The Ragged Messenger
Author: Maxwell, William Babington
Date: 2015-12-03T06:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction
Description: Ebook prepared by crutledge@knology.net
Rights: Public Domain

TABLE of CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

CHAPTER XXVIII

CHAPTER XXIX

CHAPTER XXX

CHAPTER XXXI

CHAPTER XXXII

CHAPTER XXXIII

PREFACE

This book is an attempt to display the contrast between wealth and poverty under the conditions of civilization at this late time of day. It is nearly two thousand years since the Great Teacher startled the world by His doctrine of absolute equality, but although commonly we of the western hemisphere accept that doctrine as a fundamental truth, we are either willing or forced to see it abrogated in every hour of our lives. To most of us there comes no chance of putting into practice, at any rate in a visible manner, the faith that we hold. To a few of us on a very small scale the chance comes, and I think it is not too much to say that we generally miss it So far as the story of The Ragged Messenger is concerned, it is the imagined record of a man who is so tested—on the very largest scale— and who stands the test, living and dying true to his most cherished ideas.

The particular character is of course an enthusiast—a fanatic—perhaps not quite “all there” but in his acts and in his sayings he is intended to set forth the very highest ideals, and to prove their efficacy as the readiest means of reaching, what I believe the philosophers term that most desirable of all things, internal peace.

In writing the book I did not myself feel that John Morton was really mad, although the sketch of his character was generally accepted by the critics as a study of monomania. He preaches self-sacrifice, almost self-immolation; but that is not a proof of madness. He is of opinion that we might quite possibly return to the early Christian method* of thought and manner of life; but that again, if an insane notion, is one shared by a great number of people. From the orthodox religious point of view his aberration consists in the belief that the Divine incarnation, far from being a single and completed phenomenon, was in the nature of a recurrent manifestation; that the marvelous message at the beginning of the Christian era was not the first message or the last message from God to mankind; that there have been many messengers who have passed unnoticed through the vast and scattered tracts of humanity, and he unquestionably supposes that he himself is one of the messengers.

W. B. Maxwell.

Colchester, December,!914.

CHAPTER I

DR. COLBECK picked up his hat and gloves.

“Well, Patrington, I must be off.”

“Why must you be off? Why be in such a deuce of a hurry?” said Lord Patrington, somewhat irritably. “You have been away for a year—you can spare me five minutes, I suppose. Besides, it’s raining.”

“Is it? Very well. Of course I should like to see Lady Sarah.”

“You’ll see her if you wait,” said Lord Patrington; and he stooped and threw a log upon the fire, and stirred it noisily. “It’s confoundedly chilly for the time of year!” It was late autumn; a drab-toned afternoon. Dr. Col-beck, putting his hat down again upon a table by one of the windows, looked across Park Lane to the almost deserted park. Behind the black railings a solitary carriage passed now and then; and beneath the trees, among the falling leaves, dark figures flitted by, vague, uncertain, shadow-like. In the street below the windows, a sudden patter of rain with a gust of wind was sweeping the broad pavements; bus-drivers and cabmen were struggling into their tarpaulin capes; two girls with bonnet boxes had taken the poor shelter afforded by the open porch of my Lord Patrington’s stately old house.

Dr. Colbeck turned from the cheerless view and glanced around the pleasant room—pleasant and homelike in spite of the dignity of wide space and splendid decoration. White panelled walls and lofty ceilings; a marble mantelpiece; portraits by Reynolds and Gainsborough; immense double doors on either side, giving access to the nobler reception rooms; but a litter of books and magazines; deep arm-chairs with gay chintz covers; photographs, flowers; and the friendly wood fire spluttering and flaming on the open hearth.

‘The fact is, Colbeck, I want your advice.”

“Oh, I have retired.”

“I don’t want your advice as a doctor—I want it as a friend.”

“Well, what’s the matter?”

“Worry”—and Lord Patrington, with a frowning brow, repeated the word impressively—“worry!”

“That’s the universal ailment of the hour.”

A servant threw open one of the doors.

“Yes.—Well, I have it with the usual symptoms. Every day I grow older and poorer-’’

“Lady Tollhurst,” announced the servant.

Dr. Colbeck took up his hat again while the visitor was making her entrance.

“Didn’t know you were back in town, Kate,” said Lord Patrington.

“Just returned. How d’you do, Doctor?” said Lady Tollhurst. “Naturally, the first thing I do is to come and see you, Patrington.”

Lady Tollhurst was Lord Patrington’s sister-in-law, the sister of his dead wife; and she and Dr. Colbeck were old friends. Indeed, Lady Tollhurst, who had been a well-known figure in the great world of London for forty years, knew everybody and was liked by nearly everybody. She was an old woman with the quick movements and vivacious manner of a frivolous girl. She was famous for her worldly wisdom and her shrewd criticisms upon men and manners. She prided herself perhaps on possessing wide sympathies and catholic tastes; and, trifling with literature, trifling with politics, trifling with social economy, she had gone on trifling with life in the utmost contentment of mind for decade after decade.

“Naturally, I come to you the very first thing,” Lady Tollhurst repeated with a good-humoured smile.

“I am touched,” said her brother-in-law drily.

“And, tell me now, how is Sarah?”

“Pretty well. Yes, Sarah is well enough-”

“That’s right,” said Lady Tollhurst cheerfully. “Dr. Colbeck, why don’t you give up money-making and travel, as you advise your patients? Though we couldn’t spare you, of course.”

“Couldn’t you?” said Dr. Colbeck, smiling gravely.

“No. I’m sure we should all feel lost without you. But you ought to have been in Venice this autumn.”

“I was.”

“No! I never saw you.”

“I was only passing through, on my way home.”

“Where from?”

“Japan, India, the States—a trip round the world. You know, I retired over a year ago,” said Dr. Colbeck, laughing.

“Really?” and Lady Tollhurst laughed also. “How stupid of me not to know, wasn’t it?” and she glanced at the small jewelled watch on her wrist. “Where’s Sarah?

What were you men talking about—being poor? I heard you. Does Sarah know I’m here? Who’s poor? We are all poor.”

“Or feel poor,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“It’s the same thing,” said Lady Tollhurst.

“It’s all these new men, don’t you know,” said Lord Patrington, “who make us feel-”

“I know, I know,” said Lady Tollhurst. “I begin to hate millionaires. They treat the world as a gigantic shop and just buy up everything.”

“They can’t buy the whole stock,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“They take the best things in the window. You know that big comer house in Grosvenor Square ?”

“The Duke of Wiltshire’s?”

“Yes. The finest house in London / have always thought. Well,” and Lady Tollhurst settled down in one of the chintz-covered arm-chairs by the fire, and held out her hands to the fitful flames,—“that Australian man bought it and has almost doubled it, and now he doesn’t mean to live in it So they told me at Lady Setley’s last night Patrington, why weren’t you and Sarah there?”

“Sarah refused.”

“A propos of money,” said Dr. Colbeck, hat in hand, and looking into the fire reflectively, “I’ll tell you a story.”

“Is it interesting?” and Lady Tollhurst again consulted the little watch. “Still raining, Patrington?”

“Yes.”

“It was told me,” said Dr. Colbeck, “in a letter from a young confrere of mine—a clever young man called Farley. I give you his name because, unless I am mistaken, he will make it famous some day. Anyhow he has been working out one of my pet theories.”

“Your story,” said Lady Tollhurst abruptly—“Is it about microbes?”

“No. Millions. This was a triple millionaire—dying, quite alone, in a Liverpool hotel. A lawyer at six and eightpence, a doctor at seven and six, the only people there. The doctor had been summoned by a woman who was with the dying man.”

“In what capacity?”

“His nurse—or his mistress. She had come from America with him, and she waited as long as there was a chance of gain—then disappeared. Six and eight had to tell her a will was made and executed just before the man lost consciousness and she wouldn’t profit by a farthing. Seven and six told her he could not rally, so she just walked out of the house, and never returned. There’s a plot for a short story. Alone, with the wealth of a king, and dying in the inn’s best room!”

“You ought to write it. What was his name?”

“The name? Farley told me, but I have forgotten

To whom did he leave his money?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Charity, I dare say. Dying men have strange whims.”

“I call that a feeble plot,” said Lady Tollhurst decisively. “A story without an end to it. Don’t write it, please,” and she laughed. “Still it is interesting really. Patrington, why don’t you collect amusing tales to tell your friends?”

“Well, I have something to tell you. I don’t know if it will amuse you,” said Lord Patrington gloomily.

“Oh, my goodness!” cried Lady Tollhurst. “I really ought to be going.”

“Stay and help me. I want your advice.”

“Oh, dear!”

“You heard about Sarah’s accident?”

“No.”

“I saw some allusion to it—a newspaper paragraph,” said Dr. Colbeck. “I wanted to ask Lady Sarah all about it,” and he laid down his hat, and sat listening with keen interest.

“She was nearly killed at Baker Street Station,” said Lord Patrington.

“Goodness!” Lady Tollhurst ejaculated with a suddenly serious face. “Why doesn’t she stick to the buses like me, when / go exploring in queer places?”

“Some man jumped down and saved her life, didn’t he?” asked Dr. Colbeck.

“Yes—at the risk of his own. There was a great crowd; and, just as the train was coming, she was literally pushed off the platform.”

“Horrible!” Dr. Colbeck murmured.

“The lights were upon her,” and Lord Patrington rose and turned from one to the other as he described the scene, “like two white eyes, she says. She has an impression of being pinioned; people waving their arms and crying out; the screaming of the brakes in her ears; the hot breath of the fire on her face. By George, it turns me sick to think of—even now.”

“A hairbreadth escape!” said Dr. Colbeck. “It was bravely done.”

“Yes, Colbeck, bravely and cleverly done. The man saw that a second train was coming in the other direction; and held her, fainting, in his arms between the two— barely space to stand in. I can tell you,” added Lord Patrington, with a doleful face, “the shock made me seriously ill.”

“Were you there at the time?” asked Dr. Colbeck quickly.

“No. But you may imagine my feelings when I heard about it.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“And you may imagine my gratitude! Now,” said Lord Patrington slowly, “what would you do for the man who saved her?”

“You could hardly do too much,” said Dr. Colbeck with enthusiasm. p>

“One question,” said Lady Tollhurst. “You haven’t told us. Was he by way of a gentleman 7*

“Yes.”

“Then,” said Lady Tollhurst emphatically, “I should certainly ask him to dinner!”

“The newspaper,” said Lord Patrington, disregarding this suggestion, “which you saw, Colbeck, didn’t say who the man was?”

“No. Who was he?”

“The Reverend John Morton.”

“Good gracious!” Lady Tollhurst exclaimed in shrill excitement.

“The mad parson?” said Dr. Colbeck.

“He is not mad. Very eccentric-”

“The man who goes about preaching in halls?”

“Yes, yes,” said Lord Patrington. “Halls, railway arches, streets, missions, shelters, everything except churches. They won’t have him there. Whitechapel, Ratdiffe Highway—everywhere.”

“He has made a tremendous talk,” said Dr. Colbeck thoughtfully. “I know I have read something of his— sermon, article-”

“My dear man,” Lady Tollhurst interposed with much excitement, “do please let me speak. I know him. He sat next me at Lady Barker’s luncheon party only a fortnight ago. But he never said a word about his performance with Sarah!”

“He didn’t know who you were,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“He must have. I made a conquest of him. Besides, Patrington was mentioned.”

“Oh,” said Lord Patrington, ‘he made very light of the matter. Called to inquire next day, but didn’t want to leave his name.”

“He is mad,” said Lady Tollhurst. “Whether you say he is or not, Patrington, he really is quite.—But I liked him though. So mild, but so—” and she tapped her forehead—“so completely original.”

“He has quarrelled with the Church?” Dr. Colbeck asked.

“Or the Church has quarrelled with him,” said Lord Patrington. “Couldn’t tolerate his doctrines.”

“What are his doctrines?”

“Heaven knows what. It’s all unintelligible to me. It seems he thinks he has some wonderful message to convey. Don’t know if he knows what it is himself.—Anyhow, I don’t. But they tell me when he preaches—I’ve never been to hear him—he promises all sorts of wonders as though they were going to happen the day after tomorrow. He has a deuced odd way of talking about himself in ordinary conversation, a big way, don’t you know—as though he really thought he was-” Lord Patrington checked himself. “Well, I won’t say what has more than once occurred to me. But I’ll tell you the nickname which I understand he goes by in the East End. The rude Eastenders call him the Mad Messiah”

“I told you he was mad,” said Lady Tollhurst emphatically.

“No, no. Colbeck wouldn’t certify him. I’m quite sure of that. But as to this message of his: the only clear idea seems to be that we ought to practise the virtues of the early Christians—and especially—” Lord Patrington looked round the room, at the portrait of his great-grandmother by Reynolds, at a Sevres vase that had been the property of Napoleon Bonaparte—“give away all we have—if not more.”

“Not likely to prove popular!” said Dr. Colbeck.

“Then: Boundless benevolence and unquestioning charity! Take all sinners and sufferers by the hand—clothe them in fine linen and feed them on the proceeds of your gold plate—if you ever had any.”

“That doesn’t hit me,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“For the rest—reinstate all outcasts, and down with the Pope and the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“A fine programme,” said Dr. Colbeck. “Meantime he lives on it.”

“Or starves on it Honestly, I believe he is genuine. They tell me he has spent all the money he ever had, and that he spends all he can make, or beg, in charity.”

“Eccentric, indeed!”

“He hasn’t asked me personally,” said Lord Patrington, “for a shilling.”

“And you haven’t given him one,” said Dr. Colbeck, smiling. “Quite right.”

“Do let me tell you about him at Lady Barker’s,” said Lady Tollhurst. “He was most polite to me. I think, don’t you know, that he noticed I had a handle to my name.”

“My dear Kate, he hasn’t a notion of class distinctions of any sort Universal brotherhood! He called me Patrington, tout court, the second time I saw him.”

“Did he? Really!” said Dr. Colbeck, smiling again. “And ‘old fellow’ the third time. Not that I care what he calls me,” said Lord Patrington magnanimously. “As I said, the fellow’s a gentleman. I only mention it to give you an idea of the man.”

“Well,” said Lady Tollhurst, waving away interruptions. “At Lady Barker’s, the Bishop of Winchboro’ was sitting opposite. You know Lady Barker always invites the very oddest collection of people. You go there, Doctor, don’t you?”

“No, no.”

“And this Mr. Morton fell upon him—the Bishop, don’t you know—oh, he tackled him about the Church, and really mauled him. The poor Bishop got so hot and flustered and angry. Everybody at the table felt uncomfortable. It really was one of the most successful parties Lady Barker has ever given.”

“You don’t say so?”

“I enjoyed it, Dr. Colbeck. To me the Rev. John was most entertaining. He told me a lot of stuff about the importance of women. No man, he said, can do good work in the world without a woman by his side.”

“I don’t like that,” said Lord Patrington, frowning. “I don’t like that at all.”

“Why not? Most gallant, I thought it.”

“That was the idea,” said Dr. Colbeck, “in what I read of his. The necessity of women! It was thoughtfully written.”

“Yes. But he puts it all in the quaintest way,” Lady Tollhurst continued. “He says it’s the great flaw of Catholicism. Let me remember. How did he put it?

Yes. ‘Celibacy is the maggot that has eaten the Roman cheese/ I thought—‘He wants a woman in his work!’ There’s a chance for the debutantes!” and Lady Tollhurst laughed heartily.

“You are easily amused/’ said Lord Patrington, with deepening gloom. “It’s not a laughing matter to me. What do you think of his having dragged Sarah into it all?”

“How? How has he done that?” Dr. Colbeck asked anxiously.

“For the last two months she has been about with him continually. Taken up the whole thing! Talks— like a fool—of his having saved one life and given her another.”

“Bless us and save us!” cried Lady Tollhurst.

“She goes with him,” said Lord Patrington slowly and solemnly, “everywhere. Among dreadful people—fallen women.”

“Oh,” said Lady Tollhurst, “that’s all the rage. Slumming is completely dead. But the other is quite the thing.”

“Not for my daughter.”

“I assure you,” said Lady Tollhurst, “Lady Melton is wrapped up in it. She has started a club—for the Piccadilly ladies. It got on her nerves to see them outside her house on wet nights.”

“My dear Kate!”

“It‘9 a fact. I am on the Committee. Lady Melton is going to give a ball at the club for the poor things, and she says it’s positively humiliating to find how eager all the best dancing men are for cards.”

“That sort of thing,” said Lord Patrington severely, “may be all very well for you and other fashionable women. But not to be taken up by an unmarried girl— certainly not in the headstrong way Sarah goes to work. She refuses all her invitations. Prefers a sermon from the Rev. John to a dinner at-”

A servant had come into the room, and his lordship broke off abruptly. The man’s murmured communication appeared to be anything but soothing to his master’s mind.

“Say he is not here—and you don’t know when he will be/’ said Lord Patrington loudly and impatiently.

“Yes, my lord.’’

Lord Patrington waited until the servant had gone, and then explained the cause of his irritation.

“It was somebody for Mr. Morton—*a Mr. Bigland has called to see Mr. Morton and desires to know if he shall wait!* Oh, that’s nothing! Quite a usual occurrence. You see, I told the Reverend—in the first flush of my gratitude—that if ever I could do him a service he might command me, and begged him always to consider himself at home here. And,” said Lord Patrington, opening his arms in a gesture of despair, “by George, he has made himself at home. He and his followers have made the place their own.”

“They don’t have their meetings here?” asked Lady Tollhurst apprehensively.

“One or two a week. I tell you, Sarah is infatuated. I often think if my poor wife had lived to see the people who have been coming up that staircase lately-”

“Oh, it mustn’t go on,” said Lady Tollhurst. “It must be stopped.”

“The worst of it is,” said Lord Patrington, “Sarah seems to be losing all sense of the fitness of things.”

“I can’t think that,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“In that room,” and Lord Patrington, with outstretched hand pointing to one pair of the big folding doors, continued: “in that room, in which my mother welcomed society in the days when society existed—and where George the Fourth and all his brilliant circle used to sit, night after night, in my grandfather’s time—Sarah and the Reverend John”—Lord Patrington dropped his hand, and his voice was full of bitter disgust—“Sarah and her parson have had their meetings and said prayers and sung hymns.”

“It does sound incongruous,” said Dr. Colbeck with a very faint smile.

“Oh, it must all be stopped at once,” said Lady Toll-hurst decisively.

“Carriage is at the door, my lord,” announced the servant, and withdrew.

“That’s for Sarah,—not for me. She’ll be with us in a moment,” said Lord Patrington hurriedly, and in a lower voice. “Now, I ask you both, how is it all to end? I shouldn’t be so anxious if her mother was alive. Is she to go about with him for ever?”

“No,” said Lady Tollhurst eagerly.

“Most certainly not,” said Dr. Colbeck emphatically.

“Girls are strange creatures. You can see what I am afraid of-”

“You are afraid,” said Dr. Colbeck, “that this parson-”

“May ask me to pay my debt in a way that’s impossible.”

CHAPTER II

THAT would never do,” whispered Dr. Colbeck, as Lady Sarah Joyce came into the room.

She was a tall girl, with dark hair, a pale face, and a stately bearing. Easy and self-composed and gracious, she seemed on a first impression of a not unusual type of well-bom, well-nurtured, carefully guarded English girlhood: artistocratically commonplace, gracefully uninteresting. But her pale face, as it became familiar, had many and changing expressions; the grey eyes” kindled and glowed, and a fleeting sadness about the gentle mouth was quickly banished by a smile that had in it both mirth and sympathy. Thus it was that people who knew her fairly well generally said that Lady Sarah had considerable charm, and her old friends—of whom Dr. Colbeck was one—were inclined to think her beautiful.

“How are you, Aunt Kate?” said Lady Sarah, with a greeting which contained very little warmth. “Ah, Doctor. You don’t know how we’ve missed you.”

“No?”

Her manner had become cordial as Lady Sarah turned to Dr. Colbeck.

“Yes, we have, dreadfully. And what discoveries have you made on your travels? How did you find the world?”

“Well, it is round,” said Dr. Colbeck, holding her hand in his. “Or I should never have got home without turning back.”

“Oh, what wit I” and the pleasant, friendly smile which Dr. Colbeek knew so well came and went. “Aunt! I am obliged to go and leave something for a sick friend. It is only across the Park-”

“Oh, don’t mind me, my dear,” said Lady Tollhurst.

“I shan’t be a quarter of an hour,” said Lady Sarah, fastening her fur cloak about her neck.

Dr. Colbeek with observant eyes watched the slender, ungloved hand. It looked too White on the grey fur. The blue veins showed, and the long fingers were thinner than they ought to have been. The hollows round her eyes seemed darker than Dr. Colbeek remembered, or perhaps, it was only a shadow from the big black hat. She looked like a princess, Dr. Colbeek thought—in her long purple cloak with the grey fur collar—so stately and fragile and pale. But she did not look quite the Lady Sarah of a year ago. She was certainly thinner, and there was something of suppressed, but vibrating, excitement in her eyes and in her voice that was new. Some tones in the voice were undoubtedly different: stronger but less musical than in the past.

“I hear of fine goings on during my absence,” said Lady Tollhurst, with over-exuberant cheerfulness.

“Frightening everybody out of their wits,” said Dr. Colbeek, unconsciously catching the note; “too bad, too bad!”

“I am glad you have told them about it, father.”

“Oh yes, I have told them.”

“Of his heroism,” said Lady Sarah.

“Presence of mind,” said Dr. Colbeek.

“He saved my life,” said Lady Sarah, pulling on her glove, “and has made it worth living.”

“Oh, my dear child-” cried Lady Tollhurst.

As her niece turned away, Lady ToMhurst cast her eyes upwards and pantomimed signs of abject distress to Dr. Colbeck. Dr. Colbeck stood staring blankly at Lady Toll-hurst “Father,” said Lady Sarah, gathering together some books which lay on the top of a bureau, “Mr. Morton is not coming to-day.”

“That’s remarkable,” said Lord Patrington; “he comes most days.”

“Father!” said Lady Sarah reproachfully, “he hasn’t been here for a whole week. I have been anxious and a little wounded.”

“I haven’t taken offence.”

“But he has written to me,” said Lady Sarah, “and he promises to come to-morrow afternoon.”

“Does he?”

“He will bring his follower-”

“Only one. He generally moves with a troop.”

“This is his special follower,” said Lady Sarah, arranging the books in a neat little pile. “Mr. Bigland, of whom I have often spoken. These books are for him. If Mr. Bigland should call to-day-”

“He did call—I believe,” Lord Patrington confessed.

“And they never told me!” said Lady Sarah regretfully. “Of course I would have seen him. If he comes back, please give him these,” and she pointed to the books.

“Certainly.”

“Au revoir, Aunt Kate. Perhaps you won’t be gone, Doctor, when I get back.”

Dr. Colbeck, with a gravely observant face, stood waiting to open the door.

“Oh, father,” and Lady Sarah turned again, “in his letter Mr. Morton says that to-morrow afternoon he wants to speak to you as well as to me-”

“What about?”

“I have no idea. He says nothing, except that it is a great favour which he has to ask. I feel sure that whatever it is, you ought to grant it.”

Lord Patrington had turned his back and, with frowning brows, was looking into the fire.

“You seem to have great confidence in Mr. Morton,” said Dr. Colbeck at the door, “to admire him very much

I do,” said Lady Sarah, giving him her hand. “I admire him more than any one I have ever seen—and nearly as much as—anybody I have ever learnt about— or read of.”

“If he deserves your good opinion-”

“He does. I want you to know him.”

“So do I.”

“You’ll think as I do. Don’t come down.”

Dr. Colbeck, closing the door behind Lady Sarah, turned from it with a very serious face. There was a pause until the last sound of footsteps had ceased, and then Lord Patrington broke the perturbed silence. “Well?”

“Oh, my poor dear Patrington,” said Lady Tollhurst, “it is too deplorable. I never saw anything like it in my life. She is altogether changed—changed beyond belief

Do you think she is?”

‘1 know she is. She has caught the man’s tone. That mild earnestness, the far-away look, the absent-minded manner.”

“What do you think, Colbeck?”

“I have always had a very high opinion of Lady Sarah’s abilities, her intellectual-”

“But you have been very wrong, Patrington,” said Lady Tollhurst, interrupting, “to allow things to go on to such a point. Seeing her fall under the man’s influence— not to make an effort, not to check it, stop it all somehow or other.”

“I must confess I agree with Lady Tollhurst,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“What could I do?” said Lord Patrington irritably. “You know what girls are, as obstinate as the devil directly you try to thwart them-”

“You should have summoned Emily,” said Lady Tollhurst. “Emily wouldn’t-”

“Emily refused to come. I did ask her,” said Lord Patrington angrily. “Besides, Emily is a bigger fool than her sister.”

Lady Emily Tyrrell was an elder, married daughter. With a contented, easy-going, bucolic husband, a lovely place at Wheatley in Oxfordshire, extensive and attractive gardens, and a suite of well-tenanted nurseries, with ample means and no cares beyond the juvenile ailments of her children, Lady Emily was the occasion of old-established complaint from her father. From her marriage day ten years ago, it seemed that she had never done anything to prove herself other than an ungrateful and oblivious daughter. She strenuously plotted and schemed against her father’s ambitions, by at all times debarring her rich husband from holding any stake in the new companies which at intervals had been launched with the name of Patrington on the list of directors. At odd and inconvenient moments she came smiling and chattering to London, and with two or three noisy and irrepressible infants, their nurses and governesses, used the big house in Park Lane as the best of all hotels—the free hotel in which one may grumble without paying the bill. She came thus when she was not wanted again and again; but if you wanted her, if you were in trouble, if by any chance her presence would be of use to anybody—to chaperon Sarah, to read aloud or write one’s letters or play piquet when one had the gout—you called for her in vain. Lady Emily was in despair; her gentle heart was tom by the dilemma in which you had placed her. But she could not come. A gigantic gardening operation was in the critical state of half-completion—no less than the moving on rollers of the whole range of succession houses, or the lifting by two feet ten inches of the sunk rose-garden—the one with the sun-dial—or two beds in the west nursery had been suddenly filled by most appalling nettle-rash. Impossible to get away for three weeks at least! But meantime, Emily sincerely hoped that the little cloud in the London sky would blow over, and whatever the trouble might be, she ventured to offer the humble, homely advice, to make the best of it.

Lord Patrington was angry at the mere thought of Emily’s advice, which, he explained, she had sent him again on this occasion.

“Oh, why isn’t Sarah married?” cried Lady Tollhurst dolefully. “It’s too dreadful to think of. At her age— Sarah is getting on. Sarah’s getting on for thirty, isn’t she? Oh, she ought to have made a big match years ago.”

“I only wish she had.”

“If you had done your duty, Patrington, you would have hung on to one of these new men—you would have married her to the last new Croesus.”

“I never had a chance.”

“She oughtn’t to have been given time for such foolishness”

“Lady Sarah,” said Dr. Colbeck, “will never do anything really foolish.”

“My dear man, what do you call foolish?”

“I believe,” said Lord Patrington, “I don’t for a moment doubt, that when he comes to-morrow, he means to ask me for her hand.”

“You will refuse,” said Dr. Colbeck quickly.

“Refuse I Of course I shall refuse.” Lord Patrington was walking about the room, made restless by his discomfort of mind. “But there may be the devil to pay. You don’t know what girls are. You don’t know the man. Refuse?” and Lord Patrington laughed satirically. “Upon my word, that’s a wonderful and valuable piece of advice, Colbeck. I ask your advice as a man of the world, how I am to do my task, and all you have to say is: Do your task.” Lord Patrington stalked across to the windows with his hands in his trousers pockets, after giving a shrug of his shoulders expressive of disgust of all things, including married and unmarried daughters, female connections by marriage, and masculine friends.

“Of course I shall refuse,” he said again, coming back to the fire. “But I want you to help me—to support me. I ask you both. Come to-morrow and help me through it. I am not as young as I once was; and—and these upsets, upset me most infernally. You, Colbeck, can be of use in dealing with the man. And you, Kate, can be of the greatest use in dealing with Sarah. I tell you, Colbeck, you don’t know the man. Help me to tackle him. He carries big guns.”

CHAPTER III

DR. COLBECK, deep in thought, walked up Park Lane and turned into Oxford Street without considering or caring where he might be going.

He was thinking of his feeble, selfish, incompetent, old friend the fourth Earl of Patrington; of the Lady Sarah, his second daughter; and of this miserable, psalm-singing, street-preaching figure—black, sinister, and ominous— which blind chance had brought from the outer darkness to taint the flower-scented atmosphere, to obscure the tempered sunlight, and throw its grotesque shadow upon the velvet pile and the burnished parquetry of Park Lane. What a monstrous and unendurable thing it would be were such an intruder to snatch and bear away the one priceless treasure of the stately house. What a fate for a woman so reared to fall—with no hand outstretched to save her—into the life-long embrace of such a mate. A loud-mouthed, ranting, tub-thumping orator, as bad nearly as the seedy socialists and half-drunken demagogues bellowing on their chairs to the wide emptiness of Hyde Park on a summer’s day by the Marble Arch! Accepting Patrington’s assertion that the fellow was genuine, and not a hypocritical pedler of things divine, a cheap-jack selling his nostrum of salvation to earn his daily bread, at the best, how could one hold him to be higher than this—a crack-brained fanatic, a cranky selfdeceiver?

By the flaring shop fronts, through the mean splendour and sordid profusion, the vulgar sellers and more vulgar buyers of Oxford Street, Dr, Colbeck instinctively turned his steps in the direction of his old home—the house in Cavendish Square which he had occupied for so many years, first as a barely prospering, then as a fashionable and successful, consulting physician. And, as he walked eastward, along the dirty pavements, beneath the black and smoke-stained houses, while the colourless day faded into a misty dinginess of night, that all-pervading spirit of the town itself—this living ugliness of London which he had not known for a year—the lurking Spirit of Sudden Sadness seemed to take him by the hand and whisper to his brooding thoughts wordless messages of pain and weariness.

But the lurking spirit which thus lies in ambush and pounces has little power over strong men. Like other and living phantoms of the London pavements, it takes one by the hand and keeps pace step for step, but soon drops behind. A drag at one’s sleeve, a last whisper, and the thing has been shaken off and you are free again. It has been but an invitation and a repulse—no more. At the comer of Bond Street, amidst the little crowd waiting for the omnibuses, Dr. Colbeck, who was in truth an unusually strong man, shook himself free of his dark fit; and, with head erect and firm, free footfall, turned southwards towards the new flat which was henceforth to be the home of his bachelorhood.

After all, what difference would it make to him—in either event?

Dr. Colbeck had wasted very few hours of his active, hard-working life. At forty-seven years of age he had done as much work as many a busy man in twice the time. But, from the first, he had loved the work. He was vigorous and healthy now, in mind and body, as when after winning distinction at Cambridge he had begun to walk the London hospitals twenty-five years ago. A second son of a decent Leicestershire family, he had been born to independence, a modest sufficiency of means which, in the opinion of all his people, rendered science an unworthy and incongruous mistress. With so much natural ability, diplomacy seemed indicated as a suitable avenue to fame; or, if he had an inherent distaste for courts and embassies, why not the Foot Guards with additional parental grants in aid, while he took things easy and looked about him for a few years? To their simple minds a country doctor and a London doctor were much the same thing; and a thing which they held to be of very small account indeed.

But they did not quarrel with him. They pocketed their slighted advice and saved their proffered allowance, and used all their influence to obtain for the vagrant youth at this early stage of his career the countenance and consideration of such great people in London as they could by any means get at. Thus, in these days, young Dr. Colbeck found himself admitted to certain of the great houses of the noble and the powerful; and, coming from hospital wards and crowded streets in which poverty and suffering stretched out imploring hands all day long towards the wise young healers, to the glittering board and the solemn magnificence of his condescending hosts, was afforded an opportunity of studying the contrast between the splendours and the miseries of life. At such solemn dinners of a pomp and fashion which has passed away, the young doctor was privileged to meet some of those whose names are written year by year on the crowded and rapidly obliterated scroll of worldly fame—cabinet ministers, great advocates, successful generals, the author of the hour, the artist of the moment. Sometimes one of these illustrious greybeards would vouchsafe to him a few words of kindly intent, snatching an opportunity on shallow staircases or beneath lofty doorways to encourage, to inspire. “My dear sir, you have chosen a noble profession. I might perhaps say the noblest calling a man can honour himself by following. I have often thought, and not without regret, that had circumstances given me a freedom of selection I would have chosen it myself.” And young Dr. Colbeck would smile and look pleasant,—to do which is, of course, all that a modest and well-bred young man should do on such occasions. Nevertheless, endowed with shrewd observation and a strong sense of humour, he was quick to note this well-known trait of successful greatness: the disbelief in specialised faculties, and the confidence that similar greatness must have resulted from effort in any direction. But this early glimpse of the high and the mighty, in the well-guarded privacy of their hours of relaxation, was only transient and fleeting. The great houses had done their duty; they had responded to the appeal; their big doors, yielding to external pressure, had swung on their hinges and opened inwards once, twice, perhaps three times, and had then closed again. On his part, he had done his duty: called and left his card with his impossible, out-of-the-world address on it after each banquet, and had gone away well contented; grateful, as a student of all types of his fellow kind, for the glimpse of these rare specimens; understanding the unwritten law of great houses which governs the swing of their doors. They had opened at the beginning of his journey, and would not open again until he had reached his goal.

Then followed years of unremitting labour. Driven by the spur of a high-minded ambition, he gave of his best, the utmost that was in him, in his efforts to do something, howsoever small, for the good of his fellows. With hand and with brain, with tongue and pen, he humbly and strenuously laboured to make some advance in the mighty task which has for its aim the lessening of the sum of pain in the annual audit of the world’s progress. Following the pioneers of thought, in the forefront of the battle waged by science against the powers of darkness, no new theory was too daring for him to welcome, no toil of research too heavy for him to attack. And, gradually and very slowly, he began to gain reward, the only reward he valued— recognition from the luminous workers, the masterminds, the great originators themselves. He was doing good work, they said, really assisting, not hindering. This was much from one of the leaders. Then, now and again, a leader would accept of aid from him; would set him a task: like a sensible master with a bright pupil, would give him something to do which wanted doing, but which would be a squandering of precious time for the master himself—to clear up the confusion caused by some foolish fellows, to bring some untidy piece of workmanship into order and neatness. Then, as time passed, more and more praise came to him. He had, in a pamphlet, shown some weak links in a chain of logic of a very strong thinker; his last two articles in the heavy reviews had exhibited a widely comprehensive view of a very wide field; his volume in amplification of the new Leipzig theory of changing neuroplasm was a distinctly valuable contribution to the literature of this branch. One of the greatest of living men, in Colbeck’s opinion, said to him, in effect—“We are proud of you. Go on and prosper— but, Colbeck,—if I may give you a word of counsel—begin to concentrate.”

It was the same venerable mentor who, five years later, advised him to go into general practice. An opportunity had occurred; an offer which most people would term advantageous had come unsought from a man of established reputation to share his steady and reasonably lucrative practice in Cavendish Square. To his eminent and respected mentor Colbeck went in doubt and in fear, as to an unerring judge from whose lips he was to hear his sentence. Already he knew in his heart that he had shot his bolt and fallen short of the mark; that in spite of receptive brain, intuitive perception, rapid and comprehensive power of analysis and induction, singleness of aim and intentness of purpose, not to him had been given the sacred flame, the light-giving torch. He might enlarge, he would never originate; he might be a useful lieutenant, he could never be a leader. All this his old friend conveyed to him in the most kind and sauvest manner as his own opinion also.

“As to your writing,” said the eminent mentor, “I would not, if I were you, attach too much importance to that. But so far as it goes, why, my dear boy, you will have more leisure to devote to it; and it will therefore gain rather than lose.”

It was the bitterest pill which that learned hand had ever administered.

Laying aside all his splendid hopes, as a man going into exile puts by his fine clothes, full dress uniform or court dress, scarce daring to tell himself that he will one day return to take them out and wear them once more, Dr. Colbeck ordered his brass plate and went to Cavendish Square. It was hard work now, because for a time it was bitter work; but he stuck to it manfully, giving his services at the hospital still, practising his healing art in the old black streets with no guerdon and little gratitude, as well as earning the fees and thanks of his well-to-do clientele.

The dull years flew: in the unchanging routine of his days, the wheel of time spun faster and faster. His partner had retired, and he was alone with a practice that was slowly shrinking, when, in a moment, it seemed, he was sought by all the town and making more money than he knew what to do with.

By way of relaxation from his serious writing he had done some light articles for one of the popular monthly reviews. It amused him, in treating of social problems— the unequal distribution of wealth, over-crowding, underfeeding, how the poor live, and such hackneyed themes— to give free play to the sense of humour which he had always possessed, and to a certain cynical method of expressing himself which had come to him gradually with his experience of the world. Editors asked for more of the same sort of thing; and, in a still lighter vein, he turned his pen to the question of how the rich live. He gave them worldly philosophy and medical advice woven together with a thin thread of fun—soundest of advice in the most flimsy and fantastic garb—telling them that they starved their minds and overloaded their stomachs, thought too little, slept too much; and showed them that in wrapping their lives in cotton wool, they did not take sufficient care that it was the proper wool from the most sanitary of jeweller’s shops. This class of thing was a novelty in those days, and the writer of the articles achieved a success by which he was humiliated. He had offered the treasures of his intellect, and nobody wanted them; and now all the world welcomed its sweepings as a priceless gift.

Once more those big doors swung inwards to make hospitable passage for the last new fashionable physician; the great houses, or the living and often bilious presiding spirits of them, came to Cavendish Square to put out their furred tongues and grovel in gratitude for that which their footmen obtained, without necessarily saying “Thank you” at the chemist’s round the comer. Far-off country castles—immovable piles of granite on Scottish moorland, and frowning Norman keeps by sluggish midland streams—flashed their summons, and had their pulse felt in a hurry which laughed at distance and scorned the tale of guineas per mile. In his waiting-room the Tollhursts and Meltons, the Patringtons and Wiltshires patiently waited their turn; in his consulting-room Fashion, with Frivolity sitting as chaperon, back turned and ear pricked, besought him in hysterical panic to say just once again that there was really nothing the matter with her; or masculine Folly, pretending to have caught a feverish desire to be wise, appealed as to an Oracle for some new golden rule of conduct. Standing on his hearthrug, with gravely smiling face, he dealt out his wise-man lore: not medicine but common sense. He told the silly young ladies to go for a long walk, and the idle young men to go and get married. And day by day his fame grew, and month by month the rivulet of gold flowed into his banking account and mounted and spread into a wide lake on the carefully drawn map of his pass-book. He is more than a doctor, said the fashionable world: he is a magician; and from one to another the legend of his wisdom was confidentially whispered. “He told me that when a fellow gets to my age—say thirty, a fellow wants a wife.

I should never have thought it, but, upon my honour, I believe a fellow does!”

Listened to as a wise man by day, he was listened to as a funny man by night. No dinner party was complete, it appeared, without the assistance of the shrewdly cynical and humorously critical Dr. Colbeck. Feted and applauded, he found like many a wit that an established reputation is more than half the battle in the saying of good things; that very Small jokes are sufficient to satisfy very big people; and that this order of fame is nourished not only by what you say yourself, but by what is invented and said for you. Dr. Colbeck took it all as it came—the success, the lengthening rouleaux of pounds and shillings, the dinner parties, the foolish praise, the frivolous friendship of the world—with a calm, grave face and a steady composure of demeanour. One thing only amazed him. Those great lights, the master-minds to whom trash however popular must still be trash, affected also to welcome his nonsense as inspired writings. The skilled hands, whose life-task it was to beat out grain from chaff, grasped his in congratulation. “Invaluable,” said the revered white heads, nodding in approbation,—“work which any one might be proud of—work that will live.” He could only think of that phrase of a great phrase-maker. He had shown them the Medusa-head of Success, and the critics—even such critics as these—had been frozen into acquiescence.

The necessity of women! That was the theme of the mad parson. Love, comradeship, solace and strength, in work and idleness—some one to share the labour, to share the rewards! Dr. Colbeck, on his hearthrug, proclaimed the law; told his male patients of over thirty to obey it without delay: bade them go forth and find for themselves wives. Yet, in his own case, he, the lawgiver, had disregarded the law.

But his life had not been entirely loveless.

One winter’s day chance had brought him a new patient—a pretty, nervous, shyly confidential stranger, who was suffering from insomnia. She had been shopping in Regent Street, she explained, and walking through the square, she had suddenly decided to ring the first doctor’s bell and go boldly in and ask for sleep. Anything would do—the very simplest drug—just a prescription to enable the chemist to make up a bottle or a pill-box containing eight or nine hours of dreamless slumber.

“I really can’t bear it much longer,” she said, with eyes appealing and a pretty little mouth that began to tremble. “Please help me. If it goes on, I think I may do something—dreadful.”

Dr. Colbeck waved away this foolish threat with a gesture half deprecating, half reproving. Certainly he would help her: if not by doubtful drugs, by well-tried advice. That was his business. But she must tell him something more of her trouble. Then, while she babbled out the tale of her distress, in childlike but somehow lovable abandonment of all reticence when once she had begun, he watched the pretty face and read it as though it had been a book. Weakness, clinging, yielding weakness; but kindness, innocence—one of those women meant for happiness, who are too fragile by nature to support the storms of life: flowers in the sunlight, but broken stems and tumbled petals when the storm-gust blows.

“Yes, Dr. Colbeck,” she might perhaps have said, “look at me closely, for I am your Destiny.”

The sleeplessness was an effect, as might be supposed, not a cause. The latent, chronic trouble was a dissolute, brutal husband. It was a commonplace but sad story. It made one’s heart glow with indignation to think of this poor frail beauty in the clutch of a beast who would certainly never turn into a fairy prince. Only to hear of it from the pretty trembling lips made one long to save, to protect her. Rapidly, inevitably, drifting on, but with open eyes, knowing where chance was leading him, Dr. Colbeck became her specially retained consulting physician, her trusted friend, her trusted guide, her lover. There were difficulties at first which seemed terrible to her, but which Dr. Colbeck swept aside with the strong arm on which, he told her, she was henceforth to lean. The husband had deprived himself of all right of redress; nothing could clean his hands, or give them even a deceptive aspect of cleanness, if he ventured to come into court and hold them out for a jury to fill them with the price of his dishonour. But Dr. Colbeck gave him damages full and ample: not capitalised, but in form of annual income; bought his acquiescence and his silence, after a fair and well-considered bargain. What will you pay to escape a scandal? What will you take to leave us alone? She had asked for Dr. Colbeck’s help, and this was how Dr. Colbeck helped her. She wanted the help at once, without delay. Having laid aside conventional methods, they could never resume them. In the eyes of the law, in the eyes of a British jury, all the hands were dirty now.

From the first it was a solid bond, no light tie to be broken as it had been made—by chance. He made her happy, and she filled his life—all of it that he could take from his work and his world—with her love. She gave him all that she had to give, and his gratitude grew with the passing years. In her little circle she lived in ease and contentment, the respected mistress of a pleasant house; with a numerous acquaintance, who wondered but asked no questions, and a few real friends who knew and who would not have answered the questions. Dr. Colbeck was her very old and valued friend, the executor of her late husband, probably! He was a constant and an honoured guest. Never by a careless word, a slip of memory, or an unguarded intonation, did he give cause for any one to assume that he was host also. It was his harbour of refuge, but he crept into it by stealth; it was his secret haven of peace, and he enjoyed his solace with infinite precaution. He owed her so much, and he paid his debt with a chivalrous exactness.

Then, after many years, there happened that for which, at the back of his mind, without formulated thought, he had slowly prepared himself. The pensioned husband lay dying. Death was about to set her free. Colbeck was surprised when he realised how completely, if unconsciously, he had decided upon his course of action under these new conditions. He must make her his wife. How else could he pay his debt in full? But he knew, struggling against the thought, driving it away at last, that only his gratitude now remained alive. She had given him her all, and it had not been enough! She was gentle and meek and loving, but she had never been a companion. Their worlds were different; their outlook on life was different: they had not, in truth, three thoughts in common. And now, after all the years of their intimacy, they were farther apart intellectually than in the beginning. She had moulded herself to her narrow surroundings, the fussy, good-natured friends, the gossip about people and things, the simple brainless amusements of the snug little Bays water home. It was too late in the day probably for her to adapt herself quickly to altered circumstances. In legitimatising her status, he would possibly for the first time make her feel that she was in a false position. Nevertheless, she quivered with joy when he hinted at his intention. There had been no promise on his side when they first came together; she could not have complained if he had left things as they were; but now, she told him, he had proved what she had always known him to be—the noblest and best of living men.

Dr. Colbeck shrugged his shoulders when he thought of his fine friends and their fine houses. There would be no room at those glittering boards for her; he would cease to be a diner-out; he would make a discreet exit from what the snobs call the best society. Their exclusion would not cause him a moment’s regret if she refrained from repining; but, though he fought against it, dread filled his heart as he looked down the shadowy vista of the coming years and saw her and himself linked hand in hand till the vista closed in the darkness of death.

But, in truth, that darkness was near at hand, and Death’s file was already at work in severing the fetters which Colbeck had worn for so long—while in the eyes of the world he had walked as a free man. Suddenly he learned the truth, and was filled with sorrow and remorse, as the knowledge came to him that an insidious and fatal disease had fastened upon her. Nothing could save her. The master-minds gathered round her bed could only echo the verdict of fate. He could but stand by watching her glide out of existence, powerless to aid. This is the torment of a doctor’s life: plainly to see the progress of decay in his dear one, to recognise each phase of the ghastly work of annihilation, to know day by day what is coming—pain, pain, and still more pain, and to be impotent to shield, to ward off the cruel strokes.

He went on with his work, after she had gone, dully and doggedly; but he did not recover from the shock of her death. He was weighed down by an unreasoning remorse. Brooding alone, late at night in his pleasant library, it seemed to him as though Death had answered his call; as though, summoned by a voiceless thought, he had sprung from the eternal shadows, knife in hand, to cut the knot that galled the poor cowardly mortal. Of a morning, riding early in the Park, he would see the white, tortured face looking at him with eyes that glowed and faded again in terrible reproach. Did she know now? Did she know of his vain and foolish dream, as well as of his base and traitorous thought? And as he rode slowly under the bare branches of the trees, thus thinking or dreaming, the figures of other horsemen, the white house-fronts, objects at a distance and things close at hand, seemed of a sudden to fade from substance to shadow, and he himself was a shadow riding in the midst of shadows. He would rouse himself, and ride homeward to begin his day’s work, and try to forget himself in the troubles of others. But in his consulting-room, sitting at his desk, pen in hand, beneath the anxious scrutiny of a patient, an illusion of vagueness, the unreality of solid things would fall upon him, and while the patient watched and listened, he would be also listening to his own voice: following the words with almost painful intentness, wondering how the sentence was going to turn, surprised at each word as it was spoken.

“Only paying the penalty of over-working,” said his wise doctor friends, “continued strain, lack of intervals for recuperation. Nothing else! But you know, my dear Colbeck, as well as, better than I do, that these are the common symptoms of—er—imminent breakdown. I need not tell you that you must not delay applying to yourself the only remedy there is-”

Unlike the majority of doctors, he was not panic-stricken when face to face with his own case. He smiled away such counsel. He was not going to break down.

But, gradually, though rapidly, he became a prey to an invincible weariness or depression of spirits. It was not that he was tired of his work, but his work was not worth doing. Analysing his feelings, it seemed to him that he recognised that melancholy crisis which comes to many a lonely man in middle life; when he realises the failure of his youthful hopes, and looks at the empty remnant of years that all his thwarted toil has left him. For what am I working, for whom, why? Dr. Colbeck, asking himself the question, could find no answer. He was a failure; he had done nothing. He had thought himself a hard-headed, practical workman, and really he had been a dreamer, a man self-pinioned by childish dreams and vague imaginings, standing on one spot, motionless, unseeing, letting all the world and its treasures glide by without grasping at, holding anything. What could time bring him now? More money, when he already had more than enough for his own use. Sham honours, empty distinction—a few unearned compliments, a baronetcy one day as a fee for attending a prime minister or a prince: the rewards which the world grants finally to long-settled prosperity, not the enthusiastic recognition of real merit. As he thought of it, he saw himself old and lonely and worn out—Sir Anthony Colbeck, still dining out when any one asked him, rather deaf, rather irritable, telling old stories which nobody wanted to hear, cracking his stale old jokes and making people more inclined to cry than to laugh; by senile dullness of apprehension mercifully spared the knowledge that he was notorious as an unmitigated bore, and that all the world had to give him now was given—in pity.

No, anything but that. Without seeking counsel from his colleagues, silently, hurriedly, Dr. Colbeck got rid of his house and most of his furniture; sold horses and carriages; made over his practice to a clever young man by a sale which in all but name was a gift; and fled from London and the Spirit of Sudden Sadness, on a tour round the world.

A fortnight’s sea air blew away his cloud of melancholy, restored his elasticity of mind and body. In a month he was wondering why he had run away, and whether the wisest thing he could now do might not be to waste his passage money, and go back in the first homeward-bound ship.

CHAPTER IV

DR. COLBECK’S flat was on the first floor of a new house in Madox Street. They were comfortable, and for a flat, spacious rooms, but as yet nothing was in its place; all was confusion. The hall was full of packing cases, containing odd bits of furniture saved from the wreck which he had himself made in Cavendish Square. His library, the biggest room, was littered with half-unpacked boxes and crates, pictures, curios, the spoil of his wanderings in many lands; half his books were on the shelves and half upon the floor. By the side of the fireplace stood five or six black tin boxes, which he had purchased just before he left England, and into which he had hastily thrust his private papers, letters, note-books, manuscripts—all the accumulation of years, of those personal documents which men continue to guard under lock and key year after year, shrinking more and more from the labour of going carefully through them and burning them.

“Will you be dining at home, sir?” asked the servant, drawing the curtains, and endeavouring to give a fictitious aspect of comfort in the midst of so much disorder.

“No,” said Dr. Colbeck, “I shall dine at the club, I think. Get my things ready by half-past seven.”

Sitting in a deep leather arm-chair, Dr. Colbeck drew towards him one of the deed boxes, and unlocked and opened it. He had taken the box at hazard, thinking that he might utilise the next hour by beginning the long-delayed work of destruction. At the top were a number of letters, each in its original envelope and all in the same handwriting; and, as he threw back the japanned lid, it seemed to him that he had let out of the box vain regret, baffled longing, and jealous torment They were all the letters that Lady Sarah Joyce had ever written to him.

She had been almost a child when he first saw her: a tall slip of a girl with a pale face and large serious eyes, very silent and reserved, hiding herself, as it were, behind her elder sister, the well-developed and conversational Emily. But he had drawn her out, made her talk to him in spite of her shyness while other guests were talking to the lively Emily; and almost immediately he had won her confidence.

Patrington he had known slightly for years as an ill-fated or improvident man who, born to high position arid considerable fortune, had without vice, without evil-doing, steadily squandered substance, influence, the consideration of the world. He was one of those men who begin well, of whom it is said that great things are expected. But at the age of twenty-five, as a minor member of the Government, Patrington had reached his zenith, and ever after his sun had been setting. He had patronised the turf, the drama; endeavoured to develop his estate, and to found fashionable seaside resorts on barren cliffs and desolate beaches which possessed no other attraction than that they were his property; he had made disastrous sales and ridiculous purchases, and gone briskly and fussily down hill all his days. Then, having in course of time mortgaged, sold, or frittered away everything except his splendid London house and the restricted and unassailable income from trust funds, he had carried his coronet, his fatal energy, and disastrous industry into commercial speculation. He was well before the bad times of the business of company-promoting, when peers were still welcome in the city, and when their* names on a prospectus were alluring rather than repellent to the widow and orphan and other timid investors. By sheer luck, he had steered dear of disgrace among all his various and often hopdess enterprises; and, on the whole, had done better for himself in this last phase of his career than any one could have expected. Colbeck, making more money than he had leisure to invest, had thrown some of it down one of the Patrington sinks; had been persuaded to take a seat on a board; and had become intimate with his co-director. He had withdrawn when he made up his mind that his money had really disappeared, and had warned Patrington that it would be wise to leave the board room as speedily as possible. In the light of subsequent events, that nobleman saw how wise the advice had been, and henceforth nourished a high opinion of his friend’s far-seeing judgment “Dear Dr. Colbeck, how good of you to give me the book.” That was an early letter. She interested him by all that she said. She was, as his eye detected, of a different fibre to her kind, a girl who thought of herself and who lived alone in the solitude of her own doubts and dreamings; but her sympathy with noble aims and high ambitions was surprisingly real, it seemed. “My dear Dr. Colbeck, how kind you are, how very kind of you.” That was after performing some light task for her—to send a hospital ticket for a humble friend, or to advise her how she might best help one of her proteges. She was always doing good, it seemed to Dr. Colbeck: quietly, unobtrusively, under the unseeing eyes of her father and her sister. There was one letter in which she called him “My dearest Dr. Colbeck.” It was here, in this box of foolish memories, but he would not look for it—he knew it by heart. He had come to the rescue of a poor family in whose fate Lady Sarah had interested herself; had acted like a kind of fairy; waving his golden wand, had sent the sick mother and her children away to the country in charge of a hospital nurse, and forced employment upon the troublesome father. Lady Sarah going with her maid to the dark court, the little nest of penury and dirt hidden behind the decorous affluence of a Mayfair street, had found how her friend the doctor had realised her dream of what she would have done herself if some one had given her a magic purse; and had written in a burst of gratitude and called him her dearest. Gratitude—that was the keynote of all these early letters. She was grateful as a young girl is grateful to any man of mature age and distinguished reputation who will condescend to treat her not as a child, but as an equal in thought and intelligence. She was proud of their friendship, she often told him; honoured by his considering her worthy to share his confidence, to hear his theories and speculations, to read his last article in the proofs, and to give her opinion on his views. Regard, esteem and gratitude, expressed with childish enthusiasm—that was all. He was the kind, adopted uncle of the house in Park Lane, the useful friend that everybody could trust, to act as chaperon even, when, as often happened, my Lord Patrington was glad to evade his task—to take the young ladies to the theatre, or upon those wearisome expeditions which girls have a genius for devising, to see the things which every one owns they ought to see, but which no elder desires to see himself: the Tower, Greenwich, Kew Gardens, Hampton Court.

One night, just after she had made her bow to her sovereign and when the Lady Emily was busily weaving the spell of her charms about the amiable Sir Richard Tyrrell, he was privileged to escort her alone to an Elizabethan masque produced by a society of amateurs in the Hall of the Middle Temple.

It was a moonlit, windy night in February; and as they waited for the Patrington brougham, after the performance, he had wrapped her cloak about her neck and made her stand behind him, to guard her from the cold night air. She seemed, among the crowd of rather dowdy ladies, stout wives and stubby daughters of the Law, a creature of another race: so tall and slender and gracious, so young but so self-possessed; and to his eyes beautiful exceedingly.

Suddenly, as Lord Patrington’s big horses carried them swiftly homeward along the Embankment, she clutched his arm and, pointing, asked in a breathless, frightened voice, “Those people? all those people? what are they waiting for?”

On the moonlit, but shadowy pavement, and in the gloom of the stone parapet, shivering men and women were pacing to and fro like sordid ghosts. Grim spectres of famine and pain, they flitted in the moonlight or crouched in the shadow; huddled together on the bare benches, or wrapped themselves in their rags on the cold ground itself.

“They are not homeless?” gasped Lady Sarah. “They are not going to be there all night?”

“I am afraid they are,” said Dr. Colbeck, sadly.

It had been a hard winter, and the ranks of the terrible army of the unemployed had been swollen week by week throughout a long frost In a moment she was clinging to him in a passion of hysterical tears. “Oh it is wicked,” she sobbed—“blasphemous, awful.” The words came in gasps; he could hardly hear what she was saying; and while he tried to soothe her, she dung to him with the desperate frenzy of a child who has been frightened almost to death. “How can we—can we—go by—and leave them there?”

This was the burden of her sobbing words—the tragedy of life, the impious disparity of fortune, that men should ride in furs and sleep in warm beds while men lay starving in the streets. Surely it could not be suffered! He soothed her, as one soothes a child. The night was young yet; messengers of charity would be going their rounds soon; many would be taken to shelters; for the rest fires would be kindled, food would be brought—yes, yes, good, hot soup—and blankets, yes, very likely. His arm was round her; she lay sobbing on his shoulder. He smoothed the soft dark hair, soothing and lying as though to a little child; and loving her, loving her—as he told himself—for her passionate sympathy, for the heart which could feel, for the brain which could understand.

Stooping over the tin box, Dr. Colbeck, lost in thought, sat looking at the letters. Here was a newspaper: one of those journals of feminine fashion which are not to be found where men congregate. It contained her portrait. “Some beautiful debutantes; Lady Sarah Joyce.” He had seen the sheet in a shop window—had bought a copy, and treasured it. Turning the pages he looked again at the picture, and thought of her in those days. She had gone about, after Lady Emily’s marriage, during one season, under the wing of her frivolous Aunt Kate. She had been much admired; but, as Lady Tollhurst said, nothing had come of it. He had stood in crowded doorways at London dances, and watched her: pleased when idle words of praise not meant for his ear were spoken at his elbow, angry when some envious dowager made light of her attractions; and looking round from face to face, he had seen no man worthy of her. Then, as with some Captain Splendid or Lord Magnificent she swept by, radiant and smiling, she would give him a smile also. And, as that was all he had come for, he would go away contented. But on two occasions she had disengaged herself, easily, graciously as she did everything, from a little group of splendid vacuousness and noble imbecility, and had sailed to his side.

“No, no,” he pleaded, smiling. “You must not let an old fogey like me take you in to supper.”

“You are not an old fogey,” and the gloved hand was on his arm; “you are the cleverest man in the room, and you are going to take me down to supper, or I am not going to sup at all.”

Here were the little notes of that period. “If I don’t see you at Lady Beverley’s to-morrow I shall be dreadfully disappointed. I have heaps of things to ask you about.” In pencil or ink, a few hurried words or a long letter—all kept, all treasured—“Your article in the Nineteenth Century is worthy of yourself. The Duchess has sent you a card for Tuesday and wants you to come just as much as I do. So no excuses, please.”

Out of such trifling materials he had built the fabric of his foolish dream, the sentimental phantasy of what might have been. A whole book of dreams it became as years passed; the pages of which he turned in his mind unconsciously. Put into words, it was the old formula of childhood—Suppose and suppose. Suppose he had been free, suppose there had not been that other woman. Suppose he had beaten down her old esteem and regard, and told her boldly, “I want your love. Laugh at me, pity me for my monstrous presumption, treat me as you would a man in the street who has insulted you, but don’t think you can laugh me out of your life, or silence me with cold glances. Think of it, think of it— think what my love must be when you see me—your grave-faced, middle-aged friend—distraught, raving at your feet in the torment of my longing for you.” That was how the man in the dream-book talked to her: caring not if her love should spring from pity, if she gave herself in charity, in self-sacrifice, so that he might win her: imploring, praying, threatening; without shame, without mercy, blind to all but the winning of her.

Suppose, said the saner pages of his dream, that inaccessible as she is now, time brings her nearer; that fate is working for you; that every year she remains unmarried your chance is less remote; that already her regard is tinged with tenderness; that when no longer a girl, but to you dearer than ever, some happy chance may set her imagination on fire and that her heart may kindle. More wonderful things have happened. Young girls have loved old men ere now.

Dreaming through the drowsy hours on shipboard, bronzed and strong and vigorous again, feeling that he was free with half a life before him, he called upon Fate to work the miracle of his desire; and had come home determined to tell her of his love.

Walking about his room, staring into the fire, sitting down and rising again, he thought now with intolerable pain of the knavish trick which Fate had played him.

The golden chance had been given to another. Why could not he have saved her life? He would have given ten lives to save her.

He could understand how the clap-trap of such a man as this would enchain her mind. To her who had made him a hero from the first, his wild raving must have seemed the echo of her own heart-beats—the answer to her child-like sympathy with all who suffered and were oppressed. The bedlam doctrine of universal brotherhood, community of goods, the boundless charity of the gospels—or whatever might be his stale repetition of an old cry—doubtless to her had seemed a trumpet call to the wide world. She had been swept away on a tide of emotion. How far had the wave carried her? Loving the wild words, had she drifted on to love of their wild speaker? Surely this cursed thing had not happened. Surely the proud reticence of her nature, that inner saving grace which holds such women’s hearts in prison walls of self-respect, still kept watch and ward. She could not thus lightly, hysterically, madly have given her love.

Dr. Colbeck dined alone at the Athenaeum. As he walked down to the club, that old contrast between the splendour and misery of life unrolled itself before him. Only in London, of all the cities of the world, do the vivid pictures tell their story in such crude and violent colours. In the strong light of the shop windows in Bond Street—the home of luxury—he met the gaunt faces of hopeless misery. Work girls, consumptive, with pinched lips, underclad, underfed, death-marked slaves issuing from the hot cellars of the shops, hurrying away through the damp mist, spattered by the mud from the carriage wheels of the slave-drivers. Hollow-eyed, hollowcheeked men wandering aimless, helpless, hopeless—without bread to eat or a roof to cover them—peering through the plate glass at glittering jewels or costly bric-a-brac, and slinking away as in shame when a well-dressed loiterer paused beside them. In Piccadilly, restaurants with gold-laced giants holding the doors for the incoming stream of delicate feeders, women in diamonds, men in furs, while the policemen harry the child who is questing for a crust in the gutter. Painted cheeks, and burning fever in aching bones; the nightly traffic of the pavement in full market assembled, within sound of the church organ, within sight of the Martyr’s symbol. Lust chinking his purse and chaffering, while Famine trembles lest she fail to sell her body.

Yes, one could understand how the frenzied appeal for the righting of the wrong, the setting the world in order and beginning again in the spirit of Christian charity, can never fail to stir the strings of pity in all gentle hearts. If one could cure it—the unendurable pain of humanity: the pain that is pain to think of!

At a comer house in St. James’s Square, liveried servants were rolling a red carpet; the open door showed electric lamps with amber shades, banks of hot-house flowers, a marble staircase, a crimson curtain. Out of the darkness, drawn by the beam of yellow light, three hideous spectres of the night had come limping and crouching to peer at the great ones of the earth as they entered the open door. As Colbeck passed, he saw their faces—two males and a woman—the obscene birds that hover round public-house doors when night has fallen-most horrible in their degradation, appalling in the complete defacement of the human type wrought by drink and disease and despair, those three hammers used by men to beat out the image of their creator.

Indubitably such living texts as these can give a spell to the ranting cry of men like Morton. “You all see these things. How long will you suffer them to continue in your sight? Listen to me, do as I bid you, and the world shall be made clean again.”

At the table next to his, in the comfortable club-room, there was a man whom he knew slightly. It was a certain Canon West-Graham, a well-known London cleric: one of those prosperous priests of whom it is always said in the newspapers that they are on the point of being offered a bishopric, but who, themselves, have no desire for so onerous a distinction.

“Do I know him?” said the Canon towards the end of dinner, and his red cheeks relaxed in a fat smile. “Do I not to my cost?”

There was a bottle of Burgundy lying in a cradle or basket, and the Canon said no more until, with a slow and cautious hand, he had re-filled his glass.

“I am a busy man, as you may guess, and I don’t readily forgive people who waste my time. Well, Morton wrote to me once asking for an explanation of a passage in one of my sermons, delivered at St. Paul’s. I answered briefly, but with scrupulous civility, and he has never let me alone since: bombards me with pamphlets, and letters, often abusive, always impudent. Really, if you ask me, a most pestilential fellow. Mad, of course, but not quite mad enough to shut up—worse luck for everybody. . . .

“Unorthodox, do you say? My dear sir,” and the Canon smiled, “many of us are that. But he goes beyond, beyond, don’t you know. Oh, a very dangerous man, I consider him. Has it ever struck you that in many points, little details of management, this dub is not quite what it was? You are not on the wine committee, by chance, are you?”

Dr. Colbeck was not on the wine committee, but he lent a polite ear to a rather lengthy grumble, and then, drawing the Canon back to the matter of the pestilential fellow, asked for further information.

“It is not mere curiosity. I have a reason for wanting to pick up any facts as to his career.”

Then, seeming somewhat bored at first, but gradually warming to his subject and, as it appeared to Dr. Colbeck, lashing himself into more indignation than perhaps he really felt—as though from esprit de corps rather than personal resentment—the Canon sketched Mr. Morton’s history.

“He became notorious ten—nay, fifteen years ago. Was incumbent of the Dover Street Chapel and had a vogue—oh yes, a distinct vogue, for what are termed, ‘awakening* sermons. He awoke his Bishop anyhow; was warned, again and again, that there must be a limit to the license which in our Church is extended—wisely extended as I think—to personal freedom of thought. Great indulgence—perhaps too much indulgence—was granted; but nothing would make him listen to reason, and at last there was no alternative but strong measures.

“There was a grave scandal. In the pulpit and in his pamphlets he persisted in treating marriage as one of the sacraments of the Church. Well, as you know, of course it isn’t.” And the Canon puffed out his cheeks contemptuously, as though speaking as a man of the world of some social solecism.

“It isn’t Any choir boy knows that. And here was this fellow setting himself against all authority and saying ‘I tell you it is/ Another vexatious doctrine, which caused endless trouble, was his insistence on the belief in a personal devil.”

“Is that also unorthodox?”

“Well—er—perhaps not But it is very old-fashioned,” and the Canon smiled and then became serious, looking at the wine in his glass reflectively. “If our Church is to retain its vitality, it has been felt by our deepest thinkers that she must move with the march of modem thought The devil of our fathers, the personified power of evil, has undoubtedly proved a stumbling-block, and has very generally been—shelved, don’t you know.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“But be that as it may, this Morton precipitated matters and brought about his removal by an incredibly scandalous outbreak. It was a fashionable congregation, and among the occasional communicants were smart folk whose lives were no purer—doubtless and unhappily— than the lives of such butterflies of the world often are. Well then, at the mid-day celebration, he outrageously drove them from the altar rails—denounced them as children of the devil—money-changers. Positively, drove them away, impiously quoting those Divine words about turning the house of prayer into a den of thieves. After that, don’t you know-’’

The Canon shrugged his ample shoulders and replenished his glass.

“Since then, he has continued to be a thorn in our sides. A firebrand, a brawler. He has, with that other misguided man, attempted to interfere with the marriage of divorced persons and created disturbances in half the churches in England. His letters to the press are a gross abuse of that mighty but ill-regulated engine of modern life—sensational, mischievous.”

“But the man himself? His private character, for instance?”

“I have never met him, I am thankful to say. But I believe—it is a thing I don’t vouch for, a thing one is loth to circulate about any man, but I believe I am right in saying that he has more than once been in prison.”

“For what offence?”

“Causing unruly crowds to assemble in the public streets. He preaches in the open street, you know. But, really and truly, what we say is unpardonable, what we all feel and what makes us so indignant, is this. In his sermons and his letters there has always been a most insufferable assumption of authority—what appears to me a most blasphemous suggestion—or comparison— between himself-”

The Canon with a dessert spoon was carefully removing an atom of floating matter from the red wine in his glass and, becoming engrossed in the task, paused.

Dr. Colbeck was thinking of Lady Sarah’s far-away look and her low-voiced reply.

“I admire him more than anybody I have ever known, and as much almost as anybody I have ever read of.”

“What was I saying? Oh, ah, yes,” and the Canon puffed out his cheeks and continued in a lower tone. “By all this he has, they tell me, earned for himself, and is indeed generally known by, the terrible sobriquet of the Mad Messiah. Could anything be more calculated to bring religion into disrepute?

“I wonder,” said Canon West-Graham blandly, when the waiter had pulled away his table, “if you would care to play me a game of billiards. I am the poorest of players, but I find the gentle exercise of the game both pleasant and valuable after my evening meal.

But Dr. Colbeck was not a billiard-player, and the Canon, looking very disappointed, went to the drawingroom in search of an opponent.

CHAPTER V

THE cheerful sunlight was pouring into the room in Park Lane, striking out gay notes of colour from the pretty chintz covers, flickering on the polished surface of porcelain and bronze, sinking to rest in the mellow depths of the pictures on the walls. It was a bright and inviting afternoon. Not the sort of weather to squander indoors, thought Lady Tollhurst, growing more and more restless.

“Why doesn’t he come? How much longer are we to give him, Dr. Colbeck? It makes one so nervous—waiting. Do you know, Patrington, if he doesn’t turn up in ten minutes, I really must make a bolt for it I’ll come back when it’s all over.”

There was a sound of footsteps.

“No, no,” said Lord Patrington, “stay by me. Here he comes.”

The door opened and the servant announced-—

“Mr. Carpenter.”

“Only my scheming cousin!” said Lord Patrington, in a tone that carried some irritation and a certain sense of relief.

“I dread Herbert,” said Lady Tollhurst. “He always wants something.”

Mr. Herbert Carpenter was a tall pale man of about thirty-five, with sandy hair and a languid manner. He came into the room slowly and languidly, carrying a big roll of papers under his arm. He shook hands with his relatives and then laid down his papers upon the nearest chair.

“Passing,” said Mr. Carpenter, “so I looked in.”

“That’s too thin, Bertie,” said Lady Tollhurst; “we know you. You want something.”

“A cup of tea, possibly,” and he glanced inquiringly towards Colbeck. “Am I disturbing you? You all look painfully serious.”

“This,” said Lord Patrington, “is Dr. Colbeck, the eminent physician. And this is Mr. Carpenter,”—with a smile—“the great architect.”

“The student, he means,” said Mr. Carpenter languidly; then, “How d’ye do?” with a casual nod.

Dr. Colbeck had known him for years, more or less. Mr. Carpenter was the sort of man who greets you on some days and ignores you on others. Colbeck perhaps unjustly classed him as a type which he greatly disliked: the well-born amateur who seems to have all the vapour-ings of the artist and the swagger of the man of fashion; one of those people who without performance insidiously assume reputation; who write long letters to The Times and sign their names in full, instead of calling themselves “Puzzled,” “Nonentity,” or “Rien-du-tout”

“Has not the time come to build a National Theatre? Are we adequately to restore our noble old Abbey or permit it to crumble into dust as the sands slip through the glass of time? Will no one aid in removing this eyesore and erecting in its place a Palace of Industry worthy of our Empire? That, sir, is the question asked by yours, etc., Herbert Carpenter.”

“Well!” said Lord Patrington, “what is it? What can I do for you?”

“You really are clairvoyant,” said Mr. Carpenter.

“No, you are transparent,” said Lady Tollhurst sharply.

“It is a fact that I have an idea, which I want to submit to you—and,—” looking at Dr. Colbeck—“any other influential man I can find.”

“Oh, I can’t help you,” said Lord Patrington.

The servant opened the door.

“Don’t say that,” pleaded Mr. Carpenter, going to his bundle of papers. “It is so dispiriting to be told-”

“Mr. Morton;—Mr. Bigland,” said the servant.

Immediately upon the servant’s announcement, the Reverend John Morton came into the sunlit room. He was a thin, spare man, looking older than his real age— thought Dr. Colbeck—forty-five, as a guess, but looking over fifty—a man of very strong, though slight frame; and of great vitality and nervous power. He wore his black coat buttoned, and his clothes, if not quite the ordinary clerical attire and very shabby and threadbare, would nevertheless have told that he was a clergyman. His companion was a mild and foolish-looking old man, who now stood waiting by the door.

“Lord Patrington, I want to present my faithful follower,” and Mr. Morton beckoned, and Mr. Bigland came forward shyly and bowed.

“You called just now,” said Lord Patrington, nodding to the bowing visitor, “and this morning also?”

“No, my lord,” said Mr. Bigland, “I came with a message yesterday—not to-day, my lord.”

“Well, there was somebody here for you,” said Lord Patrington, turning to Morton. “One of your people has been here twice to-day.”

“I ventured to give this address at my lodgings, in case of need.”

“Oh yes. Quite so. Let me introduce you. Mr. Mortem—Dr. Colbeck.”

Dr. Colbeck bowed, but did not offer his hand.

Broad high forehead, from which the grizzled hair grew close and strong; a dull olive skin to which the blood came in a dusky glow round the rather salient cheek bones; thin nose, broad nostrils, thick eyebrows, and prominent eyes of a brownish grey—the speckled eye colour of the type—eyes that seemed dull and sleepy till they flashed or glowed; with force behind the brow, and courage in the chin: the typical face of the fanatic, thought Dr. Colbeck, intently scrutinising—the fanatic of all ages and nearly all races. A self-deceiver, not a common charlatan!

“Lady Sarah has something for this good fellow to take away—some books,” said Morton.

“Oh yes. Over there.”

Lord Patrington pointed to the bureau;*and Mr. Bigland went across, and drawing a piece of string from his pocket, began to tie the books together.

“I am proud of him,” said Morton, watching the old fellow as he fumbled with.the string.

“Really!” said Lord Patrington. “May I ask why?”

“Because he is, perhaps, the only real convert I ever made.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“I was preaching one night, two years ago, and he heard me. He went away; sold his shop and all that he had; and followed me.”

Mr. Bigland, putting the books under his arm, turned quickly, and came towards them.

“It was a call. I had to follow him.”

Morton gave him an affectionate glance of encouragement or approval.

“That is faith. He might have lived in the beginning of our era, mightn’t he, Patrington?”

*May I—” asked Dr. Colbeck, addressing Mr. Bigland with, excessive suavity, “inquire the character of your shop, ‘sir?”

“The tobacco and newspapers, sir.”

“Remunerative trade?”

“Profits swallowed by bad debts.”

-i“In your case?”

“Hard struggle to keep solvent, sir. When all was cleared, I had only ten pounds odd to carry to him.”

Morton laid his hand on his follower’s shoulder, and gave it a friendly pat.

“If there had been hundreds you would have brought them.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Bigland, simply.

“So now, you see, he helps me,” said Morton, with a change of tone, as he turned to Colbeck.

“How?”

“We share a little sitting-room in a big house—high above the smoke. Not so pretty a room as this. But with a fine view over the fields of roofs and chimneypots.”

“Grand!” said Mr. Bigland.

Mr. Carpenter had been whispering to Lady Tollhurst, but now both of them were listening—Mr. Carpenter balancing his roll of papers and giving a languid attention, Lady Tollhurst, leaning forward in her chair eager to catch each syllable.

“A good enough room for us to fly our kites from, eh, Bigland?”

“You don’t mean,” said Colbeck, “that you fly kites.”

“Yes”

“Over the roofs of the houses?”

“Yes. Over the house-tops and over the roof of the world—when the wind serves. So that people thousands of miles away—the trader toiling up country from the coast, and the Rajah lolling in his gilded howdah may look up and see the paper message floating in the sky.”

“Oh!” said Dr. Colbeck, blankly.

With a nod of the head and a good-humoured smile, Morton turned towards the windows.

“You don’t understand,” said Mr. Bigland, chuckling complacently.

“No, I don’t”

“It’s his teaching, his message to the world—little signals of hope, words of comfort, bits cut out of his sermons, that we get printed and sent everywhere, from pole to pole, in open envelopes. I attend to it. Sent over a hundred th6usand last quarter. That’s what we call kiteflying.”

“I won’t say what I call it,” said Colbeck, in a confidential whisper to Lady Tollhurst.

“Good day, my lord,” said Mr. Bigland at the door, bowing low. “Good day, madam.”

“As good as a play,” whispered Lady Tollhurst, “but for the anxiety. Didn’t I say he was unique? But he ignores one, don’t you know,” and she rose from her chair.

“Mr. Morton,” she said, with dignified playfulness, “please don’t pretend that you have forgotten me.”

Mr. Morton, shaking hands, looked puzzled.

“At Lady Barker’s luncheon party,” said Lady Tollhurst, prompting him.

“The wife of the Bishop of Winchboro’?”

“Certainly not Old frump! I am Lady Tollhurst I sat next you.”

“Yes, yes. I have been wondering ever since-”

“What, pray?”

“Why Lady Barker invited me. I didn’t know her.”

“That was the reason. She wanted to know you.”

Lady Tollhurst had been slightly ruffled in demeanour by the incredible fact that her personality should have been forgotten, or confounded with that of a most dowdy and altogether unattractive old dame. But the blunderer was plainly unconscious of the tactless offence that he had committed.

“That was put on,” she said to Dr. Colbeck. “He can’t have really forgotten me.”

“A most patent affectation!” said Dr. Colbeck cynically.

He was observing Morton closely. There was a restlessness about the man, a suppressed excitement which showed itself in rapid movements of hands and head. He turned to and fro with quick glances towards the big doors; picked up a book, and laid it down without looking at it Patrington, as though shirking the coming discussion, seemed to avoid giving him an opportunity to begin; and, almost slinking about the room, had worked his way to one of the windows and turned his back. Now Morton had followed him.

“I hoped to find Lady Sarah here. I have something important to ask you.”

“She’ll be here directly. She’s out, I fancy. She is coming back, I know,” and Lord Patrington pulled himself together. “But need we wait for her?”

“I would rather. It nearly concerns her.”

“Oh, well-”

“It is a great favour—but I hope she will grant it.”

There was an embarrassed silence. The presence of the architect cousin increased the awkwardness of the situation. Dr. Colbeck wondered if from childhood’s earliest hour it had ever occurred to Mr. Herbert Carpenter that being in the way, it would be a graceful act for him to get out of it. Evidently it had not occurred to him on this occasion.

In the pause which nobody seemed able to fill with conversation he had cleared some photograph frames and silver boxes from a table, and drawn it away from the wall. Then, undoing a bow of pink tape, he had unfurled his papers and spread them out, putting books and pen-trays on the comers to keep them down. Now he had brought a couple of chairs to the table as though inviting guests, and was standing behind the table, like a lecturer only waiting for his audience to take their seats.

“What on earth are you doing, Bertie?” asked Lady Tollhurst.

“This is my little scheme. Do look.”

And he pointed down with a gold pencil-case at the product of his artistic labours, and began to turn the sheets of stiff white paper, showing architectural drawings in pencil and water-colour; and architect’s plans, most extensive and intricate in the map-like web of Indian ink and rule-and-compass work.

“What’s it meant for?” asked Lady Tollhurst, glancing at a pretty sketch of towers and pinnacles and buttressed windows.

“What is it? A palace?”

“Town hall?” asked Lord Patrington, glancing also.

“Hospital?” suggested Dr. Colbeck.

“No, it’s a refuge.”

“What for?” asked Lady Tollhurst.

“Fallen women.”

“There! What did I say,” cried Lady Tollhurst. “I told you it was the fashion. Bertie is always up with the times.”

Morton had been standing in the window, looking down into the roadway. He had turned to listen when Carpenter said the word refuge; and now he was about to join the little group at the table when Colbeck intercepted him.

“I have been hearing much about yoUr—ideas, Mr. Morton. What Lady Sarah said greatly interested me.”

“Yes.”

“I have been out of England—that is one of my excuses for being rather ignorant of—your teaching.”

“My teaching?”

“I mean—to what you particularly address yourself.”

“To what every wise teacher should address himself.”

“And that is?”

“All that part of the lesson set by the master which the scholars have forgotten.”

“Um! That’s rather a dark saying, Mr. Morton.”

Had he tried ever so hard to do so, Colbeck could not have entirely concealed the antagonist beneath the polite inquirer who talks only to make himself polite and agreeable. But it seemed that Morton understood him and his mental attitude very accurately; as though he had understood him intuitively from the moment of their introduction. His face became grave and his eyes seemed to steady themselves, returning scrutiny for scrutiny, each time that Colbeck spoke to him. And Colbeck had the sudden perception that in this brief duel, the struggle to read each other’s thought, the honours had not been his. Yet he liked the man the better for it Something from behind the steady eyes, at once childlike and virile, seemed to plead for justice and to scorn misconstruction.

“At least look through them—before you decide against,” Mr. Carpenter was urging.

“Well, well,” and Lord Patrington sat down and adjusted his eye-glasses. “What is this precious scheme?” “It is a dream that I want to come true.”

“You shouldn’t dream about fallen women,” and Lord Patrington laughed as he turned over the drawings.

“You see,” said Mr. Carpenter, “it’s a square with a garden in the middle—Italian,” and his pencil travelled about the paper, “dormitories, refectories, chapel, cloisters, fishpond.”

“Covers a lot of ground,” said Lord Patrington.

“The garden court is nearly one acre.”

“Where will you find the ground?”

“We have found it—bought it—in Lennox Street

How much?”

“A hundred and twenty thousand pounds.”

“Oh, don’t stint yourself. I could sell you land in Suffolk for fifteen pounds an acre.”

“It was a necessity to secure a site in the midst of this horrible London.”

“Why?”

“Because it is there that the work must be done—where these poor women are. It is known to be wisest to—

“To keep your ambulance on the battle-field,” said Morton from the window, “and not miles away.”

“That is exactly the idea. Thanks!” and Mr. Carpenter looked over his shoulder and then continued. “You see the scheme. A wretched woman falters and sinks in her infamous life. The sisters are down upon her. She is whisked from the mire, and the roar, and the flaring gas lamps, through that little postern”—pointing with his pencil—“into a haven of peace and beauty. She rubs her poor worn eyes and gasps with joy. Silence and peace— the tinkling of the chapel bell; the rescued pacing slowly nearer God, along the cloisters! Flowers in bloom and the shade of the blossoming trees. Every lintel of the doors, every member of the carved roof speaking to her of perfect and faultless Art. For I think I may say, without vanity, that she’ll find it deuced hard work to pick holes in the architectural design.”

“How much is the building to cost?” asked Lord Patrington curtly.

“I call it the House of the Woman of Samaria.”

“How much?”

“Well, I haven’t taken out quantities. I have only roughly cubed it.”

“Well?”

“Well, that comes to something getting on for half a million.”

Lord Patrington pushed his chair back from the table and got up, with a contemptuous laugh.

“You really amuse me, Bertie.”

“What does that work out per cubic foot?” asked Morton, coming from the window.

“Eh? Are you up in this sort of thing?” said Mr. Carpenter; “about eighteen pence-”

“Too much. Too much. You will have to overboard your ornaments.”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Carpenter with a languid wave of his arm. “Don’t you think beauty counts for anything?”

“Everything—sometimes,” said Morton slowly, “the staircase which leads us to Heaven, and the barrier which shuts us out when we reach the top.” He had taken the chair vacated by Lord Patrington, and looked up with a slyly humorous glance. “There’s another dark saying for you, Doctor.”

“Thanks,” said Colbeck.

“But, Mr. Carpenter, if I am bearing a loaf to a hungry man, shall I stay till I find a Dresden plate?”

“Yes, yes, of course—but-”

“Now perhaps you’ll tell me, Bertie,” said Lord Patrington, “who put all this moonshine into your precious head.”

“My own idea.”

“What do you think you are going to get out of it?” “My dear Patrington, your notions are sordid

Perhaps. Well, what?”

“Five per cent would be the architect’s commission if it ever-”

“On half a million! That’s twenty-five thousand pounds.’ Wish you may get it!”

“The labourer is worthy of his hire,” said Morton deprecatingly. He was holding a drawing in his hands and studying it attentively. “You forget, Patrington, that such a job would mean an office and twenty skilled clerks hard at work for months on detailed drawings, tracings— five per cent, on such a job leaves no great profit.”

“My dear sir,” said the architect with animation, “you do know something about it. I don’t deny I have the selfish hope of fame, but the work is good.”

“I like your dream,” said Morton slowly, “I like your dream.”

“In my profession,” Mr. Bertie continued with something like enthusiasm, “such work is the chance of a lifetime. There are no cathedrals to build now-a-days.! own I want to do it.”

“I don’t doubt you,” said Lord Patrington.

“And this is where we are at the moment. We have had noble help. We have collected two thousand towards the deposit for the ground—freehold, remember—and we are in danger of forfeiting our contract. Don’t let us do that.”

“I can’t help you,” said Lord Patrington.

“My idea is this. If half a dozen different bodies of men would help, we could do it. Individually, a trifle each—I begin with the peers—fifty guineas each.”

“Go on—keep it up-” and Lord Patrington laughed again, while Mr. Carpenter looked hard at Dr. Colbeck. “Medical men. Ten guineas each.”

“Ten guineas,” said Colbeck cheerily, “from every practising doctor. Why not?”

“Thanks immensely.”

“Oh! I’m not practising. I have retired.”

“Let me,” said Lord Patrington sternly, “answer for my order. Emphatically—No!”

Morton rose and laid his hand upon Lord Patrington’s shoulder, speaking in tones of affectionate expostulation.

“Why not give it to him, Patrington? Do, like a dear fellow. You can afford it.”

Lord Patrington turned upon him, angrily.

“No, sir, I cannot!”

“Look round you. Can you miss it?”

“No doubt,” said Lord Patrington with great irritation, “no doubt you think me a rich man.”

“I see evidences of wealth.”

“You’d see evidences of confounded poverty if you knew the world.”

“But I flatter myself I do,” said Morton mildly.

“You may know the East End,” said Patrington warmly, “but when you come to speak about us—my good sir, you show your innocence.”

“Do I?”

“You see a man in a fine house, and—er-^in a great position. You don’t think of the duties-”

“In every position there are duties.”

“In mine—necessities.”

“I can guess them,” and Morton smiled good-humouredly, “but I can’t see the pinch of poverty. Powdered footmen-”

“All short—country lads on low wages.”

“Splendid horses.”

“Jobbed.”

“Golden harness.”

“Brass—and worn out. My coachman said he must have new sets two years ago. He hasn’t had ’em yet. It’s the same in everything. It stares at you, if you could see it Colbeck knows.”

Dr. Colbeck shook his head doubtfully. Morton had fixed his eyes on Colbeck’s face, waiting for the words of confirmation sought by his lordship. The grey eyes seemed to light up in unexpected pleasure at the sign of dubious negation, and he smiled at Colbeck with a sudden assumption of complete and unreserved friendliness.

“Look here,” and Lord Patrington continued volubly— “look at the carpets—put down in my mother’s time— threadbare. The walls. Do they want painting? When Sarah gives a party, all London sees it. Ask Lady Toll-hurst. Refreshments at five shillings a head. My heart is in my boots as I approach the buffet.” Then, very sternly, “I haven’t known what it was to have fifty pounds to waste—no, not for twenty years.”

“Would this be waste?” said Morton deprecatingly. “Worse, sheer folly,” and his lordship brought his indignation to bear upon his cousin, who was rolling up his papers. “You always were a fool, Herbert, and you always will be.” Then addressing Morton again with an air of dismissing an irritating subject, “And if you, sir, would study the—er—the splendid misery of Mayfair— you would learn to attach more importance to money and would understand why we are; forced as it is said—to bow down to it”

“To the power of money?”

“I am afraid we do worship it, don’t you know,” said Lady Tollhurst.

“Listen,” said Morton, “a little while ago I was told of a youth in a garret hard by. A’n orphan—a Board School scholar who had won all their prizes, and with all the learning the State could give him, had been turned loose upon the world—to starve!”

“I know,” said Lord Patrington. “Education is the curse of the age.”

“Under Providence I saved his life—Doctor, he was literally starving. I brought him food, and he snatched and snarled at me like a wolf when I used caution. Cost, eleven pence! That is the power of money.”

“No doubt,” said Colbeck.

“You say I don’t attach enough importance to money, Patrington. My dear fellow, if you had lived in the East End, you would know the importance of money.”

“No doubt,” said Colbeck, “but-”

“Here, among you in society, you are always talking about money; saying you worship it, twaddling about its force and undue influence. Rubbish I You, none of you care a straw for money. You don’t know what it means.”

“Don’t we, by George!” Lord Patrington ejaculated.

“Among us, it is life and death, and we have to worship it It is the visible God of Good and Evil. My whole life is spent in the longing for money. In my sleep I dream of it—dream that I have millions: millions to give to the millions who are dying for want of it; millions— to silence the horrible cry of its starving worship-

“Now you are over-estimating,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“Not a bit of it, Doctor—money is like a great door which shuts inwards. It is all-powerful for others. It has no power for oneself. You also know the world, Doctor. Isn’t it so?”

“I don’t know that,” said Colbeck.

“Nonsense! I see you know. You have seen men, buried in their vaults of gold, struggling at the door which shuts them in-”

“Oh, misers don’t count.”

“Give me a sovereign now and how can I spend it for myself and be sure of buying an evening’s happiness? Send me back with it to my people and I know what I can buy with it for them.”

“You have never made the experiment for yourself?”

“On every side you see it” Morton disregarded the question. “Each of us could give a dozen examples.”

“No, I couldn’t,” said Lord Patrington.

“In my own family,” Morton went on, “there was a man—my cousin—who lived in evil ways—the son of a widow—who loved him. He left the country and his mother died—of a broken heart. Years ago I heard of him as one whose touch had turned common things to gold, and I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. If he lives still, he has learnt his lesson,—mocked by a mountain of gold which is powerless to buy him an hour’s forgetfulness. What do you say, Doctor?”

“I am thinking. When do you preach next? I should like to hear you.”

“I am always preaching. I have been preaching now

I shouldn’t have ventured to say so.”

“Your theories,” said Mr. Carpenter, in the background, languidly, “are not exactly new.”

“No, only their practice,” said Morton, without turning. “That might be a novelty, eh?”

“I wish,” said Dr. Colbeck, “you were in a position to prove your theory.”

“I should not be afraid,” said Morton in a low, grave voice.

The man’s voice had curious alternations of tone and volume, but it was never unmusical, though louder and stronger than is usual in social intercourse in Park Lane. It was an open-air voice, a good organ strengthened by much use, but controlled as a musician controls the mechanical instrument on which he plays. Evidently, Colbeck thought, he had been at pains some time or other to learn how to speak, as an actor learns the art. It was not the oratory of the socialist on the chair. But the man was genuine. In this brief quarter of an hour, Colbeck had by imperceptible degrees become convinced of the truth of the man’s sincerity. His pats on the shoulder, and the “Old Fellows” to Patrington, a sort of buoyant confidence and childish trustfulness of manner, and that curious good-humoured smile of something more than friendship, of affection—these could not deceive. Beneath, lay the undoubting love of one’s kind. Since his student days Colbeck had known that rare smile about the lips of two or three of the great healers of the age.

Suppose the man were worthy of her.

“Doctor, shall I tell you what you are thinking?” Morton had been watching him.

“Yes, if you can.”

“That only one person is a bigger fool than a mad enthusiast”

“And who may that be?”

“A sham cynic.” And Morton held out his hand. “Will you let me be your friend?”

There was a slight pause before Colbeck spoke.

“Yes.”

CHAPTER VI

“AH! At last!” cried Morton,

Lady Sarah had come into the room.

“Now for my petition,” and Morton seized her hand and held it in his. “Lady Sarah, are you going to grant my petition, I wonder?”

She was in her hat and cloak, had just returned to the house, and had hastened to join her father’s guest. But she appeared scarcely to be aware of the presence of the others. She made no effort to release her hand, but stood quite still, watching the man’s face. The exercise of walking or the bright cold air of the street, it seemed, had brought a faint colour to her pale cheeks.

“You must tell me what it is,” said Lady Sarah.

“I will. I will tell you from the very beginning.”

Mr. Carpenter had come forward to greet his cousin; but regarding the locked hands with an air of surprise, and finding that she did not observe his intention, he sauntered away. Lady Tollhurst looked at the ceiling. Dr. Colbeck made a movement of impatience.

“Stay, Doctor,” said Morton, misinterpreting the movement. “Don’t go.” He dropped Lady Sarah’s hand and looked around him. “I want all my friends to hear. My old friends and my new friends.”

Mr. Carpenter sat down and crossed his legs.

“Lady Sarah, you remember the night of our last meeting here?”

“Yes.”

“The night I had to preach in Stepney?”

“Yes, more than a week ago.”

“I was hurrying into the mission-room, when I was stopped on the pavement outside, by a young woman.”

“Where is your mission-room, did you say?” asked Lord Patrington.

“Stepney. She plucked my sleeve, and said she must speak to me. I was late already, so I bade her come inside and wait till our service was over. I found her a seat near the door, and made my way to my place—and braced myself for my task.”

“You must have been so tired after your work here,” said Lady Sarah.

“Yes, I was tired even to faltering. It was a little group of factory women that I had to talk to—women who believed in me and my message. The room was suffocatingly hot, and, as I looked down on the close-packed rows of careworn faces, my throat seemed burning and my heart turned sick.”

“Ah,” said Dr. Colbeck, “such places are never properly ventilated.”

“My poor sheep were huddled together, but their shepherd was fainting. For a moment I seemed to have forgotten my message.”

“You work yourself to death,” said Lady Sarah.

“No, no. I stumbled on, with the words that never fail. The facts of their lives are so obvious, poor souls, that the key to their hearts is not hard to find. The merciless toil that knows neither respite nor reward, Doctor, fills one with pity, if not with eloquence.”

“Yes,” said Colbeck, “they have a hard time of it.”

“And that is all I felt then—infinite—boundless pity.”

“We all feel that, I’m sure,” said Lord Patrington, “but what can we do?”

“Very little. I told them so. But I promised them the good time coming—the treasure waiting for them in the world beyond the grave. And now the words came clear and strong.”

“I wish I had heard you,” said Lady Sarah.

“So do I. In a flash, it had come, and I was preaching better than I have ever done since the night old Bigland came to me. There was light now on the dull white faces; but it was not to them that I was preaching.”

“Not to them?” said Lord Patrington.

“No.”

“Then who the dickens were you preaching to?”

“Out from the crowd at the back, she came creeping, her eyes fixed on mine, till she paused midway at the end of a bench. Doctor, it was a face to inspire one. I had hardly seen it in the street outside, when she spoke to me.”

“Ah,” said Colbeck, thoughtfully, “Beauty in distress is inspiriting.”

“It was not her beauty that influenced me, but the soul shining from her eyes.”

“Well,” said Lady Sarah, “you say you preached to her only.”

“The light of the gas lamps played about her hair, until it seemed a halo of gold. And I told them of the golden treasure laid by for them all—I was full of confidence— speaking truly as ambassador from the highest of all powers. I promised them the good things they were cheated of down here. I told them not to fear, and I worked them up to a fever point of faith,”

“No doubt,” said Colbeck, “Herr Fahrenheit was helping you in that stifling atmosphere.”

“You don’t believe. I tell you they were carried away at the end.”

“How? Swooning?”

“No. Crying and sobbing and laughing like little children.”

“Children are not hysterical as a rule.”

“Like children who had been lost in a dark wood, and then, when their little hearts were bursting with dread of the darkness, had been suddenly shown the lights of their father’s house close at hand.”

“Oh, like that, was it?”

“I wish I had heard you,” Lady Sarah said again.

“Well, the service was over and I sat down to rest. And then she came to me. Lady Sarah, this poor girl was standing on the border line of death and infamy when she plucked my sleeve. She had heard of my message and had come to me in her bitter need. Would I help her? Think of it. Young, beautiful, penniless and friendless. Would I save her now and hereafter? She had heard my promise, and she claimed its fulfilment”

“You did all you could for her,” said Lady Sarah.

“Yes, all that I could.”

“Don’t think me unfeeling, Mr. Morton,” said Colbeck, “but how did you know it was a genuine case of distress?”

“Exactly what I was going to ask,” said Lord Pat-ington.

“There are,” said Mr. Carpenter, “so many uncommonly good-looking girls who are not altogether deserving.

“Oh, ye of little faith! Do you suppose I don’t know, before I act. When a new patient comes to you, Doctor, you only know one thing-”

“I sometimes know nothing.”

“You know that you mean by God’s help to cure him

Yes, but-”

“But you first diagnose his case; then use the remedies your skill suggests. Well, so do I. Of course, I would help this poor girl, but first I must comprehend her

That’s what I meant.”

“That night I found her food and shelter. So much the case demanded. I went to her next morning, next day, and every day.”

“This is why you have neglected us,” said Lady Sarah. “Yes, I have given the case all my time, and I have found the way to make her whole.”

“That’s all right, then,” said Colbeck.

“First the past—then the future, eh? If she had sinned as others, who could wonder?”

“No one.”

“But she had not sinned in that way. It was my first care to find out.”

“How?”

“Very simply,” said Morton, with intense earnestness. “I showed her this,” and he unbuttoned his shabby coat; drew out a small metal cross, and held it as high as the chain to which it was fastened would allow him. “I said, ‘Kneel, my daughter, and open your heart to me.’ ”

“Oh! Ah! well-”

“She swore to me by His Cross that she was pure: that she had known temptation, but escaped—so far; that her only sin had been turning her face from her Maker, in despair. She told me all her history. A good mother, but early lost, a bad father whom she had clung to, earning her bread by teaching, till he died of drink, and then the world had indeed been hard to her. A month ago she answered an advertisement for a governess in Austria— an advertisement which proved a* fraud—of the sort you know of, Doctor. Well, she got out of the clutches of a gang of knaves in Vienna, and somehow struggled home—home to the welcome of the London streets. He who watches over us all guided her steps to me. Now, are you satisfied, Doctor?”

“Er—well-”

“What more do you want?”

“Well—er—was there any proof of the truth of her story?”

“Yes.”

“That’s better.”

“The proof was in her face, her steady, eloquent eyes, every tone of her voice. And—remember—I held this before her.”

“Well, well,” said Colbeck, “but-”

“Don’t listen to him, Patrington. Lady Sarah, you can trust my judgment.”

Lady Sarah answered slowly, “Yes, oh yes, of course

There was the stamp of truth in every word. But that is the past’ She hated going back to it, and I mean her to forget. I told her it was necessary for me to know all, but that the past should be closed for ever. Henceforth, we would look forward only. Now, Lady Sarah—will you help me with her future? That is the favour I ask of you.”

Colbeck and Patrington had exchanged rapid glances of intelligence; Lady Tollhurst sprang to her feet Lady Sarah answered, again very slowly, “With all my heart”

“You may command us,” said Lord Patrington, grandly: his whole manner was changed from reticence and doubt to frank cordiality. “Morton, my dear chap, you may command us.”

“Aha!” cried Morton, triumphantly. “Doctor, I knew I shouldn’t appeal in vain.” The blood had risen beneath the olive skin and glowed in a dusky patch on either cheek; he pushed back the hair from his forehead, and waved his hand above his head in laughing triumph. “Anything jn our power,” said Lord Patrington gaily. “Well spoken, dear fellow, well spoken,” and Morton hurried to one of the windows; looked out, and hurrying back, grasped Lady Sarah’s arm, speaking with extraordinary eagerness and unrestrained excitement “I have sat with her every day, studying her, reading her character, while I laboured to give strength to her shaken faith.”

“Yes.”

“She is all refinement and delicacy—well educated and even clever. We can’t let her go till we have given her back her lost faith, can we?”

“No.”

“She is a lily shaken by the wind, a beautiful flower bent down by the tempest, but not yet broken, not yet soiled. We must guard her from the tempest.”

“Yes, yes. But how shall I help you?”

“First, you must find a home for her.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” said Lord Patrington. “In the country. We’ll manage that.”

“No, that won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“The home I want is somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“Here. In this house.”

“In this house?” Lord Patrington repeated the words in breathless amazement.

“Lady Sarah, I want you to take this girl into your life; to be to her a friend—as a sister. Give her your love if you can. She is worthy of it Take her hand in yours and lead her back into the way of grace. Finish the work begun by me.”

“That is really impossible,” said Lord Patrington. “Why?”

“We’ll do anything in reason for this young lady— anything.”

“Anything, except what I ask.”

“You ask an impossibility. Money—influence-”

“Money can’t help. The influence of a good woman is all I crave. Lady Sarah, don’t fail me. Do this for the sake of charity. Surely you can do it.”

“Be reasonable, Morton. If my daughter said yes, I should still forbid it”

“But why?”

“It is out of the question. I won’t speak of class distinctions. But you must see—surely you must see—that my daughter cannot take an unknown girl by the hand and make a sister of her.”

“Why not, if she be worthy?”

“If! This girl may be all you think her, her plausible tale may be quite true-”

“It is true. Wait. Don’t say anything more. Don’t refuse till you have seen her. Lady Sarah, before you speak, look in Mary Ainsleigh’s eyes and see the answer to you doubts.”

“Yes, I will go and see her.”

“There is no need. She is here now—waiting for your verdict.”

“Here?” cried Lord Patrington, aghast.

“May I ring?” and Morton pressed the button of an electric bell. “I told Bigland to go and fetch her,” and he opened the door.

“Stop,” cried Lord Patrington, “don’t ask her up here.”

“Surely,” interposed Mr. Carpenter, “it would be as well to see the lady.”

“What good can it do?” said Lord Patrington, angrily.

Morton, by the open door, called to the servant as he approached. “Tell Mr. Bigland and the lady to come here.”

“Mr. Morton,” said Lord Patrington, in dignified protest, “you force me into a very painful position. I owe you a heavy debt of gratitude. I assure you I feel it.”

“I know, I know.”

“Be generous. Don’t ask for an impossible payment.”

“I don’t”

“Consult any man of the world. Ask Colbeck—or Carpenter. My daughter cannot do what you ask.”

“You are carried away by your enthusiasm,” said Colbeck. “Really it is out of the question.”

“It will be rather embarrassing,” said Mr. Carpenter, “to explain before the lady.”

“Confound it, yes,” said Lord Patrington.

“Wait!” said Morton. Then, looking through the doorway, “Come, Mary,” and Mr. Bigland and the new visitor came in.

She was a pallid dark-eyed woman of thirty, with dark hair drawn back over the ears and rolled in a coil on her neck. She was very plainly dressed in well-worn black; straw hat and dark ribbon; coarse sailor jacket and rusty serge skirt; black suede gloves, shiny and much mended —the costume of the humbler class of shop-girl going to and from her work in a poor neighbourhood. Yet a shopgirl so good-looking would have added some touches of finery, and would soon have soared to the higher plane of the rustling silk dress and stately parade of a West-End show-room. She looked at her hosts with shy, frightened eyes which quickly drooped beneath long lashes.

“This is Mary Ainsleigh,” said Morton, taking her by the hand and leading her towards the windows. “Mary, these are my good friends. I have asked them to give you the home which I cannot find for you, ‘and they want to see you. Don’t be afraid. They are all that is kind and good. Stand there in the sunlight, and have no fear.” Lady Sarah stood looking at her intently; Lord Patrington turned to Colbeck with a gesture of despair; Col-beck was watching Lady Sarah’s long fingers, clasped upon the back of a chair. As Morton came towards them eagerly, Mr. Carpenter whispered in very audible admiration, “She is beautiful. The face of a saint in an altar window.”

“Yes, yes—now for your answer, Lady Sarah

Morton,” said Lord Patrington. “Miss—my dear young lady, we have been deeply touched by your sad story, and speaking for myself and my daughter-”

“No, let her speak for herself. Lady Sarah, do you refuse?”

“I am not a free agent. This is my father’s house-”

“Our answer,” said Lord Patrington, “is what I have already indicated, but-”

“Good. I am mistaken.”

“My dear fellow-”

Morton was buttoning his coat; the dark glow in his face had risen to the brows and then faded, as, setting lips and drawing himself to his full height, he stood for a moment looking at Lord Patrington. Then, as those dusky patches observed by Colbeck began to re-form beneath the skin, he turned. “Well, Mary, I have been a fool. I have deluded, humiliated you,” and he took her hand. “Can you forgive me?”

“I am not disappointed, Mr. Morton; I never hoped that your friends would help me.”

Lady Sarah moved towards them. “But I will help you. I won’t rest till I have found you a home-”

“But not here”—Morton threw back his head and laughed. “Mary, I have deceived you and deceived myself. Well, we are no worse off for that.”

“I am unworthy of all the trouble you have taken

Unworthy! That is what they think, not I.” His eyes swept round the room and his face flushed again. “Won’t you believe me?” and his voice shook from excitement. “They won’t help us, and we stand alone—you and I. You know what my life is—a ragged servant of God—fed by the ravens! Dare you throw in your lot with mine? Surely we have need of each other?”

Mr. Bigland, advancing with outstretched hands, called piteously, “Master, master!”

“It is I who am unworthy, not you! If you are content to take me for your husband, I am content—happy— inexpressibly happy.”

“Master!” cried the old man again, in imploring tones. “Your work, your work!”

“Show them that we are not afraid of poverty—that we can fight our battle without help.”

“Yes,” said the girl, with downcast eyes. “I am not afraid.”

“Fever point!” said Colbeck in a whisper to Lady Toll-hurst. “That was indicated all along!”

No one had noticed the open door and the servant ushering in a visitor. A middle-aged stranger, hat in hand, was glancing from one to the other as he stood in the doorway. With a comprehensive bow to the assembled company, he turned to Morton.

“Mr. Morton, I was informed at your lodgings that I should find you here.” Morton bowed. “I am Mr. Norman—of Norman and George, solicitors, Essex Street Having business with you of some importance, I followed you.”

“Business with me, Mr. Norman?”

“You are the Reverend John Morton, I assume?” “Yes.”

“Formerly of Ashford, Lincolnshire, the son of Richard and Elizabeth Morton of Ashford?”

“I am that man.”

“Then if you will kindly—I am sorry to have intruded, but I think you will forgive me.”

“What is your business?”

Mr. Norman made a deprecating gesture.

“It is a matter concerning yourself.”

“These are all my friends. Let them hear.”

“If you wish.”

“Lord Patrington, Lady Sarah Joyce.” As Morton named his friends, Mr. Norman bowed politely to each. “Lady Tollhurst, Dr. Colbeck, Mr. Carpenter, Mr. Bigland; and this lady is my future wife. I have no fear of their hearing. I can guess your errand.”

“Can you?”

“You come from some ecclesiastical authority. Armed with all the powers of the Church, you come to hale the rebellious priest, John Morton, before some musty court. Well”—smiling—“I like fighting. I am ready to meet you all.”

“No, no, Mr. Morton. You wrong me,” and Mr. Norman smiled benignantly. “I have no such charge. I am glad you are among friends. Perhaps you have not heard of the death of your cousin—Henry Vavasour?”

“No.”

“You knew he was your cousin?”

“Oh yes.”

“He died quite recently. He was—as you probably know—a wealthy man.”

“I have heard so.”

“We are the London agents of Messrs. Gordon of Liverpool. Mr. Vavasour died in Liverpool.” “Liverpool! By George!” ejaculated Dr. Colbeck. “And our country clients drew his will.”

“Well?”

“They instructed us to find you. There were a lot of your sermons and pamphlets among your relative’s papers, and I employed a clever detective—one Griffiths—to hunt you down, because you benefit under that will

Yes?”

“To be candid,” and Mr. Norman smiled again, “I had never heard of your, sir. Had I lived in the East End of course! Mr. Griffiths laughed at his task. Like employing detectives to find the Archbishop of Canterbury, eh?” Morton bowed, and Mr. Norman continued slowly: “Mr. Vavasour had amassed a large fortune, Mr. Morton.”

Colbeck touched Lady Tollhurst’s arm, and whispered, “Vavasour! That’s the name. The man I told you of

We are instructed,” said Mr. Norman, slowly, “that the realisable value of the estate may be spoken of in millions—sterling, you understand, not dollars. Several millions—between nine and ten millions—sterling.”

“And he leaves me?”

“All that he dies possessed of.”

“Bless my soul!” cried Lord Patrington.

“Astounding end to my story!” said Dr. Colbeck.

“It’s not a practical joke?” asked Lady Tollhurst excitedly.

“No, no,” said Mr. Norman.

“Nor any absurd mistake?” asked Mr. Carpenter.

“Don’t be afraid, Mr. Morton,” said the solicitor. “You may rely on having inherited your cousin’s vast wealth.”

Everybody seemed to be talking volubly except Morton. His eyes had sunk. As he stood perfectly still, looking at a shaft of yellow sunlight where it struck the carpet, his thoughts seemed to have wandered far away. At last he spoke, in a low, firm voice.

“I take up my burden cheerfully.”

“Burden?” said Lord Patrington.

“Grant me strength to carry it,” said Morton, lifting his head and looking at the ceiling. “Help me to carry it, Mary.”

“My dear fellow, you are staggered,” said Lord Patrington, sympathetically.

“No wonder! By such a piece of news,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“Burden! Burden!” Mr. Carpenter repeated the word in amazement “What do you say, sir?”

“I say,”—and Morton’s voice rang loud and joyous,— “I say that you shall build your House, and put that face in the altar window of your chapel.”

CHAPTER VII

IT was a nine days’ wonder. All the world talked of it; all the world thought of it. In spoken words, in written words, the legend of magnificence swept round the turning earth, and for a space made brains whirl in dizzy speculation and sickly, envious doubt. Especially, and very naturally, the world’s Press gloried in it and gave it wide welcome.

Like all things gigantic, said the London journals— cyclones, trusts, and corners—Mr. Morton’s luck comes from the wonderland across the Atlantic. Despite of the influx of rich men from South Africa, the gold fields of West Australia, the oil wells of the Caspian, the increasing band of millionaires who have settled in our midst of recent years, we on this side are still unaccustomed to the contemplation of such “sky-scraping” piles of money in the hands of private individuals. A British duke no doubt possesses vast territorial power, a large rent-roll on paper, palaces, picture galleries, lakes and rivers and harbours: in a word, immovable wealth, the extent of which it might be almost impossible to estimate. But the one thing, as he himself would be the first to admit, which he has not is ready cash—the liquid stream caused to flow by the stroke of a pen. He could, it is probable, no more write a cheque for one hundred thousand pounds without warning and preparation than you or ourselves. Not so, on the other side. . . . The imagination recoils from calculating the true proportions and inward meaning ot a fortune such as Mr. Morton’s.

Nothing, of course, could be farther from the truth, as the clever newspaper men well knew. The readers revelled in the calculation, and the writers made it for them morning after morning, night by night, in a hundred new methods.

It was the dwarf summer paragraph swollen into an autumn giant: the ancient Balaam of the dog days leaping into the splendour of large type and leaded headlines as the special features of the “newsy” season; the apotheosis of the well-worn fable of the bricklayer or the sempstress and the lucky windfall, which never fails in its appeal to the universal love of the marvellous, and the deep-seated human craving for the gift of chance rather than the recompense of labour. Always it sets one musing and castle-building, while one pretends to spurn the nonsense. It is not true perhaps; but it might be. So, Alnaschar-like, one dreams: searching the mind for some good deed in the past—helping the eccentric miser! rescuing the old lady’s cat from the savage mastiff, etc.—until, finding nothing, one is forced to invent a fatuously imbecile testament. “On this occasion, of three men present at the tea-party, he was the one who picked up my tea-spoon—and returned it with a good-natured smile. As a tardy payment for his courtesy to a middle-aged woman devoid of any personal charm, I hereby bequeath to him all that my famous castle in Spain, with all and every the gross revenues thereunto attaching, absolutely. And I beg him to spend it all freely on himself and not hoard it or squander it on others. This is the last will and dying wish of, etc., etc. Duly witnessed and all in order.”

Thus all the world read avidly of the columns of fact and fancy which the papers devoted to the subject of Mr. Morton and his stupendous windfall.

“As examples to bring the fact home to the mind in its entirety, as a means of conveying a concrete impression, however roughly and inadequately, here are some concrete cases:—At the present moment there is a scheme before Parliament for connecting Hammersmith and the Bank with a deep level tube-railway. The cost, it is owned, will be gigantic when considered with regard to the comparatively short distance traversed. A rival proposal suggests an alternative route connecting with the existing underground system. This is an infinitely cheaper means of meeting the growing demand for rapid East and West transit. Both routes are probably required, yet it seems doubtful if the necessary capital will be forthcoming for either. Mr. Morton, out of his own pocket, could build and equip both railways. .

“It is alleged that our hands would be strengthened by the presence of a second squadron in far Eastern waters. Certainly if we are strong enough to send a fighting fleet without weakening ourselves in other quarters of the globe, the question of co-operation with any ally would for ever disappear. But rich as we may be, the taxpayer can scarcely be called upon to meet so colossal a demand. Such a squadron would necessarily consist of, say, six battle-ships at a cost of a million each, as many first-class cruisers severally costing over half that sum, together with destroyers, torpedo boats, etc.: the lesser fry that wait upon the movements of these leviathans of the deep. Desirable possibly; but out of the question—even for England. Mr. Morton, emptying his private treasury, could create and launch that fleet “It is common knowledge that Mr. Morton, although an ordained clergyman, is under the ban of the Church. For reasons best known to themselves, the powers ecclesiastical that be have thought proper to inhibit him from following the sacred calling to which they themselves have admitted him. Bishops are not perhaps the safest or calmest judges in purely doctrinal disputes, and it may seem to many that while controversy rages faith is in danger of dying. Be this as it may, certain it is that, subject for years to what on the face of it appears more like the persecution of the middle ages than enlightened church government of modem times, Mr. Morton has been denied the right to preach in any church from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. If he has at rare intervals succeeded in obtaining a pulpit, it has been without the knowledge or consent of the bench of bishops, and means have been speedily found to drive him from it.

“At his own charge, Mr. Morton could now erect a fane vaster than St. Peter’s, more splendid than Cologne, and preach therein from a pulpit of solid gold, encrusted with precious gems such as the lavish ostentation of a sultan of ancient Hindustan could not vie with, and yet remain a fabulously wealthy man.”

In this wise the fluent scribblers strove to drive home their big gold-headed nails, while their humbler brothers, with a Whitaker’s Almanack in one hand and a Ready Reckoner in the other, hammered away with little tin tacks of bald fact—Mr. Morton’s monthly income exceeds that of the largest London club for the year. Mr. Morton’s annual income is more than the total national debt of the republic of Bolivia. Mr. Morton’s income for one week, if invested in annuities with any of the principal insurance companies! would provide a guinea a week for twenty families, assuming the age of each of the heads of the families to be fifty-one years, and all to be what is technically termed “good lives.”

Beyond all such efforts of the busy pen there were pencillers who, pandering to the eye as well as to the mental ear, trafficked in pictorial presentments: Mr. Morton’s money in sovereigns packed into neat sacks and placed in railway waggons, forming a train with the engine at Cannon Street and the guard’s van at Charing Cross; or the armies of the world advancing to receive it in five-pound notes; or, in a column of three-penny bits reaching so far beyond the moon that it almost touched the nearest fixed star.

Of whence and how the money had come, much was of course said.

Vague and garbled, pure fiction or based on fact, all accounts which professed themselves as emanating from responsible authority in America concurred in hinting at matters dark and devious in the origin of the Vavasour millions. Twenty years ago Mr. Vavasour had contrived some sinister coup, a plot or counterplot, information bought and sold, and in the end proving false; and, in a moment, Wall Street lay writhing and vowing vengeance while he emerged from the cloud of disaster a rich man. Then it seemed he had become possessed of real estate in Brooklyn, and had squatted toad-like and terrible on the expanding lungs of the city, an incubus to be removed at any sacrifice. After that it was the usual American story of the growing pile—the weapon of wealth in strong, cruel hands, wielded boldly and mercilessly. Duels between rival roads, corners and trusts, interests captured and controlled, money waging war with money, while perhaps the innocent inhabitants of the field of war look on and starve—out of such familiar, if still incomprehensible materials, the man’s life was pieced together by hasty correspondents. One thing seemed dear: no one in America had guessed how rich he really was. He lived apart—a silent, secretive reprobate, not fit for society, not pleasant to the interviewer; a workman in a subterranean workshop, quarrying and carving the blocks of his monument, and each block an unsuspected million.

As weeks passed and the wonder of it faded, items of news took the place of descriptive articles. The money was there: people did not wish to be told that again. But what would he do with it? Statement and contradiction followed each other with the usual rapidity. Mr. Morton had bought the large mansion in Grosvenor Square known till recently as Wiltshire House. An inquiry at the agents in Pall Mall had elicited the information that this noble mansion was still in the market Mr. Morton had secured a well-known sporting estate in Norfolk, in Cumberland, in Leiscestershire—in half the counties of the United Kingdom. Mr. Morton and his deputies were surveying the West End of London with a view to clearing away a large portion of it, to make room for a really suitable residence. Then it was said, the report was inaccurate: Mr. Morton was not busy in the West End, but in the East End. Already, it was alleged, he had made immense purchases of real estate— in Whitechapel, St. George’s, Stepney, Poplar, Bethnal Green. The secret had been well kept, but now leaking out, Mr. Morton’s operations—conducted on a hitherto unprecedented scale—had been checked by a sudden boom in East End land values. Mr. Morton’s intention appeared to be, not the provision of a site for his own residence, but no less than the total demolition and clearance of all those social plague spots which are marked blackest on the map of poverty. Then came guarded denials from two eminent firms of auctioneers. No purchases of this character had as yet been completed by anybody. And so on, and so forth.

Then there were stories of pensions given to all Mr. Morton’s indigent friends and followers, whose name was legion. One hundred per annum to be had for the asking by any one who could prove that he or she had ever been a member of his ambient street congregations; and already thousands of such pensions granted. A splendid pauperisation of the submerged multitude such as the State had never dreamed of: the golden age come to East London. But nothing was known in these localities of the pensions. Our representatives failed to obtain evidence of a single case: so the statements must be considered as premature. “Not a few indeed of the denizens of the slums visited were personally acquainted with Mr. Morton, and all seemed to have heard of his accession to wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, but their attitude was one of extraordinary apathy,” etc., etc. None of our representatives, in spite of unremitting labour, had, so far, succeeded in obtaining a glimpse of Mr. Morton himself.

But out of all these stories of information,—whether garbled fact, distorted fancy, or willful fable,—in spite of contradiction and doubt, the golden legend as it grew took definite and final shape. Somewhere, could one but get at him, there was a man pouring out gold, an open hand sowing it broadcast, as gold had never been sown before.

In the very best society tongues were as busy on this enthralling subject as tongues upon omnibuses or behind counters. Lady Tollhurst was going about and saying more excitedly than ever: “My good man, do let me speak. I know him”; and telling spell-bound listeners of the meeting at Lady Barker’s luncheon party. She was rarely permitted to say more, because all flew in search of Lady Barker as to the fountain-head. If Lady Barker had once entrapped him in her social menagerie, she could do it again and show the world the lion comfortably caged. It would not be Lady Barker’s fault, all knew, if she had failed in her task. Lady Barker, in feverish mortification, could but refer them back to Lady Tollhurst. The lion had roamed beyond the range of her frenzied invitations, and was, for the moment at least, inaccessible; but he had been last seen by Lady Tollhurst.

Society, or a representative section of it, hearing vaguely of the Tollhurst-Patrington connecting link, sat down and wrote to Lady Tollhurst very seriously, to this effect: I hear that you found him, but I do trust that you are going to hand him round, and not try to keep him all to yourself. Or, as a typical verbatim reproduction of fifty similar letters: “Does he want a secretary and general guide to prevent himself being grossly imposed upon? If so, my Archie would be the man for the post; and I do so desire to keep him in London if it be possible. Will you, like the dear you are, promise me your influence?”

But the golden man himself had become invisible: not to be got at by any manner of means.

Dr. Colbeck, calling at the house in Park Lane about a week after his last visit, received the unsolicited information from the butler that Mr. Morton had not been seen there.

No, the footman said, her ladyship was not in; her ladyship was out of town. His lordship was in London, but not at home. Then the butler, a servant of some years* standing, very properly lurking in the shadows of the big hall, had come forward, and his underlings had effaced themselves. Colbeck had tacitly encouraged him to be loquacious.

Lady Sarah was in Devonshire, at Umberleigh, Lady Wragford’s place. “Her ladyship’s aunt, sir.” Lady Sarah had been very poorly: confined to her room. A touch of influenza, the butler understood; but was himself disposed to think her ladyship’s work with the charities had been of late too severe. Dr. Garnet of Hertford Street in attendance had ordered rest and change of air, and Lady Sarah had immediately gone for a week or ten days to her aunt at Umberleigh in Devonshire.

“We don’t see Mr. Morton now, sir,” the butler added with a glow of respectful interest. “A week yesterday since he was here. I suppose, sir, it’s all true. There’s an article, sir, in the Daily Telegraph—I can fetch it, sir, in a moment, if you haven’t seen it.”

“No, I won’t trouble you,” and Dr. Colbeck went away.

Lord Patrington, as well as Lady Tollhurst, was being worried by letters, week after week. Indeed most of the letters he received, whether from foolish friends or amiable relations, seemed to annoy and irritate. Lady Emily, writing from her beautiful home at Wheatley, was always irritating; and especially so this autumn. But a letter from his cousin Bertie made him really angry.

Bertie, oddly enough, seemed to have disappeared as permanently as Mr. Morton. But, as perhaps nobody missed Mr. Carpenter, this disappearance passed without comment. Now of a sudden, after five or six weeks, he wrote, as it seemed to Lord Patrington without any valid occasion, and most pompously and insufferably. When every one was seeking the position of secretary, Mr. Carpenter was seeking secretaries.

“I want two trustworthy young secretaries. I shall not require them to assist me with skilled knowledge, but merely to attend to my correspondence, keep my accounts, and so forth. As you are so prominently active in the business world, I thought you might have some proteges to recommend.”

His lordship tore up the vainglorious note and did not reply. It was, of course, Bertie’s swagger, a bogus request, just to convey the intelligence to the family that cousin Bertie was now a big man. Not for a moment did Lord Patrington doubt as to the hidden source of Bertie’s new consequence. Reflected glory from Mr. Morton, what else? Chance had shown for a minute the munificent patron of his dreams, and in that minute Bertie had hung on to the skirts of the patron’s coat.

It was after being annoyed by Mr. Carpenter that Lord Patrington had the curiosity to pay a call upon Messrs. Norman and George, solicitors, of Essex Street. Driving back one afternoon from a general meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel, he stopped his cab and left it waiting on the Embankment while he made his way up the steep flight of steps below the old archway, and, easily finding the old-fashioned offices, sent in his card. Lords are still lords— in Essex Street; and he was most civilly entertained by a junior partner.

Our Mr. Norman, with our Mr. Somebody else to help hkn, was in New York, strenuously tackling and sagely unravelling the intricate and enormous interests involved.

Yes, Mr. Morton had honoured the firm by placing himself altogether in their hands. A remarkable attribute attached to the honour conferred, which must make it memorable as what we modems ever hoard in our minds. It was a record.

“In the annals of the profession,” said the junior partner, “out and away the biggest client who has ever fallen into one firm alone. When the Duke of Lanarkshire walked out of Grey, Hutchinson and Brinker’s in a huff one morning, and handed his London Estates over to Camp, Rawlston and Rawlston—that was a record. Lord Beverley’s business, from the old people in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to Hammond’s, was a record—at the time. But they are all beat—left standing by this”

“Is it really as much as people are saying?”

“More!” said the junior partner in an impressive whisper. “It’s impossible to say how much.”

“Really?”

“Probate has been granted, and we have already paid two separate sums of one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds to the Inland Revenue. I could show you the receipts if you like. A thing like this is a windfall for the Chancellor of the Exchequer—when you come to think of it. . . .

“Oh yes,” the junior partner added tolerantly. “They have treated us very well at Somerset House. In fact the whole thing is going smoothly and easily. You know he is sole executor—and he takes everything: not a sixpence to any one else. The late Mr. Vavasour invested a very considerable portion of his wealth on this side. He was not an American citizen, you know—retained his domicile here—and that has simplified matters for us.

Things are going smoothly in New York also—all plain sailing now.”

Lord Patrington was not shown the Inland Revenue receipts, but he was shown the adjoining house, which had been long standing empty, as though waiting to serve the turn of the firm in their emergency. Two plasterers, in the doorway that had been opened between the two houses, carefully guarded his lordship from the peril of soiling his overcoat, and the junior partner led him by the gloved hand. From roof to cellar, the fine old house—home of a judge in the days of Johnson’s club—was in the hands of workmen: dusty bricklayers, odorous painters, and oily electricians. Two big rooms only had been temporarily furnished; and in these the black-coated clerks, busy as ants at their desks and tables and letter-books, were toiling at the mechanical details of the great succession. Ten, twelve, fifteen clerks, Lord Patrington counted, labouring in the two rooms! Soon the whole house—every room in it—would be filled with the business of the new client.

“The office in New York is bigger than this will be, but that is only for the time. This will be permanent of course. It’s nothing when you come to think of it. Suppose the private affairs of a whole town—private investments: leases, conveyances, and all that sort of thing, of thirty thousand inhabitants were conducted under one roof! One wouldn’t be surprised then. But it doesn’t strike you in that light when it is only one man. Yet he is bigger than many such towns, he is.”

An office boy, like a porter with luggage, was wheeling a truck across the landing, and the junior partner stopped him. It was one of those flat iron trollies used in banks, and sometimes in solicitors* offices for carrying the deed boxes from room to room. Its burden now was an immense basket, filled to overflowing with unopened letters and book packets.

“See! His letters since this morning, and most of them marked private or immediate—beggars all! That’s why we don’t give his address to anybody.”

“Oh! You can’t give me his address then?”

“Well, no. To you of course—he’d wish you to have it. But, if it’s all the same, write here. I’ll make it my personal care that it reaches him direct. Write your name—or—er—your title, as I suppose I ought to say— on the outside of the envelope.”

“What is he doing?”

“Oh, he’s very much occupied. Getting married for one thing!”

And as the junior partner conducted his noble visitor downstairs again, he dropped his voice to a confidential whisper.

“Some people have luck. Therms a match for a girl to make! And a nobody, so they say. There’s no settlement; but just think of it—a girl without a penny. I suppose he could have had a royal princess if he had wanted her. Continental, I mean,” he added loyally. “I don’t mean our own people!”

The same afternoon, Lord Patrington, sitting in his own room, heard again from Lady Emily. It was a small room on the ground floor. There were bookcases filled with handsomely bound books which their owner never opened, with cupboards below the books and marble busts above them; a massive writing-table and desk were littered with papers and paper-covered literature—Parliamentary Commission reports, company reports and prospectuses, stockbrokers’ monthly circulars, lists of share* holders; one of the big leather arm-chairs was encumbered by those volumes of reference which his lordship did occasionally read—Peerages, agricultural hand-books, auctioneers’ catalogues, Christmas annuals of estate agents, farm-implement makers, and chemical manure’ manufacturers. If the disorder of my lord’s working-room was indicative of my lord’s working methods, my lord was an habitual muddler.

Lord Patrington rolling Emily’s letter into a tight ball made a curious spluttering noise, from the force of the effort he was making to compress it into the smallest possible sphere before he violently threw it into the fire.

“I must say again, dear papa, that if the half, nay, the fourth part of what the papers say be true, you and Sarah have let slip such a chance as on our knees we might all have prayed for. For Sarah’s sake, for all our sakes— to my darlings in the future, and for their advancement in the world of course I think of what such a connection must have proved—surely you might have waited without all the resentment and fuss which I suppose drove him to look elsewhere. You know what I have always said. Why on earth couldn’t you make the best of things?”

Meantime, in the old Church of Saint Hildebrand in the eastern part of London, Morton and his bride had been made one.

What would not “our representatives” have given to be present at the ceremony? What material for a column and a half of descriptive matter and philosophical reflection was here flagrantly wasted! The bare and dark old church, so different from the flower-decked, brilliantly illuminated St George’s, Hanover Square; the fog from the street creeping in and rendering ghostly the sacred building; and with the fog, one or two curious idlers: a factory girl, a loafer, shuffling their feet and coughing near the warm stove; one decently dressed woman apparently of the better class in the darkness below a gallery— these the strange scene and the incongruous spectators for so momentous a contract!

At the altar rails stood the man and the woman, two black and insignificant figures, and supporting them, figures more insignificant still: Mr. Bigland and a fairhaired young man. The lamps were lit above the door leading to the vestry, a couple of candles were burning on the altar, to give light rather than convey any mystic meaning; and the vicar and his two curates, surpliced, solemn, and full of thought, were taking each his share of the prayers and the exhortations. There was no organist, no music, no choir: the pew-opener sat in a dark corner, callously indifferent and brutally ignorant as to the import of what was happening. Only the vicar and the curates, as might be supposed, knew and had been drawn together by the golden name, each to take his part in the wonder of it. Even in passing through the vestry, such an one, with a brief whisper, might repair the tower, wipe out the chancel fund deficit, bring a kaleidoscopic glitter of stained glass into all the white staring windows, or lift and carry away the whole crushing weight of debt which lay upon the church and parish. Who could tell?

“Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife . . . ?

“I will.”

“Wilt thou have all these unnumbered millions to be thy wedded husband?

The yicar might have made such a slip, for the thought of it filled his mind, but he used the conventional words in asking his solemn question.

In the vestry nothing unusual occurred. The bridegroom drew forth a shabby leather pouch—the purse of an artisan, shiny and almost black from use—and tendered the lowest scale-fee for the task performed; thanked the clergy, and left them coldly wondering.

Outside, in the foggy street, a four-wheeled cab had been waiting with a well-dressed lady’s maid shivering inside it. Ere the little wedding-party had left the vestry, Lady Sarah, emerging from the darkness below the gallery, had reached her cab and driven away.

“This dear lad, Walter, must lunch with us,” said Morton, “and Bigland of course. Bowman, let me introduce you. This is my beloved wife.”

The luncheon was at an Italian restaurant, the best and most exclusive house of entertainment in Bethnal Green. Throughout the quiet meal young Mr. Bowman and old Mr. Bigland seemed to be well content to hang upon their master’s words and gaze into his face in silent reverence, without attempting to contribute to the gaiety of the conversation. Then, separating from their guests, Morton and his wife, by tram and omnibus and train, made their way westwards.

“Where did you send my box? Where are we going?” asked Mrs. Morton.

They were walking through a Bloomsbury street; he was holding her arm affectionately; they had walked from Gower Street Station. It was nearly dark; the street lamps were being lighted; and, by a lamp-post at a comer, a flower girl was gathering together her poor flowers and packing her basket ere she slung it on her shoulders and trudged homewards to the Drury Lane slums. Before answering the question, he stopped and bought a bundle of white chrysanthemums.

“To grace our marriage chamber. For you,” he said gaily. “Where are we going?—home! To the rooms I have taken. We are nearly there,—Sophia Street. Such lodgings as you and I never dreamed of living in! A noble drawing-room and bedroom, on the ground floor, with folding doors between, doors as big as Patrington’s. Ours! Ours!”

He squeezed her arm in his strong, nervous grip as he hurried her along.

“Ours! Think of it. And I am going to sit all the evening, by our own fireside, with my darling’s hand in mine—and thank my Father which is in Heaven.”

“And to-morrow?” she asked in a low voice. “Shall we be going away to-morrow?”

“To-morrow, I am going on with my work; but the world is going to move to music, the work is going to be lit with the rapture of my love.”

CHAPTER VIII

IN the dusk of an afternoon just before Christmas, Morton was preaching to a gathering crowd beneath a lamp-post at a street corner in Whitechapel. Bareheaded and alone, book in hand, he had mounted upon some empty orange-boxes, and, to the summons of his loud clear voice, the loafers had come slouching.

About him was the usual street market of the neighbourhood: costermongers’ barrows and horseless carts wedged close together, containing fish, fruit, vegetables; here and there, little stalls built up of crates and boxes, with flapping tarpaulin on iron rods to shield the sordid wares, coloured cottons, American doth, nuts that had been stored under beds, cakes that had been cooked in cellars; deep barrels of sprats; and abject baskets on the pavement itsdf whose ragged owners could muster no better stock than groundsel and weeds, gravel and white sand for the bird-keepers; or broken china, damaged tin lamps, old locks and keys, “translated” boots, “faked” hats, worn-out door handles, for the bargain hunters. But at this hour business had not begun: the girls were still in the factories, the men had not struck work, the marketing hour was not yet; and proprietors dressing their tail boards, hanging their naphtha flares in position, or sweeping fish refuse into the gutters, looked with no unfriendly eye upon the bareheaded preacher. His jaw would attract rather than interfere with trade. One or two proprietors were even listening, and had left their wares in charge of assistants. For the rest, the assembly by the lamp-post consisted of loafers, hangers-on to costermongers, cornermen from the adjacent public-houses, and lounging labourers finishing their day’s round in search of employment. Behind and about the knot of listeners prowled boys and lads, the ape-like children of the gutter, quick of foot, watchful of eye, mischievous of mind.

Listening dully and silently, the little crowd ebbed and flowed, but grew in volume. Now and then there was an interruption, a jeering shout from the background of vague faces. “Cheese it! Cheese it! Chuck us a brown, guv’nor.” From the main thoroughfare at a little distance, came the steady rumbling noise of the traffic and faint cries from the street-sellers, stationery hawkers of “Penny Notions.”

A respectably dressed, middle-aged man was standing on the outskirts of the congregation. He was a thick-set grey-haired man in felt hat and covert coat—a man of another and far superior class to that of the people about him. While listening, he had been watching the congregation rather than the preacher; and suddenly, as a fresh band of loafers, a dozen lads and men, joined the crowd, he turned and hurried away. Hurrying through a narrow court and out into a side street, in a couple of hundred yards he had reached the Police Station. Without a word to two constables in the big charge-room, he walked across to the office on the far side of the room. A glance through the office window showed him the Inspector warming his back at the office fire, and, without inquiry or hesitation, he pushed the door of the office and walked inside.

“Good day to you,” he said to the Inspector; “I am Mr. Griffiths—R. J. Griffiths, late of the C.I., late S.D. Inspector, Southwark. I know you I think. Morgan? Yes. You were at Lambeth in eighty-eight? Yes,” and he and the Inspector shook hands.

“I want you to do me a kindness. Let me have two of your reserves—plain clothes—at once-” Mr. Grif iths spoke hurriedly, but firmly. “There’s a man preaching at the comer of Frederick Street. He’ll be in a fix inside of ten minutes. I want to get him out of it without a barney. I’m interested in him.”

A station sergeant with a paper-form in his hand was dictating to a section-sergeant who sat writing at a table, and he looked round and spoke to his superior officer.

“That’s all right, sir. It’s the old Messar.”

“What, the mad Messar of Petticoat Lane?” and the Inspector chuckled. “Oh, he’s all right. Him as the papers have been gassing about, you know—come into all the money. But that’s all Tommy rot I take it He’s bin back at his old tricks these last few days, and it isn’t likely if-”

“Never mind all that,” said Mr. Griffiths. “I ask it as a personal favour. Let me have two of your men.”

“I tell you,” said the Inspector rather pompously, “he’s right enough. He knows his way about. He ain’t going to come to any harm. Nobody’s going to interfere with him.”

“Oh yes they are.”

“Why, he’s bin about this division off and on—six years or more. We run him in twice at first. But we had the tip from headquarters to let him alone, and he ain’t caused us any trouble since.”

‘Yes, but to oblige me.”

“Oh, to oblige you—look here,” and the Inspector called to one of the constables. “I’ll send a man down-”

“No—I don’t want that. I don’t want a man in uniform. I don’t want a fuss. I want to get him away quietly.”

“There isn’t going to be any fuss. Why, he’s rather a fav’rite. He goes among ‘em just as he likes. Mad Messar they call him: seem to make a pet of him—in a way. Anyhow, nobody interferes with him—not the roughest of ‘em.”

“Yes, yes, but it’s different now. They think he’s got money with him. I tell you I know what I’m talking about. . . . Don’t refuse me, Morgan; I ask it as a personal favour. Get me a cab—hansom—from the rank in the High Street. Let two of your reserves take it to the comer of Frederick Street, and when the row begins I’ll bring him to it. If I can’t get him through, I’ll whistle, and they must come and help me. If I don’t whistle— stay by the cab-wheels. Sharp’s the word, eh, old man? . . . Thanks. I’m much obliged to you.”

And Mr. Griffiths shook hands with the Inspector and hurried away.

There were many more people: the congregation increasing in numbers had deteriorated in quality and in manners. They were very thick in the front ranks round the lamp-post. Not without protest, Mr. Griffiths elbowed his way to a position within six feet of the bareheaded preacher, and looked about him. Young loafers, coster-lads of eighteen to twenty, the most battered of the “corner-men,” the shabbiest of the labourers, some narrow-chested, undersized Jew-dealers from Wentworth Street or “the Lane!” The superior costers had returned to their wares, unable to hear, not caring for the squash.

The congregation were listening no longer, but chaffing, ragging, being “funny”—drowning the strong voice with their combined chorus.

“Messar! Messar! Chuck us a sov’ring. Fling us ’arf a quid. J’ear us a’calling? Messah! Chuck us a quid. Chuck us some whites to scrap for—Messah! For Chroistie’s sake—fling us a quid—” A young man was cutting antics, stretching forward with his bawling mouth just below the book—“ ‘Ave a shy and knock me eyeballs out.—Messar! ‘Ere’s old Aunt Sally.”

They drowned his strong voice: only stray words could be caught above the hoarse cries.

“The Star—there now—follow it—I tell you—He— listen—believe it—He is here—now—believe-”

Close by, in the press, a white-faced lad had offended a girl. “Toike yer ‘and away—You-!” and she yelled out a foul string of oaths and obscenity—screaming in anger. A gallant friend placed his dirty fist at her service. Griffiths saw the girl force out a space for elbow room, and the upturned face of the young man go back and down beneath the blow, while indignant spectators incommoded by his fall punched at him as he sank. He was up in a moment wiping away blood with the back of a dingy hand, sniffing at intervals, but making nothing of the incident, unable to reach his assailant had he wished to do so. It was less than nothing to everybody else: the little flare of savagery—two hounds in the pack snarling and tearing at each other for a moment while the other hounds go on feeding.

Still striving to catch the words as they floated above his head, Mr. Griffiths kept his shrewd eyes upon his company. Bestially ignorant of the sacred matters poured forth by the preacher, they mocked and jeered, but were not, in the bulk, unfriendly. Only here and there were the dangerous faces, ready for mischief in a moment; and perhaps a dozen sneak-thieves, with three or four of the true criminal class waiting to hatch the mischief and to profit by it.

There was one artisan, plumber or glazier; entirely different from the rest; from a higher plane of intelligence and education. Small, cantankerous, with drink-anger transiently inflaming his grimy face, he knew very well the meaning of words. He was baiting a couple of Jews, poor general dealers from Middlesex Street, who gaped at his elbow.

“Why don’t ye ‘ail him—King of the Jews?”

But they took no notice, giving way as he jerked his elbow into the chest of one of them.

“Go on. ‘Ail him. ‘Ail him, ye lousy Jews, don’t I tell yer—‘ail him King.”

But they showed no sport; refused to be drawn—not understanding probably; and wriggled away to find a pleasanter neighbour. Then, as though in a sudden drink-fury, the little man yelled at the preacher.

“-fine King of the Jews, ain’t he? Hit the- over the head and stop his chin-music.”

All at once something was thrown—cabbage stalks, what not—a bit of board, some spattering mud.

Morton stood with open arms, looking down upon them, mutely appealing with wondering eyes. But a rush was made; a box was knocked away, the book fell and he was forced to spring down to save himself from falling also. It had been a rush from behind, a charge of the boys: the ducking and darting gutter apes, so mean and contemptible a monkey each one, but able under propitious conditions—as police records prove—to swarm a strong man to death if they once get him down.

Griffiths had picked up the book, given Morton his hat, and was holding his arm.

“I am a policeman, sir—quick—let me steer you to your cab-stand back now,” and he trampled on toes and butted with his shoulder.

“Policeman? No, no. I am among friends,” and Morton shouted loudly. “Am I not among friends—friends—all of you?”

But hands were fumbling about his neck. He could feel the base fingers at his waist boldly searching; he saw the cheap Swiss watch flash from his pocket, the steel watchguard broken and then snatched at again and again, as the pressure of the mob drove him back; and he ceased to protest. Driven, almost carried, by the weight of the throng, he and Griffiths as it seemed were swept round the comer and into the waiting cab. The man at either wheel leapt to the horse’s head, forced a passage and then dropped aside, and in a moment the cab was rattling away.

As the cab turned out of Commercial Street, Morton took off his hat again, ran his hand through his hair, and glancing in the glass at his disordered neck-tie, felt for and found the hidden chain still safe beneath his waistcoat. His face was flushed, and his lips trembled as he turned to his companion.

“My own people! I can’t understand, I am sorry that you should have seen this. Don’t judge them harshly. I’ll find an explanation. It’s all new, all strange. . . . Whither are you taking me?”

“Wherever you like, sir. I told him to go west”

Morton looked at him in vague surprise.

“Who sent you? A policeman? Whence? Whose messenger are you?”

Mr. Griffiths explained his presence very diffidently. He was not now a policeman, but had purposely used the word to convey rapidly the idea of an assistant of the law in case of need. He was in fact an ex-detective, who, in retiring, had naturally lost the right to call himself a member of the force. He was now what people term a private inquiry agent—a name which covered a considerable body of men with unfortunately some very “doubtful customers” among them. He was the detective who had been employed by Messrs. Norman and George to discover Mr. Morton’s London address.

“I concluded that investigation,” said Mr. Griffiths with a smile, “and delivered the necessary information in two hours and twenty-three minutes from the receipt of my instructions.”

Since then, said Mr. Griffiths, he had read in all the papers with increasing interest all that the papers had to say about a gentleman whose fame had in the way of business been made familiar to him. “One link in life leads to another, doesn’t it, sir?” If he might venture to say so, Mr. Morton was world-famous now; and he coughed—“I am not a busy man, sir, and reading about you, and thinking about it all, I confess I have taken the liberty of following you on one or two occasions lately. I think you have made three public addresses this week— Cable Street, outside the Cambridge Theatre of Varieties, and the comer just now. . . . Yes! I was present, sir, at each—listening. Listening attentively. You pardon the liberty, sir?”

“Pardon? For listening? Why speak the words, if not for listeners? But they wouldn’t listen. My own people!”

“There were some rum ones there to-day, sir. I shouldn’t exactly, from what I have observed, call them your own people. A few strangers, a tough lot—full of the talk of the money, sir. Not your old lot.”

“You’re right,” said Morton eagerly. “Strangers. All strangers. Deaf as yet-”

“Observing what I did, I ventured, sir, to have a cab handy. A liberty, I know. But you don’t mind, I hope, sir.”

“Dear fellow, I thank you,” and Morton shook hands with him. Then, through the roof, he spoke to the driver—“Stop at the Metropolitan Station. … It was well thought of- And you acted as well as thought. I am grateful. But I must go home—to my wife. I promised. Come too—I’d like to talk to you. Come home and drink tea with us. My wife will be waiting.”

“I am deeply honoured—touched—by your asking me, sir. But I won’t trespass upon-”

“Come,” said Morton. “I want to talk to you.”

At the Bishopsgate Street Station, Morton took two third-class tickets for Gower Street; and, till their train came, paced the platform arm in arm with his new acquaintance.

“I am thinking, Griffiths. Yes, thinking, Griffiths. You see I’ve not forgotten your name. You never told it to me. But I heard it that day. Yes,” after a rapid glance at the ex-detective’s attentive face, “I like your steady eyes. Yes. There was a most unhappy woman—in Liverpool—a woman I must find—Our train? Yes. Come— this way. I saw an empty carriage. We’ll have a compartment to ourselves. You don’t want to smoke?”

This woman, he told Griffiths in the train, had been the companion of his cousin, but had disappeared. It was necessary to his comfort that he should be able to put his hand upon the poor wanderer. “A debt to pay, Griffiths, for a dead hand.” It was horrible to think of her in want. But as yet—and time was going on—there had been no response to his advertisement, to the widely published appeal to her to go to Essex Street and hear of something to her advantage.

“Expensive advertisements, Griffiths. Much money wasted and bringing us only rogues and impostors.”

“No sign from her, sir? It’s odd.”

“Yes. And I have been wrong in submitting to delay. I have thought of other things—I have been wrong, I must act. Now I have thought if you-”

Suddenly, as the train stopped at a station, the carriage was invaded by a gang of bricklayers and their labourers. Dusty, toil-stained, with damp clay upon their boots and trousers, one with an injured shovel, one with an injured finger—the day’s damage to stock in trade—the men came tumbling in, eight of them, filling each seat. Then two more to stand, “Room for a litt’l ’un, eh?” and “I don’t mean to be left be’ind, mate.”

Not a pleasant interruption, thought Griffiths, to a confidential chat—all these unexpected, noisy, clothes-impeilling companions; but he observed that Morton’s smile of welcome seemed unforced, and that one of them responded to it as genuine with a nod as though to an old Triend.

“Bit of glass in a brick?”

The man with the broken finger had secured the corner,by the window opposite, and Morton was pointing to the blood-stained handkerchief wrapped as a bandage about the left hand.

“Bit of something sharp. I never looked—‘tain’t anything. Strap it when I get home.”

And, in a moment, the unit of labour and the man who could, if he chose, command its countless armies, were chatting in the low-toned frankness of old comrades.

The bandaged man and the others were engaged upon a railway repairing job—the brickwork piers, “the scarpment” of an embankment. They were working for the company, not for a contractor; and this meant long hours, “outside of the agreement, you know.” He could not say about the others, but for him, it would be over in another ten days, and then he would be “out again,” and the branch of his union would be regarding him without much kindness as one who came from work under a “private firm,” and who, while reporting it, had submitted to a fifty-three hours* week.

He lived at Notting Hill, and soon he was describing his home and his family.

Mr. Griffiths, occupied with his own thoughts, for a time ceased to listen. When he gave his attention, the man was describing an accident to one of his children.

“Our room’s on first floor, you’ll understand. Fairsized yard there is, and the kids on the ground floor was playing, our young ‘un watching ‘em. The office is just below our window—no treat in summer—slate roof, lean-to. Stretching like, to see the kids’ game, poo’ little bloke goes—over tip. Pitched on the office roof, then down agin. Kids bolted—fairly scared—thought they’d get the belt from some one. Poo’ little bloke lay there—hours. Never cried out No one knew, till his mother come home and found him—carried him up and laid him down. He ain’t moved since. Back wrong.”

The bricklayer was looking out of the window as though examining the lining of the tunnel, or counting the pieces of gauge-work as the crowns of the shelter-arches flitted by on the faintly illumined wall.

“Poo’ little bloke!” he said again, still watching the brickwork. “Well, there’s a little cripple in a many homes—a most of ’em, perhaps, if you come to look round.”

Morton had laid his hand on the man’s knee.

“Do you mind giving me your address? I know of some work—some big jobs. I’ll write to you about it by the time you’re done with the railway people. . . . Here, on this envelope—I get out at Gower Street.”

“Good-night, sir,” said the man, as Morton shook hands with him—“and thank you kindly, sir,—if you should be able, sir.”

It was the first time he had said “sir,” and his tone of perfect equality had vanished. It was as though the soldier of labour saluted a hitherto unsuspected captain.

Mrs. Morton was sitting in the window of the front room of the Bloomsbury lodgings, looking out into the lamp-lit street, lost in the mazes of her own thoughts, or dreaming about the unknown men and women hurrying by on their unknown errands. She came slowly forward to welcome her husband and his companion; showed no surprise at the arrival of a stranger; and at once busied herself with her duties as wife and hostess. Hats and coats were put on chairs; another gas-jet was lighted in the central gasalier; the lodging-house maid laid a doth across one end of the dining-table, brought in the tea-tray, land knelt to produce sugar and half a cake from the lower shelf of the mahogany chiffonier; and soon the hosts and guest were seated at the friendly meal.

“And who do you think Mr. Griffiths is?” said Morton gaily. “A most famous detective!”

“A detective! How interesting!” said Mrs. Morton, cutting a slice of cake and offering it to the interesting visitor with a smile.

“He found me in two hours and twenty-three minutes. Like finding the Archbishop of Canterbury, eh, Griffiths?” and he laughed and rubbed his hands together. “And now”—speaking with a serious voice again—“he is going to help me to find that most unhappy woman.”

“Yes?” and Mrs. Morton glanced at the thoughtful and silent visitor as he crumbled his cake upon the broken-edged lodging-house plate.

“We must have no more delay,” said Morton. “I have been wrong to let the weeks fly by. We must get to work, Griffiths”

“I am at your service, sir.”

Mr. Griffiths was very thoughtful. He bowed to Mrs. Morton as she filled his cup. He bowed after each little act of courtesy from a watchful hostess, but he seemed absent-minded, preoccupied, or unduly oppressed by the honour he was receiving. Without seeming to look at anything, he had perceived and mentally recorded the general aspect of his surroundings, rather than each commonplace detail; and more and more he wondered. Nothing graceful or costly added, to give a hint of the power of the inmates of the shabby room! Wonderful! And this was the man for whom the papers said the widespread magnificence of Wiltshire House had proved all too small.

“Perhaps you are setting Mr. Griffiths an impossible task?”

His hostess was looking at him with polite interrogation in her dark eyes; and by an effort, as it seemed, he roused himself to reply.

“It should not prove very difficult, madam. I ought to be able to find her easily.”

“But suppose—as I often tell my husband—she is dead.”

“Then I ought to be able to find her grave.”

He spoke hesitatingly, absentmindedly; but, after some questions from Morton, he seemed to make another, and this time a successful, effort to come down from the clouds and attend to business.

“You see, sir—from what you tell me—it all points one way,” and he spoke now as an alert man of business, speaking of his own trade, using his own words, and standing firm on his own ground. “Never guess! That’s our watchword. Find out But an opinion—for what it’s worth. You know what that is, sir—nothing! Well. No answer to your ads! Did you try the New York papers? She came from* America. She would go back there. Probably lifted a few trinkets—rings, pins, anything handy; pledged sufficient for her berth, and sailed. At Liverpool, there’s the doctors, solicitors.—There was solicitors I think you said—the nurses, the waiters, the pawnbrokers, the boat people, the boat itself; the cabin she occupied, or shared with others, the stewardess who waited on her”—Mr. Griffiths shrugged his broad shoulders. “It might take time—more than two and a half hours, sir—months perhaps. But it would be the class of investigation which I call ‘narrowing down’—the class of investigation which can’t very well fail of the result”

Late that evening, as Mr. and Mrs. Morton sat by their hired hearth, the maid brought in a letter which had just been left at the door. Envelope and paper bore the words “Strictly Private,” deeply underscored. The writer’s address was Cedar Villa, No. 78 Felixstowe Road, Lambeth. Before reading the letter Morton glanced at the signature: R. J. Griffiths.

“Sir,” said Mr. Griffiths, “I write fo ask a favour, and I will endeavour to be as brief as possible. My record in the force was twenty-nine years without a bad mark. I was Sub-Divisional Inspr. Southwark (M.) three years, four months, from!887 to!890; then in Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard, until retired two years ago. I am fifty-one years of age, widower, and member of the Church of England; and have lost no opportunities to improve myself in education. May I assist you in your work? I think I could be of use to you in many ways; as go-between in necessary inquiries, and as guard against imposition from unworthy people in your almsgiving. The truth of above statements of facts would of course be forthcoming at headquarters (N. S. Yard); and, to a gentleman like yourself, I think a point would be stretched to give personal character orally, if not in writing.

“My dear wife was my superior by birth and circumstances, with many influential friends, by whose good offices on my behalf I was passed to the C. I. Dept as a very unusual favour, after a severe illness traceable to course of duties in a time of pressure. I beg to state further that my dear wife was possessed of private means, and by her generous provision and my own pension, I am for my humble position in the world more than well off. But I am practically alone in the world, sir, and if after investigation you honour me by accepting my services it would fill up my time, and be a labour of love as it is termed.

“For above reasons I would wish it to be understood that I do not desire payment for the same (excepting in the search you have entrusted me with, out of pocket expenses). I ask it as a favour, not as seeking a job; but would beg that this might never be mentioned, since I would prefer people to suppose I was paid—as making it easier for me to get on with any other paid servants of yours that I may be in contact with.

“If I may without offence say so, I would like, sir, to say I have been touched by your words when preaching on two last occasions, and deeply touched to-day by your kind manner to myself and others. I have never been an irreligious man, though not a church-goer, and listening as I have done, I venture, sir, to state, I now firmly believe in the truth of your message.—Your obedient servant, R. J. Griffiths.”

Morton waved the letter above his head, then sprang to his feet “What is it?” and Mrs. Morton looked up from her book.

His eyes were moist, but shone with triumphant pleasure. The brick-dust red glowed in dusky patches about his cheek-bones.

“Another follower has come to me. A follower—in my doubt—when I felt all was slipping. Griffiths—that 4ear fellow—has heard the call, and henceforth follows I”

CHAPTER IX

IN this manner Mr. Griffiths, late of the Metropolitan Police Force, obtained that post so craved for by “darling Archie” of White’s and the Turf Club; and, after the corroboration of his statements and a handsome testimonial to character at “headquarters,” was duly licensed to attack the task of saving the great new millionaire from imposition.

“But no more ‘shadowing/ Griffiths. I must go about my work with no shadow but my own. Let me see your listening face, as often as you can, while I speak the words. But the words would falter if I thought your eyes watched me unseen. Don’t fail me in this. I must walk free. I’ll have no bodyguard.”

Early in the morning the millionaire went about his work, and did not return from his work until the dusk of the winter evenings. And all day long, the millionaire’s wife, sitting reading and musing alone, was besieged by visitors: clerks from Essex Street with sealed packets, clerks from Mr. Carpenter with more plans, auctioneers’ clerks, estate agents’ clerks, printers with packets of proofs and letter-forms. These were visitors for Mr. Morton, and they filled the narrow hall with their packages and went away. But with them, hour after hour, came those who would not go away; who, failing to see the husband, implored a few moments’ conversation with the wife. They had found him out, the eager seekers: newspaper men, the clergy of the west central district and their deacons and deaconesses, missionaries, parish nurses, Salvation Army, Church Army, tradesmen’s touts, photographers, reciters, type-writers, workers and idlers, beggars, busybodies, and chance vagrants from the open street. Already the house was famous among all other lodging-houses. But for the presence of the newly placed “fixed point” at the nearest corner, the lodging-house maids could not have held the door against the worst of the besiegers.

“It is not in my power to assist you,” said the millionaire’s wife in cold dry tones to those lady-visitors of the district—visitors by profession who were accustomed to force entries, and who were not to be baffled here. “You had better write to my husband.”

As yet Mrs. Morton had no friends to help her through the stretching hours of the long dull days. Except for Brief strolls about the Bloomsbury Squares, to Mudie’s for more novels, to the Tottenham Court Road chemist for patent headache medicine, to a glover’s in New Oxford Street for another pair of the black suede gloves, she hardly ever left the shabby front room. Morton, coming home flushed and braced by the keen east winds, reproached her for her stay-at-home habits, and holding her by the shoulders, looked at her pale face with wistful tenderness.

“This life is too lonely for you—but only for a little more. We’ll have our fine new house by Lady Day.” Mrs. Morton smiled and settled herself in her chair by the fire with the new novel.

“Has Lady Sarah been to-day? . . . Ah—Lady Sarah! She must take you out—I will ask her.”

But Mrs. Morton would not consent to. this proposal. Lady Sarah did not really like her. She was sure of it.

Lady Sarah came to see him only—about the work. Lady Sarah made her feel always that she was in the way. She could not be frigidly patronised by Lady Sarah.

Morton, standing by the fireside, stooped and took her hand in his.

“Then come with me. Let me have you by my side now and then, as I go about my work—you said you would help me. My darling, come with me.”

Yes, Mrs. Morton would go with him; but not with Lady Sarah.

On one of these expeditions he bought a present for her—a new coat It was a bright cold afternoon towards the end of January; and, as they walked along the north side of Bedford Square, the wind blowing from the dismal country where his people dwelt stabbed them in the face with its sharp wind-daggers. Morton pointed across the square to a house with an auctioneer’s board standing high above the area railings.

“Look. They have not removed the board; but it’s our house. All signed and sealed! They could not back out now if they wanted to. For your sake I wish they would have given us possession at once. There’s nothing to do. It’s in splendid condition.” And, as they walked on, he described the attractions of their new home. A noble old house it seemed to his mind: spacious and solid and airy, double the size of the adjacent houses; big rooms, and wide passages; heavy doors and stout window-sashes; any number of lofty, well-cupboarded bedrooms; a house built before the days of scamped brickwork and imported joinery “for some great nobleman like Patring-ton.”

“Think of it. A house of her own for my dear to be proud of.”

Mrs. Morton shivered in her short sailor jacket.

“You are cold. You are too thinly clad for our errand.” And he stopped and turned. “I must get my darling a fine new coat. I have seen it, in the shop window. I hadn’t time, or I would have brought it home as a surprise. A glorious warm robe to wrap my queen in.”

He glanced at his watch, another Swiss import with which he had replaced the lost one, and then hurried back with her north-westward to the Hampstead Road.

In a window of the vast cheap shop he showed her the queenly robe; and then, holding her arm still, hurried her into the building.

“Upstairs, sir, to the mantle department,” said the shop-walker.

“No,” said Morton, resolutely. “I want the one in the window.”

“Plenty like it upstairs, sir, to select a fit for madam.”

Arm in arm, they were conducted through the shop land up the wide stairway, past cheap toys, tawdry fancy goods, shiny, sticky furniture, gilt-framed oleographs; by counters piled with servant-girl millinery; through avenues of flannel dressing-gowns, gay blouses, slips, and “neck finishes,” to the far-off mantles. From the glass dome above their heads hung the flags of the nations, lengths of blanketing, cretonnes, and window-curtains. With them and about them surged the wandering multitude of the great shop’s customers; pushing, fingering, “pricing the articles”; nudging each other, drifting away, talking it over, and drifting back to buy. Women all, of the humblest class, but all respectable: grimy householders in the cover-slut marketing ulster, carrying a not too clean bag in one hand, trailing a not too dean child in the other.

“The lady look thuperb in this one,” said the bustling Jew salesman who presided over the mantles. Then, as Mrs. Morton glanced at her reflection in the big dull glass, he added vauntingly—

“There’s nothing like it this side of Regent Street.”

There was certainly nothing like it on the other side. It was a long frieze coat and cape of a mustardy drab colour, lined with the cheapest Italian cloth of the same tint The collar was of crimson cloth, and some inches of imitation satin inside the cape repeated the crimson magnificence as the wings of the cape turned or opened over the frieze-clad arms. Huge smoked pearl buttons and a crimson echo in narrow piping about the pockets and cuffs added a further glory. As Mrs. Morton turned to and fro before the big glass, the lightly-tacked stiffening between the outer material and the lining, above each shoulder and about the neck, cracked ominously. It was the typical product of the quick-devising Jewish brain which notes the trend of public taste, and of the busy East-End hands in the crowded East-End workrooms relentlessly driven to give form to the guiding thought. It was the flashy, dirt-cheap article which all this winter had gone with a rush; and which, already bagging, sagging, and shapeless, dotted the northern streets with its evanescent flash as it drooped about the various figures of its many purchasers.

Nevertheless, to Mr. Morton it was all that a fashionable coat should be, and, as with his own hands he buttoned the big smoked pearls, his eyes lingered lovingly on coat and wearer ere he took his wife in his arms, and before all the world of mantles kissed her.

“And he deserveth a kiss for this, madam,” said the Jew salesman effusively.

But then came a slight difficulty. The multi-millionaire, probing his old leather pouch, could not find enough money to pay the modest bill. The shop knew the name very well—very well indeed; but a name—well, a name was only a name, though it were one to conjure with when the identity of him who used it should be once proved. The shop would send the article to the address of madam; but they could scarcely allow madam to take it away in exchange for a well-worn American, slop-made, sailor jacket. In the cashiers office, the shop’s doubt was dissipated by a bundle of letters from Mr. Morton’s pocket: scrutiny being invited of one from the firm in Essex Street. Then the shop, realising the wonder of truth, and holding it stranger and better than any fiction, prostrated itself in fawning obeisance as the lady and the cloak walked out together.

From the shop they continued their eastward journey by means of the Metropolitan Railway. Morton bought second-class tickets to-day; and in tunnel or station, throughout the train’s slow progress to Aldgate, he talked to his silent wife of his varied schemes—changing from one project to another rapidly and perplexingly, indicating a whole series of future operations in half a dozen words, or dwelling long on a single detail.

“I am moving at last—at last. It is all the delay that makes one toss and turn by night. I shall sleep sounder and sounder as the work goes forward—breathe more freely for each onward step. It’s the weight of our burden that makes me dull and thoughtful. But I’ll be gayer soon. Mary, you never saw a man with a load on his back tarrying to talk and make merry. Down with the sack first, then the laughter, eh? . . . But you help me to carry it, my love. You are helping me now. The music and the light! Do you remember? They are all about me now. . . .

“We are going to one of my black spots. But I mean to make it white. Well chase the shadows, Mary, with the sunlight that I am buying. The air shall be our servant, and we’ll wash the black spots white.”

The black spot which was the end of their journey this afternoon lay near the river, below the old boundary of the parish of St. George-in-the-East, and a little way above Wapping High Street A ride in the tram carried them to the corner of Cannon Street Road, down which they walked; and every step seemed to take them to a more sombre wretchedness. At first there was life in the foreigners’ shops, the bright colours that the Hebrew race love to show, people on the pavements talking together in German or Polish, fat Jews lounging in doorways reading Jewish newspapers, the odour of fried fish in the cold air; but soon after they had passed the stone church all signs of animation seemed to fade and give place to stagnant despair. There was a flicker of life again in St. George’s Street—some factory vans, a group of dock labourers and loafers, a sailor in a blue jersey with a clean canvas bag over his shoulder; but Old Gravel Lane was terrible—black, empty, abjectly miserable.

They crossed the swing bridge at the dock, where the coal-stained water opened out on either hand showing barges, tugs, red-striped funnels of large cargo steamers, and, behind, the masts of sailing ships; and where the keen wind, sharpening its edge on the wide surface of the water, cut and gashed at face and eyes until one reached the shelter of the stupendous walls of the dock-warehouses just below the bridge. Here, they turned to the right and, still facing the unseen river, began to thread their way through an intolerably dismal labyrinth of narrow lanes and alleys. Down still towards the river, he led her through seemingly endless streets of squalid, desolate poverty; and in a street more desolate than all the rest he stopped in front of a wide low arch.

“Mine!” he whispered—“Ours!” and he waved his arm towards the narrow pavement and the crumbling bricks, patched and gaping woodwork, and rag-filled window-panes. ‘Two steps and you stand upon the ground we own”; and he led her beneath the dark arch. “They don’t know; they mustn’t know yet.”

Under the low archway no carriage could have driven, but the dark entry admirably served the purpose for which it was contrived: the passage of costermongers’ barrows. Half a dozen of these barrows stood on one side of the little court, beneath a crazy old shed supported or threatened by the bulging walls of the houses to left and right. They formed the stock of a single proprietor, a letter-out of barrows to the humblest street traders—the loafers who for a day, a week, or a month could lift themselves in the social scale to this level of respectability; or the regular hands who for want of capital remained the thralls of this hire system, understanding as well as a great railway company, and as powerless to prevent, the eating up of gross returns by excessive expenditure upon rolling stock. The doors of the shed stood open now, but chains and rusty padlocks and some iron cross-bars indicated that precautions were taken by night. The end of the court was blocked by a high blank wall. This was the back of a lodging-house with its front door in another street. The rough pavement of the court sloping to a central gutter was broken in a hundred places, and through each gap a black ooze of mud rose and trickled over the stones. In the gutters, and about the central drain-trap, lay refuse or drainage indescribable and appalling, it would seem to all, except to some mangy cats who were picking it over, and who scampered away with arched backs and stiff tails at the approach of visitors. The houses to the right seemed to have settled down at least a foot, beneath their original level; and through and over the broken thresholds it seemed that the black surface-drainage returned home again, to wander or subside in noxious rivulets and pools upon the decaying planks of the narrow passage by the foot of each staircase. Not perhaps twenty years old, these dwellings, like many of their inmates, had fallen into a premature decay: the mortar had tumbled out, the wretched stock bricks themselves had crumbled and chipped until many of the doorways were in ruins. About others, at the height of a man’s elbow, the crumbling brickwork had been smoothed and polished into a horrible imitation of black marble by the rubbing and brushing of dirty arms and dirty bundles.

“Hold your skirts and your cloak close round your ankles,” Morton whispered, “and keep away from the walls. Upstairs. A maimed child for whom I bring hope.”

It was very dark; the heavy stagnant air turned one sick; from beneath unseen doors there crept intolerable odours. She stumbled at the top of the staircase. The lower panels of a door had been kicked inwards, not recently. The marble polish showed on the edges of the wood, and through the largest gap she could see feathers of poultry, rags and shreds of sacking; and a man’s bare foot. Men’s growling voices sounded like the grumbling of unclean beasts in the torment of a narrow den.

Morton tapped with his hand and called through the door—

“I am here. I have come to keep my promise.”

The growling voices ceased; a woman opened the door; and Morton stood aside to allow his wife to enter.

The open door showed the little room in a curious grey twilight. On a heap of rags and rubbish by the fireless hearth, an old man was squatting, busily working with paper and glue upon a pile of battered hats, collected from dust-bins, or gleaned from the harvest of the streets# two half-naked children watched him open-eyed, and seemed to be acting as assistants to his task. At a bench beneath the tightly sealed window, a red-eyed girl of thirteen or fourteen was making match-boxes. The other man with the bare feet was grey and wizened and hairy: a man like a rat Upon the low bed—across the end of it—lay another child covered with a sack, except the face, which was nearly hidden by loathsome sores. But for bed and bench there seemed no furniture of any kind. Black walls, black floor, refuse and filth, and a grey twilight filled by these human ghosts, living and labouring and making a stench as of foul beasts in a twilight den!

“I can’t—I can’t go in.”

Mrs. Morton had turned to her husband and spoken the words in a choking whisper.

“Let me go. I can’t—I can’t stand it.”

She seemed as though about to swoon, but his arm was round her; and he supported, almost carried her down the steep stairs to the external air.

“I know—I know, my darling,” he said gently. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. There’s a shop I know close by. A good friend! You shall wait for me there.”

“Surely,” said the woman of the shop. My lady could stay there and welcome; and from the inner room behind the shop she brought a chair, and, wiping it with the dingy sleeve of her alpaca jacket, placed it near the window.

It was a thoroughly respectable shop; and in spite of losses from customers who took credit ere they vanished, the good woman was thriving. The odds and ends of grocery and general provisions in which she traded were neatly packed on shelves on either side of the fireplace. Beneath them stood the bed on which the woman knelt to draw down any article not in frequent demand: such as the piece of bacon, the cheese, or the tin of gingerbread nuts. One end of the table by the window was occupied by the tea, the sugar, and such things as the neighbourhood demanded in pennyworths, halfpennyworths, and even in farthingworths, every day and all day long; the other end of the table and the space under the table were stacked with cardboard saucers for pot-plants, and cardboard trays, in the making of which the shopkeeper filled in her leisure moments. These were carefully guarded from dirt and dust by sheets of old newspapers. The room behind the shop was let to lodgers, a widow and her daughter who worked at the soap factory in Sand Street. Nice tidy people who gave no trouble, said Mr. Morton’s old friend, who were kind to her own girl that shared the shop bed with her, and who were always bringing home presents for their landlady: as, for instance, the tradesman’s almanack, and the coloured picture of a famous general that held the place of honour on the wall.

Sitting by the window and looking out into the street, Mrs. Morton listened while the woman talked. On the opposite pavement there were children who sat on the doorsteps or played in the gutter. Every now and then the outpouring of a house, or the overflush of a drain, sent a richly laden river flowing by, and then the children were busy and happy. Shirtless, in tatters, half-naked to the biting wind, they lay on their faces and dabbled and sported in the liquid dirt. Mrs. Morton watched the black mud oozing through their tiny fingers; listened to their joyous cries. Presently other children came whooping and gambolling as they guided with bits of stick, or their bare toes, the little boat and rudder provided by the lucky find of a dead mouse. When it stuck fast they went on their knees, and lifted it by the tail ere they started it again. It was dead now, whatever it had been when they found it a minute ago. The mouse-boat passing took the children in its train.

Here, in this “bettermost” shop of the immediate locality, Mrs. Morton sat waiting for her husband, twenty minutes, an hour, an hour and a half, an eternity.

He came back at last, in the midst of the pattering feet and the shrill cries of the children. “Messar, Messar! Chuck’s a copper. Chuck’s copper, Messar, Messar!” She heard the shrill chorus and rose from her chair. He was carrying one of the smallest of the black-faced band, who had been knocked down by the noisy little crowd and wounded in person and pride. Then, though he would not give coppers, he emptied the gingerbread tin and very carefully distributed its contents; and then, after a very few words with the shopkeeper, he was free to go.

“Did you preach to them? You were a long time.”

“No. I told them some fables. I think I reach their hearts quicker with my fables than with the words—of late. They clamoured for a fable.” was later, on the top of a tram, still going eastward, down the endless Commercial Road. It was necessary that he should see some people at a newly opened mission-room; make his arrangements for the future; give his decision in a matter of doubt. But the ride and the fresh air would be pleasant. He was flushed and happy, pleased with his afternoon; and he talked unceasingly. She shivered as she felt him slide his arm within hers—the arm that had held the dirty child. He told the plot of his fables, and of how he had been summoned to the lodging-house, and gratefully thanked for what he had recently done there.

A fortnight ago, it appeared, he had been implored to go and lay a ghost There had been a fight between a sick man and a drunken man, and the sick man had been killed. He had fallen, breaking his head against the wall, or his ribs upon the floor. Whatever it was, in his weak state, the injury had been sufficient; and he had lain for a long time by his empty bed, groaning most pitifully ere he died. The other man, sobered by fear, had bolted, and had been seen no more. The deputy and all in the house alleged that the groaning ghost persistently plagued them and was making the place almost uninhabitable.

“Poor souls,” said Morton, “they were innocent enough. The guilty wretch was not of them. So I prayed, while they stood round me and trembled. Mary, they have slept in peace since then. To-day they told me I had worked a miracle—a miracle; and they thanked me with tears in their eyes.” Then he added thoughtfully, “But it wasn’t a miracle, Mary. There was nothing miraculous about it: only the efficacy of prayer.”

His business at the mission-room was soon concluded; and his afternoon’s work at an end, the interminable homeward journey began; and, on the omnibus to Whitechapel High Street, on the tram to the tram terminus in Theobald’s Road, and walking again in Bloomsbury, he talked to her with briefest pauses of his multitudinous plans. It was nearly dark now; the street lamps in narrowing avenues of smoky flame stretched in an endless perspective. Ahead, the sky had a murky redness—last light of the setting sun; and above, and all about them, the darkness seemed to roll on the wind, as though something born of the black streets and the desolate swamps beyond, stealing onward to fall upon the brilliance and sparkle of the westward town. From her seat on the omnibus, every now and then she could see an empty hansom, rare and belated visitor, hurrying back to its natural haunts of pleasure and pomp. One like a private carriage, with a prancing horse, who gave his driver trouble in his burning haste to leave these sordid scenes and monstrous sights behind him—shying at a tram, snorting and capering past the huge rolling house of those unknown people, and disappearing in a flash of plate glass, varnished panel, and lamplit leather. Such a cabman would have given them a free lift only to steady his horse and ease his aching arms.

“There! Over there—” Morton was standing up, one hand upon her shoulder, and the other pointing northward. “You see that smoke-cloud? You see the top of the chimney? It’s the tallow factory—Clarendon Street. A mile the other side of it—in a straight line—there’s the blackest of my spots. Six acres and a half. Mine! Ours! in a week from now, if all go well. Now look this way,” and he swung his arm backward a little, “over there, two more. One, hard by where you and I first met. Black as ink. Ours, both, in three weeks from now. We’ll chase the shadows with our gold, well change the black to white. . . .

“I’m glad you saw that house. I’m so glad you saw it to-day. I will take you to the place again—and my queen shall walk in the sunlight I have made, and her heart shall glow and those tired eyes dance with her joy in it—when she sees her people in the houses built with her gold.”

CHAPTER X

ONE afternoon young Mr. Bowman came to Sophia Street with a communication for Mr. Morton. It was, he said, an important communication from Mr. Carpenter, which he had been charged to deliver orally and at once.

“You had better wait then,” said Mrs. Morton. “Please sit down.”

He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, very young—twenty-two or twenty-three at most—and extremely shy. He sat as he had been commanded at a corner of the shining iron fireplace, and nursed and stroked his silk hat with a nervous hand, and answered all questions with shy and almost monosyllabic directness.

“You have known my husband a long time?”

“Not—er—not very long.”

“But you are in his employment?”

“Yes.”

He was well dressed, Mrs. Morton noticed; and his clothes, which looked quite new, appeared to have been chosen with discretion. The black silk scarf and the long close-waisted coat gave something of dignity to his boyish face and slim figure. Mrs. Morton smiled, as though wishing, were it possible, to put him at his ease.

“How do you help him? What sort of work is yours?” “Oh, purely clerical.”

“Writing, and that sort of thing?”

“Yes”

“All day long? Don’t you get very tired of it?”

“Oh no.” Mr. Bowman looked up in surprise. “It is absurdly light work. I only wish I had more to do—that it was in my power to give real assistance. Any one could do what I do.”

“Are you in that office in Essex Street?”

“No, I am at the office in Francis Street.”

“What! another office? Is that the place where all the letters are sent to from here—where that old man—Mr. Bigland—takes them to?”

“Yes.”

“Are there many of you there?”

“Only Mr. Bigland and myself.”

“Doesn’t that other man—I never can remember his name—Mr. Griffiths—doesn’t he work there ?’’

“Only occasionally. Only for an hour or two. His work takes him far and wide, you know.”

“Where has he been lately? How far and how wide?” “Well, to Liverpool chiefly, I believe.”

“And do you live at the office—you and the old man?” “Yes, at present, but I believe only till the twenty-fifth of March.”

“Ah! And where does the other—Mr. Griffiths—live?” “He has a house of his own—at Lambeth.”

“And does he move on quarter day also?”

“Oh no. I believe not.”

“You would have heard it mentioned, I suppose?”

Mrs. Morton asked a great number of questions, and gradually young Mr. Bowman ventured to talk a little himself. Then, all at once, mastering his shyness, he told her of his devoted attachment and undying gratitude to her husband.

“I would do anything in the world to serve him.”

He spoke eagerly and nervously, in short, spasmodic sentences, and suddenly relapsed into silence, as though ashamed of himself for having said so much. No one could doubt that he was speaking with deep feeling and with entire sincerity. Mrs. Morton smiled upon him encouragingly.

In the monotony of her days, it seemed that the chance visit of the shy young man made a welcome break. Only to hear her own voice, to talk for a few minutes to any one who was not at once an importunate and irrepressible beggar, seemed to rouse and animate her. Life and light seemed to come back to her dark eyes from the dreamland of her long musings; there was colour in her usually pallid face; and her voice took a firmer, gayer tone. Presently, as Mr. Morton still failed to appear, she decided to have tea without further waiting. The tea was brought in; a fresh pound cake was drawn out of its paper bag; the young man put down his hat and brought his chair to the table; and he and Mrs. Morton were deep in a discussion about the intricacies and difficulties of the German language when her husband returned.

“I am glad that you have been making friends,” said Morton, smiling at them both as he threw off his Inverness cape. “Well, Walter, what news?”

Mr. Bowman’s news was of a cheering character, and his employer rubbed his hands together joyously as he listened.

Mr. Carpenter had desired it to be known that he had, during the last few days, sought in vain to see Mr. Morton for the purpose of informing him that there had been a slight hitch at the works in Lennox Street. The scaf-folders building the staging for the two big cranes, had suspected and denounced a sub-contract in the operations of the scaffolders who were shoring and trussing the excavations, and who had erected the stage for the light crane that lifted the spoil; there had also been a complaint on the subject of overtime, and considerable trouble in organising the night shifts. Now, this afternoon, Mr. Carpenter was happy to be able to state that the dispute had been settled. The contractors had removed the suspected middle-man, their own foremen were placed in control, and each and every scaffolder would draw his pay direct from the contractor’s coffers; all other arrangements had been made; and, henceforth, the work would go on by night and day without danger of a halt.

“Glorious,” said Morton, sipping his cold tea. “Glorious!” and he patted Mr. Bowman on the shoulder, praising him as the good child who had brought the good news.

“This is my walking encyclopaedia, Mary, my living lexicon. There’s nothing learnt by books that isn’t known to Walter. Why, the other morning a professor wrote to me from Warsaw, and Walter answered him in his own tongue. But I mustn’t make him blush. He is as modest as he is clever.”

And indeed Mr. Bowman was blushing from pleasure as he shyly protested against his employer’s affectionate praise.

“You know,” he said, rising to say good-bye to his hostess, “that Mr. Morton always thinks people are all that, in his kindness, he would wish them to be.”

Half the long evening was over when Morton, who had been writing continuously hour after hour, threw down his pen and began to pace the room in sudden restlessness.

“I shan’t sleep unless I see them, Mary. Humour my whim. Slip on your pretty cloak and come with me to Lennox Street to see them working by lamplight. Do.” Mrs. Morton rose slowly and seemed in doubt “Yes,” she said finally, “I’ll go, but I won’t walk. I won’t go in an omnibus. You must take me in a cab and keep it waiting on the street to bring me back in.” Mr. Morton, surprised and doubtful, considered for a moment with contracted forehead. Then his face lighted up, and he answered gaily,

“Yes, we’ll be reckless for once. We’ll have our treat and won’t count the cost. It is waste, extravagance, but no more than our night work. That is reckless extravagance also. The cloak, the cloak, fly!”

It presented a strange scene, this one spot of light and labour in the midst of the darkness of the tired town. Three or four arc-lamps hissing and flickering from immense iron standards threw a garish whiteness over all the ground and its surrounding streets, and made black walls of the night itself to shut them in. From behind the great hoarding there came a turmoil of varied toil—hammering of stone, the rattle and humming of steam-driven machinery, the clinking of chains, the groaning of cart wheels, and the creaking and low thunder of timber. From the gap or gateway in the wooden hoarding, an endless train of staggering horses strained and suffered as they dragged away the rubbish and earthladen carts. Over all the place there seemed to hover, in the upper darkness, the spirit of blind hurry or unappeasable haste which ruled this almost impious disregard of night and day.

As they stood inside the gate for a moment upon the threshold of the office, in which silent weary men were counting the carts, making swift entries, watching, waiting, checking time-sheets, and counting again, another cab emerged from the outer darkness. The fare was Mr. Carpenter, in dress clothes, in crush hat, wrapped in an Astrakhan coat and a white muffler; drawn by invisible strings from club smoking-room or ladies’ drawing-room to assure himself with his own eyes that this phantom house-building was a splendid fact, and not a dream engendered of a snug fireside and a substantial dinner.

Immediately he took command of patron and patron’s wife, and with enveloping, protecting courtesy began to do the honours.

The whole ground had been cleared except in one corner, which the housebreakers had left to the last, and which they would sweep away by daytime in comparative leisure. Here, in the full light of an electric lamp, half a house, looking like a huge discarded toy tom to pieces by a giant’s hand, showed in a sectional view the sites of five or six humble homes. In one room, above the broken floor timbers, the wall-paper looked fresh and new; the fireplace had an iron pot or kettle on the hob; there were two china jars upon the mantelpiece, and a few coloured prints, a little picture-gallery, nailed or pasted to the smart wall-paper. It was as though an earthquake had sent the inmates flying from the room, without time to pack and carry off their household goods. Below these tom houses, a sort of temporary mason’s yard had been established. Saws and chisels and hammers were at work beneath iron roofing; a steam-engine grunted and throbbed; and men clustered round fires in braziers and passed to and fro in the reddish glare of gas or oil flares, while the shaping of the great blocks for the foundations went steadily onward. Two colossal towers which—except that they were made of timber instead of steel—might have been the piers of a wide-spanned railway viaduct rose into the darkness and were the nearly completed supports for the powerful cranes. In the dark pits of the future cellarage and foundations, the timber-men were dragging about the great baulks like black ants on a lamplit ant-heap, while other, and white, ants were already invading their territory with the concrete, stone, and brickwork of the bearing-bed of the great structure. A hooded man, black and sombre as a monk, stood with a flag and signalled to an unseen man perched above his head, who was conducting the movements of the excavating crane that, whistling and snorting, sent down its iron box or bucket and brought it up again to be landed by unseen hands upon the running trollies with a bewildering and unchecked rapidity. It was a place of strange light, strange sounds, and monstrous shadows; in which, while one cowered and dodged away from the shadow, one seemed in danger of being struck and crushed by unsuspected masses of granite, or great beams of wood suddenly springing into movement at the summons of invisible ropes.

“No,” said Carpenter, answering Morton’s questions, “we stand now inside the cloisters—south side. There, by the corner of that shed, the cloister ends.”

“But the hall?” said Morton. “Surely that is the hall—have I lost my way?”

Carpenter pointed to the nearer of the timber towers. “That is in the middle of the great hall. It goes through the roof. It is ten feet above the ridge now

Yes, yes,” cried Morton, “I see it all now.” And he, too, pointed here and there at empty space. “There stands the refectory—the Infirmary straight in front of As the two men talked it was obvious that to them, in imagination, the great house was built As they picked their way through trucks and over wooden sleepers and trolly rails, or looked upward to the swinging lamps, they were walking on tesselated pavement, beneath stone doorways and under carved ceilings. In the racket and disorder, they were enjoying the silence given to the corridors and rooms, by the thickness of stone walls and the stoutness of oaken doors.

“There, the chapel,” Carpenter was leading them. He had given his arm to Mrs. Morton. “The altar window faces us, as we stand here in the garden. By night, just here you will see the stained glass lit up from within, a great coloured picture glowing on the black wall as though thrown there by a magic lantern.”

Presently, drawn away by the clerk of the works to go down into the ant-like pits, they left her. They placed her, with a caution not to move, by a brazier under a shelter of corrugated iron; and from this position she could see her husband and the architect scampering about like the blackest and most excited of all the ants.

Carpenter returned alone with profuse apologies for leaving her so long; but they had become fascinated, and Mr. Morton could not yet break the spell and tear himself away.

Mr. Carpenter had been dining out very little of late, he told Mrs. Morton, because he found his gigantic task so completely absorbing that he was exhausted by dinnertime—so used up that he recoiled in horror from the effort of providing small talk.

“I quite understand/’ said Mrs. Morton in the darkness below the iron roof. “You must not feel called upon to make the effort now, on my account.”

“Indeed no,” said Mr. Carpenter with grave urbanity. “This is a very great privilege, a very great pleasure. A rare pleasure also—we have met on so few occasions.” Mrs. Morton made no response from the darkness. “What I was going to say about dining out was this.” Mr. Carpenter went on with unruffled tone, solemnly courteous. “I did break my rule a night or two ago, and I was going to tell you of the extraordinary interest that is evinced by everybody 6ne meets in you and Mr. Morton. I was the lion of the hour simply because I knew you.”

Then Mr. Carpenter lightly indicated the scene of his entertainment and the character of the company. A big political house, Lady Withemsea’s—“the usual sort of people”; but he made it clear that people usually to be found at Lady Withemsea’s were the highest in the land. And all of them had hung about Mr. Carpenter, and again and again expressed their longing to be as lucky as he: to be in close contact with Mr. and Mrs. Morton.

“Really it is not surprising. Mr. Morton is a very wonderful man. Are you never going to gratify this natural desire, Mrs. Morton?”

It might be that Mr. Bertie had a somewhat snobbish trick of dwelling on the social weight of these friends of his; but in his manner there was a certain protecting kindness, a perhaps pompous thoughtfulness, as of a man of experience speaking to a child, that was very different from the languid condescension of bygone days.

“If I may venture to say so, Mr. Morton has such tremendous force of character that he can have nothing to fear from the pleasures of Society. He is not likely to ’be pushed from his path by the pressure of the frivolous throng—any more than I am myself. And for you, surely it cannot be right altogether to shun these streams of occasional gaiety?”

In the world beyond the Oxford Circus she would meet kind friends waiting open-armed to welcome her, as well as the merely curious. Curious, he hastened to add, because of the growing records of her husband’s noble aims and colossal benevolence.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morton, showing her face in the light from the big lamps. “I should love to come—if my husband would allow me. But I am afraid to ask him.”

The pale face had flushed, and the dark eyes glowed She spoke nervously, excitedly: like a child who has been told of impossible delights.

“Oh, he must,” said Mr. Carpenter with the same protective kindness. “We must bring a little friendly pressure to bear; do a little scheming, if necessary. I am sure it would be good for both of you. I hope you know,” he concluded solemnly, “that I have a very sincere admiration for your husband, Mrs. Morton.”

Certainly Mr. Bertie was a changed man. His great House had steadied him. Upon him there was the dignity which comes to all men from the exercise of power. Flesh and blood, muscle and bone, steam, electricity, were obeying his command. vThe granite blocks won from the far-off hillside were crawling to his hand, sidling and swinging and dropping to their allotted spaces. It was the House built in his brain—his own thought rising into solid stone and iron fact—changing him from the vessel of unfulfilled dreams, marking him for ever with the impalpable impress of achievement. Bertie’s House: though it might be that the engineers had worked out all the strains and stresses, the strength and trustworthiness of materials—a sealed book to Bertie with its complexity of problem and always varying application; though a cunning surveyor had calculated all the quantities, amount of labour, etc., etc.; though another architect had prepared the small-scale contract plans; though a highly qualified clerk of the works, Bertie’s chief of the staff, was con* ducting operations and watching the enemy in the persons of the contractors;—nevertheless Bertie’s own House to dream about and wake about in nightmare agony, to dwell in—all the better part of him, wherever the rest of him might wander—now and for ever more!

Mr. Carpenter, opening his Astrakhan coat and looking at his watch as Morton returned, issued an urgent invitation to supper.

“Do come. We shall be just in time to see all the world and his wife. It is the greatest fun. Don’t say no, Morton. We’ll go on talking about things all through supper. There are certificates I forgot to speak of. Do come.”

Morton, happy and excited after all that he had heard and seen with the clerk of the works’ night deputy, seemed disposed to agree to the proposal.

“Why not? Shall we go, dear? We are out for a treat—reckless and extravagant. Shall we make a night of it?”

“You come as my guests, you know,” said the greatly changed Bertie. “I insist—I insist.”

“Where is it?”, asked Mrs. Morton. “Where is the place we are to go to?”’

Mr. Carpenter named the restaurant. It was the last-opened and most fashionable of all the fashionable restaurants.

“No,” said Mrs. Morton, looking down at the frieze skirts of her long cloak. “It is very kind of you, but I would rather go home. I am tired.”

Morton drew her arm within his, and patted her hand. He was really delighted that the refusal had been made.

“Our own fireside, Carpenter. That’s what suits us best.”

“Can I give you a lift?” asked Mr. Carpenter, as they came out among the straining horses at the gateway. “I’ve a cab waiting. Drop you where you like.”

“Many thanks,” said Mr. Morton rather ruefully. “We have a cab of our own—also waiting.”

As they drove away through the sudden darkness, then out again into a better-lit street, a highway by night as well as day, Morton eagerly called his wife’s attention to girls upon the pavement. They clustered at comers, two or three together, or sauntered alone: fair-haired, darkhaired girls, quite young girls in sailor hats and serge skirts, full-grown girls in smart Spanish hats, bolero jackets, feather boas and silk petticoats; so well dressed, some, that they might without a blush have boldly entered any restaurant in London; too well dressed for shop-girls, out too late for shopkeepers’ daughters.

“The people of our House!” said Morton. “See. More of them! Look. At that one. And those two together— Not sixteen, either of them. Poor lambs. Poor lambs.” Thus, till the cab turned, all along the gay, well-lit street, he counted the people for his House.

Mr. Herbert Carpenter, entering the newly decorated premises in Essex Street, and telling the commissionaire, the boys in the outer room, and anybody else who could hear, that he was in a tremendous hurry, was informed that the partners were for the moment engaged, and that, if he could not wait, he must content himself with a managing clerk.

“Well now, sir,” said the important and rather too familiar subordinate.

“Be good enough to make a note,” said Mr. Carpenter, “that I am to-day giving the contractors a certificate for twenty-five thousand, and that I shall give them another for the same amount almost immediately. You had better put that down in writing—the two cheques to be drawn at once.”

“All right, all right,” said the clerk genially. “Don’t run on like that. What contractors, where? Building—I understand—but we are building in Bethnal Green, in Whitechapel, in Stepney. We are fairly snowed up with it. Now what may be your particular department?”

“I have no department,” said Mr. Carpenter loftily. “I am Mr. Carpenter, the architect.”

“Oh yes, I know who you are, but I want to get at-”

“I thought by your manner you did not know,” said Mr. Carpenter firmly. “Be good enough to remember it, and take the instructions I have given you to your employers as soon as may be possible.”

“Oh very well. I can do that all right,” said the suddenly crestfallen clerk; and Mr. Carpenter, wrapped about in settled dignity and lofty self-composure, left the building.

Decidedly a changed man, of realised purpose and satisfied dream: a man suddenly strengthened by buttresses of fact who henceforth would endure no nonsense from anybody!

Behind varnished doors and baize-covered doors, this very afternoon, during a lull in their labours, the partners had been talking together confidentially. Already a breach had been forced in the thoughtful mind of the junior partner by the assault of a very ugly idea. That next-door house was not, after all, to be a permanent addition.

“I’ll tell you what this is going to mean to us—a succession and a winding-up.”

Mr. Norman, back from New York, smiled.

“There’s a lot of spending in ten millions!” and Mr. Norman jingled a bunch of keys in his trousers pocket.

“Yes, and hell spend it,” said the junior partner excitedly. “Lying awake last night, I calculated it. At his present rate, if he keeps it up, he’ll spend it in two and a half years from now. I went over it again and again, and I couldn’t make it different. I never dropped off till past three. It had set my brain on fire.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Norman, making music with the keys. “How is he spending it? Don’t you see that with each new trust created, with every endowment, with all his operations, he will build up business? From our point of view the money is not going: it is fructifying. It will be our own fault if we aren’t kept busy for my time and for your time.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I really think,” said Mr. Norman, “you may sleep soundly—quite soundly—and cool that fiery brain with a little common sense.”

CHAPTER XI

THE days were lengthening. February was delusively whispering of spring: with trembling lights and faint violet shadows, wooing the land to believe again in one of her rapidly broken promises. In the garden between Stanhope Gate and Apsley House there were yellow and mauve crocuses above the young grass, and a blackbird was whistling the notes of its Valentine-song. Foolish lilacs already showed green envelopes on their small flower-packets; and high above a clump of dingy euonymus and privet an exuberant chestnut had pushed its branches with sticky, amber-coloured buds swollen to the limit of their bursting strain. Dr. Colbeck, with his hands behind his back, walking to and fro, listened to the sound of the carriage wheels without hearing it, looked at a sedate governess and two unruly children on the other side of the railings without seeing them.

Westward, against the watery yellow sky, the pile of buildings at Knightsbridge was becoming a grey, shapeless mass—like the rapid note in the sketch-book of an impressionist painter;—a diffused grey dust seemed to rise in the farther distance to meet the low clouds which hung in smoke-like wreaths; the carriages became fewer, the white disk of the clock at the gate flushed with orange light and became as a harvest moon riding low above the horizon; and still Dr. Colbeck walked backwards and forwards by the big railings, musing, uncertain, wavering in purpose.

Yes, said the servant, her ladyship was at home; her ladyship had come in an hour ago; her ladyship was in her ladyship’s own room. As a friend of the house, as one for whom there could be no limit to hours of admittance, he was ushered up the noble staircase, past those doors behind which the Prince Regent had once held high revel, above the great gilt lantern hanging on its crimson rope, to a higher floor; and in a minute he was seated face to face with the lady of the house.

“I was almost despairing of ever seeing you again,” said Dr. Colbeck. “You are never at home when I come at an orthodox hour, you never go to parties—and you never write to me.”

“I am very glad to see you,” said Lady Sarah with a friendly smile. “But I have been so dreadfully busy. I am so dreadfully busy. I have had time for nothing.”

“Not even for your old friends?”

“Don’t be unkind,” said Lady Sarah. “My old friends have their secured place in my thoughts, whether I see them or not.”

She glanced towards the table by her side—a small table laden with ponderous volumes, together with piles of pamphlets and an opened parcel of printed leaflets.

“I know I am disturbing you,” said Dr. Colbeck, “but let me stay a little while.”

“You are not disturbing me. All I was doing will very well wait.”

“First, I want to ask you about yourself. It distressed me to hear of your illness—in the autumn, I mean. It was sudden; but I hope it was not serious.”

“It was nothing at all—I wasn’t ill, but Dr. Garnet said I ought to have a change. In a week at Umberleigh I was all right again.”

“Run down—nerves perhaps asking for rest?” Dr. Colbeck was smiling gravely. “A touch of sleeplessness, lassitude—bad dreams when the bad sleep came at dawn. Is that what our clever Dr. Garnet discovered?”

“Yes,” said Lady Sarah. “That sort of thing—nothing really.”

She was dressed in black, some soft and graceful material that was not of winter or summer, neither flimsy nor heavy. There was black lace or gauze about the neck, and, upon it, a string of white pearls. The black dress made her hand look whiter than the pearls, as she lifted a bunch of violets from the table and inhaled the faint perfume of their wild spring woodland. Dr. Colbeck— with attention so concentrated upon her that the pretty room; the red walls and the pictures, the china, the books; all the frame in which she sat had vanished—saw in the eyes a shade of wonder, brought there by his questions.

“No, there is nothing serious in all that,” he went on. “But they are just the indecisive symptoms that perplex us doctors. To me they would have suggested a shock. The result of some sharp mental shock. But you had suffered no such shock, had you?”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I think perhaps I had. Yes, it was a shock. I don’t think Dr. Garnet knew, but I had received a great shock.”

For a moment his blood danced in his veins. She was speaking with absolute self-composure. Her low, musical voice had the introspective tone of one who is thinking, but not thinking of the words she employs; that infinitesimal harshness and the vibration he had once observed were gone. Concentrated in his purpose he would not think of those long white fingers and the blue tracery of the slender wrist. He was using his words as a man uses a dissecting knife, with fixed intent. Already he had built the guiding lines on which the train of other questions and answers was to run,—was prepared, as an advocate prepares himself before going into court, for her unspoken replies: from each of which should spring with apparent spontaneousness some new question still leading to the appointed end.

“As you don’t tell me any more, I mustn’t ask you any more.” His keen eyes watching hers sought, as a surgeon’s gently tapping fingers seek, for the flinching or tremor of a half-healed wound.

“There is nothing more to tell you.”

“By the way”—he spoke abruptly, as though starting a new topic—“have you heard anything of the great Mr. Morton lately? Have you ever seen him since that day?”

“Seen him? Of course—frequently. I was with him this afternoon. He still lets me work for him, you know.”

Then Lady Sarah, in the simplest, plainest words, told her old friend of how she had been oppressed by a sense of remorse from the refusal to take in the poor friendless wanderer; of how she had gone to Morton to beg forgiveness. “I failed him in his need,” she said. “And yet he bore no rancour.” He had welcomed her with delight; had laughed away the necessity for explanation; had given her a place—almost her old place—among his faithful followers; and had set her to the work without which her life would now be utterly empty.

“See. There are some words he has written for me,” and she pointed to the printed papers, “to carry with me into the homes I visit. You don’t know—no one who hasn’t seen could understand—the comfort those words will bring to aching hearts I know of. It is wonderful! Heart speaking to heart. I described the people and he sent me a proof to read—because I know them so well,— but I could not alter a word—a syllable/’

Dr. Colbeck winced. She had once been his proofreader. “Then your opinion has not changed with regard to Mr. Morton? You think of him in the same way now as in the past?”

“The same way?” There was trouble in the eyes. He could read the faint, almost imperceptible, tremor of the hidden wound. “How should my opinion change?” she asked. Her eyes were watching his now in vague and embarrassed wonder.

“That would depend upon how you used to think of him,” said Dr. Colbeck gently. “What used you to think?”

“What I thought?” Her eyes had turned, and she was looking at the books on the table. “It would be almost impossible to tell you—if I wanted to.”

“Shall I try to tell you?

“You couldn’t. I scarcely know myself.”

“You thought—what I believe he thinks himself—that he is different from other men.”

“No one can doubt that. Is he not proving it now?”

“Yes, if all I hear be true, he is making a remarkable proof of his sincerity.”

“He is showing the world what one man can do.”

“Exactly. What a man can do—how little, how much. But you thought him more than a man.”

Lady Sarah stretched out her white hand as though to check him.

“Let me go on. I’ll stop if you bid me. Without realising its meaning—or weighing the thought—carried away by his own words—resemblances, memories, vague analogies—you placed him on a pinnacle.”

“I don’t know what I thought”

“You told me so yourself. You admired him as much as any one you had ever read about. He was above nature—the reincarnation of-”

“Don’t go on.”

“Very well. But then came the shock. You were unprepared for his descent to the common things of life—. marriage with a waif for her pretty face.”

“I hope she is worthy of him.”

“Lady Sarah, will you tell me if I am right? That was the shock—the marriage—with her, with anybody? You had never thought of his loving anybody, and asking her to be his wife?”

“No,” said Lady Sarah. “I had never thought of that” His heart leapt with joy. It was true. The sweet unflinching eyes, the steady, sweetly proud gaze of the princess who could not lie, told him it was true. If he could have dropped to his knees by her side and clasped her in his arms, while he whispered his joy in the confirmation of his belief and hope that the prison walls had held secure the treasure of her love I “But whatever I thought then—we’ll never speak of it again, please—I know now,” she continued, “that he is the noblest man that ever breathed. His message to the world is Heaven- born. If you saw him working day by day! Why don’t you see him? I wish you would work for him—with him.”

“I would do anything you wished.”

“Would you?” and she put her hand into his. “Then do that. He asks after you—speaks of you often. May I tell him you will help?”

“Tell him anything you like. I think he is a noble fellow. But, Lady Sarah, I don’t want to talk about Mr. Morton. I want to talk about myself.”

“That is a new characteristic!” said Lady Sarah with a. happy smile as she withdrew her hand.

“Yes, I don’t often talk about myself, but that sort of reticence carries a retribution. If you don’t tell people about yourself, even your dearest friends don’t know you. People may respect you, but they don’t know you. You don’t know me, Lady Sarah.”

“Don’t I? I think I know you very well.”

“What sort of man am I? Behind this dull mask which you have seen so long, what am I? May I for once, tell you?”

He had turned his chair and was speaking with resolute determination. As she looked at his serious face and recognised the change of voice and manner, she understood that what he had just said had real meaning in it, and, staying the commonplace words of smiling encouragement, spoke with earnest sympathy.

“Please tell me.”

“Am I a good man? . . . Yes, you say. But, Lady Sarah, I don’t believe the things you believe. I am not religious as you are. I hide my thoughts, but they are here—carved in my brain—deep grooves or tracks for the settled stream of thought to flow in—unchangeable in course while life lasts; till life ends, for ever; as, to me, it must do, here below—with no hereafter.”

Her hand, pulling at the pearls about her neck, trembled violently.

“You never knew that, so I was forced to tell you,” said Colbeck sadly. “But a man may be an infidel and vet so rule his life as not to break one churchman-law.

. . . Don’t speak. I have not done so. Judged by the moral code, my life has been irregular—in one long episode of life—now closed. Lady Sarah, I had to touch on this theme—no more. You did not know it. So I had to tell you.

“But all my life I have listened to my conscience—I do believe in conscience—have felt all the Christian’s love of his brothers. I am boasting now, you see. You, with your wide sympathy, can surely understand how a man who hopes for no harvest otherwhere than here may sow with diligence and care. I have been a diligent sower.”

“I know you have.” She spoke almost in a whisper.

“Are you horrified? Does it give you pain even to think of the real man behind the mask, shut out from all his paradise of good men’s dreams, not feeling his loss, not greatly caring for the gain—feeling his heaven and his hell all here, not otherwhere?” He took her hand imploringly, holding it tight in both his hands.

“I should never have guessed that you thought—like this.”

“No? I kept it to myself. But there is another thing you never guessed—that I love you.”

Then in a torrent of passionate words he pleaded for his heart’s desire.

“Do you understand? You hold the keys of heaven and of hell for me. You are my now and my hereafter. Eternity of joy or pain hangs on your lips—for me. If I must live without you neither god nor devil could devise for me worse torment than to make me live for ever. Without you—since I first could think of it—I have walked as a shadow in a world of shadows.”

“Oh don’t—don’t speak so wildly.”

She had risen; the force of hi9 longing seemed like a fierce wind making her almost breathless; the white hands warded off his outstretched arms; and her eyes, as they read the passion in his changed face, were full of a surprise akin to fear.

“I won’t—I won’t speak wildly—calmly—yes,” he gasped, struggling with, and mastering his outburst. “But I can’t choose words now—they come.” He dropped his arms and smiled. “There—don’t fear me. I’ll replace the mask. There, see. Now you know. I’m glad I’ve told you— Well?”

“I wish you hadn’t told me. I am sorry you should think of me—like this.” She looked at him now with tears in the kind sweet eyes. “I am sorry—”

“Sorry that you can’t bid me hope. Listen, dear; I don’t ask to hope at once. I have shocked you, pained you in laying bare my thoughts. But I had to tell you all—to be honest. Now you know me. That’s something gained, at least.”

As she moved about the room he followed her. Presently, as she stood before the fire and leaned her arm upon the mantel, he took her hand again and held it—as a man holds a bird that may go free if it will: without pressure, without retaining force. And as they stood thus he pleaded with no visible passion, in calm grave tones; but with all the strength of his strong dear brain given to its task.

She was to think of it in all lights—now and again— without hurry. “Only admit the thought,” he pleaded. “Don’t drive it away for ever because it is new, or strange—or ugly.” He knew that he had nothing to give her, while he asked her to give him paradise. It was a monstrously unfair exchange—he knew that well. But some day—who knows?—who can foretell?—she might be will-mg to make it There was a poor slave, one of her old servants waiting outside in the darkness—who would be waiting there always though the day never dawned for him. She might think of him thus.

No, she said. She could not pretend. She must make him understand. She was honoured, deeply honoured.

“Who is talking wildly now? Do you want to make me think that all I can win is your laughter—a light stroke of satire to punish the fool for his folly?”

“Oh, don’t. You know how much I mean it—how I have always honoured you, as—”

“Yes, yes. As an elder, a wise old fogey—a dull, well-meaning friend to whom you were always kind. You never thought to see him push himself amongst the suitors for your hand.”

“Dr. Colbeck, I want to tell you—I must tell you. You are the first man who has ever asked me to be his wife.”

“Then let me be the last,” and he smiled. “There is only one way to bring that about Accept me without delay. You have but to drop your handkerchief—of course you know that—and young men, old men, all men would be at your feet.”

He loved her, while he smiled, with a yearning love-love for her beauty and her proud candour. Who but his dream-princess would have taken pride in telling him that no prince had wooed her?

She smiled at his praise: but sadly; with no hope for him in her smile. She had made up her mind, long ago, she told him, that probably she would never marry; and in the last year she had decided against marriage. She would feel no void now; the work would fill it.

Then he told her that he would not take her from her work; he would help her in it. He would devote his life to the work as freely as she had devoted hers. It should make no difference. It would be easier for her. Instead of a maid, she would have a man to fetch cabs, hold cloaks, and sit in waiting-rooms. He told her the extent of his income—to be spent to the last shilling as she directed. “A pittance when we think of Morton’s millions, but enough to do some good with wisely spent. I’ll be your purse-bearer, your man-of-all-work. While you do your angel-task and save the souls, I’ll try to heal the bodies. Think of that: to have an all-round man—only a trifle rusty—to do your doctoring! Don’t think my want of faith will ever cause you pain. Forget it. You know I don’t parade it Take me to church. I’ll not disgrace you. I’ll kneel where you kneel, I’ll pray where you pray. And if I don’t believe—it is because I cannot. While you worship God, I’ll worship you .”

Thus he pleaded his cause—and pleaded in vain. ’

“It isn’t because you don’t believe—I hope you will, one day,’’ she said, with wet and faintly red-stained eyes, as she held his hand at parting. “It is myself. I cannot.^’

“You’ll leave me hope,—one ray to save me from the shadows?”

“No, you mustn’t hope. If we can’t be friends—as we always have been—dear Dr. Colbeck, please forget me.”

Safely guarded in the prison walls—secure against Morton; secure against him! Colbeck, walking in the darkness beneath the plane-trees of Hyde Park, thought of it all. No need to have hurried home, no need to curse the slow, staunch ship as it fought the winds and the waves, and to him seemed but to creep upon the waters in its strong homeward flight. He had lost nothing by delay. What should he do now? Go away again? What did it matter where he wandered, or where he halted to rest? Without hope to live for, what good thing can a dreamer do when he wakes?

In the silence and the darkness beneath the trees, as he walked on towards the light and the sounds by the Marble Arch, Dr. Colbeck felt for the lurking hand and clasped it; and hand in hand, step to step, he and the Spirit of Sudden Sadness walked on together.

CHAPTER XII

ONE night, about a week after his interview with Lady Sarah, Colbeck sitting alone in the library of his flat received an unexpected visit It seemed a pleasant room now that order reigned. In the low book-cases all gaps had closed; shoulder to shoulder the army of his silent friends stood in unbroken ranks. A well-dad army, too, they showed—the books of a book-lover who likes to dress each new recruit in sumptuous garments. Dozens of the volumes were presentation copies, gifts from writers to another writer; or essays, that reminded him of his own student days, laid at his feet by students like himself struggling along the stretching path of science. On the walls, water-colour drawings, signed by their painters, artists* proofs, and sketches from the clever penmen, the black and white originals of many a printed page; on every side the pretty odds and ends that come to well-liked men as presents, to doctors most of all—from grateful patients: the Chelsea Shepherdess admired in compliment; the miniature, the snuff-box, or the seal he once had looked at; screens, book-rests, old carved chairs—the unsought spoil of popularity.

He had dined alone in his rooms, meaning to write during the evening. Upon his desk, in the light of a shaded lamp, the materials for authorship were all arranged. He had scribbled a few lines; scratched out; made fresh starts, only to find his once so ready pen copying die old words as though too lazy to invent some new ones. He had sat, pen in hand, looking at the paper, striving to concentrate his will, to force the pen to work; but the stubborn pen and the vagrant thoughts had conquered, driving him away to his deep arm-chair to muse in idleness.

“Mr. Morton, sir, would like to see you.”

As the servant stood at the door, Morton’s strong voice came from the narrow hall.

“Colbeck, my dear fellow, may I come in?”

His manner was that of an old friend hurrying to see another after an enforced absence. He grasped Colbeck’s hand, and shook it with an affectionate vigour.

“You said I might count myself among your friends— so I come to you in my trouble.”

Colbeck bade him welcome; drew another chair to the fire; took from him the big Inverness cloak.

“I am glad to see you. I wanted company. What is the trouble?”

“Take care,” said Morton, “my cloak is muddy. Don’t soil your handsome chairs. Throw it on the floor—or here,” and he took it again; rolled it into a tight bundle and put it on the coal-box. “I have been walking—walking about the streets, for hours. I am in no plight for this smart room. Well-housed, Colbeck—like a duke!” And he glanced about the room admiringly.

Colbeck observed him more closely. His boots were covered with mud; his legs to the knees were splashed with mud; his face was hot and flushed, the grey hair plastered to the forehead in perspiration. But in spite of the violent fatigue he had undergone, he was obviously still in a state of restless excitement “Sit down and tell me quietly what is the matter. My time is yours. We have all the night before us.”

“A true friend, Colbecki Not to be frightened by a ragged visitor.”

Colbeck’s grave calm voice seemed to act like a spell for the moment, and the visitor sank into the offered chair with a sigh of weariness.

“Do you smoke? No? Let me mix you a brandy and soda. … No? You must have some food—a few sandwiches at least,” and Colbeck spoke into a tube by the fireplace. “Very well. Now, quite quietly—so that I may understand it, bit by bit. What’s the trouble?”

“This money,” and he sprang to his feet. “The burden of my weath. I longed for it—I used to long for it— millions. And now, since the money came, I sometimes think it will drive me mad.”

“You shouldn’t say that—even figuratively.”

Morton looked down into the grave face with a shrewd quick glance.

“There spoke the doctor. That’s the doctor’s phrase. The note of warning in the tone,” and he smiled. “You all say that. No, no—I am sane enough. Men call me mad. They always have. Don’t fear, old fellow. That’s not going to happen.”

He sat down again, and continued in a lower voice.

“But, I have been shaken by a doubt. Doubt is a dreadful thing. It is the Devil’s weapon that he’s proudest of. He struck me with it to-day—a blow that told—at half-past four to-day. I have been walking ever since. I’ve walked it off, very nearly-”

“Well, well. Sit still and rest now. You have walked enough.”

“Yes, I’ll rest a little if I may, then I’ll go. My wife will wonder.” He looked into the fire in silence for a few moments. “Colbeck, it’s an oppressive weight to me: it’s nothing when you try to use it. As it goes—I see it clearly. One comer of a weed-grown garden—one narrow patch in all the world-wide garden—cleaned and ready for the seedsman. That’s all I dare to hope for.” “Enough to bring you happiness—in work accomplished.”

“Yes. But I suffer in the task. My people won’t listen—they won’t listen to me now. All the world has changed. A yellow tide has flowed over the world I knew, and I am standing in a quicksand of gold. If I step forward I am swallowed. There is only one foothold left to me—one little piece of rock for the soles of my feet. The love of my wife! Without her I should be lost.”

“Ah! You have been happy in your married life?” “Ineffably—” He was silent again while Colbeck sat silent also, watching him. Gradually his excitement had subsided; the feverish restlessness had gone; he sat motionless, his hands on his mud-stained knees, and looked into the red caverns of the glowing coals.

“Colbeck, you have done me good.” He pushed back his hair from his forehead, and turned with a composed and smiling face. “You are not a mesmerist, old chap. You are something better. You are a good man. That’s why I came to you.”

“Good, am I? Who told you that?”

“I have heard about you. They have told me things—at the London Hospital. That’s where I got your address.”

“Oh, they’ve not forgotten me at the old London. I’m glad of that There. Spend your money there, Morton.

‘They are horribly in debt each year. This year the deficit is heavier than ever.”

“Was heavier, Colbeck. They were in debt.”

“You have done a good deed then,” said Colbeck warmly. “Never doubt as to that”

“No, I’ll not doubt. That’s your advice. But you don’t believe, yourself, Colbeck. It’s all a myth, eh? A pretty fable—if you like—for children and old ladies

Where did you get that from?”

“From you. You are honest—you made me understand in the first minute of our meeting. Never mind, old fellow.” His voice had the friendliest tone, his whole expression an affectionate, tolerant mildness. “You will believe. It’s all true. No fable. I tell you, you’ll believe it one day.”

He got up, and while Colbeck leaned back in his chair and watched him, he walked about the room, not restlessly but with slow, measured paces; and, as he moved about, he picked up some of the pretty things, admired, and with slow care replaced them.

“Lodged like a duke—like a much-loved duke! Now I’ll tell you—quietly—sanely. Eh? You know all about the beautiful House I am building?”

“No. Some one told me you had a house in Bloomsbury.”

“I don’t mean my own house. The House of the Woman of Samaria. Don’t you remember? That’s the thing nearest my heart—the thing I glory in. We are making it more splendid than that good fellow Carpenter could hope for. It shall stand like a palace in the midst of hovels—shaming the black town with its splendour. No waste in that, Colbeck. Not a penny squandered.

Each costly stone, each inch of cunning artistry shall be one word of the Message that I bring. It shall still speak when I have gone.”

Then he told Colbeck how, in his feverish anxiety to see his House completed, he had urged on the work by night as well as day. And last night, in the small hours while he slept, an accident had happened. Supporting timbers in the excavated ground had given way, and three men had been crushed.

“I only heard of it this afternoon, and I hurried to the Middlesex Hospital, where the poor fellows had been carried. Colbeck, they told me at the works that it was nothing—men maimed, not killed. They said these accidents occur more frequently at night than in the daytime.”

“I suppose it is difficult to obtain really adequate light.”

“They said even the best men work in a dull, dazed sort of way at night Such work’s not natural. Carpenter never told me that. As I stood by their beds I felt the guilt of it, as though I had wounded each with my own hands. And one—poor soul—he spoke my thought As he lay there, bandaged and helpless, he cursed me. He cursed me and my money and my House.”

“You should not have let that upset you. You were quite innocent”

“You say so too. Yes, in thought, I was innocent. I’ll have no more night-work. I never knew the risk. But the Devil struck me with doubt, and I walked away in misery. It’s gone now. Poor fellow, he’ll withdraw those words to-morrow. He’ll be glad to take my hand to-morrow and tell me not to fret.”

Each of these men should be pensioned, he said. Like soldiers wounded in the battle-field of labour, they had earned their pensions.

“I have heard of these pensions of yours, Morton—and I own I can’t altogether approve. I don’t say in this case. But don’t you think it tends towards pauperisation?”

“Not if I act with care; and I do, Colbeck. I am very cautious. I don’t give one a day. But here’s an instance. An old woman I have known for years. Seventy, I dare say, and wheeling her barrow of shell-fish every day, and sometimes all day. She was paralysed six years ago, and they said she would never move again; but she returned to her work, and was working up to last November. One night I wheeled the barrow for her. Colbeck, I am a strong man. I was very tired. Could I be wrong in giving her a pension?”

“No, that was all right.”

“Then my new settlements! They can’t be wrong either. And my new scheme. You’ll approve of that I wish you’d do more than approve—I wish you’d take a part in it.”

“What is this new idea?”

“It came to me by chance words. The good thought of a good fellow in a train. The little cripple in the house— in half the houses of the poor, one suffering child—incurable! They lie in their comers in the foul close rooms with upturned faces—not neglected, you know—but suffering. Now and then, they are taken to hospitals, homes for incurable children— there’s a good, well-managed home in Shoreditch! Well, I mean to take those children and give them a home of their own. I’ll lift them out of the smoke and dirt, and put them among flowers and trees.”

“Yes. Do that.”

“Is Talgarth one of your lordly friends, old fellow? Have you ever been to Talgarth Park—in Hertfordshire. No? I thought you knew all these great people. Well, he has let me ground—a hundred acres—and I am building a temporary home. But it is difficult. There are so many things I don’t know. I am deafened by advice, stupefied by various counsel. If I had one man to guide me—one man who knew!”

As he spoke of his schemes his eyes glowed, and he swung his hands in lively gesture; but the restlessness had altogether disappeared. He spoke enthusiastically, eagerly, but without excitement.

“Well,” he said, looking down into Colbeck’s attentive face. “By Talgarth’s Park, as wisely and as cheaply as I can, I am building my home for these incurables.”

“Don’t call them incurables. It’s a bad word. We doctors don’t admit it.”

“No,” said Morton eagerly. “I like that. I like that.”

“At any rate, a child should never hear the word.”

“And shall not—in our home. Colbeck, dear fellow, you understand, this is only a beginning, a trial, a shift to give us time. If all go well, I’ll buy more land—more land than all this Talgarth owns—and build a noble college—with farms and schools and busy workshops—my children’s home, for life. Well?”

“It is a fine idea.”

“Good work to do for any man, eh? Can you see the upturned faces—watching the flies on the broken ceilings, not the birds in a broad blue sky? Hark! . . . What was that, Colbeck? The cry of a child in pain? Dear old fellow, I see you heard it.”

“Yes,” said Colbeck, “I should like to help you in this, if you’ll let me.”

“Let you?” cried Morton exultantly. “Name your price, fix your own salary. Money’s no object. We’ll buy your skill at your own price. . . . Ha, ha! I’ll tell you the payment I offer: the smiles on the lips of our happy children!”

The servant, bringing in a tray with sandwiches, found the visitor hastily putting on his mud-stained cloak.

“No, no, dear fellow, I can’t eat. I should choke—in the pleasure you have given me by your promise.”

Colbeck came out to the stone landing and watched him as he hurried down the stone stairs. As he reached the bottom steps he turned and looked upwards. His strong face was in the full light of the lamp which hung in the vestibule. He could not see his host in the darkness above, but knew that he was still there.

“Sleep soundly, old fellow,” he called to Colbeck. “You have given me sleep. You have driven all my cares away. I shall sleep like a tired child.”

CHAPTER XIII

MR. and Mrs. Morton were established in their new home.

It was a fine old house with twice the depth of the house on either side, and at a moderate expense, according to the firm of decorators called in to distemper walls and whitewash ceilings, it might have been made beautiful. The artistic foreman of the firm, rapidly considering possibilities, advised rural treatment: open hearths, red tiles, oak-lined parlour, hall-sitting-room; countrified prettiness, not the pomp of cities. But the firm’s client proved— aesthetically considered— a dead wall. One might as well have racked one’s brains to please a lamp-post. In his hands, and under his directions, the house speedily developed the air and character of a public institution, or the central office of some widespread and fairly successful charitable organisation.

On the ground floor, a long passage led to a big room at the back of the house. This room with its glass roof, built at some period by a billiard-playing tenant, was too cold to be a pleasant lounge; but, warmed with the china stove that Morton had introduced, it was useful for large gatherings assembled for prayer or discussion. In the passage there was a cloak-room with hat-racks and coat-pegs and some yellow kitchen-chairs, and, here, Morton and his friends could conveniently leave hanging those outer garments which, coming directly from the haunts of famine and fever, it might not be advisable to take into general society.

On the first floor was Mrs. Morton’s drawing-room; behind that, the library—without any books—known as Mr. Morton’s room.. On the floor above, two bedrooms only, for the millionaire and his wife, were as yet furnished. Above that, on the upper floor, lived Mr. Bigland, Mr. Bowman, and the domestic staff permanently; and, temporarily, all such chance guests as for the moment might be accepting Mr. and Mrs. Morton’s hospitality: two nurses passing through town on their way to the temporary cottages at Hertfordshire, some waifs and strays in charge of a dour female guardian waiting for admission to an over-gorged Home, the girl who was knocked down by the omnibus in the square a week ago to-day.

In another big room on the ground-floor—the original dining-room of the mansion—this strange company drew together about mid-day for their early dinner, their strength sometimes increased by a new and invariably shabby acquaintance who had been picked up by Morton in the public street, and who had escorted him to his own door. On such occasions the odour of the great smoking joint, which always filled the hall and floated and hung high above the drawing-room floor, perhaps reached the humble escort and caused him to linger, until, with a smile and a good fellow, Morton bade him to the feast. Mrs. Morton and her husband did not attend at the daily joint-party, but were served apart at a small round table in still another room. They were alone here, unless, as sometimes happened, Mr. Bigland or Mr. Bowman received an invitation to take his place at this private table. The body of servants which Mrs. Morton now found herself called upon to rule as mistress was by no means large. At their head was Mr. Parrott, an ardent admirer of Mr. Morton’s preaching, who had been a fireman at the docks, a caretaker at a workmen’s club, a doorkeeper at a hospital, and who now called himself a butler. The health of the elderly cook had broken down in the kitchen of an eating-house at Poplar, and as an old and valued friend of her employer she had been given her present easy and luxurious position. Then there was a sort of handy or odd man who, always busy in the basement, only rose to the surface carrying the odorous meat at dinner-time, or, when a meeting was being held, to stand at the door of the back room with a pile of hymn-books for distribution amongst the congregation. The staff was made up by two or three maids, each young and each an orphan, who, as they told their mistress whenever opportunity offered, had known what it was to be homeless. “And might be ’omeless now,” one said, “but for Gawd and the master.” With a weekly allowance or allotment of funds which rendered anything but extreme frugality out of the question, housekeeping in Mrs. Morton’s fine house in Bedford Square was not an oppressively difficult task.

Mr. Bowman and Mr. Bigland one afternoon were working at a deal table beneath the glass roof. Old Mr. Bigland—better dressed than of old in frock coat and blue birds-eye tie, looking as he might have looked in the past had his late newspaper business greatly prospered—was putting lithographed forms into envelopes which Mr. Bowman was addressing. It was a peculiarity of the house that everybody spoke of “the work.” It was the work of the master, secular and sacred, various and intricate, but always going forward. All helped in the work; all participated; but no one had his work: it was always the work. Another peculiarity of the house was, that coals being expensive there was great economy in using them, and rooms were often fireless. This caused the work to wander in the cold April weather from room to room following the glowing grate: so that it was not an unusual thing for Mrs. Morton, reading her novel in the drawing-room, to be surprised by the appearance of the workers intending to establish a working camp by her fireside. With an apology, they would withdraw. The master had supposed that she was out, and had sent them upstairs. To-day, the big china stove was lighted, so here the work went on.

“The Reverend John Morton,” said Mr. Bigland, reading one of the forms, “ ‘regrets that he cannot accede to your request/ Reads well! I had that printed. How many since dinner?”

“About a thousand,” said Mr. Bowman, without looking up from the piles of opened letters.

“They ain’t worth answering.”

“Mr. Morton wishes every letter to be acknowledged.”

“It hinders the work.”

“Mr. Griffiths says it’s useless.” And Bowman handed another basketful of envelopes across the table.

“Mr. Griffiths! What’s he know about it? Why should he speak? Walter, I ain’t sure the master was right to engage a retired detective like him.”

“He wanted some one to prevent imposture.”

“I could have done that. Mr. Griffiths worries him— checks him too much. He hinders the work. In the old days, we got on very well—he and I—no one to hinder us.”

There was a sound of footsteps in the long passage. One could not doubt whose. The ponderous footfall, acquired years ago in thick-soled, regulation boots on a police-constable’s beat, had been little changed by soft calf, glacé kid, or unfettered area of promenade.

“Well,” said Mr. Griffiths, “hard at it I see. Where’s Mr. Morton?”

“He’ll be in soon,” said Mr. Bigland with a slightly important air. “He told me he was only going to the workmen’s dwellings.”

“Ah! He is a good friend to the builders.”

“He is a good friend to everybody,” said Bowman. “Yes.” And Mr. Griffiths put a neatly folded packet of papers on the table. “My notes regarding those cases. Only two are genuine. I have put them on top.”

“Only two?” said Mr. Bigland. “You can’t mean all the others wrong.”

“Old hands. Professional beggars.”

“He’ll be very disappointed,” said Mr. Bigland. “Where’s Mrs. Morton?”

Mr. Griffiths asked the question abruptly of Bowman. “She is at home.”

“How are you getting on with the German lessons?” “Very well.”

“You are content with her?”

“Content?”

“You find her an apt pupil?”

“Yes”

“Ah, I don’t know German.”

“No more do I,” said Bigland.

“I’ve often,” said Griffiths reflectively, “felt the want of it.”

“I never have,” said Mr. Bigland vaingloriously.

The master, soon returning as Bigland had predicted, found these his three disciples or faithful followers thus talking together over their labour.

“Good news, my friends,” he cried gaily. “We are moving at last”

“They are making progress at Stepney?” Griffiths asked.

“Bravely. A little army at work.”

“All the old rookeries gone?”

“The whole nest of dirt and disease swept away as though a cleansing hurricane had passed. Streets and streets of my new dwellings plate high.”

“If only you could get new tenants.”

“How can I, Griffiths? Every one who lived in that black horror shall return to cleanness and light. They won’t believe it, poor souls, but they shall.”

“Meantime—you may not know it—but they are making a pandemonium of your temporary sheds.”

“I know it,” said Morton sadly. “The women came out and reviled me as I went by. The men lying about on the ground never stayed the shrill tongues.” Then cheerfully, “What does it matter? I tell you we are moving apace.”

“When it’s done, I doubt if they’ll even thank you

How many of the lepers came back? I want no thanks. It will be so much done. One plague spot wiped away from the face of the earth. So many human beings given the chance of a life above that of unclean beasts

Well, as you say, sir, it’s a chance.”

“On my way home I looked in at Lennox Street. Carpenter and his contractors are doing wonders,”—rubbing his hands together exultingly—“they are doing wonders by God’s good light. Cranes as high as steeples. Lever and jack, chisel and wrench, wherever I turned among the granite blocks. My beautiful House is rising—rising.”

‘Tam glad you are pleased,” said Mr. Bigland.

“My good old friend, I have been unbearable—in a fever to be doing. But you have all borne with me. I’ll be easier now.” c “You see,” said Mr. Griffiths, “you have so many irons in the fire.”

“And they seemed stone cold. At last the fire is roaring.”

“How’s the Children’s Hospital?”

“Nearly finished, man. A wire to say they’ll be ready for matron and staff in a month from now.”

“What a change in Talgarth Park,” said Mr. Bigland. “What a grand change.”

“It is not unsightly,” said Morton somewhat apologetically. “Lord Talgarth will own that it is not really ugly.”

“He has written to you,” said Bowman, pausing in his task.

“I shall be easier now,” Morton repeated, going to the stove and warming his hands. “Something done. Something that will last whatever happens to me. I can steady down into my old work again.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Bigland. The old man had followed him to the stove, and he spoke now in low, eager tones. “The old work. When you did it all yourself— with only me to help you.”

“Yes,” said Morton; and he, too, dropped his voice almost to a whisper. “But the power is sb’pping from me—has slipped since the money came. The power to listen and to judge, to speak and to convince. Only the longing to give—to use my gold—to lighten my burden.”

“The fables!” The old man whispered with intense eagerness. “That’s not gone? You still speak to them in fables?”

“They don’t listen. They are deaf to my words. The chink of gold seems to drown my voice. It is my money, not my teaching, that they grave.”

“They don’t know which is the real gold,” the old man whispered.

Morton smiled at his enthusiastic follower as though grateful for his enthusiasm, and then returned to the table.

“Anything here for me, Griffiths? More revelations, eh! You don’t seem to think it, Griffiths, but in the old days I was a terror to impostors.”

“Really?”

“You don’t believe it, but the rogues all dreaded the mad parson, as they called me.”

“It’s quite true,” said Mr. Bigland. “He used to look at them and they shrivelled up and slunk off,” and he blew out his cheeks. “One look and he blew them away, scattered them like chaff”—with a sour look at Mr. Griffiths—“but, then, he had only me to help him.”

“Well, well,” said Morton deprecatingly, “we mustn’t boast,” and he took the letter that Bowman was waiting to show to him. “What says my Lord of Talgarth?”

“He offers his house furnished,” said Bowman, “at a nominal rent, since you won’t buy it.”

Morton read the letter aloud.

“ ‘The plain fact is, my wife and daughters have taken a dislike to the place. They dread meeting your incurables in the park, and having their horses frightened by some of your hopeless cases on the way to the railway station.’ Rubbish! ‘Note.—We consider no case hopeless, and Dr. Colbeck’s theory denies the existence of incurables/ Good, very good. But, did I write that?” “No,” said Bowman modestly, “I did.”

“You did?” and Morton glanced at the added note again. “Then why do you write my hand?”

“Do I, sir?” and Bowman flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “It’s quite unconsciously, if I do. But I suppose it is from copying so much of your writing, and from admiration and reverence.”

“Nonsense,” said Morton, smiling at him affectionately. “It’s a sign of weakness,” said Bowman. “So they used to tell us at the Board School. If a master was popular all the weaker pupils wrote exactly like him

Then I hope the masters wrote a better hand than I do. Where’s my pension list?” And he picked up the neatly folded papers.

“What a pile! This is the true luxury of wealth. From my hand to theirs. No leakage here. No office expenses charged, eh, Griffiths?” And he began to read the ex-detective’s reports.

“‘No.!. Widow—children—five!’—um, um—‘Has worked incessantly at waistcoat-making for sweating firm—seventeen years. Undoubtedly a deserving case.—Ah, ha—A pension for her.”

“Yes,” said Griffiths, “an honest woman. Told no lies.”

“Good.”

“‘No. 2. One of the saddest cases that has ever come under my knowledge. Undoubtedly deserving. A pension for her. Then the world is not as bad as you would paint it, Griffiths.”

“Oh, I am an optimist.”

“An optimist,” said Morton, “and he would persuade .us that the land is peopled with monsters,” and he laid his hand on Bowman’s shoulder. “But we know—Walter— we, who have seen the dark side of things also, are quicker to catch the points of light/’

Old Mr. Bigland answered for his young friend. “We always tried to find the bright side of things.”

“Well,” said Griffiths, “there are two deserving cases.

Don’t go deeper, sir. There are only two-”

“Out of all this pile?”

“All worthless! It is not my fault, sir—I tried not to be hard—no good. . . . How do you do, madam.” Mrs. Morton had opened the door, and now stood in doubt upon the threshold.

“Are you very busy?”

Morton hastened to her, and took her hand.

“I have only now come in. Forgive me for not going straight upstairs. I heard the dear fellows’ voices and they drew me.”

“I want my tutor. Can you spare him, only a moment?”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Morton carried her books to the deal table, and sat for a minute by Mr. Bowman’s side.

“Mr. Bowman, I am in difficulties again. Look here— you said something about-”

While the tutor and his pupil attacked the difficulty, Morton remained by the open door talking to Mr. Griffiths.

“Any fresh news from America?”

“No. Not yet. It’s a much longer job than I anticipated.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” said Morton, holding the door for his wife as she passed out, the difficulty solved. He lingered talking to his followers for more than a minute; and as, at last, he turned to follow her, he was met at the door by one of the little maids.

“Mr. Park, sir. Mr. Parrott is out, so I answered the door—and he said he wouldn’t go away until he had seen you. He says he must see you, sir.”

“If he must see me, I suppose he must. Show Mr. Park up to the library.”

“Yes, sir.” And the little maid retired.

“Stop,” said Mr. Griffiths. “One moment. This is my department. You must not see him.”

“Why not?”

“He is a dangerous man.”

“I am not afraid.”

“No,” said Mr. Griffiths, “but 7 am. Look here,” and he ran through his papers rapidly. “He is the fellow who made out such a heart-rending tale that you wanted to pension him off-hand without inquiries.”

“Is he, too, unworthy?”

“An unmitigated ruffian. Here we are!” And Mr. Griffiths read from his notes. “Known to police for ten years. Begging-letter writer and blackmailer. Acts as bully for the women he lives with—takes most of their money—and ill treats them. Was in trouble for trying to extort money by threats from the Dean of Northminster, who went in fear of him. A violent character.”

“Is this all true?”

“No question of it,” and Griffiths offered his notes. “This information was given me by the Inspector at Whitechapel.”

“Then I’ll see him myself.” And Morton took the notes.

“Then I’ll be with you—in case-”

“In case he turns nasty. Tut, tut, man, I tun not the;

Dean of Northminster,” and he opened the door. “Stay here and don’t disturb us—” He spoke authoritatively— “I’ll be rid of Mr. Park in five minutes.”

Bowman had risen and was watching his employer with an expression of anxiety.

“Is it wise, sir, to—?”

“It is always wise, my lad, to do your own dirty work,” and Morton closed the door behind him.

Upstairs, in the bare room, Mr. Park was standing by the French windows, looking down at the narrow flagged yard and the slate roof and glass skylights. He turned, and showed himself to be a visitor of most unprepossessing aspect. He was a tall man of about forty, of very powerful frame, and great muscular development, now rather run to seed. His heavy face was pallid and puffy; his close-cropped hair looked rusty like the coat of an ungroomed dog. He wore a black scarf, beneath which showed a dingy calico shirt; he had a piece of black crape round the sleeve of his rough jacket; and he twirled a greasy flat-brimmed bowler in his big, coarse hands.

His host closed the library door and seated himself at the office table—the principal piece of furniture in the room, brought here from the Tottenham Court Road, where for many a day it had braved the inclemencies of the weather as it stood upon the pavement before the crowded shop of a second-hand dealer.

The visitor without an invitation took a seat in front of the window.

“Well, Mr. Park, what do you want?”

“I wanted to see you, sir.”

“Well? You have your wish.”

“Yes, sir; I knew it wasn’t you that was holding me off. your gently heart would be open to my afflictions.”

“Unmerited afflictions—” Morton held a single letter in his hand—*! observe that you say.”

“No man has toiled as I have, sir. Born and bred to better things, I have worked with these hands, sir.”

“Yes, yes. And your wife and children?”

“Taken from me, sir—and now after twenty years of toil for others—I am adrift.”

“How have you worked for others?”

“In charity, benevolence, sir, same as you yourself have given your substance to the poor. What I have given in charity if I was to count-”

“Don’t.”

“No, sir. Give cheerfully and count not. Then when the hand of God was heavy-”

“Don’t use that name.”

“No sir—” Mr.^Park was ruffled by interruption. A faint dark flush came to the puffy cheeks. “No. Quite so. But, sir, in my sore affliction I turned to you—as I always knew of—you with your gentle heart and millions and millions-”

“Didn’t you get my answer?”

Mr. Morton, sitting at the table, ran his hand through his hair thoughtfully, then put his hand behind his back, as though seeking for handkerchief or purse.

“Not your answer, sir, but a hard word from one of your well-paid secretaries. I don’t take that for your answer. That’s why I come.”

“To hear it from my own lips: No.”

“You won’t help me?”

“No.”

“Take care, sir, don’t say what you’d regret.” Mr. Park’s tone was still pleading and suppliant, but it had risen in pitch, and there was a very ugly light in his eyes as they roved round the empty room. “Don’t drive me away desprit. What is it to you—with your thousands to waste and squander how you please? You can’t refuse me.

“I have nothing to waste on impudent scoundrels like you.”

“Scoundrel! What the devil do you mean by-”

“It is the truth. You fill me with disgust.”

“By God, you’ve made a mistake.” Mr. Park had sprung to his feet and drawn a little nearer to the table. “I’m not the sort of poor devil to be blackguarded by every damned parson.”

“Steady now. Lies haven’t helped you and bluster won’t.”

“Won’t it? You think with your cursed money and cant you are almighty, but I’ll be paid for your hard words, Mr. Parson,” and again he looked round the room. “You must be blasted confident to sit here alone preaching damnation to all comers, but, by God, you’ll have to pay me—” and he drew nearer.

“Come here!” said Morton almost in a whisper. “Steady, eh?” And he laughed softly.

“Steady yourself. Is the damn thing loaded?”

Mr. Park, approaching furiously, had stopped and involuntarily recoiled. He was pointing now with an oscillating hand, covered by the short barrel of the nickel-plated revolver that his host had drawn forth from behind his back. No toy—as Mr. Park observed—but a stubby, heavy, brutally business-like weapon.

“Listen—I have all your miserable career written out here.”

The glittering nickel barrel might have been a basilisk, so fascinating did it seem to be to Mr. Park. As he stood at gaze, very erect, and struggling to maintain the gentlemanlike composure proper to one who had known better days, his cheeks fell, and a very sickly smile took the place of the flush of anger.

“On*y my fun. If it is loaded—put it away. Not safe to play with.”

“All written here,” Morton continued. “And they tell me you are a dangerous man. Come here, and I’ll tell you a secret. I am dangerous myself.” And he rose, and, coming from behind the table, advanced a step or two, and his smiling visitor retreated. “I am used to dangerous men. I have lived among them. Before now I have gone alone where men lived in dens and were wild beasts—tigers—and taken a woman away from them— taken her by the hand and led her out from among them.”

While he spoke he was waving the revolver in a manner that seemed reckless and inexpert: bringing it down on Mr. Park, and passing it across him. And each time that Mr. Park was covered, he tried to stand firm, and each time failed more distressingly to do so.

“But this was for them—not for such as you—” Mr. Morton rang the bell, and, returning to the table, laid down the revolver.

“For the tigers,—not for the foul bird of prey.” As he advanced towards the visitor he seemed careful to keep between him and the table. “Not for the bully who is brave with the weak and defenceless—the coward who lives by threats he dare not carry out—except with women.”

Mr. Parrott, returned from his outing, came to answer the bell.

“Show this fellow the door, and, if he ever comes here again, send for a policeman and give him in charge. Go.”

Mr. Park at the door of the room rallied almost completely.

“I’m going, I don’t want to stop to be preached at by a lunatic with firearms.” And then to the servant, very loudly: “I tell you he ain’t safe. He ought to be shut up. There’ll be murder come of it, if he is left out.”

Mr. Bowman’s anxious face appeared in the doorway immediately after Mr. Park’s departure.

“He’s gone? May I come in? Are you alone, sir?” “Yes. Come in. My visitor has left me.”

“I heard his voice, sir, very loud and violent, but I was afraid to disobey you and come up. A pistol? Whose?” “Mine, Walter—didn’t you know I carried one?” And Morton picked up the revolver and stowed it away in the wallet or pocket that lay hidden beneath the skirts of his black coat. “An old habit. A foolish habit now that I am rich, with the detective force wanting to watch over me. But I need no bodyguard, my dear boy, I need no bodyguard.”

CHAPTER XIV

AFTER a cold and windy Easter, as people began to return to London, Mrs. Morton in her new house became aware of tentative advances from what is termed society. From the light-hearted world on the other side of Regent Street there came fluttering to her lonely feet, as she sat by the fire and read her novels, timid little birds of promise: programmes of amateur theatricals; prospectuses of charitable cafes chantants; cards for private views of the winter work of some Honourable Daubers; a circular from a new ladies* club; two or three invitations to lunch with Lady Barker. These, had she been able to entertain them kindly, would naturally have proved the harbingers of more handsome offers.

Lady Tollhurst, after a winter spent at Cannes, hastened to Bedford Square, and seemed as though she would never exhaust herself in expressing the surprise she felt at any reasonable person living there.

“Oh, he ought to have taken Wiltshire House. It was such a chance, don’t you know.”

Beneath the yellow mimosa in Cannes gardens, or on the deck of a yacht as it steamed round the promontory of Monaco, Lady Tollhurst said she had discussed the matter with a very illustrious personage, explaining to him how the money and the empty house had synchronised in occurrence as though it had all been arranged by Providence; and he had agreed that it did indeed seem a wonderful opportunity.

“But, my dear, since you are here, let’s make the best of it.”

Lady Tollhurst, fussy and foolish, was good-natured and devoid of unworthy motives. As she said herself, she had no axe to grind. She regarded the great Mr. Morton as a source of innocent entertainment. Since all chance of obtaining any proprietorial interest in him had slipped from her family for ever, she wished to enjoy him at her ease: precisely as she enjoyed the antics of a droll fellow on the stage, or the humour of a low comedian at a smart supper-party. He was killing, she frankly owned. But for Mrs. Morton she was genuinely sorry. Bertie Carpenter, or somebody else, had told her that Mrs. Morton’s life was dull; and the statement had filled her with pity and kind intentions. To Lady Tollhurst such a trouble seemed the worst tragedy that life could hold; to run short of perpetual amusement, the most dreadful form of indigence that could be imagined.

“And how is that wonderful husband of yours?” said Lady Tollhurst. “He chose your pictures, I suppose?”

Upon the drawing-room walls—distempered in a light terra-cotta tint—there were engravings in maple-wood frames: “The Writing on the Wall”; “The Flight into Egypt”; “The Money Changers in the Temple.” Above the marble slab that formed the mantelshelf there was a large black-framed print—a good reproduction of Righetti’s popular and famous picture of Christ hanging on the Cross. Lady Tollhurst examined the room without attempting to disguise her surprise and interest, as though visiting a museum. The bareness, the wide, empty spaces especially struck her. A sofa on one side of the hearth, an arm-chair on the other; a chair with a pile of Mudie’s books on it; a little table in a comer with the only attempt at ornament which the roqjn contained—cheap trifles from Japan or China; wedding presents: a silver photograph frame filled with portraits of popular and good-looking actors, the gift of Mr. Bowman; a large and handsomely bound Bible, the gift of Mr. Bigland; wrought iron brackets for the electric light—and really, except the shabby carpet, nothing else! Could anything be more original?

“They’re talking about him more than ever,” said Lady Tollhurst, completing her examination. “The questions people ask—you’ve no idea. They seem to think, because I am an old friend, that I have him in my pocket.”

“How can they think that?” said Mrs. Morton listlessly.

“I don’t know. I tell ‘em he’s a regular firework— don’t you know. Not the sort of thing to carry in your pocket. They’re frantic that he won’t allow himself to be looked at like any other lion. And they’re dying to know you”

“Really? I haven’t noticed it.”

“How can you, if you shut yourself up here and see nobody?”

“I should be only too glad to see people.”

“But you can’t see people from Bedford Square. They’re too far off. They’re out of sight.”

“I did not select this house.”

“No, my dear,” said Lady Tollhurst sympathetically, “I’m sure you didn’t,” and she looked at her hostess kindly—“and I don’t believe it agrees with you. You don’t look well. You look positively ill.”

“Oh, I am not ill,” said Mrs. Morton wearily. “I am only bored.”

“Oh, my poor dear girl,” and Lady Tollhurst felt as sincere a pity as though Mrs. Morton had said she was suffering from acute typhoid or double pneumonia. “Oh, we must put a stop to this. We’ll get a doctor to order you to be moved—if necessary.”

“I have a doctor,” said Mrs. Morton. “He orders me medicine—but he says I am all right. So I am, I suppose. Dr. Colbeck, you know.”

“Does he come here? I am glad he comes.”

“Now and then. He is helping my husband in the work.”

Deeply impressed by the sad disclosures of this interview, Lady Tollhurst went away full of kind intentions. Henceforth Mrs. Mgrton was always “my dear” in personal address, and “that poor dear” when spoken of to other people. In spite of the distance, Lady Tollhurst returned to Bloomsbury on several occasions; took Mrs. Morton for drives, giving her all the fresh air to be obtained in the little box of a brougham as it rocked round the Park on its easy cee-springs; and personally conducted her protegee to two large luncheon-parties at Lady Barker’s.

Indeed, not content with such active interposition in the distressing circumstances of Mrs. Morton’s fate, she gradually prepared a strong society column for an attack in force, whenever the moment should seem favourable for such a manoeuvre. Thus, one corps of the great West-End army under General Lady Tollhurst, Brigadier Lady Salcombe, Brigadier Lady Westborough, and a glittering staff of such social leaders, was rapidly mobilised and ready to march so soon as the London season should have fairly begun. Meantime General Bertie Carpenter, also overflowing with real kindly feeling, and mindful of his promise of aid, operating on his own account, developed a turning movement; and, hoping to take, by a coup de main, what he honestly believed to be Mr. Morton’s quite untenable position, delivered battle—and suffered a disastrous defeat.

Reminding his patron and his patron’s wife of how very nearly they had once supped with him, he urged them to gratify his then frustrated hope by coming to dinner, any night, at the same amusing restaurant. At last Mr. Morton accepted this invitation; named his night; and then immediately the thing began to grow. Impelled by a sense of protecting, almost pitying, kindness, Bertie determined to do all honour to Mrs. Morton; and, if honour should come to himself by the entertainment, it could not be helped. Truly it was not personal glory that he sought. But when a man who has not habitually played the part of host gets to work upon the rare task of arranging his dinner-party, he is perhaps apt to overdo the work—in splendour of table decoration, plethora of dainty food, and multitude of guests. In all these points, a most well-meaning Bertie undoubtedly committed excesses. Beginning with a plentiful supply of his biggest people, it came about that in the obsession of his plot he could not look upon a star or blue ribbon, a tiara or a long train, without experiencing a morbid craving to include them in the furniture of the approaching ceremony. Day by day he became more completely the fevered slave of the pompous manager of his fashionable restaurant; each morning on his way to his work he arrived to demand added chairs to the expanding table, to accept avidly the suggestion of still more exotic delicacies; and, as the hour drew nearer, had his tyrant proposed a vintage from grapes picked on the slopes of Olympus, a légume grown in the Elyslan fields, Bertie would not have faltered, or cavilled at the cost.

In the big hall his great people were assembled, seated upon cane chair or glancing at their watches in the shade of palm-trees. Other people not of the party, taking coffee in the upper lounge after earlier dinners, evinced absorbed interest, unremitting attention. The secret had leaked out. It is almost impossible to insinuate a table with fifty covers into the centre of a popular dining saloon where tables for more than eight guests are very rarely seen, and embellish it with fruit-bearing peach-trees in gilt pots, garlands of white satin and hothouse roses, etc., etc., without causing the curious and idle to wish to know who is expected. Everybody in the hotel— from the men giving tickets for cloaks and hats to the Siamese Minister and his attache dining in the farthest comer of the big room—knew that Mr. Morton was expected, and that Mr. Morton was late. Bertie, very pale, but very gracious, without the least languor, a changed man, stood tall and straight and chatted easily with the most exalted of his guests. Only, as he glanced through the glass doors at rare and belated arrivals, they all appeared to him black, and his heart jumped and turned sick again as each, opening his coat, showed a flash of white shirt instead of a black waistcoat.

Mr. Morton did not come.

Instinctively, Bertie guessed what had happened, as he marshalled his guests and started the dinner procession. Some unhappily inopportune call had come from out of the grimy East—a sick man craving ghostly consolation, anything tragically incongruous—and Morton had gone east instead of west. Mrs. Morton, dressed and anxious, was waiting; or had been begged to go alone, and, without courage to face the fine company, perhaps now lay sobbing on a sofa in hysterical disappointment.

“After all, what does it matter?” said a fat false dame. “It is you we came to dine with.”

But a grey old lord, linking his arm in that of another as he mounted the few steps in front of the dining-room doors, spoke in ire.

“I call it dam nonsense—being made a fool of. I’d go away if I wasn’t so infernally hungry.”

Bertie, very pale and haggard in the face of disaster, sat between a duchess and a marchioness. Naturally, he knew his social text-books too well to suppose that the statutes of the table of the Law could be set at naught even by incalculable millions: Mrs. Morton’s empty chair was hidden by a peach-tree far down the long board.

He smiled and chatted, as he ate each portion of the dust and ashes that his waiters brought to him; and he drank deeply. But half-way through the disastrous banquet he wandered away during four silent moments and stood in one of the rooms of that vast House of his, and emerged therefrom so recovered in mental tone that he could laugh at his discomfiture. He was able to read Morton’s telegram—when it came at last to confirm the accuracy of his surmise—in a loud good-tempered voice to the listening guests at his end of the table, and then to pass it on, without wishing it had been differently worded, to those who had not heard him.

“I must say: Most original,” said the Duchess. “Next time you try to get him, do ask me again.”

Bertie did not think he would try again.

But of all advances against the Morton stronghold perhaps the most astounding was a sort of raid, or totally unsupported dash, made without a note of warning by Lady Emily Tyrrell.

Lady Emily, writing from her beautiful place at Wheatley in Oxfordshire, to Mrs. Morton, abruptly begged for the favour of a week’s visit.

“I have heard so very much of you from Papa and Sarah that I venture to feel quite an old friend though we have never met. My husband and I would be so sincerely pleased if you and Mr. Morton would come and see us and stay for a week. I do so wish you to see our garden. The roses are generally in their glory about the third week in June, so suggest that for your visit. If Sarah cares to come pray tell her to do so. I have not heard from her for quite an age. I will watch the roses and report progress. They are the bait I offer. I cannot suppose you would come to see us only!!!”

Beneath her flowing signature Lady Emily resumed her letter, rather than added a postscript.

“Is your kind husband also a great landowner? Our holding here is quite small, but we love it. And my second boy announces that he will be a land-agent and nothing else. Fancy, he is only five and already decided on his profession. The modem child looks ahead, does not he?”

Lady Emily, like the modem mother, obviously looked very far ahead.

A faint colour came to Lady Sarah’s face when Mrs. Morton mentioned the letter from Wheatley.

“The gardens are really worth seeing,” said Lady Sarah, as though forcing herself to make some comment n her sisters invitation.

She had called one afternoon; had asked to see Mr. Morton; and, on hearing that he was out, would have gone away, but Mrs. Morton, coming through the hall from the large room where her tutor was working, had seen her and begged her to remain.

“Come in here/’ said Mrs. Morton, leading her perhaps unwilling guest into the drawing-room. “We’ll have some tea—directly.”

“You are very kind,” said Lady Sarah, “and perhaps I may do my father’s errand by telling you now. My father told me to say he is anxious to call.”

Mrs. Morton with a gesture invited Lady Sarah to sit down.

“I am honoured.”

“He wants to speak to Mr. Morton.”

“I feel the honour for him then. You look dreadfully pale. Are you ill?”

“Only rather tired,” said Lady Sarah. “I have been among your husband’s people.”

“They are tiring.”

Lady Sarah looked at her hostess in surprise. Then, after a pause, she said slowly and kindly, “I was very sorry to hear that you had been feeling ill.”

“Oh, I am all right.”

“Dr. Colbeck seems to think-”

“Dr. Colbeck can’t do me any good.”

“He is very clever.”

“Lady Sarah—I wish you would be my friend.”

“I am your friend,” said Lady Sarah nervously. “I am sure I am very often here.”

“Yes, you have been very good, you have countenanced me.”

“Don’t use such a word.”

“But if you would do more. If you would really help me.”

“If it were in my power.”

“I think it is. You have great influence with my husband. Use your influence for me.”

Lady Sarah was visibly embarrassed by this enigmatical request.

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I am not complaining of him. He is very good. But he won’t see, he can’t see, that the life he makes me lead is poison.”

“Oh, Mrs. Morton!”

“You are horror-struck. To him and to you, it is all delightful—the good works and the good words. But I am not as good as you. I hate the sound of it all. I hate the sight of his people. They are all the same, with their drawn faces, and their restless eyes, and their tales of sordid misery. Misery and starvation. I want to forget it all.”

“But you have everything now. Wealth-”

“Wealth! I am the wife of a millionaire and am poorer than if I had married a country vicar with five hundred a year. You must see the preposterous position I am placed in by his fantastic notions.”

“Don’t, don’t-”

“With all his money I should still have a hard fight to win acceptance from the world. People would shake their heads and say nothing was known about me.”

“As his wife you are secure against-”

“Ah! You won’t help me.”

“How can I?”

“Tell him that he is wrong to keep me suffocating in this sort of mission-room existence.”

“Oh, Mrs. Morton!”

“That it is cruel of him to grudge me money—” Her breath came fast and her words fell with almost hysterical gasps.—“He flings it out of the windows—gives it to every dead-beat—welcomes every wild-cat scheme—and to me, he doles it out like a miser. If he is wise—he will give me money—to waste too—if I like. I tell you I can’t stand the life here. If he is wise, he will see that I must occupy myself—somehow. Ask Lady Tollhurst if it is just.”

“My aunt is all of the world.”

“And so am I-”

“But I don’t think as she does.”

Mr. Parrott appeared carrying the tea-tray, and, with him, Mr. Bigland.

“The master!” said the old man, beaming upon the two ladies. “The master has come in. He’s coming up the stairs now. I hear him. Ran up to tell you he was back,” and, with a gleeful chuckle, the old fellow disappeared again to greet his master on the stairs.

CHAPTER XV

GRIFFITHS, when are you going to find the woman who nursed my cousin?”

Morton was sitting at the library table. A good fire blazed in the grate: the weather was still unseasonably cold. As Mrs. Morton was going for a drive with Lady Tollhurst, the fire in the big drawing-room had been permitted by Mr. Parrott to die out. He could re-light it in a minute when the mistress returned. Dressed for her excursion, but not in that handsome cloak with the red collar, the mistress like the work had followed the burning coals, and now stood by the window buttoning her black gloves, and watching the pattering rain strike and splash upon the glass roof or the stone flags of the narrow yard. Mr. Griffiths with his back to the fire was warming his coat tails, and looking, as he answered with sententious gravity, very like a Police Inspector who for the moment had mislaid his uniform and been compelled to preside over his office in plain clothes.

“Ah!” said Mr. Griffiths. “You think me slow

Horribly.”

“I am very slow, but very sure.”

“Yes, but I don’t understand-”

“No more do I. In my business we never attempt to understand—we simply find out.”

“I know. You always say that, but it leads us no-whither.”

“Well, I have found out a good deal. Only this morning I heard from America. I can tell you what she is.”

“And where she is?”

“Not yet. A little patience and I shall be able to tell you that too.”

Mrs. Morton, buttoning the last button of her glove, picked up her book from a chair and turned.

“Of whom are you talking?”

“I was telling Mr. Morton what I have learnt about the woman who was with his cousin when he died.”

“Oh, is that all? I thought it was something interesting.”

“My dearest,” said Morton gravely, “is not this of vital interest? I can never rest until I have found her and paid her something of the debt which is owing.”

“What can you owe her?”

“Justice. She sold herself and was cheated of the price of her sin.”

“Oh, leave her to her punishment. The poor wretch may be dead by now.”

“Then I must know that as a certainty. If she is living, I must find her—watch over her, and help her to live cleanly and well.”

“Give her money?”

“Yes, give her money. More than the price she bargained for. Enough to show her its worthlessness when weighed against what she sold.”

“If she were living she would have been quick enough to apply to you. It’s absurd to suppose-”

Mr. Griffiths ventured to interrupt. He had been watching her closely, with a stolid and yet most respectful attention.

“I quite understand Mrs. Morton’s feeling. The same ideas presented themselves to me. A worthless creature whose sole ambition would be gain! She knew of your existence—so much we had from the Liverpool lawyer. Her first move, if in dire need, would be to appeal to your benevolence. Yet, in spite of all our advertisements, she makes no signs. Such a woman can have no conceivable motive for hiding, so it must follow that she is dead.”

“Yes. Then you think she is dead too?”

“No, madam.”

“No?”

“No. You see, you and I, Mrs. Morton, in our complete ignorance, both start on a wrong trail as it were

How do you mean?”

“We take it for granted—from the circumstances—that this woman was of the lowest class, a woman who would have no sense of shame, no feeling of disgrace. But we are both wrong.”

“Indeed?”

“Completely. My colleagues in America have now worked out her life for me to the hour of her leaving for England—and she has not returned.”

“Well,” said Morton, “how does that help us?”

“She is a woman of good education. A sad story—I sympathise with her. Governess in a rich family, and badly treated. Then cast off, and possibly penniless in a very hard country—I mean the States. This lady was English, but all this happened out there. The easy victim of cruel circumstances and then drifting—one must pity her—drifting on until we find her the chance companion of a dying profligate.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Morton, “we know all that.

Then, if you think she is purposely keeping out of the way, what good can it do?”

“I simply obey your husband’s orders. He orders me to find her: I have to do it.”

“How can you?”

Mr. Griffiths laughed. His quiet laugh seemed the expression of a perhaps too pompous self-satisfaction.

“Oh, there is no difficulty. We poor detectives get more and less than justice. We are always fools or magicians. Of course we are neither. Ours is a thankless, but an easy trade. This case seems hard to you. It is child’s play to me—only it demands a little time, a little patience, a little more narrowing down.”

“What do you mean by narrowing down?”

“Will you lend me your book? Thank you. I won’t injure it.” And Mr. Griffiths with slow care put Mrs. Morton’s book upon the floor in front of Mr. Morton’s table.

“An illustration, madam! Say you have lost your book. Well, take that as an example: I am told to find it. The middle of the floor is not the most likely place to leave a volume of love-songs—but I am to guess that it is there. Impossible. I don’t attempt it. I go slowly round and round the room in narrowing circles, till I have narrowed my circle to this little spot”—he stooped, picked up the book, and blew a speck or two of invisible dust from the under surface—“and I have found your book, as slowly, but as certainly as I shall put my hand on this missing woman when the time comes.”

“Thanks,” said Mrs. Morton, taking back her book; “I think I understand what you mean.”

Lady Tollhurst this afternoon was not punctual in keeping her appointment. Mrs. Morton returned to the chair by the window, and read her book, or watched the lessening raindrops, while her husband and Mr. Griffiths went through an interminable mass of letters and accompanying memoranda. As she read, she could hear the low-voiced recitative, unceasing, unvaried, each voice in turn murmuring the words a6 though together they were rehearsing a church service—a terrible litany of crime and pain unknown to the Book of Common Prayer. “Five times last year in Stepney Workhouse—Known to Police as out and outer—” Griffiths was murmuring his notes—“Hawks pot plants, but takes men to ‘the doubles’—Given by the ladies at the Bridge of Hope another start—she sold her stock—drunk on the steps of Bridge of Hope that night and stock all gone—Returned next day and smashed the light above the door” . . . “For Him who died for us I beg and pray and for His sake”—Morton was responding with a letter—“I do implore. No bread I have nor bed nor fire as Reverend Saunders of the Mission knows. It is God’s truth I say and beg and pray and do implore. . .

Mrs. Morton closed her book and pushed back the chair noisily, as Mr. Bowman entered with a basket full of papers.

“Come into the drawing-room,” she said abruptly, “and let me go on with Heine until Lady Tollhurst arrives. May he?” and she turned to her husband—“Can you spare him so long?”

Mr. Morton waved his hand affirmatively and nodded his head again and again; but, working against time, neither he nor Mr. Griffiths looked up or checked the litany as Mrs. Morton and her tutor went away to the cold drawing-room.

Five minutes later Lady Tollhurst’s green-panelled brougham drew up before the door, but without Lady Tollhurst inside it. Her ladyship, the footman told Mr. Parrott, desired her compliments to Mrs. Morton; and would Mrs. Morton be so good as to drive back in the carriage to the dressmaker’s in Albemarle Street where her ladyship had been unavoidably detained. Her ladyship begged Mrs. Morton not to hurry, because her ladyship’s detention in the shop threatened to be protracted. Mrs. Morton, deriving the substance of these polite and thoughtful instructions from Mr. Parrott, did not hurry. She lingered over Heine in the cold room for another five minutes, and coming back with Mr. Bowman to the library, kept her friend’s horses waiting still another five minutes.

“I wanted to tell you something, when you are disengaged for a moment”

Morton looked up with a smile.

“Dearest, I am all attention.”

“I am expecting some people to tea on Wednesday— the day after to-morrow.”

“Lady Sarah?”

“Oh yes—Lady Sarah”—Mrs. Morton said the name in hard dry tones—“and others. Her father is coming too—and Lady Tollhurst. Lord Patrington says he particularly wants to see you.”

“Quite a party, dear? I promise to be in my place— by the side of the hostess.”

“The party will be given in the drawing-room—the only room I have to receive people in. It is supposed to be the drawing-room, although it doesn’t always look like one. As a great favour, may it be free from all traces of the work?”

“Yes, yes—we’ll clear up our litter. I am afraid we are rather untidy.”

“And have a fire here so that the work may proceed—in comfort—behind closed doors.”

“Yes, well have a fire here—if it be necessary.”

“You see, I don’t want my friends to feel that they have been shown into an office, and I do hope that, for this once, you are not expecting any builders or delegates or extraordinary creatures.”

“No,” and Mr. Morton glanced round goodhumouredly. “There will be only ourselves.”

“I will not intrude on Mrs. Morton’s circle,” said Mr. Griffiths.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Morton. “Of course you must come, Mr. Griffiths.”

“Madam, you are very kind, but really I would prefer not to. I am sure that I might shock the susceptibilities of your fashionable friends.”

“Fashionable people are not so easily shocked. You’ll amuse Lady Tollhurst”

Mr. Griffiths smiled, and shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. “Madam, I feel your kindness, but really I beg to be excused.”

“But I can’t excuse you.”

It seemed that Mrs. Morton was quick to see that by her somewhat irritated tone when speaking of the party, she had perhaps unintentionally wounded a humble and a sensitive dependent; and that, seeing this, she was eager to repair the mischief of ill-considered words. While she urged her invitation, Morton watched her with a happy smile of approbation.

“Mr. Griffiths, I shall think you very unkind if you Still refuse. I want you; I have counted on you. Lady Tollhurst has long wished to make your acquaintance; and I promised that she should have this pleasure on .Wednesday. Don’t disappoint us both—please.”

“Madam,” said Mr. Griffiths, bowing gallantly, “as you frame your bidding, it is a command which I cannot but obey.”

Morton rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, and then turned again to his papers. ‘

“Sir,” said Mr. Bowman, reminding his employer of something. “Mrs. Elyard, sir!”

“What about her?”

“You asked her to come to tea on Wednesday afternoon.”

“Of course, I forgot Oh, my dear—the lady I have engaged as matron for our hospital at Talgarth—Mrs. Elyard, a good, Christian soul. You won’t mind giving her a cup of tea?”

“What does it matter if I mind? You have asked her.”

“A splendid woman, dear!”

“Mr. Bowman, you of course I rely on,” said Mrs. Morton.

Mr. Bowman bowed as he opened the door for his employer’s wife.

The work went on with a brief halt when Mr. Parrott brought three breakfast cups of weak tea and three steaks of bread and butter upon an iron tray. Then the work went on again until dusk enveloped the workers, and it became difficult, if not impossible, to read or write. Then the electric light was turned on, and, in a dazzling glitter as it seemed after the darkness, the work went steadily onward. And at last the work—this portion of the work—was done. Papers were gathered together; baskets packed and piled one on another; Mr. Bigland, chuckling beneath his load, trotted up and downstairs as this special branch of the work was put to bed for the night.

“Ah,” said Mr. Griffiths, assisting in the tidying process. “Mrs. Morton’s lesson book! Perhaps you will give it to her, Mr. Bowman.”

Mr. Bowman took the book.

“How is she getting on, Walter?” asked Morton, stretching his muscular arms and his strong back, in relief after his cramped position at the table.

“Very well, sir. But I wanted to ask you if—if you will excuse me from going on with the lessons.”

“Not go on?”

“I find it difficult. It occupies time that might be better spent. It interferes with the real work.”

“Is this truly so? I thought it was a pleasure to you

All work and no play,” said Mr. Griffiths, “is a bad system! Don’t you think, sir, our young friend needs a better sort of relaxation than teaching German—out-of- door exercise and so forth-”

“Yes, you are right, Griffiths. I will tell my wife; but I know she will be disappointed.”

“It will be very easy,” said Mr. Griffiths, “to find another teacher. Some poor German lady to whom it will be a real charity.”

“I shall be glad, sir, to go on till then,” said Mr. Bowman.

Morton was looking at him with a kindly scrutiny. “Yes, we’ll manage all right. You look tired and overworked, Bowman. It was thoughtless of me not to notice it before.”

CHAPTER XVI

THE hour of Mrs. Morton’s tea-party had arrived.

Mrs. Morton, seated upon the sofa by the fire, was ready to receive her guests. All preparations had been made. Not a loose paper, not one stray envelope, remained to distress the frivolous with a hint of business toil: even Mudie’s books, rendered unsightly by the printed labels so mercilessly pasted upon the bright fresh cloth, had been carefully removed. Mr. Bigland’s luxuriously large Bible lay hid behind Mr. Bowman’s silver photograph frame. There were flowers in beribboned vases—branches of lilac, almond blossom and daffodils—and a yellow bowl of primroses. Over the sofa and the arm-chair had been thrown pieces of Oriental muslin of lively, spring-like colours; pink shades of crinkly Japanese paper decorated the lamp brackets; a new silk cushion had a big bow of blue like a sash taken from a party-going child. Upon all these slight efforts after beauty and grace, the tortured eyes of Righetti’s Christ stared down from the black frame in its old position above the mantelpiece.

Downstairs, all provision had been made, all instructions given. If Mr. Parrott failed to answer the bell calls, to rally to each alarum with appropriate succour— more cups, a fresh teapot, hot water, it would not be because nobody had told him what to do. But Mr. Parrott had a good sense of the importance of his duties, and a clear notion of how to perform them. In the Hospital where he had once been engaged, there had been annual banquets, governors* feasts or subscribers’ gatherings, at which all able-bodied servitors of the institution were called upon to bear a helping hand. Mr. Parrott had heard guests—guests of rank—properly announced before to-day; he had enjoyed opportunities of observing the correct etiquette; there was not much that your ordinary toast-master could teach him; he knew the need of clarity of enunciation and volume of sound.

“The Lady Tollhurst,” said Mr. Parrott in stentorian tones, announcing the first guest.

Lady Tollhurst, sitting on the sofa and patting her young friend’s hand really affectionately, at once unfolded a brilliant idea that had occurred to her. Here was an opportunity—don’t you know—only second in desirability to the neglected opportunity offered by Wiltshire House. Very likely there might be difficulties, but they must be swept away with a firm hand. This was a case in which one must put one’s foot down, and all opposition “must be put a stop to at once.”

“My dear, have you heard about Lady Salcombe’s Bazaar?”

“Oh yes—a grand affair.”

Then Lady Tollhurst volubly and excitably explained the attractions of the coming bazaar as considered in its social aspect. It was going to be very smart. Lady Tollhurst confessed that she loathed the word, but no other conveyed the meaning. The pretty people, the rich people, the political leaders like Lady Withemsea, the old-fashioned exclusive absolutely un-get-at-able people like the Peverils and the Beverleys were all to be assembled. Speaking as self-appointed social godmother, and from fifty years’ experience, she knew that this was a golden opportunity for making one’s début with éclat, upon the right stage, and before a picked audience.

“Opening June the twenty-fourth—at the Albert Hall—don’t you know, all the Royalties and that sort of thing. Now you must manage it You, my dear, must have a stall.’’

“My husband would never consent. It would be so expensive.”

“But it is for a charity. Don’t you see, you’ll be able to tell the whole thing is for a charity.”

“What is the charity?”

“I forgot to ask. We’ll find out that easily enough.”

“I am afraid it would cost a lot to furnish a stall,” and Mrs. Morton looked at the Oriental muslin and the crinkly paper.

“Of course,” said Lady Tollhurst, “Lady Salcombe doesn’t want three hand-painted fans and a pin-cushion. Naturally, she is hunting for rich people to do the stalls. The duchesses can do the light refreshments.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“My dear, if you do the thing even recklessly it will be money well spent. Such an introduction. As I am always telling you, the best people want to know you.”

“You are very kind, but-”

“Why, my cousin Lady Westborough-”

“Is she a cousin of yours?”

“Oh, there’s no end to my cousins, worse luck! She saw you that day at Lady Barker’s—I’m glad you went there with me.”

“Isn’t it almost a disgrace to go to Lady Barker’s and nowhere else?”

“Not a bit. Lady Barker invites everybody and nobody wants to go. That’s the only importance of her parties.

As she doesn’t care who she asks it amounts to a downright insult to be left out.”

“Pm glad. I was afraid people might think-”

“Only one person out of ten can think,” said Lady Tollhurst, shrewdly philosophical, “and what that one thinks doesn’t matter. Well, Lady Westborough tried to get hold of you, but she was shy, so she said she thought she would come to-day and bring her daughter

To-day!”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll like her, and she’ll simply adore your husband.”

Mr. Parrott with a clarion note made his announcement.

“The Lord Patrington.”

His lordship, very dignified, but very benignant, bowed over Mrs. Morton’s hand.

“I am so happy to have found you at home.”

“But you only came to see my husband.”

“No, no, to see you.”

“He’ll be here directly.”

Again Mr. Parrott made himself plainly heard at the open door.

“Mr. Carpenter.”

“Well, it is a family party,” said Lady Tollhurst And now Mr. Parrott was busy. The tea and the cakes and the biscuits in charge of his two subordinates had been swiftly pushed on from basement to hall; between the announcements Mr. Parrott had done good work upstairs: brought out a table, then another, laid a tea-cloth, pulled it off with a coat-tail, picked it up, re-laid it and so forth; but every moment the hall-door checked him and delayed him. In rapid succession, and with megaphone power, he had to announce Lady Sarah Joyce; Dr. Colbeck.

As the party grew, the company, consisting as yet of guests mutually acquainted, broke into segments and took care of itself without trouble. Dr. Colbeck for the moment in sole possession of the hostess was talking in friendly confidence.

“I am glad to see you looking better, Mrs. Morton.”

“Oh, I am all right”

“Cough gone?”

“Nearly.”

“And the headaches?”

Mrs. Morton suddenly looking out of window—at the cabs and vans which at all times gave life to the Square—nodded her head.

“Ah, you have benefited by my prescription. Lady Tollhurst’s medicine! No such tonic as a little harmless excitement and amusement; and, luckily, you ladies are able to excite yourselves so easily.”

Mrs. Morton laughed.

“That’s right,” said Dr. Colbeck. “When patients laugh our task is nearly at an end.” And glancing at the others he turned away, as though in fear lest he might appear to be unduly monopolising the attention of the party-giver.

“Doctor.”

Mrs. Morton, still looking at die vans, called him back.

“Yes.”

“When you were in practice, did you ever attend the lower classes V*

“Sometimes.”

“If a poor patient wanted port wine, carriage exercise, and a villa on the Riviera, but of course couldn’t get it, did you prescribe all that just the same?”

“Hardly”

“Well, you have done that to me—I haven’t the money to follow your prescription, and my husband won’t give it to me.”

“I am mystified”—Dr. Colbeck was looking at her with interrogation and doubt in his keen eyes—“really I think Morton has been teaching you the trick of his dark sayings.”

At this moment Mr. Parrott, simply from over-zealous-ness, committed a solecism. Flinging wide the door, he announced with the utmost enthusiasm:

“The Reverend Mr. Morton.”

“Ah, my dear Morton,” cried Lord Patrington with exuberant delight, “at last one sees you again;” and all hastened to welcome their host.

“Have you been with them?” he asked Lady Sarah— drawing her aside, as soon as the general greeting was accomplished.

“All the afternoon. I wish you could have seen their gratitude.”

“Poor souls!”

“They blessed your name.”

“It was yours they should have blessed, for discovering their misery.”

At last the tea-tray and the cakes had arrived. Mr. Parrott and the two little maids were arranging matters with slow dexterity, and Mrs. Morton was hastily filling the first cup.

“Do you know, Mr. Morton,” said Lady Tollhurst, “that the Bishop of Winchboro’ is perfectly furious with you?”

“No. Is he?” Morton was looking round the room. “Ah, teal” And he went to the door; opened it; and called: “Mr. Griffiths—Bigland!”

“Who’s he summoning like that?” asked Lady Toll-hurst.

“You know,” Mrs. Morton, offering the tea-cups, whispered.

“Oh yes. The funny old gentleman. And the other?

Is he the-?”

“Yes.”

“No—really—how interesting!”

Old Mr. Bigland shyly ambling about the room was stopped by Lady Sarah, and, talking to her, almost immediately began to chuckle in great contentment. Mr. Griffiths modestly effaced himself in the farthest background. Mr. Carpenter was assisting Mrs. Morton at the tea-table.

“I beg your pardon,” said Morton returning to Lady Tollhurst “You should tell the Bishop of Winchboro* not to indulge his angry passions.”

“He will be at Lambeth if he lives.”

“I dare say. Our member, Mr. Richard Hammick-”

“I know,” Lord Patrington interpolated. “City man— common, pushing fellow!”

“Kindly, but foolish. He made some application to the Bishop as though on my behalf.”

“Most officious,” said Lord Patrington sympathetically. “So his lordship wrote to inquire if I wanted to return to the fold—as the Archbishop was prepared to give me the great poor parish of St. Bertrand.”

“Yes, but what did you reply?” said Lady Tollhurst smiling.

“No.”

“The stipend did not tempt you l” said Lord Patrington with admiring sympathy.

“Then his lordship wrote to say that it was wrong not to submit to the supreme authority, and that every priest should have a parish. I think I answered befittingly

Did you?” Lady Tollhurst was smiling as though listening to some popular and mischievously entertaining humorist.

‘ “I told him, like Wesley—that my parish was the world; and I added that my supreme authority is said to have left His earthly see nearly two thousand years ago

Oh dear!”

“The old boy replied quite curtly.”

“You really are, you know-” Lady Tollhurst was enraptured—“you really are wonderful-”

“Morton,” said Lord Patrington, taking him by the arm and speaking very confidentially— “I—er—should like a word with you—if it be possible.”

Once more Mr. Parrott opened the door to announce people.

“Mr. Hammick; Mr. Gavell.”

“My dear sir, how are you?” Mr. Hammick was a large bald man, and he shook Morton’s hand with effusive fervour—“To gratify his ardent wish, I have brought my valued friend—Mr. Clement Gavell”—Mr. Gavell grasped the hand of his host with equal if not greater fervour—“you are acquainted with his writings on the Economics of Charity.”

“Mine is a barren province,” said Mr. Gavell, looking about him—“the field of speculation. Where I theorise you have experimented.”

“A very remarkable man,” said Mr. Hammick in a whisper. “You will thank me for the introduction. He has quite an epoch-making scheme for your consideration.”

Morton conducted the new-comers to the tea-table, and presented them to his wife.

Dr. Colbeck, taking a vacant seat by Lady Tollhurst, spoke with mock gravity, imitating the tone of the member of Parliament “A most interesting gathering.”

“So it is,” said Lady Tollhurst “It’s not a bit worse than Lady Barker’s.”

Mrs. Morton had drawn Mr. Griffiths from his modest retreat by the farthest window, and had smilingly compelled him to take a plate of cakes and aid her, as Mr. Carpenter was doing.

“Do you mind offering them?”

Mr. Griffiths bowed, and carried the cakes behind Lady Tollhurst’s chair.

“I want,” said Lady Tollhurst, “to get hold of the tame detective—such an original ideal Where’s the detective hidden?”

Mr. Griffiths solemnly offered the cakes.

“Oh my goodness!” Lady Tollhurst had started violently. “Thanks. You made me jump, don’t you know

Let me gratify your wish,” said Dr. Colbeck blandly, introducing: “Mr. Griffiths, Lady Tollhurst”

“And you really are Mr. Griffiths,” said Lady Tollhurst pleasantly; “you really are the genuine article?” “Oh yes—absolutely.”

“Delightful!”

Mrs. Morton, watchful as a good hostess should be, counting her guests had missed some one. Going to the door, she opened it, and called out, “Mr. Bowman! Mr. Bowman!” and at once the young man appeared.

“Why didn’t you come in before? I couldn’t think where you were.”

Mr. Hammick, sipping his tea, was studying faces while he talked to Mr. Morton.

“Surely that is the Earl of Patrington—yes—to be sure!”

Mrs. Morton provided Mr. Bowman with tea and bread and butter, and then came to see that Lady Toll-hurst was adequately supplied.

“My dear, I am thoroughly enjoying myself. Most amusing!”

“Won’t you have some more tea?”

“No, thank you. Have you asked your husband about the bazaar?”

Mrs. Morton shook her head.

“It’s no good. I am certain he will say no.”

“Well, my dear, if the worst comes to the worst, you must sell in the crowd—buttonholes or photographs or something.”

“That reminds me,” said Mr. Carpenter. “Mrs. Morton, Hayling wants as many photographs as possible before you give him another sitting.”

“I haven’t one. I haven’t been photographed for years.”

“How extraordinary,” said Lady Tollhurst. “You must go to Burrell. Who is Hayling?”

“The painter. He is doing my portrait on glass—a window.”

“How original!”

“And foolish. A silly idea of my husband’s or Mr. Carpenter’s—I don’t know which deserves the credit”

“Mr. Morton does,” said Carpenter.

“I don’t mind being painted,” said Mrs. Morton. “It’s certain not to be like me. Bat photographers always made me too horrible.”

“You needn’t,” said Lady Tollhurst, “be afraid of them yet. I am, I admit.”

“So you must please tell Mr. Hayling to do without my photograph, for the simple reason that there isn’t one in existence.”

Mr. Griffiths interposed with respectful gallantry.

“I am glad to say that’s not quite correct I have one of you, Mrs. Morton.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I took it myself—only a snapshot—one morning when you and Mr. Morton went to see those injured men at the hospital—a little group—you were stooping over the bedside of a poor fellow. It’s a pretty picture.”

“I know it’s hateful.”

“No, I assure you. I noticed there were none of your photographs about, so I had it enlarged. I’ll show it to you and you’ll own it’s a success.”

“If I do, you must give it to me.”

Mr. Griffiths bowed and smiled, and then strolled away.

“Upon my word,” said Lady Tollhurst, “you would never guess from his manner. Quite the man of the world!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Carpenter, “but he always gives me an uncomfortable sensation, don’t you know, of being wanted.”

“That must be a strange sensation to you, Bertie.” And Lady Tollhurst laughed very heartily at her own little joke.

The cluster of guests by the tea-table had become disintegrated. Host and hostess were side by side. Mr. Hammick, watching and waiting for his opportunity, had button-holed Lord Patrington.

“I had the pleasure of meeting you at luncheon—the opening of the Stockwell Railway Extension—a very delightful party.”

“Oh—ah—yes.”

“You responded for the Upper, and I for the Lower House.”

“What’s this,” said Morton, approaching Lady Toll-hurst, “about Lady Salcombe’s bazaar—and stalls?” “Your wife is to take one.”

“Is it for a worthy object?”

“Excellent,” said Lady Tollhurst hastily. “Ill send you full particulars—to-morrow.”

“How much will the stall cost?”

“Five hundred—to do it well.”

Morton laughed.

“Five hundred! That ought to bring at least one hundred to the charity.”

“Oh, quite.”

“Well, if your charity is really worthy, Lady Tollhurst, we’ll do better than that. I’ll send a cheque for two hundred in my wife’s name. That’s more in my and my wife’s line than your fashionable pastime—isn’t it, Lady Sarah?”

“I am not sure,” said Lady Sarah slowly.

“No?”

“I think the excitement—the fun of the thing—might do Mrs. Morton good.”

“Excitement! Fun!”

“I mean,” said Lady Sarah hurriedly, “I think Mrs. Morton is looking pale and tired. I think she is in the house too much—doesn’t go about enough—” Then, feebly, “Don’t you think so, Aunt Kate?”

“I am sure of it.”

“You alarm me;” and Morton looked towards his wife, who was giving Mr. Gavell his third cup of tea. “To me, she is all sunshine.”

“I don’t mean,” said Lady Sarah, “that I think her really ill.”

“But if she be ill, the open air and bright flowers of the country should be the cure—not the electric light and carmined maidens of a fashionable bazaar. I must speak to Colbeek.”

CHAPTER XVII

THE party was a success. The guests were taking care of themselves; everybody was talking; nobody seemed in an unflattering hurry to get away.

“I happened,” said Mr. Hammick, “to be sitting next his Royal Highness at the banquet.”

“It was your right to be there,” said Mr. Gavell.

“He explained the whole organisation to me,” Mr. Hammick continued, “and I said,”—Mr. Hammick turned to Mr. Morton—“I said, ‘Sir, I can but subscribe my mite. Put me down, sir, for two hundred and fifty guineas’”—He looked very hard at Mr. Morton, and seemed rather crestfallen when Mr. Morton said nothing—“I suppose to a man of your vast means, two-fifty really appears to be a mite. His Royal Highness pronounced it munificent”

“The measure of our means is always the same, Mr. Hammick. If it was all, or a little more than you could afford, it was munificent.”

Mr. Hammick stared blankly.

Mrs. Morton had just introduced young Mr. Bowman to Lady Tollhurst.

“Mr. Bowman is tremendously clever—my tutor, you know.”

“Really.”

“A great linguist,” said Mrs. Morton. “He helps me with my German.”

Morton leaving Mr. Hammick still staring, joined them.

“But you are to have a holiday. Walter has asked to be let off these lessons. We have been overworking him.”

“Is that so?” asked Mrs. Morton, looking at the young man.

“Yes,” said Mr. Bowman. “I am sorry.”

“A walking encyclopaedia,” said Morton. “Lady Toll-hurst, I don’t know what I should do without him.”

Mr. Parrott announced another visitor.

“Mrs. Elyard.”

Mrs. Elyard came into the room briskly, then stopped abruptly, as though surprised at finding herself among so many people. She was a hard-visaged woman of about forty; very severely and sombrely dressed: not in a nurse’s costume, but with the long cloak of the nurse-uniform worn above her dark gown.

“Ah, Mrs. Elyard, welcome, welcome,” and Morton instantly took charge of her.

“I really must be going,” said Lady Tollhurst rising, after a glance at her little watch.

“My dear, Mrs. Elyard,” and Morton led the new visitor to a chair. “Colbeck. Mrs. Elyard, our new matron—a lady of great experience.”

Mrs. Morton bowed very coldly and returned to the tea-table. Dr. Colbeck shook hands cordially, and stood talking to Mrs. Elyard.

“Yes—of course—you were in command at the Ben-ham Nursing Institute.”

“Five years, sir.”

Mr. Carpenter advanced with Mrs. Elyard’s cup of tea, Mrs. Morton following with the milk and sugar. She spoke to Lady Tollhurst in passing.

“Don’t go. Are you frightened away by the new arrival?”

Dr. Colbeck coughed loudly; but could see that Mrs. Elyard had heard this remark. She rose from her chair immediately, and stood to receive the milk.

“I don’t know what’ll happen to my poor horses,” said Lady Tollhurst, “but I suppose a few minutes more can’t hurt ’em,” and she sat down again. “Well, Mr. Bowman, you haven’t told me how you came to know our host. You don’t preach.”

“Oh no.”

“You knew him before he came into his fortune?” “Yes, Mr. Morton saved me from a great danger

My goodness! What a wonderful man he is. What was the danger? Trains?”

“I was in danger of starving.”

Dr. Colbeck and Mrs. Elyard were listening. Mrs. Morton had made a gesture as though to silence him, but Mr. Bowman did not appear to have observed it.

“Good gracious!” cried Lady Tollhurst aghast “Do you really mean-”

“I should have died if he had not brought me food

No?”

“So, you see, Lady Tollhurst, I am bound to him by the heaviest of all chains—gratitude.”

Dr. Colbeck looked at him with complete approval, and spoke in a grave, kind voice.

“You carry your chain in the best way, my dear sir. We can’t always pay our debts. It’s something to acknowledge them.”

“I’ve never had a debt of that sort,” said Mrs. Elyard, putting down her cup and glancing at Mrs. Morton as though wondering if it would be replenished. “But I’ve paid all the others.”

Mrs. Morton did not notice the empty cup. She was watching Mr. Bowman as he silently slipped away and returned to the work in the library.

“You are lucky,” said Dr. Colbeck, “to be able to say that, Mrs. Elyard. I always liked working with your nurses. You trained them well.”

“They needed a firm hand, sir.”

“No doubt—a certain discipline.”

“Not to be relaxed for a moment.”

“That sounds rather severe. But the result was satisfactory.”

“I had thirty of them under me for five years, and. no serious complaints, and only one scandal.”

“Scandal?”

“I must hear this,” said Lady Tollhurst, on the point of going, but unable to tear herself away.

“It was a grave scandal,” said Mrs. Elyard, drawing in her breath. “But I think I acted rightly although I lost my place through it. If you knew what nurses really were, sir-”

“Troublesome, eh?”

“And the married ones are always the worst.” Morton, standing behind the others, was listening attentively. Mrs. Elyard looking up met his eyes, and he gave her a friendly smile.

“Ah, well, well,” said Dr. Colbeck.

“But what,” said Lady Tollhurst, “was the scandal?” “A young married woman, my lady.”

“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Colbeck. “No doubt you smoothed it over very properly.”

“Dr. Colbeck, don’t interrupt,” said Lady Tollhurst. “Well, you were going to tell us-”

“She was a good nurse, but—well, I kept my eye on her. Her husband was a gasfitter, living in Somers Town.”

“Somers Town!” Lady Tollhurst murmured the word sympathetically.

“Our night porter was a bachelor—and his place was in the basement.”

“Yes.”

“Voices had been heard one night in the downstairs corridor. It might have been the porter talking to himself—” Mrs. Elyard smiled grimly—“or it might have been one of the nurses who had joined him after the lights were out.”

“And was that,” asked Lady Tollhurst, “against the rules of the Institution?”

“Yes, against the rules of the Institution, and in my opinion, against all other rules, my lady.”

“Oh!”

“But perhaps I had better leave the subject there.”

“Well—perhaps-” said Dr. Colbeck.

“No, no,” said Lady Tollhurst “Most interesting. Go on. Well?”

“I acted on my suspicions—and they proved correct. After the wards were closed for the night, I quietly brought a chair to the lobby commanding my lady’s door and sat down. I hadn’t long to wait. Thirty minutes after the lights were out, she joined him.”

“And what did you do?”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Elyard, very grimly, “I went quietly to bed. Next morning I summoned my whole staff and I denounced her—denounced her before them all—nurses an men—and sent her packing, to tell what tale she could to the husband she had wronged.” Mrs. Elyard looked round. “And I think I acted rightly.”

“I think it was horrible,” said Mrs. Morton.

“It was very severe,” said Dr. Colbeck. “The poor husband-”

“I can only say,” Lady Tollhurst observed, “that sort of thing would revolutionise society.”

“Why didn’t you stop her,” said Mrs. Morton, “tell her she was discovered, and dismiss her?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Colbeck, “without the public shame

Why should I spare her? She had broken God’s law.”

Morton spoke in a low firm voice.

“You are right. You acted rightly.”

“Ah!” and Mrs. Elyard drew in her breath with intense satisfaction, “you think so?”

“We can show no mercy for such a sin. Marriage is a sacrament—and the woman had broken her vow to God. Cost what it might, our friend Is right, she must suffer for her sin.”

“A hard law, Morton,” said Colbeck, “and a hard judge that knows no mercy.”

“But the law was not made on earth.”

“I can’t think it right. Would you have done it in this lady’s place?”

“Yes—though the woman had been my sister—though it cost me a lifetime’s grief. I would pray never to be called to judge such a sinner—but I should pray that I might do my duty.”

Mr. Parrott, advancing a few steps into the room, in dread of failing to attract attention really bellowed his new announcement ‘The Lady Westborough and Miss Weston.”

Lady Westborough was handsome, painted, beautifully dressed. Miss Weston, a pretty girl of twenty-two or three, had a charming smile and an extremely nervous manner. Mother and daughter, with unerring accuracy, discovered their hostess in a moment, and shook hands with her as though she had been a long-lost friend.

“A drawing-room meeting?” said Lady Westborough. “How very nice,” said Miss Weston.

“That was Mr. Morton speaking?” said Lady Westborough. “But I do hope he has not finished. What is the topic of discussion?”

“How late you are,” said Lady Tollhurst, “I’m just going.”

Miss Weston was looking at the pictures and the furniture. She turned to Mrs. Morton in rapture, and said with her charming smile:

“What a lovely house!”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, indeed—too lovely for words.”

“Emmeline!” said Lady Westborough sharply.

But it was useless for her mother to try to stop her. The poor child was like a pretty clock-work toy wound up and fairly started on her little performance. When taken into strange houses she always expressed rapture, and she had to express it now. Rendered a little more nervous by mamma’s sharp voice, but smiling as prettily as ever, she told Mrs. Morton that it was the dearest, sweetest house that as yet she had ever seen. Then the clock-work ran down abruptly, and she lapsed into smiling silence.

Mr. Hammick was going, and had been waiting to say good-bye.

“What my friend Gavell has been most impressed with is the absence of all splendour—the studied simplicity of your house.”

“Knowing, as I do,” said Mr. Gavell, “your lavish expenditure in other directions.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Hammick, shaking hands, “immensely impressed. It is not every lady who would second your husband’s great views as you do.”

Morton had come forward to bid adieu to his guests. “My wife and I think alike, Mr. Hammick. We have both known poverty. When this lady honoured me by accepting my hand, our prospects were certain toil and possible want. So now, you understand, we are lodged like princes.”

“I don’t despair,” said Mr. Gavell at the door, “of interesting you in my scheme. If you can’t assist me now— perhaps later.”

When Mr. Morton came back into the room Lord Pat-ington took him by the arm.

“You have such a reception, my dear fellow, that it is impossible to get hold of you-”

As he spoke Lord Patrington was drawing his host as far away from the guests as possible. Looking round and seeing that they were alone, in the embrasure of one of the big windows, he continued hurriedly, “The fact is, Morton, I have come to crave your assistance. I am horribly in want of money.”

“In want of money? What for?”

“Necessities. Sarah costs me a great deal with her fad—her philanthropy. I don’t say if you can—if you will lend me-”

“Money? To gild your brass harness, buy new carpets, and give a party at ten shillings a head. No, my friend.”

“You refuse?”

“You heard what those men said? I hold this money in trust. Our carpets are shabby; our harness doesn’t exist. If Lady Sarah wants money she shall have it. The powers of my trust enable me to give to her, but not to you, old boy.”

“That is sufficient, Mr. Morton.”

Lord Patrington waved his arm with a very dignified gesture, and, turning on his heel, went towards the tea-table in search of his hat. “Are you coming, Sarah?” And, without further ceremony, his lordship stalked out of the room, and out of the house.

“Good-bye, my dear,” said Lady Tollhurst. “I never enjoyed myself more.”

“Good-bye, dear Mrs. Morton,” said Lady Wes thorough a little later, “I hope you’ll come and see me soon.”

“Thanks.”

“I want so much to get your help in some work of mine. We really are doing good work and only lack the sinews of war.”

“I fear,” said Mrs. Morton coldly, “that it will not be in my power to assist you.”

“Really!” said Lady Westborough with a lift of the carefully pencilled eyebrows and a sudden change of manner. “It is certainly in your power, but of course— good-bye.”

“Good-bye, dear Mrs. Morton,” said Miss Weston, smiling sweetly; and Mr. Carpenter, also saying goodbye, escorted the smile downstairs to the carriage.

Morton, as though he had learnt how to do it from Lord Patrington, drew Dr. Colbeck into the window and talked to him in a low anxious voice.

“No, no,” said Colbeck, “nothing whatever alarming.

You are sure?”

“Quite. There is a tendency to chest weakness— enough to justify care, but nothing more.”

“And you advise?”

“Well, I think it might be good to try a change of air— and, what’s far more effective, a change of scene.”

“Yes.”

“You know,” said Dr. Colbeck, shaking hands very cordially, “the common round, the daily task doesn’t wind up the spring of life for all of us as it does for you, my iron-nerved friend.”

Morton stood lost in thought while Colbeck thanked his hostess and made his departure. He was roused from his reverie by Mrs. Elyard.

“I have waited for an opportunity to tell you, sir, that I wish you to release me from my engagement.”

“Release you?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Elyard firmly.

“But why? I have counted on you as a tower of strength.”

“I hope I should have done my duty, sir,”—she was looking at Mrs. Morton, who had just sat down very wearily on a chair near the window.—“I love my work. But I should never give you satisfaction.”

“Why not? What has changed your opinion?”

“I think Mrs. Morton has taken a dislike to me”—she was looking straight at her hostess—“I think she would prefer a different matron.”

“What an idea! My dear, tell her she is wrong

Certainly. What can it matter to me who the matron is?”

“I understood you worked side by side with your husband, ma’am. He spoke of you as his right hand; but if-”

Morton lifted his wife’s hand and held it in his.

“And so she is, Mrs. Elyard, and more—my prop, my staff, my guiding star.”

“So I understood,” said Mrs. Elyard drily.

“And she asks you, as I do, to come to us and help us.”

“Is that so, ma’am?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morton impassively, looking straight in front of her. “Of course.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“That’s right,” said Morton cheerfully, and he shook hands with Mrs. Elyard, and then conducted her to the hall. Mrs. Elyard had seemed at first to consider it necessary to make a formal leave-taking of her hostess, but Mrs. Morton had turned her back and did not see this departing guest.

“Good-bye,” said Mr. Griffiths, smiling and polite. “That lady has a great notion of her own dignity, I fancy. But she paid me a compliment. Said she thought mine was one of the most delightful callings a man could follow.”

“Good-bye,” said Lady Sarah, with shy constraint in her voice, “I tried to help you—in the way you asked.”

“Thank you, good-bye.”

Morton had returned after seeing out Mrs. Elyard.

“You have your carriage?”

“No,” said Lady Sarah, “I want to walk. I can get a ’bus when I am tired.”

“I’ll walk with you a little way. I have a telegram to send.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE party was over.

Mrs. Morton standing in one of the windows looked down into the garden of the square, and watched the evening shadows falling. Through the glass one could hear the ceaseless tapping of the horses’ iron hoofs upon the asphalt as the stream of traffic flowed steadily northwards. Certain sounds—the harsh grating of a wheel against the curbstone, the metallic rumbling of a waggon laden with steel girders—produced a faint tinkling vibration in the glass itself. The eastward shadow of the corner house, seen beneath the branches of the two big planes by the smoke-stained railings, had fallen right across Gower Street, making a shadowy cave, into the wide mouth of which the traffic disappeared. Already it was impossible to distinguish the colours on the station cabs and omnibuses and vans, to pick out the rich umber of the Midland from the light brown of the South-Western, or mark the subtle differences of tint-combination between the North-Western and the Great-Western. They passed like black and white sketches of dull London life: street-boats on the sluggish river of colourless life. Black coats all, the daily passengers, filling the pavement from Bloomsbury Street—clerks and more clerks, with inky fingers and strained eyes, homeward bound after all the weary hours—only here and there the figure of a girl just indicated in the mass of males, squeezed tight against brother, cousin, sweetheart, with a gloved hand faintly sketched upon the black arm!

Mr. Parrott, with his two little maids, was noisily removing the tea-things, folding tea-cloths, replacing tables, picking up cake-crumbs. At last the stage was cleared from the debris of the recent festivities. The two little maids retired with the two cups and saucers that had endeavoured to escape their vigilance by taking unsuspected positions and simulating ordinary ornaments upon the mantelpiece. Mr. Parrott, giving a final look round, considered the red fire and decided that coals would be premature.

“I hope, ma’am,” said Mr. Parrott with a modest cough, but in really ill-disguised self-confidence, “that you had no cause for complaint.”

“No,” said Mrs. Morton. “It was all right, thank you

Thank you, ma’am. I am very glad.”

“Has everybody gone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Has Mr. Griffiths gone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you let him out yourself?”

“Yes, ma’am. He went out along of Mr. Bigland

Where is Mr. Bowman?”

“I haven’t noticed him go out. Shall I see if he is in the house, ma’am?”

“No, you need not disturb him.”

Mrs. Morton stood in the window for some time after Mr. Parrott had descended to the circle of the servants to recount his triumphs. Then she went to the library door, opened it, and called softly: “Mr. Bowman.”

She had gone back to the fireplace and was looking into the fire, when the young man appeared in the shadow of the doorway.

“You called me?”

“Yes.”

She did not look round or speak again, until he had closed the door behind him and come to the middle of the room.

“Why don’t you want to go on teaching me?”

“It interferes with the work.”

“That’s not the real reason. You are not afraid of the extra work.”

“I have a great deal to do.”

“And why did you make that speech about your gratitude? You saw I didn’t want you to go over all that.”

“I was questioned. I had to answer.”

“You have a strange way of showing your gratitude— by refusing me the only pleasure of my life.”

“I am very sorry.”

“You are cleverer than other people. You know that I am bored to death, that I would do anything to forget myself and my surroundings—this horrible house and its endless talk of charity and religion—that imbecile old man, and Mr. Griffiths and the rest of it. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You know that I flung myself into my work with you as a momentary escape—that the hours we spent over our books were happy because they gave me occupation and a respite from the life I hate.”

“I am sorry.”

“You pretended that you liked helping me.”

“It was not pretence.”

“Then why do you abandon it? You have some reason and I must know it.”

“I have given my reason.”

“Don’t suppose I’m too dense to see there was meaning in what you said when I tried to stop you just now. There was an insult to me, and you meant it, in the way you spoke of your gratitude.”

“You can’t think that.”

“What else can I think? You meant that I was bound by the same chain. You were reminding me of my duty

No, no.”

“You have sat in judgment on me and found me wanting—lacking in gratitude to our master. You know I am miserable and defenceless, and that the dull ears about us won’t catch the insult of your voice.”

“I would rather die than wound you.”

“Then why are you so hard? Why have you no pity for me? I tell you I am wretched.”

“You mustn’t tell me that.”

“You know it. You can see it.”

“I mustn’t see it. I mustn’t think of it.”

“You mustn’t think of your fellow-slave sinking under the weight of the chain.”

* “Don’t say such horrible things.”

“Why not? It’s the horrible truth. Are you afraid of the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Are you? It’s better to face the truth.”

“Then you shall have it I was talking to myself when I spoke of my burden of debt—not to you; but to the devil within me, warmed back to life by the fire of charity—to the traitor that I have struggled with night and day—to the love that was burning and torturing me.”

“Ah!”

She held out her hand as though to ward him off.

“And this is the truth. I love you better than truth, better than faith, better than honour, and would suffer eternal fires to hold you in my arms like this.”

“My poor fellow-slave!”

She lay quite passive in his arms until, freeing her lips from his, she whispered again—

“My poor fellow-slave!”

.Then, suddenly, she writhed in his embrace and put her hand over his mouth to keep him silent.

“Hush!”

Rapidly, she pushed him .away land down into the armchair; then sprang to the other side of the hearth, and sank upon the sofa. She had been the first to hear the footsteps on the stairs.

Morton, coming into the room, unconscious that there was anybody in it, closed the door; and, moving slowly and cautiously, groped with his hand upon the wall for one of the iron switches.

“Don’t turn on the lamp—I like—the half light.”

“Dearest! I didn’t see you,” and he came towards her. “And Bowman!” He sat beside her on the sofa. “Both weary with much company?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am tired. The twilight rests my eyes.”

“Blind man’s holiday—I like it too. The best hour in the day, the worker’s hour, the children’s hour—when the tales of ghosts and goblins are told and the shadows stand listening behind the chairs—and the future lies bright in the dull heart of the fire. What has the fire been showing to you two children?”

“A great deal.”

“And to you, Walter?”

“Everything.”

“I’ll tell you a fable—if you like: of a selfish old prince; and a beautiful princess, his wife; and their faithful young servant. My prince was very happy, but very selfish; so he never saw what was plain to all his wise men and wise women: that the princess was pale and pining for the sunshine that never came into the grim old castle, and that his brave young servant was worn and weary for want of the rest that the castle never knew. With a scratch of the pen or a wave of his sceptre, the selfish old prince could bring sunshine and rest into the lives of the two beings he most loved on earth. But he never thought of it, till warning words set’him thinking—he was slow to think, but quick to act. Can you read my fable?”

“Yes.”

“I am that selfish man—and this is the grim castle; but I have telegraphed to my Lord Talgarth .accepting his offer; and his beautiful country house is ours to go to when we please. I have hired his golden sunlight and his sleepy meadows—brightness for my pale princess, and rest for my weary clerk.”

CHAPTER XIX

TALGARTH PARK was a beautiful, if not a splendid, place. Situated within easy access of the heart of the metropolis, in a rustic neighbourhood whose sylvan charms have happily been conserved uninjured, with an unusually good train service, church, post and telegraph office at the park gates, this ideal moderate-sized mansion, rich in internal treasures of the highest taste and surrounded by mature gardens and ornamental grounds of exquisite loveliness, offers a unique retreat for a nobleman or gentleman who desires the pleasures of the country and yet cannot altogether sever himself from the avocations of the town. “Or would also be sold,” the estate agents in Pall Mall added lamely; as if they had tired themselves by their descriptive flight and were glad to find themselves on solid ground again. But their noble client having taken what was, to their mind, the somewhat improper course of finding a tenant for himself, they now had instructions to remove “the same” from their register until the twenty-ninth of September next ensuing.

The tram service was really sufficient: although at the little station the two platforms had four metal roads between them, and waiting passengers suffered the mortification of seeing the big expresses tear along the two centre roads—contemptuous tornadoes of screaming iron and rattling woodwork—making an obsequious column of dust hurry after them until it collapsed by the bookstall, where the papers were fluttering sympathetically. But there were always honest jog-trot trains that deigned to recognise a station when they saw it, and, sedately halting, kindly delivered Mr. Morton’s household provisions, Mr. Morton’s hospital stores, Mr. Morton’s little visitors, Mr. Morton’s doctors, nurses, matron, workmen, etc., etc.

The station gates were at one end of the little village street, the park gates were at the other. Past the white lodge—where one of Lord Talgarth’s ancient retainers, an ex-coachman, stood respectfully to attention upon a flagged path, amidst his roses and heliotrope, and mentally disparaged all horses and drivers that passed thereby— the gravel road turned through a small beech wood and showed one almost at once the chimneys of the house. In the street itself, between the churchyard wall and the post-oflice, there was a smaller gate, and a path through the park to the lower gardens—a nearer way for all who could walk. Driving or walking, the distance to this most accessible mansion was not worth speaking of—except by the local flymen, of whom one made much complaint, grumbling of the hill and the hot weather, to Lady Sarah, maidless and in charge of her own luggage, arrived on a June day in response to Mr. and Mrs. Morton’s repeated invitation.

It was a white house, long and low, with all its outward charms upon the garden front. Here, from the long terrace where orange-trees stood in square green tubs and clematis and rose branches trailed above the low stone parapet, it showed itself most pleasant and restful in aspect. Upon the white surface of the washed bricks the big sun-blinds and the bright green trellis-work that supported the flowering creepers looked gaily brilliant; open French windows offered glimpses into dark cool rooms, to which one mounted by shallow stone steps; there were iron balconies upon the upper floor, the carved iron hidden here and there by the climbing jasmine and banksia roses; and at either end of the house a slightly advancing wing had been at some time added in stone, with a loggia, or very deep balcony, above the projecting hexagon of the lower room. In shadows thrown by the orange-trees upon the stone terrace, coloured rugs had been laid; and basket chairs and lounges with luxurious cushions invited one to loll and dream in the soft warm air. It was certainly a complete change from Bloomsbury.

Below the terrace the gardens spread themselves to right and left: stone walls and walls of foliage, yew and ilex; sentinel conifers guarding flowers sleeping in sunlit beds; stone steps leading one downward through banks of azaleas from level to level; arches of thuja that framed green vistas closed by sundial or statue, gleaming white before its leaf-curtain; downward one wandered, by the shallow steps to the floating lilies, to listen to the fountain lazily pealing its tiny chimes, to watch the gold fish glide in the green cave of the gliding water—really, as the Pall Mall agents said, they were pretty gardens.

Beneath the lowest wall, rhododendrons blazed like flower-fireworks in their brief June glory of purple and crimson; and beyond, across the unseen fence, one looked down to the sloping parkland, a chess-board of meadows, copses of hazel and beech, the roofs of the village, the grey church tower, the map-like line of the railway; the tearing Northern pilgrims tamed into the insignificance of miniature toy trains, with streamers of cotton wool behind them as they seemed to creep out of sight in a cutting through a toy hill-side. Among the white stems of the beech-trees the mauve rhododendrons marked the lighter soil by their strong, close growth; and on the lower, richer ground the hedgerow elms carried the proud head that tells of easy circumstances. Over and ‘through the elms, one could see the stretching roofs of the Children’s Home, glittering new and red in the sunlight.

The Home stood on a long ridge of pasture close above the village, and faced due south. There were trees behind it; flowers and trees in front of it. In the long grass of the meadows there were cowslips, marigolds, wild narcissus; and human bluebells—the maimed children in the blue smocks of their play-hours. They played in,the long grass every day, or lay on the verandahs, or were carried on their stretchers, or were wheeled in their perambulators; and, with upturned faces, they watched the swallows hawking high in the summer blue. On one day in each week they were brought—such of them as could be safely brought—to spend the long afternoon in Lord Talgarth’s gardens, to watch the fish, listen to the fountain, and dream that they had been carried to paradise. And on these afternoons, Mrs. Morton, robbed of the privacy proper to a garden, used to go for long drives in the shabby little pony-cart that had been hired from the Talgarth grocer.

At the bottom of the garden Dr. Colbeck, in Panama hat and grey flannels, had come by special appointment to Lady Sarah, in Leghorn straw and white muslin, to conduct her on her first visit to the Children’s Home. It was a close, still afternoon on the day following her arrival; and they walked slowly side by side down the tracks worn through the ripening grass, and talked of books and people and things. It was the first time that they had been alone together for nearly four months.

“It is much larger than I expected,” said Lady Sarah.

He was holding a gate open for her to pass through, and, all along the sunny southward ridge, the low red-tiled buildings stretched before them.

“Yes, it is big enough for a beginning—for a makeshift, as our friend calls it. Over three hundred children already—our space all filled.”

As they mounted the slope through the newly-made parterres—a gaudy carpet of bright blossoms—towards the endless verandahs, he told her rapidly of Morton’s scheme, sketching its final scope: Talgarth’s land, the land of his two neighbours, to be bought; the children’s colony to be established in a walled territory, with college, farms and humming workshops. In quiet business-like tones, as of one member of a public board speaking to another, he showed her how effectively, and yet with what rigid economy, the work so far had been done. He drew her attention to the engine sheds, boards and iron roof, and iron chimney with stays like those of a flag-staff—not a penny wasted in providing the necessary shelter for engines, electric light plant, and pumping gear: the two great necessities, good water, good light, in fullest measure at lowest cost. Kitchens, black and ugly without, boarded and tarred like soldiers’ kitchens in a camp, to be hidden when the cheap privet grew; but, within, clean and cool and sufficient. Coach-houses for the children’s small wheeled carriages, with the padded tray or shelf of their rolling couch; the numberless deck-chairs in the red-tiled verandahs, with the piles of red cloth cushions standing on wooden dressers, an inexhaustible store ready for the nurses to draw from; bamboo blinds to hold the sun out and yet let the air come through; green matted curtains to pull up and down to keep the wind or rain away: everything that comfort could ask, all that prudence should give.

“Yes, I thought you would be pleased,” said Dr. Col-beck in his quiet, business-like voice, as of a public guardian speaking to a public inspector. “I thought you would approve of how he has done it.”

Inside the buildings, which for the most part were on one floor only, there were inclined planes, instead of flights of steps, leading from room to room and along the passages where the irregularities of the ground had forced a change of level—slopes that were not perhaps pleasant to walk upon, but convenient when you moved on wheels. Three big rooms with windows like those in an artist’s studio or a tennis court, filled Lady Sarah, as Dr. Colbeck led her through them, with an emotion that changed, room by room. The first was a great nursery, stocked with a varied treasure of toys: beautiful things and costly things here, not unworthy, some of them, to form the birthday present of a rich bachelor uncle to his favourite little nephew or niece—for the children to whom hitherto reels of cotton and a nailed box-lid had seemed the highest product of the toy-maker’s art. The room made Lady Sarah smile in pleasure. The second was a big schoolroom with long tables and desks, chairs and stools of odd but cunningly devised shape for the small deformed bodies to rest at peace while the small stunted minds drank at the hitherto hidden springs of knowledge. The room drove her smile away, but made her thrill with sympathy. The third big room was a gymnasium, or, rather, a torture chamber of kindly science— the rack, the boot, the little-ease: monstrous instruments of friendly torment, engines for inflicting daily pain, manipulated by loving hands that hoped to mend the bungled work of nature. Here were brave little sufferers hanging on shrivelled arms from polished bars; small bent legs strained to lift the cruel weight that hung from threads of ankles; contracted chests almost bursting the frail distorted cage of brittle bones in the struggle to keep elastic bands from springing out of trembling fingers: the disgraced of nature, so small, so weak, so brave, pausing in their pain to wipe the perspiration from their little brows, smiling at the doctor, and resuming their work. The room made Lady Sarah cry.

“Now I’ll show you the dormitories,” said Dr. Colbeck with the same business-like manner; but suddenly preoccupied, and reading a letter that he had drawn from his pocket, until Lady Sarah had done blowing her nose and had put her lace handkerchief away.

Some of the dormitories—for the least afflicted perhaps—were on an upper floor, approached by steps and slopes, with guard-rails, where the steps came, to aid the male nurses in carrying their burdens. They were large and airy rooms: a chair between each bed; coloured prints on the match-boarding of the walls; deep seats in the windows, cushioned in the bright red cloth; books on hanging shelves. Here and there upon the beds a child lay open-eyed and musing; tired by the sunlight and the air and brought back to rest although the others still enjoyed themselves below. While Dr. Colbeck talked, first to a young doctor and then to a couple of nurses, Lady Sarah talked to a little boy, who lay on his back upon the bed next the door. The sunshine had given him a headache, a nurse told her—something wrong with the spine, but a dear little fellow!

“You mustn’t talk,” said Lady Sarah, “if it makes your head ache.”

“Like to talk,” he said. “Like to talk to you. Never bin here before, ‘ave you?”

“No,” said Lady Sarah, “but I want to come often now.”

“I was de very fust to come ’ere,” he said proudly, turning his head and looking at her with bright, intent eyes, “de very fust of all. Done me good it has. Get up soon and go for a walk. ’E says so ’isself”; and he pointed to Dr. Colbeck talking to the matron, who had just appeared in the doorway of the far end of the room. “ ’E says so ’isself.”

Dr. Colbeck, returning, sat down for a minute in the vacant chair on the other side of the bed. The little chap welcomed him with a smiling face, and immediately, taking his doctor’s hand in both of his, began to slide the big signet ring backwards and forwards on Dr. Colbeck’s finger.

“Don’t like *er” he whispered, with a movement of his bright eyes slyly indicating the matron. ‘ “Don’t like ’er, not at all. Look dere!” and he pointed towards the window. “Naughty—very naughty girl.”

Another tired child, a little girl, from a deep chair had slowly dragged herself up into the cushioned window-seat; and, half-sitting, half-crouching, watched the skimming swallows with a dog-like attention, swaying her small head to and fro in time to the flight of the birds.

“Come away from winder,” said the little fellow reprovingly. “Shouldn’t do that—Naughty! I done that at my ’ome. Fell out o* de window myself. Watching Syd and Mabel dress Mrs. Blake’s cat.” He was talking to Lady Sarah now. Dr. Colbeck had crossed over to the cushioned seat and was speaking to the little girl, who was quite safe, because the lower part of all the windows had been carefully barred. “Mrs. Blake lives close to our ’ome. She’s a lot o’ cats, has Mrs. Blake.”

“Where is your home, dear?” asked Lady Sarah.

“Notting Hill. Ever bin there? It’s a big town, Not-ting Hill is. Bigger than what Talgarth is.”

As Lady Sarah and Dr. Colbeck walked away from the children’s makeshift home, she asked him as her first question—

“That little boy we talked to—will he ever be able to walk?”

“I hope so,” said Dr. Colbeck. “I think so,” he added firmly. “But he will have a long time to wait before that happens—ten or a dozen years—or even more. But he shall walk before we have done with him.”

It was cooler now; the shadows of the well-fed elms stretched in a stealthy march across the fragrant meadows. Walking through the long grass Dr. Colbeck looked at his watch—a present, one of many such watches, with inscription and date, from the medical staff of a hospital. There was no need to hurry for the jog-trot London train.

“We might cross the park and go back through the beech-woods. It’s not far and it’s very pretty—but I suppose we had better return by the gardens. You would be late for afternoon tea.”

“I would rather have the wood than the tea,” said Lady Sarah.

They strolled along another path through the long grass, pausing in the shade of a tree to look up to the line of crimson fire made by the rhododendrons, the green caps of the sentinel firs, and the white front of the house. showing above the garden verdure and seeming in the dazzling light to blink with the shaded eyelids formed by the bright sun-blinds. And, as they strolled and lingered, they talked of indifferent things—books and people and places.

Beneath the branches of the beech-trees they walked upon grey moss through narrow aisles of cool grey shadow, surrounded by the slender white columns that supported the green roof of the wood—a broken roof showing patches of blue sky above the rents. Where the sunlight struck through to the floor, one saw a dancing, faintly coloured rainbow, and the violets and late primroses suddenly springing from grey shadow to coloured life. It was restful and church-like—Lady Sarah thought—the true church-light, as though tempered and toned by old glass windows.

In the heart of the wood a vista had been ruthlessly cut by its lord and master, to show off his mauve rhododendrons. The sawn trunks of the murdered beech-trees formed a ghastly avenue on either side; and, before it, his lordship had placed a comfortable seat to enable one comfortably to enjoy the work of his busy brain and his busy axe. Here, Lady Sarah and her escort sat and talked: without thought of the train, without care for the tea-kettle.

“Dr. Colbeck,” said Lady Sarah, shyly asking another question, “you know what you told me—that day—about your belief.”

“Or my want of belief. Yes?”

“I have thought about it ever since, and I feel I must ask you—you don’t mind what I say, do you? … In your work here—among these children—don’t you see anything, that, beginning in a doubt, might lead you some day to think differently?”

“No,” said Dr. Colbeck firmly—“nothing—absolutely nothing.”

“I can’t understand it Knowing you as I do—I could not have guessed it.”

Dr. Colbeck looked at her and smiled, with the grave, kind smile of a man speaking to a child; and, as he spoke, he took her ungloved hand in his, as a man takes a child’s hand, almost automatically, to show kindness, to show that he is not being bored, only amused—without a trace of the tenderness a man shows for the woman he loves. But he held the hand very lightly, imperceptibly detaining it, as the caught bird that may go free when it pleases.

“I could hardly explain without shocking you.”

“Nothing you can say will shock me. I know you. I have seen you at your work an hour ago.”

“Then tell me why the work, as you call it—it is simply a way of filling idle hours—should make me look outside the hospital walls, or beyond the nearest hedgerows?”

“The children themselves—the look in their eyes—their trustfulness. Suffering here as they do, how could they smile and be so happy if this were the end—of everything?”

“But the whole little wood where we sit is a world of plunder and prey! In his heart of hearts, I believe your favourite poet thought as I do. He looked for no pilot across the bar. He knew there was to be no voyage when he sang of the open sea. Don’t let’s talk about it I only shock you.”

“You don’t shock me. You sadden me—but I want to hear.”

“Why should I sadden you? Why should you care what I think? … I’ll tell you, if you bid me.” And his face grew serious and thoughtful. “No. I see all that you can see down there—better, more clearly, with the trained eye that must see all, or dishonour its training— and to me it all points one way—not your way. I see nothing outside the inexorable laws of nature. No ghost-work, no priest-work—no hidden hands, no guiding purpose. I see Morton’s noble thought partially realised. I see good work done by a good man. If, for one moment, I believed that a god’s hand had meddled in it, I should see a good man resolutely fighting a bad god/’ and he smiled again as Lady Sarah drew her hand away. “There, I know I must shock you.”

Lady Sarah had risen, and stood looking at him, tall and pale and beautiful.

“You don’t shock me. You—you shake me.”

In an instant the sick hunger of desire rose like a cloud to his brain; his strong hands shook in the almost intolerable longing for her love. Instinctively, he stretched out his arms in mute appeal—the dumb prayer of the suffering man for a respite from the love-pain wrought by the woman. She walked on—she had not even seen the gesture. Nothing that he could say would ever stir her heart to save him from his torment. He could stir her mind, he thought bitterly: with a few strong words could scare the child; make the child sorry she had insisted on discussing the good bogies and the bad bogies with a grown-up who wasn’t afraid of either. And, as he walked by her side over the grey moss carpet, the shadows wrapped him round; substance faded suddenly to shadow; and he himself was a shadow walking in a wood of shadows.

They entered the gardens by an iron gate that stood between stone piers on a stone bridge across the sunk fence, and passed by straight paths, stone-edged circles, and rectangular lawns, towards the banks of azaleas. On their right there were the walls of kitchen gardens with a long border of flowers to mask them; a glitter of glass roofs; a water tower, screened about its ugly base by ilex and copper beeches; and at the end of a long wall the secluded rose garden. They found another seat among the roses, and stayed to rest before they climbed the flight of steps that would bring them to the terrace.

“Dr. Colbeck, tell me* one thing more.” She had been looking at the roses in silence, and now she turned and laid her hand upon his arm. “That other thought of yours—that you told me of—that hasn’t made you un-happy—has it? You are forgetting it, and we may still be friends—real friends, as we used to be. I can’t say how much your friendship means to me.”

“Does it? I wonder.”

Once with light fingers he had set himself to feel for her wound. Now, it seemed that she was feeling for his. He thought, again rather bitterly, of how the gentlest women are able to inflict pain—the fumbling, overcautious fingers bungling at the blood-stained bandage, slowly tearing the sticking lint, with a sigh of compassion clumsily tearing the wound itself till it gapes wide open.

“I want to be able to think that you are happy—really happy in your work here.”

“Do you know what that is?” He had drawn something from his pocket. “Cocaine. A cocaine pencil. Most useful for producing local insensibility—for the eye, the eyelid—any trifling operation—you ought to have one, and apply it freely before you ask your questions. But the effect of the cocaine is local, fugitive. You know the real anaesthetics we use—ether and chloroform—for serious operations—when we have to defy pain for an hour .—two hours or even more at a time? They can do that for us—no pain. Well, that’s my work. That’s what it does for me, and I am thankful.”

He had got up from the seat and was looking down at her. Then, drawing himself together, and moving his shoulders as though shaking off an invisible cloak, he laughed.

“Come,” he said. “I don’t know what you’ll think of me. It was good of you to go there with me. It is good of you to care whether I’m happy or not. I have been talking nonsense. Please forget it.” And side by side they began to mount the steps.

“I am getting querulous,” he said, smiling. “Don’t mind it. We old fogeys get fractious as we grow older still. I have much to be thankful for, as Mrs. Elyard says of herself. I have to thank Morton for finding me something to do—in a very dark hour. He is a wonderful man. He came to me in the hour of my life when I most needed help; and he gave me the help, while all the time he asked the help from me. And, to this day, I am in ignorance as to whether he knew what he was doing

I think he must have known,” said Lady Sarah.

As they came out upon the stone terrace, Morton’s voice hailed them cheerily; and, looking up, they saw two dark figures above the parapet on the platform over the hexagonal bay of the big room at the end of the house. Mr. Morton and Mr. Bowman had been working on the broad platform in the open air.

“Is that Mr. Morton’s room up there?” asked Lady Sarah.

“No, I believe they are Walter Bowman’s rooms—the best rooms in the house, Mr. Bigland told me. A queer old fish, Mr. Bigland! I think he is rather jealous of Master Walter—or of anybody else who comes between him and his leader. I have missed two trains, and I think I shall lose a third.”

And Dr. Colbeck hurried away down the other steps that led. to the station and the church path.

CHAPTER XX

IT had suited Lord Talgarth’s convenience to leave behind him a few of his indoor servants, and no arrangement could have been more convenient for his tenants, The Talgarth nucleus consisted of three or four housemaids under an elderly housemaid-housekeeper, a faithful and well-tried watch-dog, capable of guarding her own people’s interests while submitting to serve the aliens; and a brilliant kitchen-maid, a well-grown young lady of penetrating eye and skilful hand, who had long since mastered all the arts and mysteries of the overpaid Talgarth cook, and whose frank boast it was that she knew all that lady knew, and a bit over. Into this domestic cadre, Mr. Parrott, coming from London to take over supreme command, was able to put his three little maids with the happiest results and on the best military principles—the still raw recruit side by side with the practised veteran. Flushed with his recent successes he felt easy in his mind within an hour of the detraining of his small force: modestly confident that he could now run the large country establishment as smoothly and as well as he had controlled his big London house. It had been necessary to leave his cook, odd man, and a maid or so behind him at his base in Bedford Square. Somebody would be required there to cook a joint and make the beds for humble visitors; or to wait upon the master when the work called him to London, as it did continually, and when, as happened now and then, he was kept by it too late to return to Talgarth by the last train. But now all was well: Mr. Parrott was satisfied with the way in which matters had accommodated themselves to his ends.

With a household so adequately contrived, Mrs. Morton found the cares of housekeeping even less onerous than hitherto. By the master’s orders, or in accordance with some chart of instructions drawn out with the assistance of his secretary, the extreme rigour of economy had been abated. Expense within wider limits was to run unchecked, and it was to be understood that the mistress was not to be worried about anything. The mistress had come here to rest: all were to grasp that fact. Bills and accounts and tradesmen’s books were to pass direct to the secretarial department. But the mistress was to be consulted; was to be asked to state briefly and exactly what she required; and effect was to be given to any reasonable wish with silent alacrity. The case of the mistress wishing for the unattainable was also provided for. The servant, staggered and put out of countenance by an impossible order, should ask no questions, but repair to the secretary’s office for the time being—on the big balcony, in the morning-room, under the orange-trees—and report progress. Surrounded by such liberal care and so much thoughtful consideration, something of Mrs. Morton’s money grievance seemed to have been removed, and life made very easy for her. A few. words to be languidly spoken of a morning, and then freedom for the long day. No more irksome duties: nothing to do but loll and bask and dream. She had but to summon her cook and languidly sketch the outlines of a programme.

“Please let there be as good a dinner as possible on Friday. There is a man coming who, I believe, is fond of food.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my very best.”

Or, summoning the old housemaid—

“Please get another room ready. A gentleman is coming to stay—to-morrow, I believe.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“A nice room. One at the billiard-room end—with the pretty view towards the station.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll have one of those made ready. We don’t as a rule use them except when the house is full. They’re so far for the gentleman to come to the diningroom.”

“Yes, hut I wish this gentleman to enjoy the view

Quite so, ma’am. I only mentioned it, because her ladyship mostly favors the view from this end like. Yes, ma’am, I’ll see to it at once.”

And the old housemaid hurried away to obey orders, not without a qualm of conscience. She had talked too much; and she trembled lest any one should accuse her of having worried the mistress.

Thus, on these easy lines, life at Talgarth in the warm June weather glided easily, smoothly, day by day, like the sun-warmed water gliding in the sunlight between the stone walls of the Talgarth garden.

Perhaps, in spite of those reiterated requests for Lady Sarah’s company, Mrs. Morton was not a very attentive hostess to the guest beneath her roof. She seemed to rely on Lady Sarah’s power to amuse herself, and rather shirked the hostess’s usual task of mapping out the hours and struggling to fill them with entertainment. She even seemed to shirk her guest’s companionship—the friendly sittings in low chairs face to face in friendly communion, when the needle stops or the book is laid down for a snatch of friendly talk: the exchange of ideas as they rise to the happy mind, without effort or thought of making conversation, and then the long friendly silence again.

Lady Sarah, never at a loss to entertain herself, was in no need of picnics, excursions, or distant visitings to make the long days pass swiftly. She and her host had very much to talk about—an absolutely inexhaustible ground of discussion to rove over and leave with regret that they had been only able to penetrate such a very little way. When they sat talking of an evening in the pretty morning-room, or on the dark terrace, Morton’s low deep voice was like a bell rung by a hand that could never tire—a bell that drowned the tinkle of the clocks, and was ringing still when the clocks struck midnight and Mr. Bigland, going round closing shutters and clanking with locks and bolts, came to put the house to sleep for the night. Then there was the Children’s Home, to which Lady Sarah went morning and afternoon, and where the time flew also, as she sat by a bedside reading aloud in the gentle musical tones which even the children with the sun-headaches now craved for, or listening to a prattling child while she watched Dr. Colbeck passing to and fro in the kindly anaesthesia of his daily task. There was all that Lady Sarah needed to make the days glide smoothly. But, unlike Mrs. Morton, she seemed to have a strong sense of the duties of guest and host. She sought the company of her hostess more and more; offered herself freely as sharer of woodland strolls or garden loungings; and proposed to turn her back on all the little visitors, if she might have a seat in the shabby pony carriage on the afternoon that the Home grounds were rendered untenantable to Mrs. Morton.

Mrs. Morton would not suffer this sacrifice of Lady Sarah’s inclinations. With very cold courtesy, Mrs. Morton explained that to-day she hardly knew where she was going—perhaps only to the village. If she found the roads hot and dusty she would go no farther; if the drive did not make her head ache, she might prolong it; but she would prefer to feel free to stay out or come home without spoiling another person’s afternoon. In fact, she did not want Lady Sarah; she wanted to be alone.

Lady Sarah flushed faintly.

“I think,” she said thoughtfully, “I won’t stay here as long as you were good enough to ask me,—I think I will go back to-morrow, please.’’

Mrs. Morton’s cold manner changed in an instant. With eager, almost frightened voice she begged Lady Sarah to stay, to stay much longer than had first been suggested, to stay as long as might be possible. It seemed that she was really frightened by the thought that she had been rude and had offended her guest. But Mrs. Morton presented so many such changes of manner, was so rapid in her transitions from her habitual coldness to sudden genial warmth, that Lady Sarah remained very thoughtful.

“Why do you ask me to stay?’’ she said hesitatingly, almost sadly. “You don’t really want me.”

“But I do want you,” said Mrs. Morton. “Please say that you are not angry, that you’ll stay.”

“Of what use is my presence?”

“The greatest use—you amuse my husband—you-”

Lady Sarah flushed again at the word “amuse.”

“I did not come to be with Mr. Morton. I came to be with you—because you said it would be a kindness to you.”

“And so it is—a great kindness. I am grateful. You will stay, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Lady Sarah after another thoughtful pause. “I want to stay if you will let me—if you don’t make it impossible for me.”

“Thank you,” and immediately the eager warmth began slowly to cool. “You mustn’t be offended by anything I say. I have dreadful headaches. I have one now. By the bye, your father is coming here one day to dine. You won’t let him make you change your mind. He is sure to ask you to go back soon. In fact, I know he will ask you. He said so.”

The man who had been spoken of as liking a good dinner was the Right Honourable the Earl of Patrington.

Not for the first time in his career his lordship had on reflection decided to swallow his resentment; and for the moment at least to affect that the swallowing had produced no indigestion. Should it cause him any uncomfortable sensations later he -could of course plainly state what he was suffering from. It had occurred to him, driving in his cab along the Embankment, that knowing as he did the colossal eccentricity of Mr. Morton it was perhaps foolish to judge his reprehensible conduct by any ordinary standards. Lord Patrington, as he told himself, was not a man likely to brook an affront from any one— be he who he might—who knew what he was about, who meant to be offensive. But who could treat this fellow seriously: an eccentric with a tongue governed by the wildest phantoms, the most preposterous familiar spirits, rather than by commonplace mental direction? Great allowances should be made on this count The man too had once put him under a very great obligation. Great allowances on that count also. A man of this character nearly always speaks without thinking: says one thing one minute; another, the next Lord Patrington, bumping in his cab over the uneven macadam, came to the definite conclusion that a rebuff from such a quarter was not, strictly speaking, a rebuff at all; and considering the subject of his necessities, as the cab ran pleasantly upon the wood pavement, owned himself wrong, and with candour determined to try his luck again.

But such reflections only concerned Patrington the city man of devious enterprise and unrewarded endeavour, the fatally busy noble of narrowing means but unabated energy: they did not touch Patrington the parent As the father of Lady Sarah, he had much cause for painful thought. How long was this sort of thing to go on? It was terrible and incredible, but his own child continued to set him at defiance. He roundly accused Lady Toll-hurst of aiding and abetting her, egging her on instead of stopping her. By Lady Tollhurst’s over-affectionate patronage of Mrs. Morton, she had kept the door open to Lady Sarah’s insane progress. All about him were broken reeds: Lady Tollhurst snapped, Lady Emily broken for the last ten years, Colbeck cracked and shivered in an hour—all tacitly aiding and abetting. Yet could he in reason permit the thing to go on? Could he stand by tamely and watch his daughter—the daughter who ought to have made the match of the season six seasons ago at the very least—change before his eyes into a: sort of glorified Salvation Army nurse or visitor? Surely he did well to rage at the thought? The thing was being talked about; people were commiserating, pitying him; in one of his clubs—just inside the blue cloth door of the Carlton, all the time he was hanging up his hat in the hall, and half-way up the staircase—two men whom he scarcely knew and did not want to know, had tackled him about it and expressed an impudent obstreperous concern. As a father also, Lord Patrington made up his mind. Unless he could persuade himself that the influence of these Mortons would in the long run prove innocent, he must once for all protest and make a final effort to get her away from it. Without such a protest he would not permit his child to remain the guest of a woman unknown, mysterious, impossible, and of a man who continued to talk as Morton had talked in the recess of the window in Bedford Square.

Diplomatically reopening relations, lightly, easily, with an assumption that he had no reason to suppose that he would not be welcome, Lord Patrington wrote to Mrs. Morton and suggested that he would be glad to come down to Talgarth on Friday for a late tea and an early dinner.

“I want to see the great Mr. Morton,” his lordship wrote affably; “I want to see his charming wife, and I want to see my neglectful daughter. I really cannot spare you Sarah at this time of year, and freely confess I begin to pine for her in Park Lane. Indeed her absence is causing me considerable uneasiness.”

The gentleman who was tp enjoy the view towards the station was Mr. Griffiths.

Arriving in the afternoon, Mr. Griffiths found the house deserted. Mr. Morton was in London; Mrs. Morton was out driving; Lady Sarah was in the lower gardens with the children, whose voices floated upwards faint and shrill; Mr. Bowman was out; Mr. Bigland was probably at home, but was not apparent; Mr. Parrott had gone to the village on business. The elderly housemaid did the honours in the absence of her own people and the alien people, and found the new visitor a very pleasant gentleman indeed, with a friendliness and modesty which to her mind by no means detracted from his dignity. Real gentlemen were always pleasant-spoken! Years ago, when she was younger, she had enjoyed many a pleasant chat with smiling and frolicsome young gentlemen of quite exalted rank, on those very stairs, when the house was overflowing for the winter balls and splendid young bloods were perforce banished to the bachelor quarters at the billiard-room end of the house.

“That was in the old lord’s time,” she told Mr. Griffiths, “her ladyship don’t have the same company as in the old lord’s time ”

She showed Mr. Griffiths his room rather apologetically; but Mr. Griffiths was well content with it. He explained that in truth he was not “company” as she understood the word. He belonged to a humbler world than that from which the brave and beautiful are gathered by ladies of quality to pirouette and hunt and county balls. He was, in a sense, a servant of Mr. Morton: summoned here to do his work, not to add a glitter to the dinner table. Had he been introduced to the steward’s room, he would have taken his place there very contentedly; But that was not the way Mr. Morton did things. Mr. Morton was a wonderfully kind and condescending gentleman, as probably she had observed for herself.

“Oh, he is, sir. And a very grand gentleman, sir—a kind smile he has, sir, I am sure for all—but not a gentleman one would take a liberty with, sir.”

“Ah. But you wouldn’t take a liberty with anybody,” and Mr. Griffiths smiled pleasantly.

The old housemaid laughed.

“No, sir—not now-a-days. I hope I know my place. I was giddy enough once, I daresay,” and she spoke perhaps with regret, “like my girls are now. But it’s a fact, sir, they are afraid of Mr. Morton. If they do but see him coming they just bolt, sir—scared like. Not his own girls, you understand, but my girls, sir. They say he’s different from any gentleman they’ve ever seen; and it’s a fact, sir, they’ll drop broom, or down with tray just anywhere, rather than face him.”

In the absence of his hosts, Mr. Griffiths seemed to enjoy being shown round the empty house by the friendly watch-dog of the lordly owners.

“The billiard-room, sir.”

And Mr. Griffiths peeped into the dark neglected room: smelling of dust and india-rubber, vaultlike and uncomfortable, with the huge table like a sarcophagus covered by a pall of white macintosh.

“Ah,” said Mr. Griffiths, “I used to be rather a dab at billiards myself—once upon a time.”

“Did you, sir?” said the old housemaid sympathetically. “The old lord used to like his game of billiards. I’ve heard the balls half through the night, I have— when I was a girl. No one comes here now,” and she gave a little sigh of regret—for the silent balls, or her vanished youth.

As they worked their way back to the heart of the house, past glass doors leading to the offices, mahogany doors with glass panels opening into snug parlours or store rooms, she told him all about the noble Talgarth family. She knew All that there was to be known. The old lord put in the glass doors all over the house. He was fond of glass; had rebuilt all the hothouses, and was going to build a glass winter-garden when his fatal illness stopped him. He was a scientific nobleman, and had once given himself a nasty fall on the terrace through watching the stars and walking backwards at the same time. A very good friend to the poor was the old lord, and so was her late ladyship. The young lord, he was a very clever nobleman too; but she feared he found Talgarth dull. He was a traveller, fond of his shooting in foreign parts—Africa, India, and such out-of-the-way places; fond of his yacht too—“for the artick sailing, sir.”

She had heard of its being said that the young lord meant to find the North Pole one of these fine days. It was plain that between the old lord and the young lord the ruling lord was somewhat eclipsed, a lord who shed anything but a dazzling lustre, if not quite a nonentity. AU that she had to say of the reigning prince was that he had ridded the realm of some tottering old subjects, the elms at the bottom of the park, and checked the pushing ways of the younger generation by clearing some of the beech copses.

“This, sir, is the room which your family, as I may say, mostly seems to use. We call it the morning-room.”

Mr. Griffiths considered it a most tasteful apartment, and gratified his guide by admiration of the pastel portraits—Lady Adelaide very blue of eye and blonde of hair, Lady Sophia as roughly striking a brunette as red and brown chalk could make her; and the old lord himself, looking somewhat ogreish as he nursed a scientific instrument and glared at the spectator. He also admired the miniatures in some glass-topped tables, the Chelsea and Lowestoft china behind the lattice-work of the Sheraton cabinets, the delicate green of the silk hangings, and the flower-laden chintz of the long window curtains; but, above all, he admired the orange-trees seen through the centre window from which the stone steps led to the stone terrace. He noticed, on the large table in the middle of the room, conspicuous evidence of the alien occupation: the litter of papers, pamphlets, and bulging envelopes that followed Mr. Morton wherever he went, together with some of the flat baskets and trays peculiar to the work.

“That,” said the housemaid, pointing to one of the lordly mahogany doors, “is your lady’s room. It was prepared for her as an invalid like, I suppose.”

As she spoke, old Mr. Bigland came up the steps from the terrace. He had been wandering rather disconsolately about the garden, and he seemed glad to welcome Mr. Griffiths. He gave him no sour looks to-day, but chuckled amiably as he shook hands.

“Showing the house to the gentleman,” said the housemaid, explaining her presence. “Yes, sir, that’s Mrs. Morton’s room. It came as a bit of a surprise to us, of course, but it’s Mr. Morton’s house now. But it did seem odd to us, being her ladyship’s boudoir.”

“It’s wrong,” cried old Bigland noisily and excitedly, “it’s wickedly wrong.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Mr. Griffiths.

“This. Look!” and Mr. Bigland pushed open the mahogany door, disclosing a little lobby and another door beyond. “Look, china and books. Velvet carpet in the lobby even. The Countess’s boudoir—the best room in the house—turned into her bedroom.”

“It did seem odd to us,” said the old housemaid. “Look!” cried Bigland. “The inner door’s ajar. You can see the satin and the gold. Fit for a queen. Go in and see for yourself. . . . No?” and he shut the mahogany door violently. “And my master’s room? Have you seen that?” and he pointed upwards. “A servant’s room—iron bed. No gold-no satin. It’s very wrong!” “Bosh,” said Mr. Griffiths, smiling at the old man’s excitement. “If Mr. Morton likes-”

“He doesn’t know. He doesn’t feel.—Look here.

More! Young Bowman-”

“Well. What about Bowman?”

“He has turned his hand from the plough,” said Mr. Bigland impressively. “Faint-hearted. Faint-hearted. Why should he have the rooms of a king?”

“Why not?”

“Two splendid rooms—fit for a king—state-rooms. Bedroom behind, sitting-room in front—with a view over the park and over the garden—over the roof of the world almost.”

“Well. Why not? The house is big enough.”

“Too big,” said Mr. Bigland. “I’d like to pull it down. I wish it never had been built.”

The housemaid looked horror-stricken by this terrible sentiment.

“Show him the rooms,” said Mr. Bigland. “Let him see for himself. Show him everything. I can’t stop. I must get out into the air again,” and waving his hand, he hurried down the steps to the terrace.

“Mr. Bigland is an odd gentleman, to be sure,” said the old housemaid indignantly. “I never heard such talk.”

Mr. Griffiths continued his tour of inspection, and finally reached the suite appropriated to the use of the secretary. It was at the end of, and isolated from the rest of the house, above the big room with the hexagon projection—in which the housemaid said a string band used to sit in the old days when the company danced of an evening after dinner. A short flight of stairs brought one to Mr. Bowman’s spacious sitting-room, through which one passed to the fairly large bedroom behind. The front room was certainly attractive; high and large and airy, with big sofas and sleepy-looking chairs, bright red walls and dull gold carpets, pretty water-colour drawings, oriental vases on ebony stands, cabinets with blue and white china; and, as an annexe to the room, the broad platform or balcony where one could sit beneath the yellow awning and bask in the summer beauty of the smiling landscapes. These were the rooms occupied by the young lord in his youth, the rooms he still occupied on his too rare visits.

“All very nice indeed,” said Mr. Griffiths admiring everything: the sketches, the furniture, the view, “and this”—glancing at the basket chair and table on the balcony—“is where Mr. Bowman works all day?”

“Yes, sir,” said the housemaid, “except when he’s out in the garden with your lady. He doesn’t work such hours as Mr. Morton does.”

CHAPTER XXI

MR. PARROTT had just lit the lamps in the morning-room. In the light thrown from the room the yellow fruit and polished leaves of the orange-trees looked like an artificial decoration of glittering metal and coloured paper. But beyond the lamplight, the grey stone and the grey foliage were real and very beautiful as they rose from the masses of black shadow—the velvet folds of darkness trailing from the blue robes of the cloudless summer night; and through all the widely opened windows of the house there floated a perfumed silence, broken only by a whisper of the flowers stirring imperceptibly in their beds, watched by the motionless tree-sentinels.

Mr. Parrott, moderating the green-shaded lamp upon the littered writing-table, looked up with blinking eyes and did not for a few moments see the Matron of the Home standing in the doorway from the corridor.

She had left the children to their tired sleep after the long joy of the glorious June day. But they, too, stirred and talked in their sleep, as though oppressed by the sadness that forms a part of all transcendent beauty. Lying in the hushed fragrance of the warm night they tossed and turned. Sensitive instruments, as those afflicted in body often are, some of them seemed in their dreams to be struggling to record the waves of pleasure as they rolled too fast, until, blurring, they passed into waves of pain; and, here and there, a child woke with a sob and began to clamour in the darkness for its home among the slums—for rest from emotion, a relief from this new-found happiness.

“Come in, Mrs. Elyard. They’ve done dinner. They won’t be long before they’re out.”

“I can wait, Mr. Parrott. You have company, I think?”

“Only Lady Sarah’s pa and Dr. Colbeck, and they ^ catches the nine fifty-five.”

“Is Mr. Griffiths dining?”

“Yes—and Mr. Bowman.”

“Oh—of course,” said Mrs. Elyard walking across to the window.

“All well at the Home, Mrs. Elyard?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Parrott. Working like a clock

Ah. You’ve wound the clock up fine.”

“I do my best. Always glad to see you there, Mr. Parrott, for a chat and a look round.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Parrott “Yes. I do my best. I have come to get my cheques signed, ready against to-morrow morning, but there’s no hurry. I’ll wait in the garden.” Mrs. Elyard was going down the steps but she stopped, and turned. “You haven’t observed anything further, Mr. Parrott?”

“No, ma’am.” Mr. Parrott looked rather troubled. “And what I let fall the other day wasn’t meant”

“No, Mr. Parrott, I quite understand.”

“Because you know I wouldn’t-”

“Hush—tell your master I am here when I am wanted.”

The voices of the approaching gentlemen could be heard, and Mrs. Elyard modestly retired into the garden to keep out of the way of the guests until she might conveniently be given audience, while Mr. Parrott went to get the coffee and take it out to the ladies on the terrace.

Lord Patrington, coming along the corridor with Dr. Colbeck, paused to light another cigar.

“Well, at any rate this is better than Bedford Square

Yes, it’s a pretty house,” said Colbeck carelessly. “And an excellent dinner. It’s evident that Talgarth lets his cook with his furniture.”

“I don’t think our host attaches more importance to one than the other.”

“Good lord, no,” said Lord Patrington irritably. He had dined well, but the good dinner had by no means removed certain grounds for serious resentment “And to think,” he said, as they passed through the morning-room, “that this hare-brained creature could buy up men like Talgarth—houses and lands—stock and lot—without even feeling that he had made a big investment

But the security doesn’t tempt him.”

“No security seems to tempt him,” said Lord Patrington, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously. “I must and will speak to Sarah before we go. Have you ever thought, Colbeck, since that day—you remember—that Sarah might after all have held this power if—if-”

“If you had guessed the power was there,” said Colbeck bitterly.

Lord Patrington turned with great irritation.

“She might have had a sobering influence. She might have controlled him, guided, directed. Who knows? Oh, ah, er”—Mr. Griffiths had come into the room—“er, when does this train of ours go, Mr. Griffiths?”

‘ “Nine fifty-five. The cart is ordered.”

“The cart l” said Lord Patrington with disgust “Then the stable doesn’t go with the furniture. I suppose Morton would consider a brougham sinful luxury.”

“Well,” said Mr. Griffiths, deprecatingly, “unnecessary perhaps.”

“Don’t let us miss our train, Mr. Griffiths,” said Col-beck following his lordship down the steps. “I should never hear the last of it.”

Outside on the terrace the coffee had been brought to one of the wicker tables, and Lady Sarah, Mr. Bowman, and the hostess were sitting in the deep, cushioned chairs.

“What a stifling evening,” said Mrs. Morton. “I hope it is going to rain.”

“I hope it isn’t,” said Lord Patrington, “before we get to the station. We are to go in—er—an open carriage! . . . Sarah!” and he waved his cigar in the direction of the lamp-lit rooms.

But Lady Sarah did not seem to understand this invitation to a private parental interview: she did not rise from the low chair, but continued to sip her coffee and to talk to Mr. Bowman.

Morton with Mr. Bigland was walking backwards and forwards from end to end of the long terrace, and, as they came by, Colbeck joined them and took his host’s arm.

“Then when I see the Bishop, Morton, I am to tell him it’s no surrender.”

“Tell him,” said Morton wearily, “that I am not contumacious. But that he is wrong.”

“Ah. I wish his lordship hadn’t chosen me for his ambassador.”

“You can tell him that I preach in the open air here in the park whenever it is possible. No license is needed for that. I have used the church in bad weather as a convenient shelter—as I would any bam, or shed, if it were more convenient. I don’t mind where I utter the words that should heal and soothe.”

“I act as his clerk,” said Mr. Bigland rubbing his hands together, “and give out the hymns.”

“Well,” said Colbeck, “of course I don’t know. I am completely—out of touch; but, as far as I may venture to judge, it really seems that your quarrel with the Church might so easily be settled.”

“I have no quarrel with the Church.”

“No. But the Bishop says-”

“I quarrel with the Judges sometimes—never with the Law. The Church is the Court of God’s Law—of the Sacraments, of His commands to His creatures. The Church is not the Pope or the Archbishop, though neither of them like to own it.”

“But, after all, if they help to keep the law.”

“God’s laws are so easy to keep. It is only men’s that are difficult.”

“Ah, well. I had to discharge my mission. He asked me as a faithful friend of yours. But of course you know best”

“Yes,” said Morton absently. “I know best—in this. I know best in this.”

As they returned towards the strip of stone pavement lit by the lamps from the morning-room, Lord Patrington was going up the steps with his daughter. He called to Mr. Griffiths, who was standing by the parapet and smoking his cigarette in solitude, and urged him to remember the necessity of catching the train. Colbeck paused in the lamplight to look at his watch, and, glancing through the window, saw Lady Sarah, tall and stately and gracious, listening in silence to her father’s lowvoiced harangue.

“I am sorry,” he said, putting away his watch, “that my young friend Dr. Farley has failed to present himself. I wanted to have the pleasure of showing him the splendid chance you have given us.”

“Then you think, sir,” said Mr. Griffiths, *that Dr. Farley won’t come now?”

“No. He has evidently been detained in town. But he won’t go back to Liverpool without seeing it.”

Mr. Bigland wandered away, and Mr. Griffiths took his place as they strolled on.

“Farley wants to see your work, Morton,” said Col-beck, “and he wants to see you.”

“So that the work is good never mind the workmen

But you will like Dr. Farley, sir,” said Griffiths. “Shall I?”

“Yes, I’ll answer for it that you do.”

“How’s that,” said Colbeck. “Do you know him?” “Oh, yes. The Liverpool doctor who attended the late Mr. Vavasour was one of my first points in a little investigation that Mr. Morton put into my hands.”

“Yes. Mr. Morton told me. But you had no success?” “No. I confess that I have failed.”

Morton, looking far away across the grey tree-tops, had not seemed to be listening; but now he stopped abruptly, and spoke with eager interest.

“Is it not horrible to think of, Colbeck—that wretched woman cheated by death of all she had suffered for— drifted into the darkness—alone and friendless—beyond my reach? I can never forgive myself for our failure.”

“Now that,” said Mr. Griffiths, “is why I introduced the subject Don’t you agree with me, Dr. Colbeck, that he is wrong?”

“Wrong? How?”

“Wrong to distress himself with such thoughts. All that could be done has been done. He has employed a really skilful detective to prosecute the search.”

“And the skilful investigator is baffled?”

“But we must go on trying,” said Morton.

“What’s the good? I am like a man who has been groping down a dark passage and is stopped by a door which he can’t open. Take my humble advice and leave it alone.”

“I can never do that.”

“Wait then. You have done all you could. Am I not right, Dr. Colbeck?”

“Yes,” said Colbeck, “I think you are. I don’t see what else you can do, if you have exhausted all the means at your disposal.”

“Exactly. That’s what I say. We have done so. Then wait. At any moment, chance may give us the key to the door. Then, let’s wait in patience. If any fresh materials turn up, we can go on.”

“If they do,” said Morton, “you promise to go on?” “Yes. If you order me to.”

“If I order you! Why not? Why not?”

As they came back to the cushioned chairs where Bowman and Mrs. Morton were sitting, she rose and walked across to the steps.

“Perhaps, Mrs. Morton,” said Colbeck, “I had better say good-bye.”

“I am only going for a wrap. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Colbeck, did you see?” said Morton in a low voice. “What?”

Mr. Griffiths had strolled on. Morton looked round to see that no one else was within hearing.

“How she passed me by—without a smile or a word. Did you speak to her to-day?”

“Yes. I told her that you were anxious—needlessly anxious—about her health; and that you suffered—from her lack of sympathy.”

“Yes, yes. What did she say?”

“Well. She still seems to think-”

“That I am wrong. I knew you could do no good.”

“Oh, I don’t admit that; only-”

“And, Colbeck, she is so pale and fragile. Every day I look for the flush of health that comes so easily to our poor convalescents, but it doesn’t come here.”

Mrs. Morton was returning, and Morton moved away, with his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes on the stone pavement.

Dr. Colbeck helped to wrap the shawl about Mrs. Morton’s shoulders.

“That’s right. Beware of chills. The temperature sometimes drops rapidly after a day like this has been

Not to-night. There’s not a breath of air.”

“And—Mrs. Morton—try to forgive me for what I said this afternoon.”

“There was nothing to forgive,” and she looked away— towards the shadows beneath the orange-trees where Mr. Bowman stood waiting for her.

“Then show it by acting on my advice,” and Colbeck offered his hand.

“Good-bye.”

Lady Sarah had come to the top of the steps.

“Mrs. Morton—I’ll come with you, if I may.”

“Oh, by all means,” said Mrs. Morton very coldly, and without looking round she walked on.

But Lady Sarah was not permitted to follow her hostess.

“Stay,” said Lord Patrington, and, taking her hand, he drew her back into the room and called loudly to Mr. Griffiths.

“Mr. Griffiths, where have you got to? Oh, er—Mr. Griffiths, do me the great kindness of asking for my hat and coat.”

Obedient to the call, Mr. Griffiths had stepped from the shadows into the lamplight.

“Certainly. But you’ve loads of time.”

“I shall walk on to the station and let the cart overtake me.”

Then in low-voiced anger his lordship made his final protest “For the last time, Sarah, I ask you to leave these people.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do so.”

“Your Aunt Kate now thinks as I do.”

“Aunt Kate’s thoughts are never her own.”

“I tell you it is not fitting for my daughter to be staying in the house of this crank.”

“Father!”

“And—and—of this unknown woman. I tell you people are talking. The world is not to be set at defiance

I am not afraid of the world. Don’t be angry. I must stop, because she needs a friend.”

“Then let her find one among her equals.”

“She needs help, and I think I can help her. I ai so sorry for her.”

“WHy, in Heaven’s name? I suppose she Has everything she ought to want?”

“Yes, everything, except happiness.”

“I tell you I—er—Thanks, much obliged.” Mr. Griffiths had come from the corridor with hat and coat. “Thanks, thanks, Mr. Griffiths,” and he pulled on his coat, assisted by Lady Sarah. “Thank you. Now which is the way to the station?”

“I’ll conduct you to the drive,” said Mr. Griffiths. “You can’t go wrong.”

Lord Patrington dropped his voice to a whisper. “You’ll bitterly regret your obstinacy.” Lady Sarah shook her head. “Tell Colbeck and Morton that I have gone.”

Outside on the terrace, at the foot of the steps, Colbeck and Morton were talking together.

“Colbeck, it has come between me and my task. It has robbed me of half my strength. Yet how can I yield? How could I do what she has asked me?”

“No. But perhaps the semblance of concession-”

“How can I pretend to agree to so monstrous a thing?” “But after all, is it?”

Lady Sarah coming down the steps was about to pass them, but Morton stopped her.

“Don’t go, Lady Sarah. Stay, kind friend, and help to give me strength. You have seen that my wife and I are drifting apart?”

“I am so sorry.”

“Do you guess the force that is pushing us asunder, straining the bonds of God’s sacrament?”

“No,” said Lady Sarah hurriedly. “I don’t guess

Money! This terrible weight of money. A wall of gold is shutting me out from my wife’s heart.”

“I don’t think I understand,” said Lady Sarah.

“How could you? You don’t know the deadly influence of my treasure of gold—how it cankers our hearts, bums into our thoughts, day by day and hour by hour, eating away the healthy nerves and fibres of our brains till it leaves nothing but madness and corruption.” He spoke in low deep tones, but with growing excitement “My dear fellow,” said Colbeck soothingly.

“The chink of my gold drowns my voice when I stand before my people. The glitter of the world’s dross blinds my eyes when I look towards heaven. You know, Colbeck, that we have lived in an atmosphere of gold since that day when she and I stood alone, hand in hand, before our Maker.”

“Yes. But you ought not to think-”

“No stranger crosses our threshold but he is aflame with the lust of gold. They are all one—the professional beggars, the genteel beggars, the aristocratic beggars— the blood-suckers, the impostors—mock philanthropists, shallow swindlers. They crowd round us—stifling us with the poisoned breath of a base desire.”

“Oh, not as bad as all that,” said Colbeck gravely, soothingly. “A gathering of the vultures!”

“And she—the wife I love—she thinks me a miser, would have me give, to her undoing, what I hold for the sick and suffering.”

“She doesn’t think,” said Lady Sarah. “She doesn’t consider.”

“Squander the salvation of the slaves on the follies of the idle—buy pomp, and vanity, and emptiness with the daily bread of the hungry! How can I do it?”

“But, my good friend,” said Colbeek, “it is all so natural—really. She is your wife; she is young—with all the capacity to enjoy.”

“Yes. But you don’t understand. Think what her life was, and what her life is. Everything in reason is hers. All that wealth can buy without sin is hers.”

“I assure you, many a rich man’s wife—”

“Many a rich man’s wife is feeding the fires of eternal torture. But shall my wife do so? I pray that her madness may pass from her, leaving her pure in heart and mind once more; but I cannot yield—to rob the orphan and the helpless.”

“No,” said Colbeek, in his low soothing voice. “No, not to do that.”

“You remember what you said to me, Doctor, when I pleaded in my poverty for the world’s outcasts. You hoped that I might be tried by my own text Then, in an hour, in a moment, the burden of my wealth was laid upon me, and I swore before you all, before her, that I would be true to my trust. Have I kept my word?”

“You have kept it nobly.”

“And am I not right? Am I not right, Lady Sarah? How can I betray my trust now? How can I turn traitor to the faith that is in me?”

“No,” said Lady Sarah. “You are right to be true to yourself. And she will come to see it She will own it—in time.”

“Help me to make her mine again, in thought and will.”

“Yes—if I can.”

“Stay with us and help me.”

Mr. Griffiths came to the window of the morning-room.

“The cart is at the door, Dr. Colbeck. His lordship has walked on towards the gates.”

Colbeck looked at his watch and then bade Lady Sarah good-night. Morton, taking his arm, went with him to the outer door.

“Good-night, Mr. Griffiths, and many thanks for your kindness as timekeeper. And good-night to you, Mr. Bigland,” said Colbeck cheerily, as the old man joined Griffiths in the window.

Lady Sarah was glancing up and down the empty terrace when the matron of the Home approached diffidently.

“Were you looking for Mrs. Morton, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“She is walking in the rose garden—with Mr. Bowman.”

“Thank you,” said Lady Sarah, and she went towards the steps at the far end of the terrace.

CHAPTER XXII

WRAPPING her nurse’s cloak about her, Mrs. Elyard, with light footfall and modest, almost

footfall and modest, almost

shrinking, demeanour, stole up the stone steps and took a discreet peep into the morning-room to assure herself that the guests had gone ere she ventured to enter.

“I have something on my mind,” Mr. Bigland was saying.

“You don’t say so!” said Mr. Griffiths, smiling at him. “What is it?”

Mrs. Elyard looked back to the terrace before she spoke.

“I don’t think Lady Sarah remembers the proverb.”

“What proverb?” asked Mr. Griffiths.

Mrs. Elyard replied with extreme emphasis.

“Two is company and three is node.”

“I’ve always noticed, Mrs. Elyard, that people who quote that proverb neglect its personal application.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. For instance, Mr. Bigland and I were just about to enjoy a confidential chat all by ourselves—when you came in.”

“You are not very polite,” said Mrs. Elyard with grim coquettishness, “but I forgive you.”

“Thanks.”

“I forgive you—because we are really in sympathy.”

“Are we really?”

“Aren’t we fellow-workers? Am not I a fellow-helper?”

“Well—not that I was aware of.”

“Didn’t you know that I was helping you in your task?”

“Pray what do you suppose is my present task?”

Mrs. Elyard looked round the room; observed Mr. Bigland standing inattentive with his back towards them by one of the windows; and came quite close to Mr. Griffiths before she answered—

“To bowl out our lady.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know very well.”

“Pardon me;” and Mr. Griffiths spoke firmly, and with some slight warmth. “If you think that I am an enemy of Mrs. Morton’s, you are harbouring a delusion. Disabuse yourself of it. Delusions are dangerous

Ah,” said Mrs. Elyard dryly, “you may be right in your policy. But you can’t deceive me, Mr. Griffiths, and you can’t prevent me helping you.—Enough said!” Morton, after seeing his friend drive away, had returned. His dark face looked pallid and careworn in the yellow glow of the lamplight, and he moved and spoke wearily.

“Well, Mrs. Elyard. You have brought the day’s reports?”

“Yes, sir. And a list of cheques required. To-morrow is our local pay-day.”

She opened her long cloak, disclosing her dark serge gown, the shining black leather belt with its hanging chatelaine, and produced a trim bundle of papers from a great pocket on the inside of the ugly cloak.

“Here they are, sir—only half a dozen cheques.”

“Yes—yes, of course.” Morton took the papers, carried them to the table, and sat down wearily. “To-morrow. Pay-day,” he said absently. “Yes, don’t let us get behind with our work.”

“If it is at all inconvenient,” said the matron considerately, “and I am afraid, sir, it is-”

“No. No. Walter shall write them out, and I’ll sign them,” and he looked round. “Where is he?”

“Mr. Bowman,” said Mrs. Elyard, “is strolling about the grounds with Mrs. Morton.”

“And with Lady Sarah,” said Griffiths at the window, “I can hear their voices.”

“He ought to be here,” said Bigland excitedly. “He ought to attend to the work. I’ll fetch him.”

“No,” said Morton. “There is plenty of time. You’re not in a hurry, Mrs. Elyard, for two or three minutes? Sit down and rest. Poor lad! I worked him to death in London, and he would have worked till he dropped. Even our easier life here hasn’t picked him up as I hoped. He won’t own it, though. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”

“No,” said Bigland noisily. “He is faint-hearted. He has taken his hand from the plough.”

Morton looked at his old follower coldly.

“You are not just, Bigland. He is young and not strong. Let the young twigs bend that the old boughs may not break.”

“Faint-hearted! Faint-hearted,” old Bigland muttered again, abashed but not silenced by his master’s reproof.

“Sit down, please, Mrs. Elyard, and wait Bowman and I will be ready for you directly.”

“Thank you, sir.” And Mrs. Elyard, modestly selecting a chair against the wall with the straightest back that she could see, sat down and waited with Hands demurely folded on her lap.

“Sir!” said old Bigland, coming to his master’s elbow slowly and doubtfully.

“Yes.”

“In our woods at home—Hampshire, sir—’twas the children birds’-nesting that got bit by the adders. Their eyes on the topmost branches, you understand, sir, and no thought of the snakes come out into the sun.”

“Well?” and Morton rose.

“Well, sir, isn’t that life? You, with your eyes fixed on heaven—no thought of earth—no fear of adders sunning themselves.”

Morton had turned his back and moved away. As he spoke, Bigland went after him. Now Morton turned and held up his hand.

“Stop. Stop.”

“I can’t see you imposed upon.”

“Bigland, you mean well, but you are wrong. No one can impose upon me.”

“You are too easy.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t want to know. I should dread the sight of you, my poor old friend, if you began to deal in vague hints and veiled words.”

“But, sir-”

“Or if I thought you were trying to fill me with idle suspicion of a man I trust—of a man I love. I will fetch my secretary and we’ll do our work, Mrs. Elyard,” and he went out into the garden.

Mrs. Elyard vacated the straight-backed chair and came to the old man’s side.

“It’s in the air of this house,” he said, as though talking to himself. “I know it. I feel it”

“What do you know?” asked Mrs. Elyard eagerly.

“What do you feel?” asked Mr. Griffiths contemptuously.

“Deceit and mystery. In the air. I feel it.”

“Ah-hah!” said Mrs. Elyard, drawing in her breath. “You don’t like the goings-ou of our fine lady any more than—Mr. Griffiths.”

“Mrs. Elyard,” said Griffiths, “I didn’t quite understand you just now. But don’t let there be any mistake. Don’t suppose for a moment that I entertain any hostile feeling to my employer’s wife.”

“Don’t you? Then you ought to. You are not as good a detective as I think you, if you haven’t taken her measure long ago.”

“Yes,” said old Bigland noisily. “Take her measure.”

“And seen what even our simple-minded friend here has seen.”

“He has seen nothing. Don’t suggest such things to him.”

“Pooh!” said Mrs. Elyard. “There’s no need of suggestions. I tell you we are not alone in our suspicions. The servants-”

“Nonsense,” said Griffiths. “Servants would suspect an angel.”

“Ah l They don’t suspect an angel in this case.”

“They do,” cried Bigland with extraordinary violence. “His evil angel! I understand what you mean. I understand what you mean now!*

“You see what you have done,” said Griffiths.

“I tell you,” said Mrs. Elyard, “the servants have been talking.”

“You mean you have made them talk.”

“Well, say I have. That man Parrott has seen things—seen them together in the garden, whispering together in the twilight.”

“Parrott,” said Bigland, “is a faithful servant.”

“But a fool.”

“Not the only fool,” said Mrs. Elyard. “A fool, but not a blind fool.”

“What do you mean?” said Bigland angrily.

“Never mind, Mr. Bigland. Not you,” and she turned to Griffiths. “And the women servants! Don’t they see? Little scribbled notes crushed into hot hands, clasped for an instant as they pass on the stairs, or in the corridors;” and she turned again to Bigland. “Deceit and mystery in the air! I tell you I know. I won’t tell you how I know. Not yet. Not till I am ready to speak.”

“I can’t wait!’ Bigland shouted. “He must know he is betrayed. He must know, and he must judge her.”

“No, no. Wait till I tell you to speak.”

The sound of voices outside was coming nearer and nearer. Mrs. Elyard clutched Mr. Bigland’s hand, and pressed it while she whispered to him in earnest entreaty.

“Wait, and trust me. It won’t be for long.”

Morton and Bowman were coming up the steps. Lady Sarah and Mrs. Morton were close behind them.

“Come, Mr. Bigland,” and Griffiths took him firmly by the arm. “Come away. You must hear me now. I must drive this nonsense out of your head,” and he directed him, almost dragged him, from the room.

“It’s all true. I feel it,” said Bigland as the door closed behind him.

“Here we are,” said Morton. “Two minutes now, Mrs. Elyard.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll wait in the housekeeper’s room,” and at sight of the ladies the matron modestly withdrew.

As she went out, Morton nodded to her with a friendly smile, and seated himself at the table.

“Now, Walter, we’ll soon run through these,” and, with a pencil in his hand, he began to examine the matron’s papers in the bright circle of light from the green-shaded lamp.

“Yes, sir,” said Bowman, standing behind him.

Mrs. Morton had thrown her shawl upon a sofa.

“Surely the day’s work is over. Or does it never end?”

Morton looked round quickly.

“This is nothing—only a few cheques. Do you object to our doing it here?”

“I object? Oh, no.”

Morton looked up at Bowman doubtfully.

“You are not too tired, Walter?” Then, very gently, “Don’t be afraid to tell me if you are.”

“No. No, sir.”

“Come, then,” and, dropping his voice, he began to read out items while Bowman watched the slowly moving pencil. “Coals for laundry. Kitchen coals.”

“Shall we go into the drawing-room?” said Lady Sarah. Mrs. Morton did not answer. “Won’t you play to us a little.”

“No, I am dead tired.”

Morton looked round, and then went on with his reading.

“But you can play,” said Mrs. Morton. “I’ll come and listen to you.”

Lady Sarah opened the door and stood for a moment waiting, but Mrs. Morton, leaning back on the sofa with half-closed eyes, did not follow her, so she went alone to the big drawing-room, and soon Mr. Morton was reading to a soft piano accompaniment.

“Twenty-four, ten, three. Carriages to railway—fetching six children Monday, two children Wednesday, ten children Thursday. Yes. That’s all right,” and taking up his pen he wrote busily.

Mrs. Morton watched him through half-dosed eyes for some time, and then, rising languidly, crossed the room very slowly. As she passed behind the table she touched Bowman’s hand with hers. At the door she paused and looked back, but the secretary had not raised his eyes from the papers in the circle of light.

“There, Walter,” said Morton, “I have filled in the cheques myself. Go and enter the amounts and your day’s work is done.”

Gathering together the papers and the cheque book, Bowman went out by the door leading into the corridor, without looking to right or to left.

“Mary!”

Mrs. Morton, with her hand upon the door, turned and looked at her husband. He was standing by the table, with one hand stretched out towards her appealingly.

“Mary, have you no word for me?”

“What should I have to say?”

“That you are not still angry with me. That you have forgiven me for—for thwarting you. That you are learning to think as I do.”

“I shall never do that. Our ideas of life are different.”

“Mary!”

“I told you I was disappointed at first; but I am reconciled now.”

“Reconciled?”

“Don’t you want me to be reconciled to—your views? You are the master. Come and listen to Lady Sarah’s music.”

Morton stood by the table motionless for some time after his wife had left him. Then, deep in thought, he turned away from the pleasant invitation of the soft music and went out on the terrace.

The warm night was growing darker. Light clouds, that seemed to rise from the silent fields behind the grey beech woods, had been floating high and fast across the sky, telling of busy air currents above the still atmosphere; and, gradually banking, they had seemed to fall until they shut in the earth with heavy and oppressive curtains. Mr. Parrott, looking out at the open hall door, told Mr. Griffiths and Mr. Bigland that there would be rain before the morning. In the passages of the servants’ domains, doors were being closed with a rattle of the glass panels that reverberated along the stone flooring; footsteps, voices, and now and then a squeak of laughter announced that the servants were going to bed. .

“I shall go my round,” said Mr. Parrott, “and mostly dose everything, relying on you, Mr. Bigland, to make good last thing as per usual.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Bigland. “Go to bed. I am on guard.”

Mr. Griffiths, still holding the old man by the arm, was talking earnestly as they stood at the hall door.

Lady Sarah was still playing, so Mr. Parrott left the drawing-room alone, but everywhere dse he fastened the windows and closed the shutters. In the empty morning-room, he put out two of the lamps by way of a hint that bedtime was arriving for all desirous of keeping country hours; shut two windows; fixed the bars of the shutters, and let fall the chintz curtains; brought the door shutters half way across the middle window, and was about to drop the curtains there also when Mr. Griffiths’ voice and a stranger’s voice caused him to stay his hand in surprise.

“This way, Doctor. This way, please,” said Mr. Griffiths outside in the corridor.

“This way,” he said rather nervously and fussily, as he ushered in the stranger. “Parrott, go and tell them all that Dr. Farley of Liverpool is here. Never mind’those curtains,” and he raised his voice and spoke hurriedly and loudly. “Quick. Go and tell Mrs. Morton Dr. Farley has come. Tell them all. Look sharp now. Dr. Farley of Liverpool.”

He shouted the name after him as Mr. Parrott let fall the chintz curtain and went towards the drawing-room.

“A slow stupid fellow,” said Mr. Griffiths, dropping his voice and apologising for his fussiness. “A good servant, but one has to bustle him. Be seated, Dr. Farley. They will be here directly.”

“You are sure that I am not disturbing Mr. Morton at this late hour?”

“Quite. He would have been angry, if I had allowed you to go.”

“He is very kind.”

“Your train is at eleven-five.”

“Yes. The last.”

“I won’t let you miss it.”

Dr. Farley was a strongly built man of thirty, with a thick, close-cut beard and a bald forehead. He was carrying a dust coat across his heavy shoulders, and the coat concealed the slight stoop of the broad back that had been bowed by the student’s desk, and not by the weight of years. He looked what he was: a large-brained man of resolute purpose and undeviating aim; and already he had acquired that solid composure and dignified self-confidence in voice, manner, and bearing which come to a few men very early in the career which they have mapped out for themselves, and which, once attained, prevents them from being ever again counted as young men, no matter what their real age may be. With his coat slung over his shoulder, he sat waiting composedly, while Griffiths fidgeted about the room and apologised for the delay of the hosts.

“Ah—here comes Mr. Morton.”

Griffiths at the window looped up the chintz curtain and stood by the half-closed shutters as Morton came up the steps from the terrace.

“Dr. Farley, sir,” said Griffiths. “Finding Dr. Colbeck had gone, he did not wish to come in.”

“I am very glad,” said Morton, shaking hands.

“I needed very little persuasion, Mr. Morton, for I wanted to shake your hand and to thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For the noble work you have done here—for the free hand you have given to the pioneers of modern orthopaedics.”

“You have seen the Home?”

“I have been there two hours. Your matron was absent, but one of the secretaries—Mr. Johnson—showed me everything.”

“And you were satisfied?”

“Satisfied is a poor word; but Dr. Colbeck tells me you won’t hear praise—least of all from a stranger.”

“If you must praise,” said Morton, smiling, “praise Colbeck. It is his work.”

“Yours or his—it is a splendid challenge to some of our great hospitals. Let them cast out their hopeless cases if they must; but—as Colbeck always said—let them drop that horrible word—incurable. Nothing but death is incurable. You are showing that there must be no giving up the fight till the battle is over.”

“Well, well.”

“Forgive me.” Dr. Farley went on in the most matter-of-fact tone, and with a slight smile at his host’s impatience under a compliment. “But I assure you, something I fancied I saw in your beautiful Home stirred me deeply—something I had never seen before.”

“Ah, well!”

“A new symptom—you know—excites us students, and I really wanted to see the man who had discovered a little flicker of hope where our text-books only traced despair—” and he held out his hand. “To see him, and to thank him. Good-bye, Mr. Morton.”

“Good-bye. But you’ll have supper—something.”

“Nothing. Thanks.” And picking up his hat, coat over his shoulder, Dr. Farley turned towards the door.

“Sir,” said Griffiths. “Mightn’t it be as well to ask Dr. Farley one or two questions? I know he would like to help us.”

“How can Dr. Farley help us?” said Morton absently. Then striking his forehead, and speaking eagerly, “Yes, of course. Yes.”

“I am afraid,” said Dr. Farley, “I can’t add to what I told you, Mr. Griffiths.”

“No. But not to miss the chance! Mr. Morton is so anxious to leave no stone unturned.”

“I am most anxious.”

“On the chance, I have fetched out my notes of all that you told me—all that you could tell.”

“Unfortunately,” said Dr. Farley, “it was so little.”

“You only saw the woman for a minute or two at a time.”

“Yes. And not more than three or four times.”

“You told me only three times exactly.”

“No doubt that is correct. My recollection was fresher then.”

“You never saw her after the solicitor—the late Mr. Gordon—told her that she was not to come into anything upon Mr. Vavasour’s death?”

“No.”

“Now,” and Griffiths began to read from the note-book that he had brought out of his pocket. “ Tall, dark eyes, very silent and subdued—ladylike.’ Yes; but it’s all so vague and indefinite.”

“I suppose it is,” said Dr. Farley.

“If you could have given details of costume—material of dress, colour, cut, and so on.” Mr. Griffiths turned to his employer as though an idea had just occurred to him. “Mrs. Morton might help us, perhaps, to elicit some feminine traits. She might aid us by suggestions,” and he went towards the window. “I wonder where Mrs. Morton is. I fancy she must have gone into the garden.” “Yes,” said Morton, “she was passing to the terrace when Parrott fetched me. I will ask her to come in

Would you mind, sir,” said Griffiths, “and if she does not mind-” Then turning to Dr. Farley as soon as they were alone: “I daresay you think me very tiresome

Not in the least.”

“Well, after the very handsome way you just spoke of my employer I won’t scruple.”

“I only wish I could help you.”

“I can assure you the matter is of vital interest to him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And you see the misfortune is, with investigations of this sort, accuracy of description is the one thing we detectives must have, and accuracy is the one thing we can’t get.”

Dr. Farley nodded his head.

“You say this woman was tall and so on. But what idea does that convey? Really none,” and Mr. Griffiths smiled. “I know, sir, that you have taxed your memory to the utmost, and yet you can’t tell me anything that differentiates her from the first half-dozen women I may next meet in the streets.”

“I am afraid I can’t. Had she been my patient-”

“Yes—of course. But if only I could get something fixed—definite. We must have something to guide us,” and he looked round to the window. “Anything would help us. Look here,” and he produced a photograph from his pocket. “One of my snapshots enlarged,” and he seemed to admire his own work in the manner peculiar to amateur photographers. “Not a bad print either. Group in a London hospital; lady visitor bending over man in bed. Now, for instance—you say the woman was tall and slender,” and he offered the photograph. “We must have a guide. Was she anything like that sort of woman? As tall as that, for instance?”

“Yes. That is the woman.”

Mr. Griffiths took back the photograph with a very disappointed air, but he smiled good-humouredly.

“Ah, Dr. Farley, with the best will in the world, you are not reliable. That lady is Mrs. Morton, my employer’s wife.”

“No? Let me look again,” and Dr. Farley examined the photograph as Mr. Griffiths held it in his hand before putting it away in his pocket “When I say it is exactly like—I mean in general appearance—if I can trust my memory. Yes,” he said firmly, “it was just such a woman.”

“Sufficient resemblance to serve as a guide?’’

“Quite. You really may rely on me so far as that.”

“Thanks,” and Griffiths turned to Morton as he returned from the garden. “Well, sir?”

“She is so weary that she begs me to excuse her. My wife is far from strong—and is very tired, Dr. Farley. Another time I hope to introduce you to her.” Then, speaking to Griffiths, “She is so tired that she begged Lady Sarah to stay with her. I thought that Lady Sarah might-”

“No,” said Griffiths, “I doubt if she could assist us. It’s of no consequence. I have learnt all that Dr. Farley has to tell us,” and he looked at his watch. “Yes, I think it would be wise to be moving, Doctor. You have twenty-two minutes—ample time!”

“Good-bye, Mr. Morton. I shall venture to come again when I am next in London.”

“Do,” said Morton. “I will walk with you to the gates.”

In the hall, making way for his guest to pass out, he spoke to Griffiths in low anxious tones.

“Well? Have you learnt anything fresh?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Griffiths emphatically. “It’s no good worrying him. As I told you, sir, we have come to a closed door. Leave it so. I shall never find the key.” Mr. Griffiths, following them a little way along the drive, turned and slowly sauntered round the silent house to the long terrace. He strolled from end to end, and quickened his pace on catching the sound of footsteps coming up the steps from the lower level. It was Lady Sarah, alone.

“Ah, Lady Sarah,” said Griffiths, “you are too late to see that clever young doctor. He has gone to catch his train. Mr. Morton is walking to the gates with him

Thank you,” said Lady Sarah, turning to descend the steps again.

Mr. Griffiths leant for a moment on the stone parapet, looking down into the darkness below.

“Yes. Tell Mrs. Morton the doctor has departed. She just asked you to find out, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Lady Sarah going down the steps.

Then he heard her speaking below—“Mrs. Morton.

There is nobody here. He has gone-” and he strolled away.

“Are you sure he has gone?” said Mrs. Morton in a low voice.

“Yes. Mr. Griffiths told me.”

“Ah!-” And Mrs. Morton rose slowly from a stone bench in the dark shadow beneath one of the big conifers.

“You are dreadfully tired, I am afraid-”

“Don’t be afraid about me,” said Mrs. Morton as they moved towards the house. “The programme of our days is exhausting, but it comes to an end at last. It somehow ends at last. I don’t suppose we shall have any more visitors to-night.”

“Mrs. Morton.”

“Well!”

“Do you remember, once you asked me to be your friend.”

“Did I?”

In the darkness, as they walked side by side, Lady Sarah’s voice trembled, as the words came hurriedly.

“And now I ask you, I beg you, to let me be your friend.”

“I don’t quite understand you,” said Mrs. Morton very coldly, as they mounted the steps.

“I know you don’t like me,” said Lady Sarah. “Perhaps it is my own fault.”

“What a strange notion!”

“But believe me—you may trust me;” and she waited, but Mrs. Morton climbed the steps in silence. “Will you think of me as a friend—always close at hand. Some one to confide in, to lean on. Some one who would loyally-”

“Oh, thank you. A friend in need is a friend indeed,” and Mrs. Morton laughed. “If ever I am in need, Lady Sarah, I’ll remember that you are there—a little late in the day, but a tower of strength, as my husband says.”

“I am sorry that you won’t trust me.”

“But I do. I always have.”

“Yes, but-”

“It must be past eleven!” In the narrowed strip of lamplight from the morning-room, Mrs. Morton yawned and passed her hand across her forehead wearily. “I am so tired that you must tell me your reasons for this outburst of friendship some other time, will you? You don’t mind, do you?”

CHAPTER XXIII

“MARY!” Bowman, softly opening the door of the morning-room, whispered the name.

Mrs. Morton was alone, standing by the door of her own room, and she pointed significantly to the window.

Cautiously and noiselessly he drew the shutter across the open half of the window; let fall the curtain; came back, and took her in his arms.

“Take care,” she whispered. “Lady Sarah! She is in there,” and she pointed towards the drawing-room.

With his face against hers, holding her close to him, he ran his hand about her neck.

“You are cold. You have been chilled.”

“No. I have had a fright. It’s all right. Fm all right

now.”

“What has frightened you?”

“Everything. Everybody. I have been in danger tonight.”

“How?”

“We are surrounded by spies. That woman, Lady Sarah, suspects.”

“Why did you ask her here?”

“Oh, I don’t know. To keep him occupied—to give me freedom,” and she laughed silently, and shivered. “She used to be in love with him. In her saintly, feeble way, I believe she is in love with him still. She ought to have had his money—if she had been clever.”

“Let her have the money now. Do what I asked you. Leave him and his money.” He had released her from his embrace and was speaking in great agitation, struggling to keep his voice down to the low tone she had used. “Leave it and take freedom in exchange.”

“No. I can’t face misery again.”

“But there shall be no misery. Don’t be afraid. Once we are free, I shall be as strong as a lion. Only the deadly deceit and ingratitude of our sin have paralysed me. My darling, you must set me free by freeing yourself. I can’t stand it. It drives me mad.”

“Hush!” and she looked round cautiously. Her eyes were full of fear, and, as she whispered, the words were broken by a shiver. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t be— unreasonable.”

“What is it all worth to you? You can’t face misery! But you are miserable here.”

“Not since I have had a companion.”

“Your fellow slave! It is time for the slaves to break the chain.”

“Be reasonable. I am so tired—too tired to argue with you.”

“But I tell you I can’t stand it. The life we lead is driving me mad. All day I am scheming to be with you, and when our stolen moments come they are poisoned by the dread of discovery.”

“Yes. Don’t speak so loud.”

“I want to persuade you—show you that it must come to that sooner or later—sooner or later discovery must come.”

“We have only to be careful.”

“No care can save us. He must know some time

Why should he?”

“Because I shall tell him. One day when he rests his hand on my shoulder and tells me of some new benefit conferred, I shall tell him.”

“No, you’d not do that.”

“I shall tell him the truth. I shall say: You saved me from death, you fed me, clothed me, treated me as you would an only son. Such benefits deserve some return. Now hear how I have shown my gratitude.”

“Walter, Walter, are you really going mad?”

“Yes. My love for you and my scorn for myself will make me say all that, one day, if you keep me here.” Glancing round again, she drew him across to the sofa and sat with her arms round his neck.

“No, no. Now listen. You must control yourself for my sake. You must see that it is weak and hysterical to talk like that.”

“I am weak.”

With her arms about his neck she pressed her cold lips against his face, kissing him on forehead and cheek and mouth, before she whispered again—

“If you really suffer, you must go away and be free

Mary!”

“And I will come and see you when I can. We will contrive things. It will be difficult, and we shan’t be able to seize opportunities as we do here, but-”

“If your love was like mine you wouldn’t speak so lightly.”

“You know how I love you, Walter.”

With her arms still round his neck she leant back, drawing him with her, and held him with her face pressed against his for a few moments in silence.

“You mustn’t be a silly boy. You know how I love you.”

“Listen. You must let me see you to-night. I must talk to you freely and alone. I know I can persuade-”

“No! Nor “Wait till the house has been quiet an hour—then come up to my room.”

“Walter, I can’t. I can never do it again. It is too dangerous.”

“There is no danger.” He spoke in a gasping whisper, louder than before. “You must come.”

“I daren’t.” She had unwound her arms and was holding his hand in hers. “I have been mad to risk it so often. I tell you we are in a garrison of spies. That man Griffiths is watching me.”

“Fancies!” he whispered. “You must come—or I shall come to you. That’s more dangerous! Do you hear? You must come.”

“Hush, for heaven’s sake. Some one on the terrace!”

She had jumped up and tom herself away from his hands, as they tried for a moment to detain her. Now with a hand that trembled, she pointed to the window. In the silence of the room he could hear her breathing as he pulled back the curtain, and threw open the shutter. A cloaked figure was standing on the steps.

“Mrs. Elyard!”

The matron came forward apologetically.

Mrs. Morton, about to enter her room, turned with a very pale smile.

“Has Mrs. Elyard been waiting for her cheques all this time? What a shame!”

“Oh no, ma’am. Not that it would have been any consequence if I had. I have my key, and they wouldn’t worry about me at the Home. It’s only one of the accounts I left behind; and I came back hoping I might get it without disturbing anybody.” She stood on the threshold, very apologetic in manner. “I had no idea you were here, ma’am, or I would not have ventured. It’s the laundry account, if you should find it, Mr. Bowman, to-morrow.”

“Oh, pray come in and look now,” said Mrs. Morton.

“Thank you, ma’am,” and Mrs. Elyard came shyly to the writing-table, and almost at once discovered the missing document.

“Good-night, Mrs. Elyard. I feel I shall sleep soundly to-night. Good-night, Mr. Bowman.”

And Mrs. Morton went into her room, closed the door, and locked it on the inside.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Bowman.”

“I am sorry,” he said, as Mrs. Elyard folded the paper and bestowed it in her pouch-like pocket, “that I did keep you waiting just now. I ought not to have forgotten about those cheques.”

“Don’t mention it. Old heads don’t grow on young shoulders, Mr. Bowman. Good-night. I’ll slip back by the gardens as fast as I can. I have my key, but it is getting late,” and she went out into the darkness of the terrace.

He stood and watched as she went down the steps. Then, hastily letting fall the curtain, he hurried to the closed door; turned and shook the handle, and tapped the panel cautiously. Then he called through the door in a low voice, “Mary! Mary!”

There was no answer. If she heard him, she was pretending not to hear. Walking across to the table he paused irresolutely; then came back to the closed door, and tapped again upon the panels. Then returning to the table he sat, and with nervous fingers searched for a piece of paper, took a pencil, and wrote in furtive haste. As he sat writing, a long fold in the window curtain moved slightly and noiselessly. Then, folding his piece of paper into a flat spill, he went back to the door; knelt; and cautiously pushed the paper beneath the door. Rising to his feet, he looked round the room, and, tapping lightly, called once more in a hoarse whisper, “Mary, Mary.” Then, after listening for a few moments, he stole from the room and crept away along the corridor.

Instantly the curtain opened. Stooping, hurrying, on tip-toe, Mrs. Elyard came to the door, and, sinking down, crouched cat-like on the ground. Flinging back her cloak she swiftly detached a knife from her hanging chatelaine, and with the opened blade began stealthily to scrape about beneath the door. Stretched upon the floor, with her head on the carpet itself, she lay and worked the flat blade of the knife with busy fingers, until in a minute she had drawn out the paper so far that it showed plainly. Then, turning her knife, she drove the sharp point into the paper, and swiftly, but with unremitting caution, she extracted the paper completely. Absorbed in her task, without eyes or ears for aught else, she crouched over the paper as a cat crouches over its meal, so engrossed in its hunger or greed that it does not hear the approach of a dog or a man.

Slowly rising to her knees, she looked round and started. Griffiths had followed her into the room and now stood watching her.

“Ah!” and she got upon her feet, crept away from the door, and spoke in a horrible breathless triumph. “I told you it wouldn’t be long. He put this under her door

Who?”

“Bowman. I saw him do it. A moment ago. What do you say now?”

“What do you mean?” said Griffiths, frowning at her. As he came towards her she sprang away from him lightly, noiselessly, with cat-like ease; and now she turned and came cautiously to him.

“You know his writing. Look here. Read it,” and jealously retaining it in both hands, she held the unfolded paper under his eyes. “Read it,” and, as he looked down and read, she whispered the written words with a horrible gloating triumph. “My darling. You must come to my room to-night. It is quite safe!”

As though in dread lest her prize should be snatched from her she sprang aside, and, refolding the paper, continued breathlessly—

“I disturbed them. Then I watched him writing— watched him put it under the door—but I got it out—with this knife.” She had returned to the door, brandishing her knife, explaining in her triumphant whisper, and sinking on her knees, as though glorying in the representation of her skill. “Like this! With my knife—like this—like this.

“What are you doing?” said Griffiths sharply.

“I have put it back,” and she got up again. “I want it to reach her. Hush!” Springing back she flung her arms round the frowning man, and enveloped him in a horrible, stifling embrace. Convulsively pressed in the twitching circle of her arms, he felt her hot panting breath upon his face as she clung and whispered, “Hush. She has opened the inner door, don’t speak,” and she clung about him with cat-like ferocity, in her terror that he might, using his strength, break away from her and get to the door. “Hah!” with a gasp of satisfaction, “she has shut her door”; and, releasing him, she crept back to the door, and holding up a warning hand stooped to listen. “That’s better! She can’t hear us now. I believe the inner door was open before, but it’s shut now,” and she came back with a lividly smiling face; and, as she shook out her long cloak and readjusted her rumpled hair and bonnet, recovered composure. “Hah,” and she drew in her breath, “she has got it now, and she’ll do as she’s asked . . . she’ll join him!”

“How dare you say that?”

“I knew it wouldn’t be long.”

“Mrs. Elyard—you have discovered this young man’s madness, but if you suppose-”

“I don’t suppose. I know. Where is Mr. Morton?” “You’ll not dare to say a word to him.”

“Indeed! That’s not my idea of my duty to my employer. Ah! Come here. At last!”

Mr. Bigland had opened the door in the corridor. “What is it? The time for speaking?”

“It has come quicker than I thought,” said Mrs. Elyard with her hand upon his arm.

“She is guilty. You have found her out?”

“Nonsense,” said Griffiths, “nonsense. Don’t believe a word of it.”

“I have positive proof of her guilt,” said Mrs. Elyard, “and yet he wants me not to tell him.”

“Not tell him! I will shout it from the housetop. Where is she?”

“In there,” said Mrs. Elyard. “Don’t make a noise. She can’t hear us, but speak low.”

“Where is my master? Let him come and let him judge her.”

Griffiths had opened the drawing-room door and looked into the room almost despairingly. Lady Sarah, standing by a low book-case, was choosing a volume to take upstairs with her.

“Lady Sarah, please come,” said Griffiths despairingly; tmd book in hand, she came across the room. “Help me to quiet him.”

“Where is my master?” said Bigland again. “He is foully betrayed, and this man says we are to be silent.”

“What does he mean?” asked Lady Sarah, her face turning suddenly white.

“They want to make a horrible accusation against Mrs. Morton.”

“Oh no!” and Lady Sarah’s face, flushing as Griffiths spoke, became very pale again.

“We are going to give him the truth,” said Mrs. El-yard.

“I tell you,” said Griffiths, “you are mistaken.”

“Yes,” said Lady Sarah, “you must be mistaken.”

“Lady Sarah,” said Mrs. Elyard, “you have had your suspicions, I daresay, as well as others. Well, now we have the proof, and—” resolutely—“I am going to lay the proof before him. Mr. Griffiths, if you think you can pick your words better than I can, you shall be our spokesman.”

With a frown Griffiths implored her to cease speaking. He had heard footsteps on the pavement of the hall. His employer had come back.

“He is coming,” said Bigland. “My master is coming.”

“Now,” asked Mrs. Elyard, “are you going to speak, or shall we?”

“I will tell him,” said Griffiths, and he turned to Lady Sarah. “There’s no help for it.”

“Everybody up still?” said Morton. “It is late. Where is my wife?”

“Gone to her room,” said Mrs. Elyard.

“Haven’t you got your cheques, Mrs. Elyard? Where is Walter?”

“In his room,” said Bigland. “I watched him go.”

“He gave me the cheques, sir.”

Morton had gone to the writing-table and sat down. Moving the reading-lamp, he glanced from one to another inquiringly as they stood silent “Well?”

“TeU him,” said Mrs. Elyard.

Morton glanced at her, and then turned to Lady Sarah, who lifted her hand to her throat and lowered her eyes in pale distress. Morton rose and stood looking at Griffiths.

“What have you to tell me? I see you are all big with mystery, and I hate mystery. What is it?”

“Tell him,” said Mrs. Elyard.

“While you were absent,” said Griffiths slowly, “something has happened, sir, which they think you ought to know of.”

“Yes,” said Bigland, “you must know and you must judge.”

“This lady,” said Griffiths, with a nod of the head towards the matron, “prying into matters which in no way concern her, has seen something.”

“What has she seen?”

“It appears that young Mr. Bowman just now passed a pencilled note under that door.”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Elyard, acting on her own responsibility, contrived to get possession of the paper.”

“And showed it to you,” said Mrs. Elyard.

“As this concerns only yourself, sir, and Mrs. Morton, I should not have mentioned it, and I advised Mrs. Elyard to be silent; but, as she ventures to make the worst interpretation of the matter—which Mr. Bowman can no doubt readily explain-”

“What has he to explain?”

“Well. I think there is indiscretion, folly—I may almost say madness in his conduct.”

“Don’t go, Lady Sarah.”

“I know this is all some dreadful mistake,” said Lady Sarah, “but I can’t stay to hear any accusation against Mrs. Morton.”

“What accusation can be made against my wife? You must remain, please. I may need your aid.”

“I would rather not. I cannot listen to-”

“Are you afraid on your own account, or on my wife’s? You insult her by showing fear. Go on, Griffiths

Well—that is all, sir. Mrs. Elyard, before I could prevent her, replaced this silly scrawl—and—and it has now reached Mrs. Morton, who should, of course, have been spared the annoyance of ever receiving it”

“Is that all you have to tell me?”

“That is all, sir.”

“Is your memory so bad,” said Morton sternly, “that you don’t remember what the note contained ? What did Mr. Bowman say?”

Griffiths coughed and cleared his throat.

“He asked Mrs. Morton to visit him, in his room, tonight.”

“To-night? Nothing more?”

“That it would be quite safe, or words to that effect.”

“Yes. And pray, Mrs. Elyard, what is the interpretation that you make of all this?”

“I can only echo Mr. Griffiths’ remark. I make the worst interpretation.”

Morton laughed.

“I wonder what is your notion of the angels, Mrs. Elyard. You are clever at imagining the demons. But you are faithful and honest, and you were right to tell me what you discovered—so that if necessary I might act. Forewarned is forearmed, isn’t it?”

“I am glad you have justified me.”

“Yes. But only in your action, you know. Not in your evil thoughts,” and he laughed again. “You yourself must justify those to your conscience. And now,” he said cheerfully, “we can break up our secret conclave—or the drone of our hushed voices may come to the ears of my wife. I am grateful to you all.” As he spoke, in low firm tones, he moved about the room; and then came back to the table. “To-morrow I will speak to this foolish boy and tell him that, though to the pure all things are pure, the simplest acts may take a hideous shape in the evil eye of the world. When he pleads to his master’s wife to come to him in the dead of the night—to hear some tale of trouble—some scheme for her happiness or mine—he has no more dreams that wrong could come of it than some young girl, hiding the picture of her Saint in her book of prayers, fears he may be mistaken for her lover. But we live in the world, and in some sort must bow to its sordid code. I will show him the danger that walks side by side with innocence. Henceforth, Mrs. Elyard, he will write no more notes to his patron, and will prefer his petitions in the public eye. You and I, Lady Sarah, must teach them both—the chivalrous laws of the world we live in.”

“I don’t understand,” said old Bigland, trembling with excitement, “I don’t understand. What are all these words? Why don’t you judge him? You have heard his guilt.”

“Guilt! Be silent, my friend. There is no guilt here

I had better speak, sir,” said Mrs. Elyard. “The letter we saw was not the letter of a supplicant, but of a lover

How can that be when there was no hint of love in it? Had there been sin in his heart, the sin would have spoken in some word of love.”

“There was such a word.”

“Griffiths, is this true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, his sin spoke boldly enough, sir,” said Mrs. Elyard.

“You took no thought,” said Bigland, waving his arms, “of the snakes at your feet, and they have lifted their heads and struck at you. Crush them under your heel, sir—trample out their wicked life.”

“Be silent.”

“Wither them with your wrath—and drive them out into darkness. Be strong, sir, as you were in the old days, before your evil angel came to sap your strength and steal your power over your people.”

“Peace! I tell you, be silent.”

“We are sorry for you, sir,” said Mrs. Elyard, “but your eyes must be opened. We have all suspected that you were being shamefully deceived.”

“It is not so,” said Lady Sarah.

“You won’t own it, my lady, but you have seen the traffickings between them as clearly as we have.”

“I have seen nothing wrong.”

“Ask Mr. Griffiths, sir. He knows. The servants have seen it too. There is hardly a soul in the house that hasn’t suspected.”

“Griffiths, is there any truth in this?”

“I am afraid this miserable young man may have entertained feelings-”

“You mean,” said Morton very sternly, “he is guilty.”

“Oh, don’t blind yourself, sir,” said Mrs. Elyard. “He is not alone. Don’t suppose it’s his first invitation, sir, or that he would have ventured it without well knowing it would be accepted.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if left alone she would join him.”

“Don’t listen to her,” said Lady Sarah. “It is too horrible.”

Morton, recoiling a step, had raised his clenched fist before his face as though guarding himself from an invisible blow. As Lady Sarah spoke he dropped his arm, and, throwing back his head, looked round with watchful eyes.

“Griffiths, you hear what this woman says. I charge you to tell me truly. Do you believe that my wife is innocent or guilty?”

He had leant his clenched fist upon the table, and was speaking in a low and very thoughtful voice. As he asked his question he lowered his eyes, and his fingers opening began to smooth the littered papers on the table. Then, pushing them away, he traced with his forefinger imaginary figures, circles, and curves on the blotting-pad, while with downcast eyes he waited for an answer.

“I am afraid,” said Griffiths, clearing his throat again, “she has been imprudent enough to-”

“Ah! You think her guilty. And you, Bigland?” “Guilty. She is your evil angel.”

“Lady Sarah, what do you say? As you hope for eternal life, give me the truth. Do you think her guilty?” “I cannot answer.”

“Do you believe her innocent?”

“I cannot answer.”

“Ah! Guilty. You are of one mind,” he said in a low voice, still watching his finger as with slow care it traced the imaginary curves and circles in the light from the shaded lamp. “Your verdict—guilty, guilty, guilty,” and he looked up, drawing himself to his full height. “Well, I tell you, as I hope for heaven, you are wrong. She is innocent.”

“No,” said Bigland, waving his arms.

“I tell you she is innocent—innocent in thought and word and act.”

“Ah, sir, you try to think so,” and Mrs. Elyard drew in her breath with a gasp. “You try to think so, but you daren’t prove her. You daren’t put her to the test.”

“I know she is innocent.”

“Yet she stands confessed if you didn’t blind yourself. She has his note. If she is innocent—why is she silent, waiting in there? Why hasn’t she come to you and shown you the letter and proved her innocence by denouncing him?”

“Because in my wife’s heart, Mrs. Elyard, there is a strange flaw—the weakness of pity. Pity for the man who has insulted her would keep her from telling me all. But rest assured she will tell me enough to guard her from further insult.”

“You think she will do that?”

“I am sure she will.”

‘‘Then prove her,” whispered Mrs. Elyard. “If you are not afraid. Put her to the test.”

! “Yes,” said Bigland shaking with excitement “Let her be tried and judged, here—now.”

“IPs very easy,” said Mrs. Elyard. “Wait—and watch!”

“I can’t lay traps for my wife. It is an outrage to doubt her. I do not doubt.”

“Ah! You are afraid to know the truth.”

“Mr. Morton,” said Lady Sarah, stretching out her hand. “I implore you not to listen to her.”

“Yet you think as she does,” and Morton took Lady Sarah’s hand and held it for a moment. “You all think she has broken God’s law. I think you love me, yet you make this monstrous charge,” and he turned to Mrs. Elyard. “Very well. I am not afraid. We will put her to the test—the only test possible.”

“No,” cried Lady Sarah. “I can’t consent to anything so horrible.”

“It is out of the question,” said Griffiths. “You mustn’t allow it. I can’t consent either.”

“You can’t consent? Who is master here? It is for me to act, for you to obey.”

“The old commanding voice!” cried Bigland exultantly. “That’s how I like to hear you speak.”

“Lady Sarah, you mustn’t go away,” and Morton grasped her arm. “Stay here. Now let me think. Let me think.”

He stood motionless, glancing about the room. There were dusky patches upon his cheek-bones that looked like shadows in the lamplight; his watchful eyes seemed strangely bright beneath the frowning forehead; his voice, though low, had a harshness and hardness that Lady Sarah had never heard before.

“Let me think,” he said again, as he sat down at the writing-table and shaded his face with his hand. “You have all made the charge, you must all see the end of it,” and his hand dropped and moved restlessly among the papers on the desk. “Bigland, see that the servants have all gone to bed. Make sure that the young man has not come down again. But don’t let him hear you.”

“No, master,” and old Bigland went to his duty with alacrity.

“Lady Sarah, please turn out that lamp,” and he pointed to the big lamp left burning by Parrott. “Softly, please—carefully. Griffiths, close that window and the shutters—very carefully. Slowly, without noise. Mrs. Elyard, help him.”

He looked round rapidly to see that he was obeyed, and then sat with downcast eyes and moving hand while they did his bidding. Then rising, he crossed the room cautiously, and knelt by the door of his wife’s room.

When Mrs. Elyard turned away from the closed shutters he was still on his knees, looking towards her and beckoning her to come to him. The others watching heard the low whispers.

“Are you sure she hasn’t heard us?” Morton whispered to Mrs. Elyard. “Not caught any words to warn her?”

“I am sure. I have been listening. She hasn’t opened her door. I listened for that all the time.”

“Good. I can hear nothing. But I saw a gleam of light under the door.”

“It’s the light in the lobby. It burns all night, they told me.”

“But the inner door is still dosed?”

“Yes.”

“And this still locked?” and noiselessly he turned the handle. “Yes. Very well. Now I want to be certain that she has not heard us,” and he rose from his knees, and holding Mrs. Elyard by the arm, drew her towards the others. “Listen. I will call to her—louder and louder until she hears my voice. Then, when she answers, I will say good-night. She is not likely to come out, but we shall hear her open the inner door if it be truly dosed. How will that be—to make us certain?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Elyard, “but I am sure she has not heard us.”

“You understand what I mean, Griffiths. I’ll have no loopholes in my test. I am not afraid to prove her thoroughly. Stand over there, in the doorway, where you can see and hear.”

And he placed them on the threshold of the corridor, and, standing in the middle of the room, called to his wife, “Mary, Mary, Mary:” each time louder, each time waiting for an answer. “Mary,” he called in ringing tones.

“Yes.”

The inner door opened. In the silence, Mrs. Elyard and Griffiths plainly heard it. Then the voice came from the lobby behind the locked door.

“What is it? What do you want?”

“Nothing. Only to say good-night Good-night, my love. I am just shutting up the house. Good-night, my love.”

“Good-night.”

He held up his hand wamingly, to keep them motionless, until again they heard the inner door as it closed.

Then, silently and carefully, he put out the reading-lamp and came and whispered to Mrs. Elyard.

“You are right; she could not have heard us.”

“No,” said Mrs. Elyard exultingly, “I thought I wasn’t mistaken.”

He led them out into the corridor where old Bigland, returning from his round, reported that no one was stirring.

“Now, Mrs. Elyard,” said Morton, “since you heard her fetch the note, you have been here on guard. No one has gone in or come out?”

“No.”

“And nothing has occurred to alarm her, to put her on the scent of danger?”

“No.”

“You are sure of that? Good. If she ever meant to act on this invitation nothing has happened to stop her? Now, Mrs: Elyard, you must remain on guard—behind the drawing-room door, eh? Get a chair and sit there with the door ajar, eh? You’ll contrive it wisely. You are used to this sort of thing. We can trust you to conceal yourself while you wait and watch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We shall leave you in darkness, but your spirit is staunch; you are not afraid.” Mrs. Elyard shook her head. “Then come,” and he grasped Lady Sarah’s arm. “Griffiths, follow me. Bigland, put out the lamps in the drawing-room and follow us. We will go to the young man’s room and wait for her.”

“No,” said Lady Sarah, trying to release her arm. “I absolutely decline to come.”

“I am sorry, but we daren’t leave you. You would warn her.”

“Sir,” said Bigland. “Bowman, sir? How shall “I will answer for Bowman.”

“Mr. Morton,” said Griffiths. “I must protest-”

“It is too late to protest. If she comes, she is guilty. If she comes out of that door, Mrs. Elyard, don’t stop her. Let her go on.”

“You may rely on me, sir.”

“Can we? I wonder. We all have weaknesses. We know God’s law, but we can’t keep it. Do you swear”— and, drawing Lady Sarah with him, he came close to Mrs. Elyard and scrutinised her face in the faint light from the lamp at the end of the corridor. “Do you swear that you won’t relent—won’t allow some revulsion of womanly feeling to make you warn her? Can you trust yourself ? The heart plays strange tricks with us, Mrs. Elyard. Are you sure of yours? Will you swear that you won’t, at the last moment, try to save her from a disgrace worse than death? It may come to you, what her feelings will be when she goes creeping to her lover’s arms, in the shame of her guilty love, and finds us waiting for her,” and he pulled the cross from his waistcoat, and held it high as the chain would let him. “Swear by this.”

“I do,” said Mrs. Elyard with intense earnestness.

“Ah! I knew we could trust you. Now, Mr. Griffiths, are you satisfied that the conditions of our test are sound?’

“Yes. But I protest against-”

“If she comes, she is guilty? Why don’t you answer?” “Yes.”

“If she does not come, what is she?”

“Innocent.”

“Good. I tell you she won’t come.”

CHAPTER XXIV

AT either side of the hanging curtains a shadowy twilight had slowly entered the silent room; and as it came, the shadows in the room had seemed to move to meet and blend with it. Then shafts of cold light, piercing the slowly moving shadows, had struck upon the red walls, and the night, lingering in the curtained room, had slowly crept away. Morton, sitting at a table, silent, rigid, unyielding, still held the watchers to their task. With the coming of the light he had begun to read. Resting his head on one hand, the other hand lying on the open book, he sat with his back to the others, immovable, inflexible of purpose, still waiting, still watching. At last he spoke, in a low harsh whisper, without looking round.

“What’s the time?”

Griffiths, sitting by the curtained window, looked at his watch.

“Half-past five.”

“Then the day has begun. Let in the light of day.”

Griffiths drew back the curtains, and a wide stream of cold light poured into the room. Above the stone parapet of the outer platform, the park-land showed itself half hidden in a white mist; beyond, the beech woods stretched green and bright; far-off roofs and windows of cottages glittered in the sunlight, and blue smoke rose high and straight from cottage chimneys: the working day had begun. In the unseen garden below the parapet, blackbirds land thrushes had been whistling and singing throughout the last two hours.

Morton closed his book and looked round.

“Well, are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” said Griffiths.

‘What is she?”

“Innocent.”

“Quite certain of that?”

“Oh yes,” said Griffiths, “who can doubt it?”

“Bigland, what is she?”

“She hasn’t come.”

“Then she is innocent?”

The old man, looking dishevelled and foolish, moved uneasily beneath his master’s steady eyes. At last, waving his hand with a gesture of helplessness, he answered reluctantly.

“Yes.”

“And you, Lady Sarah? You agree?”

“Oh yes. How can you ask me?”

“Then, my friends, our vigil is over. Vice walks by night, I think: not in the searching light of day. Mr. Griffiths, we need wait no longer, need we?”

“No.”

“Our task is bravely done,” and he rose. “We may sleep sound,” and he glanced from one to another, smiling, as he moved about the room. “But we won’t look at ourselves in the glass. This sort of work is not beautifying to mind or body.”

Lady Sarah looked at him with unutterable reproach in her white, drawn face.

“It is cruel of you to have forced me-”

“I know it,” and he took her hand, “but you must forgive me.”

“I feel that I never can forgive you,” said Lady Sarah sadly, but resolutely. “For the first time I know that you have done wrong.”

“No. The end has justified the means. Believe me, I am pained by your pain—grieved to have dragged you down to the world’s level. But we are all citizens of the world, and have our hateful duties to perform. We are called to serve on juries and do God’s work—to give and to take away life—and we dare not refuse. The jury you have sat with to-night has been trying a human soul,” and he laughed harshly. “I compliment you all on your attention during the proceedings, and I shall give directions that your names be removed from my list so that you be not called upon to serve again.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not? The prisoner is acquitted. Come, Lady Sarah, your last duty. Go down and summon my wife. Relieve our sentinel. Tell Mrs. Elyard the court has risen,” and he led Lady Sarah to the door and opened it. “Tell her to rouse my wife and bring her here. I want her here—at once. Do this errand for me, Lady Sarah, and return please without delay.”

And he stood by the open door, watching Lady Sarah go down the stairs.

“Sir,” said Griffiths, “if you don’t require my presence any further-”

“I do,” said Morton,—“wait,” and he went to the door of the bedroom, and stooped with his ear to the lock. “Bigland, come here. Do you want to hear something curious?” His follower came to him. “Listen. Do you hear?”

Bigland stooped to listen by the door.

“What do you hear?”

“Still walking about. He has done that all night

What does it sound like to you, old friend? Curious? Isn’t there something strange in the sound of those footsteps? What is it like?”

Bigland looked up into his master’s face inquiringly. “Like a caged beast?”

“A caged beast? No. They are not driven. Their steps fall free and light enough, to and fro, in their narrow cells. And they pause and listen now and then: listen for the uncaged wind and the rustle of leaves in the open air. And their pacings may cease when they like. They may lie down, and sleep, and dream that they are free. Listen again.”

“He keeps moving. It is just the same sound.”

“Yes. The sound of a man driven by his sin. You don’t know what it is to be driven by the sin that will give you no rest.”

“Yes, yes. That’s it. He is driven by his sin.”

“He made the sin and it was his servant. Now it is his master. Discovery has given it the whip hand. If we could see through the closed door, perhaps we should see it—a red-eyed imp, sitting on his shoulders; flogging him along, driving him on, as it will do now for ever

For ever?”

“Yes. He will never know peace again. He is a poor weak thing, too weak to have sinned at all. No strength to fling off the driver now, and trample it down as you and I, or Mrs. Elyard, would. It will drive him on

It will drive him out of this house?”

“Yes, out of this house, across our pleasant meadows, and away to the ends of the dusty earth, till it drives him over the ragged edge and he and his burden fall together.”

“Into the bottomless pit?”

“Of course. Where else should they fall?” and he laughed once more, as he turned to Griffiths. “Bigland stands late hours better than any of us. You see, want of sleep has left his quick apprehension uninjured.”

He went to the window, looked out, and then came back.

“Now, Bigland, open the cage, and bring forth our wild beast.”

“Unlock the door?”

“Yes. Unlock the door,” and Bigland obeyed him. “But step aside, man, stand back,” and the old fellow drew back hastily. “He may spring out and devour us. Is he crouching for his spring? Then, with a change of tone: “Come here, please.”

Bowman came from the other room.

“I have sent for my wife to explain matters to her. Stand there, please, and be careful not to interrupt me. You understand, you will not address her or me—whether she tries to palliate your offence or no.”

“I have nothing to say.”

Lady Sarah, returning, took a chair near the open door, and they waited in silence until presently Mrs. El-yard leading the way ushered Mrs. Morton up the stairs.

She had dressed hurriedly, wrapping herself in a loose dressing-gown; her dark hair hung in loops over her ears and lay in an untidy coil upon her neck; her face looked white and scared, and the large eyes moved in frightened wonder as she stood on the threshold.

“Why have you fetched me? What do you want with me?”

“Listen,” said Morton, “and you shall hear.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hush, I tell you. Be silent and listen. You will soon understand. Come forward, Mrs. Elyard. You have played your part well, I know.—Don’t be downcast.” Mrs. Elyard advanced from the door a little way, looked at him, and lowered her eyes again. Her hard face was set, the thin lips drawn tight; but, beneath the folds of her cloak, her fingers twitched now and then, and the mouth twitched sympathetically as she stared at the carpet in the discomfiture of her baffled rancour.

“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Morton breathlessly. “Why are you all here? Why don’t you tell me?” Morton held up his hand to silence her.

“Listen carefully. Don’t be agitated. We have all been busy to-night, but our task is over. I must tell you, as mistress of the house, why we have watched while you have slept.”

“Why?”

“This young man insulted you by declaring his guilty love. He wrote you a note.”

As he spoke, she shrank back.

“It is not true.”

“Hush! It is sweet and womanly of you to try to shield him, but it is hopeless. His guilt stands confessed

Confessed?”

“He asked you to come to him in the dead of the night—here. But our friends were on the alert and they saw his infamous proposal—read it, you understand—before it reached you.”

“It is not true. It never reached me.”

“Be silent I tell you, you cannot save him. Our good friends read the words that trumpeted his deadly sin. They saw that he was guilty, but they did more than that. They thought you guilty too.”

“She is innocent,” said Bowman.

“How can I make you understand their thought?” Morton kept his eyes fixed on the scared face. “It is not a nice thought, but you must know it Well, they thought that the burning lust and base desire that had swallowed honour and duty in him, had found their lodgment in your bosom too”—and he pointed to her breast—“that the heart which I swore beat loyal and true was black with sin too vile to name. They told me that, so surely as the silence and the night came full and deep, you would do this man’s bidding: would come creeping forth to lie in his arms, till the grey flicker of dawn frightened you away. They told me you would do this, and they dared me to put you to the test by watching and waiting. If you came, it was true. If you did not come, it was a lie. Would I put your innocence to infallible proof?”

“I tell you she is innocent,” said Bowman.

“I refused. I knew you were innocent. I had no shadow of doubt If the whole world thought you false, what did it matter to me, who knew? I told them so; and the reply from this lady”—and, without moving his eyes, he pointed to Mrs. Elyard—“was an evil smile. Then I, too, began to think. These few, our friends, thought you false. But that means the world. Our little world, the only world that knew, thought you false, and always that smile, like the ripple where a rat dives in a stagnant pond, would go widening and spreading its evil circle round your life and mine, to show where the rat had passed. There are charges which can be disproved once or never—honoured by a fair meeting and beaten down to the dirt they come from, or slowly crushed by the contempt that disdains to meet them. This was just such a charge. Chance and Choice and the Devil working like three foul spiders had woven a web about you while you slept You could shake it off in an instant, or wait till the wind of heaven blew it away. Then I thought: Why not? We have nothing to risk, you and I.”

The dark scared eyes watched his face as closely as he watched hers; when he moved a step towards her, she shrank from him as though involuntarily.

“Well, at last, I told our good friends to lay their trap: to prove you how they liked; to turn their knives by scraping my diamond; to find out, by what arts they pleased, the certainty of your purity and innocence. So see,”—and he swung his arm in a wide sweep—“our little world looks weary and ashamed, but satisfied. You have stood the ordeal, and the ugly smile has vanished. If our little world will not look you in the face, shame and not suspicion is the reason,” and he moved towards the door. “So off you go, my good friends. Good-night and pleasant dreams,” and he stood by the open door bowing and smiling. “I have yet to speak to the man who has tried to injure me. Griffiths, see Mrs. Elyard safely on her way.”

Mrs. Morton and Bowman exchanged a swift glance, and he laid a finger on his white dry lips wamingly.

As Lady Sarah passed out, Morton laid his hand very lightly on her hair and whispered, “Forgive me.” She did not look at him or show that she was aware that he had spoken and touched her.

He stood looking after them for what seemed a long time, then, slowly closing the door, he turned.

“Well?”

His face had undergone a startling change. It was like a badly modelled grey mask—heavy and expressionless: only, through the sharp-edged holes in the mask beneath the thick eyebrows, the human eyes burned fiercely. Shrinking from him as he advanced, his wife drew back, until stopped by one of the cabinets with the pretty china, and leaned against it breathless and panting.

“Well? I am waiting for your thanks. Why don’t you speak? Is your tongue weary of its lying work? Give me his note of invitation.”

“I got no note,” she gasped.

“Aha! Not weary yet Where is his invitation? Where is his note of warning—to put you off?”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you know I was a clairvoyant. There, in your bosom, crushed against your treacherous heart, I can read the writing: ‘Don’t come. We are watched!’ Give it me.

He seized her in his arms; dragged open the bosom of her dress, tearing the silk and then the cambric; snatched the crumpled papers from their hiding place beneath the stays; and cast her from him.

“Woman, I wrote it myself: pushed it under your door, and gave you the signal to lie close as a fox when the hunt is out Come—see here.”

He beckoned to Bowman, and then held the papers before him.

“Yours—and mine. ‘My darling, you must come to my room to-night. It is quite safe.’ ‘Don’t come. We are watched.’ I forged that, under their eyes, and they never saw. Did the Devil guide my hand well—for she never guessed—or was it admiration of your powers of fascination and success in love that reversed your rule, and made the master write so like his pupil? Why don’t you answer? Why don’t you praise me? Can’t you see I have striven hard and am greedy of praise? Not a word? . . . Then go. Be warned, and go while there is time,” and he went towards the door. “You have walked with death to-night. His arms have been about your neck,” and he turned to his wife. “His bony hands have fondled the face you love, toyed with his silken hair, strained and held his soft form with an itching of desire stronger than you have ever felt. See here.”

The white nickel flashed and glittered as he stretched out his hand to show the revolver to Bowman.

“Seel The barrel to tear the life out of you with a rending sword of flame, or the butt to beat you down at my feet—to batter that face of yours into a red pulp for my footstool. Barrel or butt, barrel or butt—death has wooed you all the night through; craved for you, yearned for you, fawned upon me to give you to him. If anything had gone wrong, if my scheme had miscarried, if they had proved her guilt and my disgrace, you would have sped hot-foot to hell. . . . But the Devil has held his own, and kept me from blundering.”

He threw up his arms and dropped for a moment upon one knee as though in prayer. “Master of Evil!” he cried hoarsely, “I have been your slave to-night! Have I done your work well? A sign!” and his eyes rolled wildly. “Give a sign, my Master, to gladden your new found servant . . .”

“Now go,” and he threw open the door. “Go forth and let there be no looking back—no signals to her. Just now when you motioned to her to be cautious, I nearly killed you after all. Don’t tempt me again.”

White and silent the young man slunk from the room, and passed down the stairs out of sight Morton closed the door; locked it; and came towards his wife. She cowered down upon the floor, and gave a cry of terror as he took her by the wrist.

“What are you going to do with me? Not kill me?” “Kill you? No,” and he put away the shining revolver. “No. Look at you, make much of you, wife of my bosom! Study the shifty eyes and trembling mouth that the Devil has left me in exchange for Heaven. Feel the puny arms that have pulled down the structure of my whole life and hurled me down God’s narrow path to the open gates of Hell, between the setting and the rising of the sun.”

“Let me go. Let me go. I am afraid of you.”

“Afraid—why? Am I not all that a husband should be—simple and easy, slow to suspect, quick and clever to shield his wife from discredit and disgrace?”

“Let me go.”

“Hold up your face,” and with his hand beneath her chin he turned the white face upwards, and gazed down with wild fierce eyes. “Let me see how well the Devil can pick his servants. Yes. You are well chosen to do the work. I was weary of my lonely toil, longing for the touch of a woman’s hand in mine, pining for a helpmate in my task, when he set you ragged and shivering in my path. Well chosen, my Master—a harlot with the face of a saint! It was the love that begins in pity that served your turn.”

“Oh, let me go.”

“But why did you do this thing? What was your guerdon to be? What reward could you hope from my undoing? Answer me.”

“I was starving. I wanted money.”

“Money! I had none. But I would have fed you and sheltered you and sent you on your road. My heart was open to the sisterhood of frailty. Why should you swear you were chaste? Why spin a ladder of lies to reach what I gave to all?” She was struggling to get free, dragging with all her strength upon the iron hand beneath her chin. “Answer me, give me the truth now. Was it true—what you swore to me that night—that you had been no man’s slave—that you had suffered till then without sin? Was that true, I say?”

“No, no!”

“A wanton—always a wanton! But why should you cleave to me? How could I pay you for your body and soul—I who was nearly as poor as yourself? Why did you stand before the altar with me, when your price could be paid in the market-place? Answer me. When you stood beside me and said you would be my wife, was there no gleam of love in your heart?”

“No.”

“Some human feeling—gratitude to the hand that had given you shelter—warmed your cold breast to give me what you had sold to others?”

“I tell you I married you for your money.”

“Untiring tongue! Will you never weary of lies? My money came to me after you had pledged yourself. You thought me poor as yourself when you spoke the word

I knew that the money was coming. Loose my hand, and I’ll tell you the truth—and then let me go. You must be blind not to have guessed. I was with your cousin when he died.”

He dropped her wrist, and recoiled from her.

“The dead man’s mistress!”

She staggered to her feet and stood leaning against the cabinet The coil of dark hair had fallen; her open gown showed her bare breast and the torn chemise; his hand had brought a wide red mark upon the white face. Haggard, breathless, panting, desperate in her terror, she confronted him now with the sudden defiance of a weak wild creature driven to bay.

“He was cruel to me—but I bore it—longing for his death—and the money he had sworn I should have. Then at the last he cheated me—I had seen his will—and the lawyer who made it told me I had nothing to hope for— that it was all to go to you—his mad cousin, as he called you. . . .”

“Go on.”

“I was penniless—in despair—half mad with rage. And I came to London to hunt you down—to throw myself at your feet and beg for mercy—for some part of the treasure that was coming to you. . .

“Why didn’t you do this?”

“I waited, and as I waited, I took hope. When I found what you were like, I knew you would help me when I told you the truth. You didn’t know of the money. It would always be time enough to tell my tale, and if I could make you care for me a little, so much the better my reward when the time came.”

“Blind fool—blind fool!”

“So now you know the truth. I never cared for you. I was always afraid of you.—And then—when our horrible life began, and I found myself cheated again-tricked and cheated once more—I hated you. The cursed money was there mocking me—mine in name, but held from me by you. I tell you, I hated you worse than that miserable old man.”

“The truth at last!”

“So now you know. Let me go. Let me go away with You can divorce me and be free.”

He seized her by both arms and forced her upon her knees.

“Till death do us part Say it after me. Till death do us part.”

“Let me go away with him. You frighten me.”

“Never again as man holds a woman—in love; but as husband holds his wife—by God’s bond, I’ll hold you to the end. I’ll loose you to no other.”

She was writhing and twisting in his grasp, and he swung her to her feet and held her before him. Then he opened her arms and pushed them back, so that she fell face forwards on his breast.

“Let me go—for God’s sake.”

“For God’s sake, no. You and I are one till death do us part. What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”

CHAPTER XXV

A YEAR and a half had passed. The House of the Woman of Samaria was built and open to the sisterhood of frailty; and Morton was living in it as chaplain of the House.

At Talgarth such changes had been made that the sleepy countryside was still rubbing its eyes in wonder. To the dwellers on the soil it had seemed as though the end of all things had come: after a thousand years of peace, the tramp of invading hosts; the land in a summer night taken and held by the conqueror; the old lords fled or banished without striking a blow in defence of their people; their castles razed to the ground or turned into barracks; their pleasaunces staked out for camps; proclamations pinned to cottage and barn doors commanding peasants and farmers to go on with their work as though nothing had happened, but henceforth to pay tax and tribute to the new emperor of all the realm.

As Colbeck, on a December afternoon, drove along a narrow lane at the bottom of the park, the driver of the rough country gig pointed with his whip across the bare grass land to where the long low house had stood.

“They mean to get the copper on the dome, sir, before the bad weather catches ‘em!”

“Yes,” said Colbeck absently, “they are losing no time.” Above the untouched garden, on the site of the demolished house, a vast pile of red brick now rose from a cage of scaffolding. Two great brick towers were already high above the main structure; and between, half-covering the clean wood-work of a wide dome, the newly-placed copper glittered faintly in the weak sunlight. It was the hall, chapel, and the central block of the immense college that would take another two years to complete in its entirety.

A mile behind him, Colbeck had left another Home or Hospital, similar in construction to the original Home by the village. All Talgarth’s land and the three adjacent estates had been purchased; all three desirable mansions on this other land had been converted into further Homes; and all were thronged with children. Already, the resident nurses were counted by hundreds; the resident doctors by tens and twenties; the permanent staff of work-people by regiments of fifty. The full scheme was steadily going forward to its completion; the children’s colony was fairly established with thousands of child-colonists; but in all the expanding organisation, at desk, or by bedside, as ruler of ward or kitchen, the first and original matron was not to be seen. Mrs. Elyard had retired from the service with a gratuity and a grievance. But, as she said herself, she was not surprised. Once again, she had lost her place by doing her duty.

“I suppose, sir,” said the driver, as the gig rolled silently over the dead leaves in the lane, “that Mr. Morton have made up his mind not to come and look at it till it’s all finished.”

“Mr. Morton has many things to attend to,” said Colbeck absently.

This driver was an honest, sober sort of fellow whom Colbeck preferred to the man who usually drove him on his round of inspection. He was talkative, but intelligent: taking the keenest interest in his task, and proud of acting as occasional charioteer to the governing physician. In truth, the work was now running so smoothly, under a medical staff so carefully chosen and so thoroughly in accord with the governor’s general plan, that the presence of Colbeck was perhaps no longer necessary. But it seemed that as yet he had no desire to relapse into the position of the distant controlling mind, the governor who rules his province from afar; and most days saw him at Talgarth, and the hired gig in waiting to carry him from point to point of the domain.

“It was me, sir,” the driver told Colbeck, “as drove Mr. Morton and his lady to the station on the morning they went away. We didn’t none of us think what was coming then, sir.”

And, not for the first time, he described the growing consternation of the village during the next few days as the tidings came that the property was sold; that the servants were going or had gone; that the furniture vans were on the road; that the home of the Talgarths was to be wiped off the face of the earth; that the housebreakers were arrived by the evening trains; that the work of destruction would begin at dawn.

“You never see anything like the way that old gentleman went on, sir—Mr. Bigland, sir. He was left in charge, I take it—you remember, sir. I reckon I can say I saved his life I did, for Mr. Bigland-”

“Did you? How was that?”

“Me and some of the village chaps used to go up, odd hours, and watch ’em at it. You never see such a dust. We’d stand there and come away in half an hour like so many millers or ghosts. Wonderful sight to see—the way them London fellers cracked up the old place—like as if it had been made of paper. That old Mr. Bigland used to be a fair figure of fun, shouting to ’em and ordering ’em about They never took no notice of him—but laugh. To watch him, you’d think he wanted to pull the house down with his own hands and teeth—dancing about and shouting. Well, one day they nearly dropped a wall on him. They give us all the office, but he, if you please, come back and stood foolish-like—dazed. I had him out of it—but on’y just in time. I don’t think he properly understood. Anyhow he didn’t thank me. Funny old gentleman! Have you seen him lately, sir?”

“Yes, not long ago. He is with Mr. Morton.”

“And the lady, sir? You’ll excuse me asking, but there’s been a talk about her being dead. That ain’t right, is it, sir?”

“No,” said Colbeck. “I have not heard of her death.”

“But she ain’t along of him, sir, up in London? They are separated like, ain’t they, sir?”

“Yes,” said Colbeck. “Mrs. Morton is not with Mr. Morton in London.”

“Ah,” said the driver, “you’ll excuse me mentioning it, but of course it’s common talk down here.”

Dr. Colbeck pointed ahead of him.

“Take the turn to the station. I am going by the three-forty.”

The driver, glancing at the doctor’s thoughtful face, showed his intelligence by asking no more questions.

Colbeck was thinking of the telegram that had been brought to him half-an-hour ago, and presently he drew it from his pocket and looked at it again.

“I think you are wanted in Lennox Street, Sarah Joyce.”

Nothing more. Word for word as he remembered it. Not, “J want you in Lennox Street”; but, “You are wanted.” His face was very thoughtful as he folded the paper and put it back in his breast pocket.

They rattled down the village street, past the sleepy-looking shops and the empty pavements; and as they approached the path that led to the park by the post-office, Dr. Colbeck saw with surprise Mr. Griffiths coming through the gate.

Colbeck stopped the gig, got down, and dismissed it for the day.

“Halloa, Griffiths!” he said in friendly greeting. “You are indeed a stranger. What brings you here?”

They had not met since the June night when they strolled together upon the long terrace before the vanished house. As they walked to the station, Griffiths explained himself. It seemed that he had been at the House in Lennox Street earlier in the day—not upon business, but merely taking the liberty of paying a call upon a respected friend.

“You understand, sir, that my business relations with Mr. Morton have practically ceased—except in one matter. With the placing of the last of those pensions, my power to be of any real use came to an end. But I am bound to Mr. Morton by other ties—I have a strong regard for Mr. Morton.”

“I am sure you have,” said Colbeck cordially. “I saw that at once.”

“In point of fact, Dr. Colbeck—Mr. Morton has had a very great influence on my life—but I need not trouble you with all that.”

Colbeck looked at the detective in doubt.

“I ought not to ask, if you say that. But you don’t mean an influence derived from his—religious opinions?”

“Yes.”

“Really. I should hardly have supposed that.”

“I don’t mean to say I am a regular church religionist,” said Griffiths, and he coughed and cleared his throat. “I am not. But I mean his message—his teaching in its widest bearing—well, I don’t think any one could come under that influence, and think of it all, with* out being affected.”

“No,” said Colbeck after a silence. “Not as considered on its humanitarian side.”

“No,” said Griffiths, looking straight in front of him. “Or on its other side.”

Colbeck walked on in silence, for a few moments lost in thought. Accustomed all his life to sudden glimpses of the unexpected in men’s minds, that swift lifting of the curtairi that shows in a flash ere it falls the hidden mystery of the seemingly commonplace, he nevertheless wondered. An ex-policeman! The tracker of the stem realities of life in a moment joining the shadow-hunters, the street-guardian on his narrow beat roving from the fixed point into the dream-wonder of a world beyond the grave! Wonderful! Most wonderful!

“I, too, have the highest regard for our friend. How is he getting on? I haven’t seen him for some weeks.”

But Griffiths had not seen Mr. Morton to-day. He had seen Lady Sarah, and had gathered that Mr. Morton was perhaps not in as good health as usual. Her ladyship had said that she herself and some of the sisters were anxious about their chaplain—afraid that he was not very well. Lady Sarah had in fact appeared very anxious, but was hoping to see Dr. Colbeck, who no doubt would relieve everybody’s anxiety. She had telegraphed to Dr. Colbeck, but was in some fear lest her telegram should miss him. Griffiths, having nothing to do that afternoon, had said that he would run down to Talgarth and make sure that Dr. Colbeck was informed of her wish. Her ladyship had seemed relieved on hearing this.

“It was kind of you to come.”

In the train, as they jogged townwards through the fast-falling darkness, passed every now and then by one of the expresses—a streak of gaslit windows, a meteor of rumbling wood and humming iron, flashing along the middle tracks—they talked of the stupendous House.

One of the sisters had told Griffiths that visitors were expected this afternoon: newspaper men, members of Parliament, and lawyers, the sister thought. She knew that some more lawyer’s work was on hand, because the council chamber was to be made ready as though for a meeting of the trustees. It was another trust to be created, Griffiths opined from all he had heard. Some new endowment! Was Dr. Colbeck to be a trustee, he asked.

“No—I refused.”

“Did you?”

“I don’t approve of it: I told him so plainly. This House of the Woman of Samaria is amply dowered. As one of the trustees of the original gift, I told him that it was too well provided for already. Besides, it is outside reason—this winding up of his estate as he calls it.”

“Outside reasont”

“I mean overdoing it. He is giving away his last penny.”

“Dr. Colbeck;—you know that I don’t ask from an improper motive. He is often under your eye—have you observed anything to suggest-?”

“To suggest what?”

“Well—that his mind is in a dangerous state.”

“No,” said Colbeck very seriously. “What leads you to think that?”

“I must say that I notice a marked change. Others notice it.”

“Beginning lately?”

“From the time she left him.”

“Ah.”

“You know he acted very strangely at Talgarth—during the occurrences which led up to the separation. He acted and talked very strangely then and afterwards

He was hard hit by her desertion. But what did the strangeness amount to?”

“Well, at first, a sort of mocking way of treating everything—most unlike himself. He seemed to be inwardly making fun of everything—no matter how serious.”

“The strong man’s way of meeting adversity—laughing off his trouble.”

“You really think so?”

“I am sure of it”

“I am very glad.”

“You see,” said Colbeck thoughtfully; and, although they were alone in the carriage, he leant forward and spoke in a low voice. “The mental condition of a man like our friend is from the professional point of view a subject of absorbing—of infinite interest. I have thought of it from the beginning of our friendship. It is not normal—far from it. There is of course—from our point of view—one salient delusion—or, let us say, dominant idea. Perhaps you aren’t even aware of it. He guards it close—only lets it be inferred. But then, after all, how common are such dominant ideas—or delusions! Is not divergence from the normal in one direction, normal really? One man thinks he ought to have been made a judge, another that he could reorganise the navy, another that he has made some marvellous invention and that a nation ought to supply the million required to build a working model—another—like Morton, for instance—thinks something wider still. A good fellow, people say in such cases, but keep him off his subject. Don’t let him bore you with his idee fixe. It is unchanging with such men, you understand, one delusion: not dozens of wild fancies, changing day by day. That would be a very different matter.

“I have never talked to him about it—though, frankly, as a student, I have longed to do so—to get to the bottom of it—to lay bare his secret thought. But I have always refrained. I tell you there is no man I have a stronger regard for—and I respect you for your anxiety. But look back and recall your first impression of him. I know what mine was. Now,” said Colbeck with a grave smile, “I’ll give you the scientific aspect of the case in the plainest terms. Our experience tells us that when a man has been as mad as Morton for a number of years, he never gets any worse. The leaning tower of Pisa, you know, has stood firm while many an upright shaft has bit the dust.”

“But there have been no bad earthquakes at Pisa. His domestic upset?”

“He’ll get over it. He is fighting his trouble bravely.”

“I suppose he never speaks to you about her?”

“Never. Miserable woman! Who could have suspected it? But of course you knew. You did the best you could to keep the knowledge of her wretched secret from him.”

“What else could I do?” said Griffiths. “I wouldn’t know it myself—for certain, but I lived in dread of her exposure. It seemed to me almost incredible that she escaped detection. I think I ought to say, perhaps, that all that time I was not receiving money from Mr. Morton—I mean, payment for my pretended search. That would not have been right, of course.”

“I am sure that all you did was right.”

“Thank you,” said Griffiths. “I assure you I have often thought since that you might have misjudged me, sir, if you ever gave the matter consideration. And the thought was unpleasant to me—very unpleasant. But how did you first learn the truth?”

“It was something Farley told me. Some photograph he had seen puzzled him, and set me thinking.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“I challenged Morton, and he told me it was so. Poor fellow! He showed great reluctance in speaking of it; and, to this day, I don’t know the real circumstances of their parting.”

“You know, of course, that we had a terrible to do down there—but no doubt you heard all about that from her ladyship.”

“No. It is not a matter that I should speak of to Lady Sarah. I know of it roughly. That canting brute of a matron made mischief, and Mr. Bowman was dismissed in disgrace. But afterwards—in London? I saw Morton and his wife together in Bedford Square, and the next thing I heard was that she had disappeared, and that you and he were both hunting for her.”

“It was a miserable business. It seemed, down there, that our suspicion of her had recoiled on our own heads. He seemed to have unshaken confidence in her. But, in London, I believe—Parrott told me—he watched her as a cat watches a mouse—never let her out of his sight— hardly ever went out; and, when he did, took her with him—was always with her, Parrott said, till the night she stole out of the house and got clean away—and joined her lover.”

“You traced her then?”

“No. But I found him—months afterwards—alone, and starving. It seems as if young men of his calibre have a natural bent toward starvation. The pity is that his career was ever interfered with.”

“Upon my word, I almost agree with you.”

“Well, the tendency was checked again. He was sent off to Australia to begin life afresh—funds being provided by some anonymous friend.”

“Do I know that friend?”

“You can guess.”

“What did Bowman say of her?”

“He could tell me nothing. She had left when the food ran short—which oughtn’t to have surprised him. All this time Mr. Morton was himself seeking for her—wandering away all over the kingdom on any vague chance and then hurrying back to London—wearing himself out with useless efforts. I think he was employing other detectives—well, I know he was. His confidence in me had been shaken. And they led him the usual dance of your private inquiry agents—sharp as razors for their fees, and dull enough I daresay at all the rest. Professional jealousy, sir. That’s the snarl of the jealous old dog of the C. I. D. kennel! Anyhow, I know they took him to Paris again and again—to Berlin, to Vienna,” and Griffiths shrugged his shoulders.

“I only saw him at intervals,” he went on. “But it was then that I fancied I saw the change—oh yes, a marked change, Dr. Colbeck, it seemed to me. The old fire gone, sir—the look almost of a beaten man—great depression—and then outbursts; but weak outbursts. And preaching! It was gone—the old power. I heard him twice that autumn. It was painful.”

“He should not have tried to preach,” said Colbeck, “I advised him not to. Public speaking and private worry can’t be successfully combined.”

“Well, I was glad enough when the House was opened and he went to it as chaplain. It seemed to me at first as if he had quieted down there—and I thought I knew why. Not that he had really given up hope of ever seeing her again.”

“If she were in want don’t you think she would make some application for assistance?”

“I doubt it. I do her that justice. I think she would be at her last gasp before she craved help from her husband.”

“I can tell you one thing for certain,” said Colbeck thoughtfully. “Very little real want and deprivation would bring her to that final breath. Hers was not a constitution to stand much strain, and it had been impaired by her previous life.”

“Perhaps it has come to that already. Freedom, though he does not know it. But he does not think so. Every time we meet, it is the same thing: Have you found her? Just as in the old days. And now he suspects that I am still keeping something back from him

But you are not?”

“No. This time I am utterly at fault How can I find her? I don’t want to, but I honestly try. I dread to come upon her, but I go on looking—searching for her among the ranks of the wretched army whose deserters go there. For it is among them that I should look for her by now. And he knows it too, though he doesn’t say so. It is that idea that has made this House more and more the ruling thought of his life. He asked me once, ‘If she needed me, would she not seek me here?’ and I told him, not till she had lost all hope—not till the very last.”

CHAPTER XXVI

IN the darkness of the narrow streets the House towered above one like a stone fortress of a bygone age, round which the town of sordid hovels had clustered for protection. But the light from the street lamps fell upon the still white masonry of the base, upon the clean carved stone, and the unsullied polish of the thick oak door—a fortress renovated, made spick and span for wandering tourists in a modem city. There were carriages in the street, and a big motor-car shaped like an omnibus; footmen outside the door, and loafers from the little public-house at the opposite comer who had seen the visitors go in were lounging about to see them go away again, or making themselves officiously useful by standing at the heads of horses while coachmen retired for a minute to the public-house bar.

An oak panel slid back and showed a woman’s face behind narrow iron bars. Colbeck and Griffiths were recognised; a bolt was withdrawn; and the heavy door opened on silent hinges.

In the lofty corridor, Sister Ethel Maud told them that the evening service was just beginning; the chaplain was going to give them an address; Lady Sarah was in the chapel; Mr. Carpenter and his guests were not attending the service, but were now going round the building.

Sister Ethel Maud and other sisters hurrying along the corridor rather late for chapel, were dressed in the uniform of the House: brown serge, white linen cuffs, deep collars—the costume of a hospital nurse without the white cap; and hanging round the neck of each was a metal chain that carried a small metal cross. The sisters, as they were called, were of four classes: Nursing-sisters, for the infirmary; House-sisters, for the indoor work in the House and the night shelter; Visiting-sisters, older and more redoubtable, who went far and wide visiting the fallen in the brief day-hours when they were most accessible; and Street-sisters, who, discarding the uniform, went out into the streets by night to attack their task of personal hand-to-hand rescue work. Sister Ethel was a trusted house-sister now on duty in the important post of door-guard, with a little room to sit in, a desk and table with the printed forms of her guard upon which every entrance was registered, a telephone and speaking-tubes for her hourly reports, and half-a-dozen electric bells to ring a summons and sound its answer from room to room of the staff, whenever she needed support or assistance.

Would the gentlemen take any refreshment, Sister Ethel, smiling and polite, wished to know. There was tea and coffee in one of the waiting-rooms.

Mr. Carpenter, it seemed, was giving something in the nature of a party in the finished House that he had built. Adding to the small company here on business, he had gathered together some of his fine ladies and important relatives, with one or two members of Parliament, and the young literary gentleman who was collecting materials for a magazine article to be entitled, “The Life-work of Herbert Carpenter.” In the oak-lined parlour—so lofty that it looked small—oak tables had been placed side by side to form a buffet: with Mr. Carpenter’s own servant in charge of tea-pots, paté de foie sandwiches, the daintiest cakelets and bonbons that a well-known Bond Street shop could supply, champagne, whisky, apollinaris, lady-like liqueurs, etc. Gold-headed canes and umbrellas and very shiny silk hats stood upon the deep window ledge in front of the brown holland blinds; rich furs and feathers encumbered the leather-seated chairs; and trailing on the floor from an ermine stole—final indication of the careless splendour of Bertie’s friends—was a chain of gold and turquoise and pearl.

Colbeck and Griffiths glanced in through the hospitably open door, and passed on towards the heart of the building—the great hall, and the council chamber.

To-night the usual silence in which the House lay hushed behind the massive walls and double windows was invaded by strange sounds and echoes. The noise of doors shutting reverberated like the report of a gun fired at a distance, as it travelled along the stone-flagged passages and up the stone flights of stairs from the gigantic basement; the footsteps of the visitors multiplied themselves into the tramp of a buried army; a deep rumbling came from the men’s voices and a shrill banshee cry from the laughter or exclamatory wonder of the ladies. But echoes—the nightmare of the most brilliant architects—were a sore subject with Mr. Carpenter; and, showing his House to the brilliant and deeply interested company, he studiously ignored all stone voices, and affected not to hear when the magazine writer spoke of them as “weird.”

Down in the stone cellars, the strong room and the safe—as matters not designed by the host—had proved provokingly attractive. Old Mr. Norman, the solicitor, and his clerk, smilingly good-natured in the presence of so many affable ladies of title, had explained the mechanism, swinging the iron gate that turned on the electric light in the iron-cased room again and again until their arms ached. Here, in iron racks and tin boxes, were kept all the important papers of the House—records, account books when filled, estimates, specifications, plans, etc. “Deeds? Oh no,” and Mr. Norman smiled. Those were kept in that great safe, built into the masonry itself behind the room. It could only be opened by three of the trustees, each with his key, co-operating at the lock. It would be opened before the evening was over, probably: to put away the last deed of all that was waiting now, upstairs in the council chamber, for execution by the last of all the trustees—Mr. Gavell. Yes, that tall cadaverous man!—the well-known author or essayist.

But the cellars were done with at last, and, suddenly, Colbeck and Griffiths, turning at the end of the corridor found themselves involved in the party—fifteen or twenty people following their leader with stragglers already showing incipient boredom, inclined already to grumble at their leader’s slowness and his smiling, but resolute, determination that, having begun to show his House, he would show it thoroughly.

“Surprised to see me here, I suppose,” said Lord Patington gloomily. “Kate persuaded me to come, and I wanted to see for myself—once for all. Ah, how do, Mr.—er—Griffiths.”

“Well,” said Colbeck very coldly. “You are seeing. What do you think of it? Monumental, eh?”

“A monument of folly!” said Lord Patrington, as, with hands in his coat pockets, he strolled on.

Mr. Hammick, M. P., had been transported to a heaven of pompous bliss by the extreme affability of the famous and beautiful Lady Melton—the Marchioness of Melton as he would call her when speaking of this pleasant encounter. Large, rustling, splendid, with a full-blown loveliness of forty luxurious years, Lady Melton, as she walked by his side, talked to him in the absolute freedom, the tone of equality and good fellowship which, habitually, she adopted in talking to everybody—chauffeurs, railway guards, the girl behind the shop counter. He had been introduced a minute ago, and she had not listened or tried to catch the name. Had he dropped behind for a moment and then rejoined her, she would have accepted him as somebody else and gone on prattling as graciously.

“Oh yes, quite so, colossalel” Lady Melton was saying. “But, my dear man, don’t go on as though the thing was a new idea. If you want to know the truth the whole bag of tricks is a plagiarism from poor me.”

Mr. Hammick smiled in rapture at so much affability.

“Yes,” the Marchioness continued, “J started the whole movement over three years ago. Founded a club for them—poor dears! We had a ball and were goin’ strong—on paper, don’t you know, still, but meanin’ to open any day, when up comes Bertie Carpenter with his little lot—goin’ to spend a million over it. So poor I retired from the competition,” said Lady Melton with an engaging smile.

Mr. Hammick’s eyes were roving to find an observer of his happy situation. >

“Tell me,” he asked confidentially, “is not that the Earl of Patrington?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. But he has aged greatly since I last fiMj him.”

“Old bore!” said Lady Melton. “His daughter is matron here—secretary, or something funny.”

Mr. Carpenter, as they marched along, was contenting himself by pointing at the doors without stopping.

“Lady-doctor’s room. Matron’s room. Another matron’s room. Another matron’s room. Visiting sister’s room. Head street-sister’s room. Lady Sarah Joyce’s room.”

“There,” said Lady Melton. “I told you so. I don’t wonder she’s come to live here—with that old bore at home.”

Lord Patrington, with frowning brows and angry eyes, slunk by the door and would not look at it Presently they were all standing in the great hall, staring by order with upturned eyes at the elaborate fan-tracery of the vaulted roof.

“Reminds me of the chapel at King’s,” said some one.

“Or Westminster Abbey,” said somebody else. “More like that.”

The architect turned quickly, a gratified smile on his face.

“Quite right, Lady Sophia. You are absolutely correct. We have been more ornate than King’s.”

The stone pavement was beginning to make their feet sore. The high heels tapped noisily as the ladies hastened their pace; mutely refusing to strain their eyes again with a study of the clerestory; not caring to walk into the vault of either of the fireless hearths; without question accepting the described phenomenon of stars to be seen as through a telescope in the mouth of the immense chimney shafts. But the gigantic picture that covered half the mural space at the far end of the hall—because it was an afterthought, something extraneous to their host’s design, not devised or executed by his brain and hand—enchained their attention, captivated their vagrant fancy.

It was the famous and much engraved picture of the Italian Righetti’s Christ—at rest at last. Hawked all round the world, shown with tricks of light and screens—a peep-show of waning popularity—nearly sold at Brisbane, nearly sold at Toronto, yet never finally sold—but a home found for it at last! Something of a peep-show still it seemed, in its frame of knotted beams so strangely like the painted timber, hanging between great swinging shutters that were draped with black and white shrouds of curtains, with a row of concealed footlights to be reluctantly switched on by the reluctant showman Bertie.

“Oh!” and the visitors emitted little cries of pleasure, as they gazed upon the terrible presentment—the gaunt and broken-down ascetic hanging in his lifelike torment: the crimson horror of blood upon the greyish olive face. The high heels tapped and the silk under-skirts rustled as, moving from side to side, they tested the impossibility of escape from the stare of the tortured eyes.

Mr. Carpenter slightly shrugged his shoulders and explained tolerantly—

“It justifies its existence here. Serves its purpose, you understand. The violent—if utterly inartistic—appeal to the emotions. Go back to the door we came in by . . . Well, imagine you have done so,” and he switched off the light “Now, some poor soul—half-rescued—shrinking, doubtful, but with it in her thought—comes in at the door and sees”—he switched on the light—“this”— and he dropped his voice. “One of our sisters told me she had seen them lying here, where we stand, with their foreheads on the bare stone. But shall we go on?” and he turned out the light again.

They passed through the refectory, with the three long oak tables that to some one suggested the table-d’hote room of an old-fashioned Italian inn. They made nothing of their host’s music gallery; but evinced interest in the tables; were immensely interested in the subject of the daily fare; craved for menu cards, if cards were used, to take away with them.

Mr. Carpenter, in a confidential whisper, explained to one or two ladies something of the arrangements. As soon as they arrived, the segregation of the poor wanderers by the head-sisters—four classes: those for the infirmary; old offenders; girls; the rescued, who did not sit at meat with irreligious comrades! And, of course, the night shelter—a thing quite apart whose chance occupants never came in here for food. The menu really a matter of no consequence! Good? Oh yes—excellent: all that could be desired. No cards used in the House—except the cards of the visiting and street-sisters: just a card with a cross on it, the address of the House, and two or three words. “Come to us,” or something like that, and perhaps the sister’s name added in pencil. Nothing else!

“No. I could not very well give you any of the cards. You will readily guess,” said Carpenter in his confidential whisper, “that a certain reticence as to details is maintained—a certain delicacy due to our poor guests. No need to take the public into one’s confidence as to system of the work. For instance, I shall tell him nothing about all that,” and he indicated the clever young writer, on his knees by a table leg, busily gamering material for his article.

But Mr. Hammick, staunch to his Marchioness, and pushing within range of the whisper, did not appear to grasp the necessity for the reticence.

“You are going to show us the infirmary wards—the dormitories, or cubicles; and the—er—the inmates”

“Oh no. Strictly against our rules.”

“Really?” said Mr. Hammick. “You don’t mean that. Surely that would be rather like Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark?”

“I invited you to see the House ” said Mr. Carpenter severely.

But Mr. Hammick was not abashed: the sense of the meeting was with him.

They peeped into the kitchen and the empty supper-room of the shelter block; and came back behind the gallery of the chapel and down stone steps again. As they descended, the vibrating swell of the organ-music rolled about them; and, for a moment, while an unseen door opened and closed, they heard girls’ voices singing.

It was too cold to go outside, but, standing before a narrow, mullioned window, they looked into the dark cloisters. Through the columns of the cloister they could see, across the garden court, the black wall of the chapel and the glittering colours of the lower part of a stained-glass window. Glowing and glittering in the darkness of the night, it looked like the luminous picture of a magic lantern thrown upon a black screen. As they stood and peeped, again the waves of the buzzing, rolling music floated faintly to their ears.

“I suppose,” said Lord Patrington to Griffiths, “when Morton gets ‘em in his chapel he don’t let ‘em out in a hurry.”

“Oh no,” said Griffiths, “it is quite a short service.

But to-night he is to give an address;” and he looked across the garden regretfully. i Of his sex, only Mr. Bigland was privileged to take a seat in the empty and unlit gallery of the chapel.

Colbeck, disengaging himself from the sight-seeing current as speedily as possible, had gone on to the council chamber to wait in quiet for Lady Sarah. The council chamber was an oblong octagon in shape, and here was another of Mr. Carpenter’s vaulted ceilings: but low in pitch and simple in scheme—compared with the richness of that above the great hall—with lessening octagons repeated to the ridge-lozenge or crown. In ope of the two biggest sides of the room there was a long window divided by deep mullions, latticed panes between of plain and tinted glass set in gilt-iron tracery. This window was a favourite with the architect, and by daylight it gave one a pretty outlook to the cloister and a segment of the fishpond. In the opposite wall was the open fire-place: deep and high, a massive cavern of decorated stone, with a handsome brass curtain across the top of the cavern—an extra ornament designed and fitted by a “smoke-expert,” which the architect always looked at with gloom and distaste. In a panel of carved oak above the fire-place there was the only picture that the room contained. Seated at the wide table were Mr. Norman and his clerk, diving into the leather bag and the tin box that stood by their chairs, laying out papers, scattering pink tape, pushing about the pads of fresh blotting-paper that lay before each of the thirteen chairs, rearranging the nearest inkpots—squat towers of white metal reflected in the polished oak board as in water, looking like white forts in a brown sea—ahd almost fondling the smooth yet crackling parchment, as they opened and spread their new deeds, or admired the fresh seals, the bright new stamps.

“No need,” said Colbeck, sitting by the fire, “to inquire what all this means—the operating table of the law. Who are your new trustees?”

“Lord Melton, that Mr. Gement Gavell—and Mr. Griffiths, the detective.”

“Griffiths! No. Is that so? He did not mention it.”

“I doubt if he knows it. It was not our suggestion. Gavell, I believe, made a personal application, but I am not sure if-”

One of the oak doors opened, and Mr. Carpenter and his party arrived to banish peace.

“This is the council chamber once more.”

“Ah. Then we have been right round,” said some one with a sigh of relief; and, wearily, some of the fine ladies and fine gentlemen sank down upon the leather-seated chairs.

“You must write your names in the visitors’ book,” said Carpenter, pointing to a ponderous volume on a high stand; and he turned to and fro among his guests. “This room is a faithful reproduction of the chapter house of an early Italian monastery. I took infinite pains to make it perfect.”

“No doubt,” said Mr. Gavell.

“My stone-carving was roughed here, and sent to Verona to finish.”

“Yes? Very interesting,” said a lady.

“That little door, with its scrolled lintel, gave me immense trouble.”

“Really?”

“It leads to the refectory.”

“What,” asked Mr. Hammick pompously, “was your trouble? The smell of the food?”

“No—to subordinate it to my scheme—to make it decorative without challenging attention.”

“But you succeeded. I should never have noticed it.” Mr. Hammick was pushing his way to the visitors’ book just in front of Lord Patrington. As he made his entry he recited it aloud: “Charles Edward Hammick, number sixty Portman Square, member of Parliament.” Then, promptly laying down the pen, he held out his hand.

“How do you do, my Lord. I hope you are well. But your looks answer for that.”

“Oh—er—how do,” and Lord Patrington glanced down at the page. “And how are you, Mr.—er—Hammick ?”

At the table Mr. Norman was crackling his parchment and smoothing it jealously, unwilling to relinquish it into the hands of Mr. Gavell, who was stooping over the table and rather annoying the old solicitor with technical questions. But Mr. Gavell, as a great authority on charity organisations, perhaps thought he knew what he was speaking about, and had a right to express an opinion. He continued to talk of a License in Mortmain. Considering the precariousness of human life, with a trust of this presumably lasting character, connected with a building of apparently imperishable material, he candidly confessed, again and again, that he thought one could not be too careful—that one could not over-estimate the intricacy of these necessarily delicate problems.

“All as simple as A B C,” said Mr. Norman irritably. But Mr. Gavell went on talking about the Statutes of Mortmain. He had assumed that the transfer of the real property would have taken the form of an Assurance, to be enrolled, etc., etc. He had not thought that, under the Acts of!888 and!891, a charitable institution of this scope—rescue-work and so forth—would have been exempted, etc., etc., etc.

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Norman very irritably. “But really we don’t want Counsel’s opinion now. … You are not still practising at the Chancery Bar? . . . No. I thought not. . . . Not a barrister at all? Just so. Author and Essayist! Exactly. . . . Then we are all in order”—and he coughed rather loudly, to attract attention and silence some of the nearer chatterers. “Here we are, gentlemen,” and he looked round. “This, gentlemen, is the Conveyance and Assignment. . . . Yes, Mr. Gavell, only one deed, surprising as it seems to you,” and he pointed with his pencil. “Recital of the investments— I need not read. The real property consists solely of ground rents, which we shall collect half yearly together with the rents of all the other trusts. The personal property assigned is comprised in what are commonly termed*—and he looked round with a smile—“gilt-edged securities.”

As he spoke even chatterers at a distance became silent. All listened now. The wonderful money was passing. The thought of it silenced the most frivolous. In imagination they saw it as the old grey solicitor talked about it: sheaves of notes of the high denominations exhibited as curiosities by managers in bank parlours; bundles of the crisp white inimitable paper; mounds of newly minted sovereigns being shovelled away by copper scoops preposterously bigger than they had ever seen upon a bank counter.

“Now if two of you gentlemen will be good enough to witness the two signatures. There,” and he pointed. “John Morton. Our client has performed his part. His lordship was obliging enough to favour us this morning in Piccadilly ere he started for Rugby,” and Mr. Norman bowed and smiled across the table to Lady Melton, as who should say: My clerk had not then the honour of your acquaintance or he would certainly have begged to see you as well as his lordship.

“Now Mr. Gavell, if you please. In front of the seal. I deliver this as my act and deed. . . . Say it please. . . . Thank you. Now if you are so kind,” and he handed the pen to a witness. . . . “Occupation? No. No. Of course not! Just state your rank instead. . . . Thank you. This begins to look like a page from an autograph book,” said Mr. Norman urbanely. “Now Mr. Griffiths. . . . Where is our other trustee! Oh Mr. Griffiths, will you-”

The detective’s heavy and usually stolid face had flushed. As he stooped at Mr. Norman’s elbow he spoke in a very low voice.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the solicitor. “Didn’t he tell you? Then he forgot. He instructed us that he was quite sure you would consent to act.”

“He has made me very proud,” Mr. Griffiths mumbled as he took the pen. “Honour—so great—unexpected— Not forget—to my dying day.” With a very red face, he delivered his act and deed, and two members of the Lower House witnessed the signature.

“So there we are,” said Mr. Norman. “Your duties will be light, gentlemen. Simply to hand over all monies received to the governors of the House of the Woman of Samaria for the time being. To write some bankers’ orders now; and then two cheques a year—if you do not instruct us to save you that trouble—really nothing more.”

“Exactly. We shall not grudge our care in such a cause,” said Mr. Gavell. He was now looking over the deed studiously. “There was some proviso—let me see—when I first consented to give my services, mention was made of the remuneration for time and so forth— usual, as I understood-”

Mr. Norman pointed with his pencil.

“You will find the gift of your services duly attended to, Mr. Gavell.”

“Quite so. Our friend insisted—a man of iron will, Mr. Norman.”

“So I have found. Or this deed would never have been drawn. I venture to say it is the most remarkable instrument you are ever likely to meet with.”

“Why?”

“Because by this our client denudes himself of the last vestige of a colbssal fortune and he does it of his own free will.”

“We live in an age of munificent charity.”

“But hardly on such a scale as this.”

Mr. Norman was folding the parchment; the clerk was packing the bag; tongues were loosened. The wonderful money had passed. With it, as the chatter began again, it seemed had gone also the last trace of obsequious respect for the man who had let it go. Only now was left a wondering pity—tinged with contempt.

“Run away with by his hobby,” said Lord Patrington in gloomy disgust to Mr. Hammick and others by the long window. “And this is all he has to show for it. Queer taste!”

“I should say a man of poor taste. His house in Bedford Square indicated that,” said Mr. Hammick.

“Narrow but overbearing ideas, I fancy,” said Mr. Gavell. “A man impossible to leadl I remember he altogether pooh-poohed a scheme of mine.”

“Now there, Carpenter,” and Mr. Hammick pointed to the picture above the fire-place—“Nothing could be worse taste than that—to hang a poor copy of Cresset’s Mary Magdalene in this beautifully designed apartment

Don’t you like it?”

“Do you? Does it not derogate from-”

“Very garish,” said Mr. Gavell. “It is not even a good copy.”

“No,” said Carpenter, “it is the original.”

“No. And pray,” asked Lord Patrington, “what did he give for that?”

“I don’t know. It fetched seven thousand at the Brentwood sale. He bought it by private treaty.”

“Well, I call that wilful waste of money,” said Mr. Hammick.

“The love of splendour run riot,” said Mr. Gavell. “Dame Charity should walk in humble garb, not overladen with jewels and laces.”

“Oh, that sort of thing,” said Lord Patrington bitterly, “is Morton all over.”

“Reckless indulgence of his own whim!”

“Look here,” and Lord Patrington drew the two men nearer to the window, and lowered his voice. “This is a circumstance which came under my own observation. I vouch for its truth. An old friend applied to this man when he was at the height of his prosperity for the loan of a few paltry thousands, and he refused.”

“No!”

“Laughed in his face—on two occasions. He was running headlong through his millions, but he couldn’t spare a penny for an old friend.”

“We are wonderfully and curiously made,” said Mr. Gavell. ‘The niggardly vein often runs side by side with the squandering habit.”

“Well,” said Mr. Hammick, pompously summing up everything with sententious philosophy, “he made quick work of it. The end of a great force in the land. Two years ago he could have shaken the City—held Capel Court in the hollow of his hand—had he acted under competent advice. And now we leave him—the, er—the salaried chaplain of an Institution—the ruler turned into the servant.”

“Come along,” said Mr. Carpenter.

He was marshalling his fine ladies by the open door. But now a burst of the swelling music rolled towards them.

“Ah! That’s the voluntary,” and he shut the door. “Service over. We’ll wait here two minutes, please.”

Mr. Hammick had seized Lord Patrington by the arm and turned him close against the window.

“Should we get a glance at the inmates from here?”

“Yes,” said Gavell. “Surely some must pass along the cloister.”

Another door opened. Lady Tollhurst and Lady Sarah came in, followed by old Mr. Bigland.

“Oh. What a number of them!” said Mr. Hammick.

“The supply won’t run short,” said Lord Patrington contemptuously.

“But did you notice,” said Mr. Hammick, when at last he turned from the window—“did you notice that none of them seemed to have been marked out for their unhappy destiny by any particular comeliness?”

“No,” said Gavell. “I have often observed that with surprise.”

Lady Sarah, leaving her aunt and crossing the rocm to Dr. Colbeck, passed by her father. He looked at her with gloomy eyes that did not seem to recognise her as an acquaintance. Colbeck opened the small door that had given the architect so much trouble, and left the council chamber with her.

“You liked the service?” asked Carpenter.

Lady Tollhurst was enraptured. She had been describing things to her friends in voluble excitement.

“Capital! But oh, so high—all candles and flowers, girls singing and what not!”

“Beauty is our key-note,” said Carpenter.

“But our poor friend! Not a bit in the picture—he seemed so out of place. Really eloquent when he spoke, don’t you know—but a Baptist minister officiating in the Vatican! Is Patrington ready ?”

“One more minute. What did you think of the altar glass?”

“Too dark to see it properly, but Sarah says Mr. Hay-ling has made it exactly like her. But I really wonder he hasn’t taken it down, all things considered.”

“Do you? Come and look at this picture, and tell me if you trace any resemblance there.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Lady Tollhurst. “I traced the resemblance in that dreadful thing of Righetti’s. He might have sat for it. He w wonderful. I always told him so. Most original man / ever met,” and she looked at the Mary Magdalene. “Yes, it is like her somehow. Poor thing!”

“Like who?” asked Mr. Hammick.

“Mrs. Morton.”

“His wife?”

“Yes. I suppose that’s why he bought it.”

Mr. Bigland standing in front of the fire looked at the visitors with unfriendly eyes.

“Ah yes,” said Mr. Hammick. “Before she ran away from him of course. A lamentable history, Lady Toll-hurst.”

“She was a friend of mine,” said Lady Tollhurst coldly.

“I doubt if you recollect me, Lady Tollhurst, but I have frequently had the pleasure of meeting you—Mr. Hammick.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

“There was something about her,” said Mr. Hammick, “which foretold what would happen.”

“There was a something,” Mr. Gavell agreed.

“There always is something like that,” said Lord Pat-ington, “about a pretty woman married to a bore.”

“Was it known,” asked Mr. Gavell, “where she went when she left him?”

“Over the ragged edge of the earth,” said Mr. Bigland, “into the bottomless pit.”

“My goodness!”

They all turned and stared at Mr. Bigland. He was looking into the fire: rubbing his hands complacently, and, apparently, now unconscious of the presence of the visitors.

“Into the bottomless pit,” said Mr. Bigland again. “Where else?”

“Come,” said Mr. Carpenter, again marshalling his ladies by the open door; and the fine company began to move, amidst a sudden chatter about cabs and carriages.

Mr. Hanunick was anxious to make his omnibus motorcar useful should difficulties arise.

“Are you driving, Lady Tollhurst?”

“Yes, unless Lord Patrington sent his brougham away. I came by the omnibus.”

“My lord, I shall be most happy to take you and Lady Tollhurst.”

“You can give me a lift too if you like, Hammick.”

“And me!”

“And me!”

Mr. Gavell scampered after the departing band, making z great noise upon the stone pavement, and calling loudly to his friend—

“Hanunick! Hanunick! You brought me here, remember. I rely on you to take me back.”

CHAPTER XXVII

LADY SARAH and Colbeck emerged from a short j passage into the dark music gallery of the refectory. Below them the hanging lamps lit up the white cloths upon the long tables, and showed the brown backs of the house-sisters as they laid the knives and forks for the evening meal. Passing through the gallery, Lady Sarah and her companion came out into one of the lofty corridors. It looked vault-like and mysterious now, a long cavern with a faint star of light at one end.

“I am so glad you have come,” said Lady Sarah. Colbeck led her towards the light, and they stopped beneath it, in front of a high and narrow window. Beneath the window the carriages in the street stood waiting, and a very faint buzz and rattle of the big motor-car penetrated through the double casements.

“I am so glad—so very glad you could come,” said Lady Sarah again.

Her low voice showed nervousness and agitation. She lifted her hand to her throat with a gesture that he knew; and, twining the long fingers in the metal chain that lay hid below the lace collar of her brown dress, pulled at it nervously.

He took the hand in his and held the cold fingers imprisoned. They were cold and they trembled slightly, as he looked at her attentively and kept the nervous hand for a time with a light firm pressure.

“Tell me. What is it?”

“Yes. I am so glad you have come. I’ll tell you. I daresay it is nothing really. You’ll laugh perhaps. But I was frightened, and I wanted you. I wanted you—and I thought you wouldn’t mind.”

Then “You are wanted” meant “I want you.” For a moment the blood ran through his veins in a joyous stream. For a moment he thrilled with the pleasure of it—in her little worry, whatever it might be, she had to turn to him naturally. And the blood flowed smoothly, happily, from brain to finger-tips in the sudden ease after weariness, as of a tired man stretched in a warm bath.

“Now you are here I feel that it is nothing, but I was anxious about Mr. Morton—dreadfully anxious—this morning. But it can’t be really anything—because he preached so well just now.”

“Tell me all about it.”

As she told him he held the hand mechanically, and then released it. The nerve messages had ceased to flash. The blood flowed away from his finger-tips. The good stream, flowing slower as it deepened, was filling the great thought-reservoirs; the sensory outworks, long channels, ducts, and little cisterns must feed themselves as best they could: the emotional man was there no more, only a doctor stood listening as Lady Sarah told her tale.

She had been walking up and down the cloister with the chaplain. He was running over the discourse which he meant to deliver in the evening, wanting to learn by her impressions the effect of the words. It was a rehearsal really: he going over his part slowly and carefully, sentence by sentence; she listening, making no interruptions. But in the middle of a sentence he had stopped—in the middle of a word she believed; and had stepped aside and stared with fixed eyes, as though he had suddenly made room for some one advancing to pass between them. And he had done it with a dreadful sort of smile as though surprised at the rudeness of some one pushing through like that, and she believed that he had bowed as though in ironical politeness. It was impossible to describe it; but it was exactly the sort of thing one could imagine a malicious nurse doing to frighten a child—to pretend a ghost had been seen—to frighten the child into believing that she had seen the ghost also. It had startled Lady Sarah, made her heart beat, and almost taken her breath away; so much of the illusion had been conveyed.

“But before I could speak, he was going on talking as though nothing had happened. I believe he had picked up the same sentence. And then I couldn’t have spoken—I was so frightened. I could see that he was unconscious of it all, and I thought it must be some sort of stroke.”

“Did he stumble at all?”

“No. He walked on again—was walking on and talking again at once.”

“But when he seemed to lower his head—to bow— might not that have been a sort of stumble ?”

“I can’t even say that he did bow. It seemed like that «—oh, Dr. Colbeck, it was a sort of stroke, wasn’t it? Is it something alarming?”

But Dr. Colbeck did not seem alarmed, only very thoughtful. He praised Lady Sarah for sending for him to reassure her, as he hoped he would be able to do; and he asked her many questions.

She had, however, nothing more to tell him. The chaplain had concluded the rehearsal in the cloister, while she walked by his side in fear. Then he had gone about his work—writing, reading, talking to the dwellers in the House. She had told two of the head-sisters of her anxiety, without’ giving any reason for it; but neither they nor she had observed anything further that could be called unusual. Among all the sisters there had been, of late, an anxiety with regard to the chaplain’s health—a feeling that things were not well with him; but Lady Sarah, although aware of the prevailing idea, had not talked with any of the sisters about it. Since the morning she had seen him half-a-dozen times. He had seemed perhaps more restless than usual and perhaps excited; but no more so than might reasonably be accounted for by his premeditated address. And to-night he had spoken magnificently.

“He said the words as he had planned them, but they were better, stronger, as though inspiration came with the hour. Even Aunt Kate was touched. She cried,” said Lady Sarah.

“And you did not remark any unusual pauses, or hesitations—any unusual violence?”

“No,” said Lady Sarah. “I doubt if I ever heard him preach better.”

“Well, well,” said Dr. Colbeck, “you mustn’t be anxious any more. There is nothing in what you have told me that ought really to surprise me—nothing that need necessarily alarm us—at all seriously.”

“Oh, I am so glad. I am not anxious, now that I have told you. I feel that it was nothing, now that you are here.”

“I’ll see him and have a talk with him,” said Colbeck, still very thoughtfully. “Come with me. I don’t want him to guess that I am playing the doctor, and of course we won’t speak of—what caused your anxiety. Really you know it may have been just nothing at all.”

They went back to the council chamber, empty now of all the company except Mr. Bigland. The old fellow was still standing by the fire-place looking down into the low fire.

“Has Mr. Morton left the chapel yet?”

“No,” said Mr. Bigland. “He is waiting till they are on the wrong side of the door—the right side of the door—the outside of the door,” and he chuckled. “I am to go and tell him when the gate-guard rings.”

“Tell him I am here, will you, when you go.”

“Yes.” Mr. Bigland rubbed his hands, looked at Dr. Colbeck, and chuckled. “This is what I like, Doctor

What?”

“The work going on—cosy and comfortable, with no one to interrupt us.”

“Oh, indeed?”

“No more fine houses and fine ladies,” and he pointed to the table. “They’ve got all they can. They’ll leave us alone now. He and I together, like the old days.”

“Ah!”

“He was splendid to-night,” and he rubbed his hands again, then tapped his forehead. “All the clouds gone! His eyes like live coals and his old voice come back to him.”

“Had it?”

“He didn’t go into the pulpit. Stood by the lectern and made the organ screen hum with his message,” and he opened his arms widely. “ ‘Oh come unto me—ye that are laden/ Grand! It made you want to shout and sing.” A faint tinkling of the electric bells sounded from behind the stone walls—a signal ringing, two short tinkles, an interval, and a longer tinkling—answered immediately by similar ringings here and there about the vast building. Mr. Bigland shuffled out of the room.

“I am sure we should be wrong to alarm ourselves,” said Colbeck in a whisper to Lady Sarah. “His evidence corroborates yours. It may have been nothing at all.”

Mr. Bigland soon returned, followed in a minute by Morton.

“Colbeck, dear old fellow,” and he shook hands.

The hand was colder than it should have been; the eyes were not bright enough—anything but live coals now— the pupils too much dilated; the speckled iris not showing clear enough, like smoked glass, not like stained glass; the face was a bad colour, too grey; the blood patches beneath the skin were not as high as they ought to have been, too dusty, not red enough; the downward lines at the comers of the strong mouth were new, unexpected, out of place. So much Dr. Colbeck observed as he shook hands with almost careless good-nature, and then turned to say goodnight to Mr. Griffiths who, after a brief interview with the chaplain outside the chapel door, was now going.

“Are you staying here to-night, Lady Sarah?” And Morton sat down wearily in one of the thirteen chairs by the big table.

“Yes.”

“What would they do without you? Good-night, Griffiths. Bigland, stir up the fire—it is cold;” and he turned to Lady Sarah again. “Does your father still nourish anger? Did he not speak to you to-day?”

“He never does. He says he never will speak to me— while I come here.”

“What can we give our sister, Colbeck, in exchange for what she gives us?”

“I give nothing,” said Lady Sarah, “an empty, useless life.”

“No,” said Dr. Colbeck resolutely. “Never that.”

Lady Sarah’s eyes as they turned quickly met his, and turned again quickly.

“The work you have found for me here is the only sort of thing I could do,” she said cheerfully. “I am really useful here, am I not?”

Morton was looking at the polished surface of the table, tracing an invisible pattern with his forefinger. He looked up after a pause with a slight start.

“You are all in all to us.”

“Then please don’t talk,” said Lady Sarah with a smile, “about my giving up things for the work I love, or I shall think you want to get rid of me and put some one more efficient in my place.”

“No fear of that,” and Morton smiled also. “Not till we dismiss one of our consulting physicians.”

“Meaning me?”

As Morton spoke he had looked round, and had seemed to see that Colbeck had been watching him intently. He got up and walked away from the table.

“Bigland, my friend, you are a bad guardian of a fire. We want wood here. It is a cold evening.”

“Yes, yes. More wood.” And Bigland shuffled away and soon returned with a probationer-sister—a young woman of humble status, not in the House uniform as yet, on trial as a worker. She brought a bundle of sticks and some small logs; and, going down on her knees, attended to the failing fire.

“The wood’s damp,” said Bigland.

“It’s the fault of the fire-place, Mr. Bigland,” said the young woman. “It won’t draw—only smoulders.”

Morton had been walking about the room restlessly. Suddenly he spoke.

“Colbeck, don’t look so glum at me.”

“Do I look glum?”

“Yes. Because I am free at last. I have fairly shifted my burden. The weight is off my shoulders for ever.”

“Well, you know my opinion.”

“You pretend to think me foolish.”

“Pretend?” And Colbeck smiled at him good-humouredly.

“You don’t really. You both think me wise—wise beyond the wisdom of men.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Colbeck, still smiling; and his voice assumed the light good-natured tone of one disagreeing with, but not really blaming, a wayward child. “I can’t answer for Lady Sarah. I assure you I think you are very wrong—well, that it would have been wiser to keep some substantial funds in hand.”

“What for?”

“Emergencies. Personal wants. Some sudden call. Why should you rob yourself of all power to help yourself or others in an hour of need?”

“You forget. I have amply provided for myself.” He had strolled away again and was standing by the window. “I am perpetual chaplain of this House. Neither governors nor council can shake me off. It is so nominated in the bond. Through good and evil report You have to cleave to me, to keep me in ease and comfort in my beautiful House.”

The young woman on her knees had turned from the fire and was listening, motionless.

“Nothing but death can shake me off. Were I to go raving mad, you would have to give me my padded room beneath this roof.” And he turned and looked out of the window. “In sickness, and in health, you cannot cast me off.”

The young woman rose from her knees and whispered to Mr. Bigland—

“Oh dear, he gives me the creeps when he talks like that.”

“Pooh, pooh,” said Mr. Bigland in a whisper of gratification, and he puffed out his cheeks. “That’s nothing. Hear him by the organ screen, my girl.” And they went away together to have their suppers.

“For better for worse, in sickness and in health,” said Morton in a low voice.

“Oh,” said Colbeck cheerfully, “we have no fear of your health breaking down.”

“All last night and to-day,” said Morton, as he crossed the room to the fire-place, “I have been thinking of my money—my beautiful glittering hoard—the golden wand that the fairies gave me—and the way I have wielded it. You know what I have done with my wand?”

“Yes.”

He was looking into the fire. Colbeck, by a movement of the eyes and lips, had told Lady Sarah to answer.

“Nothing—less than nothing.”

“How can you say so?”

“What have I done with the cursed money that I should hoard it nowt”

His voice had in a moment become harsh and loud. He turned fiercely towards Colbeck.

“I tell you it drives me mad to think of. I have had my treasure and wasted it. The one thing in this world worth buying was close at hand, and I grudged the price. Poor mad fool! I could have bought her love and I grudged the price.”

“My dear fellow, don’t agitate yourself. The past is dead. Don’t think of it.”

“My love cold and dead! Yes—yes! See here,” and with his foot he stirred the fire, and kicked away some logs. “The fire is almost out, yet there’s plenty of fuel. Ah ha!” And he laughed harshly. “See! Our architect is not at fault. The chimney is ninety feet high, with a furnace blast,” and he kicked the logs again and laughed more loudly. “See. Roaring, blazing! That’s my love—while the fuel lasts.”

“You mustn’t dwell on it,” said Lady Sarah. “Think of your work—your preaching—your message.”

“What should I preach? What message, except despair?” He struck his forehead with his clenched fist, and, as he moved away from the fire-place, continued with increasing violence, with steadily increasing excitement. “Oh, the Bishops were right. The mad parson had no new thing to tell. They did well to dose my mouth. Deception, self-deceit!”

Lady Sarah’s face was very white, her lips trembled, and her hand was at her throat. There was fear in her eyes as she looked at Colbeck appealingly. Again he told her by signs to answer.

“No,” she said. “Oh no—your words have saved souls.”

“What can the words have been, when the speaker has failed to save himself? What could the light be when the messenger sank in the darkness?”

“You must not say such things. Think of the work

Self-deception, vanity. God knows what I thought myself then—but I know myself at last. A messenger of grace indeed? Poor fool!” and he laughed more loudly than before. “Do you know she hated me? She told me so. Hated me for jealously guarding my mountain of dirt. Was learning to hate me—not at first—day by day.

If I had only understood. My poor dead love! I tell you, had I guessed what was coming, I would have beaten out my golden pieces to pave the road to Hell for her feet and mine. I would have melted my treasure to build a golden image of the Devil and worshipped it night and day, to win her love.”

“Be calm. My dear fellow, be calm.”

“And she would have been mine. It was in my power to have her love. I let it slip. . . . Come back to me, my lost love. Come back! Come back!”

“My good Morton.”

“And she will come back. Am I not waiting for her? Surely she must know. I stand here, sometimes, looking out through these stone walls and I see her. Not as she was, my God, but as she is. I tell you, Colbeck, it passes self-delusion. I see her haggard face—and hollow eyes which always turn away from me—and I speak to her: Have no fear. Come back to me! She won’t hear. She shuts her ears with her poor wasted hands, and struggles not to catch ipy prayer. But she will hear, Doctor. Sooner or later she will hear me, and yield to the love that can pass through stone walls and bolted doors

Don’t think about her,” said Colbeck very gently. “Don’t deceive yourself. Surely this is the last place she would come to.”

“The last place! That’s what Griffiths says. ‘Not till she has tried all else will she come to you.’ ”

And he sank upon a chair by the table as though exhausted by his violence and buried his face in his hands.

Lady Sarah, very white of face, obeyed Colbeck’s grave eyes, and came and laid a trembling hand upon the chaplain’s shoulder.

“I am so sorry for you. But—you mustn’t—grieve for the past. You must be like yourself. You must be brave You must forget your own grief.”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice without looking up. “Ill be brave. That’s what I used to say. A Messenger should be brave.”

It seemed that the light hand upon the shoulder calmed and soothed the nerves after the stress of the emotional outburst.

“Yes. I’ll hide my weakness—I’ll seem brave,” and pushing back the chair he sprang to his feet and began to pace the room.

“See,” he said, stopping and looking at them. “You may trust me now. No other eyes but yours—no prying eyes— Why, wha—wha—what’s this?” And lady Sarah, deadly pale, her trembling hand clinging to the chair, saw him open his arms wide to the height of his shoulders.

“What? Am I f-f-flying again? Col—Col—Col— Don’t you see? Col—Colby!—Look! My new Master !”

His eyes had become fixed; he was staring straight in front of him, and pointing with an outstretched hand. Then, as Colbeck sprang forward, he stepped aside, as though making room for some one to pass; seemed to trip; uttered a horrible inarticulate cry; and, without an effort to save himself, fell forward upon the stone floor in a fit.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THERE had been no service in the chapel for nearly a week. The chaplain was ill—lying in a bed in the chaplain’s room. The chaplain had met with an accident, it was said: had fallen, slipped on the chapel steps and been carried by Dr. Colbeck into the council chamber; or, as some said, had fainted after the fatigue of the last service and tumbled from his chair into the council chamber itself, whither he had gone to rest. He had cut his forehead and bruised the eyes. Mr. Bigland had seen him once or twice, and had told the sisters that his master was doing fine. Nevertheless the sisters wondered and whispered. Reading her ladyship’s face, they saw anxiety; at all hours of the day, at night even, in the middle of the night, sisters had seen Dr. Colbeck passing to or from the chaplain’s room: their chaplain, the sisters whispered, must be really, if the truth were known, seriously ill.

The house-sisters, admitted of a morning and an evening to do the chaplain’s room, were unable to supply the strangely excluded nursing-sisters with the data they demanded to enable them to make a definite pronouncement. He had a bandage round his head, and he seemed to be sleeping a great deal. This was all that the house-sisters under cross-examination could yield. Inadequate data for the really sympathetic nursing-sisters learnedly whispering together—like parrots reciting their lessons— of concussion, brain fever, etc., etc. Impossible for nursing-sisters to stake their diagnostical reputation upon more than this: something seriously wrong—but enough as a solid basis for whispering!

It stood to reason. The gate-guard, or somebody else, had heard Dr. Colbeck at the telephone immediately after the accident, addressing him of whom the nursing-sisters spoke in reverence and awe, as Sir John.

“Can you do me a great favour, Sir John?” or something like that—“yes, here. I shall be here all night.” Then, these words, the very words themselves—“I don’t like to ask you to leave your guests”; and then profuse thanks. In imagination one could see it—the telephone turning into a bioscope—Sir John giving a dinner-party at the big house in Grosvenor Street. Dinner over, coffee, liqueurs: guests still seated at the round table, looking black and grey behind the smoke of the cigars. Then the host called away for a minute by the insistent voice that cannot be silenced by the butler. Dr. Colbeck implores the great Sir John to hasten, to get rid of his friends, and to speed through the cold streets to see—a broken forehead. Dr. Colbeck wants help, advice, in attending to something that should be safe in the hands of one of the probationers from the Infirmary. Dr. Colbeck, with a lady doctor on the premises, with one or other of the two visiting surgeons due at 9 a. m. to-morrow, is going to sit up all night. One could not be surprised if nursing-sisters whispered.

Then, at ten minutes past eleven, the great light had passed through the dark corridors; had been seen by gate-guard and the few sisters on duty about the House, by the many sisters off duty but lurking curious and invisible on stone steps and in doorways. An immense man in a fur coat and a silk hat, with a fringe of white hair looking as though it were pinned inside the back of the great hat, to hang an inch away from the back of the pink neck—Sir John, no one else!

Later, after a long sitting in the chaplain’s room, he had walked with Colbeck in that corridor with the narrow windows above the street—out of sight now, out of hearing, of any lurking sisters. As they walked side by side in silence, Colbeck moved each switch they passed and a blaze of electric light came out and followed them.

He was so big that he made Colbeck, a tall man, seem small. He was so great and Colbeck was so humble that they seemed like a student walking with a professor; and when they paused, it was as though a school-boy stood before a headmaster. But the big man was treating the smaller all the time as an equal—would not see the deference, totally declined to recognise it. When he spoke it was as another school-boy, but perhaps with the authority of the class-mate who is sure in his work: a safe boy to look over and crib from—one who won’t lead you astray.

“Well? What was your doubt?”

“G. P. I.” said Colbeck humbly.

“Oh no. Epilepsy—nothing else. But you were not unprepared for this?” and there was the faintest surprise in the tone. “You’ve known him for two years—of course you have been expecting it.”

“No,” said Colbeck very humbly—“I didn’t expect it. That’s why I thought it must be the beginning of the other thing.”

“Oh no. Honestly, I don’t think so-”

“Of course,” said Colbeck, “it was my first thought—epilepsy—the moment I met him. What else could one think?”

The great man nodded.

“But then, when I got to know him—seeing him fairly frequently—having opportunities for observing—I never attended him, you know—in touch with those who were always with him—I felt convinced that petit mal was not active—well, was absent. That there had been no attack of grand mal. I was practically sure. Then this was exactly what I thought: A man—you have seen him—of iron frame, astonishing vitality—plainly epilectic in youth—the disease probably undetected, unsuspected by his people—going on a year, two, three years—nocturnal very likely—then gone—but the brain mischief done—the clock set wrong at the start—the settled delusion accounted for, explained-”

“No doubt of it.”

The great man could not support Colbeck’s exculpatory tone: of explanation, if not of apology. He waved it away—listened attentively, as though any thought of this speaker must be very worthy of close attention.

“Then I thought the worst age was safely past—say from forty to forty-four—with no recurrence, no sign or-”

“How old is he now exactly?”

“Forty-nine, I believe. About eighteen months ago he had a great shock—his wife left him, and after that I thought: Now we are in for it, and I watched him as closely as possible when chances came. But no: not a sign of it. ’ He was suffering intensely, but he faced his grief with great courage. In fact it seemed to steady him mentally. I am certain that the old delusion weakened suddenly, although people about him said he was odd, strange, and all that sort of thing. But I came to the conclusion: Now we are safe. I made up my mind—I would have staked anything on the conviction—that mind and body were safe. That having weathered the storm he would go on for years—to extreme old age, very likely”

“And you were right. Why shouldn’t he? This is the bursting of the nerve-storm. If the storm doesn’t return too often, why shouldn’t he go on?”

“Then, this morning he had a touch of epileptic vertigo. I was surprised, but from the description given me I had no doubt; and when I saw him I was thinking of nothing else. Then as he talked—raved—he was very excited— there seemed to be fresh delusions—changing as he talked, and then the attack came, and I thought: This is the beginning of the end-” t “Oh no. It may be so, of course. You may be right after all—but I hope not.”

Colbeck’s fine ear caught with intense relief the sense beneath the tone. Standing like a student before his tutor, he heard with intense relief the words of the tutor’s thought: “It cannot be so. I know that you are wrong.”

The great light shone by day next time it appeared above the horizon of the sympathetic but inquisitive sisters. Three days had gone by, and Sir John and Col-beck were walking in the sunlit corridor.

“He is a very remarkable man. I don’t wonder you are so fond of him. But, Colbeck, how he does talk! One can’t get a word in edgeways. … Oh yes, if I were you, I should keep him in bed just as long as you can— the longer, the better. . . . Exactly. Keep on about the injury to the head. Must lie quiet. Say I said so. If I were you, I’ll tell what I should do, I should use a lot of sticking plaster,” said the great man genially, “so as he won’t twig there’s no cuts if he feels with his fingers.’’

“And,” said Colbeck humbly, “about the talk: if he persists in talking?”

“Let him talk. Can you stop him? I know I couldn’t,” and the great man laughed.

He measured the thickness of the massive walls with a quick eye; glanced at the oak doors, so high, so solid; and admired the House by daylight.

“Upon my word it really is stupendous!” and he turned to Colbeck, “and for your friend, what better? Here he is for the rest of his days, safe and settled—work that he likes, people to look after him. I put it to you: Suppose, instead of being your friend, it had been an epileptic of his age, circumstances, and natural inclinations, and you had been given free play to your fancy—to devise the safest surroundings, the most favourable conditions for his future—I put it to you, could you have thought of anything better than this? Honestly, I don’t think your friend could be more fortunately situated—I don’t think you could devise anything more secure.”

They walked up and down, and again the chances were weighed in the finely adjusted balance of pathological science, and tested by the roughly marked standards of practical experience; and the great man once more told Colbeck not to worry about his friend, to take things easily—to believe in the balance and the gauge.

“My dear boy, don’t speak like that.”

This was when Colbeck began to thank him again, and the professor laid a big hand on the student’s shoulder—

“I’ll come as often as you like—if you think I can be of the least use to you. I know you’d do the same for me,” he said carelessly, “and I’d never scruple to ask you.”

And with these words, so carelessly spoken, so nobly chosen, the professor went to his carriage. An immense man—watched as he passed along the stone corridors by invisible sisters lurking on stone steps—in fur coat and silk hat, with a fringe of white hair above the brown fur: Sir John for the second time—no one else!

“Colbeck, dear old fellow, is it right for me to loll here day after day like this?”

“Yes, doctor’s orders. Sir John says you are to be kept absolutely quiet. We want to make a good job of that head of yours.”

Morton raised his hand to his plastered forehead, and felt the network of stiff paper.

“You have made a good job of it There’s no pain. I believe I ought to get up.”

The chaplain’s room was very plainly furnished—the oak door, solid, high, with eight panels and brass lock and handle, perhaps the most decorative thing in it. Lofty walls, distempered in light Indian red; a square of matting upon the boarded floor; a small chest of drawers, a writing-table with a green-shaded lamp, a white saucer above another bulb for the electric light suspended by a red cord from the ceiling; a low black iron bed, with a rough woollen coverlet; and, above the bed, hanging above the chaplain’s pillow, the black-framed print of Righetti’s Christ that used to hold the post of honour over the mantelpiece in the Bedford Square drawing-room. A fire was burning in the low grate, and before it a house-sister had placed a brass lattice screen with small diamond and circular panes of red glass, through which the fire as it flickered and flamed sent queer red spots to dance upon the wall, or stain the white sheet and pillow with luminous crimson figures that seemed to change their shapes as the chaplain stirred the bed-clothes. Another house-sister had brought in an arm-chair and put it by the foot of the bed, for the doctor’s use during the long hours in which he sat with his patient.

“You need not feel any hurry about getting up. Everything is going on all right.”

“I don’t feel any hurry. But for the service, I feel I could lie here for ever with you, dear old fellow, to bear me company. What a brick you are, Colbeck, to waste so much time on me.”

Across the strong forehead Colbeck had stuck his cunning network of plaster, with a piece of lint beneath it guarding the cut that had healed so rapidly, little branches of the plaster over the places where the bruises had been, over imaginary cuts and contusions that had never existed, from temple to temple. All traces of damage from the fall had really vanished, except a very faint discoloration about one eyebrow. Lying in his grey shirt, in the twilight, the chaplain looked very grey—hair grey, a grey stubble over chin and cheeks and grey shadows in the hollows of the eyes; but the grey face had an expression of complete calm, an unlined restfulness, as though all emotion had been wiped off its surface.

“I couldn’t have believed that I had grown so soft, Colbeck—I used to be hard enough. To turn faint like a woman, and then be knocked out of time by a smack on the headl”

He had accepted the explanation without a question. He had been taken with sudden giddiness, and had stumbled and fallen. He had been stunned by his fall. The unconsciousness had come after the fall, not before it. In a week he had made no allusion to their conversation before the accident: had said nothing of his excitement; of Lady Sarah’s sympathy and her appeal to his courage; not a word about the cause of his raving grief. It seemed as though a certain space of time before the seizure had gone from his memory. But he remembered the deed of trust; recalled the circumstances of the solicitor’s presence, to complete the deed with the last two signatures.

“I love lying here really. I feel as though I had undergone some extraordinary fatigue—walked and run for days,—like a scout sent on a message through the enemy’s lines getting through at last and dropping, safe at last, by the camp fires of his own commander. Curious, isn’t it, that a tumble should shake a fellow to pieces like that?”

“Ah. You see we are neither of us quite as young as we used to be.”

“Do you know what I have been thinking of? The money. My money gone. My burden lifted. Well, I feel as though it had in truth been some gigantic sack that I was forced to carry, day after day, month after month. Then at last, at my journey’s end, I might let it fall, and I sank down on the pavement utterly exhausted, and slept and slept for days.”

“Colbeck, you read novels. You know what they say in novels—I used to read them at Oxford—‘He felt as though something had snapped in his brain/ Is that possible? Because I feel exactly as though something had snapped in my brain.”

“If it had, you would not be conscious of it Your feeling of it shows that it has no physical basis—it is a sensation, nothing more.”

“A sensation! A very pleasant sensation too. Immense relief. Some horrible little door, on hinges that had rusted—stopping the good servants as they went about the business of their master—burst open, and the horrid obstruction gone; or a board across a window blown in by a gale, and good clean glass in its place, through which one can look again at the wide fair view!”

“That sounds an improvement.”

“Yes. Immense relief—that’s why I am content to loll here so slothfully. Why should I worry? My beautiful House works smoothly. But for the service, I could lie here and wait—wait in sluggish content You must think me a changed man, eh?”

“I think you are a good patient to obey orders.”

“I like the orders, old boy. As I lie so snug—when you are not here and I have no one to talk to—I seem to be listening to the thoughts of all my life. Seeing them too. I look down a thought-kaleidoscope made from the materials of my own life—lazily shaking it, seeing the changing thoughts falling into the old shapes—not worrying any more, asking no questions, content—and every now and then getting a clear sight of the mystery of it

The mystery of the kaleidoscope?”

“No, of my life. Scene by scene, year by year. I have gone over it—since I lay here—as though it had been another man’s life, and I was free now to loll and laze and think about it—like a lazy critic, like a slothful judge summing up the evidence very slowly—not trying really to pierce the mystery of the case that has been tried before him.”

He was talking very quietly, without a trace of excitement. Indeed, in the natural prostration subsequent to the attack, all the old energy of voice and gesture had disappeared. But now Colbeck wondered. The man was completely recuperated in vitality, and yet he seemed to be able to touch upon the underlying grounds of the old mental vagaries calmly, without the least visible disturbance.

“I used to think—God knows how I used to think. But I am sure now of things that lay wrapped in thought, yet could be struck at by doubt … I’d like to tell you all about it, Colbeck. I should like to tell you. But it’s difficult to speak of to you,” he said very gently and affectionately—“because you don’t believe, old fellow. You don’t believe.”

“You mustn’t tire yourself by talking. But tell me— whenever you like. I promise to listen attentively.”

Colbeck wondered. Was he really meaning to lay bare the warped mechanism of the warped thought ? Was this exquisitely rare chance to be given to the student: the psychological physiologist to be analytically displayed at first hand for the psychologist to connect, while he listened, the links in a solid chain—the mental effect candidly stated, the brain cause plainly shown? As a student Colbeck throbbed with the longing to hear. As a friend he told the patient not to tire himself.

“I would like to tell you.”

A house-sister came in with some tea and dry toast, put the tray on a chair, and went out again. Morton raised himself a little in the bed, sipped the tea, and dipped the dry toast in it. Colbeck got up to switch on the electric light.

“No,” said Morton, “don’t turn on the light, old fellow. The best hour of the day. The twilight hour—the children’s—ah!” and he sighed. “I love the fire-glow. No—don’t move the screen. I can see it—little red eyes blinking fire at me.”

CHAPTER XXIX

“I COULDN’T tell you,” said Morton, dipping morsels of toast in his tea, “when I first began to think of it—that I had been chosen as a messenger. But it was very soon—when I was very young, soon after my father and mother died—long before I really understood the words I heard in church.”

< “I wonder what gave you such an idea?”

‘ “I can’t say, but it was there. And then, as my mind began to grow, it strengthened and took shape: because I realised that I was a boy apart—different from all other boys.”

“How were you different?”

“I was being given signs by night and by day. Sometimes when I thought, the thoughts came from outside, forcing entry, driving away the other thoughts in a flash—given to me as signs; and I could read the signs-”

“Could you?”

“And strange things happened every time I doubted— signs. . . . I’ll tell you, old fellow,” and he sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Yes, I’d like to tell you, and you shall explain them if you can. Will you?”

“I’ll try, if you like.”

“Well. Do you know the words of the Gospel about faith that can move mountains? . . . Directly I heard them, they took hold of me: filled me with the glory of it. And that was the thought given to me—and soon the faith! came—only in a flash—by night, and now and then by day.”

“It appealed to your imagination. A child’s love of the miraculous.”

“Yes. Then when it came like that, I tried to test it. Til tell you of the daytime first. Two things—explain them if you can. I had a fight when I was about fourteen—my first It was a wonderful good fight, Colbeck, a very wonderful fight.”

“I have no doubt you held your own.”

“I was going down the road behind our house, past some cottages, and the boys were playing in the road— cads—that’s what we used to call them, you know—not the boys from the school—hopscotch, chuck-penny, I don’t know what—a cad’s game—and a little girl was watching them and her mother called her from a cottage door. A dear little thing—yellow hair and eyes like blue flowers—thinking of nothing but the game. And just as I passed, the biggest lout there came and gave her a back-hander across the mouth to make her go. She almost fell, and then ran sobbing. I called him a coward as I walked on.”

“Oh, you walked on?”

“Yes. And they all reviled me—half a dozen there, you know—and stoned me—as cads always do—as I walked on to the stile. No stone hit me. Old boy, my blood was boiling; but I sat upon the stile and waited— watched them at their game—and waited till my rage, upon the anvil of my thoughts, was beaten into tempered strength. And all the time I thought: Now. Now for the flash of faith. Then I went back very quietly, and, as I came, the stones flew again. None hit me.

“Colbeck, old fellow, this is all true. No school-boy brag. They were heavier than I—older and much heavier. And I wondered while I struck. Down they went like nine-pins—and I struck with a wild joy of good battle— a messenger at his work—wondering no more, working by faith. I split that lout’s blubber lips from the chin to the nostrils, and his shock head cracked upon his hopscotch floor as though he had been knocked down by a butcher’s cart, and—from the wonder of it—all the others fled.’’ And the patient, sitting up in bed, brought a fist of one hand into the palm of the other. “That was faith—a sign. What else could it be?”

“Why, you were a strong boy; you hit out straight from the shoulder. These heavy louts, windmilling at you, never used their weight.”

“I hadn’t learnt to box then. And the marks? My knuckles were cut and bruised, and I thought my aunt would make a fuss. I washed my hands in a little stream, and that night at supper, when I clasped my hands to say grace, all the marks were gone. What was that but a sign?”

“You were a healthy boy. Your flesh was in a good state, you had washed away any irritating matter. By candlelight no bruises were perceptible.”

“Oh. Then there was a bull—a wicked fierce old fellow—belonging to the farmer who had our land. It had broken loose, got clean away to the woods, they thought, and all were in pursuit. I thought—Here’s my test! Let me bring the wild bull home. He had killed a sheep dog—gored and trampled it to death—on the edge of the wood. So they tracked him in fear and trembling. But I found him. Standing alone on the path, head down, facing me, watching me with wrathful eyes. There was no one in sight to wonder or ask questions. So I raised my hand—made the five points—and told him to stand still.”

“Did he obey?”

“No, dear old fellow. His fear was too great. Daunted, he turned with a bellow of panic, and bolted. I was fleet of foot, and I chased him for miles through the woodland, by the stream, out through the lanes to the broad dusty road, and on and on, mile after mile, till I ran him down. As I took him by the halter he was smoking in sweat, trembling in terror; and by the halter I led him back to. his stall, tame as a cow, gentle as a lamb. Explain it, if you can.”

“Why, simply you scared him, and you got him on the run. Of course he went then. Something in your gesture had been unusual, unexpected, as you stood before him.

You were different from-”

“Aha! You have said the word. I was different—” “I didn’t mean what you mean,” and Colbeck smiled. “Never mind, old fellow. Now listen to this. At night I used to dream—as soon as I dreamed at all—that I could fly. I soared and swooped and gloried in it—called from the air to all people to see the wonder of it. But when they looked, the power seemed to go: I fluttered down to the earth and could not fly again. And in my dreams I used to think: Yes, this is faith. By faith I was flying, but when the people watched, the doubt had struck me—the wonder in my mind had killed the faith. Then I would go into a solitary place, and again I flew. Night after night, I flew in dreams.”

“All children dream they are flying. The causes of the dream are generally accepted as proved.”

“Oh. All children fly by night. Well,” and he paused; “J flew by day.”

“Now I wonder what you mean by that.”

“I’ll tell you—exactly. I want to. But it’s difficult— because you don’t believe. I used to go to a lonely place in the woods where none could see or wonder—on the open path where there was room—and test my faith. Now let me fly—and I held out my arms as a soaring bird and waited. Now let me fly—only a yard or two—a foot in the air, skimming above the path, then down—let me fly! And I spread my arms and beat the air with my hands. . .

“Well?”

“I can hear it in your voice. Never mind. I tell you I doubt it myself now—at least I did doubt it. I am not going to worry any more. But you know I would not lie to you. . . . Well, many times it happened. It must have been a sign, what else? Suddenly, as I stood waiting, I felt the rush of the moving air upon my palms and face.”

“Ah!”

“I was off the ground—then down again. The thing had happened.”

The sensation of moving air! The aura epileptica! Yes, thought Colbeck, that was it. Things had been as he surmised. The disease undetected, unsuspected, for a year, two years or more; then gone, but its mysterious mischief done in the morbid change in the nerve-cells of the brain, in the molecular degeneration beginning in the grey matter of the cortex: and henceforth the altered structure carrying the altered thought, while perhaps all the rest of the brain-cradle remained uninjured to nurse the sane and healthy thoughts.

“I was ready to believe it was hallucination. I asked myself: Am I going mad? But, Colbeck, in my doubt the sign came. One day, in the heart of the wood, I was lifted high in the air—so high that as I landed, the shock brought me to my hands and knees, and both were cut. Those marks remained to tell me it was true. That was the last time it happened.”

“You spoke of a school. Did you go to the school—as a boarder?”

“For a year or two—as a day boy. They called me sullen and idle, and I left—but I worked at my books with an old scholar in the village. I was not really slow, but I worked by fits and starts. I had my own way, and they let me run wild. I lived with my aunt; there would be some money for me when I came of age: I need not be really learned. It did not matter—I was going into the Church.”

The room was getting darker. Colbeck could not see, but he thought that his patient smiled.

“So now I thought I was sure. I had been marked out as a messenger, and all day long I thought about my message. My aunt was ailing, always in her room; I was alone with my thoughts. On my long rambles I spoke to no one. I was sullen, they said, and the boys fought shy of me.”

“Not surprising. They knew how you used your fists when you got excited.”

“I was strong and fleet of foot, and I roamed all day in the woods; laid me down in the fern and watched the clouds when I was tired, or sat in a dry ditch and watched the rabbits and the birds, thinking, thinking, thinking—till the Voice began to whisper.”

“What voice?”

“The Devil’s. I didn’t understand at first, but then I guessed. The Devil was trying to tempt me. ‘Call down the birds/ said the Voice—not really a voice, you know, but the thought coming from outside, not my own thought. ‘Suffer them to come unto you. Bid them settle and hop to your side/ And I did it once or twice—without faith—not thinking they would come, and they didn’t.

“But when I remembered what I had done, I trembled. I had shown weakness. I had listened to the Voice. So I pulled myself together; set to work to harden—to test myself. After a long morning when the dinner-bell rang inside me, I would sit me down and look at my dinner. Two hunks of bread, with a slice of meat or a slab of cheese, an apple perhaps—good fare for a hungry, hearty boy! Then I’d cut it up with my knife and gloat upon the morsels—then throw my dinner to the birds. They came then—hopping, and I laughed and roamed on with an empty belly. A messenger should endure.”

“No one—not even a messenger—should play pranks with his digestion.”

“Pranks! That’s just what they were, old fellow,” and the patient laughed. “I’ll tell you some more of my pranks,” he continued thoughtfully. “I had a stop-watch—a prize I won in a running race—and there was a place on the railway where a footbridge crossed the line. If you stood on the bridge and watched the express trains coming towards you, it seemed they could never get under it—they must knock you and the whole thing over. It was fun to stand there, and it gave me an idea. I got down the bank and walked along the line and waited with my stop-watch in my hand, and I timed a train from the bridge to where I stood. Then I timed myself as I strolled across the metals. I timed it all, going nearer to the bridge, and calculated it carefully till I knew how much time! should want; and I made a test of it. I used to take out my Bible and wait, watching the bridge. Then, as the white smoke struck it, I dropped my eyes to my book and strolled across, reading and trying to think of what I read. ‘Verily … If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place. . . I was testing myself. A messenger should be cool. There was no danger, but it was good for the nerves. The wind of the train fanned one’s neck.

“And all the time the Voice whispered, ‘Stand still. Tell the train to stop. Forbid it to harm you. Do not suffer it to pass the bridge. . . .’ A foolish prank I know. Not fair because it frightened the drivers. Gangers were placed to watch. But I was sharp enough. I saw them crouching. I should have been ashamed to be caught at such a trick: so I thought of something else. I would leave my warm bed at night; go down to the church; climb the ivy of the locked tower; get in at the window; up the dark stairs; and walk upon the parapet, up and down, round the finials, in the darkness. A messenger should be brave! But there was no danger. I could walk upon our garden walls, I could walk up there. . . . Sometimes the Voice was there to whisper, ‘Now, step off. Step off. Come down by the air-staircase. Surely, you will not dash your feet against the stones?’ But I laughed at the Voice. . . . Boyish pranks, old fellow—larks! But done of ordered purpose—trying to test myself as a messenger.”

Colbeck rose from his arm-chair and put some coals on the red fire. Under the first scoop the white flames darted up, lighting the room, showing him his patient’s face: very calm, a friendly smile upon the lips, the steady watchful eyes meeting his, an attentive, almost a yearning expression, it seemed, in them, but no excitement. Then with more coals the flame died, the smoke crept up, and the patient’s watchful face became grey and indistinct again.

“You don’t believe?”

“I find it rather difficult to follow,” said Colbeck gently, and he poked the fire. “The message—and the way you use the word messenger—as though in a special but well understood sense—I am out of touch, as you know.”

“You don’t believe in anything. Do you, old fellow? It is to end here?”

“What is it you all want?” said Colbeck very gently. “Immortality! To live for ever?” and he came and stood by his patient. “After all, perhaps it is not an impassable gulf that lies between us. Difference of wards if you like—perhaps. In a sense—I will say—you will have your wish. In this House—in the endless, unseen consequence of every act of your life—you will live again. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“No,” said the patient. “That won’t do,” and, raising himself in the bed to a sitting posture, he grasped his doctor’s arm and pressed it affectionately. “You don’t believe—but you will believe, dear old fellow. I tell you so.”

Colbeck pulled up the coverlet, gave the patient a friendly pat on the shoulder, and went back to his chair.

“You men of science believe we are dust—cosmic dust—the same dust of the universe out of which all things are made—and to dust we must return. You and the stars and all the dust between are one. Atoms whirled together and atoms whirled apart That’s about it, isn’t it?”

“Well, something like that,” said Colbeck very gently, soothingly.

“Oh, I know it all—your great thoughts and your little faith. I have read all the books—and laughed, while your books laughed at me. A superstition handed down from the darkness of narrow brains and savage craving—consolation for school-girls, comfort for old women— then laugh. A feeble myth, a worn-out fable. Then the laugh! But he laughs best who laughs last Where will the laugh be on the day of judgment?”

^ “Ah well.”

“You don’t believe it, Colbeck, but you will believe it. No fable for children—but the living, undying truth.” He was speaking quite calmly, but with intense earnestness— his low voice becoming deeper and stronger, but without a vibration of excitement. “No matter what I used to think—right or wrong—I am not going to worry any more—about myself. But this I know—the living truth— “God came down upon earth and dwelt in the shape of a man—and will come again . . . Has come again, Colbeck. Not once, but again and again. . . .”

“Now,” thought Colbeck, “we’re going to have it

Not living in men’s hearts and thoughts—metaphorically, as these blind priests say—but truly. Not the divine, all-pervading essence passing through us—through you, and Sarah, and me—as a wanderer in the picture gallery of our thoughts: tarrying if a picture pleases, hurrying on—making us blessed for an hour, a day, or a week—till the guardian-devil returns to drive Him away. But made man once more—flesh and blood, bone and muscle—once in a hundred years—made man”—and suddenly, with his clenched fist he beat his breast—“man—like me.”

CHAPTER XXX

WHO can doubt it? The sacrifice again and again \—for every age—in time, for every country. The Messenger crucified by the world—not on the cross—the mystery acted again and again. How else can one credit it?”

“And,” asked Colbeck in low soothing tones, “do you trace such reappearances in history?”

“No. I don’t. I don’t. But, after all, why should one? Think what a little place was Palestine, how small a stir it made. A far-off province of a greedy Empire. Why, I remember reading a story by a Frenchman,” he went on thoughtfully. “Clever enough, possible enough! Pontius Pilate—very old, full of honours—at his villa near Naples, entertaining a Roman general to breakfast— who asked him about the trial and death of Him of Nazareth. Had read something about it, been struck by a detail, wanted the true particulars. Pilate lolling on the couch tried to recall anything,—the name even—could not. T don’t remember the circumstances,’ he said at last, ‘but I can tell you this. We had a lot of trouble of that sort at one time. No doubt the man you speak of was condemned at that period.’ After all, who can wonder? What a chance it was that the words lived. . . .

“Suppose,” and he paused. “Suppose … I used to think sometimes.”

“What did you think?”

“Well. As to searching history—what a chance it must be always. In fifty years what will be said of Morton? He had money and he spent it. What other record could I hope to leave? How soon the words will fade!”

“But a chance—such as the chance then—ought to make some of the words live—as you put it If your theory were tenable, surely one among them would have made his mark—would be recognisable—Some one. Fox—Wesley—for instance?”

“Oh no. They were not Messengers. I can’t say. I have wondered. But they would die violent deaths. That must be certain. Sooner or later, the call would come and they would seal their message with their blood. They would lay down their lives as the last proof of the sincerity of their message. That must be certain. The sacrifice again! I don’t see why it need be known,” and he paused. “I have read things—in newspapers—and wondered. … In the darkness of a tropical sea a lascar falls from the davits to be torn by the waiting sharks. In the darkness a man dives to the rescue and is seen no more of human eye—while the ship ploughs onward through the darkness. Perhaps it was He! Who knows?”

“Did you propound your theory to people—at Oxford for instance—I suppose it was known that you were going into the Church—did you tell them about it?”

“Oh no. That was a moody, languid time with me. I was just waiting to give over my message. Besides, I could not have spoken there—I hated the place.”

“Did you?”

“A dead town, Colbeck—a priest’s town—a charnel-house. Nothing living but the lies. I hated it.”

“As a Cambridge man it would be polite to say: Oh no. But I rather agree with you.”

“Yes, I was sullen and silent, they said. But I was waiting—thinking of my message—trying to harden myself for the fight. There was no hurry. I had made up my mind not to speak the words until I was over thirty. Not till then. . . . But all this time I was being tempted—sorely tried. The Voice was at my elbow. The Devil brought out his double-edged sword of doubt and desire, and hacked at my flesh as I walked beside him.

“I was tempted of the flesh. I longed for the love of women. At home—one year—in the long vac.—when our woods were full of flowers and the air used to be hot and heavy—each day and all day I bore the blows of the sharp-edged sword. I lay on the warm sweet earth and longed for love—to love and be loved by a woman. And with the longing came the doubt I lay swooning with desire—a yearning, weakening craving of the mind and the body for its mate. Then, when I walked on, the Voice walked with me—base and loud and foolish—not understanding really—using the wrong side of his sword—hacking my flesh with desire, when with doubt he might have vanquished me. He bade me look from the thicket above the wood-path where the girls wandered lonely. A farmer’s daughter—I remember—with apple cheeks—who walked strong and boldly. A governess from the Infant School, with red lips on a white face— who seemed to droop upon the path—she walked so slowly.

“‘See/ said the Voice. ‘The white-limbed nymph. Now. Now. Spring like a fawn from the brake. Take her, from me! Roll with her in the sunlight, among the trampled flowers. Take your pleasure, and fly!’ And my blood drummed at my temples; I throbbed and burned as he threw his fire-cloak about me—but yet I spumed him, laughing at the tempter. It was not that I wanted—the satyr’s solace for his brief rage—it was love. And as I moved away, the Devil crept at my heels like a dog that has been beat.

“But the doubt, Colbeck,—happy sweethearts, smiling wives—as I saw and longed and thought about it all! Why not? It was my doubt in the truth of the story of Christ’s life. If made man—why not? Made but halfman otherwise! I marvelled, and waited—till the light came. More and more I marvelled. But at last, in a glorious flash, the light came. His days on earth were numbered! . . .

“Then I understood. Love should be the autumn fruit of continence—the good ripe fruit of maturity, not the frail blossom of youth. That’s the good love, Colbeck— the first love of a man’s life when it comes to him after he has passed his thirty-third year,” and with a slow movement of the hand he made the sign of the cross. “Then the Devil’s sword was sheathed. I was safe now. No hurry. I would wait in peace. I took orders, but waited still. Then the time came and I began my ministry. I never spoke till I was over thirty—then my ministry began.

“I waited for a mate patiently, till the appointed time—till I was over thirty-three. My birthday was in December, and I waited till Easter was past—it was a late Easter that year. Then I looked for my mate. I had the Dover Street Chapel, you know, and she used to sing—among the girls behind the curtains of the organ loft. I loved her voice, and in an hour, when I was given my freedom, I loved herself. I used to call her my white snowdrop. She was very pale—anaemic, poor lamb. A good girl—simple and true—and she loved me, Colbeck.

She lived with her widowed sister, and they both worked in a bonnet shop in Sloane Street. The shop’s gone now—the house rebuilt; an auctioneer in the new shop. I used to wait for her on the pavement outside and walk home with her to the buildings where they lived—Marlborough Buildings—Walton Street. Their rooms were at the top. Three good rooms with a kitchen, and a wide view for my darling. … to the new towers of the museum. Trees in the yard below, with round seats where we sat like lovers. They called them lovers’ seats—the place had many lovers.—We were to be married very soon.” His voice had sunk. He was speaking as though to himself, summoning the mental pictures slowly and very thoughtfully.

“Then her sister came to me and told me—she was dying. I was to go to her at once, to comfort her while she passed. My darling wanted to lie in my arms. . . . A summer night—the streets full of carriages—a ball, with a band and lovers dancing, at a house that stretched all the way from Piccadilly to her home—and whistling for cabs that I heard in her room. The doctor spoke to me—No hope—He was going. . . . Her sister told me to lie on the bed, and left us. So we lay, and I held her in my arms through the swift night to the slow dawn— The first time, Colbeck—I swear it by the cross—that I had held a woman to my breast—like that. And as she lay in my arms, gasping, dying—hour after hour—in my agony, I prayed for a sign. . .

“If it be possible take the cup from me. . . . She stirred in my arms; gave a gasp—Dead!”

“What was it,” asked Colbeck in a very low voice, “that proved fatal so suddenly?”

“Perforating ulcer of the stomach. I went on praying. Till the sun was high I knelt by the bed and prayed that she might come to life—as a sign. But I knew that she would never breathe again. No faith in my prayer. I’ll tell you why. I knew it in the first pang of my grief. I knew that this was God’s test. I had tested myself. He was testing me now. He was testing the strength of His Messenger. . . .

“You can’t believe it, Colbeck. Nothing will make you believe. I tell you, at that time, I knew. . . .

“So then I went about my work—a man who walks on upturned knives, a man scalded nigh unto death, burnt to the very bone—but with peace in his heart—a trusted Messenger at last!”

He had raised himself higher in the bed, lifting himself by the iron rail between the poles, and now he was leaning back upon his raised arms. Colbeck could not see his eyes. In the voice there was intense earnestness, no excitement.

“But in sleep I suffered,” iand he stretched out his arms. “Colbeck, my bed was my crucifixion—night after night—for weeks, for months. Each night memory drove the nails, and I hung on my dream-cross. . .

He had stretched his hands along the iron rail until they grasped the iron knob at either end. As he spoke, his head sank down towards his right shoulder.

Colbeck started forward in his arm-chair under the impetus of a violent illusion; then moved his eyes from side to side as he gauged its completeness. It was as though the picture from the great hall had suddenly risen through the floor beneath the dark print, and taken life—the gaunt and broken-down ascetic hanging in his torment; the drooping head; the branching crown of thorns—everything!

“What is it, dear old fellow?”

Colbeck, with a stifled exclamation, had sprung to his feet and stepped forward. In an instant the face had become a red horror of blood—luminous blood from eyes to neck.

“Nothing. Only the fire. I forgot the fire. I thought it had gone out,” and Colbeck sat down again.

The flames that had spurted up began to flicker; the glass screen became dark again: the luminous red patches of light danced upon the wall, stained the white sheets, changed their shapes as Morton moved, and then faded.

“I descended into Hell. Night after night I sought my darling. Through rock-strewn valleys—the valley of the Shadow of Death—I wandered seeking the pit mouth, the winding path—No fires, Colbeck—grey shadowland. Only the hell of our troubled dreams—not the place of fire or I would not have sought her.” And he spoke very slow again, as though summoning the mental presentment. “Grey shadowland. The torture of vastness. Heights that stunned one, depths that turned one sick to think of. No rest for the tired eye—the air as thronged as the solid ground. . . . And I would see her hanging from the torn edge of a precipice, and strive to reach her, to clasp her hand and draw her up to me. … It was not she. … At last I saw her, dressed in pale light, with a garland of primrose flame, walking with the blest. Then I rose again. …

“You can’t believe it. Nothing will make you believe it. Still I like to tell you.—Explain it if you can. I went about the work: I strove to be a sturdy Messenger. I did not spare myself. A ragged servant as you saw. What was money to me? Colbeck, I never counted money—though I longed for it to print the message if I might. I spent my own at once before I began my ministry—and what I got I gave—yet I had plenty. Fed by the ravens, I used to say,—as a sign. Explain it if you can.

“That’s my life till . . . my life till I met Mary. Then when my love came for Mary—It is my reward, I said, and I loved her. How I loved her,” and he threw up his arms and his voice broke in a sob. “Merciful Father, how I loved her!”

CHAPTER XXXI

IN a fortnight from the time of his accident the chaplain was permitted to go about his work again. The daily service in the chapel was resumed, and sympathetic kneeling sisters saw for themselves that there was no disfigurement: not a mark left on the broad, high forehead to tell of the injury that had caused their consulting physician so much anxious thought and watchful care.

Throughout the winter Colbeck was a frequent visitor at the House, and from his own observation and Lady Sarah’s reports he was able to assure himself that there had been no recurrence of the mischief. The nerve-storm had burst with violence, and rolled away leaving calm behind it. Not a single symptom of epileptiform character presented itself as the weeks glided by: and nothing to re-awaken the doubt laid to rest by the big man in the fur coat.

Quietly, without restlessness or a sign of excitement, Morton went about the work—writing, talking to the sisters, reading to the poor guests, praying with them and for them at bedsides in the infirmary; addressing a few words to them, as he stood by the lectern of an evening, now and then. He had not preached any real sermon, Lady Sarah reported. The fire was gone again, said old Bigland regretfully. The master was letting the words fall too tamely for the taste of his ardent disciple. The chaplain, said Lady Sarah, showed no inclination to go outside the walls of the great House. He walked in the garden now and then, in the cloisters very often, and seemed to obtain all the exercise he required. He evinced no desire to visit his settlements or the Hertfordshire Colony, or to return to his old street-preaching. He listened to Colbeck’s description of progress at Talgarth, and rubbed his hands with satisfaction each time that he heard all was well; but it seemed as though the idea of inspecting the good work did not even occur to him. He had wound up his estate satisfactorily; henceforth he would contentedly leave the trouble of it to the innumerable trustees. It was all in safe control. Colbeck remembered often what Morton had said about not worrying any more in that long talk in the chaplain’s room, to the subjects of which neither had since then ever alluded. He remembered, too, the wise words of the great wise man. Safe within the solid walls, among his own people, secure from the perils of street accidents: the falling-sickness when walking amidst crowded traffic, the brief unconsciousness which in a place of danger might lead to swift death through misadventure—what better conditions could foresight, unfettered as to means, have devised for his friend?

One night in early March Colbeck came down to the House, after dining alone at his club. He had spent a long day in the country, occupied all the morning with the architects of the college, who were making considerable alterations in the plans during the process of construction: then, the morning hours gone, he had started late on his round, and only completed it after dark. But just now there was as much work in Lennox Street for the consulting physicians as the physicians cared to do. After a mild winter, the weather with the approach of spring had turned bitterly cold. The murderous north-east wind blew day after day; the foul dust of the streets whirled through the town, hiding itself every hour in squalls of powdered snow or wet sleet; at street comers the wind-knives stabbed; shop-keepers were complaining that spring sales were ruined, business had fallen to nothing; no one who was not compelled would consent to loiter on the cold pavements: the infirmary of the House was nearly full.

The gate-guard told him that the chaplain would probably be found in the council chamber. She understood that he was writing there with Mr. Bigland. She knew that a big fire was kept up there of an evening, because Mr. Bigland made such a fuss with the house-probationers about the supply of dry logs. One of the writing-tables had been carried there from the library, and, as she came on duty, she had met the old gentleman chuckling over a tray of envelopes—several hundreds, he boasted, all addressed by himself. A little harmless kite-flying, thought Colbeck. The printed forms, sent skyward, filling unoccupied hours with innocent amusement. Was Lady Sarah in the House? Yes, said Sister Jane Edith, the intelligent gate-guard, her ladyship was still here; had been here since 4 p. m. as the guard-sheet showed; but was not staying all night, was going back to Park Lane. A four-wheeled cab was ordered on the door-sheet to be waiting at!0.45—after the first of the street-sisters had come in from the first night-circuits.

Morton was alone in the council chamber, writing very comfortably and peacefully in the warmth of the cheerful wood-fire. Colbeck stood by the small table talking for a few minutes. He glanced automatically, while they chatted, at the chaplain’s manuscript.

“Busy as usual—sermon, essay—you put me to shame. I never write now.” And his keen eyes swiftly, automatically, swept and searched the close lines of the MS. No unfinished words, or ugly gaps of dropped letters; the somewhat illegible hand firm as usual; no shakiness or wavering; no broken upstrokes. Nothing wrong in the council chamber.

As he sat by a bed talking to the lady-doctor in one of the sick wards, he saw Lady Sarah for a moment. She smiled as she passed, and he fancied that she looked careworn; that the face he had learnt to read by such untiring study seemed very sad directly the smile had gone. He was a considerable time in the infirmary. It was twenty-five minutes past ten he saw by the clock in the passage, as he went down to wash in the surgeon’s lavatory. He was glad that he had got through his work with twenty minutes still in hand before the arrival of the four-wheeled cab.

In the main corridor, as he came back below the council chamber, past the refectory, outside the great hall, a sister told him that Lady Sarah had gone to her room. He tapped at the door; disregarded the invitation to come in, issued to the supposed sister who had knocked; and stood waiting till Lady Sarah came out to him.

“Well. What is it? What are you anxious about—not Morton?”

“Oh no,” said Lady Sarah. “There has been nothing— nothing at all, or I should have told you without a moment’s delay.” Then she smiled. “Why did you think I was anxious?”

“I saw it in your face—worry—trouble of some sort. Come and tell me about it.”

Lady Sarah smiled, but her face clouded.

“It really is nothing—nothing at all worth speaking of.”

Up and down this main corridor some one was always passing—a matron, a head-sister, a visiting-sister going in and out of the rooms. He suggested that they should go somewhere to talk in peace—the corridor outside the chaplain’s room. There would be no one up there, but she had better bring a coat or a shawl: it might be cold. Yes, he wanted to hear about the small worry, however small it was.

He carried the long brown cloak with the sable collar and led her through the empty, dimly lit refectory, upstairs into the music gallery, and by the passage behind the council chamber out into the dark corridor where the single lamp burnt like a spot of fire by the end window above the street.

“Now tell me.”

As he drew the soft fur about her neck his fingers trembled.

“Tell me,” he said again. “Is it your father? Has he been unkind again?”

“Yes.” That was the little trouble. As they walked up and down Lady Sarah told him all about it.

For a long time Lord Patrington had declined to speak to her. Ever since the opening of the House and her first visits to it, he had treated her as a child who was in disgrace; and had made life in Park Lane as painful as he could. He had allowed the servants to see the state of their relations, had given them notes to take to her, had let them clearly understand that oral communications were at an end. Lady Sarah had been very sorry, had pleaded; but she could not yield. How could she? So when at home she had lived in her own rooms and left the remainder of the great house to its gloomy owner. The letters from her father had been about money generally: a monthly cheque, with threats as to what would happen if she persisted in her disobedience and continued to bring discredit on her family. Then, gradually, his lordship had worked upon the feelings of her relatives till all had become alienated, and, adopting his view of matters, had written her a sort of farewell letter saying that while she went to her House in Lennox Street they regretted to state that she would not be a welcome guest at their houses in Charles Street, Hill Street, etc.—or words to that effect. Her sister had been the first to go over to the enemy. Writing from her beautiful place at Wheatley in Oxfordshire, Lady Emily had roundly accused her of making herself so notorious as to throw a blighting influence as far as Oxfordshire, and, by her insane behavior, of jeopardising the future prospects of baby nephews and nieces. No lisping lips at Wheatley henceforth should call her aunt unless she immediately desisted. Lady Toll-hurst was the last to go. No one could say she was not liberal in her opinions, and she thought the whole building too wonderful for words, but really—and she had discussed it recently with a very illustrious lady indeed—she did honestly think that, for once, her brother-in-law was absolutely in the right. Really it must be put a stop to.

But his lordship, with the solid support of the family behind him, had inserted worse and worse threats in his letters. He would not be trifled with any longer. She must make up her mind and choose once for all—Lennox Street or Park Lane. Not both. He would have no more of her to-and-froing. He would close his doors against her, cut off supplies, and leave her to her fate. With the last monthly cheque three days ago had come his ultimatum: not another penny of his should go to the daughter who was disgracing him. This had frightened Lady Sarah and for an hour or two made her almost despair.

It was a dreadful thing even to think of—to be homeless, without money to maintain herself, and soon perhaps, if she offended the council or failed to please the governors, be not wanted in Lennox Street any more than in Park Lane. Then in her distress she had thought of talk at home about trust funds, and trustees of whom her father often complained. She knew that an old general who lived in the Albany was one of these trustees, and she had gone to him for advice—for help if he could give it. Really it had been an inspiration, but really she had felt utterly helpless, alone, with no one to protect her from the family’s unkindness.

“Yes,” said Colbeck almost sternly. “You want some one to protect you.”

The dear old general had been very kind. At once he made the astonishing revelation that those pennies of which papa talked so largely were not his, and never had been. She was independent of papa, provided for by her mother’s settlement, and would gain rather than lose by leaving the big house, to the annual expenses of which a full contribution had always been paid on her account. As to turning her out of the house—But the general would have a chat with her father, who naturally meant well, but had certainly been expressing himself in an unbecoming manner.

The general no doubt had talked to his lordship in this sense; but to-day the general had written to her, and while telling her again that she was never more to feel uneasiness from any paternal threat, and expressing sympathy with her charitable views, he begged to inform her that he and his co-trustee were of one mind after mature consideration: her father had been very wrong in method but completely right in ultimate aim. In four sheets of reiterated advice, the general urged her to drop Lennox Street. And it was the defection of the newly-found ally that had brought the cloud to her pale face. All the world was against her.

“They talk as though I were still quite a young girl. They forget that I was thirty on my last birthday. They won’t understand that I-”

“Look!” said Colbeck. “Look down there.”

They were at the end of the corridor, and he took her by the arm and very gently turned her towards the window. As he held her arm for a moment, the blood danced in his veins.

“Do you see that poor loafer, by the lamp-post?” he was talking over her shoulder while she looked down into the wind-swept street—“Do you see his face? No, you can’t see his face, but you can see his dejected attitude— head down, back limp—nearly every spring of hope broken. Do you know who he is? He is I. Your old servant—Do you remember what I told you?—your old servant, waiting outside in the darkness—waiting always.”

“Oh, Dr. Colbeck”—Lady Sarah did not look round— “you promised not to speak of all that again. I hoped—I believed you had done thinking of it.”

“I promised not to speak for a year. I am always thinking of it. That is why I break my promises.”

“I am so sorry—so very sorry,” said Lady Sarah.

“Look at him—shivering, wretched—almost without hope.”

“Dear Dr. Colbeck, I told you at first that I .could not change—that you must not hope for that,” said Lady Sarah without looking round, in a low, sad voice. “I am honoured—touched beyond words—I am more sorry than I can say.’*

She spoke sadly, but very kindly; with regret and tender sympathy. At the sound of the regretful tenderness, for a moment his blood flowed in a delicious stream of gentle fire.

“You know how I admire you,” said Lady Sarah. “Your friendship means so much—so very much to me— but that can never be.”

Suddenly, as she turned, she felt his arms about her; and breast to breast, pressed to him, he held her. Instinctively she had raised her hands to guard her face; but with his hot lips he burst the screen of the long fingers, and fiercely, brutally, kissed her on the open, trembling mouth, again and again and again.

Lady Sarah leant her forehead on her arm, against the stone wall, sobbing convulsively.

“Oh, why did you do it? Oh, why did you do it?”

“You—you shouldn’t have spoken so kindly to me. I— I am not used to it.”

And he glanced down the corridor in dread lest some brown sister should appear, to see and to wonder.

“Don’t, don’t,” he said, “don’t mind—don’t mind—I jam sorry.”

Then, presently, he saw her face again—the eyes fearfully red, the red tear-stain spreading beneath the delicate skin, the thin nose swollen—one of those faces upon which tears leave disfigurement. What would people think? If a sister found them now!

“Oh, they will see”—she was wiping her eyes—“they will see that I have been crying.”

“Don’t mind. No one need see. Your cab is here.

By the time you reach Park Lane you’ll be all right. I am sorry.”

“But I promised the head-sister to wait for the first night-sister—to go with them to the shelter—and the night ward.”

Then rapidly he told her what to do: to go to her room, bathe the eyes in warm water, with some toilet vinegar— or eau de cologne—dabbing, not rubbing, the skin, and drawing it towards the eyes in a gentle massage.

“Oh, will that make me all right?”

He was abashed, ashamed of himself. But, as he looked at her, for a moment the fierce male instincts exulted— defied control, and exulted in cruel triumph. He had set his mark upon her, put the red print of a moment’s possession, stamped his passion on the proud face in tears. And the sweet, proud nature could forge no shaft to wound him: no stab of words came from the trembling lips. She looked at him, with wet eyes from red circles, in the helpless appeal of the woman who has suffered under the pitiless will of a man: You have done this shameful thing; now save me from the shameful consequences. And again, behind his abashed thought, the cruel instinct clamoured in fierce joy. Had he marked her as his own?

He led her back, down stone steps, by dark passages; and, again telling her what to do, left her. Then he walked outside the great hall—with mind abashed, with blood dancing.

In the council chamber Morton had just put away his papers, and folded the long wire round the base of the reading-lamp that had been brought with the table from the library. He had laid down his busy pen at the sound of the signal bells ringing here and there behind the massive walls. Footsteps of sisters had begun to patter along the paved corridors: the gate-guard had announced the arrival of house-guests, the first of the street-sisters had returned.

Colbeck, coming to say good-night, found the chaplain piling logs on the fire, while he talked to two of the sisters—a matron and a house-sister.

“Who are out west, first circuit?”

“Street-sister Ellen and Street-sister Kate,” said the house-sister, “with that poor woman, Emily, who came from Lavriano’s saloon.”

“Is she taking them there?”

“Yes.”

“An evil den! At our very gates, Colbeck. Carpenter was right: we are well placed. We haven’t far to bring them to the friends they all seem to dread.”

As the matron and the house-sister went out, a grey and elderly head-sister came in, followed immediately by Lady Sarah. Lady Sarah had put on her hat and veil. Colbeck could not see her eyes through the veil.

“Well?”

“Street-sister Ellen, sir,” said the head-sister. “Just come in from first circuit west.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“Rescued?”

“No, sir. Only for the night shelter.”

“Well?”

“Street-sister Ellen wished to know if you would speak to them before they go through.”

“Yes. Let them come. I will speak to them.”

The head-sister went outside the door and rang a signal to the gate-guard.

“Poor wanderers,” and the chaplain stirred the blazing logs. “One night of warmth and rest, and to-morrow they will go back to their sisters in shame to tell the trick of getting free supper and bed when their trade is slack. Well, let them say they were welcome—not made to pay for their supper by singing hymns or hearing sermons. One day they will return to go forth no more and well save our prayers till then.”

“Good-night,” said Lady Sarah. “I am going after I have been round with Head-sister Francis.”

“Good-night. See that the fires burn bright.”

“Good-night,” said Colbeck, and he left the chaplain alone to speak to the first batch of guests.

Morton went to the door that led to cloisters and chapel, threw it open, and returned to the fire-place and stood looking into the fire while the sounds of footsteps drew nearer.

“Come in, my .friends.”

Sister Ellen and another sister were outside the open door. Four wretched-looking women stood upon the threshold as though afraid to enter.

“Come in. It is cold out there.”

Very shyly they came forward a few steps.

Very wretched they looked—standing timorous and doubtful just within the threshold—in their weatherbeaten finery and damp, clinging garments. Beneath the huge hats of fashion’s latest shape, the tired faces were daubed with rouge—grotesquely over-painted it seemed here—reddened for the cold flicker of street lamps, and not for the soft glow of the electric light. Most wretched they looked: buffeted by the cruel wind, drenched with the cold sleet, mud-stained, abject—human flowers, that perhaps bad once gladdened the cultured eye of a rich amateur, then, fading, cast with all the other refuse of life’s feast into the filthy gutter. i “Don’t be afraid of my black coat: I am not going to preach to you. I only want to bid you welcome. This house is yours. It was built for you, and it is yours to use without thanking anybody. Come when you like— when the wind and the rain drive you and the night is black and chill. When your feet are too weary and your heart is too sorely bruised for the world’s bard ways, come back to your House for good; and may our Master whose mercy is infinite guide your steps into the way of grace before the darkest night of all overtakes you.”

And the chaplain, who had been looking upward to the vaulted ceiling, waved his hand with a gesture of dismissal, and turned again towards the wood fire.

As they went out, following Sister Ellen, the woman nearest the door stumbled, and then held the door as though to support herself. The chaplain turned from the fire and looked towards the door.

“Mary!”

CHAPTER XXXII

“YOU,have heard my prayer. You have come back! to me.”

“Oh, I am ill.”

With his arm round her waist, he had carried her to a chair by the fire. Now, on his knees beside the chair, he was chafing her hands in his. A sister, missing one of the convoy, had returned to the open door.

“Give me something to drink. I am ill.”

“Here! Quick. Get some brandy. She is fainting,” and he put his arm round her again.

The sister hurried away. Other sisters came to the open door. Without looking round, he called loudly.

“Has Dr. Colbeck gone? Fetch him. Quick! . . . My darling, we’ll make you strong and well. Don’t be afraid. Do you hear me?”

“You are very good to me.”

“Why have you stayed away? Why didn’t you come sooner?”

“I didn’t dare.”

The faintness had passed; the drawn features were contorted for a moment with spasms as of a sudden nausea; she coughed and shivered, and, when she spoke, her voice was low and rather breathless. She asked for water with the brandy when the sister returned. A matron arriving mixed the drink and Morton held the glass.

“Now. Take this.”

“Poor soul,” said the matron sympathetically. “She does look bad.”

“She’s my wife. My wife come home. We’ll make her well.”

“Ah,” she had drunk the brandy and water very slowly.—“Ah. That’s good,” and she coughed.

“Where’s Colbeck? Why doesn’t he come?”

Colbeck’s voice was heard from the corridor as he hastened, followed by Lady Sarah and the head-sister. Sister Ellen had told them that one of the wanderers was swooning.

“Where’s this poor woman?”

“My wife has come home. Colbeck, help me. My wife is ill.”

Morton rose from his knees and made space for the doctor and the sister.

“Tell them all,” he said loudly to the sisters by the door. “Let them all know that my wife has come home,” and he drew back to allow Lady Sarah to approach, and then stood watching Colbeck as he stooped over the sick woman.

“This is the sort of thing you like, Doctor,” she said with a smile that changed to a spasm as Colbeck took her hand. “A hopeless case for you—a chance to prove your theory.” Then she saw Lady Sarah.

“Oh, you are here.”

“I am so sorry you are ill.”

“Are you?”

Colbeck turned and came to Morton.

“Well?”

“We must take her to the infirmary.”

“No. My room. She mustn’t be with—the others. ‘Tell me the truth—how ill is she?”

“Ill tell you later—as soon as I know myself. She is gravely ill. I want certain things done.” t

He had taken his arm and drawn Morton away towards the far end of the room. There he talked to him in a low voice, and, summoning the head-sister to them, issued rapid instructions.

Mrs. Morton, alone for a few minutes with Lady Sarah, seemed to have recovered from the faintness, to be better already.

“You haven’t altered,” and she looked across the room. “He’s mad, isn’t he?”

“No. No.”

“They all say he is.”

“It is not true.”

Mrs. Morton stretched her thin hands towards the comforting warmth, looked into the fire, and smiled. “Well, you won’t have long to wait.”

“Oh, don’t. Please don’t speak like that.”

“You know what I mean. What’s he been doing with his money since I left?”

“He has given it all away.”

“To whom?”

“This House, and other things.”

“All of it?”

“Yes, all.”

Mrs. Morton laughed and coughed.

“Then you won’t get that. You won’t be better off than I was.”

Along the corridors and up and down the stone stairs the whispering sisters had flown. Like brown bees they swarmed about the chaplain’s room: probationers to light and tend the fire, house-sisters with bedding from the store-cupboards—a better mattress, softer pillows, white blankets never used before; nursing-sisters with a carrying-chair. Very soon all was prepared by the busy sisters.

“Our doctor says that you want rest and quiet.” Morton had put his arm round his wife’s waist, and the carrying-chair stood waiting. “My room is ready for you—for the chaplain’s wife. Come, dear. Home at last.—You’ll soon be strong and well again.”

“Does our doctor say that?”

Supported by her husband on one side, by Lady Sarah on the other, the chaplain’s wife was conducted to the chair.

“I want to speak to you,” she whispered as they put her in the chair.

Suddenly the voice of old Bigland, loud and angry, came from the echoing passage.

“It’s not true. It’s a lie—a wicked lie. Say that it’s not true.”

Colbeck hurried to the door to intercept him.

“Hush. Not so much noise out there.”

“His evil angel.”

The old man stood on the threshold for a moment, pointing with a shaking hand, then disappeared.

“Our idiot,” said Mrs. Morton. “Going strong as ever, I suppose. . . . Oh, send them all away. I want to speak to you alone.”

Obeying her wish they all left her with the chaplain, and waited outside the closed door until his voice summoned them.

“You are very good to me,” she whispered as he knelt by the chair with his face close to hers. “I want to say—that—I am sorry. That’s all. Do you believe?”

“Yes.”

“What’s happened to him?”

“Oh, why do you ask?” and his voice sounded like a cry of pain. “Why can’t you forget? Why don’t you forget? … He is well. There. I know it. He is well. I would not lie to you. Why couldn’t you let me forget?”

As the four sisters lifted the chair, Colbeck took his friend by the arm again, and, squeezing it, whispered:

“Leave us alone now, old fellow. Don’t come with us. I’ll come back and tell you—soon—and then you can go to her.”

Half-an-hour passed and then Lady Sarah returned, sent, she said, by Colbeck to say that the patient was comfortably in bed, and that he would come back very soon now. The chaplain had drawn one of the thirteen chairs from the wall and was sitting at the big oak table. Resting his head on one hand, he sat waiting very patiently; now and then looking round, to listen for the doctor’s footsteps; and then looking down again to the polished surface, on which with the forefinger of his other hand he was slowly tracing invisible curves in the grain of the wood. After a time he got up and walked about the room slowly and thoughtfully, with hands clasped behind his back. Lady Sarah, when he spoke to her, observed that his voice was calm, steady, and lower than usual. At last Colbeck came back.

“Now, the truth.”

“I can only tell you what I think. We’ll have a consultation to-morrow.”

“What do you think?”

As the two men stood close together in front of the crackling logs, Colbeck spoke very slowly: a few words at a time, then a pause. Lady Sarah could not see his face, but it seemed that he was making the face tell more than the words.

“I think she is gravely ill of course—but that of itself should not alarm us. She is quite comfortable now. You can go and sit with her. I think the danger would be— in herself. The fear of impaired power of resistance— if an unfavourable turn announced itself. I think—that would be—a very real cause for-”

“How long?”

“Ah! If my fear were realised—it would be—only a question of time.”

“How long—days, months, years? How long?” “One can never say. We should fight to the last.” “How long? I am not afraid of the truth.”

“In such an event—a very few days is all I could dare hope for.”

“So that’s your verdict.” Morton turned, and, looking down into the fire, spoke in a very low voice as though talking to himself. “That’s your verdict. Guilty! Guilty, guilty, I am not afraid. But she asked after him. She left him though; and she has come home.”

“Morton—my dear fellow-”

Colbeck had an arm round him and was getting him away from the open fire.

“A very few days. You all think her guilty

Morton. Collect yourself. Summon your strength.” “I tell you she is innocent.”

“Lady Sarah, help me to—”

“Yes, Lady Sarah,” and Morton turned to her, speaking in the same low voice, but more and more rapidly. “You must help. I asked you that before, didn’t I? Lady Sarah, don’t fail me. Now for your answer. Now for your answer. Now for your answer.”

Colbeck, holding him firmly, whispered in his ear;

“Morton. Steady. Remember. A messenger should be brave ”

Instantaneously the dull, grey face lit up; he shook himself free from the guarding arm; threw back his head; and, completely changing his whole manner, spoke with sudden and intense earnestness.

“Yes, Lady Sarah, help if you can. He gives us little time to fight our battle. He thinks she is doomed. We must save her if we can. A human soul hanging in the balance. God’s work defiled by the hand of man, but we must give it back to its Maker white as the driven snow. . . . All right, dear old fellow, I’ll go and sit with her now.”

In the silence of the House one could hear the sisters whispering behind the stone walls. The life of the vast building seemed to swing like a noiseless wheel upon an axis formed by the iron bed whereon the chaplain’s wife lay gravely ill. All thought of her; all whispered their unceasing thought. Two alien nurses were in charge; two white caps and blue dresses summoned by telephone from a hospital, who, passing up and down to and from their meals, walked in the midst of brown serge and metal crosses and fed the whispering. There had been a consultation. He of whom the hospital nurses spoke with almost shuddering awe as Sir Richard had been here. There was no service in the chapel. The thought of the sick-room seemed to kill the sense of time. Was it only last night that she came home? Impossible to believe— it seemed so long ago.

The chaplain was praying with her. His voice could be heard in the corridor. He had been praying nearly all day, off and on,—the news came down at supper— or reading out of the Bible; and the patient had dozed off and on. More praying than Doctor Colbeck quite approved of, thought the blue-gowned visitor. But in the circumstances, no doubt prayers were “indicated.” Doctor Colbeck knew what he was about: none better—though of course a back number, as one might say; not up to date, like the young fellows at our place. They would have opened Sir Richard’s knife-case for him before this.

In the room which sympathetic nursing-sisters were not permitted to enter, the patient was lying on softest bedding beneath the grey print in the black frame. Her head propped up very comfortably by the soft white pillows, she lay on her back with legs drawn up in apparently an easy attitude, since she never changed it. She looked very pale, but the eyes were qu^e bright. The features seemed rather pinched, but the pale face looked refined, more full of intelligence than it used to be, with a new expression of bright interest: almost anxious interest. As Colbeck talked to her for a minute or two the expression was strongly marked—a curious anxiety as of some one listening intently, afraid of missing a word or failing to understand, or of a person waiting anxiously for somebody to arrive, or for something long expected to happen. It seemed to have no meaning because, evidently, she had not the slightest difficulty in catching the drift of even a hint; she smiled as she listened; and she had no questions to ask while she and the doctor were alone.

Colbeck had sent the chaplain away with Lady Sarah to get some food, and now the doctor very kindly and gently hinted that the patient might at any time by the lightest sign cause him to check the flow of good words. With a friendly smile, he hinted at some innocent little signal to be arranged between them. She might ask for an illustrated newspaper—name to be settled now—and, as soon as he heard that, he would know what it meant. He could not allow a patient to be tired by the voice of even the best of good fellows.

“Oh no,” and the patient smiled. “I like the voice. I don’t listen. It sends me to sleep. But I like the voice—now,” and she smiled again—“That’s a change—isn’t it, Doctor?”

Upon a chair near the bed, there was a pile of Mudie’s books, brought by Lady Sarah at the patient’s request, but not used by the patient; in a basin swathed with white cloths and outer flannels there was ice for the patient to suck after the recurring sickness; there was a saucer and a spoon visible—otherwise the room was scrupulously tidy. The blue uniforms were keeping things ship-shape. They glided in and out like shadows, changing guard night and morning. The day nurse had a chair in the corridor, but was back in a moment when wanted. The doctor could not have two or three people in the room at a time. The chaplain, himself, or Lady Sarah, and the nurse performing her duties: but not Lady Sarah and the chaplain together. The doctor himself took the chaplain away for his meals now. He used to go submissively, and he ate only enough to keep himself alive it was guessed among the whisperers. His dark face looked dreadful they said—greyer and thinner. In the silence of the House, if you crouched on the stone stairs, you could hear his voice praying, every time the oak door opened.

Lady Sarah sitting with two books on her lap had just iasked a question. No answer. Silently Lady Sarah moved her chair to see the patient’s face, which was hidden by the raised knees. Not asleep: the bright eyes open, the white face looking anxiously intent. As she sat waiting for the patient to speak, Lady Sarah heard and tried not to listen to the rapid, shallow breathing. It sounded like the puffing of a distant train—a goods train puffing slowly by down at Talgarth, heard in the silence of a summer night through Lady Sarah’s open window. The nurse, listening with a practised ear as she stood for a moment by her neatly arranged table, glanced at the last entry in green ink upon her trim, well-kept chart—36; then like a blue shadow glided out to the corridor.

“What did you say?”

“Shall I read to you?”

“Lady Sarah,” there had been another long pause. “I am sorry—what I said. I see.—Wrong. It’s the other. Our doctor,” and she smiled.

Lady Sarah’s eyes sank beneath the intent brightness of the patient’s eyes, and her hand rose from the book to the metal chain about her neck. Then, looking up, she met the bright eyes again.

“Are you angry with me?”

“Oh no,” said Lady Sarah.

“Do you mind telling me.” The painfully anxious look was very strongly marked—a curious, inexplicable anxiety that seemed to make each word a command it would be wicked to disobey. “It is our doctor?”

“Yes. … He wants me to marry him.”

“You will?”

“I—I think so,” and Lady Sarah blushed, and tears spread a faint red stain as of shame about her eyes. “Now shall I read to you? . . . The novel, or may I go on with St. Matthew?”

“No. I want to go to sleep. . . . When he has done dinner—not now—don’t disturb him—send my husband to pray to me. … I want to go to sleep.”

The patient seemed a little better—a very little better to-night. Less sickness, less pain from the weight of the light bedclothes if now and then the raised knees failed to carry them comfortably; pulse not quite so frequent—just now, when the three entries in the coloured inks were made on the four-hours’ divisions of the well-kept chart; temperature the same; but fewer, and therefore deeper, inspirations to the minute: voice certainly a shade stronger.

The chaplain was kneeling by the bed praying and reading. On the bedside chair his black Bible lay open, supported by Mudie’s new books in their coloured doth bindings.

“I am come a light into the world/ ” read the chaplain in a low deep voice, “ ‘that whosoever believeth on me should not abide in darkness/ . . . Do you hear, darling? Whosoever believeth! All true—divinely true: the living undying truth,” and he went on reading: “ ‘For I have not spoken of myself; but the Father which sent me_’”

“Stop now … I want to talk to you.” Slowly and carefully she drew one of his hands in both of hers, and held it on the sheet below her chin. “You believe I am sorry? . . . Where is he? I want to know. It was all my fault.”

“He is well—far away—in Australia—well provided for by the friends who sent him—doing well—in a new world.”

Carefully and slowly she raised the strong hand above her dry lips and kissed it.

‘‘You ought to be there too—in a new world. You’re too good for this old one … I am very sorry.”

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE great House seemed to sink into a deeper silence. Hushed behind the stone walls, the sisters whispered with lips against ears. Matting and drugget had been laid, and not an echo was raised by the footsteps of the three doctors as they walked towards the end window above the narrow street. Colbeck and Sir John and Sir Richard. Sir John was the immense man in the fur coat, white-haired and pink-necked, carrying his huge silk hat behind his broad back. The small dark man with his hands in his pockets was Sir Richard.

There was to be no operation—the definite tidings came down at the hour of the mid-day meal. The three doctors had been of one mind—impossible. The very words of their decision had, it was professed, reached the sisters’ tables: So undermined by her way of living that what might otherwise have been attempted was here impossible! Rising from their meal in the depths of the gigantic building, the nursing-sisters broke into groups of threes, consulting together as the three doctors had consulted: a horrible echo of the real thing, the acting of children in a morbid game, and yet with the sympathy and comprehension of grown-ups.

Then till dusk, behind the stone walls, the inaudible whispers flew. The chaplain’s wife was dying of peritonitis. It was doubtful—the doubt came down at tea-time—if she would last through the coming night. They were keeping her under morphia. They were giving her “hypodermics” of strychnine and morphia, alternately. She was not unconscious: mind quite clear.

The nurse had been using the spray of the deodorant, and there was a sharp aromatic perfume like pine oil about the silent room. It was very tidy; all ship-shape: the novels gone, everything neat and trim, nothing out of its place; the low fire, fed with a coal at a time, burning clearly. There was a candle with a yellow shade upon the mantelpiece, and a green-shaded reading lamp, guarded by a dark screen, upon the nurses* table. In the light from the lamp the nurses* belongings showed all in order: small black portfolio, stop watch, thermometer in its metal case, leather-covered receptacle for the coloured inks, pens, and the well-filled chart—the accurately marked logs always ready for official inspection. The jagged curves had been sweeping upward through the four hours* squares: green ink for respiration, red ink for pulse, black ink for temperature—all climbing across the ruled lines. All ship-shape. No error in the last green marking. In the silence of the room the breathing from the bed was like the sound of a train puffing faintly in the distance—one of the outward-bound expresses passing in the night down at Talgarth, seeming as one listened to begin to catch its speed, to begin to race faster and faster towards its far-off goal.

In the yellow candle-light, the face surrounded by the dark hair seemed to be modelled in wax and less than life-size, except for the too large orbits. The delicate features seemed to be refined to insignificance; the hollows in the cheeks were too deep, making the mouth seem too prominent; and in the exaggerated circles beneath the forehead there were shadows that seemed to add to the brightness of the widely opened eyes. Upon the white sheet the frail hands looked yellow and waxy as the weak fingers moved restlessly to and fro.

The light from the candle and the fire seemed to concentrate itself upon the iron bed, the wall with the blackframed print, one chair, a strip of the bedside carpet; and to leave all round the room a zone of darkness in which the shadows seemed to move. A shadow near the door was moving: Lady Sarah had passed out. Two shadows moved, and Colbeck and the nurse were standing by the bed, were being watched now intently by the bright eyes.

The doctor stood talking to the patient: only a few words now and then, in a very low voice, with a very kind smile as he looked down at her. And she answered him: not without difficulty, but understanding perfectly what had been said. With a motion of the hand and a whispered word, he conveyed a direction to the nurse. The thin brown lips seemed to be sticking to the teeth and causing discomfort. The nurse brought the mouth wash, freed the weak lips, made all comfortable, and the patient could speak and smile again. The doctor said a few more words, smiling very kindly; and the patient answered him with a wonderful smile upon the hippo-cratic face—intelligent, grateful, but expectantly anxious. Surely the something waited for so anxiously must happen soon!

By a contraction of the eyebrows the doctor let the nurse know that she was to follow him; the shadows moved; and the patient was left alone in the silent room. Outside, in the corridor, Morton had been waiting. Colbeck laid a hand upon his shoulder, and nodded towards the closed door, then took his hand and pressed it affectionately. Morton wiped his eyes, put away his handkerchief, and squeezed the hand with a convulsive pressure that made Colbeck wince.

“You’ll not disturb us now. You’ll leave us alone together now. Dear old fellow, you’ll keep your promise now.” …

Colbeck nodded his head affirmatively, and softly closed the oak door behind his friend.

In the room a shadow seemed to move. The chaplain had come in and was standing beside his wife.

Outside, through the closed door, his voice was heard almost immediately raised in prayer. Colbeck, walking up and down once or twice with Lady Sarah, told the nurse to move her chair to a. little distance from the door. Then very slowly the time passed while Colbeck waited for his friend to call him back to the room.

The chaplain had been praying for a long time.

“Mary—my darling—my wife—I would not lie to you. Believe. Keep your eyes on this and believe”—he was stooping over the bed and holding the metal cross high as the chain would allow—“believe on this and I promise you salvation. I swear to you it has the power. Believe and it shall bear you safe to everlasting life.”

“We’ll see—if it can-”

The bright eyes were fixed upon the cross. A gurgling in the throat, a spasm of sickness, choked the faint voice; and she moved her hand restlessly until she was able to speak again. “The cross—give me your cross. . . . Put it on. . . . We’ll see.”

He dragged off the chain, and his tears fell fast upon the dark hair as he raised her head from the pillows and put the chain about her neck.

“Believe, my darling, and it shall carry you through the darkness to the light.”

She was pulling feebly at her nightdress, while again the gurgling sickness stopped the whispered words.

“Open. . . . Put the cross . . . next the skin. . . . We’ll see.”

The warm tears of pity fell fast as he unbuttoned and opened the nightdress, then the woollen vest beneath, and laid bare the sinner’s bosom—breasts that no child had pressed: the sunken platform of chance burdens, sinking now upon the heart that used to beat for hire.

His eyes shone through the tears with an infinite yearning pity as he reverently placed the martyr’s symbol upon the clammy skin.

“Now. Believe—believe now . . . believe now—or you are lost. Do you hear me? . . . Do you understand? Oh God, have mercy, and give me time to save her . . . give me time. . . . Oh give me time.”

As he stood above her, he had wiped the tears from his eyes with his coat-sleeve, and was gazing upwards to the ceiling; his lips trembling, his whole face twitching convulsively, the words coming in a loud cry of agonised supplication.

“Yes,” and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes. It has come—Authority! . . . Father, I hear you. Father, I thank you . . .” and he looked down again. “Now I tell you—I tell you not to fear. I tell you, you are saved.

. . . Your sins have been washed away. Do you hear me? My darling, have no fear. You are going on a long journey—but taken in a flash of fire. A moment’s darkness, then the light.”

“A long journey. . . . We’ll see. . . . But alone. . . . If you were there to plead.” . . .

“Then I’ll go with you . . . I’ll be there to plead.”

With his left hand he had taken her hand, crushing the frail, cold fingers in an iron grasp; with his right hand he had thrown open his coat, and was seeking the pocket beneath the coat tails.

“Do you hear me? We are going hand in hand. Do you believe now?” . . .

“Yes.”

The report of the pistol rang through the silent House. It sounded like the slamming of a door echoing and reverberating upon the stone walls along the stone corridors; and with the sharp detonation those near the room heard the dull thud of a weight fallen: an almost simultaneous thud, not an echo of the other sound.

Hand in hand, the chaplain and his wife were dust now, or had gone on their journey. The dead man as he fell had dragged the dead body of the woman nearly from the bed, and the dark hair trailed upon the floor; the revolver had rolled away to the hearth; but the dead hands were firmly locked. Wreaths of smoke still hung beneath the ceiling, and the odour of the gunpowder mingled with the perfume of the disinfectants. Colbeck, on his knees bending over his dead friend, shuddered as in the glow from the fire he saw the luminous blood-red horror—the same face that in the momentary illusion he had seen upon the dream-cross; remembered the words: “You will believe. You will believe”; and, under the first shock of his grief, for a moment of time now, half believed that they had gone upon the journey.

THE END