She soon heard. Gerald returned in a cold stormy temper. Rickie had

offered him money.

“My dear fellow don’t be so cross. The child’s mad.”

“If it was, I’d forgive that. But I can’t stand unhealthiness.”

“Now, Gerald, that’s where I hate you. You don’t know what it is to

pity the weak.”

“Woman’s job. So you wish I’d taken a hundred pounds a year from him.

Did you ever hear such blasted cheek? Marry us—he, you, and me—a

hundred pounds down and as much annual—he, of course, to pry into all

we did, and we to kowtow and eat dirt-pie to him. If that’s Mr. Rickety

Elliot’s idea of a soldier and an Englishman, it isn’t mine, and I wish

I’d had a horse-whip.”

She was roaring with laughter. “You’re babies, a pair of you, and

you’re the worst. Why couldn’t you let the little silly down gently?

There he was puffing and sniffing under my window, and I thought he’d

insulted you. Why didn’t you accept?”

“Accept?” he thundered.

“It would have taken the nonsense out of him for ever. Why, he was only

talking out of a book.”

“More fool he.”

“Well, don’t be angry with a fool. He means no harm. He muddles all day

with poetry and old dead people, and then tries to bring it into life.

It’s too funny for words.”

Gerald repeated that he could not stand unhealthiness.

“I don’t call that exactly unhealthy.”

“I do. And why he could give the money’s worse.”

“What do you mean?”

He became shy. “I hadn’t meant to tell you. It’s not quite for a lady.”

For, like most men who are rather animal, he was intellectually a

prude. “He says he can’t ever marry, owing to his foot. It wouldn’t

be fair to posterity. His grandfather was crocked, his father too,

and he’s as bad. He thinks that it’s hereditary, and may get worse

next generation. He’s discussed it all over with other Undergrads. A

bright lot they must be. He daren’t risk having any children. Hence the

hundred quid.”

She stopped laughing. “Oh, little beast, if he said all that!”

He was encouraged to proceed. Hitherto he had not talked about their

school days. Now he told her everything,—the “barley-sugar,” as he

called it, the pins in chapel, and how one afternoon he had tied him

head-downward on to a tree trunk and then ran away—of course only for

a moment.

For this she scolded him well. But she had a thrill of joy when she

thought of the weak boy in the clutches of the strong one.

V

Gerald died that afternoon. He was broken up in the football match.

Rickie and Mr. Pembroke were on the ground when the accident took

place. It was no good torturing him by a drive to the hospital, and he

was merely carried to the little pavilion and laid upon the floor. A

doctor came, and so did a clergyman, but it seemed better to leave him

for the last few minutes with Agnes, who had ridden down on her bicycle.

It was a strange lamentable interview. The girl was so accustomed to

health, that for a time she could not understand. It must be a joke

that he chose to lie there in the dust, with a rug over him and his

knees bent up towards his chin. His arms were as she knew them, and

their admirable muscles showed clear and clean beneath the jersey. The

face, too, though a little flushed, was uninjured: it must be some

curious joke.

“Gerald, what have you been doing?”

He replied, “I can’t see you. It’s too dark.”

“Oh, I’ll soon alter that,” she said in her old brisk way. She opened

the pavilion door. The people who were standing by it moved aside. She

saw a deserted meadow, steaming and grey, and beyond it slateroofed

cottages, row beside row, climbing a shapeless hill. Towards London the

sky was yellow. “There. That’s better.” She sat down by him again, and

drew his hand into her own. “Now we are all right, aren’t we?”

“Where are you?”

This time she could not reply.

“What is it? Where am I going?”

“Wasn’t the rector here?” said she after a silence.

“He explained heaven, and thinks that I—but—I couldn’t tell a parson;

but I don’t seem to have any use for any of the things there.”

“We are Christians,” said Agnes shyly. “Dear love, we don’t talk about

these things, but we believe them. I think that you will get well and

be as strong again as ever; but, in any case, there is a spiritual

life, and we know that some day you and I—”

“I shan’t do as a spirit,” he interrupted, sighing pitifully. “I want

you as I am, and it cannot be managed. The rector had to say so. I

want—I don’t want to talk. I can’t see you. Shut that door.”

She obeyed, and crept into his arms. Only this time her grasp was the

stronger. Her heart beat louder and louder as the sound of his grew

more faint. He was crying like a little frightened child, and her lips

were wet with his tears. “Bear it bravely,” she told him.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “It isn’t to be done. I can’t see you,” and

passed from her trembling with open eyes.

She rode home on her bicycle, leaving the others to follow. Some ladies

who did not know what had happened bowed and smiled as she passed, and

she returned their salute.

“Oh, miss, is it true?” cried the cook, her face streaming with tears.

Agnes nodded. Presumably it was true. Letters had just arrived: one

was for Gerald from his mother. Life, which had given them no warning,

seemed to make no comment now. The incident was outside nature, and

would surely pass away like a dream. She felt slightly irritable, and

the grief of the servants annoyed her.

They sobbed. “Ah, look at his marks! Ah, little he thought—little he

thought!” In the brown holland strip by the front door a heavy football

boot had left its impress. They had not liked Gerald, but he was a man,

they were women, he had died. Their mistress ordered them to leave her.

For many minutes she sat at the foot of the stairs, rubbing her eyes.

An obscure spiritual crisis was going on.

Should she weep like the servants? Or should she bear up and trust in

the consoler Time? Was the death of a man so terrible after all? As she

invited herself to apathy there were steps on the gravel, and Rickie

Elliot burst in. He was splashed with mud, his breath was gone, and

his hair fell wildly over his meagre face. She thought, “These are the

people who are left alive!” From the bottom of her soul she hated him.

“I came to see what you’re doing,” he cried.

“Resting.”

He knelt beside her, and she said, “Would you please go away?”

“Yes, dear Agnes, of course; but I must see first that you mind.” Her

breath caught. Her eyes moved to the treads, going outwards, so firmly,

so irretrievably.

He panted, “It’s the worst thing that can ever happen to you in all

your life, and you’ve got to mind it—you’ve got to mind it. They’ll

come saying, ‘Bear up—trust to time.’ No, no; they’re wrong. Mind it.”

Through all her misery she knew that this boy was greater than they

supposed. He rose to his feet, and with intense conviction cried: “But

I know—I understand. It’s your death as well as his. He’s gone, Agnes,

and his arms will never hold you again. In God’s name, mind such a

thing, and don’t sit fencing with your soul. Don’t stop being great;

that’s the one crime he’ll never forgive you.”

She faltered, “Who—who forgives?”

“Gerald.”

At the sound of his name she slid forward, and all her dishonesty left

her. She acknowledged that life’s meaning had vanished. Bending down,

she kissed the footprint. “How can he forgive me?” she sobbed. “Where

has he gone to? You could never dream such an awful thing. He couldn’t

see me though I opened the door—wide—plenty of light; and then he

could not remember the things that should comfort him. He wasn’t a—he

wasn’t ever a great reader, and he couldn’t remember the things. The

rector tried, and he couldn’t—I came, and I couldn’t—” She could not

speak for tears. Rickie did not check her. He let her accuse herself,

and fate, and Herbert, who had postponed their marriage. She might have

been a wife six months; but Herbert had spoken of self-control and of

all life before them. He let her kiss the footprints till their marks

gave way to the marks of her lips. She moaned. “He is gone—where is

he?” and then he replied quite quietly, “He is in heaven.”

She begged him not to comfort her; she could not bear it.

“I did not come to comfort you. I came to see that you mind. He is in

heaven, Agnes. The greatest thing is over.”

Her hatred was lulled. She murmured, “Dear Rickie!” and held up her

hand to him. Through her tears his meagre face showed as a seraph’s

who spoke the truth and forbade her to juggle with her soul. “Dear

Rickie—but for the rest of my life what am I to do?”

“Anything—if you remember that the greatest thing is over.”

“I don’t know you,” she said tremulously. “You have grown up in a

moment. You never talked to us, and yet you understand it all. Tell me

again—I can only trust you—where he is.”

“He is in heaven.”

“You are sure?”

It puzzled her that Rickie, who could scarcely tell you the time

without a saving clause, should be so certain about immortality.

VI

He did not stop for the funeral. Mr. Pembroke thought that he had a bad

effect on Agnes, and prevented her from acquiescing in the tragedy as

rapidly as she might have done. As he expressed it, “one must not court

sorrow,” and he hinted to the young man that they desired to be alone.

Rickie went back to the Silts.

He was only there a few days. As soon as term opened he returned to

Cambridge, for which he longed passionately. The journey thither

was now familiar to him, and he took pleasure in each landmark. The

fair valley of Tewin Water, the cutting into Hitchin where the train

traverses the chalk, Baldock Church, Royston with its promise of downs,

were nothing in themselves, but dear as stages in the pilgrimage

towards the abode of peace. On the platform he met friends. They had

all had pleasant vacations: it was a happy world. The atmosphere alters.

Cambridge, according to her custom, welcomed her sons with open drains.

Pettycury was up, so was Trinity Street, and navvies peeped out of

King’s Parade. Here it was gas, there electric light, but everywhere

something, and always a smell. It was also the day that the wheels fell

off the station tram, and Rickie, who was naturally inside, was among

the passengers who “sustained no injury but a shock, and had as hearty

a laugh over the mishap afterwards as any one.”

Tilliard fled into a hansom, cursing himself for having tried to do the

thing cheaply. Hornblower also swept past yelling derisively, with his

luggage neatly piled above his head. “Let’s get out and walk,” muttered

Ansell. But Rickie was succouring a distressed female—Mrs. Aberdeen.

“Oh, Mrs. Aberdeen, I never saw you: I am so glad to see you—I am so

very glad.” Mrs. Aberdeen was cold. She did not like being spoken to

outside the college, and was also distrait about her basket. Hitherto

no genteel eye had even seen inside it, but in the collision its little

calico veil fell off, and there was revealed—nothing. The basket was

empty, and never would hold anything illegal. All the same she was

distrait, and “We shall meet later, sir, I dessy,” was all the greeting

Rickie got from her.

“Now what kind of a life has Mrs. Aberdeen?” he exclaimed, as he and

Ansell pursued the Station Road. “Here these bedders come and make us

comfortable. We owe an enormous amount to them, their wages are absurd,

and we know nothing about them. Off they go to Barnwell, and then their

lives are hidden. I just know that Mrs. Aberdeen has a husband, but

that’s all. She never will talk about him. Now I do so want to fill in

her life. I see one-half of it. What’s the other half? She may have a

real jolly house, in good taste, with a little garden and books, and

pictures. Or, again, she mayn’t. But in any case one ought to know. I

know she’d dislike it, but she oughtn’t to dislike. After all, bedders

are to blame for the present lamentable state of things, just as much

as gentlefolk. She ought to want me to come. She ought to introduce me

to her husband.”

They had reached the corner of Hills Road. Ansell spoke for the first

time. He said, “Ugh!”

“Drains?”

“Yes. A spiritual cesspool.”

Rickie laughed.

“I expected it from your letter.”

“The one you never answered?”

“I answer none of your letters. You are quite hopeless by now. You can

go to the bad. But I refuse to accompany you. I refuse to believe that

every human being is a moving wonder of supreme interest and tragedy

and beauty—which was what the letter in question amounted to. You’ll

find plenty who will believe it. It’s a very popular view among people

who are too idle to think; it saves them the trouble of detecting the

beautiful from the ugly, the interesting from the dull, the tragic from

the melodramatic. You had just come from Sawston, and were apparently

carried away by the fact that Miss Pembroke had the usual amount of

arms and legs.”

Rickie was silent. He had told his friend how he felt, but not what had

happened. Ansell could discuss love and death admirably, but somehow

he would not understand lovers or a dying man, and in the letter there

had been scant allusion to these concrete facts. Would Cambridge

understand them either? He watched some dons who were peeping into

an excavation, and throwing up their hands with humorous gestures of

despair. These men would lecture next week on Catiline’s conspiracy,

on Luther, on Evolution, on Catullus. They dealt with so much and they

had experienced so little. Was it possible he would ever come to think

Cambridge narrow? In his short life Rickie had known two sudden deaths,

and that is enough to disarrange any placid outlook on the world.

He knew once for all that we are all of us bubbles on an extremely

rough sea. Into this sea humanity has built, as it were, some little

breakwaters—scientific knowledge, civilized restraint—so that the

bubbles do not break so frequently or so soon. But the sea has not

altered, and it was only a chance that he, Ansell, Tilliard, and Mrs.

Aberdeen had not all been killed in the tram.

They waited for the other tram by the Roman Catholic Church, whose

florid bulk was already receding into twilight. It is the first big

building that the incoming visitor sees. “Oh, here come the colleges!”

cries the Protestant parent, and then learns that it was built by a

Papist who made a fortune out of movable eyes for dolls. “Built out of

doll’s eyes to contain idols”—that, at all events, is the legend and

the joke. It watches over the apostate city, taller by many a yard than

anything within, and asserting, however wildly, that here is eternity,

stability, and bubbles unbreakable upon a windless sea.

A costly hymn tune announced five o’clock, and in the distance the more

lovable note of St. Mary’s could be heard, speaking from the heart of

the town. Then the tram arrived—the slow stuffy tram that plies every

twenty minutes between the unknown and the marketplace—and took them

past the desecrated grounds of Downing, past Addenbrookes Hospital,

girt like a Venetian palace with a mantling canal, past the Fitz

William, towering upon immense substructions like any Roman temple,

right up to the gates of one’s own college, which looked like nothing

else in the world. The porters were glad to see them, but wished it

had been a hansom. “Our luggage,” explained Rickie, “comes in the

hotel omnibus, if you would kindly pay a shilling for mine.” Ansell

turned aside to some large lighted windows, the abode of a hospitable

don, and from other windows there floated familiar voices and the

familiar mistakes in a Beethoven sonata. The college, though small, was

civilized, and proud of its civilization. It was not sufficient glory

to be a Blue there, nor an additional glory to get drunk. Many a maiden

lady who had read that Cambridge men were sad dogs, was surprised and

perhaps a little disappointed at the reasonable life which greeted her.

Miss Appleblossom in particular had had a tremendous shock. The sight

of young fellows making tea and drinking water had made her wonder

whether this was Cambridge College at all. “It is so,” she exclaimed

afterwards. “It is just as I say; and what’s more, I wouldn’t have it

otherwise; Stewart says it’s as easy as easy to get into the swim,

and not at all expensive.” The direction of the swim was determined a

little by the genius of the place—for places have a genius, though the

less we talk about it the better—and a good deal by the tutors and

resident fellows, who treated with rare dexterity the products that

came up yearly from the public schools. They taught the perky boy that

he was not everything, and the limp boy that he might be something.

They even welcomed those boys who were neither limp nor perky, but

odd—those boys who had never been at a public school at all, and

such do not find a welcome everywhere. And they did everything with

ease—one might almost say with nonchalance, so that the boys noticed

nothing, and received education, often for the first time in their

lives.

But Rickie turned to none of these friends, for just then he loved his

rooms better than any person. They were all he really possessed in the

world, the only place he could call his own. Over the door was his

name, and through the paint, like a grey ghost, he could still read the

name of his predecessor. With a sigh of joy he entered the perishable

home that was his for a couple of years. There was a beautiful fire,

and the kettle boiled at once. He made tea on the hearth-rug and

ate the biscuits which Mrs. Aberdeen had brought for him up from

Anderson’s. “Gentlemen,” she said, “must learn to give and take.” He

sighed again and again, like one who had escaped from danger. With his

head on the fender and all his limbs relaxed, he felt almost as safe as

he felt once when his mother killed a ghost in the passage by carrying

him through it in her arms. There was no ghost now; he was frightened

at reality; he was frightened at the splendours and horrors of the

world.

A letter from Miss Pembroke was on the table. He did not hurry to open

it, for she, and all that she did, was overwhelming. She wrote like

the Sibyl; her sorrowful face moved over the stars and shattered their

harmonies; last night he saw her with the eyes of Blake, a virgin

widow, tall, veiled, consecrated, with her hands stretched out against

an everlasting wind. Why should she write? Her letters were not for the

likes of him, nor to be read in rooms like his.

“We are not leaving Sawston,” she wrote. “I saw how selfish it was of

me to risk spoiling Herbert’s career. I shall get used to any place.

Now that he is gone, nothing of that sort can matter. Every one has

been most kind, but you have comforted me most, though you did not mean

to. I cannot think how you did it, or understood so much. I still think

of you as a little boy with a lame leg,—I know you will let me say

this,—and yet when it came to the point you knew more than people who

have been all their lives with sorrow and death.”

Rickie burnt this letter, which he ought not to have done, for it was

one of the few tributes Miss Pembroke ever paid to imagination. But

he felt that it did not belong to him: words so sincere should be for

Gerald alone. The smoke rushed up the chimney, and he indulged in a

vision. He saw it reach the outer air and beat against the low ceiling

of clouds. The clouds were too strong for it; but in them was one

chink, revealing one star, and through this the smoke escaped into the

light of stars innumerable. Then—but then the vision failed, and the

voice of science whispered that all smoke remains on earth in the form

of smuts, and is troublesome to Mrs. Aberdeen.

“I am jolly unpractical,” he mused. “And what is the point of it when

real things are so wonderful? Who wants visions in a world that has

Agnes and Gerald?” He turned on the electric light and pulled open the

table-drawer. There, among spoons and corks and string, he found a

fragment of a little story that he had tried to write last term. It was

called “The Bay of the Fifteen Islets,” and the action took place on

St. John’s Eve off the coast of Sicily. A party of tourists land on one

of the islands. Suddenly the boatmen become uneasy, and say that the

island is not generally there. It is an extra one, and they had better

have tea on one of the ordinaries. “Pooh, volcanic!” says the leading

tourist, and the ladies say how interesting. The island begins to

rock, and so do the minds of its visitors. They start and quarrel and

jabber. Fingers burst up through the sand—black fingers of sea devils.

The island tilts. The tourists go mad. But just before the catastrophe

one man, _integer vitae scelerisque purus_, sees the truth. Here are

no devils. Other muscles, other minds, are pulling the island to its

subterranean home. Through the advancing wall of waters he sees no

grisly faces, no ghastly medieval limbs, but—But what nonsense! When

real things are so wonderful, what is the point of pretending?

And so Rickie deflected his enthusiasms. Hitherto they had played on

gods and heroes, on the infinite and the impossible, on virtue and

beauty and strength. Now, with a steadier radiance, they transfigured a

man who was dead and a woman who was still alive.

VII

Love, say orderly people, can be fallen into by two methods: (1)

through the desires, (2) through the imagination. And if the orderly

people are English, they add that (1) is the inferior method, and

characteristic of the South. It is inferior. Yet those who pursue it

at all events know what they want; they are not puzzling to themselves

or ludicrous to others; they do not take the wings of the morning and

fly into the uttermost parts of the sea before walking to the registry

office; they cannot breed a tragedy quite like Rickie’s.

He is, of course, absurdly young—not twenty-one—and he will be engaged

to be married at twenty-three. He has no knowledge of the world; for

example, he thinks that if you do not want money you can give it to

friends who do. He believes in humanity because he knows a dozen decent

people. He believes in women because he has loved his mother. And his

friends are as young and as ignorant as himself. They are full of the

wine of life. But they have not tasted the cup—let us call it the

teacup—of experience, which has made men of Mr. Pembroke’s type what

they are. Oh, that teacup! To be taken at prayers, at friendship, at

love, till we are quite sane, efficient, quite experienced, and quite

useless to God or man. We must drink it, or we shall die. But we need

not drink it always. Here is our problem and our salvation. There comes

a moment—God knows when—at which we can say, “I will experience no

longer. I will create. I will be an experience.” But to do this we must

be both acute and heroic. For it is not easy, after accepting six cups

of tea, to throw the seventh in the face of the hostess. And to Rickie

this moment has not, as yet, been offered.

Ansell, at the end of his third year, got a first in the Moral Science

Tripos. Being a scholar, he kept his rooms in college, and at once

began to work for a Fellowship. Rickie got a creditable second in the

Classical Tripos, Part I., and retired to sallow lodgings in Mill Lane,

carrying with him the degree of B.A. and a small exhibition, which was

quite as much as he deserved. For Part II. he read Greek Archaeology,

and got a second. All this means that Ansell was much cleverer than

Rickie. As for the cow, she was still going strong, though turning a

little academic as the years passed over her.

“We are bound to get narrow,” sighed Rickie. He and his friend were

lying in a meadow during their last summer term. In his incurable love

for flowers he had plaited two garlands of buttercups and cow-parsley,

and Ansell’s lean Jewish face was framed in one of them. “Cambridge is

wonderful, but—but it’s so tiny. You have no idea—at least, I think

you have no idea—how the great world looks down on it.”

“I read the letters in the papers.”

“It’s a bad look-out.”

“How?”

“Cambridge has lost touch with the times.”

“Was she ever intended to touch them?”

“She satisfies,” said Rickie mysteriously, “neither the professions,

nor the public schools, nor the great thinking mass of men and women.

There is a general feeling that her day is over, and naturally one

feels pretty sick.”

“Do you still write short stories?”

“Why?”

“Because your English has gone to the devil. You think and talk in

Journalese. Define a great thinking mass.”

Rickie sat up and adjusted his floral crown.

“Estimate the worth of a general feeling.”

Silence.

“And thirdly, where is the great world?”

“Oh that—!”

“Yes. That,” exclaimed Ansell, rising from his couch in violent

excitement. “Where is it? How do you set about finding it? How long

does it take to get there? What does it think? What does it do? What

does it want? Oblige me with specimens of its art and literature.”

Silence. “Till you do, my opinions will be as follows: There is no

great world at all, only a little earth, for ever isolated from the

rest of the little solar system. The earth is full of tiny societies,

and Cambridge is one of them. All the societies are narrow, but some

are good and some are bad—just as one house is beautiful inside and

another ugly. Observe the metaphor of the houses: I am coming back

to it. The good societies say, ‘I tell you to do this because I am

Cambridge.’ The bad ones say, ‘I tell you to do that because I am the

great world,—not because I am ‘Peckham,’ or ‘Billingsgate,’ or ‘Park

Lane,’ but ‘because I am the great world.’ They lie. And fools like

you listen to them, and believe that they are a thing which does not

exist and never has existed, and confuse ‘great,’ which has no meaning

whatever, with ‘good,’ which means salvation. Look at this great

wreath: it’ll be dead tomorrow. Look at that good flower: it’ll come up

again next year. Now for the other metaphor. To compare the world to

Cambridge is like comparing the outsides of houses with the inside of a

house. No intellectual effort is needed, no moral result is attained.

You only have to say, ‘Oh, what a difference!’ and then come indoors

again and exhibit your broadened mind.”

“I never shall come indoors again,” said Rickie. “That’s the whole

point.” And his voice began to quiver. “It’s well enough for those

who’ll get a Fellowship, but in a few weeks I shall go down. In a few

years it’ll be as if I’ve never been up. It matters very much to me

what the world is like. I can’t answer your questions about it; and

that’s no loss to you, but so much the worse for me. And then you’ve

got a house—not a metaphorical one, but a house with father and

sisters. I haven’t, and never shall have. There’ll never again be a

home for me like Cambridge. I shall only look at the outside of homes.

According to your metaphor, I shall live in the street, and it matters

very much to me what I find there.”

“You’ll live in another house right enough,” said Ansell, rather

uneasily. “Only take care you pick out a decent one. I can’t think why

you flop about so helplessly, like a bit of seaweed. In four years

you’ve taken as much root as any one.”

“Where?”

“I should say you’ve been fortunate in your friends.”

“Oh—that!” But he was not cynical—or cynical in a very tender way.

He was thinking of the irony of friendship—so strong it is, and so

fragile. We fly together, like straws in an eddy, to part in the open

stream. Nature has no use for us: she has cut her stuff differently.

Dutiful sons, loving husbands, responsible fathers—these are what she

wants, and if we are friends it must be in our spare time. Abram and

Sarai were sorrowful, yet their seed became as sand of the sea, and

distracts the politics of Europe at this moment. But a few verses of

poetry is all that survives of David and Jonathan.

“I wish we were labelled,” said Rickie. He wished that all the

confidence and mutual knowledge that is born in such a place as

Cambridge could be organized. People went down into the world saying,

“We know and like each other; we shan’t forget.” But they did forget,

for man is so made that he cannot remember long without a symbol; he

wished there was a society, a kind of friendship office, where the

marriage of true minds could be registered.

“Why labels?”

“To know each other again.”

“I have taught you pessimism splendidly.” He looked at his watch.

“What time?”

“Not twelve.”

Rickie got up.

“Why go?” He stretched out his hand and caught hold of Rickie’s ankle.

“I’ve got that Miss Pembroke to lunch—that girl whom you say never’s

there.”

“Then why go? All this week you have pretended Miss Pembroke awaited

you. Wednesday—Miss Pembroke to lunch. Thursday—Miss Pembroke to tea.

Now again—and you didn’t even invite her.”

“To Cambridge, no. But the Hall man they’re stopping with has so many

engagements that she and her friend can often come to me, I’m glad to

say. I don’t think I ever told you much, but over two years ago the

man she was going to marry was killed at football. She nearly died

of grief. This visit to Cambridge is almost the first amusement she

has felt up to taking. Oh, they go back tomorrow! Give me breakfast

tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“But I shall see you this evening. I shall be round at your paper on

Schopenhauer. Lemme go.”

“Don’t go,” he said idly. “It’s much better for you to talk to me.”

“Lemme go, Stewart.”

“It’s amusing that you’re so feeble. You—simply—can’t—get—away. I

wish I wanted to bully you.”

Rickie laughed, and suddenly overbalanced into the grass. Ansell, with

unusual playfulness, held him prisoner. They lay there for few minutes,

talking and ragging aimlessly. Then Rickie seized his opportunity and

jerked away.

“Go, go!” yawned the other. But he was a little vexed, for he was a

young man with great capacity for pleasure, and it pleased him that

morning to be with his friend. The thought of two ladies waiting lunch

did not deter him; stupid women, why shouldn’t they wait? Why should

they interfere with their betters? With his ear on the ground he

listened to Rickie’s departing steps, and thought, “He wastes a lot

of time keeping engagements. Why will he be pleasant to fools?” And

then he thought, “Why has he turned so unhappy? It isn’t as if he’s a

philosopher, or tries to solve the riddle of existence. And he’s got

money of his own.” Thus thinking, he fell asleep.

Meanwhile Rickie hurried away from him, and slackened and stopped, and

hurried again. He was due at the Union in ten minutes, but he could not

bring himself there. He dared not meet Miss Pembroke: he loved her.

The devil must have planned it. They had started so gloriously; she had

been a goddess both in joy and sorrow. She was a goddess still. But

he had dethroned the god whom once he had glorified equally. Slowly,

slowly, the image of Gerald had faded. That was the first step. Rickie

had thought, “No matter. He will be bright again. Just now all the

radiance chances to be in her.” And on her he had fixed his eyes.

He thought of her awake. He entertained her willingly in dreams. He

found her in poetry and music and in the sunset. She made him kind

and strong. She made him clever. Through her he kept Cambridge in its

proper place, and lived as a citizen of the great world. But one night

he dreamt that she lay in his arms. This displeased him. He determined

to think a little about Gerald instead. Then the fabric collapsed.

It was hard on Rickie thus to meet the devil. He did not deserve it,

for he was comparatively civilized, and knew that there was nothing

shameful in love. But to love this woman! If only it had been any one

else! Love in return—that he could expect from no one, being too ugly

and too unattractive. But the love he offered would not then have been

vile. The insult to Miss Pembroke, who was consecrated, and whom he

had consecrated, who could still see Gerald, and always would see him,

shining on his everlasting throne—this was the crime from the devil,

the crime that no penance would ever purge. She knew nothing. She never

would know. But the crime was registered in heaven.

He had been tempted to confide in Ansell. But to what purpose? He

would say, “I love Miss Pembroke.” and Stewart would reply, “You ass.”

And then. “I’m never going to tell her.” “You ass,” again. After all,

it was not a practical question; Agnes would never hear of his fall.

If his friend had been, as he expressed it, “labelled”; if he had

been a father, or still better a brother, one might tell him of the

discreditable passion. But why irritate him for no reason? Thinking “I

am always angling for sympathy; I must stop myself,” he hurried onward

to the Union.

He found his guests half way up the stairs, reading the advertisements

of coaches for the Long Vacation. He heard Mrs. Lewin say, “I wonder

what he’ll end by doing.” A little overacting his part, he apologized

nonchalantly for his lateness.

“It’s always the same,” cried Agnes. “Last time he forgot I was coming

altogether.” She wore a flowered muslin—something indescribably liquid

and cool. It reminded him a little of those swift piercing streams,

neither blue nor green, that gush out of the dolomites. Her face was

clear and brown, like the face of a mountaineer; her hair was so

plentiful that it seemed banked up above it; and her little toque,

though it answered the note of the dress, was almost ludicrous, poised

on so much natural glory. When she moved, the sunlight flashed on her

ear-rings.

He led them up to the luncheon-room. By now he was conscious of his

limitations as a host, and never attempted to entertain ladies in

his lodgings. Moreover, the Union seemed less intimate. It had a

faint flavour of a London club; it marked the undergraduate’s nearest

approach to the great world. Amid its waiters and serviettes one felt

impersonal, and able to conceal the private emotions. Rickie felt that

if Miss Pembroke knew one thing about him, she knew everything. During

this visit he took her to no place that he greatly loved.

“Sit down, ladies. Fall to. I’m sorry. I was out towards Coton with a

dreadful friend.”

Mrs. Lewin pushed up her veil. She was a typical May-term chaperon,

always pleasant, always hungry, and always tired. Year after year she

came up to Cambridge in a tight silk dress, and year after year she

nearly died of it. Her feet hurt, her limbs were cramped in a canoe,

black spots danced before her eyes from eating too much mayonnaise. But

still she came, if not as a mother as an aunt, if not as an aunt as a

friend. Still she ascended the roof of King’s, still she counted the

balls of Clare, still she was on the point of grasping the organization

of the May races. “And who is your friend?” she asked.

“His name is Ansell.”

“Well, now, did I see him two years ago—as a bedmaker in something

they did at the Foot Lights? Oh, how I roared.”

“You didn’t see Mr. Ansell at the Foot Lights,” said Agnes, smiling.

“How do you know?” asked Rickie.

“He’d scarcely be so frivolous.”

“Do you remember seeing him?”

“For a moment.”

What a memory she had! And how splendidly during that moment she had

behaved!

“Isn’t he marvellously clever?”

“I believe so.”

“Oh, give me clever people!” cried Mrs. Lewin. “They are kindness

itself at the Hall, but I assure you I am depressed at times. One

cannot talk bump-rowing for ever.”

“I never hear about him, Rickie; but isn’t he really your greatest

friend?”

“I don’t go in for greatest friends.”

“Do you mean you like us all equally?”

“All differently, those of you I like.”

“Ah, you’ve caught it!” cried Mrs. Lewin. “Mr. Elliot gave it you there

well.”

Agnes laughed, and, her elbows on the table, regarded them both through

her fingers—a habit of hers. Then she said, “Can’t we see the great

Mr. Ansell?”

“Oh, let’s. Or would he frighten me?”

“He would frighten you,” said Rickie. “He’s a trifle weird.”

“My good Rickie, if you knew the deathly dullness of Sawston—every

one saying the proper thing at the proper time, I so proper, Herbert

so proper! Why, weirdness is the one thing I long for! Do arrange

something.”

“I’m afraid there’s no opportunity. Ansell goes some vast bicycle ride

this afternoon; this evening you’re tied up at the Hall; and tomorrow

you go.”

“But there’s breakfast tomorrow,” said Agnes. “Look here, Rickie, bring

Mr. Ansell to breakfast with us at Buoys.”

Mrs. Lewin seconded the invitation.

“Bad luck again,” said Rickie boldly; “I’m already fixed up for

breakfast. I’ll tell him of your very kind intention.”

“Let’s have him alone,” murmured Agnes.

“My dear girl, I should die through the floor! Oh, it’ll be all right

about breakfast. I rather think we shall get asked this evening by that

shy man who has the pretty rooms in Trinity.”

“Oh, very well. Where is it you breakfast, Rickie?”

He faltered. “To Ansell’s, it is—” It seemed as if he was making some

great admission. So self-conscious was he, that he thought the two

women exchanged glances. Had Agnes already explored that part of him

that did not belong to her? Would another chance step reveal the part

that did? He asked them abruptly what they would like to do after lunch.

“Anything,” said Mrs. Lewin,—“anything in the world.”

A walk? A boat? Ely? A drive? Some objection was raised to each. “To

tell the truth,” she said at last, “I do feel a wee bit tired, and

what occurs to me is this. You and Agnes shall leave me here and have

no more bother. I shall be perfectly happy snoozling in one of these

delightful drawing-room chairs. Do what you like, and then pick me up

after it.”

“Alas, it’s against regulations,” said Rickie. “The Union won’t trust

lady visitors on its premises alone.”

“But who’s to know I’m alone? With a lot of men in the drawing-room,

how’s each to know that I’m not with the others?”

“That would shock Rickie,” said Agnes, laughing. “He’s frightfully

high-principled.”

“No, I’m not,” said Rickie, thinking of his recent shiftiness over

breakfast.

“Then come for a walk with me. I want exercise. Some connection of ours

was once rector of Madingley. I shall walk out and see the church.”

Mrs. Lewin was accordingly left in the Union.

“This is jolly!” Agnes exclaimed as she strode along the somewhat

depressing road that leads out of Cambridge past the observatory. “Do I

go too fast?”

“No, thank you. I get stronger every year. If it wasn’t for the look of

the thing, I should be quite happy.”

“But you don’t care for the look of the thing. It’s only ignorant

people who do that, surely.”

“Perhaps. I care. I like people who are well-made and beautiful. They

are of some use in the world. I understand why they are there. I cannot

understand why the ugly and crippled are there, however healthy they

may feel inside. Don’t you know how Turner spoils his pictures by

introducing a man like a bolster in the foreground? Well, in actual

life every landscape is spoilt by men of worse shapes still.”

“You sound like a bolster with the stuffing out.” They laughed. She

always blew his cobwebs away like this, with a puff of humorous

mountain air. Just now—the associations he attached to her were

various—she reminded him of a heroine of Meredith’s—but a heroine at

the end of the book. All had been written about her. She had played

her mighty part, and knew that it was over. He and he alone was not

content, and wrote for her daily a trivial and impossible sequel.

Last time they had talked about Gerald. But that was some six months

ago, when things felt easier. Today Gerald was the faintest blur.

Fortunately the conversation turned to Mr. Pembroke and to education.

Did women lose a lot by not knowing Greek? “A heap,” said Rickie,

roughly. But modern languages? Thus they got to Germany, which he had

visited last Easter with Ansell; and thence to the German Emperor, and

what a to-do he made; and from him to our own king (still Prince of

Wales), who had lived while an undergraduate at Madingley Hall. Here it

was. And all the time he thought, “It is hard on her. She has no right

to be walking with me. She would be ill with disgust if she knew. It is

hard on her to be loved.”

They looked at the Hall, and went inside the pretty little church. Some

Arundel prints hung upon the pillars, and Agnes expressed the opinion

that pictures inside a place of worship were a pity. Rickie did not

agree with this. He said again that nothing beautiful was ever to be

regretted.

“You’re cracked on beauty,” she whispered—they were still inside the

church. “Do hurry up and write something.”

“Something beautiful?”

“I believe you can. I’m going to lecture you seriously all the way

home. Take care that you don’t waste your life.”

They continued the conversation outside. “But I’ve got to hate my own

writing. I believe that most people come to that stage—not so early

though. What I write is too silly. It can’t happen. For instance, a

stupid vulgar man is engaged to a lovely young lady. He wants her to

live in the towns, but she only cares for woods. She shocks him this

way and that, but gradually he tames her, and makes her nearly as dull

as he is. One day she has a last explosion—over the snobby wedding

presents—and flies out of the drawing-room window, shouting, ‘Freedom

and truth!’ Near the house is a little dell full of fir-trees, and she

runs into it. He comes there the next moment. But she’s gone.”

“Awfully exciting. Where?”

“Oh Lord, she’s a Dryad!” cried Rickie, in great disgust. “She’s turned

into a tree.”

“Rickie, it’s very good indeed. The kind of thing has something in it.

Of course you get it all through Greek and Latin. How upset the man

must be when he sees the girl turn.”

“He doesn’t see her. He never guesses. Such a man could never see a

Dryad.”

“So you describe how she turns just before he comes up?”

“No. Indeed I don’t ever say that she does turn. I don’t use the word

‘Dryad’ once.”

“I think you ought to put that part plainly. Otherwise, with such an

original story, people might miss the point. Have you had any luck with

it?”

“Magazines? I haven’t tried. I know what the stuff’s worth. You see, a

year or two ago I had a great idea of getting into touch with Nature,

just as the Greeks were in touch; and seeing England so beautiful,

I used to pretend that her trees and coppices and summer fields of

parsley were alive. It’s funny enough now, but it wasn’t funny then,

for I got in such a state that I believed, actually believed, that

Fauns lived in a certain double hedgerow near the Gog Magogs, and one

evening I walked a mile sooner than go through it alone.”

“Good gracious!” She laid her hand on his shoulder.

He moved to the other side of the road. “It’s all right now. I’ve

changed those follies for others. But while I had them I began to

write, and even now I keep on writing, though I know better. I’ve got

quite a pile of little stories, all harping on this ridiculous idea of

getting into touch with Nature.”

“I wish you weren’t so modest. It’s simply splendid as an idea.

Though—but tell me about the Dryad who was engaged to be married. What

was she like?”

“I can show you the dell in which the young person disappeared. We pass

it on the right in a moment.”

“It does seem a pity that you don’t make something of your talents. It

seems such a waste to write little stories and never publish them. You

must have enough for a book. Life is so full in our days that short

stories are the very thing; they get read by people who’d never tackle

a novel. For example, at our Dorcas we tried to read out a long affair

by Henry James—Herbert saw it recommended in ‘The Times.’ There was no

doubt it was very good, but one simply couldn’t remember from one week

to another what had happened. So now our aim is to get something that

just lasts the hour. I take you seriously, Rickie, and that is why I am

so offensive. You are too modest. People who think they can do nothing

so often do nothing. I want you to plunge.”

It thrilled him like a trumpet-blast. She took him seriously. Could he

but thank her for her divine affability! But the words would stick in

his throat, or worse still would bring other words along with them. His

breath came quickly, for he seldom spoke of his writing, and no one,

not even Ansell, had advised him to plunge.

“But do you really think that I could take up literature?”

“Why not? You can try. Even if you fail, you can try. Of course

we think you tremendously clever; and I met one of your dons at

tea, and he said that your degree was not in the least a proof of

your abilities: he said that you knocked up and got flurried in

examinations. Oh!”—her cheek flushed,—“I wish I was a man. The whole

world lies before them. They can do anything. They aren’t cooped up

with servants and tea parties and twaddle. But where’s this dell where

the Dryad disappeared?”

“We’ve passed it.” He had meant to pass it. It was too beautiful. All

he had read, all he had hoped for, all he had loved, seemed to quiver

in its enchanted air. It was perilous. He dared not enter it with such

a woman.

“How long ago?” She turned back. “I don’t want to miss the dell. Here

it must be,” she added after a few moments, and sprang up the green

bank that hid the entrance from the road. “Oh, what a jolly place!”

“Go right in if you want to see it,” said Rickie, and did not offer

to go with her. She stood for a moment looking at the view, for a few

steps will increase a view in Cambridgeshire. The wind blew her dress

against her. Then, like a cataract again, she vanished pure and cool

into the dell.

The young man thought of her feelings no longer. His heart throbbed

louder and louder, and seemed to shake him to pieces. “Rickie!”

She was calling from the dell. For an answer he sat down where he was,

on the dust-bespattered margin. She could call as loud as she liked.

The devil had done much, but he should not take him to her.

“Rickie!”—and it came with the tones of an angel. He drove his fingers

into his ears, and invoked the name of Gerald. But there was no sign,

neither angry motion in the air nor hint of January mist. June—fields

of June, sky of June, songs of June. Grass of June beneath him, grass

of June over the tragedy he had deemed immortal. A bird called out of

the dell: “Rickie!”

A bird flew into the dell.

• • • • •

“Did you take me for the Dryad?” she asked. She was sitting down with

his head on her lap. He had laid it there for a moment before he went

out to die, and she had not let him take it away.

“I prayed you might not be a woman,” he whispered.

“Darling, I am very much a woman. I do not vanish into groves and

trees. I thought you would never come.”

“Did you expect—?”

“I hoped. I called hoping.”

Inside the dell it was neither June nor January. The chalk walls barred

out the seasons, and the fir-trees did not seem to feel their passage.

Only from time to time the odours of summer slipped in from the wood

above, to comment on the waxing year. She bent down to touch him with

her lips.

He started, and cried passionately, “Never forget that your greatest

thing is over. I have forgotten: I am too weak. You shall never forget.

What I said to you then is greater than what I say to you now. What he

gave you then is greater than anything you will get from me.”

She was frightened. Again she had the sense of something abnormal. Then

she said, “What is all this nonsense?” and folded him in her arms.

VIII

Ansell stood looking at his breakfast-table, which was laid for four

instead of two. His bedmaker, equally peevish, explained how it had

happened. Last night, at one in the morning, the porter had been awoke

with a note for the kitchens, and in that note Mr. Elliot said that all

these things were to be sent to Mr. Ansell’s.

“The fools have sent the original order as well. Here’s the lemon-sole

for two. I can’t move for food.”

“The note being ambiguous, the Kitchens judged best to send it all.”

She spoke of the kitchens in a half-respectful, half-pitying way, much

as one speaks of Parliament.

“Who’s to pay for it?” He peeped into the new dishes. Kidneys entombed

in an omelette, hot roast chicken in watery gravy, a glazed but pallid

pie.

“And who’s to wash it up?” said the bedmaker to her help outside.

Ansell had disputed late last night concerning Schopenhauer, and was a

little cross and tired. He bounced over to Tilliard, who kept opposite.

Tilliard was eating gooseberry jam.

“Did Elliot ask you to breakfast with me?”

“No,” said Tilliard mildly.

“Well, you’d better come, and bring every one you know.”

So Tilliard came, bearing himself a little formally, for he was not

very intimate with his neighbour. Out of the window they called to

Widdrington. But he laid his hand on his stomach, thus indicating it

was too late.

“Who’s to pay for it?” repeated Ansell, as a man appeared from the

Buttery carrying coffee on a bright tin tray.

“College coffee! How nice!” remarked Tilliard, who was cutting the pie.

“But before term ends you must come and try my new machine. My sister

gave it me. There is a bulb at the top, and as the water boils—”

“He might have counter-ordered the lemon-sole. That’s Rickie all over.

Violently economical, and then loses his head, and all the things go

bad.”

“Give them to the bedder while they’re hot.” This was done. She

accepted them dispassionately, with the air of one who lives without

nourishment. Tilliard continued to describe his sister’s coffee machine.

“What’s that?” They could hear panting and rustling on the stairs.

“It sounds like a lady,” said Tilliard fearfully. He slipped the piece

of pie back. It fell into position like a brick.

“Is it here? Am I right? Is it here?” The door opened and in came Mrs.

Lewin. “Oh horrors! I’ve made a mistake.”

“That’s all right,” said Ansell awkwardly.

“I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they?”

“We expect Mr. Elliot every moment,” said Tilliard.

“Don’t tell me I’m right,” cried Mrs. Lewin, “and that you’re the

terrifying Mr. Ansell.” And, with obvious relief, she wrung Tilliard

warmly by the hand.

“I’m Ansell,” said Ansell, looking very uncouth and grim.

“How stupid of me not to know it,” she gasped, and would have gone on

to I know not what, but the door opened again. It was Rickie.

“Here’s Miss Pembroke,” he said. “I am going to marry her.”

There was a profound silence.

“We oughtn’t to have done things like this,” said Agnes, turning to

Mrs. Lewin. “We have no right to take Mr. Ansell by surprise. It is

Rickie’s fault. He was that obstinate. He would bring us. He ought to

be horsewhipped.”

“He ought, indeed,” said Tilliard pleasantly, and bolted. Not till he

gained his room did he realize that he had been less apt than usual. As

for Ansell, the first thing he said was, “Why didn’t you counter-order

the lemon-sole?”

In such a situation Mrs. Lewin was of priceless value. She led the way

to the table, observing, “I quite agree with Miss Pembroke. I loathe

surprises. Never shall I forget my horror when the knife-boy painted

the dove’s cage with the dove inside. He did it as a surprise. Poor

Parsival nearly died. His feathers were bright green!”

“Well, give me the lemon-soles,” said Rickie. “I like them.”

“The bedder’s got them.”

“Well, there you are! What’s there to be annoyed about?”

“And while the cage was drying we put him among the bantams. They had

been the greatest allies. But I suppose they took him for a parrot or

a hawk, or something that bantams hate; for while his cage was drying

they picked out his feathers, and _picked_ out his feathers, and

_Picked_ out his feathers, till he was perfectly bald. ‘Hugo, look,’

said I. ‘This is the end of Parsival. Let me have no more surprises.’

He burst into tears.”

Thus did Mrs. Lewin create an atmosphere. At first it seemed unreal,

but gradually they got used to it, and breathed scarcely anything

else throughout the meal. In such an atmosphere everything seemed of

small and equal value, and the engagement of Rickie and Agnes like

the feathers of Parsival, fluttered lightly to the ground. Ansell was

generally silent. He was no match for these two quite clever women.

Only once was there a hitch.

They had been talking gaily enough about the betrothal when Ansell

suddenly interrupted with, “When is the marriage?”

“Mr. Ansell,” said Agnes, blushing, “I wish you hadn’t asked that. That

part’s dreadful. Not for years, as far as we can see.”

But Rickie had not seen as far. He had not talked to her of this at

all. Last night they had spoken only of love. He exclaimed, “Oh,

Agnes—don’t!” Mrs. Lewin laughed roguishly.

“Why this delay?” asked Ansell.

Agnes looked at Rickie, who replied, “I must get money, worse luck.”

“I thought you’d got money.”

He hesitated, and then said, “I must get my foot on the ladder, then.”

Ansell began with, “On which ladder?” but Mrs. Lewin, using the

privilege of her sex, exclaimed, “Not another word. If there’s a thing

I abominate, it is plans. My head goes whirling at once.” What she

really abominated was questions, and she saw that Ansell was turning

serious. To appease him, she put on her clever manner and asked him

about Germany. How had it impressed him? Were we so totally unfitted to

repel invasion? Was not German scholarship overestimated? He replied

discourteously, but he did reply; and if she could have stopped him

thinking, her triumph would have been complete.

When they rose to go, Agnes held Ansell’s hand for a moment in her own.

“Good-bye,” she said. “It was very unconventional of us to come as we

did, but I don’t think any of us are conventional people.”

He only replied, “Good-bye.” The ladies started off. Rickie lingered

behind to whisper, “I would have it so. I would have you begin square

together. I can’t talk yet—I’ve loved her for years—I can’t think what

she’s done it for. I’m going to write short stories. I shall start this

afternoon. She declares there may be something in me.”

As soon as he had left, Tilliard burst in, white with agitation, and

crying, “Did you see my awful _faux pas_—about the horsewhip? What

shall I do? I must call on Elliot. Or had I better write?”

“Miss Pembroke will not mind,” said Ansell gravely. “She is

unconventional.” He knelt in an arm-chair and hid his face in the back.

“It was like a bomb,” said Tilliard.

“It was meant to be.”

“I do feel a fool. What must she think?”

“Never mind, Tilliard. You’ve not been as big a fool as myself. At all

events, you told her he must be horsewhipped.”

Tilliard hummed a little tune. He hated anything nasty, and there was

nastiness in Ansell. “What did you tell her?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“What do you think of it?”

“I think: Damn those women.”

“Ah, yes. One hates one’s friends to get engaged. It makes one feel so

old: I think that is one of the reasons. The brother just above me has

lately married, and my sister was quite sick about it, though the thing

was suitable in every way.”

“Damn _these_ women, then,” said Ansell, bouncing round in the chair.

“Damn these particular women.”

“They looked and spoke like ladies.”

“Exactly. Their diplomacy was ladylike. Their lies were ladylike.

They’ve caught Elliot in a most ladylike way. I saw it all during the

one moment we were natural. Generally we were clattering after the

married one, whom—like a fool—I took for a fool. But for one moment

we were natural, and during that moment Miss Pembroke told a lie, and

made Rickie believe it was the truth.”

“What did she say?”

“She said ‘we see’ instead of ‘I see.’”

Tilliard burst into laughter. This jaundiced young philosopher, with

his kinky view of life, was too much for him.

“She said ‘we see,’” repeated Ansell, “instead of ‘I see,’ and she made

him believe that it was the truth. She caught him and makes him believe

that he caught her. She came to see me and makes him think that it is

his idea. That is what I mean when I say that she is a lady.”

“You are too subtle for me. My dull eyes could only see two happy

people.”

“I never said they weren’t happy.”

“Then, my dear Ansell, why are you so cut up? It’s beastly when a

friend marries,—and I grant he’s rather young,—but I should say it’s

the best thing for him. A decent woman—and you have proved not one

thing against her—a decent woman will keep him up to the mark and stop

him getting slack. She’ll make him responsible and manly, for much as I

like Rickie, I always find him a little effeminate. And, really,”—his

voice grew sharper, for he was irritated by Ansell’s conceit, “and,

really, you talk as if you were mixed up in the affair. They pay a

civil visit to your rooms, and you see nothing but dark plots and

challenges to war.”

“War!” cried Ansell, crashing his fists together. “It’s war, then!”

“Oh, what a lot of tommy-rot,” said Tilliard. “Can’t a man and woman

get engaged? My dear boy—excuse me talking like this—what on earth is

it to do with us? We’re his friends, and I hope we always shall be, but

we shan’t keep his friendship by fighting. We’re bound to fall into

the background. Wife first, friends some way after. You may resent the

order, but it is ordained by nature.”

“The point is, not what’s ordained by nature or any other fool, but

what’s right.”

“You are hopelessly unpractical,” said Tilliard, turning away. “And let

me remind you that you’ve already given away your case by acknowledging

that they’re happy.”

“She is happy because she has conquered; he is happy because he has

at last hung all the world’s beauty on to a single peg. He was always

trying to do it. He used to call the peg humanity. Will either of

these happinesses last? His can’t. Hers only for a time. I fight this

woman not only because she fights me, but because I foresee the most

appalling catastrophe. She wants Rickie, partly to replace another man

whom she lost two years ago, partly to make something out of him. He

is to write. In time she will get sick of this. He won’t get famous.

She will only see how thin he is and how lame. She will long for a

jollier husband, and I don’t blame her. And, having made him thoroughly

miserable and degraded, she will bolt—if she can do it like a lady.”

Such were the opinions of Stewart Ansell.

IX

Seven letters written in June:—

Cambridge.

Dear Rickie,

I would rather write, and you can guess what kind of letter this is

when I say it is a fair copy: I have been making rough drafts all

the morning. When I talk I get angry, and also at times try to be

clever—two reasons why I fail to get attention paid to me. This is a

letter of the prudent sort. If it makes you break off the engagement,

its work is done. You are not a person who ought to marry at all. You

are unfitted in body: that we once discussed. You are also unfitted

in soul: you want and you need to like many people, and a man of that

sort ought not to marry. “You never were attached to that great sect”

who can like one person only, and if you try to enter it you will

find destruction. I have read in books and I cannot afford to despise

books, they are all that I have to go by—that men and women desire

different things. Man wants to love mankind; woman wants to love one

man. When she has him her work is over. She is the emissary of Nature,

and Nature’s bidding has been fulfilled. But man does not care a damn

for Nature—or at least only a very little damn. He cares for a hundred

things besides, and the more civilized he is the more he will care for

these other hundred things, and demand not only a wife and children,

but also friends, and work, and spiritual freedom.

I believe you to be extraordinarily civilized.—Yours ever,

S.A.

Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road, Sawston.

Dear Ansell,

But I’m in love—a detail you’ve forgotten. I can’t listen to English

Essays. The wretched Agnes may be an “emissary of Nature,” but I only

grinned when I read it. I may be extraordinarily civilized, but I

don’t feel so; I’m in love, and I’ve found a woman to love me, and I

mean to have the hundred other things as well. She wants me to have

them—friends and work, and spiritual freedom, and everything. You

and your books miss this, because your books are too sedate. Read

poetry—not only Shelley. Understand Beatrice, and Clara Middleton, and

Brunhilde in the first scene of Gotterdammerung. Understand Goethe when

he says “the eternal feminine leads us on,” and don’t write another

English Essay.—Yours ever affectionately,

R.E.

Cambridge.

Dear Rickie,

What am I to say? “Understand Xanthippe, and Mrs. Bennet, and Elsa in

the question scene of Lohengrin”? “Understand Euripides when he says

the eternal feminine leads us a pretty dance”? I shall say nothing of

the sort. The allusions in this English Essay shall not be literary. My

personal objections to Miss Pembroke are as follows:—(1) She is not

serious. (2) She is not truthful.

Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road,

Sawston.

My Dear Stewart,

You couldn’t know. I didn’t know for a moment. But this letter of yours

is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me yet—more

wonderful (I don’t exaggerate) than the moment when Agnes promised to

marry me. I always knew you liked me, but I never knew how much until

this letter. Up to now I think we have been too much like the strong

heroes in books who feel so much and say so little, and feel all the

more for saying so little. Now that’s over and we shall never be that

kind of an ass again. We’ve hit—by accident—upon something permanent.

You’ve written to me, “I hate the woman who will be your wife,” and

I write back, “Hate her. Can’t I love you both?” She will never come

between us, Stewart (She wouldn’t wish to, but that’s by the way),

because our friendship has now passed beyond intervention. No third

person could break it. We couldn’t ourselves, I fancy. We may quarrel

and argue till one of us dies, but the thing is registered. I only

wish, dear man, you could be happier. For me, it’s as if a light was

suddenly held behind the world.

R.E.

Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road,

Sawston.

Dear Mrs. Lewin,

The time goes flying, but I am getting to learn my wonderful boy. We

speak a great deal about his work. He has just finished a curious thing

called “Nemi”—about a Roman ship that is actually sunk in some lake. I

cannot think how he describes the things, when he has never seen them.

If, as I hope, he goes to Italy next year, he should turn out something

really good. Meanwhile we are hunting for a publisher. Herbert believes

that a collection of short stories is hard to get published. It is,

after all, better to write one long one.

But you must not think we only talk books. What we say on other topics

cannot so easily be repeated! Oh, Mrs Lewin, he is a dear, and dearer

than ever now that we have him at Sawston. Herbert, in a quiet way, has

been making inquiries about those Cambridge friends of his. Nothing

against them, but they seem to be terribly eccentric. None of them

are good at games, and they spend all their spare time thinking and

discussing. They discuss what one knows and what one never will know

and what one had much better not know. Herbert says it is because they

have not got enough to do.—Ever your grateful and affectionate friend,

Agnes Pembroke

Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road,

Sawston.

Dear Mr. Silt,

Thank you for the congratulations, which I have handed over to the

delighted Rickie.

(The congratulations were really addressed to Agnes—a social blunder

which Mr. Pembroke deftly corrects.)

I am sorry that the rumor reached you that I was not pleased. Anything

pleases me that promises my sister’s happiness, and I have known your

cousin nearly as long as you have. It will be a very long engagement,

for he must make his way first. The dear boy is not nearly as wealthy

as he supposed; having no tastes, and hardly any expenses, he used to

talk as if he were a millionaire. He must at least double his income

before he can dream of more intimate ties. This has been a bitter pill,

but I am glad to say that they have accepted it bravely.

Hoping that you and Mrs. Silt will profit by your week at Margate.—I

remain, yours very sincerely,

Herbert Pembroke

Cadover, Wilts.

Dear Miss Pembroke—Agnes,

I hear that you are going to marry my nephew. I have no idea what he is

like, and wonder whether you would bring him that I may find out. Isn’t

September rather a nice month? You might have to go to Stone Henge,

but with that exception would be left unmolested. I do hope you will

manage the visit. We met once at Mrs. Lewin’s, and I have a very clear

recollection of you.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

Emily Failing

X

The rain tilted a little from the south-west. For the most part it fell

from a grey cloud silently, but now and then the tilt increased, and

a kind of sigh passed over the country as the drops lashed the walls,

trees, shepherds, and other motionless objects that stood in their

slanting career. At times the cloud would descend and visibly embrace

the earth, to which it had only sent messages; and the earth itself

would bring forth clouds—clouds of a whiter breed—which formed in

shallow valleys and followed the courses of the streams. It seemed the

beginning of life. Again God said, “Shall we divide the waters from the

land or not? Was not the firmament labour and glory sufficient?” At all

events it was the beginning of life pastoral, behind which imagination

cannot travel.

Yet complicated people were getting wet—not only the shepherds. For

instance, the piano-tuner was sopping. So was the vicar’s wife. So

were the lieutenant and the peevish damsels in his Battleston car.

Gallantry, charity, and art pursued their various missions, perspiring

and muddy, while out on the slopes beyond them stood the eternal

man and the eternal dog, guarding eternal sheep until the world is

vegetarian.

Inside an arbour—which faced east, and thus avoided the bad

weather—there sat a complicated person who was dry. She looked at the

drenched world with a pleased expression, and would smile when a cloud

would lay down on the village, or when the rain sighed louder than

usual against her solid shelter. Ink, paperclips, and foolscap paper

were on the table before her, and she could also reach an umbrella, a

waterproof, a walking-stick, and an electric bell. Her age was between

elderly and old, and her forehead was wrinkled with an expression of

slight but perpetual pain. But the lines round her mouth indicated that

she had laughed a great deal during her life, just as the clean tight

skin round her eyes perhaps indicated that she had not often cried. She

was dressed in brown silk. A brown silk shawl lay most becomingly over

her beautiful hair.

After long thought she wrote on the paper in front of her, “The subject

of this memoir first saw the light at Wolverhampton on May the 14th,

1842.” She laid down her pen and said “Ugh!” A robin hopped in and she

welcomed him. A sparrow followed and she stamped her foot. She watched

some thick white water which was sliding like a snake down the gutter

of the gravel path. It had just appeared. It must have escaped from a

hollow in the chalk up behind. The earth could absorb no longer. The

lady did not think of all this, for she hated questions of whence and

wherefore, and the ways of the earth (“our dull stepmother”) bored her

unspeakably. But the water, just the snake of water, was amusing, and

she flung her golosh at it to dam it up. Then she wrote feverishly,

“The subject of this memoir first saw the light in the middle of the

night. It was twenty to eleven. His pa was a parson, but he was not his

pa’s son, and never went to heaven.” There was the sound of a train,

and presently white smoke appeared, rising laboriously through the

heavy air. It distracted her, and for about a quarter of an hour she

sat perfectly still, doing nothing. At last she pushed the spoilt paper

aside, took a fresh piece, and was beginning to write, “On May the 14th,

1842,” when there was a crunch on the gravel, and a furious voice said,

“I am sorry for Flea Thompson.”

“I daresay I am sorry for him too,” said the lady; her voice was

languid and pleasant. “Who is he?”

“Flea’s a liar, and the next time we meet he’ll be a football.” Off

slipped a sodden ulster. He hung it up angrily upon a peg: the arbour

provided several.

“But who is he, and why has he that disastrous name?”

“Flea? Fleance. All the Thompsons are named out of Shakespeare. He

grazes the Rings.”

“Ah, I see. A pet lamb.”

“Lamb! Shepherd!”

“One of my Shepherds?”

“The last time I go with his sheep. But not the last time he sees me. I

am sorry for him. He dodged me today.”

“Do you mean to say”—she became animated—“that you have been out in

the wet keeping the sheep of Flea Thompson?”

“I had to.” He blew on his fingers and took off his cap. Water trickled

over his unshaven cheeks. His hair was so wet that it seemed worked

upon his scalp in bronze.

“Get away, bad dog!” screamed the lady, for he had given himself a

shake and spattered her dress with water. He was a powerful boy of

twenty, admirably muscular, but rather too broad for his height. People

called him “Podge” until they were dissuaded. Then they called him

“Stephen” or “Mr. Wonham.” Then he said, “You can call me Podge if you

like.”

“As for Flea—!” he began tempestuously. He sat down by her, and

with much heavy breathing told the story,—“Flea has a girl at

Wintersbridge, and I had to go with his sheep while he went to see her.

Two hours. We agreed. Half an hour to go, an hour to kiss his girl, and

half an hour back—and he had my bike. Four hours! Four hours and seven

minutes I was on the Rings, with a fool of a dog, and sheep doing all

they knew to get the turnips.”

“My farm is a mystery to me,” said the lady, stroking her fingers.

“Some day you must really take me to see it. It must be like a Gilbert

and Sullivan opera, with a chorus of agitated employers. How is it that

I have escaped? Why have I never been summoned to milk the cows, or

flay the pigs, or drive the young bullocks to the pasture?”

He looked at her with astonishingly blue eyes—the only dry things he

had about him. He could not see into her: she would have puzzled an

older and clever man. He may have seen round her.

“A thing of beauty you are not. But I sometimes think you are a joy for

ever.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you understand right enough,” she exclaimed irritably, and then

smiled, for he was conceited, and did not like being told that he was

not a thing of beauty. “Large and steady feet,” she continued, “have

this disadvantage—you can knock down a man, but you will never knock

down a woman.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I’m not likely—”

“Oh, never mind—never, never mind. I was being funny. I repent. Tell

me about the sheep. Why did you go with them?”

“I did tell you. I had to.”

“But why?”

“He had to see his girl.”

“But why?”

His eyes shot past her again. It was so obvious that the man had to see

his girl. For two hours though—not for four hours seven minutes.

“Did you have any lunch?”

“I don’t hold with regular meals.”

“Did you have a book?”

“I don’t hold with books in the open. None of the older men read.”

“Did you commune with yourself, or don’t you hold with that?”

“Oh Lord, don’t ask me!”

“You distress me. You rob the Pastoral of its lingering romance. Is

there no poetry and no thought in England? Is there no one, in all

these downs, who warbles with eager thought the Doric lay?”

“Chaps sing to themselves at times, if you mean that.”

“I dream of Arcady. I open my eyes. Wiltshire. Of Amaryllis: Flea

Thompson’s girl. Of the pensive shepherd, twitching his mantle blue:

you in an ulster. Aren’t you sorry for me?”

“May I put in a pipe?”

“By all means put a pipe in. In return, tell me of what you were

thinking for the four hours and the seven minutes.”

He laughed shyly. “You do ask a man such questions.”

“Did you simply waste the time?”

“I suppose so.”

“I thought that Colonel Robert Ingersoll says you must be strenuous.”

At the sound of this name he whisked open a little cupboard, and

declaring, “I haven’t a moment to spare,” took out of it a pile of

“Clarion” and other reprints, adorned as to their covers with bald or

bearded apostles of humanity. Selecting a bald one, he began at once

to read, occasionally exclaiming, “That’s got them,” “That’s knocked

Genesis,” with similar ejaculations of an aspiring mind. She glanced

at the pile. Reran, minus the style. Darwin, minus the modesty. A

comic edition of the book of Job, by “Excelsior,” Pittsburgh, Pa. “The

Beginning of Life,” with diagrams. “Angel or Ape?” by Mrs. Julia P.

Chunk. She was amused, and wondered idly what was passing within his

narrow but not uninteresting brain. Did he suppose that he was going to

“find out”? She had tried once herself, but had since subsided into a

sprightly orthodoxy. Why didn’t he read poetry, instead of wasting his

time between books like these and country like that?

The cloud parted, and the increase of light made her look up. Over

the valley she saw a grave sullen down, and on its flanks a little

brown smudge—her sheep, together with her shepherd, Fleance Thompson,

returned to his duties at last. A trickle of water came through the

arbour roof. She shrieked in dismay.

“That’s all right,” said her companion, moving her chair, but still

keeping his place in his book.

She dried up the spot on the manuscript. Then she wrote: “Anthony

Eustace Failing, the subject of this memoir, was born at

Wolverhampton.” But she wrote no more. She was fidgety. Another drop

fell from the roof. Likewise an earwig. She wished she had not been

so playful in flinging her golosh into the path. The boy who was

overthrowing religion breathed somewhat heavily as he did so. Another

earwig. She touched the electric bell.

“I’m going in,” she observed. “It’s far too wet.” Again the cloud

parted and caused her to add, “Weren’t you rather kind to Flea?” But

he was deep in the book. He read like a poor person, with lips apart

and a finger that followed the print. At times he scratched his ear, or

ran his tongue along a straggling blonde moustache. His face had after

all a certain beauty: at all events the colouring was regal—a steady

crimson from throat to forehead: the sun and the winds had worked on

him daily ever since he was born. “The face of a strong man,” thought

the lady. “Let him thank his stars he isn’t a silent strong man, or I’d

turn him into the gutter.” Suddenly it struck her that he was like an

Irish terrier. He worried infinity as if it was a bone. Gnashing his

teeth, he tried to carry the eternal subtleties by violence. As a man

he often bored her, for he was always saying and doing the same things.

But as a philosopher he really was a joy for ever, an inexhaustible

buffoon. Taking up her pen, she began to caricature him. She drew a

rabbit-warren where rabbits were at play in four dimensions. Before

she had introduced the principal figure, she was interrupted by the

footman. He had come up from the house to answer the bell. On seeing

her he uttered a respectful cry.

“Madam! Are you here? I am very sorry. I looked for you everywhere. Mr.

Elliot and Miss Pembroke arrived nearly an hour ago.”

“Oh dear, oh dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Failing. “Take these papers. Where’s

the umbrella? Mr. Stephen will hold it over me. You hurry back and

apologize. Are they happy?”

“Miss Pembroke inquired after you, madam.”

“Have they had tea?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Leighton!”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe you knew she was here all the time. You didn’t want to wet

your pretty skin.”

“You must not call me ‘she’ to the servants,” said Mrs. Failing as they

walked away, she limping with a stick, he holding a great umbrella over

her. “I will not have it.” Then more pleasantly, “And don’t tell him he

lies. We all lie. I knew quite well they were coming by the four-six

train. I saw it pass.”

“That reminds me. Another child run over at the Roman crossing.

Whish—bang—dead.”

“Oh my foot! Oh my foot, my foot!” said Mrs. Failing, and paused to

take breath.

“Bad?” he asked callously.

Leighton, with bowed head, passed them with the manuscript and

disappeared among the laurels. The twinge of pain, which had been

slight, passed away, and they proceeded, descending a green airless

corridor which opened into the gravel drive.

“Isn’t it odd,” said Mrs. Failing, “that the Greeks should be

enthusiastic about laurels—that Apollo should pursue any one who could

possibly turn into such a frightful plant? What do you make of Rickie?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Shall I lend you his story to read?”

He made no reply.

“Don’t you think, Stephen, that a person in your precarious position

ought to be civil to my relatives?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Failing. I meant to be civil. I only hadn’t—anything to

say.”

She laughed. “Are you a dear boy? I sometimes wonder; or are you a

brute?”

Again he had nothing to say. Then she laughed more mischievously, and

said—

“How can you be either, when you are a philosopher? Would you mind

telling me—I am so anxious to learn—what happens to people when they

die?”

“Don’t ask _me_.” He knew by bitter experience that she was making fun

of him.

“Oh, but I do ask you. Those paper books of yours are so up-to-date.

For instance, what has happened to the child you say was killed on the

line?”

The rain increased. The drops pattered hard on the leaves, and outside

the corridor men and women were struggling, however stupidly, with the

facts of life. Inside it they wrangled. She teased the boy, and laughed

at his theories, and proved that no man can be an agnostic who has a

sense of humour. Suddenly she stopped, not through any skill of his,

but because she had remembered some words of Bacon: “The true atheist

is he whose hands are cauterized by holy things.” She thought of her

distant youth. The world was not so humorous then, but it had been more

important. For a moment she respected her companion, and determined to

vex him no more.

They left the shelter of the laurels, crossed the broad drive, and were

inside the house at last. She had got quite wet, for the weather would

not let her play the simple life with impunity. As for him, he seemed a

piece of the wet.

“Look here,” she cried, as he hurried up to his attic, “don’t shave!”

He was delighted with the permission.

“I have an idea that Miss Pembroke is of the type that pretends to be

unconventional and really isn’t. I want to see how she takes it. Don’t

shave.”

In the drawing-room she could hear the guests conversing in the subdued

tones of those who have not been welcomed. Having changed her dress and

glanced at the poems of Milton, she went to them, with uplifted hands

of apology and horror.

“But I must have tea,” she announced, when they had assured her that

they understood. “Otherwise I shall start by being cross. Agnes, stop

me. Give me tea.”

Agnes, looking pleased, moved to the table and served her hostess.

Rickie followed with a pagoda of sandwiches and little cakes.

“I feel twenty-seven years younger. Rickie, you are so like your

father. I feel it is twenty-seven years ago, and that he is bringing

your mother to see me for the first time. It is curious—almost

terrible—to see history repeating itself.”

The remark was not tactful.

“I remember that visit well,” she continued thoughtfully, “I suppose

it was a wonderful visit, though we none of us knew it at the time. We

all fell in love with your mother. I wish she would have fallen in love

with us. She couldn’t bear me, could she?”

“I never heard her say so, Aunt Emily.”

“No; she wouldn’t. I am sure your father said so, though. My dear boy,

don’t look so shocked. Your father and I hated each other. He said so,

I said so, I say so; say so too. Then we shall start fair.—Just a

cocoanut cake.—Agnes, don’t you agree that it’s always best to speak

out?”

“Oh, rather, Mrs. Failing. But I’m shockingly straightforward.”

“So am I,” said the lady. “I like to get down to the bedrock.—Hullo!

Slippers? Slippers in the drawingroom?”

A young man had come in silently. Agnes observed with a feeling of

regret that he had not shaved. Rickie, after a moment’s hesitation,

remembered who it was, and shook hands with him. “You’ve grown since I

saw you last.”

He showed his teeth amiably.

“How long was that?” asked Mrs. Failing.

“Three years, wasn’t it? Came over from the Ansells—friends.”

“How disgraceful, Rickie! Why don’t you come and see me oftener?”

He could not retort that she never asked him.

“Agnes will make you come. Oh, let me introduce—Mr. Wonham—Miss

Pembroke.”

“I am deputy hostess,” said Agnes. “May I give you some tea?”

“Thank you, but I have had a little beer.”

“It is one of the shepherds,” said Mrs. Failing, in low tones.

Agnes smiled rather wildly. Mrs. Lewin had warned her that Cadover

was an extraordinary place, and that one must never be astonished at

anything. A shepherd in the drawing-room! No harm. Still one ought

to know whether it was a shepherd or not. At all events he was in

gentleman’s clothing. She was anxious not to start with a blunder, and

therefore did not talk to the young fellow, but tried to gather what he

was from the demeanour of Rickie.

“I am sure, Mrs. Failing, that you need not talk of ‘making’ people

come to Cadover. There will be no difficulty, I should say.”

“Thank you, my dear. Do you know who once said those exact words to me?”

“Who?”

“Rickie’s mother.”

“Did she really?”

“My sister-in-law was a dear. You will have heard Rickie’s praises, but

now you must hear mine. I never knew a woman who was so unselfish and

yet had such capacities for life.”

“Does one generally exclude the other?” asked Rickie.

“Unselfish people, as a rule, are deathly dull. They have no colour.

They think of other people because it is easier. They give money

because they are too stupid or too idle to spend it properly on

themselves. That was the beauty of your mother—she gave away, but she

also spent on herself, or tried to.”

The light faded out of the drawing-room, in spite of it being September

and only half-past six. From her low chair Agnes could see the trees by

the drive, black against a blackening sky. That drive was half a mile

long, and she was praising its gravelled surface when Rickie called in

a voice of alarm, “I say, when did our train arrive?”

“Four-six.”

“I said so.”

“It arrived at four-six on the time-table,” said Mr. Wonham. “I want to

know when it got to the station?”

“I tell you again it was punctual. I tell you I looked at my watch. I

can do no more.”

Agnes was amazed. Was Rickie mad? A minute ago and they were boring

each other over dogs. What had happened?

“Now, now! Quarrelling already?” asked Mrs. Failing.

The footman, bringing a lamp, lit up two angry faces.

“He says—”

“He says—”

“He says we ran over a child.”

“So you did. You ran over a child in the village at four-seven by my

watch. Your train was late. You couldn’t have got to the station till

four-ten.”

“I don’t believe it. We had passed the village by four-seven. Agnes,

hadn’t we passed the village? It must have been an express that ran

over the child.”

“Now is it likely”—he appealed to the practical world—“is it likely

that the company would run a stopping train and then an express three

minutes after it?”

“A child—” said Rickie. “I can’t believe that the train killed a

child.” He thought of their journey. They were alone in the carriage.

As the train slackened speed he had caught her for a moment in his

arms. The rain beat on the windows, but they were in heaven.

“You’ve got to believe it,” said the other, and proceeded to “rub it

in.” His healthy, irritable face drew close to Rickie’s. “Two children

were kicking and screaming on the Roman crossing. Your train, being

late, came down on them. One of them was pulled off the line, but the

other was caught. How will you get out of that?”

“And how will you get out of it?” cried Mrs. Failing, turning the

tables on him. “Where’s the child now? What has happened to its soul?

You must know, Agnes, that this young gentleman is a philosopher.”

“Oh, drop all that,” said Mr. Wonham, suddenly collapsing.

“Drop it? Where? On my nice carpet?”

“I hate philosophy,” remarked Agnes, trying to turn the subject, for

she saw that it made Rickie unhappy.

“So do I. But I daren’t say so before Stephen. He despises us women.”

“No, I don’t,” said the victim, swaying to and fro on the window-sill,

whither he had retreated.

“Yes, he does. He won’t even trouble to answer us. Stephen! Podge!

Answer me. What has happened to the child’s soul?”

He flung open the window and leant from them into the dusk. They heard

him mutter something about a bridge.

“What did I tell you? He won’t answer my question.”

The delightful moment was approaching when the boy would lose his

temper: she knew it by a certain tremor in his heels.

“There wants a bridge,” he exploded. “A bridge instead of all this

rotten talk and the level-crossing. It wouldn’t break you to build a

two-arch bridge. Then the child’s soul, as you call it—well, nothing

would have happened to the child at all.”

A gust of night air entered, accompanied by rain. The flowers in the

vases rustled, and the flame of the lamp shot up and smoked the glass.

Slightly irritated, she ordered him to close the window.

XI