times in Glove Lane, and twice moved him on

from sleeping under that arch. Testimony of another policeman that, when

arrested at midnight, Evan had said: "Yes; I took the ring off his

finger. I found him there dead .... I know I oughtn't to have done

it.... I'm an educated man; it was stupid to pawn the ring. I found him

with his pockets turned inside out."

Fascinating and terrible to sit staring at the man in whose place he

should have been; to wonder when those small bright-grey bloodshot eyes

would spy him out, and how he would meet that glance. Like a baited

raccoon the little man stood, screwed back into a corner, mournful,

cynical, fierce, with his ridged, obtuse yellow face, and his stubbly

grey beard and hair, and his eyes wandering now and again amongst the

crowd. But with all his might Laurence kept his face unmoved. Then came

the word "Remanded"; and, more like a baited beast than ever, the man was

led away.

Laurence sat on, a cold perspiration thick on his forehead. Someone

else, then, had come on the body and turned the pockets inside out before

John Evan took the ring. A man such as Walenn would not be out at night

without money. Besides, if Evan had found money on the body he would

never have run the risk of taking that ring. Yes, someone else had come

on the body first. It was for that one to come forward, and prove that

the ring was still on the dead man's finger when he left him, and thus

clear Evan. He clung to that thought; it seemed to make him less

responsible for the little man's position; to remove him and his own deed

one step further back. If they found the person who had taken the money,

it would prove Evan's innocence. He came out of the court in a sort of

trance. And a craving to get drunk attacked him. One could not go on

like this without the relief of some oblivion. If he could only get

drunk, keep drunk till this business was decided and he knew whether he

must give himself up or no. He had now no fear at all of people

suspecting him; only fear of himself--fear that he might go and give

himself up. Now he could see the girl; the danger from that was as

nothing compared with the danger from his own conscience. He had

promised Keith not to see her. Keith had been decent and loyal to

him--good old Keith! But he would never understand that this girl was

now all he cared about in life; that he would rather be cut off from life

itself than be cut off from her. Instead of becoming less and less, she

was becoming more and more to him--experience strange and thrilling! Out

of deep misery she had grown happy--through him; out of a sordid,

shifting life recovered coherence and bloom, through devotion to him him,

of all people in the world! It was a miracle. She demanded nothing of

him, adored him, as no other woman ever had--it was this which had

anchored his drifting barque; this--and her truthful mild intelligence,

and that burning warmth of a woman, who, long treated by men as but a

sack of sex, now loves at last.

And suddenly, mastering his craving to get drunk, he made towards Soho.

He had been a fool to give those keys to Keith. She must have been

frightened by his visit; and, perhaps, doubly miserable since, knowing

nothing, imagining everything! Keith was sure to have terrified her.

Poor little thing!

Down the street where he had stolen in the dark with the dead body on his

back, he almost ran for the cover of her house. The door was opened to

him before he knocked, her arms were round his neck, her lips pressed to

his. The fire was out, as if she had been unable to remember to keep

warm. A stool had been drawn to the window, and there she had evidently

been sitting, like a bird in a cage, looking out into the grey street.

Though she had been told that he was not to come, instinct had kept her

there; or the pathetic, aching hope against hope which lovers never part

with.

Now that he was there, her first thoughts were for his comfort. The fire

was lighted. He must eat, drink, smoke. There was never in her doings

any of the "I am doing this for you, but you ought to be doing that for

me" which belongs to so many marriages, and liaisons. She was like a

devoted slave, so in love with the chains that she never knew she wore

them. And to Laurence, who had so little sense of property, this only

served to deepen tenderness, and the hold she had on him. He had

resolved not to tell her of the new danger he ran from his own

conscience. But resolutions with him were but the opposites of what was

sure to come; and at last the words:

"They've arrested someone," escaped him.

From her face he knew she had grasped the danger at once; had divined it,

perhaps, before he spoke. But she only twined her arms round him and

kissed his lips. And he knew that she was begging him to put his love

for her above his conscience. Who would ever have thought that he could

feel as he did to this girl who had been in the arms of many! The

stained and suffering past of a loved woman awakens in some men only

chivalry; in others, more respectable, it rouses a tigerish itch, a

rancorous jealousy of what in the past was given to others. Sometimes it

will do both. When he had her in his arms he felt no remorse for killing

the coarse, handsome brute who had ruined her. He savagely rejoiced in

it. But when she laid her head in the hollow of his shoulder, turning to

him her white face with the faint colour-staining on the parted lips, the

cheeks, the eyelids; when her dark, wide-apart, brown eyes gazed up in

the happiness of her abandonment--he felt only tenderness and protection.

He left her at five o'clock, and had not gone two streets' length before

the memory of the little grey vagabond, screwed back in the far corner of

the dock like a baited raccoon, of his dreary, creaking voice, took

possession of him again; and a kind of savagery mounted in his brain

against a world where one could be so tortured without having meant harm

to anyone.

At the door of his lodgings Keith was getting out of a cab. They went in

together, but neither of them sat down; Keith standing with his back to

the carefully shut door, Laurence with his back to the table, as if they

knew there was a tug coming. And Keith said: "There's room on that boat.

Go down and book your berth before they shut. Here's the money!"

"I'm going to stick it, Keith."

Keith stepped forward, and put a roll of notes on the table.

"Now look here, Larry. I've read the police court proceedings. There's

nothing in that. Out of prison, or in prison for a few weeks, it's all

the same to a night-bird of that sort. Dismiss it from your

mind--there's not nearly enough evidence to convict. This gives you your

chance. Take it like a man, and make a new life for yourself."

Laurence smiled; but the smile had a touch of madness and a touch of

malice. He took up the notes.

"Clear out, and save the honour of brother Keith. Put them back in your

pocket, Keith, or I'll put them in the fire. Come, take them!" And,

crossing to the fire, he held them to the bars. "Take them, or in they

go!"

Keith took back the notes.

"I've still got some kind of honour, Keith; if I clear out I shall have

none, not the rag of any, left. It may be worth more to me than that--I

can't tell yet--I can't tell." There was a long silence before Keith

answered. "I tell you you're mistaken; no jury will convict. If they

did, a judge would never hang on it. A ghoul who can rob a dead body

ought to be in prison. What he did is worse than what you did, if you

come to that!" Laurence lifted his face. "Judge not, brother," he said;

"the heart is a dark well." Keith's yellowish face grew red and swollen,

as though he were mastering the tickle of a bronchial cough. "What are

you going to do, then? I suppose I may ask you not to be entirely

oblivious of our name; or is such a consideration unworthy of your

honour?" Laurence bent his head. The gesture said more clearly than

words: 'Don't kick a man when he's down!'

"I don't know what I'm going to do--nothing at present. I'm awfully

sorry, Keith; awfully sorry."

Keith looked at him, and without another word went out.

VI

To any, save philosophers, reputation may be threatened almost as much by

disgrace to name and family as by the disgrace of self. Keith's instinct

was always to deal actively with danger. But this blow, whether it fell

on him by discovery or by confession, could not be countered. As blight

falls on a rose from who knows where, the scandalous murk would light on

him. No repulse possible! Not even a wriggling from under! Brother of

a murderer hung or sent to penal servitude! His daughter niece to a

murderer! His dead mother-a murderer's mother! And to wait day after

day, week after week, not knowing whether the blow would fall, was an

extraordinarily atrocious penance, the injustice of which, to a man of

rectitude, seemed daily the more monstrous.

The remand had produced evidence that the murdered man had been drinking

heavily on the night of his death, and further evidence of the accused's

professional vagabondage and destitution; it was shown, too, that for

some time the archway in Glove Lane had been his favourite night haunt.

He had been committed for trial in January. This time, despite

misgivings, Keith had attended the police court. To his great relief

Larry was not there. But the policeman who had come up while he was

looking at the archway, and given him afterwards that scare in the girl's

rooms, was chief witness to the way the accused man haunted Glove Lane.

Though Keith held his silk hat high, he still had the uncomfortable

feeling that the man had recognised him.

His conscience suffered few, if any, twinges for letting this man rest

under the shadow of the murder. He genuinely believed that there was not

evidence enough to convict; nor was it in him to appreciate the tortures

of a vagabond shut up. The scamp deserved what he had got, for robbing a

dead body; and in any case such a scarecrow was better off in prison than

sleeping out under archways in December. Sentiment was foreign to

Keith's character, and his justice that of those who subordinate the

fates of the weak and shiftless to the needful paramountcy of the strong

and well established.

His daughter came back from school for the Christmas holidays. It was

hard to look up from her bright eyes and rosy cheeks and see this shadow

hanging above his calm and ordered life, as in a glowing room one's eye

may catch an impending patch of darkness drawn like a spider's web across

a corner of the ceiling.

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve they went, by her desire, to a church

in Soho, where the Christmas Oratorio was being given; and coming away

passed, by chance of a wrong turning, down Borrow Street. Ugh! How that

startled moment, when the girl had pressed herself against him in the

dark, and her terror-stricken whisper: "Oh! Who is it?" leaped out

before him! Always that business--that ghastly business! After the

trial he would have another try to get them both away. And he thrust his

arm within his young daughter's, hurrying her on, out of this street

where shadows filled all the winter air.

But that evening when she had gone to bed he felt uncontrollably

restless. He had not seen Larry for weeks. What was he about? What

desperations were hatching in his disorderly brain? Was he very

miserable; had he perhaps sunk into a stupor of debauchery? And the old

feeling of protectiveness rose up in him; a warmth born of long ago

Christmas Eves, when they had stockings hung out in the night stuffed by

a Santa Claus, whose hand never failed to tuck them up, whose kiss was

their nightly waft into sleep.

Stars were sparkling out there over the river; the sky frosty-clear, and

black. Bells had not begun to ring as yet. And obeying an obscure, deep

impulse, Keith wrapped himself once more into his fur coat, pulled a

motoring cap over his eyes, and sallied forth. In the Strand he took a

cab to Fitzroy Street. There was no light in Larry's windows, and on a

card he saw the words "To Let." Gone! Had he after all cleared out for

good? But how-without money? And the girl? Bells were ringing now in

the silent frostiness. Christmas Eve! And Keith thought: 'If only this

wretched business were off my mind! Monstrous that one should suffer for

the faults of others!' He took a route which led him past Borrow Street.

Solitude brooded there, and he walked resolutely down on the far side,

looking hard at the girl's window. There was a light. The curtains just

failed to meet, so that a thin gleam shone through. He crossed; and

after glancing swiftly up and down, deliberately peered in.

He only stood there perhaps twenty seconds, but visual records gleaned in

a moment sometimes outlast the visions of hours and days. The electric

light was not burning; but, in the centre of the room the girl was

kneeling in her nightgown before a little table on which were four

lighted candles. Her arms were crossed on her breast; the candle-light

shone on her fair cropped hair, on the profile of cheek and chin, on her

bowed white neck. For a moment he thought her alone; then behind her saw

his brother in a sleeping suit, leaning against the wall, with arms

crossed, watching. It was the expression on his face which burned the

whole thing in, so that always afterwards he was able to see that little

scene--such an expression as could never have been on the face of one

even faintly conscious that he was watched by any living thing on earth.

The whole of Larry's heart and feeling seemed to have come up out of him.

Yearning, mockery, love, despair! The depth of his feeling for this

girl, his stress of mind, fears, hopes; the flotsam good and evil of his

soul, all transfigured there, exposed and unforgettable. The

candle-light shone upward on to his face, twisted by the strangest smile;

his eyes, darker and more wistful than mortal eyes should be, seemed to

beseech and mock the white-clad girl, who, all unconscious, knelt without

movement, like a carved figure of devotion. The words seemed coming from

his lips: "Pray for us! Bravo! Yes! Pray for us!" And suddenly Keith

saw her stretch out her arms, and lift her face with a look of ecstasy,

and Laurence starting forward. What had she seen beyond the candle

flames? It is the unexpected which invests visions with poignancy.

Nothing more strange could Keith have seen in this nest of the murky and

illicit. But in sheer panic lest he might be caught thus spying he drew

back and hurried on. So Larry was living there with her! When the moment

came he could still find him.

Before going in, he stood full five minutes leaning on the terrace

parapet before his house, gazing at the star-frosted sky, and the river

cut by the trees into black pools, oiled over by gleams from the

Embankment lamps. And, deep down, behind his mere thoughts, he

ached-somehow, somewhere ached. Beyond the cage of all that he saw and

heard and thought, he had perceived something he could not reach. But the

night was cold, the bells silent, for it had struck twelve. Entering his

house, he stole upstairs.

VII

If for Keith those six weeks before the Glove Lane murder trial came on

were fraught with uneasiness and gloom, they were for Laurence almost the

happiest since his youth. From the moment when he left his rooms and

went to the girl's to live, a kind of peace and exaltation took

possession of him. Not by any effort of will did he throw off the

nightmare hanging over him. Nor was he drugged by love. He was in a

sort of spiritual catalepsy. In face of fate too powerful for his will,

his turmoil, anxiety, and even restlessness had ceased; his life floated

in the ether of "what must come, will." Out of this catalepsy, his spirit

sometimes fell headlong into black waters. In one such whirlpool he was

struggling on the night of Christmas Eve. When the girl rose from her

knees he asked her:

"What did you see?"

Pressing close to him, she drew him down on to the floor before the fire;

and they sat, knees drawn up, hands clasped, like two children trying to

see over the edge of the world.

"It was the Virgin I saw. She stood against the wall and smiled. We

shall be happy soon."

"When we die, Wanda," he said, suddenly, "let it be together. We shall

keep each other warm, out there."

Huddling to him she whispered: "Yes, oh, yes! If you die, I could not go

on living."

It was this utter dependence on him, the feeling that he had rescued

something, which gave him sense of anchorage. That, and his buried life

in the retreat of these two rooms. Just for an hour in the morning, from

nine to ten, the charwoman would come, but not another soul all day.

They never went out together. He would stay in bed late, while Wanda

bought what they needed for the day's meals; lying on his back, hands

clasped behind his head, recalling her face, the movements of her slim,

rounded, supple figure, robing itself before his gaze; feeling again the

kiss she had left on his lips, the gleam of her soft eyes, so strangely

dark in so fair a face. In a sort of trance he would lie till she came

back. Then get up to breakfast about noon off things which she had

cooked, drinking coffee. In the afternoon he would go out alone and walk

for hours, any where, so long as it was East. To the East there was

always suffering to be seen, always that which soothed him with the

feeling that he and his troubles were only a tiny part of trouble; that

while so many other sorrowing and shadowy creatures lived he was not cut

off. To go West was to encourage dejection. In the West all was like

Keith, successful, immaculate, ordered, resolute. He would come back

tired out, and sit watching her cook their little dinner. The evenings

were given up to love. Queer trance of an existence, which both were

afraid to break. No sign from her of wanting those excitements which

girls who have lived her life, even for a few months, are supposed to

need. She never asked him to take her anywhere; never, in word, deed,

look, seemed anything but almost rapturously content. And yet he knew,

and she knew, that they were only waiting to see whether Fate would turn

her thumb down on them. In these days he did not drink. Out of his

quarter's money, when it came in, he had paid his debts--their expenses

were very small. He never went to see Keith, never wrote to him, hardly

thought of him. And from those dread apparitions--Walenn lying with the

breath choked out of him, and the little grey, driven animal in the

dock--he hid, as only a man can who must hide or be destroyed. But daily

he bought a newspaper, and feverishly, furtively scanned its columns.

VIII

Coming out of the Law Courts on the afternoon of January 28th, at the

triumphant end of a desperately fought will case, Keith saw on a poster

the words: "Glove Lane Murder: Trial and Verdict"; and with a rush of

dismay he thought: 'Good God! I never looked at the paper this morning!'

The elation which had filled him a second before, the absorption he had

felt for two days now in the case so hardly won, seemed suddenly quite

sickeningly trivial. What on earth had he been doing to forget that

horrible business even for an instant? He stood quite still on the

crowded pavement, unable, really unable, to buy a paper. But his face

was like a piece of iron when he did step forward and hold his penny out.

There it was in the Stop Press! "Glove Lane Murder. The jury returned a

verdict of Guilty. Sentence of death was passed."

His first sensation was simple irritation. How had they come to commit

such an imbecility? Monstrous! The evidence--! Then the futility of

even reading the report, of even considering how they had come to record

such a verdict struck him with savage suddenness. There it was, and

nothing he could do or say would alter it; no condemnation of this

idiotic verdict would help reverse it. The situation was desperate,

indeed! That five minutes' walk from the Law Courts to his chambers was

the longest he had ever taken.

Men of decided character little know beforehand what they will do in

certain contingencies. For the imaginations of decided people do not

endow mere contingencies with sufficient actuality. Keith had never

really settled what he was going to do if this man were condemned. Often

in those past weeks he had said to himself: "Of course, if they bring him

in guilty, that's another thing!" But, now that they had, he was beset

by exactly the same old arguments and feelings, the same instincts of

loyalty and protection towards Laurence and himself, intensified by the

fearful imminence of the danger. And yet, here was this man about to be

hung for a thing he had not done! Nothing could get over that! But then

he was such a worthless vagabond, a ghoul who had robbed a dead body. If

Larry were condemned in his stead, would there be any less miscarriage of

justice? To strangle a brute who had struck you, by the accident of

keeping your hands on his throat a few seconds too long, was there any

more guilt in that--was there even as much, as in deliberate theft from a

dead man? Reverence for order, for justice, and established fact, will,

often march shoulder to shoulder with Jesuitry in natures to whom success

is vital.

In the narrow stone passage leading to his staircase, a friend had called

out: "Bravo, Darrant! That was a squeak! Congratulations!" And with a

bitter little smile Keith thought: 'Congratulations! I!'

At the first possible moment the hurried back to the Strand, and hailing

a cab, he told the man to put him down at a turning near to Borrow

Street.

It was the girl who opened to his knock. Startled, clasping her hands,

she looked strange to Keith in her black skirt and blouse of some soft

velvety stuff the colour of faded roses. Her round, rather long throat

was bare; and Keith noticed fretfully that she wore gold earrings. Her

eyes, so pitch dark against her white face, and the short fair hair,

which curled into her neck, seemed both to search and to plead.

"My brother?"

"He is not in, sir, yet."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No."

"He is living with you here now?"

"Yes."

"Are you still as fond of him as ever, then?"

With a movement, as though she despaired of words, she clasped her hands

over her heart. And he said:

"I see."

He had the same strange feeling as on his first visit to her, and when

through the chink in the curtains he had watched her kneeling--of pity

mingled with some faint sexual emotion. And crossing to the fire he

asked:

"May I wait for him?"

"Oh! Please! Will you sit down?"

But Keith shook his head. And with a catch in her breath, she said:

"You will not take him from me. I should die."

He turned round on her sharply.

"I don't want him taken from you. I want to help you keep him. Are you

ready to go away, at any time?"

"Yes. Oh, yes!"

"And he?"

She answered almost in a whisper:

"Yes; but there is that poor man."

"That poor man is a graveyard thief; a hyena; a ghoul--not worth

consideration." And the rasp in his own voice surprised him.

"Ah!" she sighed. "But I am sorry for him. Perhaps he was hungry. I

have been hungry--you do things then that you would not. And perhaps he

has no one to love; if you have no one to love you can be very bad. I

think of him often--in prison."

Between his teeth Keith muttered: "And Laurence?"

"We do never speak of it, we are afraid."

"He's not told you, then, about the trial?"

Her eyes dilated.

"The trial! Oh! He was strange last night. This morning, too, he got

up early. Is it-is it over?"

"Yes."

"What has come?"

"Guilty."

For a moment Keith thought she was going to faint. She had closed her

eyes, and swayed so that he took a step, and put his hands on her arms.

"Listen!" he said. "Help me; don't let Laurence out of your sight. We

must have time. I must see what they intend to do. They can't be going

to hang this man. I must have time, I tell you. You must prevent his

giving himself up."

She stood, staring in his face, while he still held her arms, gripping

into her soft flesh through the velvety sleeves.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes-but if he has already!"

Keith felt the shiver which ran through her. And the thought rushed into

his mind: 'My God! Suppose the police come round while I'm here!' If

Larry had indeed gone to them! If that Policeman who had seen him here

the night after the murder should find him here again just after the

verdict! He said almost fiercely:

"Can I trust you not to let Larry out of your sight? Quick! Answer!"

Clasping her hands to her breast, she answered humbly:

"I will try."

"If he hasn't already done this, watch him like a lynx! Don't let him go

out without you. I'll come to-morrow morning early. You're a Catholic,

aren't you? Swear to me that you won't let him do anything till he's

seen me again."

She did not answer, looking past him at the door; and Keith heard a key

in the latch. There was Laurence himself, holding in his hand a great

bunch of pink lilies and white narcissi. His face was pale and haggard.

He said quietly:

"Hallo, Keith!"

The girl's eyes were fastened on Larry's face; and Keith, looking from

one to the other, knew that he had never had more need for wariness.

"Have you seen?" he said.

Laurence nodded. His expression, as a rule so tell-tale of his emotions,

baffled Keith utterly.

"Well?"

"I've been expecting it."

"The thing can't stand--that's certain. But I must have time to look

into the report. I must have time to see what I can do. D'you

understand me, Larry--I must have time." He knew he was talking at

random. The only thing was to get them away at once out of reach of

confession; but he dared not say so.

"Promise me that you'll do nothing, that you won't go out even till I've

seen you to-morrow morning."

Again Laurence nodded. And Keith looked at the girl. Would she see that

he did not break that promise? Her eyes were still fixed immovably on

Larry's face. And with the feeling that he could get no further, Keith

turned to go.

"Promise me," he said.

Laurence answered: "I promise."

He was smiling. Keith could make nothing of that smile, nor of the

expression in the girl's eyes. And saying: "I have your promise, I rely

on it!" he went.

IX

To keep from any woman who loves, knowledge of her lover's mood, is as

hard as to keep music from moving the heart. But when that woman has

lived in suffering, and for the first time knows the comfort of love,

then let the lover try as he may to disguise his heart--no use! Yet by

virtue of subtler abnegation she will often succeed in keeping it from

him that she knows.

When Keith was gone the girl made no outcry, asked no questions, managed

that Larry should not suspect her intuition; all that evening she acted

as if she knew of nothing preparing within him, and through him, within

herself.

His words, caresses, the very zest with which he helped her to prepare

the feast, the flowers he had brought, the wine he made her drink, the

avoidance of any word which could spoil their happiness, all--all told

her. He was too inexorably gay and loving. Not for her--to whom every

word and every kiss had uncannily the desperate value of a last word and

kiss--not for her to deprive herself of these by any sign or gesture

which might betray her prescience. Poor soul--she took all, and would

have taken more, a hundredfold. She did not want to drink the wine he

kept tilting into her glass, but, with the acceptance learned by women

who have lived her life, she did not refuse. She had never refused him

anything. So much had been required of her by the detestable, that

anything required by a loved one was but an honour.

Laurence drank deeply; but he had never felt clearer, never seen things

more clearly. The wine gave him what he wanted, an edge to these few

hours of pleasure, an exaltation of energy. It dulled his sense of pity,

too. It was pity he was afraid of--for himself, and for this girl. To

make even this tawdry room look beautiful, with firelight and

candlelight, dark amber wine in the glasses, tall pink lilies spilling

their saffron, exuding their hot perfume he and even himself must look

their best. And with a weight as of lead on her heart, she managed that

for him, letting him strew her with flowers and crush them together with

herself. Not even music was lacking to their feast. Someone was playing

a pianola across the street, and the sound, very faint, came stealing

when they were silent--swelling, sinking, festive, mournful; having a

far-off life of its own, like the flickering fire-flames before which

they lay embraced, or the lilies delicate between the candles. Listening

to that music, tracing with his finger the tiny veins on her breast, he

lay like one recovering from a swoon. No parting. None! But sleep, as

the firelight sleeps when flames die; as music sleeps on its deserted

strings.

And the girl watched him.

It was nearly ten when he bade her go to bed. And after she had gone

obedient into the bedroom, he brought ink and paper down by the fire. The

drifter, the unstable, the good-for-nothing--did not falter. He had

thought, when it came to the point, he would fail himself; but a sort of

rage bore him forward. If he lived on, and confessed, they would shut

him up, take from him the one thing he loved, cut him off from her; sand

up his only well in the desert. Curse them! And he wrote by firelight

which mellowed the white sheets of paper; while, against the dark

curtain, the girl, in her nightgown, unconscious of the cold, stood

watching.

Men, when they drown, remember their pasts. Like the lost poet he had

"gone with the wind." Now it was for him to be true in his fashion. A

man may falter for weeks and weeks, consciously, subconsciously, even in

his dreams, till there comes that moment when the only thing impossible

is to go on faltering. The black cap, the little driven grey man looking

up at it with a sort of wonder--faltering had ceased!

He had finished now, and was but staring into the fire.

"No more, no more, the moon is dead,

And all the people in it;

The poppy maidens strew the bed,

We'll come in half a minute."

Why did doggerel start up in the mind like that? Wanda! The weed-flower

become so rare he would not be parted from her! The fire, the candles,

and the fire--no more the flame and flicker!

And, by the dark curtain, the girl watched.

X

Keith went, not home, but to his club; and in the room devoted to the

reception of guests, empty at this hour, he sat down and read the report

of the trial. The fools had made out a case that looked black enough.

And for a long time, on the thick soft carpet which let out no sound of

footfall, he paced up and down, thinking. He might see the defending

counsel, might surely do that as an expert who thought there had been

miscarriage of justice. They must appeal; a petition too might be

started in the last event. The thing could--must be put right yet, if

only Larry and that girl did nothing!

He had no appetite, but the custom of dining is too strong. And while he

ate, he glanced with irritation at his fellow-members. They looked so at

their ease. Unjust--that this black cloud should hang over one blameless

as any of them! Friends, connoisseurs of such things--a judge among

them--came specially to his table to express their admiration of his

conduct of that will case. Tonight he had real excuse for pride, but he

felt none. Yet, in this well-warmed quietly glowing room, filled with

decorously eating, decorously talking men, he gained insensibly some

comfort. This surely was reality; that shadowy business out there only

the drear sound of a wind one must and did keep out--like the poverty and

grime which had no real existence for the secure and prosperous. He

drank champagne. It helped to fortify reality, to make shadows seem more

shadowy. And down in the smoking-room he sat before the fire, in one of

those chairs which embalm after-dinner dreams. He grew sleepy there, and

at eleven o'clock rose to go home. But when he had once passed down the

shallow marble steps, out through the revolving door which let in no

draughts, he was visited by fear, as if he had drawn it in with the

breath of the January wind. Larry's face; and the girl watching it! Why

had she watched like that? Larry's smile; and the flowers in his hand?

Buying flowers at such a moment! The girl was his slave-whatever he told

her, she would do. But she would never be able to stop him. At this

very moment he might be rushing to give himself up!

His hand, thrust deep into the pocket of his fur coat, came in contact

suddenly with something cold. The keys Larry had given him all that time

ago. There they had lain forgotten ever since. The chance touch decided

him. He turned off towards Borrow Street, walking at full speed. He

could but go again and see. He would sleep better if he knew that he had

left no stone unturned. At the corner of that dismal street he had to

wait for solitude before he made for the house which he now loathed with

a deadly loathing. He opened the outer door and shut it to behind him.

He knocked, but no one came. Perhaps they had gone to bed. Again and

again he knocked, then opened the door, stepped in, and closed it

carefully. Candles lighted, the fire burning; cushions thrown on the

floor in front of it and strewn with flowers! The table, too, covered

with flowers and with the remnants of a meal. Through the half-drawn

curtain he could see that the inner room was also lighted. Had they gone

out, leaving everything like this? Gone out! His heart beat. Bottles!

Larry had been drinking!

Had it really come? Must he go back home with this murk on him; knowing

that his brother was a confessed and branded murderer? He went quickly,

to the half-drawn curtains and looked in. Against the wall he saw a bed,

and those two in it. He recoiled in sheer amazement and relief. Asleep

with curtains undrawn, lights left on? Asleep through all his knocking!

They must both be drunk. The blood rushed up in his neck. Asleep! And

rushing forward again, he called out: "Larry!" Then, with a gasp he went

towards the bed. "Larry!" No answer! No movement! Seizing his

brother's shoulder, he shook it violently. It felt cold. They were

lying in each other's arms, breast to breast, lips to lips, their faces

white in the light shining above the dressing-table. And such a shudder

shook Keith that he had to grasp the brass rail above their heads. Then

he bent down, and wetting his finger, placed it close to their joined

lips. No two could ever swoon so utterly as that; not even a drunken

sleep could be so fast. His wet finger felt not the faintest stir of

air, nor was there any movement in the pulses of their hands. No breath!

No life! The eyes of the girl were closed. How strangely innocent she

looked! Larry's open eyes seemed to be gazing at her shut eyes; but

Keith saw that they were sightless. With a sort of sob he drew down the

lids. Then, by an impulse that he could never have explained, he laid a

hand on his brother's head, and a hand on the girl's fair hair. The

clothes had fallen down a little from her bare shoulder; he pulled them

up, as if to keep her warm, and caught the glint of metal; a tiny gilt

crucifix no longer than a thumbnail, on a thread of steel chain, had

slipped down from her breast into the hollow of the arm which lay round

Larry's neck. Keith buried it beneath the clothes and noticed an

envelope pinned to the coverlet; bending down, he read: "Please give this

at once to the police.--LAURENCE DARRANT." He thrust it into his pocket.

Like elastic stretched beyond its uttermost, his reason, will, faculties

of calculation and resolve snapped to within him. He thought with

incredible swiftness: 'I must know nothing of this. I must go!' And,

almost before he knew that he had moved, he was out again in the street.

He could never have told of what he thought while he was walking home.

He did not really come to himself till he was in his study. There, with a

trembling hand, he poured himself out whisky and drank it off. If he had

not chanced to go there, the charwoman would have found them when she

came in the morning, and given that envelope to the police! He took it

out. He had a right--a right to know what was in it! He broke it open.

"I, Laurence Darrant, about to die by my own hand, declare that this is a

solemn and true confession. I committed what is known as the Glove Lane

Murder on the night of November the 27th last in the following way"--on

and on to the last words--"We didn't want to die; but we could not bear

separation, and I couldn't face letting an innocent man be hung for me.

I do not see any other way. I beg that there may be no postmortem on our

bodies. The stuff we have taken is some of that which will be found on

the dressing-table. Please bury us together.

"LAURENCE DARRANT. "January the 28th, about ten o'clock p.m."

Full five minutes Keith stood with those sheets of paper in his hand,

while the clock ticked, the wind moaned a little in the trees outside,

the flames licked the logs with the quiet click and ruffle of their

intense far-away life down there on the hearth. Then he roused himself,

and sat down to read the whole again.

There it was, just as Larry had told it to him-nothing left out, very

clear; even to the addresses of people who could identify the girl as

having once been Walenn's wife or mistress. It would convince. Yes! It

would convince.

The sheets dropped from his hand. Very slowly he was grasping the

appalling fact that on the floor beside his chair lay the life or death

of yet another man; that by taking this confession he had taken into his

own hands the fate of the vagabond lying under sentence of death; that he

could not give him back his life without incurring the smirch of this

disgrace, without even endangering himself. If he let this confession

reach the authorities, he could never escape the gravest suspicion that

he had known of the whole affair during these two months. He would have

to attend the inquest, be recognised by that policeman as having come to

the archway to see where the body had lain, as having visited the girl

the very evening after the murder. Who would believe in the mere

coincidence of such visits on the part of the murderer's brother. But

apart from that suspicion, the fearful scandal which so sensational an

affair must make would mar his career, his life, his young daughter's

life! Larry's suicide with this girl would make sensation enough as it

was; but nothing to that other. Such a death had its romance; involved

him in no way save as a mourner, could perhaps even be hushed up! The

other--nothing could hush that up, nothing prevent its ringing to the

house-tops. He got up from his chair, and for many minutes roamed the

room unable to get his mind to bear on the issue. Images kept starting up

before him. The face of the man who handed him wig and gown each

morning, puffy and curious, with a leer on it he had never noticed

before; his young daughter's lifted eyebrows, mouth drooping, eyes

troubled; the tiny gilt crucifix glinting in the hollow of the dead

girl's arm; the sightless look in Larry's unclosed eyes; even his own

thumb and finger pulling the lids down. And then he saw a street and

endless people passing, turning to stare at him. And, stopping in his

tramp, he said aloud: "Let them go to hell! Seven days' wonder!" Was he

not trustee to that confession! Trustee! After all he had done nothing

to be ashamed of, even if he had kept knowledge dark. A brother! Who

could blame him? And he picked up those sheets of paper. But, like a

great murky hand, the scandal spread itself about him; its coarse

malignant voice seemed shouting: "Paiper!... Paiper!... Glove Lane

Murder!... Suicide and confession of brother of well-known K.C....

Well-known K.C.'s brother.... Murder and suicide.... Paiper!" Was he to

let loose that flood of foulness? Was he, who had done nothing, to smirch

his own little daughter's life; to smirch his dead brother, their dead

mother--himself, his own valuable, important future? And all for a sewer

rat! Let him hang, let the fellow hang if he must! And that was not

certain. Appeal! Petition! He might--he should be saved! To have got

thus far, and then, by his own action, topple himself down!

With a sudden darting movement he thrust the confession in among the

burning coals. And a smile licked at the folds in his dark face, like

those flames licking the sheets of paper, till they writhed and

blackened. With the toe of his boot he dispersed their scorched and

crumbling wafer. Stamp them in! Stamp in that man's life! Burnt! No

more doubts, no more of this gnawing fear! Burnt? A man--an

innocent-sewer rat! Recoiling from the fire he grasped his forehead. It

was burning hot and seemed to be going round.

Well, it was done! Only fools without will or purpose regretted. And

suddenly he laughed. So Larry had died for nothing! He had no will, no

purpose, and was dead! He and that girl might now have been living,

loving each other in the warm night, away at the other end of the world,

instead of lying dead in the cold night here! Fools and weaklings

regretted, suffered from conscience and remorse. A man trod firmly, held

to his purpose, no matter what!

He went to the window and drew back the curtain. What was that? A

gibbet in the air, a body hanging? Ah! Only the trees--the dark

trees--the winter skeleton trees! Recoiling, he returned to his armchair

and sat down before the fire. It had been shining like that, the lamp

turned low, his chair drawn up, when Larry came in that afternoon two

months ago. Bah! He had never come at all! It was a nightmare. He had

been asleep. How his head burned! And leaping up, he looked at the

calendar on his bureau. "January the 28th!" No dream! His face

hardened and darkened. On! Not like Larry! On!

1914.

A STOIC

I

1

"Aequam memento rebus in arduis

Servare mentem:"--Horace.

In the City of Liverpool, on a January day of 1905, the Board-room of

"The Island Navigation Company" rested, as it were, after the labours of

the afternoon. The long table was still littered with the ink, pens,

blotting-paper, and abandoned documents of six persons--a deserted

battlefield of the brain. And, lonely, in his chairman's seat at the top

end old Sylvanus Heythorp sat, with closed eyes, still and heavy as an

image. One puffy, feeble hand, whose fingers quivered, rested on the arm

of his chair; the thick white hair on his massive head glistened in the

light from a green-shaded lamp. He was not asleep, for every now and

then his sanguine cheeks filled, and a sound, half sigh, half grunt,

escaped his thick lips between a white moustache and the tiny tuft of

white hairs above his cleft chin. Sunk in the chair, that square thick

trunk of a body in short black-braided coat seemed divested of all neck.

Young Gilbert Farney, secretary of "The Island Navigation Company,"

entering his hushed Board-room, stepped briskly to the table, gathered

some papers, and stood looking at his chairman. Not more than

thirty-five, with the bright hues of the optimist in his hair, beard,

cheeks, and eyes, he had a nose and lips which curled ironically. For,

in his view, he was the Company; and its Board did but exist to chequer

his importance. Five days in the week for seven hours a day he wrote,

and thought, and wove the threads of its business, and this lot came down

once a week for two or three hours, and taught their grandmother to suck

eggs. But watching that red-cheeked, white-haired, somnolent figure, his

smile was not so contemptuous as might have been expected. For after

all, the chairman was a wonderful old boy. A man of go and insight could

not but respect him. Eighty! Half paralysed, over head and ears in

debt, having gone the pace all his life--or so they said!--till at last

that mine in Ecuador had done for him--before the secretary's day, of

course, but he had heard of it. The old chap had bought it up on

spec'--"de l'audace, toujours de l'audace," as he was so fond of

saying--paid for it half in cash and half in promises, and then--the

thing had turned out empty, and left him with L20,000 worth of the old

shares unredeemed. The old boy had weathered it out without a bankruptcy

so far. Indomitable old buffer; and never fussy like the rest of them!

Young Farney, though a secretary, was capable of attachment; and his eyes

expressed a pitying affection. The Board meeting had been long and

"snadgy"--a final settling of that Pillin business. Rum go the chairman

forcing it on them like this! And with quiet satisfaction the secretary

thought 'And he never would have got it through if I hadn't made up my

mind that it really is good business!' For to expand the company was to

expand himself. Still, to buy four ships with the freight market so

depressed was a bit startling, and there would be opposition at the

general meeting. Never mind! He and the chairman could put it

through--put it through. And suddenly he saw the old man looking at him.

Only from those eyes could one appreciate the strength of life yet

flowing underground in that well-nigh helpless carcase--deep-coloured

little blue wells, tiny, jovial, round windows.

A sigh travelled up through layers of flesh, and he said almost

inaudibly:

"Have they come, Mr. Farney?"

"Yes, sir. I've put them in the transfer office; said you'd be with them

in a minute; but I wasn't going to wake you."

"Haven't been asleep. Help me up."

Grasping the edge of the table with his trembling hands, the old man

pulled, and, with Farney heaving him behind, attained his feet. He stood

about five feet ten, and weighed fully fourteen stone; not corpulent, but

very thick all through; his round and massive head alone would have

outweighed a baby. With eyes shut, he seemed to be trying to get the

better of his own weight, then he moved with the slowness of a barnacle

towards the door. The secretary, watching him, thought: 'Marvellous old

chap! How he gets about by himself is a miracle! And he can't retire,

they say-lives on his fees!'

But the chairman was through the green baize door. At his tortoise gait

he traversed the inner office, where the youthful clerks suspended their

figuring--to grin behind his back--and entered the transfer office, where

eight gentlemen were sitting. Seven rose, and one did not. Old Heythorp

raised a saluting hand to the level of his chest and moving to an

arm-chair, lowered himself into it.

"Well, gentlemen?"

One of the eight gentlemen got up again.

"Mr. Heythorp, we've appointed Mr. Brownbee to voice our views. Mr.

Brownbee!" And down he sat.

Mr. Brownbee rose a stoutish man some seventy years of age, with little

grey side whiskers, and one of those utterly steady faces only to be seen

in England, faces which convey the sense of business from father to son

for generations; faces which make wars, and passion, and free thought

seem equally incredible; faces which inspire confidence, and awaken in

one a desire to get up and leave the room. Mr. Brownbee rose, and said in

a suave voice:

"Mr. Heythorp, we here represent about L14,000. When we had the pleasure

of meeting you last July, you will recollect that you held out a prospect

of some more satisfactory arrangement by Christmas. We are now in

January, and I am bound to say we none of us get younger."

From the depths of old Heythorp a preliminary rumble came travelling,

reached the surface, and materialised--

"Don't know about you--feel a boy, myself."

The eight gentlemen looked at him. Was he going to try and put them off

again? Mr. Brownbee said with unruffled calm:

"I'm sure we're very glad to hear it. But to come to the point. We have

felt, Mr. Heythorp, and I'm sure you won't think it unreasonable,

that--er--bankruptcy would be the most satisfactory solution. We have

waited a long time, and we want to know definitely where we stand; for,

to be quite frank, we don't see any prospect of improvement; indeed, we

fear the opposite."

"You think I'm going to join the majority."

This plumping out of what was at the back of their minds produced in Mr.

Brownbee and his colleagues a sort of chemical disturbance. They

coughed, moved their feet, and turned away their eyes, till the one who

had not risen, a solicitor named Ventnor, said bluffly:

"Well, put it that way if you like."

Old Heythorp's little deep eyes twinkled.

"My grandfather lived to be a hundred; my father ninety-six--both of them

rips. I'm only eighty, gentlemen; blameless life compared with theirs."

"Indeed," Mr. Brownbee said, "we hope you have many years of this life

before you."

"More of this than of another." And a silence fell, till old Heythorp

added: "You're getting a thousand a year out of my fees. Mistake to kill

the goose that lays the golden eggs. I'll make it twelve hundred. If

you force me to resign my directorships by bankruptcy, you won't get a

rap, you know."

Mr. Brownbee cleared his throat:

"We think, Mr. Heythorp, you should make it at least fifteen hundred. In

that case we might perhaps consider--"

Old Heythorp shook his head.

"We can hardly accept your assertion that we should get nothing in the

event of bankruptcy. We fancy you greatly underrate the possibilities.

Fifteen hundred a year is the least you can do for us."

"See you d---d first."

Another silence followed, then Ventnor, the solicitor, said irascibly:

"We know where we are, then."

Brownbee added almost nervously:

"Are we to understand that twelve hundred a year is your--your last

word?"

Old Heythorp nodded. "Come again this day month, and I'll see what I can

do for you;" and he shut his eyes.

Round Mr. Brownbee six of the gentlemen gathered, speaking in low voices;

Mr. Ventnor nursed a leg and glowered at old Heythorp, who sat with his

eyes closed. Mr. Brownbee went over and conferred with Mr. Ventnor, then

clearing his throat, he said:

"Well, sir, we have considered your proposal; we agree to accept it for

the moment. We will come again, as you suggest, in a month's time.

"We hope that you will by then have seen your way to something more

substantial, with a view to avoiding what we should all regret, but which

I fear will otherwise become inevitable."

Old Heythorp nodded. The eight gentlemen took their hats, and went out

one by one, Mr. Brownbee courteously bringing up the rear.

The old man, who could not get up without assistance, stayed musing in

his chair. He had diddled 'em for the moment into giving him another

month, and when that month was up-he would diddle 'em again! A month

ought to make the Pillin business safe, with all that hung on it. That

poor funkey chap Joe Pillin! A gurgling chuckle escaped his red lips.

What a shadow the fellow had looked, trotting in that evening just a

month ago, behind his valet's announcement: "Mr. Pillin, sir."

What a parchmenty, precise, thread-paper of a chap, with his bird's claw

of a hand, and his muffled-up throat, and his quavery:

"How do you do, Sylvanus? I'm afraid you're not--"

"First rate. Sit down. Have some port."

"Port! I never drink it. Poison to me! Poison!"

"Do you good!"

"Oh! I know, that's what you always say."

You've a monstrous constitution, Sylvanus. If I drank port and smoked

cigars and sat up till one o'clock, I should be in my grave to-morrow.

I'm not the man I was. The fact is, I've come to see if you can help me.

I'm getting old; I'm growing nervous...."

"You always were as chickeny as an old hen, Joe."

"Well, my nature's not like yours. To come to the point, I want to sell

my ships and retire. I need rest. Freights are very depressed. I've got

my family to think of."

"Crack on, and go broke; buck you up like anything!"

"I'm quite serious, Sylvanus."

"Never knew you anything else, Joe."

A quavering cough, and out it had come:

"Now--in a word--won't your 'Island Navigation Company' buy my ships?"

A pause, a twinkle, a puff of smoke. "Make it worth my while!" He had

said it in jest; and then, in a flash, the idea had come to him. Rosamund

and her youngsters! What a chance to put something between them and

destitution when he had joined the majority! And so he said: "We don't

want your silly ships."

That claw of a hand waved in deprecation. "They're very good

ships--doing quite well. It's only my wretched health. If I were a

strong man I shouldn't dream...."

"What d'you want for 'em?" Good Lord! how he jumped if you asked him a

plain question. The chap was as nervous as a guinea-fowl!

"Here are the figures--for the last four years. I think you'll agree

that I couldn't ask less than seventy thousand."

Through the smoke of his cigar old Heythorp had digested those figures

slowly, Joe Pillin feeling his teeth and sucking lozenges the while; then

he said:

"Sixty thousand! And out of that you pay me ten per cent., if I get it

through for you. Take it or leave it."

"My dear Sylvanus, that's almost-cynical."

"Too good a price--you'll never get it without me."

"But a--but a commission! You could never disclose it!"

"Arrange that all right. Think it over. Freights'll go lower yet. Have

some port."

"No, no! Thank you. No! So you think freights will go lower?"

"Sure of it."

"Well, I'll be going. I'm sure I don't know. It's--it's--I must think."

"Think your hardest."